And then it hits me. It's Ian Rankin. The famous writer, creator of the Inspector Rebus novels. Of course, he is from Edinburgh! Wow, I love his books; I’ve read them all.
I get up and walk over to him, leaving the Professor, who probably doesn’t notice me leave anyway.
"Mr Rankin? Do you mind if I join you for a second? I'm a big fan of your work," I ask.
He looks up at me, his eyebrows going up to form a question with his face.
"What work? Do I know you?" he asks.
"No. No, you don't. But I've read most of your books. I'm a big fan."
"What books? What are you talking about?" he asks, the question and his surprise seeming completely genuine.
I'm standing over him, not yet seated, just about to open my mouth to tell him how much I loved his latest book when it dawns on me. Perhaps Ian Rankin hasn't had any books published in this world. At least, not yet!
I sit down opposite him.
"Mr Rankin, my name is James. We haven't met but, and don't ask me how I know because honestly I couldn’t explain it, but correct me if I'm wrong: are you writing, or have you ever written any books?"
He stares at me, then leans forward, almost whispering.
"Yes, yes, I have. I've written three. But I've never had any of them published. How do you know?"
"Why not?" I ask. "Why haven't you had any of them published?"
"Because everyone I send them to just sends them straight back, unread. Without any personal contacts in the literary world, I don't stand a chance of getting published, and I don't know anyone. Are you a writer?"
"No. I'm not. Listen, Mr Rankin…what are your books about? Have you ever written about a character called Inspector Rebus?"
"Yes. Yes I have? How do you know?" he asks, raising his voice. "What's going on? How do you know about him? I haven't told anyone about Rebus. I've given up on writing about him. I haven’t written anything for years. Waste of bloody time. Doesn't pay the rent."
"So what do you do now?"
"I work for Scottish and Newcastle, the breweries, in alcohol research," he says, lifting the glass in front of me and looking at the dark beer inside.
"Listen, it may be none of my business, but if I were you, I would go back to writing, and try again. Don't give up. Whatever you do, don’t give up. I had a dream about you, Mr Rankin. And in my dream I dreamt that your books were being published all over the world, and that the Inspector Rebus series of novels was one of the most successful series of crime thrillers ever written."
"You dreamt it?" he asks.
"Yes. Listen, I've never met you before, but I dreamt all about you and your character Inspector Rebus. If that part was true, the rest of the dream must be true too. Honestly, don’t give up. You have to try again, and again. And then once more after that. I can promise you that you've got what it takes, and that one day, if you persevere, you will be very famous. And I mean, very famous."
"You honestly dreamt all of this?" he asks again.
"Yes."
"Wow…Thanks pal. Thanks."
He picks up the glass of beer and takes another look at it, then smiles at me, puts down the half-finished pint, gets up, shakes my hand, and walks out of the pub.
In the words of Clint Eastwood, I think that I've just made his day.
I walk back over to the Professor and sit down beside him.
"Peanuts?" I ask.
"What?"
"Do you want some peanuts?"
"No. No thanks," he replies without looking up. He continues scribbling. I am just about to take another drink from my glass when he turns to me, "What? What did you just say?" he asks.
"I said, 'Do you want some peanuts?'"
"James. How heavy are you now?"
"What?"
"How heavy are you?"
"I don't know. I haven't weighed myself in ages."
"Are you heavier now than you were when we met last time?"
"Yes. I would say I am. I've noticed that I have been putting on weight in the past few months. Quite a lot actually. It's all that good food from eating out at fancy meals with clients, and drinking so much Guinness. That and the lack of exercise."
"Eureka!" he shouts. Standing up, and banging the table hard with his fist. The couple in the corner break off from kissing and look across at us, before bursting into laughter. "That's it, my boy! The calculations I made were based upon your body mass from the last time I saw you. But if you have been putting on more weight, I will have to adjust the numbers in the calculation to reflect your increased body mass. When I run the numbers again, the predicted date for the next event will be different. That's why it didn't happen last night. You've been eating too much. You've got fat!"
Ten minutes later we are both back in my hotel bedroom, staring down at the scales in my bathroom.
187lbs.
That's 11lbs heavier than I was the last time I weighed myself.
The Professor is excited, and he can't wait to get back to his office to run the new calculation on the university computer.
"I'll call you as soon as I can. I'll go over my numbers once again, then start running the calculation again on ‘Henry’, and the results should come back within a few days. A week at the most."
"Who's Henry?"
"He's a DAP, a digital array of processors, or more accurately a massive parallel array of super-computing Cray computers. There's nothing else like it in the country. The Edinburgh Observatory shares it with the Physics department. Calculations that would take most other universities months to do, we can do in a day."
"Well, say 'Hi' to Henry for me. And tell him I just want to go home. Soon…"
"I will. And that may be sooner than you think, my boy. Sooner than you think…"
"Professor, don't hurry the calculations. Take your time and just get it right this time, okay? I don't think I could stand another false alarm. Just call me when you're sure. Not before…"
Chapter Fifty One
Sunday
.
White horses ride the crests of the waves on the North Sea and sea-gulls circle high above the grey rugged cliffs which pass by the outside of the train window. The sea looks a cold and inhospitable place today, and I am happy to be sitting inside the warm train compartment, looking out, protected from the world outside.
I am leaving Edinburgh behind me, the train to London speeding back towards my future, whichever one it will be.
According to the Professor, my time in this life, this version of my life, may shortly come to an end. Soon I will get the chance to 'jump' again. Soon I will be able to be with my family, my real family. And soon I will be happy…
Happy.
Perhaps. Maybe. But before I can rejoin my family, I first need to heal myself.
I have come a long way in the past few weeks. I have discovered that the path back to my life with Sarah crosses many rough and bumpy tracks, and ultimately will only lead me to my destination when I take a dangerous and painful detour into my own self. A journey inside my heart and soul to discover who I have become. I know now that before I can go home, I have to find out where the old me has gone. Not only do I have to find Sarah,…I have to find myself.
Thankfully, I am now much closer to understanding where that person went.
Except now, of course, there is also that one, single added complication. Or blessing. Depending upon how fate should have me view it all. For now, I have not only the possibility of a route back to Sarah, my old Sarah, but now I have also the memory of a meeting with a new Sarah. An invigorating, fresh, mesmerizing Sarah. But Sarah, just the same.
As I start this new train of thought, I start to vividly remember the night I spent with her in Richmond.
If only it were possible to see her once again before I go back, to spend some more time with her…to make love to her like we did before one last time? To apologize to her in person for the other night, for letting her down, for standing her up…
Did she get my note
? Why hasn't she contacted me?
As the train hurtles south, I can't stop thinking about her. Now that I've made up my mind that I will make the jump back to my old life, and to the other Sarah, I can't help wondering if it would be wrong to want to see the new Sarah again in this world. Is it wrong to want to make love to her one more time? Is it possible that I can be unfaithful to my own wife, with my own wife?
Then I think of her in bed with me last week, the taste of her lips, and the touch of her skin against mine.
By the time the train reaches North Berwick, an hour-and-a-half after leaving Edinburgh, I am thinking of little else apart from having her naked body next to mine again, and I am doing an excellent job of trying to persuade myself that there would be no harm in sleeping with her again. No harm either for Sarah, or for me.
But as the train pulls into Newcastle almost thirty minutes later, my conscience has got the better of me, and I know it would be wrong.
Wrong. Perhaps. Maybe. Well, maybe not that wrong…When the train stops at Doncaster, I finally manage to persuade myself that it would be okay. I will not harm Sarah…in fact, I am sure that I will make her happy…
Selfish lies.
By the time the train finally pulls into London, my mind is successfully made up.
I have to see her again. I must.
Only one question remains. How can I contact her?
The answer is obvious. Mary.
I have to call her. Ask her to speak to Sarah for me again. Even beg her if necessary. And soon…because I may not have much time.
Tonight. I'll call her tonight.
It's ten past eight by the time I get back to my house. True to her word, Jane and the kids are still nowhere to be seen. I pour myself a whisky, and relax into the white sofa in the front room. A little nervous I pick up the phone and dial the number for Mary, which the operator for Director Enquiries so willingly provides.
The phone at the other end rings. No one picks up. I let it ring some more. Still no one. I begin to count the number of times it rings…I'll hang up when it gets to ten.
Ten.
Blast!
I hang up.
Maybe I dialed a wrong number?
I dial it again. Nothing. I let it ring.
Shit. What do I do now…?
"Hello?" a voice says, obviously out of breath.
"Mary?" I ask.
"Yes, it's me. Sorry, I just ran up the garden path. I heard the phone ringing. Who's there?"
"It's James again. I'm sorry."
Silence at the other end.
"Mary? Listen, I'm sorry. I had to speak to you…Can you give me a few minutes please?"
A moment, then her voice.
"James. This is not fair. I'm stuck in the middle here. It's between you and Sarah, not me. Whatever she wants…"
"Please Mary. I met her. Did she tell you?"
"Yes. She did."
"Did she tell you that we got on really well…that there was a real connection between us and that something wonderful happened?"
"Yes."
"Mary, Sarah means a lot to me. A lot... I can't explain it, but she means more to me than any other person on this planet. I love her…"
"But you only just met her James. Be realistic. How can you love her already?"
"It's not that simple. It's more complicated than you can possibly imagine. Anyway, things got messed up, and I think she left London. I was meant to meet her for dinner in her hotel room, but I got stuck in a lift, and didn't make it. She waited for me all evening, but by the time I got to her room, she had gone to sleep. The next day I went to the hotel first thing in the morning, but she had already gone. Vanished. I never got a chance to speak to her again. Mary, I need to call her, to speak to her. To apologize. But stupidly, I never got a contact number from her…and now I don’t know how to reach her. Listen, please Mary, please can you give me her number. I have to call her!"
Another moment's silence.
"No. James, I won't give you her number. I'll speak to her myself. If she calls you back, then fine. But if she doesn't, please don't call me again. I hate being the pig-in-the-middle. This is between you and her, and I'm her friend, not yours. Okay?"
"Yes, just this one last time. I promise."
"But let me just say one thing to you, James."
"What?"
"Go easy on her. She hasn't felt anything for any man for years. Then suddenly you turn up, bewitch her, god knows how, but you did, and now she's like a bloody nervous teenager again. I know she likes you James. She does. But you scared her James, and then you let her down…"
"What do you mean, I 'scared her'?"
"I mean, you scared her…you said some things that really shook her. Things that you shouldn't know about her, but did. Have you been following her or something?"
"No. No I haven't." Quick. Change the subject. "When will you call her?"
"I'll speak to her as soon as you get off the phone."
"I'll hang up now then. Mary, please, tell her I miss her. I want to see her again soon…I have to…and tell her I'm sorry I was late. But that doesn't mean I don't respect her time...It’s important she knows that I rushed to the hotel as soon as I could."
"I'll tell her. Bye James."
"Bye…"
And a moment later, I am sitting in the room staring aimlessly at the white, marble fireplace, the phone on my lap, and the big, empty house, echoing all around me. I am suddenly very, very alone.
Please Sarah. Please call me.
--------------------
Monday passes quickly in the office, and in spite of everything that is happening to me, I actually quite enjoy the day. In the morning, Claire and her partners come into the office to talk about "Find-a-Friend" and we present to them some of the ideas that the creative team have come up with. They like them. Claire is pleased, and afterwards, her partners rush off to another meeting and she buys me lunch. When she leaves, she kisses me on the cheek, and squeezes my hand. I squeeze her hand back, perhaps a mistake, for before I know what is happening she leans forward and kisses me quickly on the lips.
"For old times’ sake," she says. "And don't worry, I won't be doing that every time I see you."
"Which is perhaps for the best. We've both moved on, Claire."
"True. But I couldn't resist, and now you can't sack me for trying. You know James, I was watching you during the meeting. You're such a different person now than the person you used to be. Ever since you got mugged."
"Better, or worse?" I can't resist asking.
"Hard to say. Perhaps I'm biased. I mean, I'm definitely biased. You and I were good. The old you. The devilish you. The one that was charming and sophisticated and bad. "
"You mean, I'm not charming anymore?" I push.
"Of course you are. Maybe even more so than before. But nowadays you've got a conscience, and care more about people. You do the right thing for others, not just what is right for you. I saw how you sat back in the meeting and gave Mat the chance to talk and present his ideas. You encouraged him, and then gave him all the credit. You've matured James."
"So which one do you prefer?" I ask.
"Honestly?"
"Yes…"
"Then I prefer the old you. The one that seduced me, the one that took me to a hotel room after work, and spent the night doing everything to me that he knew he shouldn't. The bad you. The naughty you. The dangerous you. I preferred Hyde. And you're Dr Jekyll."
Dr Jekyll?
I think about her words that evening on the way back home on the train. I think about who I am now, and who I used to be, in this world and my real world, or at least, the world I used to come from.
And there it is again. A moment of doubt. An instant of confusion about which is the real world, this one now, or the one 'I used to come from'?
I realize then that if I don't go home soon, home to Sarah and Keira and Nicole, then it may soon be too late. The distinction between the present world and my real w
orld is beginning to blur.
Which is which?
--------------------
On Tuesday, I attend the launch of the television campaign for Scotia Telecom. At long last, it has all come together. After months of searching, we eventually chose a little known actor called Orlando Bloom to be the star of the campaign. "Honestly," I tell the rest of the team, "I know this is the right choice. This man's going to go a long way… and the ladies will absolutely love him." And a few of the girls in the team giggle. Which just proves my point.
Who Stole My Life? Page 42