Who Stole My Life?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  Or maybe I am just your husband, and we have done this a thousand times before?

  It's almost criminal, but when the waiter comes over and I pick up the wine list, and choose a Cabernet Shiraz, which I know is her favorite, she laughs again.

  We both know that we are now flirting, that we have quickly moved from two strangers who have just met, to two people who have started to dance around the flame of passion, a sexual chemistry growing between us, drawing us together, teasing us with promises and anticipation of what is to come.

  "So, Mr International Man of Mystery. What do you do?"

  "I work in advertising. But that's enough of me, let's talk about you…." I lift up my glass, "Here's to your mother, and to her favorite daughter, Sarah."

  Our glasses clink.

  "That's not fair. You must tell me a bit more about you. I must be crazy sitting here having dinner with you. You're a complete stranger. You could be anybody."

  "True. But I'm not. Okay, so what do you want to know?"

  "Your name?"

  "Aha, now that's unfair. You know the rules. Only after the dessert."

  "Alright, alright. So,…Are you married? Do you have any children?"

  Yes. To you. Two. Keira and Nicole.

  "Yes, I am married. I won't lie. And I have two children. Two girls. Although, things, well,…" I stop myself. What am I going to tell her? That my wife doesn’t understand me? How pathetic.

  "Well, what?"

  "Well, nothing. I'm married. Perhaps I shouldn't be here. But I am."

  There is a heavy pregnant pause. I look across at Sarah, not smiling, not speaking, just praying that she won't get up and leave. She looks at her glass, and I can see her eyes thinking. Considering how to respond. In the end, she doesn't. The moment passes.

  Then a waiter comes to our table, delivering our starters.

  Sarah hasn't left.

  "And you? I think you were married, weren't you?"

  "Yes. Yes, I was. But we divorced about three years ago. A long time ago."

  "And where do you live now?"

  "In my mother's house. In Sierra Sien."

  "But…ah..., have you kept your married name?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "I tried to find you a while ago, but the international operator told me the person who lived there now wasn't called Turnstone."

  "No. My last name is Sanchez. I kept my married name, because I couldn't be bothered changing all the documents. The legal system in Spain is a nightmare."

  We eat a little.

  "So, why were you trying to contact me?" she asks.

  A good question.

  "Because I wanted to send you some copies of some photographs of your mother. I thought you might like them."

  A lie.

  "Thank you. I would…"

  We finish our starters, and the main course arrives.

  As she lifts the first mouthful of lasagne to her mouth, I watch as she opens her lips and I see the tip of her tongue. I remember how it feels to kiss her, her taste, the touch of her fingers against my cheek, and I feel an immediate twinge of arousal. I look away and concentrate on my own plate of food.

  We sit in silence for a while, appraising each other as we eat. The silence is comfortable, and there is no rush to converse.

  Her makeup is done perfectly, and when I realize this it immediately pleases me that she has obviously gone to a lot of trouble to look good for me. Which is a good sign. I think…does it mean she wants me to find her attractive?

  As I look at her more closely, I notice that she has a few more lines around the eyes than the last time I saw her. Worry lines? Has she led a harder life in this world? The results of a bad marriage? Or simply, that she is a year older now than the last time I saw her.

  As she raises her glass to wash down a mouthful I suddenly see Nicole in her face.

  It’s incredible. Nicole and Sarah have the same nose, eyes and ears. And as she bends her head slightly to dab her lips with her napkin, I see her Keira in her chin, and her eyebrows, and the mannerism of the way she moves her hand. It’s funny, I never noticed before just how much our girls have taken after Sarah, and as I see my children in her, I feel a sudden longing. Almost a pain, so sharp it constricts my chest, and I almost struggle for my next breath.

  “Are you alright ?” Sarah asks.

  “Yes.” I reply. “Sorry, it's just some pepper.” And I reach for my glass of wine.

  “Have you ever thought of having children?” I ask her rather abruptly.

  “Children? Wow. That’s fast.” she laughs. “We’ve not even got to the dessert…”

  “Sorry…it’s just that when I looked at you just now, it occurred to me how beautiful your daughters would be, if that is, you were ever to have any.”

  In spite of the subdued lighting, I can see that Sarah immediately starts to blush.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” I immediately start to apologize, feeling rather clumsy.

  “No, don’t apologize. I’m flattered. Thank you.” She looks at me and her eyes twinkle. My heart skips a beat again. At this rate I’ll be in Intensive Care by the time dessert comes…

  “Actually, I’ve always wanted to have children. But, it’s just never happened. At first I was disappointed, but after a few years of marriage I realized it would have been wrong. And in a way, I was lucky we didn’t, considering.” A pause. “Tell me about yours…?”

  Mine? I pause, thinking about Elspeth and Allison, but realize that I cannot speak that warmly about them. And Sarah will surely notice my lack of warmth when talking about them, which will not be good. Instead I describe Keira and Nicole and start telling Sarah about some of the antics they have got up to.

  “Were you present at their births?” she asks.

  “Yes…” and when I begin to describe the day Nicole was born, a tear leaks from my eye. I blink and look away.

  “You obviously love them very much. They must be very lucky children to have a father who cares about them as much as you…”

  It’s too much. I have to change the conversation quickly.

  “So, enough about me…more about you. What do you do in your spare time? Any hobbies?” I ask.

  “Well, when I was at university I used to love…”

  “Curling?” I cannot help but interrupt her.

  She stops dead in mid-sentence. Staring at me.

  “How on earth did you know that? I mean, curling isn’t exactly a popular sport…” she asks quickly, sitting up a little in her chair, a slight edge in her voice.

  “Your mother…” I lie. Blaming it all on her again, which probably isn’t fair, given that she can’t defend herself.

  “What didn’t she tell you?” she asks.

  “Not much…she was very proud of you, and rightly so. You take after her. She was a fine woman too. I can see where you got your looks…”

  Another blush, but this time not as pronounced as the first time.

  “Tell me about my mother?” she asks “You seem to have known her quite well.”

  So I tell her everything I know about her mother, making up a little where I know it is safe to do so. Playing with the truth, expanding it a little. Adding to the web of lies I have to spread, dancing around the flame.

  The game I play is dangerous. To talk to someone I have known intimately for many years, without revealing too much, without alarming her that I know things that I shouldn't, but at the same time, using exactly that same knowledge to entice her, and interest her. To lure her.

  But I don't need to try too hard. When Sarah and I first met in the sandwich queue that lunchtime, so many years ago, the attraction between us was instant. And mutual.

  As it is now. All these years later.

  While I talk about her mother, Sarah is quiet, a pleasant smile gracing her face, relaxed, peaceful, her soft eyes studying me as I speak, following my lips as they move, running around the contours of my face, studying me, before eventually returni
ng to meet my gaze.

  As I look into her eyes, I feel a warmth, a comfort. A promise.

  And without realizing it, I stop speaking, and for a while we sit in silence, neither looking away, both of us lost within each other.

  Someone laughs loudly on the other side of the restaurant and for the first time since I sat down at our table, I look around me. The restaurant is full now, lit only by the warm, flickering glow of table candles. Couples and families are enjoying the wonderful ambience, the wine, and each other’s company.

  I look back at Sarah, and find that she is still looking at me.

  And without thinking, I reach out across the table and gently touch her hand, my fingers resting lightly on hers.

  She smiles.

  With impeccably bad timing, a moment later the waiter arrives to ask us what we would like for dessert, and the spell is interrupted…but not broken. For a few minutes we both retreat to looking at the dessert menu and each make our choice.

  Before Sarah says anything I choose the Black Forest gateau, which I know is Sarah’s favorite. She laughs as I speak, and then orders the same.

  “Okay, so now it’s my turn,” she volunteers, as the waiter walks away. “It’s time for me to guess something about you. Since you’re not exactly telling me much yourself.”

  “This will be interesting…,” I smile back.

  “Well, for a start, when you were a kid, I bet you were the one that sat at the back of the classroom and daydreamed of one day growing up and driving a train!”

  “What? That’s not exactly hard to guess is it. All little boys want to do that.”

  “True...” She looks at me, studying me harder. “Okay, so you played rugby. For quite a few years…”

  “That’s better…how did you know…is it a guess?” I ask.

  “Not really. When you smile, …and it’s a nice smile, if I may add...” she says, blushing a little, “...I can see that the tops of your front teeth are chipped. Just like one of my first boyfriends. He played rugby a lot…”

  “Good guess, Sherlock.” I say, running my finger along the top of my front teeth, suddenly a little self-conscious. “So, does that mean you played hockey?” I ask, knowing full well she was captain of the school team for the last two years she was there.

  “Come on, there you go again, trying to turn the conversation around…”

  Just then the desserts come, and we eat slowly. In between mouthfuls, Sarah continues trying to guess what I was like as a teenager, and which pop groups I liked, before we move on to talking about lots of different things and nothing in particular. Just enjoying each other’s company and each other.

  The coffee arrives.

  "And now, the time for truth," Sarah announces. "Please tell me your name."

  "Ouch. The witching hour has come…and being a man of my word, I suppose I can't avoid the question any longer…"

  "So…?"

  "So, my name is James Quinn," I say, handing her over my business card.

  Immediate recognition in her eyes. Wide now, and alert.

  "James Quinn?" She cries, reading my name aloud from the card, then looking up. "It was you that sent me the letter last year!"

  "I'm afraid so. I really wanted to contact you, and I'm afraid I made up the little story about going to the same school as you. The thing is, after hearing so much about you from your mother, I started to think a lot about you, and over the years, something just built up inside me until one day I felt I had to meet you. But I didn't know how…"

  "So how did you know about Mary?"

  Good question. Again.

  "Does it matter? Sarah, I wanted to meet you. I mean, I really wanted to meet you. Your mother wanted me to meet you too. She often said so."

  "So, why didn't you just say you were a friend of my mother's? The truth?"

  Because you wouldn't believe the truth!

  "I don't know. It seems the obvious thing to have done now. I'm sorry."

  She is silent. Her eyes quiz me, probing me, exploring me.

  "I'm confused, " she says. "And I'm feeling a little foolish…"

  "Don't."

  "So, was the meeting this afternoon an accident, or did you plan it?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "Yes. It does. I just want to know."

  "The truth?"

  "Yes." Then, softly. "Please…"

  I reach across the table and rest my hand on her slender fingertips.

  "The truth is a bit of both... I was waiting in the graveyard all day. Since the moment the gates opened, hoping that you would come."

  "All day?"

  "Yes. I've been trying to contact you for a long time, Sarah. A long time. I even told my dad all about you, and he encouraged me to search for you…which I did, everywhere, but I didn't know your last name, which made it that little bit harder. How was I to know it was Sanchez? I just looked for Sarah Turnstone, hoping that you were using your own name again..."

  "... The letter I sent to you through Mary was my last hope. I almost gave up when you didn't call. ...Then my dad died a few months ago, and he was buried in the same graveyard as your mum. It was unbelievable...Finding your mum's grave was one of the strangest coincidences of my life. Or was it coincidence? I'm convinced it wasn't...I had almost given up hope of finding you. I never knew where your mother was buried. Then my dad dies, and bingo, he is buried only a few yards away from your mother! It was like my dad was giving me a message. He was showing me where to find your mother, and where to find you...And I just knew, don't ask me how, I just knew that you would come to visit your mum’s grave on the anniversary of her death…So, I waited till today, then camped out and hoped…"

  "Why? Why did you want to meet me so much? Should I be scared or flattered by all this attention?"

  "Sarah, don't be scared. Please don't be scared. I can't explain why I had to meet you so much, just that I had to. It's just one of those things that is weird in life. There is no explanation, apart from the fact that when I saw the photographs of you that your mother showed me, I fell for you. Then and there."

  "So, why didn't you contact me when my mother was alive?"

  Help. I can't keep up this lying.

  "Because, I'm married," I reply. "But my marriage hasn't being working out. We live almost two separate lives, sleep in separate rooms. We haven't made love for months. We're not man and wife anymore…And the more my relationship with my wife got worse, the more I thought of you."

  Sarah is silent.

  "I tried to call you," she says quietly.

  "When?"

  "When I first read your letter, I was a bit taken aback. I was really nervous. I wasn't going to call you at first, but there was just something about it. Something that kept speaking to me from between the lines. And then I just had to…"

  "So what happened? I never got the call."

  "You did. You answered it several times. Once, the last time, you asked for me by name. I hung up."

  "That was you?" A sudden flashback to the phone ringing as I crossed the Jubilee Bridge, and hearing someone breathing at the other end. Then the 'click' as Sarah hung up.

  "Why did you hang up?" I ask, reaching out to touch her hand across the table.

  "Because I didn't know what to say. I'm shy. Before I called you, I tried to find out a little more about you from the school, but no one had ever heard of you. No pictures, nothing. It was weird. So who were you? A stalker? A mad axe-man? Who?" the last word emphasized, revealing some touching emotion behind her words.

  "So why did you call?"

  "Because, there was something…I can't explain it, James. Something made me." She looks up at me, then takes hold of my outstretched hand across the table. "I'm scared, James. I don't understand what's going on here. You're married, and if you knew me better, you'd know there's no way I'd ever get involved with a married man. Never. But I have this incredible feeling about you. This whole thing..., meeting you at my mother's graveside,...how you know so many
things about me that you shouldn't know, unless my mother really trusted you. ...And I like you. A lot. I won't deny it."

  "I'm glad. I like you too. A lot."

  I wrap my fingers around hers, giving them a gentle squeeze.

  "James, this may sound daft, but…I have this strange feeling about us…it's really bizarre…"