The Secret Life of Sam Holloway

by Rhys Thomas

  “Nothing to do with luck,” said Blotchy. “It’s all about playing the statistics.” He reached his big bear hand into his bag of toffee popcorn and tossed some morsels into his little mouth.

  “So what are your plans for the week?” said Tango.

  “Nothing much,” said Sam.

  “What about you, Blotch?”

  “My business is my own.” He rolled the dice and glided past some of Sam’s properties onto the Electric Company, which he owned.

  “Any news from the dating site you signed up for?” said Sam, trying not to sound too sarcastic. He and Tango were both surprised that Blotchy had done this. Not that he’d signed up, but that he’d told them about it.

  “Oh, listen to Mr. Experience over there,” said Blotchy. “Now he’s got a girlfriend he thinks he’s cock of the walk.”

  “I haven’t got a girlfriend.”

  “I don’t know why you’re trying to hide it from us.”

  “I’m not trying to hide anything. I haven’t heard from her in a month.”

  “Oh,” said Blotchy, stumbling. “Well, you’re better off without women. They’re trouble. And expensive. Especially the pretty ones.”

  “Blotchy is subscribing to the school of meninism,” said Tango, leaning sideways to Sam.

  “Not at all,” said Blotchy. “I just think feminism is going too far.”

  “Let’s stop talking about this before you lose whatever dignity you have left,” said Tango.

  “Pretty?” said Sam.

  Blotchy’s cheeks reddened when he realized Sam had latched on to the word, and in the air of the moment Sam felt the satisfying shift in power back to him.

  “I meant...well, she was pretty, wasn’t she?”

  “She’s not dead!”

  “No, I know that, but...” His whole body went loose and he sagged. Slowly, he reached sheepishly for more popcorn.

  “Plenty more fish in the sea, eh?” said Tango. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and said solemnly, “Would you like me to sign you up to Blotchy’s dating site?”

  “You’re okay, thanks. I’ll let Blotchy blaze that trail.”

  “You’re about as funny as the thing I’m about to deposit in the toilet,” said Blotchy, standing up. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  He took his Monopoly money and put it in his pocket, then took the dice and put them in his pocket too. He then took a photo of the board.

  “Just in case you get any ideas,” he said. “I may be some time.”

  And, with that, he left the room.

  Tango waited until he heard Blotchy climbing the stairs.

  “You okay?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  Sam felt Tango’s eyes on him as he considered this.

  “It just...kind of fizzled out.”

  There was a long pause after this. Sam ordered his money into neat piles.

  “She seemed nice,” said Tango.

  Sam felt his face flush.

  “Did you want it to...fizzle out?”

  Sam cleared his throat. His Monopoly piece glinted in the light.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not.”

  Tango nodded. “Well, you know, is there anything you can do?”

  Sam didn’t answer this.

  “You don’t need to take my advice,” said Tango. “You know I’m useless at this sort of thing, but I’ll just say this. If there is anything you can do...you should just do it. Be brave.”

  Sam looked up at him when he said those two words, at his old friend, just as the flush sounded upstairs and the floorboards creaked under Blotchy’s weight.

  * * *

  When he got home, there was a brown package on the doormat in the hallway. He picked it up, along with the rest of the mail, and went into the kitchen to make himself an apple and elderflower tea. He sat at the breakfast bar and hooked his finger under the perforated strip of the parcel. He loved opening that perforated strip. He looked inside and the strength fell out of him.

  Inside the brown envelope was a first edition of a short story collection by Raymond Carver called Cathedral. Sarah had said it was one of her favorite books, so he’d ordered it weeks ago from a seller of rare books in America. It was going to be her Christmas present, and he’d forgotten all about it. The pages inside were yellow and old. Closing the book again, he set it down on the table and looked around the empty kitchen, at how neat and clean it was.

  He could hear the silence of the house, and the image of her face smiling at him flashed across that silence.

  He sipped his tea and noticed his leg was shaking.

  19

  THE FISHERMAN CAST his line out, far across the stretch of water. Even from this distance Sam heard the heavy weight plop through the surface. The brittle reeds that had turned brown with the changing of the season chittered on the shoreline. The angler, just a stick man on the far side of the lake, set his rod on a rest and sat down.

  Unable to sleep, Sam had come here before work. It was peaceful. Sometimes, in the summer, he’d bring his lunch to this lake. It was hardly light, yet there he was, the fisherman, out for an early catch. To his left, a heron was standing perfectly still in the shallows.

  In his hand Sam held the copy of Cathedral. The air was freezing, but Sam barely noticed. He was remembering being in the bathroom at the pub quiz, on the verge of going home, and the feeling that had come over him of needing to stay—to hold on. It made him think of Sarah’s rocket tree. The one he’d let go of so many years ago. She’d said that after a while, when you think you’re all alone, you suddenly look out and that’s when you see it. The other tree, with the other person in it.

  He nodded. It had taken weeks to get here, but he was ready. He took out his phone...

  Hi Sarah, was just wondering how you were. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Hope all is OK.

  ...and exhaled.

  * * *

  Across the way Linda was talking loudly to a customer. Sam picked up the phone from his desk, but Sarah still hadn’t replied. He warmed his hands on his cup of tea. Mr. Okamatsu was staring out the window near the entrance of the office, his back to the room, with his hands on his hips and legs apart. He was swaying gently. The second hand on the clock on the wall didn’t seem to be moving fast enough and it was impossible to concentrate as the slow realization that he’d blown it sank in.

  At lunch he drove as far as he could for half an hour, before turning the car round and driving back. When he parked up, he checked his phone again, but there was still nothing. He sat at his desk and stared at his monitor. He watched a money spider lower itself on a spun thread from the leaves of his bonsai tree and it was when the spider touched the soil that the phone finally buzzed.

  Sam froze. His heart rate started up and his skin went clammy. At last he summoned the courage to look.

  Hi Sam! Nice to hear from you! Yes, all good here. We should meet up for coffee sometime x

  He stared at the message. All this time...

  Definitely. When? He scrubbed out the last part. It was too desperate. Definitely. We should go to that place near your work you told me about, with the comfy chairs.

  She was typing and his skin prickled with the thought of her.

  Fo sho. When’s good for you? I miss speaking to you x

  Whoa. That was a good message. He sat there for a second.

  Great! How about tomorrow maybe? Do you still finish at half 5? I could be there at 6. I miss speaking to you too.

  He deleted the last sentence, thought for a moment and then retyped it. At the other end she was typing. Then she would stop and then restart. Stop, restart. Sam waited, tapping his foot on the floor, heart thumping.

  Awesome. See you there x

  Was that it? All that worry. The phone fel
t warm in his hands. He started typing but then noticed she was typing again, so he stopped. She stopped. He waited, and she started typing again, so he let her finish. He glanced across at the Raymond Carver book. At last her message came through.

  I’m so glad you messaged me. Can’t wait x

  * * *

  The coffeehouse was in a Victorian building, where the plaster had been ripped off to reveal the original brickwork. There were fake stags’ heads and floating shelves crammed with old books and retro teapots. There were metal advertising signs from the ’50s and old movie posters. The tables were upturned crates and the mismatched leather chairs were low and so comfy he might have fallen asleep if he wasn’t so nervous.

  “Sam!”

  She sidled her way through the chairs, a vision in a red dress with a black collar and black buttons down the front. His heart lurched. It felt like when you pull your foot out of wet, sticky mud. And in that instant he knew he’d done the right thing.

  He got up out of the chair and they hugged and she fitted perfectly.

  “Hey, let me get you a drink,” he said.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got money,” she said. “You wait here and guard my stuff.” She threw her bag and coat down messily and disappeared to the counter.

  Sam took a seat and dried his sweaty palms on his trousers. She came back with a coffee and a slice of cake.

  “What’s that?”

  “Chocolate and chili and lavender.”

  “Oh. I wonder if that works.”

  “And I’ve gone here for a gingerbread latte,” she said, sweeping her hand across her coffee, with a cinnamon-dusted surface. “I’ve been jonesing for this.”

  “It smells like Christmas.”

  “It does smell like Christmas,” she said, opening her eyes wide. There was a pause and Sam tried to fight back the sudden surge of thoughts piling into his mind: the arrest, his not getting back to her.

  “It was really nice to get that text from you,” she said,

  The fact that this was the first time they’d spoken since he told her about his family’s death ballooned around the moment.

  She looked at her cake and cut off the front corner with her fork and popped it in her mouth. “How come you sent it?”

  How to answer that question?

  “I just thought about you,” he said.

  “Aw. That’s nice.”

  A man passed them and Sam noticed him checking Sarah out.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” he said.

  “Oh, no problemo.”

  “No, I mean...you know. Last time.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  She made a half smile. He went to pick up his teapot, but it was heavier than he thought and he dropped it back to the table with a bang.

  “Yeah, that thing’s made of iron,” she said.

  Sam nodded. “I’m really sorry about not being in touch, though.”

  They both drank.

  “I heard somebody order a lager with a dash the other day,” said Sarah, skipping over the subject like it was nothing. “And do you know what they said?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “They said, ‘Pop a drop of pop in the top.’ Isn’t that lovely? You should say that. I thought of you when they said it.”

  Sam smiled sadly and felt forlorn. In a way he was glad she didn’t want to linger on his absence, but in another, there was a sense they should at least talk about it. “I should.” He dropped a sugar cube into his tea. “So how have you been?”

  Sarah tried to hurry the swallowing of her cake and made a circling motion with her fork before saying, “Everything’s good. I’m going to a Christmas fair on the weekend, with Francis.”

  Sam’s heart froze. Francis. He’d forgotten about Francis.

  “On a date?”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “At least, I don’t think it’s a date. We’ve been out a few times, but only as friends. I mean, Francis is okay, obviously he’s super hot, but... I don’t know. I’m not sure what it is.”

  The jealousy shook Sam hard. “I’ll come,” he blurted.

  “To the fair?”

  “Sure. Why not?” He already half regretted saying it, as he imagined how incredibly awkward this was going to be. But only half.

  Sarah thought for a second and shrugged. “Okay,” she said. “Cool.”

  He stirred his tea, trying to be calm. But this was tough, because Francis was so much better-looking than him. “So what are your plans for Christmas?” he said, steering the conversation away. “Are you going home?”

  “I am home.”

  “To your family, I mean.”

  “Nope. I’m going to stay with a friend at his country house.” She spooned some foam off the top of her coffee and ate it. “How about you?”

  He decided not to say anything about how she diverted him away from the subject of her family again. “Staying local,” he said.

  “What do you normally do on Christmas Day?”

  “Oh, you know, just the usual.” If not seeing a single person on Christmas Day could be considered usual. There was a pause. “So what else have you been up to?” he said.

  She shrugged and ate some more cake. “Been going to a lot of literary things. Readings. Francis knows lots of local writers. They’re really good. You should come.”

  The thought of Francis was making him feel very anxious. Why did she keep coming back to him?

  “How about you?” she said.

  Oh, just sending myself crazy about you, thinking of you every ten seconds, getting arrested because you’ve made me insane because you’re amazing.

  “Just the usual.”

  “It’s good to see you, Sam. I’ve missed this. Talking to you.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

  Behind her, a girl was preparing a cappuccino, raining chocolate sprinkles down through the flame of a blowtorch, igniting them, backlighting Sarah with tiny fireworks. An uneasy feeling settled over him. He might, in some small way, have overcome his demons by sending that text at the side of the fishing lake, but now there was a bigger, badder demon. And its name was Francis.

  20

  IT WAS A nearby boarding school that was holding the Christmas fair. The school hosted international students, not only from the local American air base but also extremely gifted kids from all over the world. These kids stood at the gate now, freezing in their hi-vis vests and Wellington boots, tall scrawny things ushering the cars up a long, tree-lined track.

  “It’s like Hogwarts,” said Sarah, staring out the window at the tall tower of an old castle, the focal point of the grounds. Francis said something that Sam couldn’t hear in the back seat, and the jealousy when they both started laughing, and then when she casually put her hand on his forearm, was like being stabbed.

  The place was old with its sturdy gray bricks, arched doorways and stone mullioned windows. Francis pulled the car into a parking space, ushered in by a couple of enthusiastic pupils.

  “Hi,” said one girl, when they got out. She was very tall, in a pair of red jeans and hair tied in pigtails. “It’s this way to get in.” She indicated a wide, arched entranceway with an iron portcullis suspended above it. On the other side they came to a courtyard of lawn. Skyward, turrets with small leaded windows and stone balconies looked down. Opalescent skies beyond and a creeping mist made a magic in the air. A brass band played “Good King Wenceslas” in some unseen hall. Fudge sellers spun cellophane bags airtight, wooden reindeer carvers adjusted displays, mulled wine vendors dispensed, wreaths smelled of cinnamon, soaps of lavender.

  At one of the craft tables a couple of women were selling snow globes with intricate Victorian dioramas inside. He watched Sarah lift one from the table and bring it up close, lifting her glasses off her face and squinting to see. He watched the smile em
erge as she studied the tiny street of houses and shops and the little figures of people dressed in their hats and scarves.

  She turned to Francis and held it up to him. “I love it,” she said.

  Francis glanced at the snow globe and nodded. “It’s pretty awesome,” he said. “Let me get it for you.”

  “Oh, it’s okay,” she said, “I didn’t mean that.”

  “No, I want to,” he said, rifling around his cool-looking duffel coat for his wallet.

  Now Sam really started feeling like a third wheel. Sarah was funny, clever and completely gorgeous. He was none of these things, and with a pang of sadness it became suddenly obvious how she’d be better off with someone like Francis.

  “Here,” said Sarah, quickly fishing a ten-pound note out of her pocket and handing it across to one of the women before Francis could pay. She glanced up at him, and Sam had to watch as they shared a smile.

  * * *

  They found a room with a bar and tables and chairs, filled with revelers. A glass-fronted addition to the stone building looked out across long, terraced lawns to a wide, gray lake. Empty paper cups and plates lay strewn across a spare table, at which they sat with their mulled wine and mince pies. Outside was a stall selling freshly grilled lamb burgers.

  “What an amazing place,” Sam said.

  Francis looked around at the architecture. “Sixteenth century,” he stated firmly.

  “I disagree,” said Sarah, winking at Sam, reversing something and making him confused.

  “No, no, you can tell by the windows. Stone mullions and quite small. See? Unless it was a Victorian revivalist effort, but I’m not feeling that.”

  “And the turrets,” said Sarah. “Because it’s a castle.”

  Francis ignored her and looked out the window in a way that Sam thought was a bit arrogant.

  “Who wants lamb burgers?” Francis said. “I’m buying.”

  “I’ll have one,” said Sarah.

  “Sam?” he offered, begrudgingly.

  “I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

  “Whatever, your loss,” he said, almost with a bit of barb now, before heading out.