“Yeah, sorry. Not my finest five minutes. You probably weren’t expecting drinks with Mr Bean.”
“I happen to like Mr Bean.”
“Really?” I reply with surprise, although I know full well she’s a massive Rowan Atkinson fan.
“I preferred Blackadder. Pure comedy gold,” I add.
“Oh my god, I absolutely love Blackadder,” she shrieks.
For the next two hours it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Lucy must think she’s met her soul-mate because I happen to like everything she likes and share the exact same views on so many subjects, all of which I bring up in conversation. As the time flies, so do my troubles. My original plan to perhaps leave after a few drinks isn’t given a second thought.
Only two aspects of our evening dampen my good mood. Firstly, the bar is rammed with the type of people who wouldn’t be seen dead in what I’m wearing, and they’re noisy. Secondly, the cost of the drinks is a significant drain on my meagre bank balance.
Thankfully, I happen to know that Lucy prefers a particular, more traditional drinking establishment down the road. It’s certainly not the type of place you’d go on a first date but it’s far more our scene so I suggest we head there.
“Have you been stalking me?” she playfully replies to my suggestion.
“No. Why?”
“The Rose & Anchor is my favourite pub.”
“Well, let’s get out of here then.”
We exit Bar Mirage onto the quiet street.
As we walk side by side, I put my hands in my pockets and Lucy links her arm into mine. For a second I feel awkward but it soon passes and by the time we reach The Rose & Anchor, it feels right. Almost too right. Maybe it’s the alcohol clouding my mind but as I hold the door open for her, I’m suddenly struck by how effortlessly beautiful Lucy looks this evening. It’s the same woman I worked with for almost ten years, but I can’t see her now. And I’m stirred by feelings that don’t quite fit with the dynamics of our relationship, least the one we had. It’s an odd feeling. Wonderfully odd, but odd nonetheless.
The main bar in the Rose & Anchor is gloriously olde worlde. An inviting oak bar spans one side of the room, opposite a huge inglenook fireplace. The walls are all oak-panelled and the beamed ceiling sits low enough that any patrons over six foot need to mind their heads. The only nod to modernity is a juke box affixed to a brick pillar at the rear, the volume set to an unobtrusive level.
Beyond the aesthetics, the customers are significantly lower in number and much older in years than in Bar Mirage. When I managed RolpheTech, we had post-work drinks in The Rose & Anchor hundreds of times over the years. Being in here again sparks a warm feeling of familiarity.
Lucy offers to buy the drinks and I offer the bare minimum of chivalrous protest in return. It doesn’t work, thankfully. We take our drinks over to an empty table and Lucy tells me how she and her workmates used to occasionally drink here after work. She regales me with stories of drunken antics but the names of her colleagues are meaningless to me. I smile and laugh anyway.
As time slips by, another round of drinks are acquired and Lucy suggests we check-out the juke box. Apart from the coin shoot, there are no mechanical parts. A touchscreen offers the choice of thousands of tracks, sorted by genre, artist or album. Lucy steps forward and prods away at the screen.
“Anything in particular you want to listen to?”
This could be a watershed moment. Do I say it? There are many good reasons not to offer the answer which immediately comes to mind. However, the alcohol in my bloodstream and the overwhelming need to feel close to someone trump them all.
“How about, ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ by Savage Garden?” I casually reply.
Lucy spins around and stares up at me, her eyes wide, mouth slightly agape.
“Are you kidding me? Why would you choose that particular song?”
“I just love the words. Why do you ask?” I reply innocently.
“You’re not real, you can’t be. Of all the songs you could have chosen, you chose that one.”
I stand motionless and pretend to look confused. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“First dance at my wedding,” she sighs.
“What? You’re married?”
She shakes her head. “No, sadly not. But I’ve always had a vision in my head of that song playing for the first dance at my wedding. Unfortunately that wedding hasn’t happened on the account of there being no fiance, or even a suitable boyfriend.”
“Fancy practicing that dance?” I ask.
Lucy beams and turns to face the juke box. She quickly prods the screen a few times before the opening chords to ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ gently chime across the room. I know it’s her favourite song, and just for a moment I feel a little guilty for playing this card. As Lucy wraps her arms around my waist, that guilt drifts away.
In fact, so much drifts away in that moment I almost forget about Craig Wilson’s problems.
Almost.
11
For four minutes and ten seconds we hold one another and rotate slowly. It would have been perfect had it not been punctuated by thoughts of Megan, swirling through my mind like the Ghost of Christmas Past. For a second I’m not in a pub with Lucy. I’m stood in the middle of a dance floor in a village hall, holding my new bride as we prepare for our first dance as husband and wife. Cameras flash and the song begins — Richard Marx, ‘Right Here Waiting’. Megan looks up at me and pouts a photograph album smile. It doesn’t hide the wistful sadness in her eyes.
I try to shake the vision from my mind. That life never happened and maybe Megan was better off for it. So many years together and so little happiness. Did I actually do her a favour by sending her down a different path? Thirty-eight years is too short a life, but it was a good life, a better life. Perhaps less is more, and that has to be the way I look beyond Megan’s fate in this timeline. It helps to quash the irrational guilt currently stifling my feelings towards Lucy.
I return to reality just as ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ ends.
Lucy looks up at me, just as Megan once did. Different woman, different life. Her opal green eyes surreptitiously share her thoughts, if you know how to read them. I’d wager that Lucy can’t quite believe she’s in the midst of a romantic embrace with a guy she only met once before tonight. It’s out of character. She knows it and so do I.
“Can we talk for a moment?” she whispers.
“Sure.”
“Look Craig, there’s something you should know. I have a teenage daughter.”
“Right.”
“So, we’re like a package deal. I know most guys seem to have a problem with sharing so I thought I better mention it.”
“Right.”
She releases her arms from around my waist and folds them across her chest.
“Is that all you can say?” she huffs.
Lucy has always had a slight tendency to over-dramatise. I’ve met her daughter dozens of times and we got on okay, at least as well as a middle-aged man can get on with a teenage girl.
“I didn’t mean to sound uninterested. It’s just a non-issue for me.”
She closes her eyes for a second and nibbles her bottom lip.
“Oh god, I’m messing this up aren’t I?” she says apologetically. “I didn’t mean to sound so defensive.”
“Lucy, it’s not a problem. I assume you are who you are because you’re a parent?”
She nods and looks around the room.
“So I get it. Nothing has changed. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Okay?”
For a second it feels like I’m her manager again. Chiding her for being a drama queen over some petty issue.
“You’re going to think I’m mad, but I’ve never felt this type of connection with anyone before,” she says. “Don’t panic though. I’m not hoping to get you up the aisle next week, but I think we could be good together.”
“So do I.”
“It’s like, um…Tetris,” she says.
/> “Eh?”
“You’ve played Tetris before?”
“The video game? The one where you have to fit different shapes into a solid wall?”
“Yep. That’s the one.”
“Okay,” I reply hesitantly. “Yes I have.”
“Well, more often than not, the pieces don’t fit together properly. You drop them down and your wall ends up with gaps everywhere. That’s a bit like my previous relationships — gaps everywhere. But with you, all the pieces seem to fit perfectly. ”
“It’s an interesting analogy.”
“My point is, I really like you, Craig. There are no gaps, but I don’t want to invest myself emotionally if you’re only looking for something casual.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
What happens next is as surreal as it is wonderful. Lucy Ashman, my great friend from a previous life, steps towards me. For a moment there is nobody else in the pub. We’re in our own little bubble, oblivious to everything apart from each other. She lifts her hand and places it on the back of my head before gently pulling me towards her. I don’t resist. I close my eyes a split-second before our lips meet.
It is not a kiss of frantic passion but a tender, lingering kiss. The tip of her tongue dances delicately just inside my mouth. Slowly, measured. I savour the sensation, the intimacy. The fact I am enthusiastically kissing my friend is somehow lost in the moment. I’m not sure I even care any more.
I couldn’t even begin to estimate how long our faces are locked together. Time, like everything else around us, just dissolves away. Truth be told, I could live in our bubble forever. Suddenly I have a connection, a lifeline to grasp. Something of my previous life that isn’t tarnished, broken. One woman, two lives, but there is enough overlap between the two for me to seek haven.
Ultimately the moment has to end and we withdraw in unison. Lucy takes my hands in hers while we hold one another’s gaze.
“See what I mean? Every piece fits perfectly,” she coos.
I look into her eyes, losing myself as an indistinct feeling suddenly engulfs me. There’s a hint of familiarity to it but it feels out of kilter with the situation. On further introspection I realise I have felt it before — the moment Tessa kissed me in her bedroom when we were teenagers. That was the moment I knew, at least I thought I knew, I was in love.
This time it doesn’t compute. Lucy is my friend. No, Lucy was my friend. But what is she now? And why has that feeling suddenly resurfaced, seemingly from nowhere?
It must be the alcohol, or the need to rekindle our friendship, any friendship for that matter. It must be that, surely. But if that’s all it is, why is my heart doing cartwheels in my chest? Why is my skin tingling? And why do I feel the overwhelming urge to say something profoundly stupid?
Now I think about it, maybe it’s something Craig Pelling could, and should have said to Lucy before his life was turned inside-out. I know why he didn’t. He was too scared it would destroy what they had. Too afraid of the potential for rejection, for humiliation. Instead, he clutched a teenage crush in one hand while clinging to the frayed strands of his marriage in the other.
On reflection, it’s no great surprise Craig Pelling resorted to type — an idiot who buried his head in the sand.
But now, standing here as Craig Wilson, I can see clearly. Now I’ve reached a point where there is little left to lose, it’s time to finally accept this feeling for what I think it is, what I hope it is.
“You seem miles away. Having second thoughts already?” Lucy asks.
“No,” I chuckle. “Just enjoying the moment. I’ve been waiting a long time for that kiss.”
“There’s plenty more where that one came from.”
And on cue, Lucy moves in and we engage in our second kiss.
We return to our table and sit with our hands clasped together. We talk more and despite my best efforts, Lucy swings the subject away from the general chit-chat of earlier. Questions become more probing, more personal. Where did I grow up? What do I do for a living? Are my family local? I try to bat them away with humorous answers or by turning the question back at her. It doesn’t take long for Lucy to spot my deflection and I fear our bubble is about to be burst.
“Are you always this guarded?” she asks, a deep line creasing her forehead.
What do I say to her? Do I lie or do I tell her something approaching the truth? The letter from the Broadhall doctor won’t help me here.
“My life is a bit complicated.”
Her body language changes in a flash. The Lucy who hates being pissed around withdraws her hand from mine.
“I thought you were too good to be true,” she groans. “What is it? You’re married? On the run from prison? About to join the circus?”
“Calm down, it’s nothing like that.”
“Please don’t tell me to calm down, Craig.”
“Sorry.”
An uncomfortable silence hangs over the table. We both grab our glasses and neck our drinks, for differing reasons I suspect.
“I’ve been in hospital for the best part of a year,” I eventually confess.
Lucy’s expression softens slightly and she waits for me to expand on my statement.
“I had some sort of amnesic breakdown which left me with no memory of my life before I was admitted to hospital.”
I slump back in my chair and stare at my empty glass on the table.
“How long have you been out of hospital?” Lucy asks, her voice low.
“Six days.”
The silence returns momentarily.
“So you could be married, but just don’t remember?”
“I’m definitely not married, Lucy. There would be a record of it somewhere, but there isn’t.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“Bits, but not much. It’s like trying to remember a dream. When you focus on the detail there’s nothing there.”
I look up and try to determine her feelings. Her face displays sympathy but her eyes show a wariness.
“That’s why you evaded my questions about your family and where you grew up?”
“Primarily. As I said, it’s complicated.”
“Right,” she sighs. “Too complicated to explain?”
“You know those Tetris pieces that all fitted nicely together? Well, I think I’m about to scatter them.”
Lucy rolls her eyes and stands up. “I need another drink.”
I watch her move across the room to the bar. I figure I’ve now reached the point of no return. The moment where I snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. It’s taken me a decade to finally get to this point with Lucy and now I’m about to blow it. How much do I tell her? What do I tell her? Patently I can’t tell her the truth but I need to assure her I’m worthy of her emotional investment.
She returns and places two glasses on the table. I take a sip of lager and pat the seat next to me.
“Sit down and I’ll try to tell you everything.”
“Okay, as long as it is everything. I’m too old and too weary to be dating men with baggage.”
Lucy takes a seat and I begin my hastily prepared defence.
“The reason I was a bit vague about my family is because I’ve only just discovered that my mum is dead. I have no idea where my dad is, or even if he’s still alive. Apart from my parents, I don’t have any other family.”
“Gosh, that’s awful. Sorry…I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s okay, but you see why I wasn’t so keen to discuss my family?”
“Of course…hold on a minute. What about your Uncle Bungle?”
Fuck. The problem with telling lies is remembering them. Christ, what do I say now?
“Um, he doesn’t actually exist.”
Moron.
Her eyes widen and she pulls back from the table. “You’re freaking me out now, Craig. Why did you come to my office then?”
I reckon I have about five seconds to come up with a plausible explanation why I wandere
d into Lucy’s office and made up some bullshit story about a fictitious uncle.
Lucy takes a nervous gulp of wine. It spikes a memory of her sat at her desk sipping coffee.
“I saw you in Starbucks,” I splutter.
“I’m not with you.”
“Please don’t think I’m some sort of stalker but I spotted you in Starbucks and followed you back to your office. That’s when I decided to call you.”
“You followed me? Don’t you think that’s just a bit creepy?”
“Ordinarily, yes. But I’ve never done anything like that before in my life, I promise you.”
“So why did you?”
“Because the moment I saw you I was blown away. Can’t put my finger on it but there was just something about you. I didn’t think about it, just acted on impulse.”
“So let me get this straight. You saw me in Starbucks and thought I was ‘the one’, and decided to follow me?”
“Yeah, that’s about the strength of it. I understand it seems bit weird but I knew I’d kick myself if I didn’t try to find out who you were.”
She sips her drink and begins to chuckle.
“So, there’s no Uncle Bungle?”
“Afraid not.”
“Well, if nothing else, you gave me a laugh. And I guess I should be flattered you went to so much trouble for a date.”
Well saved, Craig.
“But promise me something will you?”
“Anything.”
“No more lies.”
“Scouts honour.”
She nods and her defensive stance eases a little. “Is everything else you told me true?”
“Everything else I’ve told you is the absolute, gods-honest truth,” I reply, trying my best to look earnest. “I genuinely don’t remember much about my life before being admitted to hospital. But clearly I’m no threat to either myself or anyone else, as otherwise they wouldn’t have let me out. I’ve got a job working part-time in a charity shop, although I think I used to work as a manager in retail. There is no Mrs Wilson, nor has there ever been one. I live in a one-bedroom flat courtesy of Social Services and I own assets that value the sum total of nothing.”
Beyond Broadhall (The '86 Fix Book 2) Page 9
