

Two Women.

One Love.

Jane

Book 1

A Romantic Thriller

IAN C.P. IRVINE

Published by Ian C. P. Irvine on Smashwords

Copyright 2005 IAN C.P.IRVINE

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright observed above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For my Wife and my Children

Please note: This is the first book in a two part series. The story begins with Book 1 and concludes with Book 2. If you wish you can instead immediately purchase an omnibus edition that contains both Book 1 and Book 2.
Prologue

We live. We die. With something in between that we call life. Sometimes funny, sometimes sad, a lot that's painful, but mostly, overall, wonderful. Quite wonderful.

We enter into life through a tunnel, and we leave with a simple closing of the eyes and an exhaling of our breath.

And then it is gone.

From nothing, back to nothing. And the bit in between is nothing more than memories, which are quickly lost by people who no longer have the power to remember.

Life.

Your life and mine.

Just a whisper on the wind...
Chapter 1

Good Morning

Surbiton

August 2012

A few days after the Olympic Games have finished.

It's not that I hate my own life. Far from it. My 'life', as you may call it, is good. It's just that nowadays, I look around at other people and wonder if, out of all of the thousands of different types of lives that I _could_ be living, am I living the right one? After all, we only have one crack at getting it right. Life, as my father used to say, isn't a practice run. This is it.

So what if I have got it wrong?

What, if instead of a Product Manager in a telecommunications firm, I should have been an Olympic athlete, an artist, a policeman, a plumber, or a musician?

So now, as I stand on the platform, waiting for the 8.12am train into London, I watch my fellow commuters jostling with each other, positioning themselves to be closest to the doors when the train comes to a stop, and wonder what they all do?

A man nudges me from behind, deliberately or accidentally, it's hard to tell. I turn slightly, casting an angry look in his direction, at the same time taking advantage of the knock forward and automatically moving closer to the edge of the platform. My neighbour looks up from reading the morning's headlines, but registering the annoyance in my eyes, he pretends not to notice that I have moved a few inches in front of him.

I wonder what he does? Perhaps he's a banker. Maybe in insurance? Hiding from my questioning look, he lifts up his paper in front of his face. The Financial Times. Probably a stockbroker. His watch catches the morning sun and glistens momentarily, a flash of expensive gold. A Rolex.

Or is it a fake? Like myself.

I look around me along Platform 1. A hundred men and women, and a few in between. Young, old, a few almost dead, some already dead for years.

A lady further down the platform catches my gaze. She is staring at me. Watching me. Observing me patiently. Her eyes meet mine before she looks away, but for a fleeting moment, it is as if she can see inside my soul.

A moment later, a door opens from the nearby waiting room, and a young woman steps out with a steaming cup of some exotic coffee which has just cost her almost an hour's wage. I wonder what she does? Marketing? PR?

I turn away, not wanting her to notice me.

Just then, an ever so polite but rather surprised voice booms across the loudspeaker, proudly announcing the 'punctual' arrival of a train. Seconds later, the train rolls into the station, and the mad rush begins. The doors open, and for a few moments there is the usual mock attempt at politeness, but then, as if in response to some invisible signal, suddenly everyone scrambles forward, and it's every man for himself and survival of the fittest. A hundred people mentally chanting the mantra of the daily commuter: 'Oh please, God, please let _me_ get a seat today.'

Within seconds it's all over, and for a change today I am one of the winners: a seat by the window.

Resting my head against the glass, and closing my eyes, I try to block out the world and catch fifteen minutes sleep, but just as I'm about to drift off, the smell of fresh coffee assails my nostrils and I open my eyes. Opposite me, another winner - it's the woman with the expensive coffee import.

I smile at her. She smiles back then turns away from me.

My attention now turns to the man beside her. A short haircut, brown corduroy jacket, miniscule earphones stuck deep into his ears, a flashy MP3 player clipped onto the lapel of his jacket and reading some book on a Kindle. He's probably something in IT. Beside me an older man with a balding head and a pinstripe suit elbows me gently in the side as he turns the page of another Financial Times. Definitely a stockbroker.

I turn to the window and look out at the sloping embankment, covered in the rejects and debris of suburban life tossed over the walls at the bottom of the gardens which border onto the railway lines.

So many houses. So many lives.

I wonder what they all do?

The stockbroker beside me jabs me in the ribs again, and my attention turns back to myself and I ask myself the same old question that I've asked myself a million times before: at the end of university, instead of doing the 'sensible' thing, what if I had done what I _really_ wanted to do? What if I had ignored the advice of my parents, and what if I _had_ sent that speculative letter to all the big London advertising firms, all those years ago. What if one of them had replied? And what if one had said yes?

But with a degree in Physics, no experience in the arts, and several offers from companies in the rapidly expanding IT industry, I took the easier, well paid option and joined an American software company in London. A steady income. A good job. The easy life.

But is it the _right_ life?

Someone coughs, and my mind jumps back to last Friday night, and my dinner with Jane. I remember the light catching her eyes from the candle on the table in the restaurant, the touch of her fingers on my face and the taste of her lips when I kissed her against the car, and I fantasise about sleeping with her for the hundredth time.

And then I think about Sarah, my wife, and feel guilty.
Chapter 2

Sarah.

I feel a tightness in my stomach when I think of her, and I look upwards, following the trail of a plane in the sky. The sight of the plane reminds me of the last time we flew on holiday together, and it makes me feel worse.

None of this is my wife's fault. She doesn't deserve it. She's a kind and considerate, wonderful mother, and a good partner. And she loves me, no doubt there, so in theory, our marriage should be great too. No, Sarah certainly doesn't give me any grounds to complain or be unhappy.

So, if there is a problem, then the fault must lie with me...?

I don't know why, but when we make love nowadays, I feel as if it's somebody else's body that's going through the motions, not mine. I feel detached. Mechanical. I don't feel the same old sparkle, the same lust or the excitement that I used to. And I can't help but wonder, should there not be more to it?

We've been together a long time. We got the ring, the house and the car almost eleven years ago, and statistically that's a long time for any marriage to last. I met her one lunchtime in a queue for sandwiches at the shop around the corner from work. She dropped her tuna-and-sweetcorn on the floor and I picked it up for her. We got talking, and she walked me back to my office, followed me up in the lift, and then just as I was beginning to get scared she was a stalker, she announced that she worked for the same company as me, in the department down the hall. After that I saw her every day, and a week later she asked me out. I couldn't believe my luck.

So we went out that Friday, and after a couple of pints of beer I kissed her for the first time. All my hormones were telling me that it seemed like the right thing to do , and I can remember the rest of my body seemed to agree.

After that I took the lead, and a few nights later we ended up in bed. By then I was hooked, and soon we were in love, and even sooner married. And life became good. Then, a few years later, good became wonderful with the arrival of my first baby girl. Beautiful, perfect, Keira.

But for the past few years I can't help thinking, shouldn't it be better _?_ Where has all the excitement gone?

" _Thanks for travelling with South West Trains. We'll shortly be arriving at London Waterloo. Please remember to take all your belongings with you._ "

I wait for everyone else to get off the train, and give a couple of minutes for the crowds on the platform to thin out, before making my way into the Marks and Sparks on the main concourse of Waterloo station, where I grab an egg-mayonnaise and a tuna-and-sweetcorn sandwich. Old habits die hard.

I walk down the broken stationary escalator, one of man's best inventions, perfected by the London Underground, and fight my way through the barriers heralding the entrance to the Jubilee Line.

I get down onto the platform just as a train shoots out of the large wormhole on my left and stops behind the wall of glass protective panels and electronic safety doors that run along the edge of the platform.

The doors open, and within seconds most of us are inside. The train fills up.

I'm an old hand at riding the Jubilee Line, and I know that enough people will get off at the next station to let me sit down, and I will be able to enjoy a few minutes of reading before I have to get off at my stop further down the line at Canary Wharf _._ Southwark arrives and as predicted I find a seat and pull out my book, quickly losing myself in its pages.

About ten minutes and several stations later, the train begins to slow and a little alarm bell rings in my head. My subconscious, busy counting the stations as we pass them by, interrupts my reading and instructs me to get off here. This is Canary Wharf.

I emerge from the escalator into a world of sunshine, and towering, powerful skyscrapers and office blocks. In spite of the Euro crisis money is everywhere. You can see it in the arrogant, bold designs of the new buildings, the designer clothes of the people streaming into the banks, investment houses and high-tech companies all around, and in the flashy restaurants lurking at the base of the buildings, just waiting to skim their slice from the rich people who stream pass them in the evening, ready to relax and show off their wealth.

Still, I can't help but look up and admire it all. Five years of working at Canary Wharf hasn't taken away my initial reaction the very first day I stepped out of the tube and into this world, in new suit and tie, hoping to pass the job interview.

"Excuse me, sir, would you like...?" A voice interrupts my thoughts.

I shake my head, and walk swiftly past the woman in front of me, ignoring the free glossy publication full of advertisements and job vacancies that she offers me every day as soon as I step from the protection of the tube station.

At first I found it annoying, and wanted to scream ' _Just leave me alone..._ ' , but now I can't help but admire her stamina. For as long as I can remember she's been there every day, come sun, rain, or snow, always enthusiastic, smiling and polite, always determined, always hoping that people will take her wares. She must earn a pittance. And yet, she's got more loyalty and dedication to her pathetic little job than I've seen in most of the people I work with.

My office is on the tenth floor of the Russell-Hynes Building, one of the newest and most flashy buildings to be built on the wharf.

Thirty floors, all glass, silver and shiny, built within six months, and completed a month ahead of schedule, with views from my floor across the city that are just fantastic. On a good day, you can see as far as the London Eye, maybe even a little further. Which is all rather academic to me anyway, since my office doesn't have any windows and is in the middle of the building, near to the lifts and facing inwards towards the corridors and the ever busy, unisex toilets.

"Morning James," the receptionist smiles, greeting me as I step out of the lifts and walk through reception. I walk around the open-plan telesales department and almost bump into a large, man-size, furry cat, who suddenly steps out from behind one of the concrete pillars in the centre of the room, a shoulder bag full of _Kitte-Kat_ promotional leaflets draped around its neck.

Another one of the latest marketing ideas. Pay a starving refugee from West Africa a few pounds a day to walk around Canary Wharf dressed as a big, furry, tomcat, and hand out leaflets to all the rich bankers advertising _Kitte-Kat'_ s latest high speed, low cost, special offers: _"Get 50Mb Fibre-Optic Broadband Access for the price of 8Mb. It'll make you purr with satisfaction. Meow!"_

No comment.

I stop by the coffee machine on the other side of the sales floor, nodding hello to my boss as I walk past his room on the way over to my office. Closing the door behind me, I settle down behind my computer, and sip away at my coffee as my PC takes four full minutes to boot up and log onto the network.

Opening up Outlook I find 112 new emails since Friday night, most of which are trying to convince me that my manhood is too short and that I should consider a penile extension. Spam. Which probably means our firewall crashed again over the weekend.

I delete all but six of them. The first two are from the marketing department. A few new crazy promotional ideas they want to tell us about. I read them in some disbelief, then delete them. Are these people for real?

Two of the other emails are from customers who have somehow got hold of my address and have emailed to inform me that their broadband connection only gives them 95% of the download speed they were promised. Have they got nothing better to complain about? I forward them to the support department who I know will just delete them without responding.

Saved until the end, the last two to get my attention are from Jane and Sarah. They sit right beside each other on the screen, one against the other.

I pick up my coffee again, and take a few slow drinks as I open up the email from my wife first.

"Hi James,

Have a great day at work today, and I'm looking forward to seeing you tonight. Going to take the kids swimming after school, but should be home about 7pm. Will you be back home in time for dinner, or are you working late again?

Sarah."

I open up the one from Jane next, a pang of guilt hitting me even before I read the first words, immediately followed by a rush of excitement and childish nervousness.

"Hi James,

Thanks for Friday night. It was great. Loved the meal. Loved the kiss afterwards. Maybe we can do it again sometime soon. Like tonight... What are you doing after work? Do you want to meet for a quick drink in town? Or, if you want, Mike's gone away for a few days, and you could come round here?

Jane.

P.S. No promises. If you come round here...we'll just see how it goes. Slowly does it. "

I lean forward in my seat and read both emails again, resting my elbows on the edge of the table, holding the coffee cup in both hands and biting the edge of it with my teeth. My heart is beating fast.

What the hell am I doing?

Both emails sit on the screen, side by side, screaming at me to reply to them.

I hit the reply button on the one on the right.

"Sorry. I have a deadline to meet tonight and probably won't be able to get away from here till late. Have a great day. Speak later.

James."

The one on the left is now alone on the screen. It demands attention. I know that I have to turn her down. I know that I have to end this madness now. To say no. Once and for all.

Slowly, I type my reply.

"I should finish early tonight. A drink sounds like a good idea. I'll be round at yours at seven.

James."

I stop for a moment. This is crazy.

Then I think of the kiss against the car, and I hit the 'send' button.

Chapter 3

Tuesday

Surbiton, 8.11a.m.

I didn't set out to have an affair. And I'm not even sure if I want to have one now. All I know is that what I am doing is wrong, and I should stop. But I can't. No matter how much I reason with myself, like the proverbial moth I can't stop myself being irresistibly drawn towards the flame.

As it turned out, I didn't see Jane last night, but that was only because Sarah had called again yesterday afternoon and announced that Nicole had fallen over and broken her tooth. If she hadn't, I know I would have gone round to Jane's last night, and we would almost definitely have ended up sleeping together.

So, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that Sarah called and I had to go home early to take Nicole to the dentist. Luckily Jane understood and we rescheduled for Wednesday night.

As I shuffle now on to the 8.12am train, I reach into my pocket for the nth time to check if I've got any new messages on my mobile from Jane. Nothing yet. Although I'm not really expecting anything. Just hoping...

The woman with the expensive coffee is sitting in the same carriage again, this time about three seats away. I look up and she smiles at me between all the newspapers and people trying to sleep for a few minutes. I half-smile back and look out of the window.

Am I heading towards a midlife crisis? Am I _already having_ a midlife crisis?

I try to think again exactly why I spend most of my time fantasising about making love to Jane, when there's nothing wrong with my marriage.

I hate myself for the way I am behaving. And when I look at myself in the mirror or when I listen to the way I am thinking, I hardly recognise myself anymore.

As I stare out of the window at the world outside, I try to rationalise my behaviour. To find a reason, or at least an excuse, for my lying, my deceit, my self-destruction.

Perhaps it's got something to do with personal insecurity and lack of confidence. Now I'm edging towards the end of my thirties, perhaps this is all just about proving to myself one last time, that women still find me attractive? Proving to myself that I'm not yet past it.

But it's not just that. This whole preoccupation with other people, what they do, their lives? This whole fascination about the grass being greener somewhere else? Is it normal?

A thought hits me. It's something that one of my friends said to me over a drink in the pub the other day. Something that stuck in my mind. We were talking about our jobs, and whether we all enjoyed them or not, or whether we just worked for the money because we had to.

Okay, so it was probably me that started the conversation, but George had said, ' _If you were to die tomorrow, would you be happy knowing that you had spent the last day of your life doing just what you did today?_ '

Probably not. But the truth is, I just don't know. How can I know if another job or another life would be better than the one I have now if I haven't got anything else to compare it with? For all I know, the life I lead now is the best it gets.

The things I wanted to do when I was a kid are probably all just ridiculous ideas that would never have got me where I am today: a wife, two kids, and a house practically all paid off.

" _This is the conductor speaking. We'll shortly be arriving at Waterloo. Would all passengers please keep security risks to a minimum by ensuring they take all their possessions with them."_

I grab my bag from the rack above and follow the others off the train.

The phone in my pocket rattles against my legs, and I dimly hear the muffled beep-beep of a message arriving.

It's Jane.

_"Hi James. Looking forward to Wednesday. Bring a bottle of white. I'll fix dinner... Then maybe you can fix me..._ "

I smile. Then I think of Sarah. What will I tell her about Wednesday? Working late again to catch up for Monday? At least that sounds plausible.

I met Jane at school. I fancied her like crazy all the way through Secondary, and right through sixth-form. But when we left for university, we lost track of each other.

The closest I ever got to having anything with her before was a quick snog under the mistletoe at the Christmas school dance when I was sixteen. I can still remember it. 'Sultans of Swing' by Dire Straits playing in the background whilst we gyrated slowly against each other, round and around, our tongues probing grotesquely into each other's mouths, and my hand doing its best to make its way slowly down to her bottom without her noticing it.

Five minutes and forty-eight seconds of pure bliss. Then the lights went up and we all went home.

I spent the whole of the following year looking forward to the next Christmas party. And then she turned up with some guy from the local sixth form, and that was it.

When I finally looked her up on Facebook - after spending the past two years wondering just what it would be like to kiss her again - I half hoped that she would be fat, with five kids and spots. And then that would be that.

Unfortunately, the photos of her on Facebook were of someone slim and still very attractive. And when she replied to my first email, I soon found out that she also had no kids, and was in a very unhappy marriage. And yes, it would be great to meet up again someday. Why not soon?

That's when the excitement started again, and for the first time in two years I started to feel alive.

I actually feel nervous whenever I think of meeting her. It's the same feeling I had when I used to date Sarah, but that's all such a long time ago now.

And I can't deny it isn't nice to feel this way again. In fact it's great.

The anticipation. The wondering. The fantasising. That bit's fantastic.

The only downside is the guilt, the danger of being caught, and the knowledge that it's all wrong. After all, I have a great wife, and I'm meant to be happy.

So, just what, exactly, am I doing?

I feed my travelcard through the barrier at the end of the platform, walk through the gate, heading straight towards the underground and forgetting completely to go into M&S and pick up some sandwiches. I wander down the stationary escalator, still not fixed from yesterday and without much conscious thought, follow the crowds blindly through the ticket barriers, down two more escalators and onto the platform for the Jubilee Line.

The first train to arrive is full and I decide to wait for the next one. When it arrives, the carriages are much emptier and I get a seat straightaway, pulling out my latest book and quickly disappearing into its pages, starting off from where I left the story on the journey home last night. I've been enjoying the story, a recent Wilbur Smith, and soon I'm on a ship sailing down the east coast of Africa, a nobleman from England making his fortune overseas. Devouring the pages one by one, I can almost feel the movement of the ship beneath my feet, hear the creak of the timbers as they move with the swell of the sea, smell the salt in the air, and see the seagulls circling the ship high above.

I look up, realising I have not been paying attention and have lost track of time. The train is just pulling into a station. I quickly look at the colour of the tiles on the platform walls. Blue tiles. No, not my station.

A cannon fires, and an explosion sweeps me off my feet. Screams are all around. The ship heaves heavily to one side, and swings around to face the oncoming Arab vessel. It's coming straight for us. We're going to collide.

An automated voice booms out. "New Cross Gate North. Change here for the East London line."

I look up briefly, tearing myself away from the oncoming ship. No, it's not Canary Wharf. I return to the smoke and the smell of cordite, the screaming all around me, and pick myself up off the deck, pulling my sword free from my belt and preparing to engage in battle with any boarders.

I look up again, something pulling me back from the battle.

New Cross Gate North?

I look out onto the platform. I don't recognise it. Green tiles, new and modern, but not a station I recognise. The doors are closing, the train is accelerating away.

I look around me. A few people have got on the train and are sitting down. The rest of the carriage is now mostly empty.

_New Cross Gate North?_ Shit. I'm on the wrong train.

I jump to my feet, closing the book and losing my place in the battle. Picking up my small rucksack from the seat beside me I move quickly down the cabin and scrutinise the map of the Jubilee Line above the double doors.

New Cross Gate North...Lewisham North... Lewisham South... Patton Street...then the last station, East Dulwich. Not a single station name that I recognise.

I check the name of the line again.

_The_ _Jubilee_ _Line_.

My heart starts beating faster, and I feel a little strange.

This is not right.

I look around the carriage. Everyone is looking at their papers, or staring at their feet. They don't see me. Everything just seems normal to them.

I stare at the map again and quickly check the stations going northwards. Alworth Street... Lambeth East. Waterloo.

Waterloo. Thank god.

Then further north, Waterloo... Charing Cross...Green Park _... Charing Cross?_

Where is Westminster?

I've ridden on the Jubilee Line for years now. I know every station off by heart. Southbound to Canary Wharf:- _Waterloo-Southwark-London Bridge-Bermondsey-Canada Water-Canary Wharf._ Or Northbound: _Waterloo-Westminster- Green Park-Bond Street,_ then upwards to _Stanmore._

So where the hell is New Cross Gate North and who swapped Westminster for Charing Cross?

I check the name of the line written in grey above the map of the network. Jubilee Line. I check it again. Jubilee Line.

The train pulls into the next station, and as it slows down I search for the name of the station on the walls of the tunnel. Please say Canada Water, or Canary Wharf...

Lewisham North. _Lewisham North? What the hell is going on?_

I jump from the train as soon as the doors open, and walk quickly along the length of the platform searching for a tube map on the walls.

My heart is beating fast now. Very fast. I feel strangely cold, my forehead is clammy, and my hands are beginning to shake. The same shakes I get when I am really hungry and I haven't eaten for ages. The sort of shakes that normally only an immediate dose of chocolate or sugar can cure.

I find a sign on the wall, and drop my bag on the floor beside it. I look at the map before me. I find the grey stripe of the Jubilee Line, and see with dread the names of the stations confirmed in little black letters beside each circle signifying the stations.

New Cross Gate North...Lewisham North... Lewisham South... Patton Street...Last station East Dulwich.

I'm in a dream. I feel lost, disorientated and dissociated from everything around me. I feel the onset of panic, and I break out into a cold sweat. My mind begins to think very slowly.

This doesn't make sense.

The train behind me has left, and I hear another one swooping into the tunnel opposite, heading back in the other direction.

I hurry along to the end of the platform and then cross over onto the northbound platform. The approaching train slows and comes to a stop, the doors part with a rush of air and I jump onboard. I go straight to the map above the next set of doors further down the carriage, and check to make sure I see the word Waterloo.

_Waterloo_. Fantastic.

As the train moves off I hang from the pole by the door, swaying backwards with the acceleration and looking at the other people around me. Everyone else seems oblivious to my panic. A child at the end of the carriage screams and draws a quick scowl from his large, black mother. The little boy turns away from his mother, and for a few seconds stares straight into my eyes. There are tears in his eyes. I see the quick change in his expression as he looks at me, and suddenly his own confusion is gone. I am now the object of his attention, and he is staring at my face. He alone, amongst all the people on the tube, senses that something is wrong with me.

I look away.

The train pulls into the next station, and I check the name on the blue tiles. _New Cross Gate North._ I'm back at the station I was in a few minutes ago. My eyes look quickly back up at the map, and then return to the sign. I look back at the boy, and he starts to cry, turning quickly to his mother and burying his head in her lap, his face disappearing from view into the folds of her colourful white, red and yellow dress.

New Cross Gate North. According to the strange map the next one will be Alworth Street, then Lambeth East. Then Waterloo.

As the train accelerates into the darkness once again, I feel my knees shaking beneath me. I sit down.

Is this a dream? Have I fallen asleep on my way to Canary Wharf? Am I going to wake up soon? My thoughts are slower now, and I feel as if my mind is beginning to dull over. None of this makes sense. It's all wrong.

I feel lost. And strangely, I begin to feel very alone. Everyone else seems fine, everyone else is going about their business as normal, calmly waiting for the next station to arrive, reading the papers, or talking to a friend. To them everything is normal.

Except it quite clearly isn't.

As the train moves from Alworth Street to Lambeth East I long for Waterloo. I look forward to greeting it like a long lost brother. I can't wait to see it. To jump out of the train onto the platform, for this strangeness, this weirdness all to end. For it to go away.

And then suddenly it is there. Waterloo.

The safety doors, the familiar platform I walk along every single day, the escalators up, then the connecting tunnel to the Northern line on the left, and the escalators to the train station on the right.

I take the moving stairs two at a time, and emerge a minute later, sweating, and out of breath at the ticket barriers at the top of the stairs. I move quickly towards them, reaching automatically into my pocket to pull out my red travelcard holder and to remove the ticket from within the clear plastic sleeve.

As I pull the ticket out and feed it into the barrier, the gates open before me and I move swiftly through. I swoop up the ticket as it pops out from the top of the gate, but dimly register in my slow mind that the travelcard holder is _black_ , not red.

As I step outside onto the pavement outside the entrance to the back of Waterloo station, I stare at the travelcard holder.

Why is it not red?

_I stare at the ticket in my hand. It looks different from the travelcard I normally use. I look at the date. It's today's date. The 16_ th _of August 2012. But the photograph on the owner's card inside the other plastic sleeve is wrong. I stare at it. It's me okay... But in the photograph my brown hair is cut differently to normal. Shorter. Spiky. And there are blonde highlights on top._

My heart is beating uncontrollably fast, and I feel sick. I am scared. Very scared.

And then I throw up.
Chapter 4

Waterloo 9.21 am

"Are you okay, mate?" the taxi driver asks as he springs from his cab to come to my aid at the edge of the pavement.

I look up at him again briefly, then bend double once more, vomiting for a second time, the contents of my breakfast emptying itself into the gutter, joining the muesli and yoghurt so glamorously already adorning the roadside.

The cab driver puts a friendly hand on my back, and bends over towards me. He hands me a Kleenex from the front of his cab. I wipe the rest of my breakfast from the corners of my mouth and struggle a response.

"Yes." I cough a little. "Yes, thanks, I am."

"Are you sure, mate? You don't look too good to me."

"No, honestly, I'll...I'll be fine. I just had a fright that's all."

I turn away from the sadly rare gesture of human warmth from one person to another and walk back into the station.

As I walk back into the main concourse, I look around me. Everything seems normal. The vomiting has brought back a flood of senses, and the wave of panic that had swept over me seems to have subsided. In its place, as I see the familiar sights around me, I begin to feel more relaxed.

I head into Marks and Spencer's and walk around the shelves. Everything seems as it should. The sights and sounds of any normal Tuesday morning.

I walk out onto the concourse and look up at the arrivals and departures, displayed as usual on the large electronic overhead information system. I see that in five minutes there is a train to Surbiton. I consider it briefly. It's tempting. I stand in the middle of the concourse and look around.

Everything _is_ as it should be.

I walk amongst the passengers and commuters and my calm returns. I must have dreamt it all. It wasn't real.

Breathing deeply, I decide not to go home, but to go on to work. I have had a bad dream. Something went wrong, I woke up on the train in the middle of the dream and for some reason I panicked. That's all.

So I head back towards the Jubilee Line, determined not to be stupid, and to get to work as soon as possible. I look at my watch. I'm late.

As I approach the ticket barrier, I slow down. Logically, I know that it's just all been a dream, but it doesn't stop me worrying that if I go through the barrier and down into the station beneath, the dream will come back.

I walk outside to the taxi rank. I see that the man in the first taxi is the driver who so kindly came to my assistance a few minutes before and I climb into the back of his cab.

"How y'feeling now? Are you okay, pal? You took some turn back then. Best take it easy today," he says, turning round to face me, genuine concern showing on his face.

"I'm okay. Thanks for helping me. It was kind of you. I appreciate it. Really."

"No problem, pal. Just glad to help out. So, where do you want me to take you then?" the man replies in a half cockney, half Scottish accent.

"Canary Wharf please."

"Sure thing. Sit back and rest, mate. I'll get you there as soon as I can."

I sit back in the cab and watch the thankfully very familiar scenes of London life roll by me as the taxi takes me out of Waterloo and through the streets of London. I close my eyes, and try not to think of what has just happened. Soon I begin to snooze, and it is a while before the sound of the cab driver's voice brings me back to reality.

"We're almost there, mate," he says.

I look out of the window, scanning the streets around me for some familiarity. I don't recognise anything.

"I'm sorry, I meant Canary Wharf, on the north side of the river. Are we somewhere around Greenwich?" I ask.

"No. Just like you asked pal, this is it. There is only one Canary Wharf. We're here. There's the Mountbatten Industrial Park over there, and at the end of the road beside the river is the National Asylum Centre. You don't want to go there pal. That's where they had the big riot last week. The buildings are still smouldering from the fire." The driver quips, quickly turning his head towards me as he speaks.

"What do you mean?" I ask, the strange feeling of unreality that I had on the underground beginning to surge within me again. "Where's Canary Wharf? I can't see any of the skyscrapers?"

"What skyscrapers?" the driver asks, turning round quickly to face me again, as he continues to drive. I don't answer him, but sit forward on the edge of my seat, gripping the black leather hard with my fingers. I look all around me, desperately searching for a familiar sight.

The taxi driver pulls over on to the edge of the road, his hazard lights flashing, and waves at the cars behind him to overtake.

"Are you okay, pal. You look sick again. Would you rather I take you to the hospital? There's that new one down on the other side of East India Wharf? Mind you, it's full of them asylum seekers, but it's the closest one to here."

"East India Wharf," I say, grasping at the familiar name. I know the wharf well. It's a large old warehouse on the edge of the old harbour at the back of Canary Wharf. When Canary Wharf was built it was renovated and now it's full of yuppie restaurants and bars. We often go there for drinks after work on Thursday and Friday nights.

The taxi drives down several roads bordered by some new but run-down houses. A modern housing estate that is already showing the signs of severe neglect and urban decline. People hang around on street corners in gangs watching as we pass by. Families of all different colours and ethnic backgrounds walk along the streets, disappearing into the red-bricked houses, where young kids play in the gardens amidst rubbish and old washing machines.

Turning a corner, I immediately recognise the silhouette of the old wharf building. We are approaching it from behind, and as we come closer we swing around the edge of it and come out onto the cobbled yard in front, beside the harbour's edge.

I open the door of the taxi and step out. I stand with my back to the taxi and the East India wharf building, the water in front of me. I stare at the big empty space where there should be magnificent, towering sparkling pillars of glass and steel. Instead, I look blankly at the vacant sky. The volumes of open air. The mountains of nothingness. And I begin to shake.

I am scared. More scared than I have ever been before.

Canary Wharf, the embodiment of modern Britain, that jewel of contemporary British architecture, that glorious monument to Thatcher's Britain and all that is capitalism and wealth and greed, is nowhere to be seen.

Canary Wharf has vanished.
Chapter 5

East India Dock 10.00am.

I stand in silence. Not knowing what to do. For a moment or two the fear washes over me like a wave. I don't know how to stop it, so I let it roll.

What has happened to my world?

Where am I?

What is happening?

My right hand is shaking uncontrollably and I look down at it, strangely detached from my body. I see my left hand reach across and take hold of it firmly, calming it, quietening it. The shaking stops.

The taxi driver's voice again, coming to my rescue for the second time today.

"I think you should get yourself off to a doctor, pal. You don't look well...Are you upset about something? Do you want to tell me about it?" he asks, standing beside me.

"No. " I reply quietly. What should I tell him?

"No. I think I'll be okay. I'm just having a bad day. A _really_ bad day. And on top of that I think I've just lost my job. Or maybe my job just lost me..." I turn and pat him lightly on the shoulder, trying to smile at him as I walk back to the taxi, and climb into the back of the cab.

We sit there for a while. Me not saying anything. The taxi driver giving me some space. I look back out through the open cab door, towards the Thames, and the empty grass covered island where the great tower blocks should be. Where the offices of Kitte-Kat once were. Where I used to work.

The fear slowly begins to subside, being replaced by a weird, calm, acceptance of this altered reality. I feel numb.

"I'm John," the taxi driver says, breaking the silence. "What's your name?"

"I'm James," I answer.

"Well James, I don't want to interfere, but I get the feeling that you are a bit lost? As if things are not what you expected them to be? You look confused..."

"You could say that," I reply.

Sensing that John wants to start asking lots of question I just can't answer, I pull the door closed and turn away from Canary Wharf. "John, can you take me into town?"

As he starts the engine and we move off, I thank him for his concern, and for caring.

"No problem James. I've seen it all, pal. Everything. Mine's an interesting life. I get to see lots. But a man should never lose the will to help others. After all, without our fellow man, we're nothing."

He may have seen a lot in his time, but one thing's for sure. This honest, likeable, decent man has never seen Canary Wharf. Not as I have.

"So, where do you want to go now?" he asks, as we leave the wharf area behind us.

"How about back to Waterloo. I think I'm just going to go home and see my wife."

We drive back through the estate, then skirt around the edge of what can only be described as an enormous internment camp or prison. But big. Very big. With rows and rows of brick houses and several large look-out towers inside it. Smoke is rising from the corner behind one of the walls.

"The National Asylum Centre. They almost destroyed it. Ungrateful bunch. Still, shouldn't be too harsh. 'There but for the grace of God', and all that..." the driver says, feeding me a stream of information and interspersing it with questions about why I'm not feeling well, and why I lost my job.

"New employment laws." He continues, "That's what I blame. Bloody government doesn't know what it's doing. No stability any more. Do you know, my brother-in-law turned up for work the other day, and the company he had worked for the day before was bankrupt. The company had ceased to exist overnight."

If only he knew. I look out of the window. The panic has gone. The fear has subsided, but I know it's just beneath the surface. Waiting to explode. For now though, the fear has been replaced by a feeling of numbness.

The voice of the taxi driver blends into the background, and I stare blankly at the world outside. A world I recognise, but not completely.

I notice now that it's different. But not in a way that is immediately obvious. I have the feeling that all around there are subtle differences, small changes, but even though they are there, I can't point to them straight away.

Something inside my jacket vibrates. I reach inside and pull out a mobile phone. _My_ mobile phone. Only it's a different colour, and the ring tone is one that I would never normally choose. Too flashy by far. And, now I look closer, I notice the design is subtly different to the old one I have. I look at the display to see who is calling.

-'Richard'-

Who?

I answer the phone, putting it to my ear.

"James... are you there?" a high-pitched voice screams at me. "Where the fuck are you?"

"Hi. .. _Richard_? I'm in a taxi."

I don't know who Richard is. I don't recognise the voice. I have never spoken to this man before in my life. But before I can think of what more to say, the voice shouts at me again.

"James, listen, I don't know what you are playing at, but if you don't get here in the next 30 minutes, you are fired. Out on the street. Get it? We've worked on this deal for years. It's the biggest one we've ever had, and if you fuck it up, you are history. This is YOUR presentation for Pete's sake. YOUR client. We're all here, waiting for you. You're fifteen minutes late...Where are you?"

I have no clue as to what Richard is talking about. My gut reaction is to switch the phone off, and ignore whoever the hell Richard is.

On the other hand, this man at the other end of the phone seems to know me. In fact, he knows _a lot_ about me, about where I should be, and what I am meant to be doing. Obviously something very wrong has happened to me, and if this man knows me, then perhaps he can tell me _what_ is going on.

And then I hear myself saying:-

"Richard. I'm sorry...This morning has been very strange...I'm on the way to hospital just now. I was mugged on the way to work... And I've lost everything. My bag, my notes, everything...," I pause. There is silence on the other end of the phone. Then the voice again, though this time, not so loud.

"Mugged?...Are you _okay_?"

"Yes, but listen. I think I must be a little concussed. I'm having difficulty remembering some things...and I've lost the address where I'm meant to be meeting you. Where are you?" I say, hoping he will fall for my excuse.

"Shit, James. SHIT. This deal is worth ten million euros. Ten _million_ euros!..." Silence. "Listen, get over here as fast as you can. I'll stall them. Can you still do the presentation? _Bastard_ , this is a real mess. Listen, I'll text you the address now. Get the taxi driver to bring you here as fast as he can. I'll wait for you outside the building. We'll take it from there. And hurry up. Do the presentation, then you can go to the hospital afterwards if you need to. Get your priorities right man. If you want to die, you can die later. Anyway, if you don't win this deal, we're all dead."

Click. It's nice to have such a caring boss.

A few seconds later my mobile rattles again in my hand, and I open up the text message from Richard. An address in Portman Square. I know the place well. It's behind Selfridges. From where we are now, it'll take about 20 minutes to get there in this light traffic. In fact, the traffic is remarkably light for this time of day. A little strange, but a good thing for me.

I read out the address to the taxi driver and settle back into my seat.

"Is that one of them new 2G phones?" John asks, seemingly genuinely inquisitive.

"What do you mean, new 2G?" I reply. "You can hardly call 2G new. They've been out for years?"

"I mean, there's not many people who have mobile phones yet, so if you've got one, it must be one of them new fangled 2G phones?...You know, them ones with the special radiation proof technology that stops you getting brain tumours every time you call someone and zap your head with zillions of microwaves."

Before I can respond, John changes the subject and starts a running commentary about life, the universe and everything, and I sit back and start to just nod at all the right parts and tune out of the conversation. Eventually he notices I'm not responding and he shuts up.

London rolls past the taxi windows, and I consider calling Sarah. I should call her. I need to talk to her, but what will I say? How can I explain it? I decide not to. I will tell it all to her face-to-face tonight when I get back. I'm confused right now. Whatever is happening to me, or whatever has happened to me, I need to sort out before I go home. Hopefully, Richard, whoever he is, will be able to sort it out for me.

We pass through Trafalgar Square, and drive up to Piccadilly. As the taxi passes the Institute of Directors, I do a double take and turn back in my seat, staring out the back window. Outside the National Gallery at the top of the square a line of cars sit waiting patiently for a light to change; and where former mayor Ken Livingstone so proudly unveiled a new flight of stairs leading up to the front entrance of the gallery, there is still the old, continuous wall, and no new staircase. What has happened to the pedestrian precinct in front of the National Gallery?

And the pigeons. There are thousands of them, flying en masse in bliss around the heads of thousands of tourists who swarm around the feet of Lord Nelson and merrily feed them corn from little plastic punnets. Somewhere Ken Livingstone must be livid. He hated the bloody pigeons. After waging a long personal battle against them, and finally getting rid of them by completely banning anyone from feeding them, now...well, now they're back!

It's wrong. It shouldn't be like this.

Former Mayor, _dear_ mad, Red Ken, spent millions of taxpayer's money on improvements, but where are they all now? This is the _old_ Trafalgar Square.

It is as if the redesign of the Square just never happened...

My mind is now dull, I see the mistakes. I acknowledge them, but I no longer react to them.

At Piccadilly the statue of Eros has been painted gold, and a new marble pavement covers the surrounding area. It looks beautiful. But it looks very different from the Eros I walked past only last weekend when I went shopping in Lilywhites for new trainers. Lilywhites, thankfully, looks just the same as it was last week.

Driving up Regent Street, I notice a few differences here and there. Things that appear different from what I think they should be like, but which blend effortlessly into surroundings which look just as they should.

Am I imagining this?

At Oxford Circus we turn left onto a clear street. No cars. Only buses and taxis. We pass quickly along the street without getting stuck in traffic. Something that is normally impossible to do. But obviously isn't today.

Then I notice a big change: dear old wonderful Selfridges has gone. Oh, the building, that impressive monument to the great British shopper is still there, but outside the front entrance the name 'Macy's' hangs proudly in large, tasteful, elegant golden letters. People stream in and out of the doors, oblivious to their loss, not realising how wrong it is. How can this have happened? Where has Selfridges gone?

Gone like Canary Wharf. Gone like Ken Livingstone's dreams. And perhaps gone like my sanity. I must have gone mad.

I lean forward in my seat and put my head in my hands.

Then the taxi driver's voice, "James. We're here. This is where you wanted me to take you."

I step out of the cab, swinging my little rucksack on to my back, and look at the taxi driver sitting in the front seat. I feel a surge of warmth to this anglicised jock. He's the only friend I have in this strange world, and I feel a reluctance to leave him.

"Thanks. Thanks for your help. I..."

"No problem pal. Don't mention it. Listen..." he leans forward and picks something up. "Why don't you take my card. Just in case you need a lift later on. My number's there."

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I jump with fright. A tall man, smart pinstriped Armani suit, balding, penetrating blue eyes, and a large, oversized stomach, pushes me gently to the side, reaches through the taxi window and looks at the meter. He pulls out a wad of cash, and gives the taxi driver a bundle of notes. Then without further warning he spins me around and points me towards the door of the big building in front of us.

As he speaks I guess this must be Richard. Shocked and still very, very numb, I blindly follow his lead. Behind me the taxi driver honks his horn, and just before I step through the electronic doors which slide open before us, I turn and watch with a sudden feeling of loneliness as the taxi pulls away into traffic.

I clutch the card in my hand, and slide it quickly into the breast pocket of my shirt.
Chapter 6

Portman Square. 10.30 am.

We climb into the lift, Richard hits the 8th floor button, the doors close and there is silence. Richard looks at me, and I look at him. He goes first.

"You look fine. Are you okay?" and then without waiting for me to reply, "Listen, I've been thinking. This deal is too big for us to fuck up. Perhaps I should do your presentation for you? I've been through it a dozen times, and I know it. The last thing we need is for you to faint or forget something half way through. We can't afford to lose this deal."

Fine by me.

"Richard, I'm sorry. I didn't plan this. Any of it. But, to be honest, I'm still in shock, and the concussion is getting worse. I can't remember everything....."

"Great. Just great..."

The lifts pings, the doors open and we step outside. We've come out into what can only be described as the sumptuous boardroom of some powerful organisation. A large brown mahogany table dominates the middle of the room, about twenty people sitting around the edges, all looking directly at me.

At the far end, a large screen is embedded into the wall, and an overhead projector hanging from the ceiling is already projecting the welcoming slide of 'my' presentation. It reads,

"Cohen Advertising

presents

A new marketing brand for

Scotia Telecom's

Future Mobile Communications

By

James Quinn and Team."

I follow Richard into the room, around the expectant group, to the head of the table. I take a seat, and smile back at everyone. All eyes are on me.

One of them at the far end of the table, silver haired, expensive suit, leans forward with clasped hands on the table, and speaks.

"So, James. What have you got then? You've kept us all waiting. We've waited. Now it's your turn to impress the shit out of us. Tell us, how is Cohen Advertising going to make Scotia Telecom the No. 1. Mobile phone network in Europe?"

Mobile phones again. Does he not know how bad they are for your health?

There's an embarrassing silence. I haven't got a clue what to do. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all. Slowly, very slowly, I bite the bullet and start to rise from my chair.

Then, calmly, and not a moment too soon, Richard rises to his feet beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder, pushing me firmly back into my seat.

"Gentlemen, if I may, I would like to apologise once again for keeping you all waiting. Unfortunately, as you know, James was mugged by a gang of asylum seekers this morning, just as he left Waterloo. Although he has suffered some concussion from the attack, he insisted on coming directly here to present to you personally, instead of going to the hospital, which I'm sure you will all realise is a clear sign of his dedication to this project and the importance of your custom to us, but I think it would be unfair of me to let him carry on the presentation, particularly since he is very dizzy and feeling quite faint. Naturally, I did insist he went straight to the hospital, but he steadfastly refused. So, we've come to a compromise. I'll do the presentation, and James will chip in if needed. So...without, any further delay, let's start."

There are a few loud murmurs around the table, a round of coughing, and the general sound of people settling back in their chairs, waiting and expecting to be impressed.

One person in particular fixes his eyes and every ounce of his concentration on Richard. One person in particular waits with baited breath to see what James Quinn, star of the Cohen Advertising corporation has pulled together for the future of Scotia Telecom.

Me.

I can't wait to hear what I have got to say.

As Richard starts to go through my presentation, it becomes abundantly clear that I really know what I'm talking about. I'm impressed. I'm obviously a very clever guy.

For the next ten minutes, Richard runs through an impressive summation of the mobile communications market place that supposedly exists today, reporting on the demographics, market segmentation, current trends in telephony, an overview of telecomms in today's Europe, the effects of deregulation, and a sizing up of the opportunity for future growth of the mobile industry. Who has the money to spend? How much money do they have to spend per month? What target segments should be pursued first? The teenager? The businessman? The mother at home? How much should they charge for a new phone service? Is this a profitable marketplace to be in? How soon will people start buying into the mobile market?

I sit and listen eagerly. Occasionally Richard looks over, as if verifying with me that he is saying the right things. I nod at all the right moments. But from what I can see, it seems as if Richard is doing a great job. In fact, he's doing a far better job than I would ever be able to do. Which probably isn't saying much, given my rather sudden introduction to all of this.

As I listen to his overview of the market I learn a lot. I learn that mobile phones, after they were introduced in the mid-eighties, were banned from normal public use when the government of the European Union declared that the radiation from mobile phones posed a severe risk to human health. Overnight the fledgling mobile market crashed, and most of the emerging mobile phone operators went out of business, or returned to the drawing board to find ways of making mobile phones safe for use.

It was fifteen years before a new technology was developed that was approved, tested, and granted European regulatory approval, and only now in 2012, is the 2nd wave of mobile phones being launched. Albeit by a smaller group of telecommunications companies, who just managed to cling onto the lifeboat long enough and are only now managing to climb back onboard.

Scotia Telecom, in particular, is one of those companies.

They have aggressive plans to launch the most reliable, feature rich, and price-competitive mobile phone service in Europe. And Cohen Advertising has been chosen to develop the brand and launch the new, revamped service.

"And now, if there are no questions at this point, I would like to tell you what James has come up with for the name of your new brand."

There are no questions from the floor. I have a few, but I decide to keep my mouth shut.

The Chairman of Scotia Telecom, the man with the grey hair and the money, sits forward, leaning with his elbows and clasped hands on the table, and every one follows suit. Everyone is eager to hear what I have come up with. Including me.

Richard clicks the mouse in his hand, and the next slide flashes up on the screen. A big mandarin-orange appears on the screen on a white background. A grey shadow hides beneath the base of the mandarin, adding a touch of three dimensionality to the picture. In the bottom right hand corner, superimposed on the base of the fruit, but clearly visible, is the word "Mandarin".

There is silence around the table. Richard holds his breath. I hold my breath.

I sense that my career in advertising is in the balance (which apparently has been quite good up till now...). The next few moments will determine whether I will succeed or fail. I look around the table at everyone's faces. Hoping. Praying.

No one responds. Everyone looks at the Chairman. And the Chairman looks directly at me. I sense that something is missing. That somehow the presentation has missed the mark.

I look at Richard. He looks at me. I take a second look at the screen. I know I have to say something. I know I have to do something. Time seems to slow down, and my mind goes into overdrive.

And then it hits me.

The world I now find myself is not the same as the one I woke up to this morning. In many ways it's similar, but in others it's completely different.

The mobile phone market being a case in point. In this world, the mobile phone market is only just beginning to take off. From the slides that have been presented it would seem that hardly anyone carries a phone yet, that high street phone retailers like 'The Car Phone Warehouse' and 'The Link' don't exist, and that mobile phone salesmen have not yet become as annoying as estate agents. Somehow, _somehow_ , for fifteen years the world has continued to exist and prosper without mobile phone technology.

From the slide before last, it would seem that T-Mobile and O2 are still figments of someone's imagination and like a blast-from-the-past, BT Cellnet is only _now_ beginning to become successful in the UK. And just like T-Mobile and O2, the Orange phone network is still waiting to be created.

In fact, unless I am very much mistaken, my presentation, _this meeting that is happening just now_ , is the moment at which the Orange network and brand is meant to be created for the very first time, the difference being that this time around, it won't be created for Orange, but for Scotia Telecom.

I've always thought that the Orange brand was brilliant. It's clever, original, trendy, and it's no coincidence that I have an Orange phone,...or did... (I've no idea what I've got now, although I would guess that it is probably a Scotia Telecom handset.)

The problem is that I don't feel particularly comfortable with stealing other people's ideas. And I know for a fact that I didn't think of the original idea for the Orange brand. Someone, somewhere else thought of it, but that was in another world. And in this world it would appear that whoever it was that came up with the idea hasn't had those thoughts yet. And maybe they never will.

Maybe in this world, the genius who came up with that whole campaign is a train-driver, or an astronaut, or maybe he or she is working in McDonalds? Whatever. On the other hand, in this life, in this world, it might be down to me. Maybe in this life, it's my turn. Maybe it's down to me to create the _Orange_ network, and _this_ is the moment I am meant to do it!

And yet, I still can't quite bring myself to copy the idea exactly, even though it would appear that I have already gone quite far down the same path of thinking that the original creator of the Orange brand must have done. Even so, as I look at the blank looks on everyone's faces, and as I see the picture of the giant mandarin projected onto the screen, it's blatantly obvious that my thinking so far is a little wide of the mark. I need to do something. I need to come up with something better.

And fast.

I look around the room. Everyone is still looking at me. Waiting. No expression on their faces. I stand up.

Richard looks at me. Pleading. The figure of 'ten million Euros' being telepathically transmitted from his mind to mine. Along with the vision of a P45, a door, and a big boot.

"Gentlemen", I start, "What do you think of my idea. 'The Mandarin Network?'" And then quickly, before anyone can respond, I carry on.

"Well, it's not bad for a start. But not quite good enough. The image of an apple sure did work for the Apple Corporation..." I pause, praying that Apple still existed, then carry on regardless "...and they showed that such abstract thinking really can work in the IT industry. But what we want is something different, something better. When I first thought about 'Mandarin' I thought it was good. It's bright, it's colourful, it's different, but it's not good enough. What Scotia Telecom needs for today's world, for _this_ world, is an image, a brand, something bright, vibrant, instantly recognisable and easily associated with Scotia Telecom, but _different_."

"Unfortunately the rest of my presentation today was in my briefcase, and when I was mugged this morning the briefcase was stolen. So I can't show you the slides which show how the final branding will look like. So, if I may, I'll describe it to you."

"Imagine a big bold bright circle, the colour of tangerines. Inviting, tasteful, exotic, sophisticated, refreshing. And in the bottom of the circle the word ' _Tangerine_ '.

"And that's it. Scotia Telecom's new network is 'The Tangerine Network'. It's simple, yet very effective. We build a promotional campaign based almost solely on imagery. Imagine people walking around with images of tangerine coloured circles painted on their foreheads, or on the palms of their hands. We see people talking to each other, holding up their hands, the Tangerine symbols painted on their hands. Or we see people walking down the street just talking away into thin air, a tangerine circle shown painted on their forehead..."

"The important part of the whole campaign is that although we are advertising mobile phones and the network they use, we will never ever see a person actually holding, carrying, or speaking into a phone in any one of our adverts. It will all only ever be just implied..."

I go on, creating imagery and pictures and painting the brand in the minds of those sitting around the table. I waffle on, creating the best bullshit I have ever done, and really, even as I listen, I find that I'm impressing myself, let alone anyone else. Where it's all coming from I don't know. All I do know is that it's good. _Very_ good. I go off into freestyle, describing newspaper adverts, television and cinema campaigns, posters, and flyers, a whole campaign, an imaginative campaign, a _fantastic_ campaign...and then suggest that in order to promote and support the expected demand, Scotia Telecom should build a new network of _Tangerine_ Shops across all of Europe, selling a new range of Tangerine branded mobile phones. And then I invent a couple of strap-lines, like ' _Tangerine. Have you picked yours yet?'_

The last part wasn't so good, but I know that it can be worked on. Just so long as they buy the rest of it. I turn to Richard and hand over to him. Richard is expressionless. This has all caught him by surprise. It's not exactly gone according to the script.

I turn to look at the Chairman of Scotia Telecom.

He is studying a long, fat cigar. He pulls out something silver from his pocket and snips off the end of the cigar. The man on the right of him, immediately produces a box of matches, lighting one and handing it to his boss, who slowly turns the cigar in the flame, puffing clouds of blue smoke into the air as he does so. Eventually, satisfied with the even burn of the tobacco, he sits back in his chair and looks at me.

He smiles.

Almost as one, the rest of the people in the room smile too and there is an audible exhaling of breath.

"I like it James. I like it very much. For a while I was a little concerned there, but boy, did you swing it around. I think we can do some business together. I like it. _Tangerine_....Hmm. I like it a lot. I think we should drink a toast to the future of Scotia Telecom, and _The_ _Tangerine Network_."

A door opens at the back of the room and a tray of champagne glasses and several bottles of champagne appear as if from nowhere. Within minutes corks are flying and the tension in the room evaporates. The deal is done.

Scotia Telecom are happy. So is Richard. And from what I can gather, my first presentation as a high flying advertising executive has been a roaring success.
Chapter 7

Seven Dials 2pm

A few bottles later, and Richard isn't fit to drive anywhere, so we call a taxi and leave his car in the garage underneath Scotia Telecom _'s_ headquarters.

Now the ten million euro deal is in the bag, and there is the better part of two bottles of champagne in his stomach, Richard couldn't be more concerned about my health if he tried. If I was a cynic, I could be forgiven for thinking that since I'm the man who came up with the 'Tangerine' idea, Richard is just scared that if I were to die from my concussion, then the ten million deal would go with me.

Deciding to reserve judgement on that for now, I bundle an almost incoherent Richard into the taxi, and head off towards Covent Garden.

Of course, now the excitement of the presentation is behind me, I'm back to facing facts. I've got a problem. As the taxi takes us out along Oxford Street towards Tottenham Court Road, and before turning down to Seven Dials in Covent Garden, where, apparently, the Cohen Advertising suite of offices is, I start to wrestle with the reality that now surrounds me.

London is different. At first glance, most things seem to be the same. But on closer inspection, a lot of shops, the buildings, the traffic, the signs, even the way the people dress, a lot of it _is_ different. Some of it is a _lot_ different, but other things, just _slightly_. It's strange, even though life does _seem_ the _same_ , overall it's just _not_ right.

Suddenly I want desperately to talk to my wife. I pull out my mobile, and ignore Richard who has just leaned back on the leather seats of the taxi, and started to snore very loudly. I dial my home number and put the phone to my ear.

There is no dial tone.

I dial the number again.

Still no dial tone. The number is not recognised.

I dial my wife's mobile.

There is no connection. Number not recognised.

It's then that I realise that the O2 network which Sarah uses was not mentioned on the list of mobile operators that I had shown in my presentation to Scotia Telecom. Which means that I can't call her O2 number, because the O2 network doesn't yet exist.

Shit. How do I contact her?

And why isn't my home number being recognised?

I throw the mobile into my small rucksack shouting "Useless pile of shit" loudly in frustration. I begin to shake again. I've had enough of this dream. I want to wake up.

EAAUUUGGGHHHHH...

A sudden stream of projectile vomit explodes on the floor, covering my trousers, my suit jacket, and most of the taxi. Richard has just thrown up.

The taxi driver turns around, sees the scene and pulls over. Jumping out of the front, he takes about two seconds to open the rear door, grab Richard and drag him out onto the pavement,...just in time for him to vomit for a second time. This time catching the taxi-driver's feet.

The driver shouts something at us both, in some language I have never heard before, but which I guess is probably Eastern European, maybe Albanian. Richard is by now sitting on the pavement, looking up at me with a very childish look on his face, white bubbling champagne oozing out of the corners of his mouth, along with some half-eaten cornflakes.

Eugh.

"You give me 35 euros. You give me now!" the taxi-driver demands from me.

"Sorry, what?...euros...no, sorry, I've only got pounds." I reply, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my wallet. I reach inside and pull out some notes. "Why do you want euros?" I reply, getting a little annoyed, preparing to pay him in the Queen's own money. This is Britain . Bloody taxi-driver should take pounds. But when I look at the notes in my hand, I don't recognise them. They're strange, like foreign money, the wrong colours, the wrong sizes...

As I look up at the taxi-driver, one massive question mark on my face, the Albanian reaches out and snatches all the paper from my clenched fist. He spits on the ground, swears, at least I think he is swearing, and turns and jumps back into his cab, driving off and leaving us to fend for ourselves.

A small crowd has gathered around us, admiring the spectacle of Richard throwing up into his lap and over his own trousers, with me, standing there, covered in puke, trying to work out whether I should laugh, cry, or jump in front of the next car, and simply end it all...

And then a policeman appears, as if from nowhere.

"Hello gentlemen, celebrating a little too much are we?"

I look up at the policeman, almost speechless.

"Can I see your ID cards, please?" he asks me.

The crowd is all around us now, as if we are a couple of buskers about to start juggling or swallowing fire. Which would be a miracle in itself, as right now, I don't think Richard could swallow anything and keep it down for more than a few seconds.

"My ID card?" I ask. What is he talking about?...

Richard throws up again, this time on the feet of the policeman, who, not surprisingly, does not seem very amused.

He bends over Richard to say something to him, and at this point, the pressure just all gets too much: I don't have any idea what is going on; I don't have an ID card; I can't explain anything to myself, let alone a policeman. Fear surges within me. I'm scared, I'm lost, I cannot cope. So...so I do the most logical thing I can think of ...and I leg it. I run away.

I push my way through the crowd that opens up hurriedly before me, and run like the proverbial clappers. I run for two blocks, disappearing down the side streets off Oxford Street, towards Dean Street. People stare at me as I dodge past them , and I realise that not only do I look a sight, but that I smell terrible too.

What am I going to do? I can't go home like this.

I get to the end of the street and stand on the corner, gasping for breath, beside the Prince Edward Theatre, where, to my great relief, 'Mary Poppins' is still playing. A welcome and familiar sight.

I stop to think. I need to change my clothes, but I haven't got any money. I don't carry any credit cards, so I can't just walk into a shop and buy some. I decide to go an ATM and use my switch card to withdraw some money. I find one on the corner beside the Palace Theatre where 'Singin' In The Rain' is still playing, another welcome sight from the London I know. Unfortunately, the green bank card I pull from my wallet, is a different colour from the blue Barclays card I started the day with, and when I insert it in the machine and type in my pin number, the machine keeps it. Shit. What the hell am I meant to do now?

I turn around, and look about me. Suddenly London does not look so friendly. People are staring at me, and I know I must look an odd sight. A sweating business man, covered in puke. And then, just when I think it can't get any worse, I realise that I've left my small rucksack in the cab. With my mobile phone in it. My last contact with those who know me.

What do I do? I have no money, and I desperately need a change of clothes. I can't go home like this.

As I look across the road at All Bar One, another friendly sight, I realise I am very close to Seven Dials in Covent Garden. Which is where the offices of Cohen Advertising are meant to be. _My offices._

I hurry across the road, past the All Bar One, one of my favourite pubs where I have spent many a happy evening with Sarah,...and a few with Jane. I cut through the cars waiting at the traffic lights, ignoring the disgusted stares of some of the drivers, and scuttle off down towards the Seven Dials roundabout before turning into Monmouth Street.

Cohen Advertising should be around here somewhere. I had briefly seen the address of the office on the front of one of the packs given out at the Scotia Telecom presentation, and I'm angry now that I didn't take better note of the street number.

I hurry up the road, past a hotel on the left, and a row of very expensive shops on the right hand side. Not the sort of place I could ever afford to shop. I'm about three quarters of the way down the street, when I see two policeman come out of one of the doorways in front of me, each of them helping to support a very drunk Richard. I dive off the pavement, ducking through the doorway of the nearest shop, finding myself in a very upmarket erotic shop.

Red walls, rails full of expensive silk night-gowns, large, very large vibrators with diamonds, yes, _diamonds_ , on the end of them, padded cufflinks, and cushions with very tasteful but incredibly rude pictures on the front. And two very famous beautiful models whom I instantly recognise from TV and the covers of a thousand different magazines, but that doesn't stop me from stumbling into them and knocking one of them flying as she is examining a crotch-less silk teddy.

She looks up at me from the floor, where she is now sprawling in an undignified, non-supermodel like pose, and is just about to shout, when she sees the puke covering my suit and trousers. Instead, she gags and looks away, covering her mouth with her hands. Her friend pushes me from behind, and goes to her aid, both of them by now covering their noses. I reach out to help her up from the floor and in spite of myself can't stop staring at her face as she lies on the wooden floor beneath me. A perfect face, which has adorned the cover of Marie-Claire and Vogue. I hesitate. Would it be the wrong time to ask for her autograph?

Just then a large, burly bodyguard grabs my biceps and removes me from the shop, the manageress screaming from behind, advising me to take a bath.

Thankfully, by now Richard and the two policemen are turning the corner at the end of the street, where I can just make out the back of a police car parked on the edge of the main road. A few seconds later I see it drive away, and I relax a little.

I walk to the doorway from where the boys in blue emerged, check the writing on the brass nameplate, and then walk in.

The hall emerges into a large yellow reception area with parquet flooring, from which an impressive wooden staircase sweeps upwards. The scent of flowers fills the air, coming from several large bouquets which overflow from a number of large vases dotted around the room and positioned carefully on top of two glass coffee tables, in front of white leather couches. Several large pieces of modern art adorn the walls. Colourful, yet discreet, they look expensive, and that's exactly the point.

The room exudes quiet sophistication. It says, "Hey, We're creative, we're clever. We're tasteful. Now give us your money."

A gorgeous, curvy blonde, wearing a tight, low-cut black top and a string of pearls stands up from behind a hotel-style reception desk, and smiles at me. I can't help but smile back at her.

"Not another one...James, what on earth have you two been up to? The cops just dragged Richard in off the street and asked me to identify him and corroborate his story that he is the owner of one of London's top advertising agencies, and not a drunken bum. They've arrested him for being drunk and disorderly. What am I meant to tell his wife?"

I sink down into one of the large leather couches, exhausted and at the end of my tether. The receptionist immediately rushes forward, and leans over towards me, grabbing my arms gently and imploring me to stand up again.

"Get up James. You'll ruin the furniture. You're covered in puke and you smell awful. Come on, let's get you up to your office before the others get back from lunch. You don't want them to see you like this, do you?"

Ah. So I have an office. My _own_ office?

I stand, and let her guide me up two flights of stairs, and through a large open plan area to a suite of offices at the back of the building. She directs me to a door and pushes me gently through.

"Sit down, and I'll get you a cup of coffee. You need to sober up."

"Actually, I'm not drunk. I haven't been drinking..." I protest, but she's already gone and I collapse in a chair.

She returns a few minutes later, closing the door behind her, and coming over to me.

"I've closed up downstairs for a few minutes. Everyone else is out at lunch. Richard called the office immediately after the presentation to give the good news, and everyone went straight down to the Crown to celebrate. They'll be just as drunk as you when they get back."

"I'm NOT drunk!"

"Of course, you are. How did this happen then?" she asks, waving at me to stand up again, and immediately pulling at my jacket and slipping it off my shoulders.

"Richard puked on me." I reply, looking around the office.

I stare at my desk. Beside my green brass lamp is a large, glass paperweight. I recognise it immediately. It was my grandmother's. Since I inherited it, it has followed me from one desk to another, wherever I work. And the last time I saw it, it was on my desk in my office, my _other_ office, in Canary Wharf.

"Listen, I have a problem," I turn to her, putting on my best pleading voice. "A big problem. I need your help, but I have to ask you NOT to tell anyone else. Will you promise me to keep it secret?"

"Yes." She says, holding my smelly jacket at arm's length from her body. "What problem? Do you want to tell me that you are an alcoholic?"

"No. I'm NOT drunk! It's just that I can't remember much. I'm sorry but I don't know your name. It's a miracle I even know my own name..." I blurt out, pretending to rub my head. "I was mugged this morning, and I was hit pretty hard over the head. I think I must have some sort of concussion..."

"Mugged?...What?...You're not telling me that Richard made you do the presentation anyway?"

"Well, yes... But to be fair, he did do most of it. Anyway, the thing is, I haven't got any money. Everything was stolen...and I can't walk around like this...Can you go out and get me some new clothes... _Please?_ Some jeans, a shirt and a jumper and jacket? Anything...just something for me to change into?...Please?" I ask, sounding as pathetic as I can. Which, right now, isn't too hard.

"Sure. Okay. You mean, _now_?" she replies, looking at the jacket, and turning up her nose.

"Yes, now would be a good time. Please. I want to go home. I need a bath, and I need to talk to my wife. Today has been one hell of a day."

"Oh, I meant to tell you. Your wife called. She wanted to wish you luck again for the presentation. She said she couldn't get through to you on your mobile. She'll see you tonight."

The receptionist, who still hasn't told me her name, turns and hangs my jacket on the coat-stand by the door. Then without more than a second's warning she steps back towards me and pushes me into the chair behind the desk. Before I can protest, she kneels on the floor in front of me, and slips my shoes off each foot. She reaches up with both hands and starts to unbuckle my belt, and with a practised familiarity which catches me unawares, reaches behind my back, grabs hold of the top of my trousers, and then yanks them down to my ankles, and off my legs altogether.

Then, just as I begin to think my day may be getting a little better after all, she stands up, walks back to the door, picks my jacket off the stand and leaves me sitting alone in the office in my boxer shorts. My tartan boxer shorts.

For a few seconds I am lost for words, but quickly recovering my senses I jump to my feet and chase after her across the open-plan office.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?" I shout.

"You can't sit in those trousers. They're covered in sick. I'm taking them straight to the 4 -hour dry cleaner, and I'll pick up a pair of trousers, and some clothes in the shop down the street. I'll be back in a minute. Don't worry, the others won't be back from lunch for another hour."

She disappears down the stairs, and I am left standing in the middle of the office in my shirtsleeves and boxers, and a pair of socks that has a big hole in one toe. I look about me, at the empty desks, and flashing PC screens. Thank god no one else is around.

Alone for the first time today, I walk back to my office, sit down and start to examine my new surroundings.

Apart from the paperweight, nothing else is familiar to me. The room is totally enclosed, with large glass windows and some blinds that can seemingly roll down and block out the main office outside whenever I may want some privacy. My desk is large. I have two phones, one white, and one red, just like the Prime Minister. I think it's designed to make me feel important. There are some large wooden filing cabinets along one side of the office, and behind me there is a window, not too large, that looks onto some mews in the street below. It's not a bad office, in fact it's much better than my one in Kitte-Kat, wherever that is now. On the wall, there are a couple of posters, and photographs of what looks like advertising campaigns from the past. But whose past? Surely not mine?

For the first time today I come face to face with my situation.

I have gone mad.

There is simply no other explanation. How can this all be happening to me? Where is Canary Wharf? Where is my job as a Product Manager? What am I doing here? Who is Richard, and the friendly receptionist? And how come I have an office in an advertising agency?

Just _what the hell_ is going on?

Since throwing up in the gutter outside Waterloo train station this morning, which now seems like a lifetime away, I have been on pure autopilot. It's like I'm living in someone else's body, watching everything through someone else's eyes. I'm going through the motions, coasting along, taking it all in, trying to understand it all, but underneath, there is no emotion. Okay, occasionally, there is a twinge of pure and utter fear, but by and large, I seem to be managing to hold it together. For now, I think I am in control. But as soon as the receptionist returns with some clothes, I'm going straight home to Sarah. She will be able to tell me what to do, and what is happening to me.

And then I think of Jane. I'm meant to be having dinner with her tomorrow night. What will she think of all this?

I hear voices. Laughing. Footsteps thundering up the stairs.

Shit. The office staff are coming back from lunch.

I pull myself as close to my desk as possible, making sure my legs are tucked under the top and no one can see my cheap, tartan, boxer shorts.

Just in time. The people see me through the large glass window of my office and start singing, en masse.

"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow..." Before I can stop them, they're pouring into my office and standing in front of my desk. "...a jolly good felllllloooooooowwwwww, and so say all of us. Hoorrrrraaaaaayyyyyy!"

Who are these nutters?

"James", one of the prettiest girls shouts, coming around to pat me on the shoulder,

"Well done! You pulled it off. Fantastic."

"Yes, and what happened to Richard then?" a spotty young man with spiky hair and a pink shirt asks from the back. "Is it true the Big Dick got nicked and banged up for being drunk and disorderly?"

I think for a minute. Then I get it.

"You mean Richard?...Yes, unfortunately, I'm afraid it is." I reply, incredibly conscious that I am sitting in my boxers, and that the girl beside me may be able to see them.

I want these people out of my office, and now.

"...Anyway, I can see you have all had a few beers, and that this deal is important to you all..." I start, not knowing exactly what I should say to these people. Strangers. I'm almost naked in front of them, and I hardly know them.

"A few?" Someone giggles, "We only came back because they ran out of alcohol in the pub."

"Well, why don't you all take the rest of the day off, I'm sure Richard won't mind. He can hardly complain now can he?"

There is another cheer, and they all start to sing again.

"But if I were you, I'd go now, whilst the going is good. If he gets let out of the police station and comes back here, well, it won't be a pretty sight, will it?"

The singing doesn't subside, but they all turn to go. One of the girls at the front, her eyes quite red and swaying slightly, sits on the edge of my desk, and leans across to me.

"You know, James, this means that you'll probably be made a partner now won't you?. Congratulations."

She drunkenly leans across to shake my hand, but at that moment, her bottom nudges my grandmother's paperweight and it rolls towards the edge of the table.

I see it going and I jump up and dive across my desk, managing to catch it just in time, just as it reaches the edge.

Suddenly there is silence, and the singing stops. The girl on my desk looks at me in disbelief, and then spontaneously bursts into laughter. The rest join in.

It's then that I realise that I'm standing up and in full view of everyone, practically exposing myself to a room full of drunken advertising executives who have nothing better to do than stare at me and laugh their heads off.

It's at moments like these that your mother's advice to always wear your best underwear, just in case you get hit by a bus, doesn't seem so daft after all. If only I'd paid more attention, I would have worn Ralph Lauren or Polo Sport, instead of Marks 'n Sparks.

Suddenly the receptionist appears, pushing her way through the team. A new pair of trousers and shirt in one hand. A camera in the other.

Big white flash.

Embarrassing photo duly taken. The moment is captured forever, and destined to become a picture on Big Dick's wall, a memento of the day we won the Scotia Telecom deal, and a source of constant and unending office mirth. The day I was caught with my trousers down. Funny ha ha.
Chapter 8

Trafalgar Square 4 pm

I walk out of the office clutching a bundle of British euros, one hundred to be exact, all new in blues and greens, bearing the Queen's head on one side, and the map of Europe on the reverse. Courtesy of the receptionist, my new best friend, who as it turns out, is better known as Alice.

Euros. So when did Britain lose the pound?

So many changes. So many questions.

I have to get home now. I have to see Sarah, I have to hold her in my arms, close my eyes and let her kiss me on my eyelids. Like she used to do when we first met. She will make me feel good again. She will make it all go away, and when we fall asleep together, when we wake up in the morning, it will all be back to normal. I know it will.

After all, none of this can be true. Can it?

I decide to walk to Waterloo. I can't quite face the underground yet. Something happened there this morning, something that caused all of this.

Just the mere thought of travelling on the tube again brings back the memories of this morning, and the fear surges, and rushes through me. I manage to bottle it all up. To control it. But only just.

No, I'll walk.

I head down Monmouth Street, then towards Leicester Square, and down to Trafalgar Square. Again, I'm struck by just how little traffic there is. Tall thin, old fashioned Routemaster red buses stream past me, unimpeded, frequent, and full. Another difference. And as I watch them pass me by, it strikes me how few modern red buses there are on the streets today.

At Trafalgar Square I stand underneath Nelson's Column and watch little children squealing with pleasure as they feed the pigeons from their hands. A Japanese mother stops me and asks me to take a picture of her and her husband and their two little girls surrounded by the birds. I smile. The first time I've smiled today. I remember the first time I came into London with my parents, and I remember just how exciting I found it all. I loved the pigeons. I was always against Ken Livingstone's idea to get rid of them from the Square, and now they're back, I'm glad.

It takes me five minutes to walk down to Embankment and when I get to the Thames I climb the steps up to the Jubilee Bridge crossing to the south side of the river. I cross to the middle and stop to look out across the skyline of London.

I love this view. It's better than the Seine in Paris, or the Vltava in Prague, or the Danube in Budapest. This river beats them all.

But then I spoil it all. I look past St Paul's Cathedral into the distance and immediately spot two big mistakes in my reality. My heart skips a few beats, and I grip the rails in front of me, white showing across my knuckles.

Since I left Trafalgar Square I hadn't noticed any other changes to the streets. Everything seemed normal. For a while I was even hoping that things were back to usual, hoping that maybe I was beginning to wake up from the dream. When I got to the river, the Jubilee Bridge was there, just as it should be, as was the London Eye. Majestic as ever.

But when I open my eyes again and look towards where Canary Wharf should stand, just visible in the distance, I see nothing. No tall buildings. No modern skyscrapers. None. Not a single one.

And then I spot mistake number two. The new Swiss Re tower is not there either, its' absence conspicuous by the patch of blue sky that fills the space where the cigar shaped tower should be.

I close my eyes again and pray. A silent prayer. Please God, make it all go away. Make this dream end.

But when I open my eyes again, the dream is still running. I look to my right and there is no sign of London's latest and greatest skyscraper: the Shard does not exist either.

Feeling a little nauseous, I turn and walk to Waterloo. I can feel myself starting to unravel. At most I can probably hold it all together for an another hour. But after that, I think it's going to be too much. I need to see Sarah. Soon. Only she can give me the strength I need to make sense of all of this.

I walk to the end of the bridge, down the steps, past the Queen Elizabeth Concert hall, and the statue of Nelson Mandela, down underneath the railway bridge taking trains across the river, and eventually into the arrivals hall at Waterloo.

A shiver runs down my spine as I remember throwing up outside the station earlier this morning. It seems such a long time ago now.

I look at the overhead signs announcing the arrivals and departures, but this time as I look more closely, I notice that the signs themselves seem different in size and design to those being used the last time I was in the station, which would have been only last night. They are hanging in rows, individual plasma screens suspended from special roof supports, announcing the latest trains scheduled to arrive or depart from each platform. They appear to be hanging in the same place as yesterday, but the plasma screens look different, as if they were from different manufacturers. And they look slightly more advanced. Anyway, they seem different. Just another one of the growing list of differences that I have noticed today.

The next train to Surbiton is in two minutes from Platform One. I run quickly, and I make it just as the doors are closing.

It's a brand new train. I haven't been on one like this before. It must be one of the much-heralded new rolling stock that South West Trains had ordered for the Olympics but was delivered over budget and too late. It's swish, comfortable, and as I find out, incredibly punctual. The train leaves at 4.28pm exactly. On the dot. Just like in Germany.

Another change. Another error in my reality. Trains are never this punctual.

As the train pulls out of the station, I close my eyes, scared to keep them open just in case I spot more and more mistakes in the scenery around me. Things that are wrong. Things that shouldn't be there, or things that are missing.

I keep my eyes shut for the rest of the journey, dozing a little between stations, until after what can only have been about twelve minutes, we arrive at Surbiton train station. I am almost home.

The electronic doors swoosh open in front of me, and I alight onto the platform. The station looks exactly the same as when I left it in the morning, and I begin to pray that it IS exactly the same.

I walk out of the back of the station, pulling the key to my Ford Mondeo out of my pocket. My trusty reliable Mondeo. I walk to the back of the car park to the corner where I have parked my car every day for the past three years.

I am tired. Very tired. I can't wait to sit down, close the door and switch on my CD player. And relax.

I look up as I get closer, but can't see the last few cars in the corner, because of a large black Four-by-Four parked in front of them. My pace hastens slightly. I'm almost at the Four-by-Four now,...almost...

I stop dead. My parking space is empty. My Ford Mondeo is gone. Nowhere to be seen.

I stand in the space where by rights my car should be, remembering in my mind how I locked and checked the doors this morning, before I caught the train into London. I can distinctly remember parking it here. It's only then that I look at the key in the palm of my hand and realise that it is not the key to a Ford Mondeo. It's not the key to my car. At the least, not the one that I drove to the station this morning.

My hand begins to shake again, just like it did at Canary Wharf. Except this time it doesn't stop when my other hand grabs it and tries to reassure it. No, this time, both hands are shaking, And my legs soon join in.

I look around me. My car is nowhere to be seen, and even when I am finished walking around the whole car park, I am still not able to find it.

Sweating and feeling a little faint, I walk back to the steps leading up and over the railway line, and sit down. I need to calm down. _'Hold it together man. Hold on._ ' I whisper to myself. _'You're almost home. Everything will be all right soon._ '

As I sit on the steps, my head in my hands, a terrifying thought hits me.

What happens, if when I get home, Sarah isn't there either?

Shaking my head, refusing to ponder this absurd idea further, and desperate to prove it wrong, I jump to my feet and hurry up the steps and over the railway tracks to the front of the station to find a taxi.

As I do, I recognise my first face. The flower seller who stands in the concrete hallway above the platforms. He has been there every day for as long as I can remember. I see him every day when I come home from work and walk to the car park. I've never actually said hello to him before, but when I recognise his face, I can't help but feel good. Perhaps things are going to be okay after all. From here on, things are going to be normal again...

I stop and talk to him for a few moments, and eventually buy the biggest bunch of flowers he has. I can't wait to surprise Sarah. It's been ages since I bought her some, in fact the last flowers I bought were for Jane. Jane...what am I going to tell her tomorrow night?

For the first time today, I feel the sexual urge which I normally have whenever I think of Jane, and it takes an effort to block her out of my mind. My main priority for now is to get home, and find Sarah. My wife. I curse myself for thinking of Jane. _What am I thinking of_ _?_ Sex should be the last thing on my mind. Right now, what I need more than anything else in the entire world, is to look at my wife, and for her to tell me that I am not mad, and that everything is going to be okay. And only she can do that.

Walking out I find the normal queue of taxis lining up for business. Since it's early, there are only another two people waiting, and it's only a few minutes before my taxi lines up in front of me.

"Hinchley Wood, Hillside Avenue please."

The driver whisks me out of the station and down Victoria Road. I don't look out the window as we drive down Surbiton's high street, keeping my eyes on the flowers. I have to think quickly. What am I going to say to Sarah? How do I explain that I'm home early?

What do I tell her about why I'm wearing a different set of clothes?

I can't pretend that everything is okay. How can I? My job is gone, Canary Wharf is gone, a sizeable portion of London is gone, and replaced by God knows what...and when I left this morning I was a Product Manager in a telecomms company who spent all of his time wondering what it would be like to be doing something else...Well, now I'm coming home a Senior Advertising Executive in a top London firm, and this morning I just won a deal worth ten million euros.

I look out of the window just as we turn into my street. Truth is, as soon as I get through the doors, as soon as she comes up to kiss me hello, as she does every night when I get home from work,... I think I'm just going to break down in tears. There'll be no holding back. No lies. It'll all just come out. The whole ridiculous, unbelievable truth.

The taxi pulls up in front of my house and I lean forward and pay the meter. Six euros. How much is that in real money?

Getting out of the cab, I press the large bouquet of flowers against my chest, then open the gate and walk up the path. I pull out my keys and put the key in the lock, just noticing for the first time that the flowers in the front garden are much more colourful than normal. If fact, they look much better than they ever have.

The key doesn't turn.

I try it again. It sticks in the lock.

I force it a little, pull it out, and then push it back in.

Suddenly the front door opens in front of me, and I am pulled off balance, falling forward and slightly inwards into the house. A woman inside steps back and screams. Raising my hand quickly I manage to catch myself in the doorway before I fall on top of her. I look up and stare at the woman in front of me.

The woman screams again and tries to push me out and close the door. I push my foot forward through the doorway, a stupid thing to do, and I curse as the pain surges through my ankle and up my leg.

"Get out! Leave me alone....I'll call the police..." she threatens from the other side of the door.

I pull my foot out and the door slams shut. Shaking, and just as scared as the woman, I stand with my nose a few inches in front of the green door, staring at the wood only centimetres from my face.

I try to control my breathing. It's coming in short bursts, and my heart is pounding. Slowly, I step backwards and walk back towards the gate, and then out onto the road.

The woman is at the window, pulling the curtains open slightly, and I see a phone in her hand. What is she doing in my home? I look up and down the street. Am I at the wrong house? No, this is it. Definitely. _No. 33._ No mistakes. This is the house where I have lived for the past ten years. This is the house where both of my children were conceived, and where I carried Sarah across the threshold. This is _my_ home.

I gesture to the woman, waving and pleading with my eyes for her to come to the door. The curtain closes, and I walk back up the path. I ring the bell. I ring the doorbell of my own home. Why?

The door opens, and the woman appears in front of me again. She looks scared.

"Why are you trying to get in? I'm warning you, I have called the police. They're already on the way..."

"I am sorry. I am looking for someone... I have the wrong key...May I ask who lives here?"

"I do. We do...my husband and I. He'll be back from work soon. I called him too...please leave me alone..." she begs.

"It's okay, I promise", I say, "I have no intention of hurting you...I'm just looking for someone...a Mrs Quinn? Wife of James Quinn?"

"Sorry, I don't know her. Never heard of her..."

I step back from the doorway, and look up and down the street again. I am very confused. Very scared. What is happening here? When I turn around again, there are tears in my eyes, and I cannot stop them from streaming down my cheeks.

The look on the woman's face changes and the sternness leaves, her features immediately softening, blue eyes now questioning me from behind the face of a fifty year old lady.

"Are you okay? What is the matter?...Are you lost?"

"Yes." I reply. "I am very lost...You see, I was mugged this morning, and I received a bad blow to my head... I have forgotten everything...including where I live." The tears are still pouring from my eyes.

The woman is silent. As I try to stem my sudden outpouring of emotion, wiping my cheeks and swallowing hard, I look deeply into her eyes. I can see her struggling with a decision. And then I see her make up her mind.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asks kindly.

I hesitate. Looking past her at the interior of my house, I see now that there is floral wallpaper, and a bright red carpet. My house, the house I left this morning, has pine floors, and white walls. Two years ago it took me a month to strip the floors, to sandpaper and varnish them, and a week to give the walls two coats of paint.

"No thank you." I hear myself replying. I don't think I could cope with walking inside and being surrounded and encaged by the dream. I would prefer to stand outside in the sunlight. "But thank you for offering. It's very kind of you. I'm sorry for scaring you a minute ago. I was probably just as scared as you were."

We both laugh. I don't know why I do. I have nothing to laugh about.

"May I ask your name, and how long you have been living here?" I say nervously. Scared of the reply.

"Certainly. I'm Mrs Henderson. Jenny Henderson, and my husband is Paul. We've lived here for eight years now."

"Do you know who lived here before you?" I ask her.

"It was a young family. A Canadian couple, I think. They left and went back to Canada. Does that help you at all?" she asks, a touch of real concern in her voice.

"A little. Thanks." I reply, handing her the bouquet of flowers. "Thank you very much, Mrs Henderson."

I turn and walk away. I don't look back. I don't live at No. 33 anymore. And from what Mrs Henderson just said, it seems that I never have.
Chapter 9

The Angel, Thames Ditton

It's a four minute car ride to the Angel Pub on the edge of Giggs Hill Green in Thames Ditton. My favourite pub, my local, where I have spent many an evening sitting with Sarah. It's the place we go to be together to relax on evenings when the kids are at friends, and we can't be bothered going out and making a big night of it.

It took me half an hour to walk here after discovering that Mrs Henderson was living in my house. I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

After I left my house, I cried for ten minutes, ignoring the strange looks from people as I passed them in the street. The tears only dried up when an old lady stopped me, and asked if there was anything wrong. What could I tell her?

I think I have moved beyond the panic stage now. I don't feel anything anymore. What else can happen to me? If someone were to stub a cigarette out on the back of my hand, I would probably just look them in the eyes as they did it, without flinching.

Yet, although I don't feel any pain, I have an overwhelming feeling of longing. I long for my wife, Sarah.

Like Canary Wharf, my job, the Swiss Re tower, and a thousand other things, I have now also lost my wife. The only reason I am not stepping out in front of a passing car to end it all, is because I know my wife has not disappeared completely. I know she is out there somewhere. I know she called me at the office this afternoon and left me a message, and I know that I am meant to call her back.

The only problem is, I don't know where to find her, or how. And I can't call her, because her number doesn't exist, and our home, where we lived for ten years, is no longer our home, and is inhabited by someone I have never ever seen before.

The Angel is an island of calm and reassurance. It looks exactly the same as when I last saw it two days ago, and probably exactly the same as it did twenty years ago. Nothing has changed. The low ceilings with dark, wooden beams and the dingy lighting giving it a genuine oldie-world feeling, orange walls that have faded into a light brown with a continual coating of nicotine and wood smoke from the fire, the dank, musty smell from the old carpet and the pewter jars and copper pots hanging above the open fireplace, where a continuous log fire has burned for the past two hundred years. The only thing that changes is the bar-staff, who seem to come and go every couple of months.

How can I find my wife?

I need to talk to someone. I need help. But who can I talk to? Who else can I tell this whole stupid, unbelievable story to, who won't laugh at me?

Of course. _My mum._

I get some change from the bar, some strange looking shiny silver and bronze euros, and close the door of the old-fashioned telephone box in the back of the pub. I dial the number, praying that my mum will pick up. Suddenly a voice, a voice belonging to someone I have known longer than any other human being in my life. A voice that I have heard from before I was born, when she carried me in her womb and sang to me as we walked around the house, her heavy with child, and me desperate to get out into the world.

"Mum." the tears flood down my cheeks again. I don't even try to stop them.

" _Jamie_? Is that you son?" my mum, sixty years old, my rock, my salvation.

"Yes..."

"Where are you Jamie?" She interrupts me. "The party's already started. You're late. Don't tell me you're working late again. Not tonight. Not tonight of all nights. _Jamie_...please... make an effort...the girls are already here,... _oh, it's the door bell_...When will you be here? You are still coming, aren't you?"

A party? My little girls are there? Sarah?

"Yes...I'll be there in half an hour..."

"See you Jamie...but make it quick...you have to get here before ten past six...Don't be a second later...."

Click. The line is dead.

I leave my pint of beer, half finished, by the phone, and walk straight out the back door. My heart is beating fast again, and adrenaline shoots through my body. Walking faster and faster, I eventually break into a run, hope surges afresh, and a picture of Sarah and the two girls fills my mind. It's been less than ten hours since I saw them last, but it seems like a lifetime ago.

It takes me twenty minutes to run to Kingston, through the pedestrian precinct, between the Bentall Centre and John Lewis and then around and down underneath the railway tracks.

I run fast, the crisp autumn air cooling my forehead, but by the time I get to the river and turn right into the river road running from the Thames to the main Richmond road, I am exhausted and soaked through with sweat.

I slow down as I approach my mother's house, and I stop across the street from it, bending over and resting on my knees, catching my breath. Still bent over, I look up at the house where I was born and where I grew up.

I smile. The house looks the same as I've always known it. The green windows and paintwork, the large rose bushes in the front garden. The path running down the sides of the detached house on either side. My parents weren't exactly the greatest DIY experts in the world. The house has been kept in good condition, but it is probably the same now as it was fifteen years ago. Nothing has changed since we all left home.

I hear music and the sound of voices coming from the front room, and I notice now that the road is full of cars. A party? Why? My mother hasn't felt like having a party in years. Not since....

The door opens and my mum steps out.

" _Jamie_ , Come on, Come on...There isn't much time." she cries, waving at me to hurry.

As I cross the road towards her, the smile on her face disappears. She looks me up and down, at the strange clothes I am wearing,...not exactly my normal choice.

" _Jamie_ , oh _Jamie_ , you could have made an effort. And you're soaked through...You go right up stairs to the bathroom, my boy, and I'll bring you in some of your dad's clothes to wear."

I open my mouth to argue, but then think better of it. For the first time in years, it's just nice to be treated like a little boy again. She steps aside as I walk up the garden path, ushering me indoors. I stop in the doorway, and look at her.

"It's good to see you mum. It really is."

"Get yourself inside lad. I'll run you a quick hot bath."

A kiss on the cheek, then I'm running up the stairs to the bathroom, just as if I were a kid covered in mud, who'd just come back from playing football in the park.

\--------------------

The bathroom is like I have always known it. It's never changed since my first memory of it, which is probably when I was about six years old. The green tiles on the wall, the green bath and basin, the plastic tray across the middle of the bath for the soaps and nail brush, and a large, squashy brown sponge, a souvenir of a Greek holiday long ago. And the smell.

My mother's bathroom has this scent, this ever present smell. Perhaps it's the soap, or something in the toilet, or maybe it's perfume. It smells of lemongrass, or the wind or the sea. Something which I can never quite place, but which is incredibly refreshing and reassuring.

I lie back in the bath, and close my eyes. The steam from the warm bath rises around me, the mirror mists over, and I relax.

I know this place. It is my home. Where I was brought up, where I learned to live, where I did my home work every night, and where I lived with my mum and my dad. For a moment, I am where I belong. Surrounded by the world as I know it. My life as it was, and is, and should be. Everything is going to be fine.

There is a loud bang on the door, and the sound of children's voices, two little girls squealing at each other at the top of the stairs. I open my eyes, and I hear my mother outside the door, speaking sternly to the children, and telling them to go back downstairs. I start to think of Nicole and Keira, and can't wait to hug them. Are they really only just downstairs?

My mother's voice.

"James, I've brought you a cup of tea and I've put some of your father's clothes on your bed. Please hurry up. The guest of honour will be here in fifteen minutes."

She opens the door slightly and slides the tea just inside. I climb out of the bath, leaving the security of the warm water behind. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I pick up the tea, and sip it, whilst I wipe the mirror clear of condensation.

A face stares back at me from the behind the mist, and I drop the cup on the floor, hot tea splashing over my foot. I jump backwards and swear loudly, the edge of the bath catching the back of my knees, and tipping me back over into the water again, towel and all.

_Splash_.

Footsteps.

"Are you okay James? What's happened?"

My mother again.

Still sitting in the water, I reply. "Fine. I'm sorry, I just dropped the cup."

"Oh..., are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes," I reply. Lying.

Footsteps going downstairs.

I climb back out of the bath, and prepare myself for meeting the stranger in the mirror. I approach cautiously, heart racing, knees trembling, either from the fall, or from the shock of meeting the new me, I don't really know.

The man is thinner than I am. His hair is dark and short at the sides, with blonde highlights on top, like the photo that I found in my travelcard earlier this morning. Stepping closer to the mirror I study the person who I guess is meant to be me. There are wrinkles around my eyes where I cannot remember them before, but overall I still manage to look more healthy than normal. There are no big black bags under my eyes, my hairline has not receded as much....at least, in comparison with where it was this morning after my shower.

It's not a bad me. In fact, the man I am introducing myself to is perhaps a bit more like the image of the man I have always wanted to be, but being self conscious I have always been too scared to try anything different. Too scared to cut my hair shorter at the sides. Too scared to go for the subtle blonde highlights.

My nose almost touches the man in the mirror, and as I breathe out, the mirror steams up again, and the mystery man disappears. I quickly wipe it clean, and the man is back.

Actually, truth be told, he is better looking than I am. More style. Probably more self-confident. In fact, I wouldn't mind looking like him at all. Which is good, because I have a feeling that he will probably be following me around for a while. Either until I can figure this all out, or until the doctors eventually catch up with me, and some sort of enforced medication takes hold.

The doorbell goes downstairs, and I am quickly brought back to my new reality, if that is what it is. I unfasten the wet towel, and hang it on the electric towel rail, one of my mother's few modern appliances, if fifteen years old can be called modern. I reach up and pull down a fresh towel, drying myself quickly and wrapping it around my waist.

Stepping out of bathroom I shoot across the landing and into the front bedroom, my bedroom, the room where I grew up, studied, fought through puberty and crowned my youth by making love to Annabel Crawford one Tuesday morning in 6th Form, the prettiest girl in the school.

I sit down on the edge of my bed, and look up at the Airfix aeroplanes hanging from the roof on thin see-through fishing coil. I made them all one summer, while I listened to Pink Floyd and fought the onset of acne. A Spitfire, a Hurricane, and a camouflaged German Stuka Dive Bomber. Dusty, dirty, twenty years on, they still keep the skies of my old bedroom free from any modern invaders.

I look at the curious collection of posters on the wall. Bon Jovi, Duran Duran, Madonna and the crowning glory on the back of my bedroom door, a large picture of Neil Armstrong on the moon, which I swapped for two Mars Bars with my friend's big brother.

Standing there, staring at my youth, I forget about everything. I forget about the disappearing skyscrapers, the ten million euros advertising deal I've just won, about losing my job, my house and my wife, and once again I am young, loved, and secure.

The door to the bedroom suddenly swings open, and two young screaming girls burst in. They run past me and around the edge of the bed, and climb onto the mattress, where they proceed to jump up and down, each trying to scream louder than the other.

I watch them in amazement. Neither seems the slightest bit interested in the fact that a strange, half naked man is sitting in the bedroom, clothed only in a towel. It's then that I notice that they are jumping up and down on my father's clothes, the ones that my mother has just laid out for me.

Stressed, I shout at the kids, and grab one by the arms and legs, pulling her gently but firmly off the bed and depositing her on the floor, shouting at her to be quiet, perhaps just a little too loudly. She looks up, staring at me in silence, then quickly bursts into tears. The other one, younger and most probably her sister, takes only microseconds to burst into tears too, and suddenly she is scrambling off the bed and following her elder sister out of the door and down the stairs, both howling like banshees.

Little monsters. Where are their parents? No respect for adults, and where on earth did they learn to behave like that? Thank God that Sarah and I have both been blessed with two beautiful, good natured little girls. I can't wait to see them.

Closing the bedroom door again, I stand up and let the towel drop to the floor. I pick up my father's blue denim shirt and brown corduroy trousers. Underneath is a pair of socks and a pair of fresh blue cotton Y-fronts. Putting the trousers down I lift one leg and with my back to the door, I bend down a little bit and lift one leg up, managing to put my foot through one side of the pants.

Magically, a hand appears from nowhere, coiling itself around my front and down into my crotch, grasping my penis in its palm and holding on tightly. The bedroom door closes. Another hand on my shoulder, and hot breath on the side of my face. I stand up straight, smiling, but not turning around.

Sarah?

Familiar words whispered in my ear.

"Hello darling. Why are you hiding from me?"

A voice which is not Sarah's...Familiar words, but spoken by a voice that does not belong to my wife.

I turn with a shock, stepping away quickly. As I do, my feet trip on the insides of the pants, and I stumble, losing my balance and falling backwards against the wall, my penis stretching quickly inside her clenched palm, and then mercifully whipping itself free.

As I go down, my skull cracks hard against the plaster, a resounding thud which resonates down through my head.

"Ouch!" I scream momentarily, but almost as quickly forget it, as I look up at the sight of Jane kneeling down towards me.

Jane! ?

I quickly control my shout, and it becomes a whisper, my hand rubbing the back of my head.

"Jane...," I try to speak, but am prevented from doing so, first by a flood of kisses, and then a woman falling on top of me, laughing uncontrollably.

" Did I give you a fright?...Oh, James, I'm sorry, but I can't help it..." She blurts out in between giggles, "You look so funny...all tangled up...so vulnerable..."

And then she's kissing me again. Smothering me with affection, her hand wandering downwards, starting once more where it just left off.

"Jane...what are you doing here? What if...?"

"What if what? What if your mother walks in...?" she laughs...

And just then, the door opens and she does.

"What's that banging?" my mum asks, as she comes into the room. "Are you all right?"

For a second she stares at us both, lying on the floor, her face blank. My mind races. Oh my God. To be caught in bed with your lover by your wife is one thing, but to be caught with your pants down, red-handed, by your MOTHER, is another thing completely.

"Mum...I can explain..." I shout, jumping to my feet, and quickly pulling up my pants and snatching the trousers from the bed.

"Don't bother, son. Don't bother. I thought I'd seen it all. But this takes the biscuit!"

As I struggle with the trouser legs, and whipping up the zip, my mother turns to the door.

"Mind you, what you young folks get up to in private is none of my affair."

"But it's not an affair mum. Honest. This is the first time..." I cry out in my defence.

She stops in the doorway, and turns back towards me.

Laughing. Howls of laughter.

"Listen son, I was young once too, and your Dad and I got up to...well, how do you think you came about?" Her face alight with the memory. "Anyway, maybe I'm just jealous, " she laughs again.

"Jealous?" I stare at her. I look back across at Jane, still sitting on the floor. Still laughing too. "What on earth have you got to be jealous about?"

"That, after so many years you're still so in love with each other and still fooling around. You're lucky son, not everyone has that."

And with that she closes the door and walks away.

I turn and face Jane. I am speechless. Thoughts race through my head. Not only has my mum gone crazy, but it will only be a matter of seconds before Sarah will be racing up the stairs, and my marriage will disappear just like my job, my house and almost every other part of my life.

Quick,... I have to get Jane out of the room. Suddenly the bedroom door opens again, and the two screaming children return, rushing past me on either side, and jumping on Jane, joining her on the heap on the floor.

"Mummy. Mummy." They both scream. "Did Daddy shout at you too? Was he nasty to you as well?"

Jane looks up at me, her big, bright, beautiful eyes, smiling at me.

"No. Daddy and I were just playing...It's okay."

And then it dawns on me.

Sarah won't be rushing up the stairs. And my marriage won't be coming to an end after all.

For the simple reason, that it seems I'm no longer married to Sarah.

As far as I can tell, I'm now married to Jane.
Chapter 10

The Party

This new part of my reality strikes me dumb. I sit down on the side of the bed, and then lie down on my back, facing the ceiling.

The Spitfire chases the Stuka Dive Bomber, and my head begins to throb.

"James, are you ok? Sorry I'm laughing, but you should have seen yourself. It was hilarious."

The two girls jump up on the side of the bed, and one rolls onto my stomach.

"Daddy, daddy, are you still cross with us?" the older girl screams, her words almost immediately echoed by the smaller girl, albeit in a slightly more childish, higher pitch. "Addy, Addy, are you sill cos with us?"

With my hand still cradling the back of my cranium I look down at them, both now preparing to do somersaults on my midriff.

"Girls, leave daddy and mummy alone for a moment. We have to get Daddy dressed for the party. Go down to Nana and we'll be down soon." Jane shoos the two girls out, and kneels down beside me on the mattress. She lifts up my head, and bends forward to look at my scalp, separating the hair away from the area of the bang, and inspecting it closely.

"Ouch! It's bleeding. We'd better wash it and put a plaster on that. Are you alright?" she says, genuine concern now showing in her voice.

"I feel a little sick," I say. Actually, physically I feel fine. Mentally though, it feels as if someone has just removed my brain through my nose. And my heart is beating so fast that I think it is most probably going to burst at any second, or just stop.

Then all of a sudden, thoughts start to pour into my mind. A flood, too many at once to make any sense of, and I struggle to control them. By now I am sweating, and I genuinely do want to vomit.

Jane is bending over me, looking into my eyes, I think probably checking to see if my pupils are dilated, or maybe just to see if I am still alive.

I need Sarah. Where is Sarah. Where is my wife?

"Come on, let's get you into the bathroom. I hope you don't have concussion. We'll put some cold water on your neck and head, and get you dressed. If you feel ill at all, we'll get you off to the doctors. But the guest of honour should be arriving in a few minutes, so let's welcome him first and see how you feel then? Okay, honey?"

Honey?

She kisses me on the forehead, and then once, long and slow on the mouth. Another sudden flurry of thoughts. And feelings. Sarah? Jane? Sarah? Jane?

The kiss, in spite of the bad timing, and incredibly poor surroundings and circumstances, is, I must admit, rather nice. At the same time I am conscious of the weight of her large breasts on my chest. It occurs to me then, just how mixed up I am. One second, I am missing my wife and am dumb with a mixture of worry and fear, and the next second, my penis has taken control of my whole body, and a sexual impulse is dominating all normal, realistic, mental processes. Confusion wracks me, and I close my eyes.

Jane stands up and pulls my hands upwards. Before I know it she has led me into the bathroom, washed me, and helped me to put on my clothes.

_Ouch._ She puts TCP on my cut scalp, and then applies a plaster. She looks me in the face once more, checks my eyes for any more signs of my pupils exploding, and then kisses me again.

"Sorry, honey. I didn't mean for you to fall over and smack your head. But I think you'll live..." I utter something incoherent back, but it doesn't matter, as Jane has turned away and is already leading me down the stairs. At the bottom, we turn and go straight into the kitchen. The two monsters are sitting at the table, scoffing their little round faces with crisps and peanuts, and don't take any notice as we walk in.

The door to the dining room opens and the sound of lots of people laughing and joking bursts through. My mother pops her head round the side of the cooker, switching off the light on the wall.

"He's parking the car. Quick, come on in. Girls, you too."

Who is parking his car? What is this party for?

I walk into the dining room, and immediately can't help but notice that the wall between the dining room and the front room has disappeared. What used to be two separate rooms, only two days ago when I last stopped by to drop off my mother's shopping, has now become one large comfortable, tasteful open living area, straight out of the TV property program ' _Location, Location, Location_.' And in the centre is a large banner, announcing " _Happy Retirement!_ "

To whom?

The room is full of people and the front curtains are drawn closed. On the other side, I notice my uncle, and some distant cousins who I never really knew, their wives and husbands in tow, but before I recognise the faces of the other people, someone switches off the lights. Suddenly we are engulfed in darkness.

Someone else goes " _Shuuuuuush_!" very loudly, and everyone stops speaking. All eyes are now on the door to the hallway. Jane steps up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, her chin on my shoulder, and her two little monsters... _my two little_ _monsters_ ?...stand beside me, pulling on my trouser legs.

We all hear the sound of the front door opening, and a few seconds later, the bang as it is shut firmly from within.

A ripple of excitement runs around the room, and all the people, some more of whom I have now recognised as a relatives whom I haven't seen in years, prepare to cheer and pull their party poppers. I join in, my attention now focussing as much as anyone else's on the handle of the door leading to the hallway.

Who is the mystery guest going to be? It can't be anyone I know...

The door handle turns, the door opens, and a hand reaches inside and searches for the light switch on the wall.

A flash of light. The sound of shouting, the sound of cheering. Poppers going bang all around. Everyone goes wild. The light is bright. Too bright. I blink to adjust my eyes. I see the person standing in the doorway, his jaw dropping and the surprise registering in his eyes. Stunned, he looks around the room for a moment or two before it dawns on him just what is going on. A second or two which rips open my heart, and impales me deeper and faster and more sharply than any spear or blade could ever do. A second or two, which tips me over the edge and into the darkness.

I see but I do not believe.

I hear his voice, laughing, but I do not dare to believe that it is him, and when he turns and sees me across the room and then winks in my direction, my knees give way and I crash to the ground.

But as I close my eyes and my mind shuts down, I realise that it is him. There is no mistake.

It is my father.

Who died of a heart attack five years ago.

But who now lives once again.
Chapter 11

Kingston Hospital

I blink a few times, the bright light shining in my eyes startles me, and I wake up rudely.

I am in a sterile and uninviting hospital room, a doctor standing above me, waving a small pencil torch back and forth into my left eye.

The doctor smiles.

"Welcome back, Mr Quinn. How are you feeling?" he asks.

"I don't know yet." I reply. "It depends on what the matter with me is." (I'm still a hypochondriac then.)

"You're in hospital..."

"I can see that...which one? How did I get here?"

"You're in Kingston Hospital. Your wife brought you in earlier this evening. Do you want to see her?"

_Sarah._ My heart skips a beat at the mention of her name. It seems like years since I saw her last.

"Yes," I reply quickly. "But can I ask you some questions first?"

"Sure", he says, sitting down on the side of my bed, resting his hands on his knees and looking simultaneously concerned, friendly and paternal, just like a doctor in a hospital drama on TV. Except this is real.

"What is the matter with me? And please tell me the truth. A lot of strange stuff has been happening to me recently, and I need to know why."

"Well, we've given you a complete going over, checked everything there is to check, and the only thing we can find wrong with you is that it looks as if you might be suffering from a little concussion. There's nothing else. You suffered a small bump on your head, and your blood pressure was perhaps a little too high. But the concussion, if there was one, seems to have gone now and we have brought your blood pressure down. We would like to keep you in for observation overnight, but if everything stays the same, there's no reason not to let you go home in the morning."

Concussion. I understand it all now. Everything that has happened today has just been one big dream. I've been lying in this hospital bed all the time, whilst my subconscious has been working overtime creating a whole new world for me to live in.

But now it's over. In a few minutes I'll be with Sarah, and I will be going home to hug Keira and Nicole. Relief floods through me, and I relax back onto the big white fluffy pillow.

"Thanks Doctor. I suppose that could explain it all...Can I see my wife now please?"

The doctor turns and walks out. I turn and look out of the window. Outside it's dark, and I can just see the lights on the top of the Bentall Centre in Kingston, not too far away. Then I hear footsteps and the door opens again.

Sarah...

Only, as I turn to greet my wife, Jane walks in.

There is a moment of pure confusion. My mind races. Am I back in the dream, or is everything back to normal, but Jane has come to visit me? If so, I have to get rid of her quick, before Sarah comes in.

"Jane..."

"James. Bloody hell, you gave us all a scare. The girls haven't stopped crying. And I've been so worried..."

She comes across to my bed, and wraps her arms around me, kissing me passionately. There are tears pouring down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, James, this is all my fault...I didn't realise that you'd hurt yourself so badly."

Not knowing how to respond I wrap my arm around her head, and hold her close to me. I hold her there for a long time and as she sobs against my chest, I stare blankly into space behind her. My head races. I am still in the dream. I haven't woken up yet.

Or have I?

A bizarre and extremely frightening thought occurs to me. It comes at me from out of nowhere, and it refuses to leave, burrowing itself deep inside my consciousness and going round and round in circles, until suddenly it doesn't seem so daft after all.

What if this is not a dream? What if this is all real? I mean, everything I can touch, and feel and see _is_ real. At least it seems to be... What if my memories of Sarah and Keira and Nicole, and Kitte-Kat, what if _that_ is the dream, and _this_ is the reality? And what if the reason I cannot remember anything about my new life, I mean, this real life, is because I _do_ have concussion and I have lost my memory? Perhaps there is a perfectly rational explanation for all of this?

What is it that they say...I think they call it _Occam's Razor_?...basically it goes, 'that which at first sight seems to be the obvious answer, generally turns out _to be_ the answer'. So, if that is the case Jane and her two little monsters, and the rest of this world... _this_ is my reality. Not Sarah. Sarah and the rest are just a figment of my imagination.

Is that possible? Should I ask the doctor? No. The absurdity of the suggestion hits me straight away. If I ask that they'll put me on drugs and lock me up in some mental institution. No, I have to figure this all out for myself.

So what shall I tell Jane? The _truth_? And what if it's not the truth, and I am in fact just mad?

No, I can't tell Jane either. If she's the only wife I have, I don't want to scare her with such wild thoughts...at least not until I have had some more time to think it all out.

So do I really have concussion? Did I maybe really get mugged this morning, and if so, did I actually really have concussion all along? Perhaps I didn't make it all up this morning after all. Maybe it was true. Then, maybe, when I banged my head at my mum's for the second time it just made it worse?

Shit. This is too confusing.

On the other hand, if I do have concussion, or did, or might have had, if at all, or even if I don't and never did have, they...the doctors and my wife and everyone else, _they_ now think that I _do_ , and that now gives me a totally legitimate excuse for not remembering what on earth is happening in my life now. For example: _how long have I been married to Jane?_ I don't know _. What are our children called?_ I don't know _. How long have I been in advertising?_ I don't know _. Where do I live?_ I don't know _._

And if none of this is actually real, and it _is_ all a dream, then by _pretending_ to have concussion I can at least excuse myself from a lot of embarrassing moments, while I try to figure out where the exit door from this particularly bad reality is, an excuse I can use while I learn all about my life again.

"Jane, let's talk" I say, pulling her gently up and off my chest.

I lift up her chin, and dab the edges of her face with the edge of the white hospital blanket. She stops crying and looks into my eyes. The good news is that it looks like she genuinely does love me. (Which is not to say that Sarah doesn't. Although maybe that isn't relative anymore, particularly if Sarah is just a dream and Jane isn't).

"Jane. The doctor says I've got concussion. I don't want to scare you, but I don't really know what's going on. I can't remember much..."

"What do you mean? Have you got amnesia? How bad is it?"

"I don't know... it's too early to tell."

"But you know who I am, don't you?" she says, wrapping my face in both her hands and staring at me with her big, beautiful eyes.

"Yes, but..."

"But what James, but what?"

"I can't remember much else. I can't remember when we got married, the names of our children, where we live...nothing...it's all patchy...blurry..."

"Oh no..." she cries out again collapsing on my chest.

I stroke her hair, soothingly, wondering what to do next and where we go from here. A moment passes.

"Is it permanent?" she eventually asks, pulling herself up and starting to pace the room.

Good question.

"I don't know. The doctors say that my memory might come back, a bit at a time. Until then we just have to take it day by day, and to start learning a lot of it from scratch again." I got that bit out of a film. Which, if you think about it, proves that I don't have complete amnesia, doesn't it?

"James?" Another person has just walked into the bedroom. It is my father.

"Dad..."

Now this bit is really strange. Either this is real, and I am talking to my real live father, who in my dream died five years ago, or this is a dream, and he is still dead, and somehow I am getting a chance to talk to him again in my new, imagined world, or, and this is the weirdest one of them all: maybe he was dead, and is now alive again. Which, of course, is ridiculous.

"Jane, the kids are waiting outside with Mary. Tell them their father is okay, but I think it's best if they don't come in just yet. Why not take them home, and bring them back tomorrow? I would like to talk to James alone for a while, if that's all right with you," my father says, holding open the door for Jane.

She kisses me once more on the lips, and strokes the side of my face, smiling. As she walks out of the door, I can taste her salty tears on my lips.

Suddenly I am left alone with my father. There is so much I want to say to him. So much that I never ever got the chance to say before he died.

I was away on business, in Germany, when I got the phone call in the middle of the night from my mum, telling me that he had been taken into hospital. I got a cab straight to the airport, and waited for three hours in the departure lounge, and caught the first flight home. When I got to the hospital the next day it was too late. The whole family was there. Everyone, apart from me. As he lay in the bed that night, nearing the end of his life, the rest of my family had managed to say something to him and make their peace with him before his heart eventually packed in. Everyone except me. I never got to tell him how much I loved him, how much I loved all the toys he used to make for us as children, how much I loved going fishing with him when I was a teenager, and how sorry I was that we had shouted at each other after the Christmas Dinner the year before. And now I have a second chance to say all the things I never did before.

Perhaps that is what this is all about.

A tear rolls out of the corner of my eye, and I immediately wipe it away. I am not a man for showing emotion, and normally I force myself to bottle it all up inside. Never in my life...this one, or any other, have I cried in front of my father, and I'm not about to start now.

My father sits down on the side of my bed, and smiles at me.

It is three hours before he finally leaves, asked by the nurse to give me some rest, and when he goes I feel happier than I have done for years. We've had a good old father-to-son and man-to-man discussion. And in spite of myself, the old eyes do leak, and I cry again, only this time I do nothing to stop them flowing. Nothing at all.
Chapter 12

Effingham Road,

Surbiton

The taxi pulls up at a house in Effingham Road in Surbiton. It is a large house, one which I recognise and have driven past many times before. Detached, spread over four floors, with its own driveway and wrought iron gates, it is impressive. Only someone who had money could buy this house and it's the sort of house that I have always aspired to owning myself one day. So it is hard to believe Jane when she insists that I have already owned this particular house for almost six years.

As I pay the taxi driver in the blue euros, the front door opens and two screaming children, my children, coming running down the path and jump up at me demanding my attention.

They say that when you go for an interview the person asking the question and conducting the interrogation makes up their mind about you in the first few moments after you walk through the door. The rest of the interview is just a formality. I would never have thought that the same maxim could have been applied to your own children, but truth be told, I disliked them the first moment I saw them. Of course, how was I to know that they were _my_ children: that these were the kids I had fathered and whom I was meant to love unconditionally, to protect and nurture for all their years?

Yes, I must love them, and that love must start now.

I reach down and pick them up in my arms, and smile, kissing them both on their little foreheads and squeezing them, before putting them down again.

"Go inside, and help your mother with the bag..." I start to say, but thankfully they have already gone, to find something more exciting to do.

"Son, are you okay?" my mother asks, engulfing me in her arms before I can reply. My mother. From what I can see, she is the only true point of continuity so far in my personal life.

As I approach the front door of my house, my _new_ house, I make a decision. One of those gut instinct decisions that I have only made a couple of times. Like the day I decided to marry Sarah...no, bad example..., like the day I decided to study Physics at University (did I?). Perhaps that's a bad example too. Maybe in _this_ life there are no good examples to compare with... But that is exactly the point. I make a decision, that from now on I will assume that this is indeed my real life.

Lying in hospital all night with the doctors checking me over every few hours was a pretty sobering experience. It changes a person's perspective and it has become apparent that there is probably nothing wrong with me at all, apart from concussion. So I must assume that everything which I remember as being true can really only be a dream. It will be hard, but I can see no other way. I cannot keep second guessing everything, and confusing myself as to what _is_ real, and what _was_ real.

If I can physically touch the door, and I can touch Jane, and the two children, whom I _will_ love, _must_ love, and if I can breathe the air, the same air as they breathe, and if I can feel the pain on the back of my head, then this has to be real, and this _is_ real. Yes, from now on, this is my life, and I must learn to live again.

I turn to Jane, who is behind me, carrying my overnight bag. I smile at her, swooping her up in my arms before she can say anything, and carry her over the threshold of my new life. Our new life. For a few seconds there is a momentary vision of me doing the same thing with Sarah ten years ago, but I blink hard and mentally erase the picture. It goes slowly, the last thing I remember being the smell of the perfume she wore, and the sound of her laughter. But then it is gone, and I am inside the hallway of my new house with Jane in my arms, and the smell of her perfume and her laughter.

My house is large. Very large. We enter through a large hallway with a chequer board floor of white and black tiles. A large wooden staircase leads up to a landing with a small hallway leading off it, before the staircase turns and disappears further upstairs to the first floor proper. Bright light floods down into the stairwell from above, presumably from a large window or cupola in the roof. A small table sits on the first landing, a large bowl of yellow flowers looking impressive and inviting.

On the ground floor there are three large reception areas. And I mean large. The room at the front of the house has a large bay window and a white baby grand piano in the window alcove. More flowers sit on top of the piano filling the room with beautiful fresh scent. One whole wall is lined with bookshelves, the other dominated by a white marble fireplace, and in front of it, two large white leather sofas sit in the middle of the room upon a white, deep, shag-pile carpet. It's a fantastic room, and I fall in love with it immediately. Either Jane or I have excellent taste.

The next room is a sizeable dining room, centred around a huge mahogany table. This leads onto an impressive music room cum TV room. If you can call it a TV. It's like a small cinema, with one wall covered by a massive plasma TV, and surround-sound speakers in every corner.

I walk out of the cinema into the kitchen. A gorgeous kitchen. Large windows overlook a forest of a garden, the four walls covered in expensive cupboards, kitchen appliances, washing machines, two floor-to-ceiling American style freezers, and a massive red Aga cooker. The focal point is a central podium, encircled by six high stools, with what seem like fifty shining copper pots hung from ceiling hooks above it. All the surfaces in the kitchen are either shining steel, or expensive polished black granite. The floor is made up of large red kitchen tiles. It looks... it looks just great.

A side door takes me into a large conservatory, and then out through a door into the garden, full of flowers, and equally as impressive as the rest of the house. It's amazing.

Jane is following me around, hanging onto my arm. She smiles as she can see the pleasure on my face at seeing the house, as if for the first time, not fully grasping yet that for me this _is_ the first time.

My mother follows us out into the garden. A taxi has arrived to take her home and she has to get back to cook dinner for my father. I thank her for babysitting, and kiss her goodbye. She goes, leaving Jane and I alone again.

"So, where do we sleep?" I turn and ask her.

"You honestly can't remember?...How can you forget that?" she winks at me. "Come..." she says, grabbing my hand and leading the way. "Come with me...".

She leads me upstairs, past the landing on which there is a large playroom for the children and a bathroom, then up more stairs to the first floor. Three bedrooms, and another bathroom. She takes me into the largest of them all, the one at the back of the house, and closes the door behind me.

A plush white carpet, a large bed with the biggest down pillows I have ever seen, and massive windows overlooking the gardens, with sumptuous white curtains. One wall is covered in mirrored wardrobes, and there is a half-open door leading to an en-suite. And on the large dresser a white orchid.

Like all the rooms I have seen so far, this one is immaculate. Clean. Ordered. Not a thing out of place.

I sit down on the bed and look around. Jane stands in front of me, running her hands through my hair.

"Welcome home, James..." she kisses me, then pauses, and sits down beside me. "James, can you honestly not remember anything about us? Not even...well,..." and she looks suggestively at the pillows and the bed behind us.

"No". I say truthfully. How can I tell her that in my dream I have spent the past ten years making love to another woman?

I can see in her eyes that Jane is trying her best. She is trying to be as positive as possible, but I know that inside she is confused, worried and full of questions. But what can I say to her?

"Just think," I whisper, holding her hand. "When we make love, it will be like making love for the first time again." And for me, it will be.

She smiles.

"Jane, can we go and talk to the children? Maybe I should talk to them and explain what has happened to Daddy...?"

As we get up to go and find the children I notice a framed photograph on the dressing table. It's a wedding photograph of two young people, both of whom I recognise immediately.

One is Jane, and the other is me.

I pick it up and stare at it, scared by what I see. In my hands I am holding the proof that I really am not dreaming this. I can see with my own eyes that I married Jane, and even more, I can see that on the day of our wedding we both looked incredibly happy. Very happy. And yet, even as I look at it, I see another photo superimposed on top of it in my mind. One of me wearing a kilt, and holding the hand of Sarah, on the steps of a church in the East End of Edinburgh.

I put the picture back and leave the room, closing the door behind me as if I were in somebody else's house.

Following the sound of the children's voices upstairs to the second floor, I find them both sitting with Jane on a bed in one of the rooms at the front of the house. A big sign on the door of the room proudly announces, " _Keep Out. Allison's Room._ "

So what is the other one called? And which one is Allison?

As I walk into the room, both of the kids look up at me, and I see that the older one has tears in her eyes. She begins to cry. The younger one stares at her sister for a second, and then immediately copies her. Jane looks over at me.

"I've just told them that you are not very well, and that the doctor says we should let you rest for a few days...and that, for a while, you might not remember some things..."

"...but Mummy says that you'll soon be better, and that it was only because you were feeling ill that you shouted at me", the large one immediately says in-between her tears.

"..and me," repeats the little one.

"Mummy's right." I lie, kneeling down in front of them both. I don't know how long it will take for me learn about my new life, and to forget the dreams of the other one. As I look at the two girls, I think immediately of my own two daughters,... at least, I think of Keira and Nicole, and I miss them. How can I miss a dream? How can my memories of them be so strong if they're not real? What is _real? I remember everything about Keira and Nicole...their births, their christenings, their first words and their first steps, their first teeth, their first days at school, times they were ill,...how can all of that be a dream?_

"...Mummy's right", I continue, "...but Daddy might behave a little strangely for a while, until I get better...I might forget things that we did in the past together. I might do strange things or say silly things...but don't worry and don't be scared. It's not that Daddy doesn't love you both very much..."-or at all-"it's just that daddy banged his head and everything inside got all shook up, and now it'll just take a while for all the thoughts and memories to find their way back into the correct boxes in my head. I'm hoping that you can help me remember everything. Daddy would love that."

What else can I say?

"I know..." Jane exclaims to the girls aloud, coming to the rescue. "Why not go and get your birthday and christening books, and your favourite photo albums, and we'll all go downstairs and have a cup of orange juice. Then you can play a little game with Daddy and show him all your photographs. And first one downstairs gets an extra chocolate biscuit."

The two girls both jump up, and the little one runs out the room. The larger one, obviously Allison, runs across to the other side of the room and starts looking through her shelves. I look over at Jane. Tears are running down her cheeks and she is wiping them away with a clean, white handkerchief. She smiles, then looks away. "I'd better go and help Elspeth," she says, "She can't reach the shelves..."

I am instantly alone. In my head I hear the voices of Sarah and Keira and Nicole, and in my heart I can feel a longing for them like I have never felt before. But then it is gone, and Allison is pulling on my hand.

"Daddy, here. Can you carry these?"

So together we go down the stairs to look at photographs and find out who I have become, and to learn about a life lived without memories, a life spent growing up in another world. A life lived and yet not lived at all.

My life.
Chapter 13

Memory Lane

Jane was a June bride, married on the 4th June 2000, a long silk dress which trailed gracefully around her feet, holding a posy of beautiful rare red orchids, with four of the cutest bridesmaids I've ever seen. Standing beside her on the steps of a church which I cannot place, is a young man, spotty, dressed in a green Gordon Highlander kilt, but looking immensely proud, and actually, if I may say so, damned good looking.

It's me.

I smile in spite of myself, and Elspeth giggles. She reaches forward to the photograph and points to Jane's stomach, and says, "That's me. In mummy's tummy."

"Yes darling, that's where you lived until mummy and daddy decided to have you, but that wasn't until a few years later. I wasn't pregnant when I married daddy."

Elspeth laughs, jumping up and down on the spot with her thumb in her mouth and from the way they anticipate the photographs as we turn the pages, it's not hard to tell that we've all looked together at the photographs a hundred times before.

Although most of the people in the photographs are complete strangers, I do recognise a few faces at the wedding reception, which appears to have been held in the grounds of some large stately home. My oldest friends in the world are there, Alex, and his brother Iain, with whom I played football when I was six, my parents, my gran, some aunts and uncles and a bunch of friends from University.

In a few of the photos there is someone who appears to have been my best man, but whom I have never seen before. Sadly I recognise none of Jane's family, apart from her brother, whose face rings a bell. As I try to place him, I suddenly remember that he was a prefect in the year above me at school.

Over a hundred people must have come to the evening do, and some of the photographs were hilarious. Especially the one of my friend Alex lying in a small fountain, his legs kicking in the air, the surprised look on his face just typical of him.

"He got very drunk...fell in, then his brother climbed in to get him out, and he slipped..."

And sure enough, the photograph on the next page was of Alex and Iain both sitting in the fountain together, laughing and hugging each other, a water lily dangling from the top of Iain's head. It looks like it was a wonderful day. I almost wish that I had been there.

We look at two whole albums of wedding photographs, and just when I thought I was done, Allison reappears from upstairs with four new, large ones.

"All right, darling. But Daddy and I will look at them ourselves. It's off to bed with you both. You've got school in the morning."

Quite unexpectedly, a very attractive blonde woman suddenly appears at the door to the room and starts speaking to Jane in broken English.

"Shall I take babies in bed, now, Mrs Quinn?"

"Yes, thank you Margareta. That would be nice."

Margareta rounds up the children, ignoring the protests of Elspeth who tries to hide behind one of the large white leather chairs, and only volunteers to cooperate when a lollipop appears magically out of Margareta's jeans.

"Who's she?" I ask as the door closes and silence returns to the room.

"Our Polish Au Pair girl. We've had her almost a whole year now...It was your idea darling. You chose her..." then quietly. "Since they're out, do you want to look at our honeymoon pictures?"

I look at the daunting pile of albums that Allison has dropped on the floor in front of us.

"So many photographs from on honeymoon?" I ask.

"Well, it was more than just a honeymoon. When we got married we gave up work darling. We both wanted to take time off and see the world before we settled down to our careers and had children." Jane explains. "...Look, there we are at the Oktoberfest in Munich, and here, look, that's you in Florence, pretending to be the statue of David. Not quite so big, but much more beautiful..."

So for the next hour, as we go through the albums one by one, we trace the path of a two-year around-the-world trek that took us to every continent of the world and back, including six months spent working for Saatchi and Saatchi in Hong Kong, and six months spent working for Australia's top advertising agency in Sydney, not far from the Opera House.

We are curled up on the floor in front of the crackling fire with her lying between my legs, head resting against my chest, my arms wrapped around her, holding the album pages as she turns them over, pointing and reminiscing.

Occasionally I lift the book close to my eyes, and stare. Looking at the images recorded in the album is both amusing and scary at the same time. I see myself doing all these things, standing in front of famous monuments in far distant countries I have only ever dreamed of visiting, and yes, it is me, definitely me. Yet I have no memory of it, and no memories of the woman who is constantly by my side. Constantly my companion.

"Tell me about us," I ask her gently.

She turns and looks up at me. Tears well up in her eyes again. I can see she wants to ask me if I really can't remember, to question me, not willing to simply accept that I can so easily have forgotten a lifetime's memories.

I wipe the tears away and stroke her hair.

"Please tell me," I say again, the hidden plea surfacing just enough for Jane to realise I am asking her for help. Help to get my life back again.

"We were married in 2000," she starts. "We'd been living together for four years by then. I moved in with you just after you got your first job with Saatchi's in London..." And so I learn about myself. About my first job in advertising, when I won my first account, how when after we had toured the world we came back to London in 2002 to have our first baby, all prepared to live in a garret somewhere and starve, a small, tightly knit family, but spoiling it all by finding a fantastic job within two weeks with 'Peters, Hall and Irvine', and then ending up buying a terraced cottage in Teddington, with no garret, but a very large garden.

That was fine for a while, but then Elspeth came along in 2005 and we ran out of space. So in 2006 I left PHI, moved to a bigger salary with Cohen Advertising and bought the relative mansion we live in now.

It would seem that I have done a lot in my life. Yet I remember so little of it. Though that which I have done, almost all of it I have done with Jane, whom I met again at an inter-varsity rugby dance during university and kissed for the second time underneath the mistletoe.

One kiss, that led to a lifetime of memories.

None of them mine.
Chapter 14

Candlelight

It is late that night when Jane leads me into the bedroom, and I close the door behind me.

We had climbed the stairs together, hand-in-hand, like lovers going to bed for the first time. Downstairs, the warmth of the fire, the wine, the smell of her perfume, the smell of her skin, the touch of her lips when we kissed, the intimacy, and my need...together it began to make it all seem so right.

I knew it would come, that it would be inevitable, and I could see the need in Jane's eyes. Not a physical need. No. Rather, the need that I must give her the assurance that I would love her now, as I had done before; that I had not woken up from my dream a different man from who I was before my concussion. Jane needed me to show her that our union was still strong, and as we climbed the stairs together, turning at the landing and then on and upwards, our bedroom coming closer, both of us could feel that what would happen on the other side of the door this night, what would happen on the marital bed, would mean as much to one as it meant to the other.

So I close the door to the bedroom, and Jane kisses me softly on the lips.

"I'll be with you in a minute darling..." she says squeezing my hand and disappearing into the en-suite. I stand alone by the door, not moving. I am nervous. Very nervous. What should I do? I feel like an intruder in someone else's house. This room is strange to me. There is nothing that I can associate with, nothing that is familiar. I feel as if I shouldn't be here at all. Like a teenager about to be seduced for the first time by a more experienced woman he barely knows.

I switch off the light hoping that everything may seem more manageable in the dark.

As my eyes adjust, I notice a glow from underneath the bathroom door which slowly begins to diffuse throughout the room, until I can see once again.

By now, things are not so clear cut. The edges of my reality have begun to blur, and I know that I need this as much as Jane: I am desperate to reach out, to touch another person's soul, to seek salvation from the abyss that has threatened me for the past two days. I need saving. I need Sarah.

It slips out faster than I can control. It sneaks under my guard and envelopes me. Sarah. I need Sarah.

I bite my lip and step forwards, spinning around, my hands flying upwards to grab my senses and pull the hair from my head.

My spinning takes me to the end of the bed, and I sit down on the mattress, looking across the room at my reflection in the dresser mirror, a threatening image which peers back dimly through the darkness and the murkiness which is engulfing me.

Sarah is a dream. This is real. THIS is real. _THIS_.

The door opens to the bathroom and Jane steps out. She is carrying a small candle in her hand, the light from the yellow flame casting a warm glow around her. She stands in the doorway, a long, black silk nightdress flowing down and around her body, contouring and complimenting her beautiful natural curves, the swell of her breasts accentuated by the flickering of the flame.

She steps forward, one of her long naked legs limbs protruding through a split in the nightgown. My eyes journey down, turning at the end of her toes, and following her curves back up, until I meet her eyes. I linger there, the moment and the feeling that it invokes within my loins casting me back twenty three years to the first time I danced with her at the school Christmas dance, to the first time our eyes met and something deep within us connected. Something that has somehow lasted all this time, and taken until now to come to fruition. Something that has reached out through the passage of the years, and brought us to this moment now.

I rise, and move towards her. Slowly. Lifting one of my hands, searching, clasping hers, now outstretched and inviting me, needing me, urging me.

There are moments in everyone's lives which define us, that shape us and tell us who we are, moments of which we dream, and for which we lust. For some it is a moment of fame, for others, a moment of glory, or sudden wealth. More commonly, at least amongst men, such thoughts, are almost entirely sexual in nature. I am no different from most men. In that I am perfectly normal.

I have fantasised about this moment for the past twenty years. It has never left me. There have been times where it has driven me to distraction, and where the sense has gone from my head. There have been times where I have treated Sarah terribly, because she has not been the sexual woman of my dreams, because she was not Jane. I have, I know and admit, made love to Sarah many times, and wished, hoped for, and imagined that it was Jane.

For the past two years this fantasy has driven me to the edge of reason, taking over all my senses, squeezing out my sanity, engulfing me, swallowing me, until it had to be fulfilled.

Now it is here. The moment. The time. All that I have wished for.

Jane steps past me and places the candle on the dresser in front of the mirror, beside our wedding photograph. Her back is to me as she reaches up with both hands and slips the straps of her nightdress over the edges of her shoulders.

The black silk falls silently to the floor, the orange glow from the candle bouncing off the mirror and revealing in reflection one of the most perfect bodies I have ever seen. Large, full breasts, perfect nipples, a fantastic waistline, a firm stomach.

I step up behind her, and wrap my arms around her waist, nestling my head between her face and her shoulders. She looks at me in the mirror, and I stare back at her reflection, feasting my eyes on the perfection, capturing every single part of this vision, recording it and storing it. Memorising every, single, minute detail. _This,_ I believe now, is the moment that will define me. When I am old and sitting in a wheelchair and wondering about life, and questioning what it was all about, this will be that single instant in time which I will remember more than any other. This is my moment. This is my dream. And it is everything I have expected.

Perfection.

My response is no secret. It presses against Jane, bursting to escape the confines of my trousers, striving to unite us both, to melt our bodies into a single, fused one. To release, and let flow. To seal the moment for ever.

She turns, her eyes looking up at me, thanking me for my approval. Her cheek slides along my face, the warm skin electric, tingling, alive. Her lips kiss my left ear, her hands reaching down, finding me, welcoming me.

"Please James, I need you... _just_ you..."

The words are whispered, but they echo in my head, and they shake me to the core. For suddenly it is not Jane speaking but Sarah, the same phrase, the same sexy low husky whisper, the same glancing kiss on my ear lobe. The same gesture of intimacy that Sarah has shared with me a thousand times over the past twelve years, the same phrase that only she and I have held secret between us. Suddenly Sarah is speaking in my mind. I hear her voice, I hear her say the words, and I feel her touch. Suddenly Sarah is alive, and it is Sarah that is beside me. Not Jane.

I step back, shocked and scared.

What am I doing? What is happening? Where am I?

Jane looks up at me, reaching out to me, pulling me back.

"Darling, darling...what is the matter? Are you okay? I'm sorry...have I done something wrong?"

I blink and look around me. Like a bell reverberating in an empty church, Sarah's voice echoes in my head. I hear her speak, I feel her words, and yet...

"James...?"

I look at Jane. I see her there, I know she is real. My senses cannot lie? Can they?

I shake my head and turn away. I reach the bed, lie down and curl into a ball, my hands tightly clenched fists pressing urgently against my forehead. I close my eyes and begin to shake, sobbing, Jane curls up beside me, lifting a blanket to cover us both. Stroking my head, whispering softly, rocking me gently.

I keep my eyes closed, and when I open them I am alone. The room is full of sunlight and Jane is gone.
Chapter 15

Gone Fishing

Throwing on a dressing-gown, a male's, which I suppose must be mine, I take the steps two at a time down to the kitchen. No one is there. I walk quickly around the ground floor and find it empty. Back in the kitchen I notice a piece of yellow paper stuck to the kettle.

"James, sorry to leave you alone. Hope you are feeling better today. Your car is in the garage. I've taken the Volvo. Gone to work. Call me."

How can I call her? I don't know where she works.

In the bathroom I find everything I need to shave, and I run myself a big hot bath. The house is very quiet without the screaming of the children, and I lie soaking in the still water. Thinking.

Reaching no conclusions, I dry myself down in a large red towel, and wrap it around my waist. One of the mirrored wardrobes in the bedroom I find is full of men's clothing. All my size. Taking down a fresh pair of blue jeans, an expensive looking black cotton shirt, and a lambswool jumper, I look at the designer labels and realise that this is just another indication of how much more the advertising world pays in comparison to...in comparison to what? To a Product Manager? I have to stop making these unhelpful comparisons.

The doorbell rings, and I answer it, signing for a large bouquet of extravagant flowers. An expensive bouquet of flowers. Not the sort you often buy for your wife, more the sort that comes with a note from your boss wishing you a good, and _speedy_ , recovery. The sort of bouquet that comes when your boss realises that his best ad man really did have a bad concussion after all and that maybe he should have insisted he went to hospital immediately instead of presenting to clients.

The front room is full of natural light, and I sit at the piano for a while, playing some music, something I learned long, long ago. It's been a long time since I played. I don't have a piano at home, and even if we did, I would never have the time.

Margareta appears from nowhere and comes into the room, sitting on one of the sofas, and listening to me play the beginning of one of Beethoven's pieces, although I can't remember which one it is.

"I didn't know you could play, James?" she says, genuinely surprised.

I look across at her and see that she is studying my face. Her lips are open, almost as if she is about to say something. But she doesn't. I look down and focus on the black and white keys, trying to prevent my fingers from tying themselves in knots, and turning a Fugue into Chopsticks.

A soft hand rests on my shoulder, and Margareta is beside me. I can feel the heat from her chest against the side of my right cheek.

"James, you play... excellently. How is it that you have never told no one this about. You always surprise me, my James."

The hand and the word 'my' are a gesture of intimacy that catch me by surprise. Stupidly I feel my face flush, and realise that I must be blushing. Why?

"I...." She starts to say something.

"Yes?"

"I...James, I am worried about you. Are you okay?" she asks, her hand not moving, the intimacy continuing.

"Yes, Margareta, I am fine. The doctor says..." I try to reply, but am quickly interrupted.

"Margareta? What for you call me Margareta? Do you not like to remember to call me Gretka? Like you normally do?"

I stop playing for a moment and turn towards her. For a brief moment I begin to wonder if there is something that I am missing. Something that I should know. But then she laughs, shyly, and walks out of the room, saying, "The children are happy you played with them last evening. You make them glad."

A few minutes later I hear the front door close and I am alone in the house again. Bored with the piano, and not able to remember anything else, I get up and examine the book collection on the shelves. An eclectic mix, but I'm pleased to find that I still love Wilbur Smith. There are about ten of his books on the shelf, and I take one down. " _The Green Nile_ ". It's not one that I have ever read before. I look at the others on the shelf and see: " _The Lion Feeds_ ", " _Rage_ ", " _Elephant Song_ ", " _Zambezi_ ", " _Desert Sands_ ". At least three titles that I haven't read yet. Taking them down and looking through the introductory pages I find that they were all published in the late nineteen-nineties. Strange, I was sure I had read all of his novels.

The clock chimes on the mantelpiece, breaking the spell. It's twelve o'clock. My stomach begins to rumble. I wander back to the kitchen, and stand in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. The kitchen is spotless, and there are hundreds of cupboards. All the pots and pans hang motionlessly from the ceiling, and the cooker looks like it has never been used at all. The size of the kitchen makes me feel uncomfortable. I just wouldn't know where to start if I was to attempt to cook myself lunch. Not here.

As I hover indecisively in the doorway, I notice a set of small hooks on the wall underneath one of the cupboards, from one of which hangs what looks like a key fob with an electronic pad. I pick it off its hook and walk through to the garage.

Inside I find an Audi...an Audi ' _Something'_... that's as best I can describe it. I have never seen this model before, although it looks very expensive and it reminds me a little of the Audi TT that I have always wanted to drive, but could never afford. Since it's a double garage, and there is only one car parked inside it now, according to Jane's note on the kettle, this must be my car.

Fantastic.

Inside a walk-in cupboard under the stairs I find some shoes that fit my size, and a leather jacket which also fits me very comfortably. I'm getting used to this and I take them, not worrying anymore that I am stealing from anyone apart from myself.

A button on the wall opens the garage door, and another one beside it sets the metal gates in motion, gliding slowly inward and onto our gravel driveway. The key fits neatly into the door of the Audi, and I slide into the front seat, which is already adjusted perfectly to my height and leg length. A turn of the key sets off a loud alarm, and it takes a moment or two of rapid fumbling with the electronic pad, pressing the button several times, before there is an electronic _'beep beep'_ and the alarm shuts off. Thank god.

A low growl, a little like a TVR but not quite so gutsy, and the Audi springs into life. Brilliant. Driving out of the garage and into the street, another press of a button on my keypad and the garage and the gate close automatically behind me. As I turn the corner at the end of the street, I feel the edges of my mouth turn upwards into a broad smile. Boys toys, and all that. But it's a BIG boy's toy. The biggest I've ever had.

I can understand how concussion may have made me forget my job, my wife, my children and my life, but there's no way that I'd ever have forgotten this.

No way.

If anything, this must be the dream. Not the other way round.

\--------------------

My father is sitting at the back of the pub, in the corner by a window. From there he gets a good view of the boats passing by on the Thames, and he can keep an eye on his fishing tackle resting on the side of the river, which is just ten steps away from the back entrance to the pub. It's his favourite spot, either sitting on the river bank alone with his thoughts, or sitting in that same spot, keeping a pint of London Pride company, and enjoying the atmosphere of the best kept secret in Sunbury-on-Thames. Few people come to the Riverside Inn, and most people don't even know it's there. The locals keep it to themselves, and the bar owner, a retired banker from the city, likes to keep it that way. It wasn't hard to guess he would be here, on his second day of retirement. When he was alive...before..., he used to talk all the time about when, once the 'bloodsuckers' had got their last drop of blood from him and he'd clocked off for the last time, how he was going to spend the whole summer down here, just fishing. Not a care in the world. Just him, his pipe, and the river.

"Hi dad," I say, sitting down beside him with two fresh pints of Pride. "Are they biting today?"

He smiles at me, shifting the pipe in his mouth with his left hand.

"Hi son. How are you feeling?"

He lifts his right hand and pats me on the shoulder. My father was,...is..., never one for great shows of affection, but this simple pat on the shoulder is quite a large gesture for him. A warm feeling floods through me, and a million memories of my father are rekindled. I realise then just how much I have missed him, and how incredible it is now, just to be able to sit with him and have his company once again.

"Have you eaten, Dad? I'm starving. Jane went to work, and I just didn't feel like cooking anything by myself."

"No, I haven't. I'd forgotten all about eating. Actually, I was just thinking about going back outside and trying to catch Old Ralph."

Old Ralph. After all this time, dad's still chasing Old Ralph. Which means that the battle between him and the legendary catfish has been raging for over twenty years. Twenty years. Do catfish even live that long? Of course, when the battle started, it was just plain old " _the biggest catfish you've ever seen_ ", but over the years, and several close calls in which it could have gone either way - my dad in the river, or Old Ralph out in the net - my dad has come to respect the fish a lot. "That big catfish" became " _Ralph_ ", and then ten years later " _Old Ralph_." It's been " _Old Ralph_ " ever since. They've become friends, and have grown old together. I often wonder if he ever did manage to catch it, would he be lonely afterwards? Sometimes, dad would just come down and stare at the river, sitting for hours on the edge of the water, smoking his pipe and planning his strategy, without ever casting a line. It was almost as if they were psyching each other out, or were they just enjoying each other's company? I wouldn't be surprised if the whole time my dad was down there, _Old Ralph_ was lying on his back just under the edge of the river bank, in the cool shadow, just blowing bubbles, catching flies, with one fin behind his gills, and the other lying on his stomach. I could so easily picture him just lying there, catching the cool current, and looking up at my dad through the surface of the river. Two adversaries. Neither in a hurry. Neither going anywhere fast.

So we take our baskets of fish and chips out into the warm autumn sunshine and sit on the green tarpaulin already laid out on the bank of the river. My father baits the hook, and casts the line back out into the river, into a shaded pool underneath some trees on the other side of the river. He fits it into the tripod, and sits back down. We eat in silence, the fish tasting excellent, and the chips crisp and salty, but soft in the middle. Just right.

"How bad is it son?" he eventually asks, licking a piece of batter off his fingers.

"What?" I reply, knowing full well what he's asking.

"Listen, I'm not Jane, and I'm not your mother. I know you, son. You wouldn't tell them everything, in case they go off the deep end and panic. Just how bad is it? How much can you remember, and how much have you forgotten?"

It's a fair question, but to be honest, I haven't been hiding anything. It's been in my interest to tell them the truth on this one.

"It's just like I said, no worse, although, actually, it probably couldn't get any worse. It's like the past ten, maybe even twelve years, have been wiped clean from my memory. Just like they never happened. In fact, to tell you the truth Dad, I don't really know _how_ much I _have_ forgotten."

"And what did the doctors say? Will it come back...your memory?"

"They don't know. Although, they think there's a fair chance that it will."

He's silent for a moment. He looks across at his rod, then back at me.

"And Jane, son. What can you remember about her? Can you remember how much you love her? Can you remember the wedding?"

"Dad..."

"Listen son, I'm just asking. Jane's a wonderful lass, but if you can't remember marrying her...can you remember falling in love with her?"

It's a big question. A good question. One I don't know how to answer, except truthfully.

"Between you and me, dad, I don't know. It's like...it's like I've just started dating her again...except, I've already got two kids, I haven't had the honeymoon, or..."

"Or the other stuff?"

"No."

"Well, the way I see it son, you're either a lucky man, and you've got the opportunity now to fall in love all over again, and to have all the excitement, and lust, that goes with that... or..."

"Or what?"

"Or you're in big trouble."

There's a tug on the line, and my dad jumps up, dropping the by now empty basket on the ground, and grabbing the pole from the tripod.

The line goes slack, before he can even start to play the fish. He reels it in, and the bait is gone.

"That's Old Ralph" he smiles. "That's him."

"How do you know?" I ask before he says anything, already knowing the answer. I've heard it a thousand times before.

"Because only he knows how to get the bait off the line, without getting snagged. He's a wily bugger, is Old Ralph."

He bends down, opening up his box of bait, and threading a new large maggot on his hook. It's covered in a concoction of gook, a special mixture that my dad has mixed up over the years and swears to. "My secret weapon... _He loves_ _it._ " I hear him say in my mind, recalling this moment from a thousand times in the past.

"...I'll just give him some more of this... My secret weapon.... He loves it..." he says aloud a fraction of a second later, almost as if he had heard me.

"Listen son, just promise me, that if things get difficult, if things get strange, you'll tell me. Whatever it is. No matter how weird it is...I promise I won't tell your mother, and I can only imagine what must be going on in your mind."

He looks across at me, and as he casts the line back over his shoulder and lets it fly back onto the river, he smiles. For a second there is a look in his eye, and it's almost as if he knows exactly what's going on. It's almost as if he knows the secret, and for one moment I wonder if he knows the answer. Should I tell him?

Perhaps not. At least, not just yet.

"Thanks dad." I reply. "I promise."

"Here, you take this, and I'll go and get us both another pint." He hands me the rod, and pats me on the shoulder as he goes past, stopping for a brief second. "Remember son, we love you. And we're here for you."

It may sound soppy, but it's one of those Walton family moments. A moment in time that I never ever thought I would experience again, and a moment that I will never forget as long as I live.

My dad.
Chapter 16

Back to Work

Alice gets up from behind the reception desk and comes running round to greet me, enveloping me in a warm, tight hug.

"James..." She says, squeezing me so hard I struggle to reply. "What are you doing back so soon?"

"I couldn't stand being alone in the house. I got bored." I lied. The truth is, I don't feel at home in my own home, and I got fed up of being alone with my own repetitive thoughts.

"Who sent me the flowers? Was that your idea or Richard's?"

"Richard's. Honestly. He was really worried about you..."

"About me not coming back, about me forgetting all about the Scotia Telecom deal, about him not getting the ten million euros deal after all..."

"Don't be so cynical James. Anyway, it's not just about 'him' getting the ten million euros deal. It's your deal.."

"And he knows it. That's exactly what Richard's worried about. Where is the old man anyway?"

"He's in his office. He's got Mather and Sons with him just now, but they'll be leaving soon. I think he will want to see you then. You never know,...maybe today's the day."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, _'the'_ day. '"

"What day?"

"The big 'P' day!"

The phone rings on reception, and she answers it. She makes a sign in the air, and a face, turns to the computer screen and reaches for her mouse. I take the hint, and leave her to it, climbing the stairs to the first floor. I walk into the open plan area and head towards my office at the back of the floor.

A chorus of "Hey James...", "How are you James?" and ""Remember me, James?", and "Don't forget, you borrowed fifty euros from me last week!" from everyone around the office, followed by a round of laughter. As I approach my office, the floor goes quiet, and I can feel all eyes drilling into the back of my head.

Opening the door, I find a large, framed, one-meter-by-one-meter square photograph hanging on the wall behind my desk. Underneath the picture are the words, ' _James Quinn, Calvin Klein Model of the Year 2012_ '. And above, looking surprised and shocked, is me, captured for all the world to see, plain as day, in my wonderful Marks and Spencer tartan boxer shorts, and very little else.

Everyone bursts into laughter. Including me. I look totally ridiculous.

"Hi James, do you want me to come now or later?" a voice asks from behind. It turns out to belong to a red headed woman, probably about twenty-three, called Claire. My PA. Apparently.

"How about in ten minutes? Give me time to get myself a cup of tea, and get my coat off."

"...and what about the rest of your clothes? Keeping them on today are we?" someone else says loudly from somewhere behind her.

"Funny guy." I say loudly in reply.

"Don't worry, I'll get your tea. You just take it easy." Claire offers and walks away quickly.

Admiring the photograph of myself again, it strikes me then that the people at Cohen Advertising are a friendly, tightly knit bunch who know how to have fun. I decide not to take down the photograph but to leave it hanging there. It'll remind me of the first day of my new life, and that it's best not to take yourself too seriously.

Closing the door, and blocking off the chatter coming from the lively office outside, I sit in my chair behind my large desk, grasping the armrest firmly and surveying my new world. The office of an advertising executive in the heart of London.

I like my office. It has a good feel to it. The décor and the woodwork is sophisticated, yet not over the top. Simple, but smart. Rising, I cross over to the filing cabinets and look through each of the drawers, familiarising myself with the contents, mentally making a map of my new territory, learning the new landscape.

Returning to my desk, I go through the drawers one by one. Diaries, pens, paper, two rulers, a calculator, calendars, an empty stapler, useful office stuff, and a photograph of Jane and the children turned face down and under a pile of papers in the second drawer up. I pull it out and look at the smiling faces of the girls, but feel nothing. There is no familiarity, no paternal instinct, no smile that creeps on to my lips as I look at my supposed offspring. Instead the children are strangers. Pretty strangers, but strangers none the less. Jane smiles back at me, attractive as ever, and I look closely at her face, following the contours of her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, the curl of her lips, and the dimple on the left of her face. I see the resemblance between her and the girls, but I don't recognise anything of me in either of them. They are their mother's daughters.

The third drawer is locked, and doesn't respond to any coaxing or pulling. Strange. Then I remember the small black key on the end of my keychain with my car keys, and I pull it out from my jacket pocket, trying it in the lock. It turns.

The drawer opens, revealing another diary, a digital camera, and at the back of the drawer, a box of computer disks. I pull out the disks, and open them, wondering if I should take the time to look through what they contain now or later. Taking out a few and looking at the titles, I notice that at the back of the box, behind the disks, there is a small bag of white powder.

For a second or two I stare at the bag.

I look up. Can the others outside see me?

Quickly crossing to the windows of my office, I turn the toggle on the blinds and instantly the world outside disappears. I lock the office door, trying the handle once, then return to my seat.

The bag is still there. Small. Probably about 3 grams worth.

I close my eyes. My forehead is clammy, the memories quickly flooding back, my pulse already racing.

It's has been almost seven years since I became clean. Since I realised how close I had come to destroying myself, and since I was fired from my first job.

I hadn't taken much, and I was not an addict that couldn't live without it, but I had come uncomfortably close to the edge.

I had only started because it had helped me through a bad patch. It helped me gloss over bad memories, to deal with the pictures in my mind that I needed to forget. To cope with the grief. And since I couldn't turn to Sarah, to tell her how I felt about it all, _Charlie_ had become my friend. My confidante.

Though not all friends are good.

In hindsight, being caught snorting a line in the bathroom with another member of the marketing team at one of the office parties had been a blessing in the disguise. Fired on the spot, the wake-up call had come just in time.

It had been a good company, and an interesting job that I had lost, and I had been a fool.

But never again.

I pick up the sachet, and walk quickly to the bathroom, where I lock myself in one of the cubicles. For a second, I stare at the packet. The stress, the confusion and the fear of the past weeks hits me like a wall, and my blood pulses.

I could be happy. In a minute I know it could all go away. I could feel great. I open the packet with my fingernail.

When I return to my office a few minutes later, there is a smile on my face. And I do feel great.

High.

But not because of the cocaine. High because I did the right thing and flushed it down the toilet. Because the last thing I need right now is to go backwards, to start chemically altering the world around me. It's already weird enough.

High, because for the first time in days, I am in control.

\--------------------

"So, Claire..." I say to my new PA as she brings in the tea a few minutes later,- I've never had a PA before, this is a bit of a novelty to me, "Tell me about the rest of my week. What have I got on?"

She looks up at me, a bit surprised.

"...oh, Sorry, Claire, I don't know if you've found out yet, but..."

"About your concussion? Yes, I know. Richard told me, and anyway, it's my job to know."

"Good. So you'll understand if I ask you to please be patient with me. I've got temporary amnesia...I honestly can't remember a lot of things. The doctors say it'll come back, but for now, I'm hoping that you'll help me get through the next few weeks. I'm going to rely on you."

She smiles then, and sits up straighter in her chair, clasping her notebook to her chest, and opening a large green diary on her knee.

"Well, this afternoon, if you feel up to it, you've got your meeting with the Board of the Millennium Dome to discuss Cohen's creating the new advertising and marketing campaign for the "Pleasure Dome", or whatever else we suggest they call it. Then tomorrow at 11am, you've got your inaugural kick-off meeting with the Scotia Telecom marketing team. That's scheduled to last over lunch until 4 pm. Which will allow time to get back to the office for the team meeting with Richard at 5 pm. Then in the evening, you're meant to be taking your wife to the opera. I've got the tickets as you requested last week, but they were expensive."

I nod a few times, wondering what on earth I'm meant to be doing at each of these meetings. And the Millennium Dome? What does this mean? Does it still exist?

"And what am I going to see at the opera?"

I hate the opera.

"Tosca."

What?

"Thank you Claire. And will you be coming with me to these meetings?" I ask, hoping she will. I think I'll need a little guidance.

Her lips break into a large smile, and she beams.

"Yes, James. If you would like."

"I would like that. In the meantime, can you get me all the files we have on both Scotia Telecom and the Millennium Dome. I want to read over them again tonight."

"Certainly. Although, the meeting with the Board of the Millennium Dome is only the first meeting with the full board. There's actually not much on file yet. Richard is really looking to you to develop this one pretty much from scratch, from Cohen's perspective. The deal is ours, on the face of the campaign you did for the Tate Modern last year and your previous history with the Dome project, but at Cohen's you really haven't done anything on it yet."

Great. Which means that I can't learn anything from any of the work I've may already have done. I'm really am going to have to do this from scratch. I hope I'm actually quite good at this.

I look across at Claire. She's quite pretty. Slim, her red hair in a bob, blue eyes, a nice figure, and when she smiles, two small dimples appear in her cheeks.

"Claire, concussion is a really funny thing. There's a possibility that I may act a little weird in the next couple of weeks, and since you're my PA you'll probably get the brunt of it, so I want to apologise in advance."

She nods.

"Some of the questions I may ask might appear a little silly, but please bear with me. Humour me for a while. Can you do that?"

She nods again.

"Okay, so let's start. Can you get me the files, and then after I've seen Richard, we'll go to the pub for a quick lunch and a case review, and then we'll head off to the Dome? Okay?"

Just as she gets up to leave, Richard appears in the doorway. He winks at me as Claire walks past him.

"So, you're back then, are you? Can't keep a good man down, that's what I say," he says, closing the door behind him. He walks across to one of my cabinets, slides it open and reaches inside, taking out a small bottle of whisky and two glasses. He pours us both one, and then sits down in the chair opposite me where Claire was sitting only two minutes before.

"I just wanted to pop down and say, well, sorry about the other day."

"For what?"

"You know,...for the thing in the taxi,...and for not sending you to the quack's straight away. I didn't realise it was so serious," he says, going bright red, and looking down at his shoes. Richard is embarrassed.

"At least not as serious as winning the ten million euro deal with Scotia Telecom?"

"Exactly..." he blurts out immediately, then realises it was a mistake. "No, I mean..."

"It's fine Richard, I know 'exactly' what you mean."

A moment's silence. Richards gets up and walks to the front of the office, resting one hand against the glass partition and looking out between the slats of the blinds onto the floor beyond.

"How long have you been with us now James?" Richard asks. Putting me on the spot. It's a question I really can't answer.

"Oh...long enough."

"Long enough for what?" Richard spins around. "You're not thinking of doing anything silly are you?"

It's really quite amusing, I think Richard thinks I'm considering leaving. On the contrary, I've only just joined.

"Listen James, it's time you and I had a chat. Time you and I thought of the bigger picture. Time you and I thought of the future."

This is getting interesting. Richard is looking down at his glass, cupping the glass in his palm and swirling the whisky around and around.

"You know, this Scotia deal is the icing on the cake of a really successful career with us so far. When you joined us in 2006, after you left Peters Hall and Irvine, I knew that you'd deliver the goods. I could feel it in my bones, you know what I mean? I could tell, I could tell you had it in you. And you've not let me down. I think the time has come James."

"And what time is that Richard?" genuinely interested. What is he talking about?

"Oh, don't play games with me James? You know exactly what I'm talking about. You've been gunning for this for years...you've been biting at my ankles almost every day, eager, pushing, chasing me in my footsteps, and now the time is here...Hang on a second, have those Saatchi boys been talking to you? You wouldn't think about going to them now would you?"

"Calm down Richard. Firstly, no I haven't been talking to 'those Saatchi boys' and no, I'm not playing games with you. Just tell me what it is you're getting at?"

"Stop it James. I'm not a fool. I know what you're up to. Now you've got the Scotia deal, you can write your own ticket wherever you go. And you and I both know that where you go, the Scotia deal will follow. So stop playing games man. What is it that you want...?"

I open my mouth to protest once again, that I honestly don't know what he's talking about, but am silenced before I can say a word.

"Okay, you win. I mean, I should have done it last year when you got the Body Shop deal, but I didn't and perhaps it was a mistake. A mistake that I'm admitting now, okay?"

"Listen Richard..."

"Bloody hell James. You drive a hard bargain. Okay, okay, you win, _okay_? You get a 40% rise in your base, the office opposite mine, a new car, and the big P. There it's done. It's yours."

"The big P?" It's that letter again.

"Are you trying to screw me? " Richard shouts. "Ok, 60% rise in base, and I'll backdate it all to when you won the Body Shop deal. And you're a Partner as from today!"

I smile. So that's what this is all about. I've just been made a partner. The _Big 'P'_.

For ten years I've believed that I've been a Product Manager. Quite a good salary, but nothing special. Then one day I wake up and find out that I've got a new career. Then on my first day on the job, I win a ten million euro deal, and on the second day in the office I get a 60% pay rise and get made Partner.

On the face of it, I seem to be doing quite well for myself.

"Done." I click my glass against Richard's. "I'll drink to that."

"So are you staying?" he asks, still a little nervous.

"Yes, Richard. I'm staying."

"Good." He says, knocking his glass back, and walking towards the door. "Now just make sure you do a good job on the Dome project. That one's worth another €5m, and in spite of what's been said, it's not a done deal yet. The Saatchi boys are still sniffing around it. It's up to you to tie that one down. That's €5m, not just for me, James. It's €5m for us. Partner. "

And with that, Richard is gone.

\--------------------

We're sitting at the back of the "All Bar One" opposite the Palace Theatre where 'Singing in the Rain' is still playing. I feel at home here, a rare piece of continuity in my otherwise fractured world. We've just finished eating, and now I have the contents of the Millennium Dome file spread out over the table top. Claire is reading aloud to me from the notes of the first exploratory meeting we had with them, before they gave us the contract.

Occasionally she reads a line to me, a line which the minutes insist that I am meant to have said at the first meeting. It's a strange feeling, hearing her saying words that apparently came out of my mouth, but which I cannot remember ever saying. Even more interesting though, is just the whole thing about the Millennium Dome. The background notes make compulsive reading in their own right, and as I scan through the pages, I am lost in the history of the project.

The Millennium Dome was first conceived by the Conservative party when they were formerly in power. Then, when Labour took over the reins of government, Tony Blair decided it was the only good thing the Tories had ever come up with, and pledged to build the Dome for the people of Great Britain. Something that would act as a flagship of British know-how and engineering, something that the world would marvel at, a landmark building that would mark the start of the new millennium, and which the British people could be proud of. And something that would bring in billions of pounds of foreign cash as the tourists flocked to London to see it.

So they built it. And it was a great success.

My heart starts to beat faster as I read the rest of the third page of my notes.

In the fourth paragraph, towards the bottom of the page I have scribbled on the side that one of the contributory factors towards its success, was the decision to build it in Hyde Park.

Hyde Park _?_

Or to be more specific, the top of Hyde Park, near to Speaker's Corner. In the centre of London, with easy access to everywhere, and smack bang in the tourist heartland of the city.

"James?" Claire interrupts me, destroying my train of thought.

"Have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" she asks, a little nervously.

"Sorry," I say, putting my finger on the page marking where I was and looking up. "What did you say?"

"Obviously not then. I just wanted to ask... well, I just wanted to know, honestly, where I stand just now?"

Her face has flushed, and the paper in her hand has begun to shake a little.

"What do you mean? I think you're doing a fine job. I'm very pleased by what you're doing. What exactly do you want to know?" I ask.

"It's just that,...well, when you say you can't remember anything. I was wondering...I mean, the other night, and last week,...the past six months...? Have you forgotten all that too? Have you really forgotten 'us'?"

"Forgotten 'us'?" I close the file on the Millennium Dome, and put it on the table. She has my attention now, my undivided attention.

"Yes...I mean, James, it meant something to me, even if it didn't to you..."

"What did?" I have a funny feeling about this.

"WHAT? So it's true then...you genuinely can't remember anything? Oh dear..." She looks away for a second, staring out of the window on to the street. She swallows, and in a second her whole demeanour changes. When she turns around she is a very different person.

"Forget it. I'm sorry I mentioned it." She looks quickly at her watch. "Oh no, it's late. We've got to be at the Dome in fifteen minutes. We'd better hurry."

The journey over to the Dome is a little awkward. We sit in silence. Whereas on the one hand I want to ask her what on earth she was referring to, on the other I have a strong feeling that it's best left well alone. I'm slow, but not totally stupid.

For the second time in two days, I'm left wondering if there is more to my new life than meets the eye.
Chapter 17

The Millennium Dome

"Come in, come in." the President of the Millennium Dome committee welcomes us to the boardroom, situated in a suite of penthouse offices near Marble Arch, with an impressive view over Hyde Park and a structure that I can only describe as an identical copy of the Millennium Dome _,_ the same Millennium Dome that I last saw in North Greenwich.

It's huge and it dominates the north of Hyde Park: Londoners and tourists are thronging around the awesome marvel that is now one of London's top attractions, and shop-workers and office-workers taking a break are lounging around outside in the cafes that form part of the complex.

From the eighth floor of our office building we are about eye level with the upper quarter of the mesh of wires and pylons that thrust outwards and upwards from the centre of the Dome, supporting its roof and dancing on the London skyline.

And from where we are, I have to say, it just seems so right. The green of the trees, the grass, the open space around, its location so close to the centre of London, and the accessibility that this location easily provides to the attraction. In hindsight, Hyde Park is such an obvious choice. No wonder it's such a success.

"Twelve years, and still going strong," the chairman of the committee comments as we drink coffee and stare out at it, from the large, panoramic windows that frame the object of their achievement. "Twelve years, and no sign of letting up."

"How on earth did you get permission to build it in Hyde Park?" I ask, the words tripping out my mouth before I could stop them. "And I thought the Dome was only a temporary construction?"

"It was. And still is." He replies, patting me on the right shoulder as he turns to sit down at the head of the boardroom table. "A five year licence from the Queen to build and operate the Dome from 1998 to 2003. But due to its unparalleled success, and its undoubted role in bringing in over five billion euros worth of additional tourist revenue in the first two years of operation, coupled with the fact that the Dome rapidly became part of the London skyline, an image that is now synonymous with the new prosperous Britain, and is known by children and adults around the world from the slums of Bangladesh to the richest mansions in China or California, we were given an extended licence first for another ten years in its initial form, and then more recently for another five years to convert the Dome into an international arts centre. A venue for classical, and rock concerts to rival Madison Square Gardens, or the Hollywood Bowl. Or an exhibition hall, or a theatre. Whatever we want. And that's it really. Why you're here. We want you guys to help us with the ideas, then to help brand it, promote it, and market it. Make sure we become the Number One and most sought after entertainment venue in the world." He smiles, nodding at the rest of the board members as they file into the room and take their places around the large, glass table.

"It's exciting." I reply. "...And a big challenge. But one which myself and my partners are eager to get started on, and one which we know and feel extremely confident that we can deliver on." I bluff, seamlessly.

"Tell me, Mr Wessex." I leave the window, and sit down opposite the Chairman of the board, Claire taking a place beside me. "What do you think are the contributory factors to your success so far? In your words, why do you think the Dome is so successful?" I would really like to know. A memory, unfortunately a very clear one, of another Dome, in another place, haunts me, floating in front of my mind's eye. I can see it clearly. A vision of another Dome that was a monumental flop.

"Of course, I wasn't chairman of the board at the beginning and I didn't take over till 2001. But it's clear to me that the answer is made up of a combination of things. Marketing. Location. Good layout. The brilliant show, and the fantastic themed attractions, easy accessibility, government sponsorship. The fact that David Miliband promoted it so much when he became Prime Minister after Blair, cannot be overlooked. Everywhere he goes in the world, he takes one of our marketing team with him. And in practically every speech he makes in front of the cameras, he continues to extol the virtues of the regularly updated themed exhibitions inside the Dome, and how they continue to represent the best of British ingenuity, technology, achievements, knowledge, science."

"So what was so special about the marketing?"

"Simply the fact that everybody was clearly informed on how to get to the Dome, where it was, and how much it would cost to get in. We set their expectations correctly and then delivered. No one was disappointed when they eventually saw it all. But I think the master stroke of the whole thing was the way Peters Hall and Irvine promoted it. It was their idea, and the Dome Board accepted it. They suggested that when we presented the package to the public and talked about the pricing structure for entrance, we shouldn't say that we were charging for entrance to the themed attractions like 'The Body' for example, but rather, that we should really promote the spectacular show that was put on in the centre of the Dome as being the _main_ attraction, and that we should charge fifteen euros a head for that, and five euros a head for access to the cinema to see the 'Mr Bean' film. Doing that, we could then say that entrance to the Body and the other themed areas was all free... All thrown in, once you paid for your entrance to the show. Peters Hall and Irvine knew that people wouldn't object to paying for entrance to another show in the heart of London, especially such a fantastic one, and that by then offering 'free' entrance to the other also well advertised attractions of the Dome, it would just all seem like so much better value for money than our original idea of charging entrance to the themed areas, and giving the show for free. It was a good idea. And every day it brought tourists to the heart of London, who, after leaving the Dome's attractions, would pour into the shops and restaurants on Oxford Street and the West End in their thousands and spend, spend, spend. And that part was a _great_ idea. The economy thrived, and everyone loved it. Hang on a moment...You were with Peters Hall and Irvine then, weren't you? In fact, correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you one of the people who worked on the team that proposed this in the first place?"

A bald-headed bespectacled gentleman at the far end of the table interrupts him.

"Yes, Mr Wessex. Mr Quinn was at Peters Hall and Irvine until 2000. He was a key member of the team, and in fact it was his idea to propose the strategy you have just so highly praised. That's one of the many reasons why we are so keen to give the contract to Cohen's. We wanted Mr Quinn back on board again."

Ouch. Suddenly Richard's keenness to make me Partner makes even more sense. It's a double whammy. He needs me for both the Scotia Telecom deal, and now also this. Clever Bastard.

At the same time, I can't help but be impressed. By myself.

What the Chairman of the Dome committee has just explained makes so much sense...the idea that _'I'_ had had to promote the Dome was really straightforward. So simple. Yet, so effective. That combined with the excellent location in the middle of the city. No wonder the Dome has been so successful. The Dome in North Greenwich, the one that I know...the one that I have dreamt of...the reasons for its failure are all so clear to me now.

Firstly, no one knew how to get there, or how or where to buy tickets for it. There was so much confusion about that. And on top of that, the tickets were far too expensive. It took people away from the centre of London, getting there was awkward, and that deterred lots of people from going. What's more, when you got there, you were surprised to find the stage-show going on in the middle of the Dome, in the arena. No-one had ever publicised the entertainment, no-one even knew it was there.

I only went to the Dome once, at the end of its run, but when I eventually did, I saw the show four times in one day, _and_ I bought the CD of the music by Peter Gabriel. Music which he composed especially for the show.

The show was great. Perhaps I may have felt a little bad about paying £20 to see the themed areas of the Dome, but I wouldn't have had any problem buying a ticket to see the stage show itself. Which is exactly the point that I was apparently getting at. Pay for the show, and get into the Dome for free. _Brilliant._

I mentally pat myself on the back. Who would have thought that the person behind the success of the Dome was me?

Good job, Mr Quinn.

"So, Mr Quinn. Since you've done it once before, we can't wait to see what you are going to come up with next. We're all very excited about it. Of course, there's no pressure, but we were hoping that Cohen's could give us a first draft in two months time. Then a final version a month later....Just before Christmas."

Like the man said, no pressure.

No pressure at all.
Chapter 18

A Warm Welcome Home

The meeting with the Dome committee breaks up shortly after 5 pm, and I find myself sitting on the train back to Surbiton in a rather relaxed mood. The most relaxed since the nightmare began, or since I woke up from the concussion, depending which view I'm meant to be taking nowadays.

Today's been a good day. Actually, I rather enjoyed it. I find that when put in a position where I have to start acting or talking like an advertising executive, I actually seem to be quite good at it. It would seem that I definitely have a latent talent for this sort of thing. Take this afternoon's meeting for example. After we'd got over the preliminaries, and Mr Wessex had dropped his bombshell about the expected timescales, I found that I almost instinctively knew what questions to ask and what to do. When I ran a few ideas by the team, which just came to me on the spur of the moment, there were smiles all around the table. They liked them. I even liked them. And when we left the meeting, Claire and I had established a bond with the Board that I'm sure is going to develop into a sound working partnership.

Should I be so surprised? Maybe I'm being too critical of myself. Why shouldn't I be good at this? After all, before I talked myself out of a career in advertising just after I left university, that's all I had ever wanted to do. I loved advertising. I was always coming up with dummy campaigns in my mind, which I often thought of writing up and sending to the big companies. Not because I wanted to get any money for the ideas. Just because I had them, and I thought they were good, and I wanted to share them with the people who might benefit from them.

If I hadn't grown up and become so bloody serious, perhaps I would have ended up in advertising, ended up doing well, ended up succeeding. Just like I am now...!?

Whilst slowly demolishing some sandwiches which I bought at Waterloo, I reach across and pick up a spare newspaper that someone has just left behind when they got off at Wimbledon. An Evening Standard.

It occurs to me now that in the past couple of days, since my concussion day...my _'C_ ' day, as I think I'll call it from now on, I have not seen or read the news. Perhaps because I am scared of finding out more about the life which I am now leading. Scared to read about a world where everything is so different and yet so similar.

The headline on the front page grabs my attention.

"Prime Minister Miliband launches new campaign to arrest all illegal immigrants at U.K. borders. New National Border Security Police being introduced in January 2013 with enhanced legal powers."

Prime Minister Miliband?

What was it that Mr Wessex had said at the start of the meeting?...Mr Miliband had personally championed the Dome project after Blair? In this world, how long did Blair manage to hang on to power? And has Labour been in power continuously since then?

I realise it's about time I got up to speed with the world that I now live in.

A few minutes later, just as I'm finishing the article about the asylum seekers, the train pulls into Surbiton station. I walk along the platform and climb the stairs, stopping to say 'Hi' to the flower seller, and buy a bunch of flowers for Jane, then make my way down and out to the newspaper shop on the corner.

Inside, I scoop up a copy of every newspaper I can find, and gather up about ten different glossy magazines, ranging from 'Time', 'News Week' _,_ and 'New Scientist' through to 'Mary Claire' and 'Vogue'. Not bothering to wait for a taxi, I walk down Surbiton high street, my arms full up and overflowing, brimming with information about my new world. I look around me closely as I go, noticing the changes, absorbing everything, swallowing everything, remembering everything the way it is now, and not the way it was only four days ago. A life-time away.

The plan is simple: open up a good bottle of Shiraz, lock myself in my bedroom, and read everything I can get my hands on. By tomorrow morning I'm going to know more about this world, about what's going on today and why, than any other person I meet.

For better or for worse, this is my world now, and it's about time I discovered a little about it.

\--------------------

When I get home the children are misbehaving, running around, screaming and shouting. Margareta is chasing them from room to room, trying to encourage them to settle down and go through to the dining room where their dinner is getting cold.

Jane is upstairs, lying down on her bed, trying to recover from a migraine, which is no doubt being helped by the ruckus downstairs.

"Daddy, daddy..." Allison runs at me as soon as I open the front door, jumping up into my arms and knocking my magazines and newspapers everywhere.

" 'addy, 'addy." Elspeth follows immediately behind her, charging at my legs and going into a headlock around my knees.

I fall back against the door, pinned there by both my new offspring.

"Let Daddy in the door please?...That's better, now let go...please Elspeth, no don't drag along the ground like that, you'll hurt your knees. Elspeth _please_ stand up, and let go of my ankle. You'll hurt yourself,.. oh no...Look, I told you you'd hurt yourself. Stop crying. Here, let me look at that...Okay, I'll kiss it better. But only if you'll eat your dinner?"

I kiss her on the knees, then carry her through to the kitchen and deposit her in the big children's chair.

As usual the kitchen is spotless. Nothing is out of place, and the children's dinners are arranged nicely on the centre island. Fish, peas, and chips.

I feed them both a few mouthfuls, and smile back at Margareta who is looking at me rather strangely, as if she still looks like she wants to say something but is holding back. Then I leave the screaming girls alone with her, closing the kitchen door behind me.

The bedroom light is switched off, and Jane is lying on the bed. I fumble in the dark for a few moments before managing to find the light switch on the dresser.

"Thank god you're home James. I need you to rub my neck and shoulders. I'm dying. I can hardly see for the pain..."

"Another migraine?"

" _Yes_!"

"But you had one last night too? How often do you get them?"

"Too often. Once or twice a week. It depends upon the weather."

"But the weather's fine..."

"Don't argue James. Just be a dear and massage me please."

"I wasn't arguing Jane. Just trying to understand. What sort of weather sets them off?"

"James, please, not now."

" _What_?"

"James, how was your day, darling?"

"Fine. Good. In fact, it was a great day. I have some really exciting news for you. Something to celebrate."

"What? Another deal? Another big bonus? More work? More late nights away? When do I ever see you? And when I do, you don't even remember me!"

"Jane, that's not fair. Come on, what's wrong? What's going on?"

"What do you mean? Nothing's going on. I'm just tired and have a headache."

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'll keep my news for another time. Show me where to rub your neck."

I walk across to the bed, taking my trousers and shirt off, and putting them on the chair beside the bed.

"What are you doing James? Why don't you put them in the wardrobe. Please hang them up."

"I will in a minute, I just want to rescue you first."

"James, you know how I prefer it if you hang everything up first. You know how hard it is for me to keep this house tidy if everyone just treats it as a waste dump."

"Jane, this house is spotless. It's the most tidy house I've ever seen."

"So don't mess it up. Please put your clothes away."

I hold my tongue, and hang my trousers, and throw the shirt into the basket in the bathroom. Sitting down beside Jane on the bed, I stroke her face, kissing her gently on the forehead.

"What's wrong baby? Are you all right?"

She's silent.

"I'm okay. It's just a headache. Here, please rub my neck, just here. Like you used to..."

She rolls over onto her stomach, and flicks the hair off her back with her hands. In spite of the welcome home, I still feel in a good mood, and perhaps a little playful. I run my hands down her neck, and along her shoulders. She feels wonderful. Her skin is soft and warm. I lean forward and kiss her neck. Pausing, waiting for a reaction, before kissing her again.

Jane moans slightly, wriggling her shoulders, and readjusting her hands in front of her face.

She is wearing a long black one piece dress. Very businesslike, but also very attractive. It only takes one movement to slide the zip down her back, and gently tug the dress over her shoulders. Her back is tanned, and graceful, her soft curves rolling gently around her body, drawing me towards her.

My kisses seem to hit the mark, and soon Jane turns over towards me, a smile appearing on the edges of her lips, a sparkle shining in her eyes.

"James, you know how that turns me on. You shouldn't...not now, the children aren't in bed yet."

"They're downstairs. Margareta is looking after them. They're fine...it's you that needs the attention. Here, let's see...what happens if I do this?"

She squirms, her body undulating in front of me.

"Don't be silly James, you know exactly what happens when you do that...And so what happens if I do this?" she reciprocates, her hands reaching downwards.

It's been a good day so far. A very good day, and things only seem to be getting better.

We kiss passionately, fumbling quickly with each other's clothes, our need for each other driving us on, taking us over. As I slip her bra off, her breasts fall free. They are beautiful, soft, tender. I kiss them, stroking them with my hands, licking them slowly, pushing my eyes against them, and feeling the nipples against my closed eyelids, squeezing them around my face.

This is my dream. This is the moment I have fantasised about for years. It's exactly how I imagined it would be, exactly as sweet and wonderful as I had dreamt of.

Jane says something, but I don't hear her.

I feel her tug at my boxer shorts, I feel them slide down my legs, her hands reaching for me again.

And then all my thoughts stop. Instinct, desire, loneliness, desperation, lust, and all the repressed pent up emotions from the past week surface at the same time. I raise myself up on top of Jane. I enter her. I lose myself in Jane, and she in me, and I am lost in the moment, a glorious, wonderful moment that I will never forget for the rest of my life, in this life or any other life that I will lead, and for this one incredible moment that surpasses all meaning and understanding,...for one moment, Jane and I are one.

And in that moment, there is clarity.

A single moment of awareness where all my questions are answered, where I see and understand, where I can touch the truth, and I have the knowledge and the insight of the why and the where and the how.

And then, in a flash, it is gone.

Instead, in its place, there is exhaustion. An honest tiredness. Relaxed, untroubled, worry-free.

\--------------------

I awake sometime later, lying on my back, with Jane resting her head on my chest, fast asleep, my arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

As I open my eyes, my heart begins to pump faster, a sickening sense of guilt descending upon me from above.

It has happened. I have done it. I have been unfaithful to Sarah. I have slept with another woman.

Suddenly the euphoria of the act of I have just committed is swept away by a feeling of such self-disgust and self-loathing, that I lie there in the dark, in shock.

What have I done?

Jane stirs on my chest and I quickly move away from her, turning on my side and distancing myself from her in the bed.

I lie there on my side, staring into the dark and thinking of Sarah, tears welling in my eyes, until sleep mercifully overtakes me once more and anaesthetises the pain.

\--------------------

My eyes open slowly, my mind dimly becoming aware of a new sensation beneath my waist. I open my eyes and look down. It's Elspeth and Allison jumping up and down on top of my legs.

"Daddy, mummy. Greta is crying. Greta is crying."

Jane surfaces from beside me, covering her nakedness with a quick tug of the bedclothes.

"James, you go. She likes you. I can't face her just now. I'll read the girls a story."

Slipping from the bed, I pull on my big dressing gown and wrap the belt tight around my waist. I find Margareta in the front room sitting on the piano stool, her head and shoulders slumped forward, tears running down her cheeks and dripping on to the black and white piano keys.

Closing the door behind me, I walk over and stand behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders.

"What's the matter, Margareta? Why are you crying?"

She sniffles loudly.

"What is the matter?" I ask again.

She lifts one of her hands from her lap and places it over mine on her shoulder.

"James, you do not talk to me no more. You have forgotten me? Do you not remember?"

"Remember what?"

" _Everything_... Why you not talk me no-more?"

What should I say? What does she mean? I understand that she is a long way from home, probably very lonely. Probably very vulnerable. But how am I treating her badly?

I kneel down beside her, resting on my haunches so that my face is level with hers. I smooth away some hair from her face so that I can see her eyes and I am about to ask her how I can help, when, slowly, she turns to look at me, and then, without a word, she leans forwards and kisses me full on my lips.

It's not unpleasant, but it's also not expected. I'm so surprised, that I rock backwards and fall over onto the carpet. In a flash, Margareta is on top of me, smothering me, her hands everywhere.

"James, James, you say please you still love me. Say it for me please."

I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and in a second I am out from under her, diving for the sofa. The door opens a second later, and Jane walks in. Margareta is alone on the carpet, crying again, and I am sitting on the sofa, pretending as if nothing has happened.

"Margareta, please don't cry," Jane starts. "I know I have not been treating you well lately. I have not helped you enough with the children, and I am sorry. Allison just said that you told them that you wanted to go home. _Please_ don't. I will try to help you more, and Elspeth and Allison have promised to be tidy, and well-behaved. Why don't you go to bed, get a good sleep and then we can talk about this later?"

Margareta gets up, looks at me, then bursts out crying again. She squeezes past Jane and disappears through the doorway and up the stairs.
Chapter 19

Bedtime Stories

At 2 am, unable to sleep, or halt the endless stream of thoughts which flood through my mind, I realise that I'm not going to get back to sleep, so I slip out of the bedroom and go to make myself a cup of hot milk in the kitchen. This in itself, proves to be too difficult a task, and I give up after ten minutes. I can hardly even spell 'Aga', let alone figure out how to make it work, and finding the fridge, where I guessed the milk would probably be, took several attempts in its own right. First I opened the door to what turned out to be the very latest in washing machines. Then, I ended up opening two large freezer doors with racks and racks of frozen meat and pre-cooked meals. Only on my third attempt did I find the milk in what I can only describe as the biggest fridge in the world. It looks more like a walk-in cupboard with snow in it.

After putting the milk back in the fridge, and leaving the kitchen, vowing never to return, I pick up my newspapers and magazines from where I left them on the hall table, and make myself a very large whisky in the lounge.

Choosing some relaxing late night Jazz music, I settle down into the big white leather sofa and pick up one of the papers. Apart from the _Evening Standard_ which I scanned on the train, it's the first time I've read one since my big _'C'_ day, and I find that my hand is shaking a little. I'm both anxious, nervous and intrigued. What am I going to find out? What will I learn about the world I'm in? Will it be just the same?

My first choice is the Daily Mail. No particular reason, just that it was on the top of the pile. It proves to be an interesting choice. The headline leaps of the page and grabs my attention.

"President Colin Powell issues Syria and Iran with final warning".

President Colin Powell? Last I remember, President Obama was on the American throne. I read on.

'President Colin Powell today issued Syria and Iran with an ultimatum, warning both countries that they had until 12 pm on Saturday 24th September to declare an end to hostilities with Israel. In his strongest rhetoric yet, since being re-elected for a second term, President Powell warned that failure to comply would be viewed as a declaration of war on the United States and its allies, and that on Sunday morning, America would take whatever steps it considered necessary to end the month-old conflict. America already has 650,000 troops stationed in Iraq and Saudi Arabia, and it is expected..."

Skipping a few paragraphs, I go to a photograph of Colin Powell standing beside Saddam Hussein. Underneath, the words; "General Colin Powell taking the unconditional surrender from President Hussein at the end of Desert Storm-Revisited, the code name for the second Gulf War in 1996."

What?

I abandon the article and look at the next page.

"Scottish Pound reaches new high against the English euro. Concerns grow over Scottish-English trade deficit."

I pick up another paper, and open it randomly on the fifth page, finding a big photograph of Princess Diana sunbathing on a boat somewhere in the Med, alongside a smaller photograph showing the burnt out, and torn and twisted metal remnants of what used to be the same boat, poking out of the water on the edge of a beach. Dominating the whole page, is the title. " _Jury retires to consider verdict in the Diana Boat-Tragedy Enquiry_." Underneath, _"After an enquiry which has taken five years to complete, the Government Select committee in the public enquiry into the death of Princess Diana has finally retired to consider its verdict and prepare its report. The deliberations are expected to take a further three months, before the final report is compiled and presented by the Government select committee, which was appointed to investigate the death of Princess Diana in 1993."_

"It is hoped that the report will finally explain the mysterious circumstances which lead to the death of the "People's Princess", and is expected to confirm the circumstances leading to the unexplained explosion on board the boat on which Princess Diana was celebrating her engagement to Dodi El Fayed, son of the Harrods owner, Mohamed Al-Fayed..."

I look up. My mind is racing.

On the third page of the Times there is a small article that catches my attention. "Scotia Telecom appoint Cohen Advertising to lead development of a new mobile telecommunications brand." Underneath there is a photograph, a particularly ugly one, of Richard shaking hands with the Chairman of Scotia Telecom. There is a quote from Richard underneath in which he almost single-handedly takes credit for the whole deal by himself. Nowhere does he mention the team at Cohen Advertising, and my name isn't mentioned at all.

An article in the Guardian shows the latest photographs from America's second manned mission to Mars. I read this with great interest. When I was younger I always fancied being an astronaut, until the day I went to the science museum in London and saw the inside of the space suits, and how an astronaut had to go to the toilet into a bag that was wrapped around his leg. One bag for what came out the front, and another for what came out the back.

So we've been to Mars already, have we?

As the whisky goes down, and one glass become two, which then becomes three, I learn from the broadsheets about the new world I live in. A lot which I never believed possible. Yet, at the same time, I discover that my new world has a lot of problems. The Aids epidemic in the UK has reached epic proportions. One in a thousand people in the UK are now estimated to be HIV positive, one in ten thousand people have Hepatitis C, and cancer is now killing two out of every five adults over the age of fifty. The newly privatised Health system is on the verge of collapse, and because of the increased popularity of improved public transport, and the inexcusable mismanagement of funds and resources, the privatised motorways are falling into such a poor state of disrepair that several will have to be renationalised, or else face closure.

Without doubt, the biggest problem in the UK at the moment would seem to be the Asylum situation. In 1996 Britain joined the European Monetary Union, and adopted the euro. Not long after that most of the Eastern European countries such as Slovakia, Poland and the Czech Republic also became member states, and their citizens were allowed to travel freely all around Europe. Britain, the only country in Europe to do so, immediately agreed to allow any of these new European citizens the right to work in the UK and the right to claim full benefits when they did so. The British Government was warned that there was an ethnic minority of gypsies in Eastern Europe that may immediately take advantage of the situation and travel en masse to the UK. The Government estimated that this would be in the order of 5000 people. The result was rather different. In 1997 alone, in the first year after membership for these countries was agreed, an estimated 150 000 gypsies arrived in the UK. Each year since then, another 125 000 arrived. A continuous stream of poverty, underprivileged, uneducated and unskilled workers, many with criminal records. All of them claiming benefit, few of them working, all of them demanding to be housed. Coupled with the increasing stream of non-European economic migrants, almost all of whom claimed asylum, the immigration system became overwhelmed and began to fall apart. And then when the situation deteriorated in the Middle East and West Africa a whole new tide of immigrants began to find their way onto British shores. No one could tell a genuine asylum seeker from a bogus one, and the meaning of the word 'asylum' got lost.

Diseases which had not been around in the UK for many years, many sexual, suddenly started to sweep through the population. The support services were overwhelmed, a housing crisis ensued, and the National Health Service collapsed. The labour government, struggling to repair it, was forced into accepting a radical programme of privatisation, which was completely unable to care for so many poor people. The taxpayer had to subsidise all of their treatment, as the immigrants couldn't pay for it themselves.

The school system made an attempt to cope with all the immigrant children, the majority of whom couldn't speak English, but soon found the bigger problem was not getting them a place, but rather keeping them in the school at all. Most of the immigrant children were not used to going to school, and they ran away at the first opportunity. Truancy levels went sky high, and petty crime shot through the roof in the areas where the children, who should have been at school, were roaming the streets, stealing both out of necessity for their families, and frustration with the new world they found themselves in. A world where the majority of children couldn't understand their new language, and where they felt isolated and unwanted.

Which was true. In the neighbourhoods and areas where the new immigrants were housed, social unrest grew, caused both by the frustrations of the immigrants and the anger from the locals towards their new neighbours, who they perceived as unwanted spongers that abused the system and took as much as possible, giving nothing in return.

Bigotry - perhaps in some cases understandable, hatred, ethnic tensions, misunderstanding and mistrust, all grew to such a level that the summer of 2005 found frequent riots on the streets of Britain, which lead to the deaths of many people, and the destruction of hundreds of millions of euros worth of property.

Britain had never experienced such riots before, and although they wanted to, they were powerless to stop the influx of even more asylum seekers: under the European Constitution Britain had to accept anyone from any other member state, who wanted to come to this country.

At the beginning of 2006, exhausted by public criticism, and bleeding from the internal haemorrhaging of the party, from disillusioned MPs going over to the opposition, the government were finally forced into taking radical action. It started to build very large, institutionalised _'National Asylum Centres'_ on the outskirts of major cities. Immigrants arriving in the UK were only allowed to live within the confines of these walls, where whole mini-cities were created with their own churches and mosques, shops, entertainment centres and parks.

In this way, the government met its European obligations, but protected its own society from further erosion. Existing immigrants who failed to meet the new 'Nationality Laws'...(which decreed that everyone learn to speak fluent English, as well as a number of new governances which defined what 'English' meant, and how people had to behave in order to become 'anglicised'...), were rounded up and interned in the camps, or offered the right to return back to their own country of origin.

Conditions in the glorified concentration camps deteriorated, and soon people were voluntarily asking for repatriation in their thousands. Only in the past year has the immigration problem begun to lighten, and according to the press reports, three of the many National Asylum Centres were even able to close their doors, hopefully for the last time. Although the problem is still acute, it is now not expected to worsen. The aim is to control the situation and prevent further rioting and civil unrest, as more of the immigrants voluntarily decide to return home, and the situation slowly dissolves.

As I read, I think about what I saw in the area I used to think of as 'Canary Wharf' and what the taxi-driver told me that day as he drove from there to Scotia Telecom.

It is hard to imagine how bad things must have been in the UK in the past few years, and then I think of the Britain I know and have dreamt of, and how this problem is only just beginning to emerge there. Wherever that dream-world is.

Satiated with knowledge for now, I turn to the sports columns for some light relief. What is happening in the world of football? Who does David Beckham play for now, if at all?

Although I look in all the papers, his name does not crop up once. He is nowhere to be seen.

It's almost as if he had never played football at all.

I'm tired now. I have learned enough about my new surroundings for one night. Perhaps for a lifetime.

In this world there is as much hatred and disillusionment as the one I know. While so much seems to be different, in reality, nothing much has changed at all.

\--------------------

The flames in the fireplace flicker and I lean forward, picking up the metal poker, and pushing back a lump of wood into the centre of the flames.

Settling back onto the sofa, I watch the edges of the wood glowing red in the centre of the fire, and return to my thoughts.

There was, is, a scar on Sarah's left cheek. A pretty reminder of her eleventh birthday when her parents bought her first bicycle. She couldn't ride yet, but that didn't stop her carrying the bicycle out of the house when her parents weren't watching, setting it down on the side of the road, and climbing aboard.

She managed to go three yards before the edge of the pavement came up to meet her smooth cheekbone, but thankfully there wasn't any real need for stitches.

I used to lie in bed beside her at night, gently tracing the discoloured skin with my forefinger, following the tiny contour back and forward. It always made me smile.

Sometimes she would wake from whatever dreams she was having, and she would smile at me, look into my eyes for a moment or two, then go back to sleep, my finger still following the same soft sensuous path, back and forward.

Perhaps other people actually didn't find Sarah as pretty as I did, and maybe, there were even some that perhaps found her rather plain. But for me, there was never a single moment since we first met in the sandwich shop that I didn't find myself drawn to her.

Which makes me ask myself the question for the first time, but properly, just why it was that I started to look elsewhere? What madness was it that drove me to the Facebook website, and started me on the path to my own self-destruction?

A good question, but one which I should have asked myself long ago. Not sitting here, now, in Jane's house. For a while I ponder the answer, then get up, putting the fireguard around the dying flames, and go to bed.

Somewhere within me I must already know the answer.

But as I start to think about it, like so many times before, I realise that it is still too painful to remember.
Chapter 20

Déjà Vu

Surbiton has always been the busiest suburb of London. The people who live here are a curious breed. We are city dwellers who need the buzz of the city, but cannot stand to live there. So we live on the fringes of the countryside and the outskirts of the noisy metropolis. One toe in one world, and another in the other.

I'm no stranger to the London commute. I've done it for years. Every day the same routine: hurry to station - train delayed or cancelled - fight for place on platform - fight for place on train - try to sleep if you have a seat, or spend thirty minutes staring at people's faces if you have to stand all the way into London - arrive late at Waterloo - rush for tube...etc.

So, today, when I'm standing on the platform waiting for my next train, why is there so much space around me? I look up at the electronic departure board. There are already six trains showing in the next thirty minutes. One direct train to the centre every nine minutes, non-stop all the way.

What?

Where are the delays? Where are the cancellations?

The first non-stop train arrives. Twelve spotless, fresh blue painted shiny carriages, that look like something straight from the 22nd Century. The electronic doors open beside white markers on the platform that indicate where the entrances to the train will be, and the waiting passengers calmly walk on and take a seat. There are enough spaces for everyone. There is no fuss, no commotion, no one fighting for a place.

I sit down by the window. The bright red seat is comfortable, rather plush, and I relax. No one is standing. I look around at the faces of my fellow passengers. Some people are talking to each other. One is laughing. A few people are smiling. The latent stress and tension that usually fills the air, is simply not there.

Unheard of.

Just before the doors close a young woman rushes out from the coffee shop on the platform and jumps aboard. She walks in, looks around her, sees me, smiles, and sits down opposite.

She is an attractive girl, nice make-up which compliments her features, and a smart suit. She's clutching a cardboard cup of expensive Columbian coffee. As she lifts off the lid from her coffee, and takes a sip, she smiles at me again.

Her face is so familiar, so...Yes, I recognise her now. The woman who sometimes sits on the 8.12am opposite me in my dream, the woman with the caffeine addiction, who I last saw last Monday morning when I caught the train...

I shake my head slightly and turn to look out of the window, wiping the memory from my mind and starting to think of today's work.

"James, hi, ignoring me today or what?" she says, leaning forward in her chair, a twinge of laughter on the edge of her words.

"Sorry," I say, turning to her, a little embarrassed. "No, I wasn't, how are you?"

I hadn't thought about this. I will obviously know lots of people who I will have forgotten. I'm going to meet people in the street who I may have known for years, but who will be like complete strangers to me. I will walk past people, not knowing that they are a good friend, or even an ex-girlfriend or lover.

What do I say to these people, when they stop me and ask me why I'm ignoring them?

"Oh, I'm fine." She says, sitting forwards a little. "Did you hear about Samantha?"

Samantha?

"No?"

"She was fired. Last Friday. Can you believe that? She has an affair with the boss, and when she ends it, he fires her! It happened just like you said it would..."

Frankly, I don't even know the girl, but it doesn't surprise me at all.

"So...what are you doing about Jane, then?" she asks, a little quieter.

"What do you mean?" My heart beats a little faster.

"Have you told her yet?"

"Told her what?" I ask.

"About...," she hesitates. "No...no, you asked me not to mention it. You were drunk when you told me, and maybe it's best if I just forget it." She pauses again. "...But if you want any more advice, just ask me, all right?"

She leans forward and touches me on the knee at the same time as she says 'okay?', exaggerating her smile as she speaks.

How do I know this woman? What does she know about me? And moreover, it's only been a few seconds of absolutely riveting conversation, but already I find myself asking the question, "Do I really _want_ to know this woman?"

Probably not. In fact, by the time we arrive at Waterloo, the problem of trying to figure out what I should say to her, hasn't really occurred again, mainly because she has talked non-stop all the way. I'm not a religious man, but I find myself praying that this woman is not a really close friend of mine. I couldn't stand it. Thankfully, when we get off the train, she has to catch a tube, and I decide to walk.

She 'bugs' me though. And what she said to me won't go away. I ask myself how well I must know this woman, for me to be telling her stuff about myself and Jane that even 'I' don't know. In spite of the fact that spending a second more with her is probably the last thing I want to do, it occurs to me that perhaps I should grab her the next time I see her and arrange to take her out for a drink after work. A few glasses of wine, and maybe I can get her to tell me exactly what I told her.

It's a bit annoying that complete strangers know more about me than I do.

Walking down the steps from the bridge towards the Embankment, the irony of the whole situation dawns on me. For the past couple of months I have travelled to work every day, looking at everyone else, guessing at their lives, wondering if I was leading the right life, doing the right job, or earning the right salary. And now when I'm travelling to work, I _have_ a different life, a new job, and a new salary, but I know nothing about any of it. It's not other people's lives that I am wondering about. It's my own.

Who am I? Who do I know? Am I enjoying my life? And then a big question hits me.

Am I a nice person?

When I get to the office, I walk up to Alice, who looks up at me whilst answering an incoming call. I smile at her, and give her a bunch of flowers that I have just bought at the flower seller on the corner. My questions have got me worried. Alice appears to be a friend of mine, and from now on, I'm going to be super-duper nice to everyone, especially those that are close to me. Maybe I am a nice person and maybe everyone does like me, but just in case, I'm not taking any chances.

"Can I have a word?" I whisper to Claire as I pass her desk upstairs. "And can you bring in two cups of tea? And do you have any paracetamol? I have a headache, and it's killing me."

She takes a seat in front of my desk, my diary open at today, ready to take notes, or to help guide me through today's appointments. Scotia Telecom at 11am, the partners team meeting... _my_ team meeting...at 4pm, Tisca or was it Tosca?, at 7pm. I take two paracetamol and wash them down with some tea.

"Put the book away, Claire. I want to ask you something personal. I want to ask you what you think of me? Am I a nice person?"

Claire turns a little red. Whether from anger, or embarrassment it's hard to tell.

"What do you mean, James? What sort of question is that?"

"It's an honest question," I pause, picking up my cup, and tapping the handle with my finger. "You know that I've lost my memory, that I can't remember things, and that there are..., well, shall we say, that I have forgotten things that are important to me..."

She looks down at her lap, and the colour rises still further in her cheeks. She coughs once, raising her hand to her mouth. A movement that I find both polite and attractive.

"...The thing is Claire, I get the feeling from you that previously, I mean now, that we are good friends. And that perhaps in the past we were quite close."

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, and looks up at me. There is a question in her eyes, a question that I cannot give her an answer to.

"Claire, I need to ask you a question. The thing is Claire, the concussion wiped a lot of my memory clean. I've forgotten who some of my friends are...no, literally...I can't remember who they are at all. I can walk past them in the street and not know that last month we were the best buddies in the world. But I've not just forgotten about other people. I've forgotten about myself. I don't know _who_ I am... I was hoping that maybe you could tell me a little about myself. About who I am? And whether or not I am a nice person? Do people like me? And about my wife? Do you like her? Does she like me?"

Sometimes I am fool. A big, stupid fool. As soon as I ask the question I regret it. It would seem that not only do I have a big foot, but I have an incredible ability to jam it down my own throat.

Claire stands up, tears running down her cheeks, words starting to flow, her emotions brimming over.

"James, I'm truly sorry about the problems you are having just now. I would like to help you, I really would...but, all things considered, _am I the right person to ask any of this_?...And as for asking me about your wife? Do you not think that I am the last person in the world that you should be asking about her?"

She closes the door behind her, walking across the open plan floor and down the stairs into reception. A few people look up from their desks as she goes past, casting a quick glance over at me.

From now on, perhaps it's better if I don't ask other people for their opinions of me.

\--------------------

The impending Scotia Telecom meeting takes over my concentration, and soon I am lost in my thoughts, and my own notes, which Claire brought to me yesterday morning. My notes are thorough, and the file contains references to the various Word and PowerPoint documents that I easily find on the PC in my office. By the time 10.30 am comes along, I'm ready for the meeting.

Gathering my stuff together, I walk past the photocopier, taking out a card from a new leather wallet that I took from one of my cupboards at home. I copy the card, and hand the details to Alice at reception.

"Alice, whenever I need a taxi in future, can you try and get hold of this guy? He's the man that looked after me when I got mugged and got the concussion. A good guy. Encourage everyone else to use him too. He deserves the business."

I found the card this morning, in a pile of things that had come out of my pockets when I went into the hospital. When I picked it up, the face of the friendly taxi driver flashed into my mind, and I put the card carefully aside. John McRae. He helped me, and I owe him one.

\--------------------

The meeting with Scotia Telecom passes without incident. Thankfully Richard doesn't come along, I'm a big boy now, and he leaves it all up to me. This time around there are only two people from the Scotia marketing team. It turns out that the meeting is mostly about them opening up to Cohen Advertising and detailing a lot of their strategy that they hadn't told us about before. Now we're their best friends, they drop their pants and show us everything. Warts and all. It means that we'll have to change some of our strategy, which I was going to have to do anyway, since a lot of what we presented to them last week were ideas that I just made up on the spot. Of course, that is one small detail that I keep to myself, and do not share with them.

Afterwards, a couple of the team offer to take me around to a pub in a little lane behind the Square, called the " _Four Tuns_ ". I join them for a while but my mind is elsewhere. Luckily, I don't have to stay too long, as I have a genuine excuse. Richard's team meeting. Which I actually have no intention of going to. Before I left the office, Alice gave me the low down on what happens at these things.

Nothing much.

Just a company bullshit session, where Richard gets up and tells everyone how wonderfully we are all doing, and how much harder everyone has to work to keep us all doing so wonderfully. I don't know what it is about him, but the way people laugh when they talk about him, it really seems as if no one seems to like the guy. The title " _Big Dick_ " probably is not an anatomical description of any sort, more likely just a plain honest description of the type of person he really is.

The worrying thing is, if I have been there for so many years, and if I have now just been promoted to partner, how much like him am I? Am I a Big Dick too?

I walk slowly along Oxford Street, feeling a little guilty that I am skiving off the first meeting that I should be attending as a full blown partner. The guilt grows as I get towards Oxford Circus. Unfortunately, my headache is back, so I take another two paracetamol, washed down with some coffee from Starbucks.

As I walk out of the coffee-shop, I look at my watch. 4.45pm. Perhaps I should go to the meeting after all? Show up, say a few words...take a little credit away from Richard?

I like the last thought, so I wave my hand in the air, and a big, black cab pulls up beside me. Fortunately, I get back to the office in the last few minutes after all the serious stuff has taken place, and as I walk into the open plan area upstairs, I arrive just in time for everyone to cheer at me, and for Richard to pop open a few bottles of champagne and officially announce my promotion. Good timing.

More alcohol comes my way. It's my second drink of the day, and it's not even 5pm.

I get up and go stand beside Richard, and make an impromptu speech. "Sorry, I'm late, just over at Scotia Telecom, etc etc."...." The big ten million euro deal, that I and my team won...not Richard." etc etc.

Richard pours himself another glass of champagne, and says a few more words. While he is speaking I deliberately edge away from him. Frankly, I feel a little uncomfortable about standing beside him whenever he is drinking. Once is enough, and that isn't something I want to repeat.

By the time I leave the office at 5.30pm and meet Jane on the corner of the street outside the entrance to The Ivy, I have had another drink. Or maybe two.

I smile as I see her standing waiting for me.

"Wow! You'rre looching great this evening." I greet her, my words a little slurred for some reason.

"James, tell me you've not been drinking already?" Jane replies. "You'll ruin this evening."

Why should she think I'm drunk?

"Drunk? Me? No, I'm not. I've only had one, or maybe two...But you _are_ looking fantastic, darrling."

And she is. Really. Underneath her evening coat, she's wearing some sort of designer label, figure hugging black dress. And what a figure that it is. I move towards her to hug her figure myself, attempting to kiss her at the same time.

"James, you're drunk!" she says, side stepping me, and letting me walk straight into the wall behind her.

I manage to avoid the wall, being quick of foot, and agile as I am. However, turning to look back at Jane, I find that the turn is slightly more difficult to master than I had expected and I stumble a little, taking two, quick, rather unsteady and comical steps to the right.

"James... You're plastered!" Jane shouts at me.

Unfortunately, I think she might be right.

I find this rather surprising, and quite unexpected. I have only drunk drinks three, sorry, three drinks. Maybe four. But I can hold my drink well. I hardly ever get drink. Sorry, Drunk.

So why am I drunk now? What's going on?

"Jane...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get drink. Sorry, drunk. I don't know what's happening. I didn't drunk very much at all."..."Sorry, _drink_ very much at all... Just a few quick glasses of champagne to celebrate my promotion..."

"What promotion? What are you talking about?" Jane asks, genuinely surprised.

I move towards Jane, reaching out to her arm for support.

"Oohhh...I'm sorry. I wanted you to tell me about my promotion last night."

"What?"

"I mean, you wanted to tell me about my promotion last night. I tried, but you had a headache."

"You're not making sense James. I don't know anything about your promotion." She glances over at the entrance to The Ivy where the doorman is standing and looking over at us. "James, this is so embarrassing!"

The doorman of The Ivy is coming towards us now.

"Mrs Quinn, is everything ok? Can I help at all? Is there a problem?"

Mrs Quinn? How often does she come here then? My wife is a bloody regular at The Ivy _,_ one of the most exclusive restaurants in London.

I turn towards the doorman, wanting to explain things. Wanting to tell him about my promotion, but somehow as soon as I see him, my feelings change.

"Problem, no. Thanks. She's not having a problem. I'm just a little drink, sorry drunk. Don't know why. Now go away."

The doorman stops in mid-step, and looks at Jane. He's wearing a black top hat, and a long, black coat, split at the back, like the ones concert pianists wear. I take an instant dislike to this pompous little man, and the feeling of warmth and love that I have towards all humanity is suddenly replaced by an upswell of anger and aggression.

"Go away, I say!" I say.

In fact I say it again.

"Go away, you stupid little black penguin. Fuck off. Just fuck off!"

I'm quite surprised by what I just said. So is the doorman.

Jane shouts something at me and walks off.

I stumble after her.

She turns at the corner of the next street, and stares at me. She looks lovely. Oh no. She is crying. When I catch up with her, she turns her back on me.

"Jane, please, doanwory, I'm not drunk. I'll be better in a minute. We can still go and see Tisca."

"It's _Tosca_. And I've been looking forward to this for months. James, how can you do this to me? Have you any idea why we're going to Tosca tonight? Have you any idea what day today is? _Any idea at all?_ "

"Friday?" I reply, unsuccessfully fighting the overpowering urge to giggle, and letting a ripple of childish laughter slip out.

"James. It's my birthday? My birthday! I know you've forgotten a lot, but how could you forget my birthday?"

Uhoh.

She has a point.

I think. But unfortunately, although she has a point, I never actually knew it was her birthday, so technically how could I forget it in the first place...?

I open my mouth to say something. Then the logic of this hits me and I stop in mid sentence, before realising that I have forgotten what I was going to say. I make one of those stupid faces that you sometimes see drunk clowns making on television, lifting my finger up in the air as if to emphasise my own point. Whatever point that was.

"James,...I'm sorry," Jane says, taking a small step towards me. "I mean, maybe I shouldn't be so hard on you, because of the amnesia...It probably wasn't your fault you forgot it was my birthday...but I'm finding this all so difficult and I'm trying so hard to cope with it all. And I'd really hoped that this was going to mean a new beginning for us. That you would try harder. Care more for me. Give up your old ways..." She pauses, starting to cry, and reaching for a handkerchief to wipe away her tears. "But you're just the same aren't you...you haven't changed at all, have you?"

I'm struggling a little to keep up with what this is all about now. Is she angry about me forgetting her birthday, or being drunk...or not changing...?

"No, I have changed, Jane. Honestly...I'm a very different person now..." I try to protest..

"Oh, are you James? So, tell me then, who did you get drunk with? Who were with you with?"

I know the answer to this one. Good. "The usual crowd...people from work..." But now it gets hard. I don't actually know the names of that many people at work. At least, not yet. "Well, there was Alice...and of course, Claire..." I start, going for the easy ones.

Jane looks at me in disbelief.

"Claire? You were drinking with Claire? On my birthday? James, how could you...?" She immediately bursts into tears, turns and walks away, hailing the first taxi she sees.

I try to follow after her, but the sudden movement makes me dizzy and I have to rest against the wall, which slides away from me, leaving me lying on the pavement.

I'm tired. Very tired.

I close my eyes and sleep.

\--------------------

Something wet and cold lands on my nose and runs down my face.

I open my eyes slowly, still drunk, but sobering up quickly. It's raining. The raindrops are coming down fast and heavy, large, fat and very, very wet.

I groan. My head hurts.

It's dark, the streets are not so busy now, and it's late. Very late. I look at my watch. 12.15pm.

What happened?

This time when I reach for the wall, I find it gives me the support I need, and I stagger to my feet.

Coffee. I need a coffee.

Opposite the Hippodrome on the corner of Leicester Square, I find a café still open and serving food and drinks. Thankfully already the fog is beginning to clear, and I am sobering up fast.

Bizarre. Very bizarre. One minute I'm pretty sober, then I'm really drunk, and then a few hours later, I'm okay again. I've never experienced anything like that before. How come I got so drunk so quickly?

My head throbs again, and I raise my hand to my skull, stroking the hangover that surely is soon to come. Shit... That's it! I took four paracetamol today to kill my headache, two just before I started to drink champagne. The alcohol must have reacted with the painkillers, making me very drunk very quickly. Far more drunk than I would normally ever get. What a screw up. What was I thinking? I ruined Jane's birthday, all for no reason whatsoever. Will she believe me that it wasn't intentional?

What am I going to tell her?

A couple on one of the other tables looks across at me and whispers to each other. I must look pretty crap. Dishevelled, unkempt, a right tramp. I stir the coffee, and notice how the white of the milk forms thin white lines that swirl round and around, before disappearing into the vortex in the middle of the cup.

After my first coffee, I order another, and sit staring out through the window, watching the rain run down the glass, and looking after the people as they hurry past in the street outside.

The minutes pass, the coffee kicks in, and I start to feel a lot better. For a moment I consider taking another paracetamol, but think better of it. I've had enough for today.

I return to people watching. I'm in no hurry. I've missed my last train, and I've got no particular reason to hurry home now. I'm in the doghouse anyway.

A woman hurries around the corner on the opposite side of the road, and runs past down towards Trafalgar Square.

Sarah?

It's Sarah!

I jump up, and dive around the edge of the table, knocking over the cup of coffee on the table, spilling it everywhere, the cup rolling over the edge and smashing on the floor.

The manager looks up from behind the counter at the front of the shop, sees me rushing for the door, and heads me off.

"Oi...Mister! Have you paid yet?" he shouts, raising his hand to stop me.

"Here..." I say coming to a temporary halt and plunging my hand into my pocket, pulling out a 10 euro note. "Keep the change."

I'm out the door, and around the corner as fast as I can, frantically scanning the street ahead, searching for Sarah. A big hand lands on my shoulder, pulling me brusquely around.

"Mister, It's sixteen euros. You only gave me ten."

"What?" I ask, looking briefly at the spotty teenager in his white overall, and then quickly back down the road to where Sarah must now be getting away.

"You owe me six euros..."

"Sorry, listen...take this?" I find a twenty in my pocket and thrust it at him, breaking free and running down the road. The rain is falling hard now, and its freezing. It's difficult to see properly, trying to run and keep the water out of my eyes at the same time.

I run faster, a surge of adrenaline coursing through my much abused body.

_There_! There she is... She's just crossing the road in front of South Africa House, dodging around a taxi coming up from Charing Cross. I put on a quick spurt, and catch her just as she turns the corner towards the train station.

"Sarah! Sarah!" I shout wildly through the downpour, reaching out and grabbing her elbow roughly as I draw up beside her.

She spins around, takes a look at me and screams, shaking my hand free and hitting out at me.

_"What do you want? Leave me alone!"_ she shouts.

It's not Sarah.

She's got the same blonde hair, and the same haircut. She's the same height, and build, even wears the same coat as Sarah has. _But it's not Sarah_.

"I'm sorry. The wrong person..." I try to blurt out, but the woman is already running away, shouting loudly for help as she runs across the road, ducking in and out of the traffic.

I look around and realise that a few people are staring at me. I ignore them, and for a few minutes I remain standing where I am, the cold rain running down my face and dripping off my nose, and drenching my clothes from head to toe.

It's a few minutes before I catch my breath, and realise that I am shaking. The sense of disappointment I have is overpowering. I cannot believe it. In an incredible rush of emotion that leaves me feeling very, very lonely, it dawns on me then, just _how_ much I have _really_ missed Sarah.

For a few moments, Sarah had been there. She was real, and I had seen her with my own eyes. The reaction I felt when I saw her was not something out of any dream. It was a gut reaction, a _real_ reaction that came from my very core, spontaneous and automatic... When I first saw the woman through the café window, my reaction was immediate, instant...no thinking was involved. No dream, whether dreamt whilst unconscious or in a coma, or high on drugs, could ever grab you like that.

Which means just one thing. One thing that I have known for a while now, a conclusion that I cannot fight anymore or pretend that I can explain away by some bullshit about having a concussion or amnesia, or a split personality or anything else like that.

The fact is, Sarah must be a real person. A real person that I have known, whom I have loved, whom I married and lived with, and who is the mother of our two very beautiful children.

Shit,...I miss them all so much. _So much..._

I want my babies! I want my wife! _I want my life back!!!_

The rain is coming down in torrents now, a river of water streaming over the pavement around me, flooding the gutters and rushing down the road. Everyone else has dived for cover in the doorways, and the streets around me are strangely empty.

As I come face-to-face with my emotions, I sink to my knees, look up at the sky and start to cry.

My tears are lost in this world of water.

And in this moment, I am more alone that I have ever been before in all my life.

This life, and the one before.
Chapter 21

Home Truths

Sneaking back into your own home after an evening out without being discovered is one of those skills that I have always lacked. Not for me, the quiet opening of the door, and the tip-toeing into the kitchen, hoping that 'her upstairs' hasn't heard me.

No.

As I fumble with my key in the lock, I remember a joke I once heard being told in a comedy club.

"...A man comes home from the pub, very drunk. Wife, well, she's been waiting up all night, lying in bed, just waiting for the sound of the door clicking open downstairs, frying pan underneath the pillow. She's just waiting to give him an earful, to give him hell, and to ruin the end of the evening for him.

Of course, we all know that this is obviously the wrong approach for any man to adopt.

No, the best thing to do is to open the door as loudly as possible. Make no pretence of the fact that he is drunk. Then go to the bottom of the staircase and shout up the stairs, "I'm home petal, just going to the bathroom, then I'll be straight up for a kiss and a cuddle, and a bit of you-know-what, and how's-yer-father. Best warn you, darrrlllllinnnnggg,... I'm feeling quite frisky!"

And if he does this, when the guy then goes up the stairs, taking each stair as loudly as he can, by the time he gets to the bedroom, the wife will be pretending to be sound asleep, and he won't be able to wake her up for love nor money."

I always think of that whenever I get home late, but apart from having a little laugh to myself as I open the door, things are never really that bad for me to have to follow such wise words of wisdom.

Except maybe this time.

Probably best if I just sleep downstairs on the sofa.

The other difference between myself and the man in the joke is that by now I'm completely sober.

As I walk into the house, my clothes are wet through and I am shivering with the cold. So I head straight to the shower room attached to the kitchen and the laundry room, where thankfully I can also get some fresh clothes without having to go upstairs.

The water is warm, and incredibly refreshing. I stand in the jet for ages, savouring the warmth, and letting it penetrate through to my bones until the water begins to turn cold. I emerge from the water invigorated and alive. And very much awake.

I find the kettle and heat myself some water, this time managing to navigate around the kitchen enough to find a tea bag and the milk.

At the bottom of the stairs I listen for a while, but hear no sounds from upstairs. The automatic timed lighting in the front room has gone off, so I switch on the light on the wall, and sit down, relaxing into the soft leather of the sofa.

There is but one thought in my mind.

Sarah and the children.

I have thought of nothing else since the moment I saw the woman through the window of the café. Nothing else. It's like a curtain has been raised from my mind, and for the first time in a week I can think again. The answers to the riddle still lie tantalisingly beyond my mental grasp, but there is one thing that I do know now. Beyond doubt.

Sarah and the children are real.

They are not a figment of my imagination, or a product of any dream. They are not something that my mind created while I was in a coma, or because of the concussion.

The concussion? What the fuck was that all about? How on earth can I have been wandering around for the past week, believing that I am suffering from amnesia, thinking that the reason I cannot remember anything about this world is because I have forgotten about it all. Shit. All this bullshit about me getting concussion was the excuse _I_ dreamt up to explain to everyone else why I didn't know who they were or why I had seemingly forgotten everything.

Then, wallop, I fall over and bang my head for real, and suddenly my own explanation is being thrust down my throat by the quacks in the hospital, the same reason that I knew was rubbish, but which by this time, my subconscious was desperate to accept because it was the only thing that made sense.

And I would probably have accepted it, except for one thing.

The power of human emotion.

I love Sarah. I love my kids. I miss them. Terribly. After deluding myself for the past seven days that they were not real, the veil has been lifted from my eyes, and I can suddenly see.

I can _see_ everything.

My so-called imagined past _is_ real.

Which, in itself, presents me with a bigger and larger problem.

Where am I now?

And where are Sarah and my children?

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The phone rings four times at the other end before it is picked up. A croaky voice, full of sleep, and struggling to wake up.

"Hello?"

""Hi Dad, it's me, James."

Instantly alert, "James, are you okay? What's the matter son? Is Jane okay? The girls?" concern immediately showing in his voice.

"Don't worry. Everything's fine. I just need to talk to you?"

"James, what time is it? It's still the middle of the night...", then to my mother, whose voice I can hear in the background. "It's James...I don't know. Go back to sleep dear, I'll wake you up if there's anything wrong...James, what time is it?"

"It's five past four. Can I come round?"

"Sure son, why not? It's not like I've got to go to work tomorrow or anything. Come round now and we can talk. But drive carefully, James."

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The door opens before I even knock, and I step inside to be greeted by a smile, and a pat on the shoulder. My dad is already dressed, wearing one of his typical tartan shirts and brazes, Mark n' Sparks blue slippers, and his empty pipe in his mouth. It's only been a week but already he has become the typical grandfather figure in retirement.

"I've made us both some hot chocolate, son. Let's sit in the front room and have a chat, shall we? Your mother wanted to get up and come down and join us, but I told her to let the two boys have a talk alone. She's upstairs, but she told me to say she's there too, if you need her."

We sit in the front room, a fake-wood gas fire burning in the hearth, its golden glow relaxing and calming, photos of me, Jane, and our children sitting in frames on the sideboards, and covering the wall. Including one of myself and Jane on our wedding day. Pushing myself up and out of the chair, I walk across and pick it up, staring at the image of me with a woman in a white dress, who I know that I never married.

My father says nothing. He sits there, playing with the pipe in his mouth, looking at me patiently. He is waiting for me to speak. Wise enough to let it come from me in my own time.

"Dad, you told me that if I wanted to talk to you about anything, no matter how weird it was, that I could?"

"Sure son. And I meant it. No matter how weird."

I put the photograph back where I got it from, and sit back down opposite my dad, picking up the hot chocolate and sipping it.

"Hmm. The chocolate's good." I say to kill time. What am I going to tell him? How can I tell it to him, without him thinking I'm mad. How can I tell him that he's meant to be dead?

"Dad,...I don't know where to begin. The thing is, I'm very confused just now. I don't know what's going on any more, and I need to speak to someone else apart from myself. I need a second opinion. Some advice. And you're the only one that I can think of who might be able to help."

"Does Jane know that you are here?"

"No." I shake my head. "No she doesn't."

He accepts that. He doesn't ask any more questions.

"I know this may sound like a daft question, and it's the sort of thing that I should know, at least you'd expect me to know. I mean, I _do know_ , but, what I think is the answer, it's just not what you might think the answer should be..."

"So, what's this question then?" he asks.

"Dad,...am I in love with Jane?"

I watch his face, waiting for a reaction. I expect surprise, shock, something. But instead there is just understanding, and patience, and love and concern.

"You want me to tell you honestly, son?"

"Please..."

"Then I think the answer is no. We actually talked about this just three months ago. You and I. Down by the river. But before you got that bump on your head...The thing is son, it's difficult for me to tell you everything, because I was hoping that this memory loss might give you a second chance. For you and for Jane. So I didn't want to tell you what you told me before, because in a way, I'm hoping that if you've forgotten the things you were unhappy about before, then maybe you won't rediscover them. Maybe you can both fall in love again, get over the things that were upsetting you? Forget...."

"Forget what?"

"That's for you to tell me son."

Quiet.

The clock ticks on the sideboard, and the fire crackles.

"Dad, am I having an affair with someone?"

Silence.

"Dad... please?"

"Yes, son. You are. "

"Who with?"

"I don't know them all. Just one."

"Them _all_? How many are there?"

"I don't know son, but your mother and I know about Margareta. We guessed long before you told me about it yourself."

"Does Jane know?"

A pause.

"I think so."

"And what happened when she found out?"

"I don't know. But I don't think she's confronted you yet. But yes, I think she knows."

I am silent for a while.

"Dad, that's not really what I want to talk about. It's connected, I suppose, but..." My voice trails off and we sit in silence for a few moments more. I sip my hot chocolate again. The fire flickers and jumps. Almost as if it were real.

"Son, just start at the beginning. That's almost always the best place."

And so I begin. I tell the story of a man who wakes up one day in one world, who is married to a woman he loves but doesn't appreciate enough, a patient, kind woman, mother of two children he adores, in a house he loves. The story of a man who looks up from his book on the tube on the way to work, and realises that he doesn't recognise the station the tube is stopping at, or even any of the other stations on the tube-map. How he steps off the train and onto the platform, and finds himself in a new world, a world different to the one he lives in.

A world where he has a new job, a new wife, new children he has never seen before, and a house he needs a map to find his way around. A new life. But with no memories of this new life, and only memories of the old one. Incredible, detailed memories of the old life. Not because they are made up, but because they are real.

Yet, with no explanation for it, the man knows that the new world is very real too. In every sense. The people are real, his surroundings are real, everything he can see, touch or feel is real.

My father listens patiently. My _father_ , who created me and gave me life. Who helped me grow up, who told me about the facts of life and shared with me at every possibility the wisdom of his years, yet always, always, first giving me the chance to learn and experience things for myself. Never lecturing, never preaching, only advising. My friend, as much as a father. My father, who died five years ago.

"And your friend, this man,...he still loves his wife, and his children?"

"Yes. Very much..."

"So, what does he feel for his _new_ wife?"

"I don't know. Something. Maybe a little. But nothing in comparison...She's a stranger... No, he fancies her. He's attracted to her physically, but he doesn't love her."

My father is silent for a while. I can see that he is thinking, taking seriously what I have said, and carefully considering his reply.

I wait patiently, for what seems like an age. Then finally he sits forward in his chair, taking his pipe out of his mouth and grasping it tightly in the palm of his hands.

"Then given what you've just told me, son, wherever he is now, I would just tell your friend this: tell him to find this woman. If she exists. Tell him to find her, wherever she is. To find out if the love he has for her is _real_ , and if she, in return, has love for him...But be prepared that if she doesn't exist, to accept the new life he has _now_. Tell him to embrace this new life and live it to the full. No,... _not_ to forget the old life. But to realise that it has passed and that it no longer exists. The past is gone, and only the present and the future is important now, and by that I mean, the present that he can see, touch and feel all around him wherever he is now."

He turns to me, looking me straight in the eyes.

"You see son, a man, a true man, deals with whatever life throws at him at any point in time. A man cannot control his life, he cannot plan it, only a fool really thinks he can. No, the true mark of a man, is someone who accepts that life always changes, and that the most he can do, is to accept the changes that life thrusts upon him and endeavour to learn to live with them, in the best way he can. To accept the life he has, w _hatever life that may be_."

He leans forward and touches me on my knee.

"Son, only you know what is real. Only you. What is real to me, is not the same as what is real to others. What we perceive as reality is forged by the experiences we have had. The experiences that make you who you are, are different to the ones that have made me who I am."

"You are asking me for my advice son. Man to man, father to son. Don't get me wrong. I love Jane, I always have. And your mother and I love the children. But we know that for a few years now you have not been happy. Something, I don't know what, isn't right between you both."

He pauses for a moment, rising to his feet and moving over to the drinks cabinet in the corner. He takes out a bottle of malt and pours two large glasses, handing one to me as he returns to his seat.

"Put down that cocoa rubbish and take this. You'll need it. Son, I'm going to tell you something now, something that no man should ever tell a son, but something which I think you should hear, because I want you to know that I understand what you are thinking. Something that you must never ever repeat to anyone else, either tomorrow or at any time in the future when I'm dead and gone. And something which after tonight we will never ever refer to or mention again."

He looks at me now, his eyes suddenly alive with emotion, but his voice ice calm and steady, urging me to confirm the pact.

"I promise." I reply, already nervous of what he wants to tell me and wondering if I am ready for it.

Holding the glass in both hands, he looks deep into the orange liquid, his eyes searching the depths of his mind, reliving something from long ago.

"Son, I know what it is to dream of someone else. I know what it is to yearn for something that you can't have. I know all of that, and I can never forget the feeling. You see, about thirty years ago, I had an affair..."

My jaw drops open. What? My father..., my dad, an _affair_? In a second, the perfect image of my father that I have always treasured in my mind is shattered. In an instant everything that I thought my father stood for is gone,... _changed_. My father...an affair? How? Why? My parents have always had one of the strongest relationships I have ever known. They practically define marriage. Or at least, I thought they did...

Dad stops for a second and looks over at me, seeing the shock in my eyes.

"I didn't ask for it to happen son. It's not something I'm proud of, and it's something I can never forgive myself for. And there are no excuses. But, I was young, stupid, and a fool."

"Did mum ever know?" I hear myself asking, not wanting to believe a word of what I am hearing.

"Your mother? God no! If she did, she would have left me immediately. No, I made sure she never found out."

"How long did it last for?" I ask.

He gets up from his chair and stands in front of the fire, looking deep into the flames.

"A year," he replies slowly.

"A...a year?" I stutter back, raising my voice.

"Shsssh!" my dad says, turning and waving his hand at me. "You'll wake your mother."

"But, I thought you and mum were always in love...I thought you were the perfect couple..."

"And we were, and still are. But things are never that simple. Just like what you're going through now, things happen, life gets complicated. But it's up to us to manage and take responsibility for everything we do." He says, coming back over to his chair and putting his hand on my shoulder. "The fact is James, I loved this woman. Don't worry, I loved your mother too, and I knew that I would never leave her, but it took a long time for me to end it. And when I did, I did it because I had to, because I knew I must."

I look over at my father, and realise with a shock, that I have never really truly understood who my dad was. I have never _really_ known him. And there is still so much about him that I have to learn. It suddenly dawns on me that I have only ever seen him from one point of view: him being my dad, and not someone who was also a man. A man with feelings and needs and emotions, just like myself. _Me_. James Quinn.

And then I understand that my dad and myself are more alike than I had ever realised before.

"James, the thing is..." he continues, not waiting for me to fully recover from the shock, "...the relationship you have with Jane is not the same as what your mother and I have. I love your mother, but you _don't_ love Jane. When I stopped seeing the other woman, I never stopped loving her, but I knew I didn't want to lose your mother either, and at the end of the day, your mother, and my children, were more important to me than anything the other woman could ever give me. I had too much to lose. But you don't. The love is already gone. And I would hate for you to spend the rest of your life longing for something else that you can't have. James, you only get one life to live. Life, as they say, isn't a practice run..."

I sit in silence, just staring at the man before me, trying to take it all in, trying to understand.

"Son, I would never have believed that it was possible to love two women at the same time, but unfortunately it is. But, I learned that it is not possible to have _relationships_ with two women. You have to choose. I know you are married to Jane, and I know that I have always drummed into you how important it is to work at keeping a marriage together, ...but what I would say to you now is that since we only have one life, I would never want you to stay together just for the sake of it,...to spend your one life in a loveless sham, like living a prison sentence from day to day. Love is the most powerful force in the world, and we have to work with it, not against it."

"You want my advice, son? Fine, I'll give it to you. It doesn't matter whether I believe your story or not. In your mind, you love another woman. Another woman who is as real to you as I am to you now, right? Then son, the way I see it, you only have one option. If you believe all of what you told me, then you have to find out if what you _think_ you feel is _true_. And to do that... you have to find this woman."

"No matter what it takes son. If she's real, and she exists,...wherever she is or may be...you _have_ to find her."
Chapter 22

End of Book One

You have now completed 'Two Women. One Love: Jane- Book 1 **'**.

If you have enjoyed it and would like to read Book 2 in the series, where the story continues and concludes, please return to the internet and download 'Two Women. One Love: Sarah- Book 2 **'.**

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In Chapters 22 to 53 you can find out if James does find Sarah, or if he is stuck in his new world forever. You will also meet 'the Professor' and learn how the parallel world of James Quinn may not be so far-fetched after all...And you will enjoy the experiences of James as he goes from strength to strength in the world of advertising.

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And in the last few chapters of the book, in a surprise ending, you will share with James the choice he has to make as he discovers the truth about his past, and has to decide how he wants to live his future...

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If you have any comments, please contact the author at : iancpirvine@hotmail.co.uk

If you enjoyed this book, please recommend it to your friends. If you disliked this book, please recommend it to your enemies!

May 2012 Edition

