Who Stole My Life?

by C. P. IRVINE, IAN

  "What? Tell me."

  "I can't really explain it, but, I have this really weird feeling that we've met before. As if, well, as if we know each other already?" She reaches across to me with her other hand, and I take it quickly. "How can that be, James?"

  "Maybe we have, Sarah. Perhaps in another world, who knows? Perhaps somewhere else, you and I are good friends, soul-mates, or lovers...What you feel, I feel too. Maybe it's best not to ask too many questions… There's something special here, and maybe we don't have to understand it. Perhaps we shouldn't even try...I think we should just accept it."

  --------------------

  After dinner, I drive her back to her hotel in Richmond. We park the car, but neither of us seems in a hurry to get out. For a while we sit there, both reluctant to let the evening end, both happy to spend more time together, talking, learning as much as we can about each other. I ask her more about her life, finding out what she has done since she left university, and even though I already know the answers, I ask about her childhood and what she was like as a little girl. Sarah also asks about me. A lot of which I cannot tell her, since I have no memories of this life and this world. Instead, where possible, I answer by drawing upon and describing experiences from my real life, in my other world, and where I cannot give an answer without lying or making it up completely, I turn the question round to deflect from me and learn more about her.

  Only when another car pulls into the car park, its bright headlights making us both blink do I realize how late it has become. We both sense the moment has come, so I step out of the car, and walk round to open her door. We walk slowly to the entrance of her hotel.

  "So…" she says, as I stand with her in front of the doorway.

  "So…"I reply.

  "I'm leaving London later this week. Can I see you tomorrow?"

  "I would like that."

  "So would I. Eight o'clock?"

  "Eight."

  I squeeze her hand, then kiss her gently on her cheek.

  "Goodnight, James Quinn. Man of mystery…" she says, then turns and walks through the door of the hotel.

  She is gone.

  --------------------

  The light in the hall is off as I unlock the front door and slip in. It's one o'clock, and Jane will be asleep.

  Or maybe not.

  "Where the hell have you been?" she screams at me from her seat at the bottom of the stairs.

  "Out with a client! I told you." I reply, reeling from the sudden attack.

  "Like hell you were. Richard called. He wanted to talk to you about tomorrow. I told him you were out with a client, and he didn't know anything about it."

  "So? He's not my keeper. He doesn't keep my appointment book, and I don't keep his. Jane, what's this about?"

  "So, what was this client's name? Sarah, was it? By any chance?"

  Bullseye.

  "Don't be silly. Jane, this obsession has got to stop. Please. You can't get so upset every time I have to go out. It's work. And I have to do it again tomorrow and probably the next day too. It's a big client. You know how it works!" I argue, as I walk past her into the kitchen to fix myself a drink.

  "No I don't know how it bloody works."

  She steps up beside me, and puts her hand around my neck, pulling me to her, so that she can sniff my cheek and collar.

  "Pleasures? How the hell did that get on your collar and face then? Explain that, you bastard!"

  I splash the whisky into my glass, then turn and stare at her, anger beginning to rise within me.

  "I don't know. Maybe when I kissed the lady goodnight. ...And if you smell hard enough, maybe you can smell the aftershave of the men I kissed goodnight too. What do you want Jane? To drive me away? I'm just doing my job. And no, before you ask, I didn't shag the clients either." I whip the whisky into the back of my mouth, and pour another one quickly, picking the glass up and pushing past Jane into the front room.

  She comes in and closes the door behind me.

  "This can't go on, James. It's got to stop. You've got to stop lying to me."

  "I'm not lying."

  I am.

  "We need help. I want us to go to see a counselor together. I've made an appointment for Tuesday night at 8pm, not next week, but the week after. The earliest they could see us."

  "I'm not going."

  "You are. James, I love you. I fucking love you. Doesn't that mean anything to you? You gave me back my self-respect. You taught me to stand up for myself again, to fight for what I believe in. Well, I believe in us. I love you, and Allison and Elspeth do too. But ever since you banged your head, you've been different. One minute you’re nice to me,- nicer than before-, but then the next, you're ignoring me. We're drowning James, and I don't want us to. Please, help us to stay afloat. Please come on Tuesday night."

  "Is there really any point, Jane? Really?"

  We stare at each other for what seems like an age, then she simply turns and walks upstairs. A moment later I hear her bedroom door close.

  I collapse into the leather sofa, close my eyes, and curse myself.

  Jane doesn't deserve this.

  Chapter Forty Seven

  A Date with Destiny

  .

  Richard pops his head around my door the next day, as soon I sit down and switch on the computer.

  "Sorry, did I drop you in the shit yesterday?" he apologizes.

  "No, don't worry about it. You weren't to know that I was out with a new potential client, but Jane is getting fed up with me working so hard."

  "So take a holiday. Go to the Caribbean for a week. Spend some time together. We can hold the fort while you're gone."

  "Maybe. Perhaps in a month or two."

  "Is everything all right between you and Jane?" he asks, innocently enough.

  "Listen, maybe we can chat over a beer later in the week, but right now I need to get ready for my ten o'clock. Do you mind?" I snap at him.

  Blast.

  That was uncalled for.

  The thing about guilt, is that you always take it out on everyone else. Although you feel guilty because it was you that did something wrong, suddenly everyone else around you becomes the guilty party, and everything turns into a fight. The less people I speak to today, the better.

  I click on the email icon, and start to read my messages. Fifty new emails since Monday, most of which I quickly deal with or delete. Half an hour later, I'm down to the last two, which sit beside each other on the screen, side by side, calling out for my attention. If anything ever was, this surely must be a definite case of 'déjà vu'.

  The email on the left is from Jane. The one on the right is from Sarah.

  I open up the first one.

  "James,

  I'm sorry about last night. I was out of order.

  But, please can you try to make it for counseling with me on the Tuesday night, not next week but the week after. It would mean a lot to me. And I think it will mean a lot to us. 8pm. Okay? The address, directions on how to get there, and the counselor's name is below. All you have to do is turn up…Jane."

  I don't reply, and ignore her meticulous instructions on how to make the appointment. I can't wait to read the next email.

  I've saved the best one for last.

  "James,

  Thank you for last night. I enjoyed meeting you, very much. Perhaps a little too much. Help! What is going on?

  I'm looking forward to seeing you tonight...8pm.

  Sarah."

  I hit the reply button.

  "Me too. See you at 8."

  I stare at the words for a few moments, thinking that I should perhaps add something else, should say something more, but after a few minutes I still can't think of anything else to say, so I send it as is.

  --------------------

  When I get back to my office after lunch from my 10 am meeting with the Scotia creative team, there is a large yellow stickie on my desk.

  "James, Professor Kasparek from Edinburgh called. Please call ba
ck. He says it's urgent."

  When I call him back, he is not there. I leave him a message, and then call back twice more, leaving a message on his number at the university, and one on his home number.

  Come six thirty I try his number one more time, but he is still not there. What can be so urgent that he is not around for me to call him back? At seven o'clock I leave the office and head off to Richmond, switching my mobile off so that Jane will not be able to call and interrupt me with Sarah. She knows that I won't be home till very late, having left her a note in the kitchen this morning.

  She is already waiting for me outside the hotel when I arrive, sitting on a seat in the garden. I arrive at 8 pm on the dot. I know that Sarah is a stickler for punctuality, and I know that if there is one way to win brownie points, respecting her time is one of them. Of course, the flipside of that is, if I were late, it would be a big, big negative.

  We greet each other with a quick kiss on the cheek, and walk along the edge of the river, stopping at the Slug and Lettuce for a drink before dinner. I have booked our table at Chateau Pierre for 9 pm, and as requested, our table is at the back in one of the quiet, more private rooms.

  Sarah is relaxed, and soon we are laughing and joking, getting on with each other as if we had known each other for years, and not just days. In response to the questions she asks I tell her a little about Jane and the children, but in the main, I manage to avoid much conversation about them. Instead, we talk a lot about her, her life, and her marriage. Occasionally, I drop in a piece of special 'acquired' knowledge, for example, that I would guess that her favorite singer was Lionel Ritchie, and that her favorite place in the whole wide world was Yosemite Valley in California, and that her biggest turn-off in a man was socks and underwear with holes in them. Right on all accounts, stunning guesses which amaze her, but come easily from the years of marriage that we have spent together.

  By the end of the meal we are much closer, and by the time it comes for me to walk her back to her room, we are holding hands.

  We kiss at the doorway, her lips soft and warm, and instantly I am reminded of our first kiss, so many years before. But then the vision passes, and I find myself still kissing her, enjoying the experience now, with no comparisons to any other time. As I slowly start to back away, I feel her hand upon my shoulders, pulling me back, and I do not resist.

  The kiss becomes more passionate, and I can feel her heart beating fast against my chest. And then I cheat.

  I kiss her on the neck, just underneath her chin. Slow, soft, small kisses, that trace a path from her chin to underneath her ear.

  She moans, and I feel the pressure build on my back, as she pulls me tighter into her. Almost involuntarily her hips thrust slightly forward, and her other hand wraps itself deeply into my hair, pulling gently downwards as she angles her head away from me, exposing her neck further to my advances.

  Perhaps, to use the knowledge that I know this kiss will drive her crazy is a little unfair. Perhaps, having spent over ten years perfecting it, the fact I know just what it does to her body, might give me an unfair advantage that might make this wrong.

  But I feel no guilt.

  And as she whispers in my ear, "James, come upstairs with me to my room…" I only smile, and obey.

  --------------------

  Perhaps it is a common thing for a man to do, perhaps it is not. But three times in my life when I have just made love to a woman, I have started to cry. For no apparent reason tears will stream down my face, and I will sob.

  Not from sorrow, sadness or regret. And not from happiness either.

  Maybe 'sexologists' are able to give it some sort of Latin, technical name, and maybe even some people are able to explain it, to point to it, and say, "Ah yes, that’s a typical auto-sensory response to male ejaculation, quite common whenever blah blah blah occurs and a clear sign of etc. etc. etc..."

  For me, I have never understood it. One moment I am in the throes of passion. Blinding light sweeping away all my thoughts and feelings, before being replaced by a euphoric sense of fulfillment. The next I am in tears, weeping onto Sarah's chest, shaking as the tears bubble up from deep within.

  The first time it happened to me was with my third girlfriend. A French woman, whom I met on a university field trip to France, and then spent the whole of my second summer at university with, besotted and in love.

  The second occasion immediately followed the moment I collapsed, exhausted and satisfied, into Sarah's arms, the first time we made love, thirteen years ago.

  And the third time was in a hotel room in Richmond. Just now.

  One common thread links the three events. Each time it happened, my companion accepted the tears without questions, stroking my hair, and soothing me, holding me tight. No questions ever asked, no explanations ever given. No words required.

  --------------------

  It is three o'clock when I get home from Richmond. Parking the car and letting myself in, I dread the imminent onslaught of questioning from Jane, but none comes.

  I shower downstairs, cleaning myself, and washing away the smell of Sarah. Her perfume, her taste, her touch.

  When I hit the pillow shortly afterwards, I feel no guilt. I sleep well, and for the first time in months, there are no dreams. Just sleep. Deep, deep sleep.

  --------------------

  When I wake in the morning, I feel good. I still feel no guilt, but I decide not to face Jane, and I dress quickly, and leave before 7 am, propping up a short note on the island in the kitchen, reminding her that once again I will be out late, and saying hello to the children.

  The first email arrives at 10 am. It's from Jane.

  "James, I'm taking the girls away for a while. We need a little space and I want you to have time to think over the next couple of weekends. By yourself. I'll be back on Tuesday evening, not next week, but the week after, in time for the appointment with the counselor. Please take the time to think about what it is you want for us in the future, and why we aren't working anymore. And remember to be there on the Tuesday night? It's important to me…"

  "Where? Where are you taking the children? Where are you going?" are my immediate thoughts, and then, perhaps not exactly the reaction Jane would want, "Good. It'll give me some breathing space, and some more time to think about Sarah."

  The second email is from Sarah.

  "Hi.… Wow! Thank you for last night. And I mean, 'thank you!'. Can we do the same again tonight? I've changed my mind about going out for a meal. Let's just order room service, and stay in bed. I'll see you at six? I'll be in bed, waiting for you…Don't be late…"

  I reply.

  "Looking forward to it. See you at 6. Don't worry, I won't be late."

  Tracy brings me coffee and breakfast at 10.15 and we spend the rest of the morning, planning the next few weeks. There is a lot to be done, and the workload of the firm is increasing. The publicity from the PR event for the Olympics and the concert at the Dome has brought in a lot more work, and Richard and myself have agreed that we have to expand to cope with the increased demands. That means recruiting another ten people across the company in the next three weeks, followed up with another four or five a few months later. Maybe more, especially if things continue to grow as they are. Business is booming. And, all modesty aside, the truth of the matter is that a lot of it is down to me.

  My mood today is excellent. Things are going great, both at work and in my private life. And I mean great.

  I move around the office feeling as if I am walking on air, and every time I think of Sarah, which on average, is about every two seconds, my heart skips a beat and I smile. Word quickly makes its way around that 'James is in a great mood' and by lunchtime I have already had three people come into my office and ask for a pay rise. I even agree to one of them.

  Then the red phone rings just after lunch, and my heart skips a beat. The red phone, I now know, is the private, direct number, that I only ever give out to a few, trusted, important people. Like the Chair
man of the Olympic Committee, the CEO of Scotia Telecom, or Jane. And now Sarah.

  A moment of dread. Will it be Sarah, calling to cancel this evening?

  "James!" the man's voice booms down the phone. "It's Professor Kasparek."

  I relax.

  "Professor, I tried to call you yesterday, and I left a few messages, but…"

  "I know, I know. I'm so glad I've managed to get hold of you, my boy. I have some news for you. Very important, urgent news. But don't worry,…it's good news!"

  "Can you wait a minute please?" I say, putting the phone down, getting up and closing the door to my office. "I'm back. Just putting the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door." I joke. "I'm all ears. What's up?"