Twinned

by Alice Ann Galloway

  I am just pulling out around a lorry into the fast lane when my phone rings. I turn down my music, scramble for the phone, press the answer button and then the speaker button, and then throw it in my lap and yell, “Hey hun!” It’s Richard. He says he’s having a good night and asks how I am. I say I’m fine but I’m driving. He says not to worry and we’ll talk tomorrow. He has a meeting from ten ‘til three but will phone when he gets out, which will be around bedtime for me. We say ‘bye.

  I turn up Joel’s music; it’s all I tend to listen to these days. That could be what prompted the connection, I muse. I hear him all day every day, whether on my iPod or in my head. He writes the lyrics from his heart and they go straight to mine. I cringe at my own corniness and absentmindedly sing along, tapping the steering wheel as I pull off the slip road.

  As I pull into the car park I catch sight of the Sycamore tree on the hill in my rear view mirror. I look away - I don’t want to see him right now. I have lots to do today. The last thing I need is Joel appearing.

  I walk single-mindedly through the open plan office, darting left to right through the maze of beige sameness. I reach my desk and dump my bags underneath, retrieving my laptop and putting it on the desk then straightening my pens absentmindedly. The cleaner has been and moved them. Black, red, blue. I hear laughter and look up. Louise, Trish and Stacey are already in. They are gossiping and giggling under a cloud of perfume. Then the conversation turns to complaining that the heating is broken again. They notice me. We exchange polite hellos.

  I decide to keep my coat on. Stacey tells me with wide eyes that it's only ten degrees and really we should all be sent home. I smile and sit down. It is chilly, yes the cold isn’t pleasant but it strikes me as pretty inconsequential. A job is a job.

  I have worked there now for about six months but I don’t really see myself staying. I don’t have much in common with the others and there aren’t any great promotion opportunities unless someone leaves or dies. I miss my old job. It was like a family. I wonder if they ever miss me. I dock my laptop and log in. Immediately a ton of emails start to arrive. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Crap. I start from the top and work back, figuring - hoping - some of the old ones might have been superseded.

  Here's one that sounds interesting, a psychic medium called David Nash available for interview. He has a story to tell that might fill some column inches. I accept the invitation from my editor to meet with him and schedule him in for a four-hour slot at his home in London in three weeks’ time. By ten o clock my emails are in order and I am ready to begin working. I decide to stretch my legs first with a walk to the drinks machine for a frothy and slightly powdery cappuccino hit.

  I nod a few polite hellos on my way. I pass Doreen, a sycophantic, attention-seeking PA whose long legs are practically dangling out of the Chief Executive’s bottom; she's so far up his arse. She has her officious looking telephone head-set on. Who does she think she is – Whitney Houston? The juxtaposition of her age (forever 49), truly fantastically sexy legs, matronly blouse, short skirt, dated Alice Band and focused expression that screams "The Prime Minister’s on line two" is a truly disturbing combination. Doreen's silver ballpoint pen is poised to react with efficient, urgent accuracy. Her radar for a multi-tasking opportunity is so developed that she is able to theatrically mouth the words, "Not long now!" excitedly as I pass, her arm waving desperately, as if physically grasping for gossip.

  I pass Chris and Herb, who work as feature editors for the weekend men's supplement. They are a nerdy double act, tasked with making the supplement equally relevant to both metrosexual and Neanderthal man. Chris's desk is covered with cut out pictures from cartoons and Star Wars, photos of fast cars and cult actors like John Malkovich and Kevin Spacey. Herb's desk is rampant with Kelly Brook, Vinnie Jones, Jordan before she had six kids and magazines ranging from GQ to Sports Illustrated. A signed photo of Steve McQueen has pride of place on his desk where most men would put a photo of their wife and kids. As I walk past I am glad that I have my flat boots on, I always feel too feminine tottering past in heels.

  There is a queue for the coffee machine. I wait while an artificially loud and rather flirtatious conversation goes on between the three people before me, as the machine makes a noisy drama of dispensing each generic, frothy drink. I start to think about Joel, then push the thought away with determination.

  When it's my turn I use extra sugar and milk, despite my pre-wedding diet. I stir it up, add some chocolate powder then retreat to my desk to silently drink my cappuccino whilst looking out of the fire door window. I'm wishing that I lived somewhere hot and warm as I watch people hurry by, absentmindedly noticing what they are wearing and who is talking to whom. Watching spots of rain hit the window and drizzle down it like they've given up on something; I kind of lose myself for a moment. Then I go back to my emails.

  At 12 o clock Trish asks if anyone wants to join her at the canteen for lunch. I have no sandwiches so I say yeah, thanks. As we walk there she asks me about the wedding. I tell her it’s not for another six weeks and she says, “Oh my God, that’s like tomorrow!” I am about to explain how it’s just a small wedding and then it happens before I even know it.

  Bam!

  I see him in my mind’s eye. He looks straight into my eyes. A fully loaded look. Then he’s gone, all in a fraction of a second. I stop dead.

  HE SAW ME.

  But it is twelve o’ clock... working eight hours back that’s four in the morning San Diego time. What’s he doing up? Well, I suppose there is no law against it and he does have a kid, after all. Maybe he woke up.

  Trish asks if I’m OK and I nod. I say that I just remembered I left something on my desk. I tell her I will run back to my computer and see her at the canteen later.

  I dash to the bathroom. Thankfully all three cubicles are empty. I crash into one of them, lock the door, drop my bag, throw the seat lid down, sit on it and put my hands straight over my eyes to help the connection. Almost immediately I see him. Again, he is in front of a mirror. His chest is bare, bathed in moonlight. I take a mental picture and squint a little, trying to burn it into my retinas for ever. His chest is toned; his muscles look carved in stone. He is moving his mouth silently, a look of concern on his face. I’m trying to focus, it’s dark. What’s he doing? Yes he is saying something. No – he’s mouthing something. A message? Oh my God.

  Yes. A message. Wayoo? Oowayoo? No - I get it:

  “Who are you?” Over and over again.

  I can’t believe it! First contact, Joel can see me! I’m quivering, what do I do? What should I say?

  I try and picture myself answering back, hoping that’s enough for him to be able to ‘see’ me too. Then I have a better idea. If I can see him looking in the mirror, maybe he can see me better the same way? I tentatively unlock the stall, go to the counter top, open my handbag and grab my lipstick. Shit, what if someone comes in? I go to the farthest corner of the room, just out of sight from the door. I quickly use the lipstick to write my name on the mirror: “Beth Britten”.

  I add “Hi” then I wait, feeling like an idiot.

  I stare into the mirror, trying to look friendly.

  No, sexy.

  No, friendly. Friendly. Friendly.

  Can he see my message? Hurry up, hurry up... I give it 30 seconds, then close my eyes to visualise his answer.

  He is looking for something. He gives up. Looks agitated. He gets close to the mirror and steam clouds his reflection. Oh, I get it, he is breathing on the mirror. This is fantastic. I have this HUUUGE grin on my face in anticipation. Then he’s tracing with his finger in the steam, I strain to see, what is he writing?

  Two words.

  Just two words.

  Two words that absolutely break my heart.

  GO AWAY!

  He underlines it, as if I needed him to emphasise the point.

  Then I hear him, quiet but so clear it’s like he’s there in the loos. He whispers it under his breath, so fiery that i
t sounds like he’s spitting the words.

  “Leave me alone!”

  My mouth is open. I slap my hand over my mouth so I don’t scream. I can’t think for a minute. Oh My God. I didn’t start this! I didn’t ask for it – how come I get the blame?

  I grab a handful of paper towels and rub at the lipstick frantically. It smears and smears until at last you can’t read what it says. I chuck the paper towels in the bin, grab my handbag and realise I am crying. I try to compose myself. As I leave the bathroom, I change my mind, turn back, pull out the lipstick once more and scribble again on the mirror. I close my eyes. I hope he gets this message. I don’t hang around to check.

  YOU kissed ME!

  CHAPTER TEN

  Two days later and my mood still hasn’t lifted. I feel wronged. Screwed over. Like a piece of crap. As far as work is concerned I have a migraine. I have put off mum from visiting - I can’t see her like this when I can’t tell her what’s really wrong - but excuses won’t work for much longer.

  The doorbell rings and I heave my blanky-covered, dressing-gowned, miserable heap of a self to the front door. It’s a florist delivery - really, really lovely flowers. The note says ‘To my bride to be, I miss you and can’t wait to see you, much love, Richard xxx’. I send him a thank you text.

  That afternoon, I look back at old photos and try to remember why we are together. He is a really good guy. But why oh why am I so tired? I look like hell. It’s only six pm when I get into bed with a cup of hot chocolate. I flick through the channels and find ‘Brief Encounter’ just starting on Film 4. The perfect angst movie for the moment. I snuggle down to watch. She has a secret, just like me.

  But my mind won’t let me concentrate on the film. I feel really guilty for not telling mum the truth and for not telling Richard about Joel. I can’t face the world right now. My stomach feels sick, it’s in knots. I feel a creeping disgust. Joel thinks I am either some sort of hideous demon or a crazy stalker.

  Maybe I am?

  How can’t Joel feel the way I do about our connection? To me it’s become the highlight of my life, albeit bloody inconvenient at times and duplicitous. But I have been good. I haven’t tracked him down, stalked him, I have respected his marriage. And he started this - the visions - standing under the tree. And that kiss...!

  He kissed me.

  Still, I feel like a really crap person.

  Days go by. As I start to feel better I try to immerse myself in work. I know I said I loved my ordinariness but I was wrong. It is so ‘blah’. This life, this normal life that I used to be content with, well it sucks. God, how do regular people do it? Even surrounded by people, I am lonely. So lonely. Every hour of every day I am waiting. Waiting for Joel to change his mind and pop into my head. Waiting to see him under the tree. Waiting with my eyes shut for a glimpse of his world. A world of sunshine and hope and excitement.

  I furiously check the band’s page on Twitter, Facebook and My Space hourly, searching for news. I am just not used to this lack of connection with Joel. I can’t get used to the quiet in my brain. No fragments of snatched conversations. No visions. No sensations I can’t explain. Just normal brain stuff.

  After a while I start to doubt everything. Did I imagine it all? Am I sick? These feelings confuse me further. How fickle am I? How can I doubt my sanity when just a few days ago I was 100% convinced that it was real? Perhaps I really am crazy.

  In a way I suppose the emptiness kind of demonstrates that the communication with Joel was real. Surely if this was some sort of mental instability or hallucination I would still be seeing things, because I still want to? If it’s not real, what’s stopping me from imagining it?

  Each morning I lie in bed past eight am despite work starting at nine, dreading getting up. I feel like there is no point. Nothing to look forward to. I am not special anymore.

  Days pass. I barely eat. I have no time for breakfast because I am so late out the door to work. Lunch is skipped because I don’t want to pass the lonely Sycamore tree to walk to the canteen. Mid-afternoon I grab a sandwich from the shop to stop desperately loud hunger growls. Then maybe some comfort food, a chocolate bar. I only eat a proper evening meal if Katie and mum are with me.

  Within three weeks I have lost 6lbs. Mum is impressed, thinking this is part of my pre-wedding diet. And then finally, finally Richard returns home.

  *****

  Heathrow airport is quieter than usual but still far busier than you would expect for 11 pm UK time. I’m not tired; I’m just so excited to see Richard. I scan the people crowding through, past taxi drivers holding placards. Standing on tiptoes, I stretch to see over the top of a couple kissing.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Richard!”

  “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he smiles, opening his arms to welcome me to him.

  “I missed you so much.” I breathe the words into his ear, as he envelops me in a hug that lasts longer than usual.

  I can’t stop smiling. It’s so good to see him. I step back and take him in. He looks quite different. Yes, his hair is cut differently. Otherwise, he’s my Richard, same as always. He takes his backpack off his shoulder and puts it on top of the luggage trolley. He unzips the backpack and takes out a package.

  “This is for you,” he says, offering a Christmas present wrapped with green paper and a red ribbon bow. “Thank you!” I say, taking the package and smiling, warmly.

  “Can I open it at home?” I ask. “I have a present for you too at home. I thought we could have a mini-Christmas dinner tomorrow and then open them together.”

  “Great idea,” he says. “Lead the way, my beautiful fiancée.”

  *****

  The next few days are bliss. Sort off. Richard seems to have forgotten how to load the dishwasher having had maid service for the last two months. We have a few days off work together to enjoy each other’s company. I trawl through the mountain of washing he’s managed to store up for me. His gift to me was a white gold charm bracelet, with heart, book and music note charms. I got him a DVD box set and some retro cufflinks that I knew he would love.

  When I go back to work, it reminds me again of Joel. I suppose the lonely atmosphere all day gives me time to think, which is not such a good thing. Over the next few days, with Richard tied up in meetings and frequently out with clients until midnight, the feelings for Joel start to resurface.

  I try to push them out of my mind but it isn’t easy. Sometimes, when Richard is with me, I wonder how he doesn’t notice that I am not really present in the conversation. I’m not entirely listening, not in the moment the way he is. But I suppose I have never really been any more involved with his life than I am now. He is used to me this way. Maybe he likes me being so disconnected, because it comes across as independence, which is something he admires.

  I always had other things on my mind before now; work, travel, writing. I’m just a different kind of distant. Hollowed out.

  The night before my interview with the medium David Nash, Richard and I go to the cinema. We eat out first, in a Chinese restaurant that does an ‘all you can eat’ buffet. It’s our shared guilty pleasure, that much fried food must be wrong, after all. He is looking really smart in a new navy jacket. I love his smile. We are talking and I suddenly realise that I have not been very fair on Richard. He thinks he is marrying the girl he fell in love with. Me before Joel crept into my head. I have been acting like a shell of that person. Why does he still love me? What if I lose him too? Swearing on my plate of duck rolls, I make a resolution to try and be a better fiancée. I will forget about Joel, concentrate on Richard.

  I try something; I imagine I am out for a date with Joel and try to act that way with Richard. My body language changes; I sit straighter, I smile widely, my eyes take on a flirtatious glint. Richard seems to appreciate this. He smiles warmly, puts an arm round me and tells me I look beautiful.

  I ignore the guilty feeling that tries to tell me it is not fair to marry a man when
I love someone else. Surely it doesn’t count when the someone else is as unobtainable as Joel? Anyway, I do love Richard. I do. I really do.

  Suddenly I know what to do. It’s over, me and Joel. From now on I will be the perfect fiancé; the best ever wife. I will be what Richard wants. I will forget about Joel. I will. I will. I will.

  We finish our meal, Richard gets the bill. We leave the restaurant together and walk to the cinema; his hand in my jeans pocket, my hand round his waist, gazing at each other adoringly. Our strides in time, albeit his a little longer than mine.