Chasing What's Already Gone (Second Chances Book 1)

by Michael Ross

  Blimey, it does not sound like her at all. Nothing husky in her voice. To be quite honest, it’s rather common sounding. Maybe she put on that voice in the coffee shop for my benefit. Which would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?

  “Hello, who’s that?”

  Sheesh Danny—say something.

  “Um, hi, Ella…it’s Danny here…from Costa…on Saturday?”

  “Sorry, Danny who? From where? Costco?”

  I obviously made one hell of an impression.

  “No, Danny Pearson. We met at the mall on Saturday. We had a coffee together.” Bit of a stretch that one, but my brain and mouth are no longer working in partnership.

  “Last Saturday…I don’t think so.”

  Oh hell, I want to die. One last go.

  “Yes. We swapped visiting cards. I thought we got on quite well.”

  “Danny whatever-your-name-is, last Saturday I was at a hen party in Amsterdam. I think you might well have lost the plot.”

  “But I’ve got your visiting card.”

  “Ah, of course. You’ve got a visiting card with my name on it—that explains everything.” There is an audible intake of breath before she says, “I get mine printed two hundred at a time, Danny, just to hand out to morons who are stalking me. Go get a life.”

  The line is disconnected.

  I do not like Ella Chamberlain.

  Chapter Five

  Sundays have developed into a routine. We read the Sunday papers in bed, and Jane makes breakfast about midday, which I would rather eat at the kitchen table but she insists I eat in bed. Then she goes off for a girlie afternoon, shopping with the girls from her office. They seem to be a really good influence on her because the credit card statement balances at the end of the month are coming down dramatically.

  However, I cannot get Ella out of my mind. I still have her card in my wallet and three times, after withholding my number, I have rung her phone. But the voice that answers is not husky and still sounds common. I end each call as confused as ever. But on the plus side, Jane seems a lot happier and the arguments have been more infrequent, so I’ve come to the conclusion that life is not that bad and I must try and enjoy what I have.

  I certainly enjoy my Sunday afternoons watching the previous day’s football, which means today I can watch the game in the safe knowledge that it is a cracking game, with six goals shared between Chelsea and Arsenal. So I settle back and relax until Arsenal score their second goal and I am instantly stunned. I hold the picture, then rewind, then play, then rewind, then play, and then freeze the frame. It is her, there is not a shadow of a doubt. My Ella, leaping up and down behind the goal. My Ella is an Arsenal fan. My pulse is racing. I repeat the process to make sure I am not imagining it, but it is her. It is most definitely her. She’s there with another girl wearing an Arsenal scarf, possibly younger, maybe prettier in some people’s eyes, but I cannot take my eyes off Ella’s image for very long. I fast forward and catch one or two more glimpses of her and my pulse is racing faster.

  I need to clear my head. I have not been for a run for a long time. My usual route, down through the park and along the river and then back home, takes the best part of an hour. Run and think: that makes some sort of sense. I go upstairs and put my tracksuit and running shoes on. It must be the best part of a year since I’ve done this.

  I am hopelessly out of condition and I have to stop three times before I even get through the park, so I sit on a bench and gather my thoughts.

  So she does exist. What do I do with that information? It is about all I actually know about her—oh, and she supports Arsenal and her name is not Ella Chamberlain. All I have is the card. It’s not a time for running. It’s a time to walk and think slowly and carefully. I’ll forget the river and take a short cut through the car park behind the Co-op.

  What the f…!

  It’s Kermit. Parked behind the Co-op. I walk towards the car, but it’s fairly apparent even from a distance that the car is empty. There are half a dozen cars in the car park, but no Jane in sight. I didn’t think to bring my mobile, so I cannot ring her. I suppose everything is okay, but I feel I should hang around for a while. Anyway, it gives me a chance to run through my plan again. It’s a pretty good plan—just a pity it needs me to implement it.

  It’s nearly six o’clock. The last thing I want is for Jane to think I’m spying on her. I will just casually bring it up in conversation when she gets home. I won’t hang about any longer; l will tie up my laces and then get going.

  Bloody hell, that’s a looker! A bright red Mercedes Coupé pulls into the car park with a rather naff personalised plate; the owner’s name must be Sam, or Sandra maybe. They are in no rush to get out of the car. Crikey, they’re all but having full-on sex in daylight on a Sunday in a Co-op car park. It takes all sorts! They ought to find a hotel room before they get arrested.

  Chapter Six

  I have passed on too little information on some matters and too much information on others. I must be the only person on the planet who did not expect Jane to climb out of that car. I could well have coped with that if the guy had not leaned over and passed her a pair of blue panties (which I had bought her for her last birthday, but let’s not split hairs). She just laughed like crazy and walked back over to Kermit.

  Have you ever been in that situation? Where someone has been cheating you and you feel guilty about tackling them about it? By the time I get home, she’s in the shower; of course she is. All I can think of doing to help clear my head is to watch my Arsenal recording. Ella would never cheat on me. Lie and deceive me, yes, but cheat? Never.

  So the days drift by, and by the end of the week, lack of sleep has left me exhausted. I desperately need to resolve matters within my marriage, but I lack any semblance of energy. I am defeated even before the conversation gets into full flow.

  “That’s just the way it is. It’s not your fault or mine.”

  Within a couple of minutes it feels like I have lost all touch with reality. Hang on, let me do a rewind.

  “Danny, I’ve been having a relationship (affair!) for several months with my boss at work. I want us to have a divorce with no bloodshed. I am sure we can do this amicably. We don’t love each other anymore; we have drifted apart. That’s just the way it is. It’s not your fault or mine.”

  Hang on just one bloody minute! Whenever did I claim it was my fault? I might have, just might have imagined an affair with Ella (when I find her she’ll have to get used to that name), whereas as you, Jane Pearson, have been taking your knickers off for your boss. There is no way I’m claiming this is my fault. That’s my little inner voice working again. The other one, the one that Jane hears, merely says, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “Graham has got a lawyer friend who is totally ethical and equitable, who could sort the paperwork with the minimum cost to us.” That would be Graham Sampson, Jane’s boss and latest soulmate. He’s probably the only person on this planet who understands his car number plate. I’d like to take a baseball bat to Graham’s head and then stuff it up his solicitor’s…

  “Yeah, that makes sense. No point in throwing money around needlessly.”

  “That’s good of you, Danny. I’ve made us an appointment with the lawyer for tomorrow afternoon in town.”

  I have a director coming down to see me for a one-to-one tomorrow. It’s quite important; there is no way I have enough time to spare to go to a lawyer’s office.

  “Sure. No problem. Give me the address and I’ll see you there.”

  Chapter Seven

  It is without doubt the best job that Gemma Barrow has ever had—just enough responsibility but with a pay package that sees her set up very comfortably. The company is modern and progressive and she feels part of the team. She was thinking to herself that life could not get any better until last night, when a spanner had been thrown into the works. David had asked her to marry him. Why would he do that? Weren’t things pretty damn good as they were? Why ruin it for a ring and a
piece of paper? David had certainly been rattled when she’d asked for time to answer—and why had she needed time? He was a good, decent man who would be a great companion.

  Saying that aloud sounds pretty daunting and uncomfortable. Gemma needs a sounding board; she cannot think clearly on her own account. She presses her boss’s extension number.

  “Excuse me, JB, but is there any chance you could spare me a couple of minutes to discuss a personal matter?”

  “Hang on…yes, at about four-fifteen, but five minutes max. I’ve got those Australians due back before five.”

  “Are you sure that’s okay?”

  “Of course, but five minutes absolute maximum.”

  “Thank you so much, JB. It won’t take long.”

  Gemma knows her meeting is bound to take at least twenty minutes, and she can imagine JB Roberts is now staring at the phone and letting out a deep sigh. But as she’s been told many times, Gemma Barrow is the best PA that JB has had for several years, so what’s an extra fifteen minutes here and there?

  Chapter Eight

  I kept the Sky box and television and got a cheque for just over £12,000. Jane kept the house and agreed that she would settle any bills outstanding on Kermit. I have settled into a nice rented flat that overlooks the park, and the company is happy for me to drive one of the small delivery vans for my personal use. The “ethical and equitable” lawyer priced our little house at £150,000 when he divided the monies up—Jane has just put the house on the market for £210,000. I am getting so used to being shafted I cannot even be bothered to care.

  I have done the usual recently divorced man’s routine, going out every night with the boys drinking, including a bachelor stag weekend in Dublin. I even booked a ticket for the beer festival in Munich. But it is not me; this is not who I am. A month living in this style will last me a lifetime. All I want to do is sit in front of the TV and watch a rom-com with Ella or whatever her name is. It is nearly six months since the day of the long curtain poles, and she still plagues my mind.

  “So what have you done about it? About finding her.”

  Rob is my oldest friend. We go way back, but he lives twenty miles away nowadays with his lovely wife, Tessa, and two adorable girls. All this means we have seen very little of each other recently. I am guessing that Tessa has pushed him into babysitting me.

  “What can I do? Put an advert in Metro: ‘To girl who claimed her name was Ella six months ago: I cannot stop thinking about you. Ring this number’?”

  “Don’t be so bloody stupid. What about the real Ella—have you asked her?”

  “Why ever would I ask her?”

  Rob has this way of looking at me and saying a thousand words without uttering a sound. At this moment he thinks I am as thick as four planks. He elaborates. “Why would your Ella have the real Ella’s business card?”

  “Because…” Ah, I see where Rob is going with this. It’s so obvious; I need to sidetrack him.

  “Because she stole it from one of those display boards they put up in restaurants or golf clubs.”

  If looks could kill…I admit defeat.

  “All right, all right. There’s a good chance that my Ella might have been given Ella’s card by the real Ella…and she just happened to have it in her handbag and wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible.”

  “Whoa, Danny, not so fast. I think you’re on the right lines, but let’s stay positive here. Just for five minutes, yes?”

  “Okay. So Ella Chamberlain must have been in touch with my Ella.”

  “Can we call her Gertrude? Just for the moment, so I don’t get any more confused.”

  “Gertrude?”

  “Yes, Gertrude. I’m sure her real name is far lovelier than that, but let’s get back to the here and now.”

  “Here and now.”

  “Danny, you’re getting that close to having a slap.”

  “Sorry. Okay, then. Ella meets Gertrude some time or other, and they swap cards.”

  “Or maybe not; maybe Gertrude accepted Ella’s card and had no need to pass one out herself.”

  “Like she’s Doctor Gertrude or something.”

  “Yes, of course, that’s more than possible. But if Gertrude is as distinctive-looking as you say, maybe if you described Gertrude to Ella, she would know who Gertrude really was by your description.”

  It was quite a good idea and one worth mulling over. So how would I describe her? Let’s think.

  Rob interrupts my thoughts.

  “It would be so much easier if we had a photo or something like that.”

  Oh, crap. How do I break the news to Rob about his best friend being completely retarded? Slowly, I think. Very slowly might be best.

  “I tell you what,” I say. “Let’s have a break and watch a bit of Premiership action.”

  “Really? We’re talking about something that’s frozen your brain for several months and you want to watch football?”

  “Just a particular game—the Chelsea/Arsenal game a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, the 3-3 draw where Wiltshire scored a hat-trick.” Rob knows his football.

  “Do you fancy a cider?” I ask. Maybe alcohol will slow his reaction time.

  “Yeah, why not?” When Arsenal score their second goal, I freeze the picture and slowly move forward, then stop and turn to Rob.

  “That’s her—that’s Gertrude.”

  I will remember Rob’s next words until my dying day. “Danny Pearson, you have the brains of a mouldy dog biscuit. You’ve had her picture her all this time, all these months. I am truly lost for words, you useless moron.” Rob will always be my best friend. Best friends always tell you it how it is.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  “Really? Well, I’ll be damned if I noticed. It’s been Ella this, Ella that, Ella the oth…whatever. We need a plan and someone with a brain to organise it—so that completely rules you out.”

  I am pretty sure it is best not to argue the point, so I allow Rob to take centre stage.

  “I’ve got a new phone with a brilliant camera app in it. I’ll take a few pictures before I go in tomorrow. No, I can’t make it tomorrow, we’ve got a trip to the safari park with the kids scheduled for midday. I’ll clear my desk for Monday, and you and me can go Gertrude hunting.” He then did this brilliant impression of a Sherlock Holmes searching the room with a magnifying glass, which probably won’t work on paper, then he spoke.

  “We will find this woman, Watson, and bring her back to 221b Baker Street for your pleasure.”

  Doesn’t work, does it?

  After a while, Rob stops and delivers his best and most serious face.

  “Before we get stuck into this dream of yours, D, you’re going to have to face the harsh reality of all this. It could all be a waste of time. You might be chasing what’s already gone.”

  I know that. I have known that all along, but that is not going to stop me chasing.

  ***

  Gemma feels so much better about herself after her chat with JB. Her boss was right; David was a good man, but not THE man. He was nice, reliable, considerate, and steady. And as JB pointed out, it was the “steady” that killed it for her. She loves David, but deep down inside she knows she is not in love with him. It was all very clear to her now. She will break the news to him as gently as possible. Maybe that’s why JB is the boss and Gemma the PA; that ability to think rationally at all times is something that Gemma lacks.

  Chapter Nine

  Ella Chamberlain has not had the best weekend of her life, that is for sure. It’s not that her latest boyfriend has dropped her, but that he actually beat her to the punch that hurt. Ella had been looking forward to dumping him for the last few days. She feels cheated of a pleasure.

  It is the same with the new job. She left the Giraffe Group to “better herself,” but the grass was definitely not greener on the other side. She has hiked her salary by ten percent, but she is surrounded by the most miserable bunch of plast
ic characters she has ever met in her life. As she drives in to work, she vows that if she gets the chance, she will jump at the opportunity to go back to her old job and ditch that ten percent. She had some good friends back there. She’d be ashamed to acknowledge anybody as a friend who worked in Plastix Insurance Company or Plastic World., as she labels it in her head. This week she is going to keep her head down and try to avoid all possible human contact. To that end, she adjusts her mobile so that it will divert to voicemail after one ring.

  ***

  I like Buck Osborne, who is a mighty big man. Let’s be honest; if your name was Buck Osborne, you would have to be a big man. He is the executive director in charge of European operations for the group. Larger than life, but a great guy. He weighs at least three hundred pounds, but insists on driving around to the branches in a smartcar. The more problems he has getting out of the car, the more my staff love him. But at the end of the day he gets the job done—profits for the UK operation have gone up every one of the five years he has been in the job. I run a pretty tight ship, so I guess Buck is here for a quick slap on the back and a light lunch at the Crown and Feather.

  “Things are looking good, Danny, nice and steady. We’re very pleased with how the branch is working.”

  “Thanks for that, Buck. Fancy something to eat down at the Crown?”

  “Whoa there, Danny. Slow down a bit. I need more of your time than that, cowboy!”

  Cowboy? Am I in trouble?

  “We were sorry to hear about your personal life, Danny—the divorce and all.”

  Oh, shit. The company is a real American Midwestern set up. Family values are at our core is the tag line on the company notepaper. Oh, God—no marriage and what, now no job?

  “…the first person we thought of.”

  “Sorry, Buck. Could you repeat that, please?”