‘I’m going home, to spend it with my parents.’
‘Oh, sounds nice.’
‘Not really. My…’ Then it all came out in a rush. ‘My dad had a heart attack two weeks ago, he didn’t die, but they’ve had to take him into hospital for observation, because it might happen again, and so… and so I’ve taken as much time off work as I can, I’m going down tonight, it looks like he’s going to be spending Christmas in hospital, and so I have to be there, not just to see him, but to be there for Mum because, on the phone, she sounds like she’s trying not to cry and, so, yeah, that’s what I’m doing this Christmas.’
Mark picked up a tissue and rubbed it into the comers of his eyes.
‘Oh my God. I’m so sorry.’ Becky gave him a
sympathetic smile, and suddenly Mark felt like he was with the old Bex again.
‘Mum was always on at him to go for a check-up.
Apparently some relative in Canada had a heart attack when they were his age. But he never got around to it, always too busy. Anyway, Christmas shopping,’ said Mark, swallowing the lump in his throat. ‘What a nightmare, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ said Becky, rubbing his fingers. ‘Look, if ever you need someone to talk to…’
Mark felt the touch of metal, and looked down to see the engagement ring on Becky’s finger. Becky saw that Mark had noticed it and withdrew her hand.
‘“Not daughter-in-law material”,’ said Mark. ‘I should’ve picked up on that. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So when’s the wedding?’
‘Oh, not for ages. Anthony’s parents want to organise this massive do. They’ve actually been watching Four Weddings on video and taking notes. I think they’re waiting on St Paul’s cathedral becoming available. You’re invited. Obviously. You and what’s her name, Jenny. If you’re still together.’
‘What is it with you and trying to split me up with my girlfriends?’ joked Mark.
‘I just think none of them are good enough for you, that’s all.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mark. ‘Which reminds me.’ He dug in his pocket for his new mobile phone and switched it on. One missed call, one new message. From Jenny, telling him to
meet her at her office at four, that she loved him and not to be late, x. Mark checked the time. Half past four.
Mark finished the rest of his coffee. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, it was lovely seeing you, Becky.’
‘Lovely seeing you too, Mark. One thing you should know before you go, though.’
‘Yeah?’ Mark pulled on his coat and grabbed his shopping bags.
‘No one calls me Becky any more. It’s Rebecca.’ She stood up as though to shake his hand. But instead she laughed and gave him a stiff hug. ‘And what I said, about phoning me, any time, I meant it. Oh, and you left your paper.’ She handed him the discarded copy of The European.
‘Not mine.’
‘Oh,’ she said, taking it back. As she did, a lottery ticket slid from its pages. Rebecca examined it. ‘Hey, it’s for tomorrow.’ She pressed it into his hand. ‘You have it. You never know.’ She put on the deep voice of the television advert. ‘“It could be you”.’
Mark slipped the ticket into his pocket. ‘Yeah. Anyway.
Have to, you know.’ He walked over to the door and out into the chilly, damp and oh-so-Christmassy shopping precinct.
But he couldn’t help looking back at Rebecca, sipping at her coffee in the window. And then he noticed a tingling sensation in his right hand, the same feeling he’d had on the night they’d first kissed.
Rebecca drained her coffee, thinking about Mark. He
looked like he hadn’t slept for days, his eyes were red from crying and, God, those glasses really didn’t suit him.
She’d wanted to kiss him and tell him everything would be all right, but she’d held back.
And then she noticed the man standing at her table.
For a moment she thought Mark had come back, until she realised it wasn’t him. The man looked familiar, but she couldn’t place where from. He looked about 40, with a deep tan and tinted glasses. ‘Forgot my paper,’ he said, collecting The European and turning to go.
‘Hey,’ said Rebecca. ‘There was a lottery ticket, I’m sorry, my friend took it, we thought—’
‘It’s OK. He probably needs it more than I do.’ The man smiled and left, just as the coffee shop radio began to play the opening chords of ‘Angels’.
Chapter
8
11 August 1998
‘Mind if we join you?’ asked Amy.
‘No, not at all,’ said Mark, sliding a chair towards her. ‘I thought I might see you here.’
Rory let Amy take the seat with the most shade, while the Doctor eased himself into a chair directly in the glare of the midday sun. The narrow street baked in the heat, heady with traffic fumes and swarming with tourists.
Occasionally the guttural rev of a motor scooter drowned out the chatter from the coffee bars and souvenir stalls, but it never drowned out the constant, thunderous, splashing roar of the Trevi Fountain waterfall.
‘Three frappuccinos,’ the Doctor told the waitress.
‘Make mine decaffeinated.’ The waitress boggled at the Doctor. His only concession to the heat was a pair of sunglasses. He should have been roasting in his tweed jacket and bow tie, but showed no discomfort.
‘How did you find me?’ asked Mark.
‘Wibbliness,’ explained Rory. ‘The Doctor has a special
detector.’ The device lay in the Doctor’s lap, bleeping intermittently.
‘Oh, yes, I remember,’ said Mark. ‘When we first met. It seems such a long time ago.’ Rory exchanged a raised eyebrow with Amy. As far as they were concerned, they’d only left Mark at the supermarket a few hours ago, yet he already looked noticeably older, his hair thinning, his skin tanned but showing deeper lines around his mouth and eyes.
‘How long has it been?’ asked Amy.
‘Four years. I’m 41 now.’ Mark sipped his tea and smiled. ‘While you’re not a day older.’
‘So what have you been up to? Whatever it is, you’re looking good on it,’ said Rory, referring to Mark’s finely tailored grey suit.
‘Behaving myself,’ said Mark with a curt smile.
‘Keeping out of the way of my younger self. I’ve been travelling - I did spend a few weeks in Belgium - and now I have my own small business consultancy company.’ He presented the Doctor with his card.
The Doctor read the card. ‘“Harold Jones”. Your new identity?’
Mark nodded. ‘Seemed to fit the bill. Nice and anonymous, nothing to provoke suspicion.’
‘And what sort of “business consultancy” do you do?’
said the Doctor, pocketing the card.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not giving them information about the future or anything like that. It’s just a cover for my investments.’
‘Investments?’
‘I’ve done quite well for myself over the past few years, Doctor. Oh, I’ve been careful not to draw attention to myself - for each deal that makes a profit, I make sure I make another that makes a loss. So far I’ve mostly been dealing in internet start-ups, registering domain names and so on, but recently I’ve moved into property, share options, and, ah, West End musicals.’
‘West End musicals?’ exclaimed Amy.
‘I’m putting some money into an ABBA thing that’s coming up. I think it might do well.’
‘Are you a big fan of musical theatre, then?’
‘No, but I know which shows will still be running in ten years’ time. It’s the same for all my investments; if I know a company is still around in 2011, I buy shares in it.
Surprising how easy it is to make money, if you know the future!’
The waitress delivered their chilled coffees. The Doctor waited until she had gone before resuming their conversation. ‘So what about your little to-do list? How’s that been getting on?’
‘See for yoursel
f.’ Mark took a sheet of paper from his briefcase and handed it to the Doctor.
The Doctor absorbed both sides in under a second.
‘This is the letter from your future self?’
‘No, this is the copy. The original is kept in a safe in my flat.’
‘Very wise.’ The Doctor returned the letter. ‘Already ticked two items off the list, I see.’
‘Yes. I had to delay the start of one of my third-year exams, because my younger self was running late. And
then last year I had to make sure he ended up with a winning lottery ticket.’
‘A winning lottery ticket?’ said Rory, his jaw dropping.
‘Not the jackpot. Just matching enough numbers to win about sixteen thousand pounds.’
Amy whistled in admiration. ‘Not bad for a day’s work!’
‘But how did you do it?’ asked Rory. ‘All the stuff with musicals and internet sites I get, but you couldn’t possibly remember what the winning lottery numbers were, one week in 1997!’
‘He wouldn’t need to,’ said the Doctor between slurps of his frappuccino.
‘Why?’
‘Because he wrote them down in the letter he sent himself.’ exclaimed Amy with a grin.
‘ Eh?’ said Rory. The more he tried to figure it out, the more confused he got. No, it was no good. A diagram would be required.
‘Which brings us to item number three,’ said the Doctor.
‘Speaking of which, here they are.. bang on schedule!’ He lowered his sunglasses to peer towards the fountain.
Rory followed his gaze - to see young Mark, in a Tshirt and a floppy white bucket hat, wandering through the crowd with a girl in a summer dress. Even from this distance, Rory could tell she was stunning.
So could Amy, who gave Rory a look which in no uncertain terms reminded him that he was now a married man.
For the first time in what seemed like years, Mark felt at
peace. The sky was blue, the air was balmy and breezy, and he was with Rebecca. They’d spent the morning exploring the Castel St Angelo, the Piazza Navona, the Pantheon, winding through endless streets, never hurrying but always excited at what was around the next corner. It had been the most perfect day ever.
Of course, he wasn’t with Rebecca, not in the boyfriend-girlfriend sense. They were on holiday as friends and nothing more, that had been agreed in advance. Although they shared a bed, they shared it with a pillow between them, and were changing into their night things in the bathroom to avoid embarrassment.
How had he ended up in Rome with Rebecca? If he’d known in January how things would turn out… it wouldn’t have made it any easier. His father hadn’t lasted into the new year, and he’d ended it with Jenny a few weeks later.
He just wanted to be a good son to his mother for once.
They talked about Dad, Mark hearing stories he’d never heard before, about how they’d first met, and how his father had rushed out of a council meeting to see his newborn son, and how proud he was of him, how he always told everyone he met how proud he was of his son.
He’d remained in contact with Rebecca, talking almost daily on the phone. And she had been great. She always listened, asking questions and making suggestions, even making him laugh.
In April, it was Mark’s turn to be the shoulder to cry on.
Rebecca had discovered that her fiance Anthony had been having a relationship with one of his colleagues from work, and that it had been going on ever since he’d moved
to Manchester. When she confronted him about this, Anthony begged forgiveness, but Rebecca couldn’t forgive him. She could barely look at him without feeling sick.
But she had already booked a holiday in Rome and now had no one to go with. It hadn’t been Mark’s idea to offer to take the spare ticket. It had been his mother’s. She reminded him how his father had never found the time to take her to Paris, and that he’d always regret it if he let this opportunity slip through his fingers.
Mark plucked up the courage to ask Rebecca if she’d mind if he went with her. She laughed and told him that she’d been waiting for ages for him to get the hint. He insisted on paying for his half of the holiday; after all, after his win on the National Lottery, he could afford it.
He’d come so far in the past six months, out of the darkness and into the light. And as though she knew what he was thinking, Rebecca took his hand, and together they squeezed through the crowd towards the Trevi Fountain.
And Mark’s right hand began to tingle.
The couple reached the terrace at the top of the steps leading down to the turquoise pool, then paused as the boy took the girl’s photograph. Rory, the Doctor, Amy and Mark watched from their table, peering out from behind their menu cards.
‘You think you lost your wallet here?’ said the Doctor.
‘That’s what I remember. According to the letter, it should happen any second now.’
Rory edged forward to get a better look. He could see the wallet bulging in the young man’s back pocket. But he
couldn’t see how it could accidentally fall out. Until he noticed a thin, seedy-looking teenager sidling through the crowd, the only person there not to be gazing in wonder at the statue of Oceanus. Without breaking his stride, the teenager lifted the wallet from young Mark’s pocket and walked casually away. Towards where they were sitting.
The Doctor gave Rory a nod. In a few seconds the thief would be within reach. Rory psyched himself up to grab him. But then the thief noticed that they were looking at him. He launched himself into a run, shoving them both out of his way.
Rory turned to see the teenager skidding down a side street. Without thinking, Rory sprinted after him, giving a yell of ‘Stop! Thief!’ Around him, the tourists gawped on in bemusement.
Rory turned down the side street to see the teenager knocking aside any bystanders that impeded his progress.
Ahead of him a Fiat blocked the entire width of the street.
The teenager didn’t slow down. He simply leapt onto the car’s bonnet, ran across its roof and jumped to the ground, making his escape. Without pausing to think, Rory scrambled over the car after him, trying his best to ignore the blasts from the horn and the barrage of insults from the driver.
The teenager darted down another side street, glancing back to see if he’d lost his pursuer. He hadn’t. After landing heavily on the tarmac, Rory redoubled his speed, ignoring the stitch in his side. He chased the teenager through a number of increasingly narrow alleyways, if not by sight then by the sound of the teenager’s heels.
The next alleyway ended at a flight of steps. The teenager had already climbed twenty or so of the steps but Rory didn’t give up. Groaning with the effort, Rory raced after him. The steps were incredibly steep, rising up over the rooftops, and just when Rory thought they might go on for ever, they ended at a car park.
The teenager dashed over to a motor scooter, but before he could turn the ignition, Rory lunged at him, knocking both the thief and his scooter to the ground. In the struggle that followed, Rory prised the thief’s fingers apart and wrenched the wallet out of his grip. Then the teenager shoved Rory aside and, shouting expletives, scurried into the distance.
Rory lay on the tarmac, his chest heaving, until he heard the Doctor jogging up the stairs after him.
‘Well done,’ said the Doctor, helping him to his feet.
‘You’ve just saved the entire space-time continuum.’
‘Great,’-said Rory with little enthusiasm, handing him the wallet.
The Doctor examined it and shook his head. ‘But I’m afraid it’s the wrong wallet.’
‘Wh-what?’
‘Only joking,’ beamed the Doctor. ‘It’s the right wallet.
Your face!’ The Doctor adjusted his bow tie, feeling terribly pleased with himself. ‘Now, we have to deliver it to Mark’s hotel…’
It had been one of the best mornings of his life, only to be followed by one of the worst afternoons. Somewhere between the Panthe
on and the Trevi Fountain, Mark had
lost his wallet. The wallet containing all his money, his credit cards, his travel insurance, everything.
They spent the next hour retracing their route, Mark scanning the gutters whilst cursing his own stupidity. He knew Rebecca didn’t have enough cash to pay for both of them. They wouldn’t be able to go out, or visit the museums, or see Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli. The more Mark thought about it, the more furious he got.
As they reached the Pantheon, Mark slumped against a wall. ‘OK. That’s it. I give up.’
‘Oh well,’ said Rebecca. ‘Never mind.’
‘I don’t get you. I’m going out of my mind here, and you’re just taking it all in your stride.’
‘I’m on holiday. It’s not as if Rome is going anywhere.
And anyway, what’s the point in me worrying when you’re stressing out enough for both of us?’
‘So you’re not angry with me?’
‘Of course not. Look. Let me buy you an ice cream.’
‘We can’t afford it.’
‘OK, let’s… let’s walk back to the hotel, I might still have some traveller’s cheques in my suitcase. We can at least work out how much money we have left.’
‘Yeah. I suppose that’s a plan.’
‘It’s a brilliant plan, because I thought of it,’ said Rebecca, teasing a smile out of him. ‘And don’t worry. So you lost your wallet. It’s not the end of the world.’
The Doctor twirled the wallet in his hand like a magician with a playing card before handing it to the hotel receptionist.
‘Look, here’s a thing. I found this wallet lying in the street and I think it might belong to somebody staying in this hotel.’
The receptionist opened the wallet, then looked at the Doctor as though he should be arrested for interrupting her day.
‘Mark Whitaker,’ said Amy clearly and helpfully. ‘His name was on his credit card.’
‘Yes,’ said the Doctor. ‘So if you could put it aside, for when he gets back. That’s all. And if he asks about me, just say it was some… handsome stranger.’ The Doctor adjusted his bow tie proudly.
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