

The Sleeping Truth

(Book One)

..

### A Romantic Thriller

### (First Published as 'Marrying Slovakia').. ..

By

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.

This book is sincerely dedicated to every single person that was affected by the terrible events that occurred in London in 2005. So many years later the memory is still so fresh.

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Please note: This is the first book in a two part series. 'The Sleeping Truth (Book One)' will continue seamlessly into and conclude in Book Two.

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Purchasing Book One is an excellent way to get to know the work of Ian C.P. Irvine if you are new to this author. If you enjoy the story in Book One you can then carry on to its conclusion by purchasing BookTwo.

Other Books by Ian C.P. Irvine

The Orlando File: A Genetic Conspiracy Thriller

The Crown of Thorns: A Genetic Conspiracy Thriller Adventure

London 2012 : What If?

Haunted From Within : A Mystery & Detective Medical Thriller

Please note: This is the first book in a two part series. The story begins with Book One, carries on and concludes with Book Two.

### Part 1

### Prologue

I sit alone in the cubicle, surrounded by the green curtain that shuts us off from the outside world, and I look at the woman in front of me, lying motionless in a coma on the hospital bed.

She looks so peaceful, her features still as beautiful as the first time I saw her, and it's hard to believe that she is on the edge of life.

The anger I felt towards her is now strangely quiet, and instead I am wracked with guilt. Is she here now because of me? If she dies, will her death be my fault, because of something I wished for in a moment of desperation when I could see no other way out?

Have I killed her?

A tear comes to my eye. Not just for her, but for us both, and I wonder, how did we both come to this?

### Chapter 1

June 2005

One month before

..

Putting down the phone is proving to be the hardest thing I have ever done. I know that this will be our last conversation, and I know that the moment I hang up, four years of my life will finally be over.

All the love, hope, and dreams which once filled us both with such happiness will have been swept away. Gone forever.

Yet, there is no going back now. I am not the bad guy here. It was her that slept with someone else. It was her that crossed the line and stepped outside of our trust. And it's too late now for her to show regret. Far too late.

When she told me a week ago exactly what she had done, a switch was thrown in my mind, and somewhere inside me the caring just stopped, all my positive emotions immediately being replaced by disbelief and anger. More anger than I have ever felt before at any point in my life.

I listen to her voice now, pleading with me not to do this, begging for me to come back home,... "We need to talk...,".

For a second, I hesitate, the phone handset only centimetres away from the receiver, but the hesitation is just that. A final pause in which I ask myself one more time to check if all this is real.

With the answer still 'yes', I slam the handset back on its cradle, pick up my rucksack, and walk from the platform onto the train. It's five hours to London. A new job. And a new life.

..

### Chapter 2

The journey down to London is almost relaxing. As the train speeds south along the cliff edges past North Berwick, my mind is blissfully blank. I stare out across the water, watching the seagulls riding the thermals, soaring and diving above the bright blue, sunlit sea. Careless. Unburdened. Free.

It had only taken five minutes to walk into my boss's office and ask about the vacancy advertised in the London branch. Then after a fifteen minute telephone interview and a reference from my boss, the deal was done. After all, it had only taken Kate fifteen minutes to destroy my old life, so it seemed rather fitting that in a comparable amount of time, I had managed to set up a whole new future for myself.

.

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

.

My head falls forward and I awake with a jump. I look at my watch to discover that I have been asleep for over an hour.

On the table diagonally opposite me a book lies closed, a blue woollen coat lying on the seat beside it.

I casually reach out with my right hand and spin the book around so that I can read the title: 'Marrying Slovakia.' The name of the book automatically raises a number of questions, not the least being, 'Where is Slovakia?' Then another silly question: 'How can you marry a country?' quickly followed by, 'Or is Slovakia the name of a girl?'

Looking up and down the aisle, the book's owner is nowhere to be seen, so I pick it up, flick through a couple of chapters, then start to read the first few pages.

"It's a good book," a woman's voice says, catching me by surprise.

I look up. "I'm sorry," I say, replacing it on the table.

"Don't worry, I've just finished it. You can keep it if you want."

I look across at the woman, now sitting opposite me. She is about fifty years old, quite round, rosy cheeks with big brown eyes that smile at me as she speaks.

"Are you sure?" I ask, pleased with the offer.

"Absolutely. I loved it, and I'm sure you'll enjoy it too."

"Why? What's the book about?" I ask.

"Aha. Now that would be telling, wouldn't it? But a little voice tells me that the book could have been written just for you...Why not read it and find out for yourself?"

..

..

### Chapter 3

Clapham Junction, London.

Thursday Night.

Day One.

"I'm sorry to hear about Kate. I still can't believe what she did to you," Guy says as he shows me into the bedroom I'm going to be renting for the next few months. "But I'm glad you're here. It'll be like old times again. Plus, the rent will come in handy."

I drop my rucksack on the floor and follow Guy through to the living room of his two bedroom flat on the third floor of an old Victorian house on Battersea Rise. I flop into one of two brown leather chairs, and Guy tosses me a cold beer from the fridge.

"So what happened?" he asks, taking a pew on the chair opposite me.

"You mean with Kate? Who knows? I haven't figured it all out myself yet. To be honest, I don't want to talk about it for a while. London's going to be my new start, and she belongs to my old life."

Guy looks at me for a moment, as if about to say something, but decides against it and opens his can of beer instead. "No problem. Been there, got the T-shirt. So...tell me about your new job. When do you start?"

"Monday. Straight away. I figure there's no need to waste money by taking any time off. Cheers!" I reply, leaning forward and banging my can against his in salute to my new life.

It's been almost six months since I last saw Guy, when he, I, and another friend Mark had completed a ten day trek through the mountains of Nepal to raise money for the Royal Society for the Blind, one of Guy's favourite charities.

Mark, Guy and I had shared a flat for four years when we were at university in Edinburgh. Guy had studied History of Art, and I did Physics while Mark did German: 'The Three Amigos', or at least that's what our friends called us. For four years life had been one great big party, spending almost every Saturday night together in the Student Union, drinking, dancing, playing pool and chasing women, so much so that it was a wonder we ever passed our exams. After graduating, Guy moved first to Manchester, then to London, and Mark now lives somewhere in Cologne, teaching English at a Gymnasium, which I am reliably informed is some sort of school and not a German gym.

We spend a while catching up, chatting for a while about Guy's work and the latest Kasier Chief's gig he went to see last week, until almost unavoidably the subject of women creeps back into the conversation.

"So where's Sal, then?" I ask, enquiring after Guy's girlfriend.

"She'll be round later probably. She's working late."

"How long's it been now? It must be almost three years. That's even longer than you went out with Laura. Wow...It must be pretty serious...?"

"One month longer...It's not that much...but you're right, it's now officially the longest relationship I've ever had."

"You're a lucky man, Guy. Sal's great."

"Yep. I know," Guy replies, then falls silent for a moment. "Listen, if you want, I could introduce you to some of her friends? She knows lots of pretty women, and they're always complaining that they can't find any decent blokes down here..."

"Guy," I interrupt him, "...finding another girlfriend is the last thing that's on my mind just now. I've just been dumped in the most painful way possible and there's no way that I'll be able to trust a woman for a long, _long_ time. And I don't want to meet anyone while I'm on the rebound, especially one of your friends, because I'd probably end up just hurting them, and that's the last thing I want to do. No, given my incredible track-record of success in relationships, all I'm good for right now is some completely meaningless sex with someone who doesn't want anything from me and never expects me to take them out to dinner or buy them flowers, or even remember their name in a month's time." I reply.

"Well, if that's all you want, then I know just the place..."

Which is how the next night I end-up in the Road House in Covent Garden, kissing my first girl in London. We were both very drunk. She said her name was Louisa. She was twenty-five years old with brown hair, and some sort of job in IT. And a mobile phone number, which I foolishly try to call the next day only to be given a dead tone. A false number. My first contact with a woman in London and she lies to me.

Great.

..

..

### Chapter 4

Sunday afternoon

Day Four.

..

As I sit on the number 42 bus heading south from Tooting Broadway towards Mitcham Common, I begin to feel very nauseous. I take my jacket off and lay it on the seat beside me, taking several deep breathes and closing my eyes, letting the air into my lungs slowly, holding it for a while, and then letting it back out again. My heart is beating fast, and I can feel beads of sweat building up on my face and forehead.

Perhaps I'm making a big mistake. Maybe I should listen to what my body is telling me...this is wrong. This is just so obviously a really bad idea.

For a moment I consider...for the hundredth time since I left this morning...just getting off the bus and going home. Not 'home' to Edinburgh, but 'home' as in my new room in Guy's flat. But then, I know only too well, that what I'm doing now is perhaps the real reason that I came down to London. A reason that I can't tell Guy about, or anyone else for that matter.

Maybe it's just too soon to do this? Perhaps I should just leave it for a while...after all, I only arrived in London a few days ago. I've not even settled in yet.

But then again, I've always been confrontational. If something has to be done, then why wait? Why worry about it for days or months rather than face it head on...immediately. Procrastination is the mother of all stress.

I take a long deep breath in again, hold it, then let it out slowly.

Shit. I don't have to do this...

But I don't get off the bus. And I don't change my mind. Instead, as my bus carries on, leaving the houses and shops behind and emerging into a mini-oasis of greenery, I try to calm myself down by looking at the people walking and playing on Mitcham Common.

From my seat on the top deck I can see a typical Sunday afternoon being played out before me: people walking their dogs, a football match, children flying kites with their dads, some kids throwing bread at the ducks in the small pond.

I look at the map in my hand, printed off from Guy's computer, and check how far I've still got to go. Probably another ten minutes bus-ride.

Even if I were to stop and turn around and take the next bus back, it's only a question of _when_ , not _if_ I do this. I have to know. I have to find out the answer, and the only way to do it is to follow the little map in my hand and go where it is trying to take me...

The bus soon comes to where I have to get off, and I reluctantly leave the sanctuary of my seat and navigate my way down the stairs and out on to the street. Which way now? I hold the map up and orientate myself.

Crossing the road, I walk a hundred yards backwards in the direction the bus just came from and turn left into Beech Gardens. Three minutes later I am standing on the opposite side of the road from Number 38. Not doing anything. Just standing there. Looking.

It's nothing like I thought it would be. It's a terraced house, quite small. A small garden gate. A red-tiled path that leads up to a dark green door. The walls are pebble-dashed and painted white, although that was obviously a long time ago. There is a small bedroom above the door, and I notice that its window is cracked from the top left-hand side diagonally down to the bottom. Scanning the rest of the building I see that some tiles are missing from the roof and that the green window frames all need urgent attention.

I feel disappointed. Almost let down. And somewhat ashamed.

I contemplate stepping off the curb and crossing to the other side of the road. I try to imagine myself walking up the red path and knocking on the door. In my mind I picture the door opening, a figure appearing in the doorway...but instead ten minutes later I am once again sitting on the number 42 bus and heading back to Tooting Broadway.

I am a coward.

### Chapter 5

Monday morning.

Day Five.

....

It's Monday morning and as the 8.15 a.m. train arrives at Clapham Junction I shuffle onto the train and manage to find the last empty seat in the carriage. Six minutes later and we are in the centre of London, the busiest and most exciting city in the world.

I walk out of Waterloo and catch the number 26 for the short ride to Sandhurst Road. Getting off the bus and walking up to the main entrance of my new offices, I stop for a second to catch my reflection in a nearby window.

Five-foot eleven, short light-brown hair, green eyes, broad shouldered and still quite slim, it seems that I spruce up rather well in a suit. Adjusting my tie, and trying out one of my best smiles on my reflected-self, I mentally pat myself on my back and wish myself luck.

Walking through the front door into reception, I feel like I'm just starting my first day at school, and when I sign my name in the reception book and wait for my new boss to come down and pick me up, I can't help but feel nervous.

I look around the plush reception area, noting once again the stark comparison between this customer-friendly sales office and the drab factory offices in Edinburgh where I have worked for the past three years. Having been down here a couple of times already, I pretty much know what to expect: modern, clean, attractive open-plan offices full of large green plants; impressive corner offices, meeting rooms and a fantastic canteen that serves tasty, subsidised lunches to ' _Euro.coms_ ' two hundred London based employees. My move to London is actually a minor form of promotion, which means that in switching from being a Product Manager to a customer facing Marketing Executive, I'm now entitled to a five thousand pound pay increase and a car allowance.

"Andrew, Hi! Welcome to London," a voice suddenly booms out. I look up and see James Eccleston, my new boss, advancing towards me, hand outstretched and a broad smile on his face. "Sorry you had to wait a moment or two, but I got pulled onto a sales call with an important customer. That's one thing you'll notice down here in London...The customer always comes first."

"Hi James. It's good to see you again." I say, rising from my chair and shaking James's hand. His grip is firm and strong, and in return I immediately increase the pressure on his knuckles, trying to make a good impression.

"Well, I can see that you've already been given your pass to let yourself in and out of the building, so let's just take you upstairs, show you your desk and get you settled in," says James as he steps aside and directs me towards the lift with his free hand.

We go up to the second level and step out into a busy floor occupied by about sixty people, who I am told are mostly UK based Sales and European Marketing. My desk is across the other side of the building, a window seat looking out towards the River Thames which is only about a hundred meters away, and flowing past just beneath my side of the building. The view is fantastic, and as I sit down in front of my new PC, I can't believe the comparison between my new working environment and the poky, little desk I used to have up in my old department in Edinburgh.

"Not bad, eh?" James laughs, seeing the obvious pleasure on my face.

"It's amazing," is all I can manage to mutter in reply. Outside the sun is shining, and on the other side of the river the sunlight bounces off spacious, large, golden, white granite buildings. Below me the sparkling river is alive: tourist boats, ferries, and barges plying their way back and forward, up and down the Thames. In the distance on the bend of the river I can just see the tall, impressive dome of St. Paul's Cathedral standing proud and clear above the London skyline, and a little further on, the edge of the tall, bulbous, Swiss-Re building. Looking left I try to see if I can find the BT Tower, one of the few other London landmarks that I know, but realise that I can't. Never mind. This is amazing.

"Well, drop your stuff here and I'll walk you around and introduce you to the rest of the team."

In contrast to the dingy Edinburgh office, walking round the London Euro.com offices today I feel as if I have started at a brand new company. Everything seems so fresh, so grand, and there is a tangible feeling of excitement in the air. I pick up on that, and soon I feel excited too. About what I don't exactly know, but I do feel excited.

As James walks me around the telesales, pre-sales and accounts departments, I walk from one desk to another being briefly introduced to woman after woman, all smiling, and all dressed in expensive business suits.

"Although it may not appear to be the case, we actually do employ men too," James jokes. "But most of them are account managers in the field, out on the road, and not office based. And the rest of the technical marketing department, which is probably about sixty percent men, are still at the Monday morning meeting downstairs." He glances quickly at his watch. "They should be finishing up just now...let me take you downstairs and introduce you..."

And so, minutes later I am meeting the rest of my colleagues. Seven men, and three more women. By the time I am walked back upstairs to my desk I am all-hand-shaked out, and I can't remember anyone's names.

James apologises, and makes an excuse that he has run out of time and has an appointment to go to. He shakes my hand again, and then leaves, promising to return in an hour. I find myself sitting by myself looking dumbly out of the window, wondering what I should be doing next.

A boat full of tourists passes by on the river below and I catch myself just in time as I half-raise my hand to return the wave of some children on the top-deck, waving wildly at everyone on the river bank.

"Hi, Andrew?" a soft, melodic voice asks from behind me. I swivel around in my chair, to see who it is coming from.

"Hi..." I stop dead in my tracks, dumbstruck.

It's Louisa. The woman, from last Friday night in the Road House in Convent Garden.

She is staring at me, her face turning bright red. Her mouth is frozen open in the act of going to say something, but the words have just evaporated into thin air. For a moment we just look at each other.

"Louisa...I...I tried calling you...a couple of times," I blurt out, regretting what I say as soon as the words are out of my mouth.

"Dianne...sorry. My name is Dianne..."

"Dianne? You told me your name was Louisa..."

"Did I? Ouch...sorry. I do that sometimes...I don't always like to give out my real name."

"Your real name? What's a name for, if it's not for using? Does that mean you gave me a false number too?" I ask, immediately regretting how naive I must sound.

"Probably. I was a little drunk... I can't remember..." she says, looking quickly around her, checking that no one can overhear our conversation. "Anyway,...Andrew... James sent me up to see you. I work here in IT, and I'm meant to show you how your laptop works, how to use the Intranet in the office, and to walk you through the database applications you might want to use..."

"So," I start again, not able to stop myself. "Do you always give out false numbers and names when you go out, or was it just me?"

"I always use a false name and number, because it's easier that way. Friday nights are Friday nights and that's as far as it goes. I don't do relationships. Andrew, sorry...Okay, so I know this is perhaps a little embarrassing, but I don't want to talk about it anymore. Do you want me to show you the office systems or not?"

I stare at her. Not believing what I am hearing.

"Well?" she prompts.

"No,..actually, probably not. I'll be fine...I'll figure it out somehow..."

"Okay, fine. But if you change your mind, just call the helpdesk on 4929, okay?"

"Is that really the helpdesk number, or did you make that one up too?" I ask, unable to resist.

She blushes again, smiles a little, then turns and walks away.

"I don't do relationships,' I whisper to myself. What the hell does that mean?

..

### Chapter 6

Thursday Evening.

..

I'm lying on my bed feeling a little sad about the whole fucked up mess with Kate in Edinburgh, and I'm listening to the rather aptly named "Every day I love you less and less" by the Kaiser Chiefs. Fed up with thinking of her, I try and distract my thoughts by starting to read the last few chapters of my latest novel, "Triumph of the Sun" by Wilbur Smith, when the phone rings just outside my room. A few seconds later Guy is knocking on the bedroom door, "Hey, it's your sister on the phone."

I finish the paragraph, turning down the corner of the page to mark where I am,...a habit that used to drive Kate mad..., and pick up the cordless phone from the hallway. I haven't spoken to my sister Hannah for almost two weeks.

"Hi Hannah..." I mutter sheepishly into the receiver, almost squirming in anticipation of what I know is coming.

"Andrew...What the hell are you doing in London? I can't believe it. You move to London and you don't even tell me? When did you leave Edinburgh?" she demands to know.

"Last Thursday..."

"A whole week ago? Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"Because I knew you'd try and talk me out of it..."

"...Oh, hang on a second,...you're not planning on doing anything stupid are you?" she starts, right on cue.

"I suppose it depends on what you classify as 'stupid' " I reply.

"You _are_ , aren't you? _Why?_...Come on, we've talked about this before..."

"Yeah, but that was _before_...and anyway, that's not what I came to London for."

"Like hell it isn't. As soon as Kate told me that you had gone to stay with Guy, I knew exactly what you're up to. Just don't do it, okay? Promise me?"

"You spoke to Kate? Please, don't talk to her anymore."

" _She_ called _me_. _Kept_ calling me..."

"Why?"

"She wanted Guy's address."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't give it to her, did you?"

Silence at the other end of the phone.

"Did you?" I urge.

"Andrew, I hate being piggy in the middle. The girl is really upset. I think she's desperate. She needs some sort of closure. Just talk to her one more time."

"Why? I told you what she did! I think that fucking some other bloke's brains out behind my back, is pretty much all the closure she needs..." , I pause, trying to stay calm. "...and I can't believe you gave her my address. I mean, I just travelled 400 miles to get away from her, to start a new life, and you've just told her where I am. Thanks."

"I'm sorry, okay? But she already knew you were at Guys. I didn't tell her that. Anyway, Andrew, I think you two should talk..."

A moment's silence.

"By the way, do you know that your mobile number is not working?" she carries on. "I tried calling you, but it say's the number is no longer in service..."

"I know," I reply. "I changed it last week so that Kate couldn't contact me anymore."

"So, when were you going to give me the new number?"

"Sorry. Soon. Tomorrow probably...Anyway, how did you get Guy's number? It's ex-directory..."

"From Mark in Germany. I looked up the school he teaches at on the internet, and they gave me his number. He say's 'hi'."

"Did you give this number to Kate?"

"No. I'm not stupid."

"...but you _did_ give her my address?"

"Sorry...I got that from Mark too."

"Listen, I've got to go now, okay? Guy's calling me from the kitchen..." I reply, not wanting to talk to her anymore.

"Fine, but don't be angry with me. _Please_?" she says, but I don't reply. "....And by the way, don't forget it's Dad's birthday next Thursday."

"I won't. Are you going to see him?"

"Of course I am."

"Good. Are you taking him flowers?"

"Yes."

"Can you take some for me too?"

"Carnations?"

"I suppose so. Thanks"

"Will you call me soon?"

"Yes."

"Good,...And I'm sorry, okay?"

Click, and she hangs up.

### Chapter 7

Friday Evening.

..

The end of a long first week finally arrives, and by 6 pm. I find myself with a gang of other Euro.com employees downstairs in the Lemon Tree pub near Charing Cross. We've already had a pint each and I am at the bar queuing to buy the next round and waiting for Guy and Sal to arrive.

"A vodka with orange juice and a pint of Bombardier," a woman's voice beside me says. I turn to look at its owner, and recognise her as one of the girls from the telesales department.

"Hi, you're Andrew right?" She says. "We met on Monday..."

"Yes, that's right. And you are..."  
"Gail," she completes my sentence for me. "Don't worry. You must have met millions of people on Monday, and there's no way you could remember all our names," she laughs.

We walk back towards the others, carrying two trays full of beer and glasses of wine. Everyone reaches forward and grabs their drinks, and after a brief round of "Cheers" I find myself standing beside Gail. I just start telling her what a difference the London office is in comparison with Edinburgh, when Guy walks into the pub.

"Listen, there's been a small change of plan. Sal has gone out with some work friends, and she just called to suggest we go and join her there. I said we'd have a few drinks here first, and then join them later..."

Sal and her friends are in a pub called Porter's Bar, a very large Irish bar near Covent Garden. When Guy and I walk in around ten o'clock it's packed solid: hundreds of Friday night party animals, a mixture of tourists and office workers, all out to have a good time.

We eventually find Sal in the middle of a group of women, who Guy says are the usual gang she hangs out with after work at the end of a day in the Recruitment Consultancy office where she works. I comment to Guy how good looking Sal is tonight and how lucky he is. I haven't seen her dressed up in work clothes before and she looks great. A lot different to when she comes round during the week in jeans and thick, woollen jumpers.

Sal sees us coming over and wraps an arm around Guy's neck and shouts my name at the rest of the group. "This is Andrew...Guy's new flatmate. It's his first week in London."

A round of "Hi's" and 'Hellos".

"I'm thirsty. I'll go and get us both a pint," Guy volunteers.

He pats me on the back and disappears, leaving a small gap in our circle, which Sal immediately fills by moving closer to me.

"So, how are you?" Sal asks.

"Fine. This week has been great. The job seems really interesting."

"And you? How are you? Guy told me what happened with Kate. It must hurt."

It's the first time that Sal and I have spoken alone since I got to London, and the first time she has mentioned Kate.

"I'm fine. I'm over her."

She looks at me for a second, then touches my hand gently.

"Listen, if you want to talk sometime, just let me know. Okay? And just take it easy and enjoy yourself for a while... And don't worry... Andrew, you're a really good looking guy. You're interesting, far too modest for your own good, you're tall and strong, you've got a great sense of humour and you're kind and sensitive, all qualities that women like, and best of all, you've got a fantastic smile. Men like you are not easy to find down here, so when the time's right, and you're ready, I'm sure that you'll find it easy to meet someone new..."

"Maybe," is all I can muster in reply, feeling myself beginning to blush.

Sal sees me turning red and laughs, and leans towards me and gives me a kiss on the cheek, squeezing me gently on my arm. "Don't worry, Andrew. You'll be fine."

A few minutes later Guy returns and I'm handed my next pint.

"So what are you going to do with yourself this weekend?" he asks. "Do you still have any hobbies, or have you given them all up?"

Guy is a massive rugby fan. He is a big man, broad shouldered, strong arms, and powerful. But his face is soft, with big blue eyes sparkling out from a wide skull, with short curly blonde hair. He is a bear, although a soft, and harmless bear at that. Even more soft now with the substantial beginnings of a sizeable beer belly that threatens to grow and spread beyond control. At university in the first year he was good enough to play for the university first rugby team, but after several years of drinking and missing several practice sessions he realised his top performance days were over. Since then he has played for local clubs in the minor leagues, the league becoming more minor as the years passed. Nevertheless, Guy still enjoyed the game, and the game enjoyed his participation.

"I still love windsurfing but I've left my boards up in Edinburgh," I reply in answer to his question. "...And I still love climbing and ridge walking. I'm trying to climb all the Monroes and I've done over half of them now."

"...That may be, but since there aren't exactly many mountains down here, you'll have to find something new to do in flat old London."

"Fair point. Maybe I'll bring my windsurfer down next time I go to Edinburgh and I'll join a club down on the south coast somewhere. In the meantime, I'll probably take up squash again.

"Listen,...changing the subject a little bit, but have you talked to that attractive girl over there yet?" Guy asks, pointing. "That's Mandy, Sal's flatmate. She's single and..."

"Guy! Are you listening to me? For the last time, I'm NOT looking for anyone! At least...I'm not looking for anything serious and I don't want to give anyone the impression I am. Which for now makes the Road House the ideal place for me. It's the perfect place to meet some drunk woman for a totally meaningless, short-lived, relationship...that just lasts anything between one hour to one night...And right now, that's all I'm fit for."

"So you're going there again tonight, then?"

"Try stopping me."

..

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

..

I am sitting at the bar feeling rather sorry for myself and getting rather drunk. Draining the rest of my third bottle of beer, I set about ordering myself another one. As I try to get the attention of the barman, I notice someone looking at me from the other side of the circular bar. The face is familiar. It's Louisa. Or Dianne. Or whatever else her name is tonight. Obviously this is a regular haunt of hers.

I frown, and without catching her eyes, I look away, concentrating on trying to order my beer.

"Hi." A voice says behind me a few minutes later. A woman's voice, which I swivel round to meet.

" _Oh_...," I say, in pretence of surprise.

"I noticed you earlier. I suppose you're ignoring me. Which is fine. Considering."

"Good," I reply. "I mean, I wouldn't want to upset you. So it's good that it's fine." I say, a little drunkenly. "Oh, and by the way...who are you? I mean, now,... or tonight?"

"Listen, I just wanted to come over and apologise for maybe being a little too harsh earlier on in the week. Maybe we got off to a bad start, so..."

"Actually," I volunteer. "I thought that we got off to a rather _good_ start. But you were someone else then, and after all, you don't _do_ relationships."

She smiles, looks down at her drink, and stirs whatever it is with the little cocktail stick in the glass.

"Which is fine with me" I carry on, "because actually, I don't really _do_ relationships either." I smile at her, cocking my head to one side.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"Oh, you know..." I hesitate, but being drunk and unable to stop saying exactly what comes into my mouth, I carry on. "...because to be honest, I am on the rebind. Rebound. Which means that from now on that I can only meet people, who like me, do _not_ want a relationship, because if they do, I will just hurt them, and then I will be a bastard. Which I'm not. Or at least, I don't want to be. And there you have it."

She comes closer, leaning on the bar beside me, and I swivel back round to the counter, half facing her, half-facing away.

"Wow." She says. "That's honest. Well, if it helps, I don't think you are bastard. And I'm sorry for the false number and name last week."

"No problem." I reply. "And since we're being so honest with each other right now," I reply. "I feel under obligation to tell you that my name is not actually Andrew. It's Doris. And I am a girl."

I chuckle, not knowing exactly why I just said what I did. But thankfully Dianne laughs too.

"So, Dianne," I say, "Now I have told you why I will not have a relationship with you, no matter how much you beg me...or you pay me..., now you can tell me just why you don't do relationships either."

"Fair enough," she replies. " I mean, why should I do relationships? I'm only twenty five, which in my books is far too young to be serious about any one person. I prefer to just go out there and meet men and have fun."

"So, are you on the rebound too?" I ask.

"No,...not really." She starts to reply. "Well, actually-since we're being so honest-..., yes... I mean, I _was_. But that was a year ago. And since then I just know that all men are bastards, and not to get involved with them. That doesn't stop me from occasionally sampling the merchandise though. If you know what I mean."

Which is how, four hours later I find myself leaving her flat and catching a taxi back to Clapham.

..

### Chapter 8

The Truth Will Out

While I lie in my bed, my head propped up with my hands behind my head, I stare at the ceiling and think about last night. I've only been in London for one week, and already I am changing. I've just had my first one night stand. My first real experience of casual, meaningless sex with the first woman, apart from Kate, that I have slept with in four years. Still, sleeping with Dianne was something that I definitely needed. A catharsis that took care of several months of frustration. And plus, although I am reluctant to admit it to myself, since arriving in London there have been a few moments when I have felt quite lonely, and even though it was only for an hour or two, I needed the touch and warmth of someone else.

My coffee finished, I reach out to my watch on my bedside cabinet. 1pm. Not good. Time to get up and decide what I'm going to do with the rest of my weekend.

Guy and Sal are in the kitchen, and Guy is fixing some lunch. Sal is wearing one of Guys long T-shirts. And nothing else. She is barefoot, long-legged and very sexy, and for a moment I am very jealous of Guy. We chat for a few minutes and then she disappears to the bathroom for a long, hot, soak.

"You're a really lucky man," I say to Guy as soon as she leaves. "She's lovely."

"I know. You don't need to tell me..." He looks at me, his face suddenly very serious. "Wait here a moment, will you?" Guy says quietly, walking out of the kitchen and saying something to Sal in the bathroom, before coming back and closing the kitchen door behind him. He sits down at the kitchen table opposite me and starts to fiddle with the small crumbs of toast left on his plate.

"What?" I say to him, recognising from the silence and the way he closed the door behind him that this is a portent of something important to come.

"What do you mean, 'what?'" he replies, playing for time, a touch of nervousness in his voice.

"I mean, it's obvious you want to tell me something. So what is it?"

"What makes you so sure it has be something?" he asks.

"Guy,...just get on with it, okay?" I know Guy. From the look on his face, this must be pretty big. Whatever it is.

"Well,...It's really something that you asked me last week...Can you remember when you first got here and we were sitting having a beer and you asked me if it was serious between me and Sal? I don't know why, but I avoided giving you an answer. And the truth is, that actually I think that Sal,...Sal could maybe be the one for me."

"What you mean, ' _the one for you_?' "

"I mean my wife-to-be. The mother of my children. The one who I will sit and grow old and grey and get osteoporosis with. The truth is, I'm completely in love."

I start to say something, but am stopped before I even open my mouth.

"...no, listen. After we talked last week I felt like a bloody traitor for not being completely honest with you. So I had to tell you now. The fact is, Sal is great. And she's the best thing that ever happened to me. There. I've done it. The truth is out."

"Wow," is all I can muster in reply.

It's not that I'm shocked. Sal is a fantastic sexy girl. A lovely personality. The works. But I've never seen Guy like this with any woman before.

"So, what does Sal think? Does she feel the same?" I ask, mainly because I don't know what else to say. I'm still surprised to see how far and hard Guy has fallen.

"I don't know. I know she loves me,... but I don't know if she thinks if I'm the one for her...or not." He says, looking at the table and beginning to nervously flick the little brown dried toast crumbs off the edge of the plate, one by one.

Then a sudden thought occurs to me:- "Have you asked her to marry you?", I ask.

"No," comes back the answer. "At least,...not yet. Soon though. I mean, probably soon. I'm just still trying to figure the whole thing out. Like, where and when,...and how."

"Are you really serious? You are really going to propose?" I say, getting excited.

"Maybe. Probably." He almost stammers. "I mean, do you think I should?"

I start to laugh, but when I look at Guy I see that he is looking straight at me, hoping for an answer. So, this is what this is about. Guy has just called a "Three Amigos" meeting -except we are one amigo down- to get my advice on the most important question of all. Marriage.

I feel honoured. Really. This is great. Things are getting back to like they were in the old days. But then the euphoria passes and I realise that Guy is still staring at me. Waiting. For an answer.

"Sorry," I forcibly bring the laughing under control. "It's just such a surprise. I can't believe that you are asking my advice on this. This is one choice you have to make for yourself."

Guy looks at me sheepishly, almost pleadingly. Desperate for some words of wisdom.

"Guy,...Sal's lovely. Sexy, kind, interesting, intelligent, good with your mates. What else could you want? If you are so much in love with her, why not just ask her?"

"...But you don't think that I would be crazy if I did? I mean, I'm just 28 years old. Is that not too young to get married?"

"Listen Guy. I think you're lucky. Sal is fantastic. But only you can decide if you love her enough to spend the rest of your life with her."

Guy is listening to me intently. When I finish my sentence Guy turns and stares at the door Sal just left through.

"Yes. Exactly. Absolutely... you're right. Thanks," he says, almost absentmindedly.

He slowly rises to his feet and walks out of the kitchen. I follow him into the hall. He is putting on a jacket and just about to walk out the door.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"Out," he says. "There's something I have to buy and I need some fresh air."

Returning to the kitchen I pop the kettle back on and start to make another cup of coffee, wondering where Guy has just rushed off to. With the coffee made, I slowly read Guy's copy of the Guardian, which is lying on the kitchen table, then I return to my room and begin to lose myself in the latest album from Helen Boulding, the best female singer to come out of Britain in the past twenty years. I pride myself in my good taste in female vocalists and even more so, because I am one of Boulding's first fans. I've been buying her singles for years, but it's only in the past few months that she has started to get noticed by the media. One day she is going to be huge, but at the moment, we have pretty much got this exclusive thing going on between us. As I lie back on my bed and start to enjoy her mellow tones, - a cross between Sarah McGlachlan, Jewel, and maybe even Joni Mitchell-, I wonder for the hundredth time what she looks like. Is she a middle aged product of the eighties, or young, attractive and single? Just as I reach for the album cover to study it once again and see if there is a photograph on the inside sleeve that I might have missed, there's a soft knock on the door, and Sal speaks.

"Andrew, has Guy gone out?" she asks from outside.

"Yes,...come in..." I reply as the door opens and she walks in with a large green towel wrapped around her body, her long, wet hair wrapped up in a blue towel on her head. "He said he had to get something. He'll probably be back soon."

"Oh....right." she replies, hovering in the doorway, as if she wants to say something.

There is a slight, pregnant pause, whilst I wait for her to either leave, come in, or continue speaking.

"Andrew...you've known Guy for a long time now, haven't you?" she asks. I can tell she is nervous, playing for time, because we both know that she already knows the answer.

"Yes. Since just before university."

"Right. That's good...." She starts out strongly, but quickly comes to another silent stop. Then, "The thing is....can I come in for a moment?" she asks expectantly. "There's something important I want to talk to you about."

"Sure" I say, patting the bed beside me, not totally against the idea of a beautiful semi-naked woman fresh out of a bath wanting to join me on a bed. But then I ruin it all with an unexpected, "Actually, why don't you grab some clothes first...?"

She looks down at the towel which starts just above her breasts and stops a little below her bottom, and quickly blushes.

"Oops...sorry. That's probably a good idea...I'll just be a moment," and she disappears down the hall into Guy's room.

'What on earth does Sal want to talk to me about that is making her so nervous?' I wonder, hoping that I haven't done anything to upset her. But before I can find out what it is, the front door opens and a beaming Guy strides back into the flat, his hands thrust deep into his jacket pockets.

"Where's Sal?" he whispers to me as he pops his head around the bedroom door.

"In your room, getting dressed I think."

"Right. Thanks," he replies, a wistful smile gracing his lips.

"So what did you go out to buy then?" I ask, genuinely interested.

"Oh nothing. Nothing. Just something that I had to get," he replies to me, his eyes twinkling. "But don't mention anything to Sal, okay?" he says, lifting his forefinger in front of his mouth and asking me to keep quiet about it.

Just then Sal emerges back out from the bedroom, walking up to Guy and cuddling up to his back from behind, kissing him on the cheek and wrapping her arms around his long-extinct waistline. Guy smiles, returns the kiss and then asks if he can make us all a cup of tea. As he speaks, Sal winks at me, mouthing something over his shoulder before raising her forefinger gently to her mouth and requesting or gentling telling me not to mention what we were talking about before.

What is it about these two? Both of them keeping so many secrets from each other? Is that what happens when you really fall in love?

..

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

..

With nothing exciting on the TV or Radio, I settle down onto my bed and finish the last two chapters of my Wilbur Smith novel.

Dropping "Triumph of the Sun" onto the floor, I take a sip of my lukewarm tea and pick up the copy of "Marrying Slovakia" I was given on the train. I've been dying to start reading it and am looking forward to the next few hours of self-indulgence. Unfortunately, I am only twenty pages further into the book when at four o'clock the doorbell rings and I have to put it down to go and answer the door. There has been no sign of either Guy or Sal since they disappeared into their bedroom after lunchtime, and I guess I probably won't see much more of them until 7 o'clock, when we're all meant to be going into town for some drinks and a meal.

When I open the door, the man standing on the doorstep asks my name and then quickly thrusts a clip-board at me, matter-of-factly telling me to sign and initial for the parcel he offers me with his other hand.

Staring at my name written on the front of the brown parcel, trying furiously to figure out who on earth can not only have tracked me down so quickly but will also want to send me anything, I retreat into my own bedroom and sit on the bed.

A feeling of dread overcomes me as it suddenly dawns on me who it's from. I turn the parcel over in my hands, and not finding a return address that would confirm my fears, I rip off the top of the parcel and empty the contents on to the bed.

A single cassette tape lands on my pillow, the words "Dear Andrew, Please listen to this. Love Kate" written in blue ink on the inside sleeve of the cassette box.

I stare at it, not daring to touch it or move it, my heart beating faster and my breathing growing deep and slow. I feel slightly ill. A mixture of emotions wells up within me, the most prominent being anger: "Why won't she leave me alone?"

I look briefly around the room, as if looking for guidance on what to do next. Then the answer comes to me and it is so simple. Getting up from the bed, I pick up the cassette tape and drop it into the wicker waste-paper basket under my desk. Problem solved.

..

### Chapter 9

Saturday Evening

....

"This," Guy is explaining to me, "has got to be the best bar in Britain."

The reason why is self explanatory. I think it would be impossible to find somewhere with a more impressive view than the one you have from the deck of the "Tattershill Castle", an old steamer docked against the Embankment on the Thames, directly opposite the London Eye, and only several hundred yards from Big Ben and Westminster and the Houses of Parliament. The sun is shining, the air is warm, and the deck of the boat is alive with hundreds of smartly dressed young people. There is a tangible feeling of excitement in the atmosphere, an air of expectation that is shared all across the capital as the beautiful people of London leave their houses and throng into streets, the pubs and clubs, and open air beer gardens, starting their evening with a relaxed drink and wondering where the evening ahead will take them, what they will see, what they will do and who they will meet.

It's just the three of us tonight. Guy, Sal and myself. At first I can't help but feel a little like a gooseberry, but by the time the first beer is almost empty, we are enjoying ourselves too much for me to still feel unwanted.

After another drink Sal decides to take us to her favourite sushi restaurant in London.

We eat too much. We laugh. We drink too much saki.

And it feels good. To be enjoying ourselves. To be in London on a Saturday night. Alive, happy and amongst friends. I realise now just how much I have missed Guy, and how glad I am to be back in the fold.

And the night is still so young...

..

### Chapter 10

The Morning after the night before

..

The next afternoon I wake with the biggest hangover I have had in years. I spend the rest of the day in bed, regretting profusely having moved from restaurant to pub to nightclub, and from saki to beer, and then onto cocktails.

It's just before nine o'clock when I manage to sneak into my seat at work on the Monday morning, adopting the lowest profile I can manage. I still feel like shit, my mouth still taste likes shit, and I'm sure I look like shit. Whereas the headache from last night has mostly worn off by now, my body is still suffering from what I am sure can only be described as severe alcohol poisoning. My hangover has now officially become the second worst hangover of my adult life, eclipsed only by the infamous Hogmanay Hangover of 1998, which took the prize for suffering mainly due to the copious number of times I had to pay homage to the porcelain bowl on the morning of the 1st January. The worst beginning to any new year that I can ever remember.

How I got so drunk last night I can't _exactly_ remember, but the "why" is more obvious to me.

Kate.

To dull the pain and make her go away...

Unfortunately, my delicate condition soon becomes the butt of humour for the whole department, when during the morning's marketing meeting I stupendously fail to stay awake. Upon being rudely awoken by a sharp elbow in the ribs from one of my colleagues, I find that my boss has just asked me a question that I have not heard.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about something else..." I blurt out in apology.

A round of laughter. James looks sternly at me, then moves on to ask someone else. After the meeting he asks me to stay behind for a moment. I am expecting the Spanish Inquisition, but surprisingly I don't receive it. Instead he just looks at me silently for a little while, asks me if I am okay, and reminds me that the customer presentation I am working on needs completing by tomorrow morning.

Nothing else is said, but when I leave the room I know that I have just been warned. A lesson quickly learned. Saturday night was a rite of passage into London life that I won't be doing again,...at least not any time soon.

..

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

..

At lunchtime I bump into Gail in the company canteen, the girl that I met in the Lemon Tree last Friday at the end of my first week at work. Laughing, she asks me if it is really true that I fell asleep during James's meeting, informing me that I have become a Euro.com legend, and that everyone in the company has heard through the grapevine what I did.

"Ouch. That's perhaps not the best impression to make in the first month of a new job," I reply.

"Don't worry about it. At least everyone has heard of you now. There's no such thing as bad advertising, right?"

I smile at her. Maybe she is right.

"So, are you coming to the Lemon Tree on Friday again?" she asks.

"Maybe. Is it a regular thing?"

"Yeah. It's pretty much every Friday night. It's not always the same people, but everyone knows that come Friday night, as soon as it's five o'clock, it's time to get there quick for Happy Hour and you can be sure of some good company. It's fun. You should come this Friday too. It's a good way to meet people."

"Thanks. I suppose I should meet some new people. After last Saturday night, it'll be a while before I trust my flatmate enough to take me out for a drink again."

..

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

..

"Your sister called," Guy shouts at me as I walk in through the door, dumping my laptop bag on the floor and walking into the kitchen to grab a drink of water. It's really hot outside today, and the train back to Clapham Junction was packed, full of people sucking on bottles of water and trying not to melt in commuter hell. I could only look on enviously, taking a mental note that in London a bottle of water is a fundamental travel aid that one cannot live without.

Walking back into my room and lying on the bed, I wonder if I should call her back tonight. Having a big sister is great. I love her to bits. I do. But, I'm pretty sure that anything she wants to talk to me about just now is probably Kate related.

"Hi Hannah. So how are you?" I ask, giving in, as I always do.

"Fine. So, have you heard from her?" she asks, getting straight to the point.

For a moment I consider lying to her. It would be far simpler just to bend the truth a little. To avoid what will come next if I say yes. Better to say no.

"Yes," I hear myself replying.

"So what did she say?" she asks.

My eyes stray to the basket underneath my desk where I can just make out the corner of the cassette box poking out from under a few pieces of crumpled paper.

"I don't know," I hesitate. But with Hannah, as always, the truth will out. "She sent me a tape. An old-fashioned cassette. And a short note, telling me to listen to it."

"And did you?"

"Obviously not, otherwise I would know what she said," I reply sarcastically.

"Why not?"

"Come on Hannah. Give me a break. I don't want anything more to do with her. I never want to speak to her again. Every single second spent thinking about her is a second stolen from getting on with the rest of my real life."

"Andrew. Stop being stupid. Listen to the tape, and give me a call back when you've done it. Okay? I love you." And she hangs up, the pips ringing in my ears.

I drop the handset on the bed, lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I hate my sister.

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

..

Guy has gone round to Sals, the flat is empty, and I am just finishing off the last few mouthfuls of a particularly spicy vegetable curry take away.

The inevitability of what is going to happen next really bugs me. I know that Hannah is right. She's always bloody right. I have to listen to the tape, because if I don't I will always wonder what Kate had wanted to say to me. I'm mad because Kate has chosen exactly the right way to force me to listen to her. If she'd written me a letter, I could have sent it back, or burnt it. If she'd called me, I could have just hung up, although she doesn't have my number so there's no danger of that happening. But by sending me the tape she is _forcing_ me to listen to her, to give her the time of day that she simply does not deserve. I resent the power the stupid cassette has over me, it now compelling me to do exactly what I don't want to do.

I close my bedroom door and switch on my desktop light, pulling the wicker basket out from under the wooden table. Picking out the tape from underneath the rubbish, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the harbinger of confusion that is in my hands. It takes ten minutes before I have the courage to lean across to my newly purchased Denon hi-fi deck and flick open the cassette tray, remove 'Dark Side of the Moon' and flip Kate's tape in. I push play, switch off the light and lie back on the bed in the dark, the room lit only faintly by the blue LCD lights flickering on the hi-fi amplifier. My heart is thumping even harder in my chest now and my forehead is clammy. I take a few deep breathes trying to regain control of my emotions.

Hearing the sound of her voice makes my heart beat event faster and I suddenly feel butter flies swarming in my stomach. A picture of Kate appears in my mind's eye.

"Andrew," her voice is soft and quiet. As she speaks I can hear her words quivering with emotion, and in my mind, I can see that she has probably just been crying. She sniffs. Probably wiping away another tear.

"Andrew...I'm really sorry...I'm so very, very sorry. I didn't want it to end like this. Not like this."

There is a slight pause, during which I think to myself, 'Aha...but you're admitting that you did want to end it?', before her voice continues.

"I love you Andrew, very much. I always have. And what happened between me and Mike didn't mean anything. If it helps, I haven't seen him again, and I'm not going to. I'm not seeing anyone now, and it'll be a long time before I will even think about anything like that...I love you."

She hesitates, her voice quivering again, and I can hear the tears beginning to flow. Pathetically, I am crying now as well. Quietly.

"This is really hard...I'm hoping that you are listening to this, and I'm sorry that this is the only way that I can talk to you. I would really prefer to sit down with you and talk face to face, but...Andrew, I never meant to hurt you..." Sobbing. A lot of tears. Mostly mine. I breathe in deeply and swallow hard. This is exactly what I didn't want. Her voice is reaching into me and stirring it all up again. Bringing it all back. Making me weak. Bastard! I've got to stop this...

I sit up on the edge of the bed and reach out to touch the 'Stop' button, but don't quite make it before her voice carries on and stops me in mid-movement.

"In a strange way, I'm glad I did it though," she says. "Because it brought us closure."

Closure?

"It's like our relationship was dying, and we were just clinging on to something that shouldn't really exist anymore. You didn't trust me and it's almost seemed as if you wanted me to do something really bad. So subconsciously, maybe I just obliged, knowing that once I did, it would be over between us for good. Not that I really planned to sleep with anyone else. It's just that it couldn't really go on like it was, and your lack of trust in me was driving a wedge between us. It's almost like you couldn't accept that a woman could ever love you as much as I did, so you deliberately started to push me away. No...no, we've been over this a hundred times before. Come on Andrew, it wasn't my fault....Sorry, I mean, _yes_ , it was my fault. It was _me_ that slept with someone else, but it's almost as if _you_ were deliberately pressurising me do it!"

Suddenly I am furious. How the fuck is it my fault that she slept with someone else? How the fuck is it my fault that she was unfaithful, and how the fuck can I be the one that drove her away...?"

"...Andrew, you killed us. Not me. No, _we_ killed us. Both of us, I mean, it wasn't _just_ my fault"

I am staring at the tape machine now, past the cassette deck and the tape endlessly winding on and on, my fingers digging deeply into the soft covers over the edge of my bed, when from out of nowhere another random image of Kate appears in my mind, this time smiling at me.

"How the hell did I drive you away?" I cry aloud. "How?"

"Andrew, I know you're probably wondering why I had to talk to you, and you're probably thinking that I'm going to beg you to take me back. But I'm not. I do miss you. A lot. Since you walked out of the door and slammed it shut after you, I haven't been able to sleep properly or stop thinking about you at all. With you gone, it's like my right arm has been cut off. I can't function properly,...because you are not here. But I know it's over. And I know that you won't come back. But I love you, and for your sake, and _because_ I love you, I have to tell you that you HAVE TO START LEARNING TO TRUST WOMEN! You have to have..."

A fury erupts within me and I jump to my feet, punching the air and screaming aloud.

"Trust? Trust women? What the fuck are you talking about? How fucking rich is that coming from you! You slept with some fucking random guy from a night club, whilst we were LIVING TOGETHER, and you say I should trust women? Are you fucking MAD?"

As I reach forward to the tape deck my hands are shaking uncontrollably with anger, the last thing I hear her say before I whip out the cassette and start to pull out the thin brown tape, loop after loop, forming spaghetti all over my bed, is... "and I can guess why you've gone down to London, and I think it's the right thing to do. It's probably the best thing you've ever done. I just wish you had done it before, then maybe you and I would still be..."

..

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

..

I lie in the dark for a long time. It takes a while for my heart to stop pounding, for the adrenaline to run its course, and for the tears to eventually stop. Men don't cry much, but when they do, they don't mess around. Except I don't just cry. I sob my heart out; my shoulders shaking violently as an almost primordial release of emotion wells up within me, overflows and explodes on the apathetic world around. At first I am sobbing and crying along with my own tears, but then I begin to feel strangely distant from myself, and I am like an impartial observer watching the rising and falling of my own chest and listening to the cries pouring out of my own mouth. Amidst it all, I feel strangely in control, as if I could stop myself from dissolving at any point, but I realise that this is good, that this is healthy, that this is what I should I have done a long time ago. And so I go with the flow, sink back into myself, and cry along with my tears. The healing has begun.

When I am finished, I am exhausted. My hands, I realise, are lying palm up on the bed beside me, and I am lying with my head to the side, staring at the static blue light on the front display of my hi-fi.

I feel strangely relaxed. Almost good.

I am no longer angry with Kate. For a moment I wonder if I am disappointed that after all my running away from her, worried that she might try to track me down and find me, that in fact she only wanted to say good bye and give me some advice. Perhaps I knew all along that she wouldn't want me back. Perhaps the running away and hiding was just a stupid, childish way of trying to regain some control over the whole, fucked up, mess.

And then I start to think about what she said.

Was it really all my fault? Did I really push her away? Did I honestly drive her into the arms of another man, even whilst she was still in love with me? Is there any sense to be had from all this, or is it just the inevitability of all relationships, that eventually they all just break down and collapse into a mire of confusion, mind-games and pain? When two people both speak the same language in words that neither person understands?

I feel a softness brushing against my fingers, which then curl in childish reflex around the expanded spaghetti that was until a few minutes ago the voice of Kate. A pang of regret hits me as I remember her last words, and I wonder what more she would have said to me if I had not destroyed the cassette.

Leaning over to my lamp, I switch on the light and stare at the remnants of the tape, inspecting it to see if there is any way I could resurrect her voice from the destruction I have wrought. Sadly, I realise that as ever I have been customarily thorough in my vandalism. I shall never know for sure the exact words she wanted to say, but actually, I know that it's not so important after all: somehow I know what she was going to tell me. She knows exactly why I'm here in London. And perhaps she is right. Perhaps, if I had come to London when I first knew, then perhaps emotionally I would be in a different place now. And perhaps, just perhaps, Kate and I would still have been together.

One thing _is_ for sure. Now I'm in London, I know exactly what I have to do.

I am going to do what must be done, and I _am_ going to do it right.

If I lost Kate, not because of something she did, but because of something I didn't, then I'm going to make sure it doesn't happen again.

### Chapter 11

Helen Boulding

....

The next morning I awake feeling light and fresh, as if a large burden has been lifted from my shoulders.

Catching the train into work I feel full of energy, and I look around me with a new found love for life. The cloud that has been hanging over me for the past month has suddenly lifted, and everything seems so vivid once again.

I manage to find a seat in the carriage, a fantastic feat in itself since by the time I get on at Clapham Junction, -the last stop on the way into the city for almost all London bound trains-, there is normally never a spare place to be found. When I sit down, a big smile on my face for no obvious reason, just simply because I literally feel great and am exuding good will to all men, I find that my smile is immediately returned by a lovely blonde woman who is sitting opposite me. I look back and continue to smile directly at her, inadvertently probably making her feel a little uncomfortable. She blushes a little, and I realise that I am embarrassing her now, so I quickly look away, breaking the tension and letting her relax again. On the floor at my feet is a rather trampled copy of the free London paper, The Metro. Bending down, I pick it up and open its crumpled pages, feigning interest in reading its contents.

After a few moments, I lower the paper and peer over the top of the pages, trying to see the woman in front of me without being caught. She is looking away from me out of the window opposite. I quickly study her face, noting that she is very pretty, around my age or maybe a little older, with lovely green eyes. Then, possibly because her sixth sense feels my scrutiny, she turns her head back towards me and I find myself once again looking right into her eyes. This time it is I who feels uncomfortable, perhaps at being caught, or perhaps by the way she looks straight at me, almost _into_ me: this time without her making any effort to look away again.

I quickly lift the paper up in front of me, cough, and then turn the page, and then also the next, and the next after that, digesting every single word of the each column, determined to avoid her gaze any further and prove to all concerned that I was in fact reading, and not staring.

When the train pulls into Waterloo a few minutes later, I am the last person to get up and leave the carriage, by which time the woman opposite has disappeared.

Arriving at work ten minutes early, my brightness and good mood is immediately noted by some of my new workmates. Ben, another manager in my group, laughs and jokingly enquires if I 'got laid' the night before. Without divulging anything I offer to get coffees, and soon return with a round of fresh caffeine for everyone in my team.

I continue to feel brilliant for the rest of the morning, breezing through my work load and managing to put together a whole new customer sales presentation before lunch. When I send it to James for comment, I get back a one-line answer: "Excellent work. Job well done." Today, it's all good.

In the canteen, I bump into Gail just as I am leaving to grab half an hour of fresh air. We chat for a minute, and when I mention that I am going to see a singer tonight called Helen Boulding playing a gig in a bar in London, she replies enthusiastically, "Helen Boulding? She's one of my favourite singers! Can I come too?"

"Why not? I was just going by myself, but you're welcome to come and bring Luke too if you want?" I reply, simultaneously surprised and disappointed that Gail has heard of Helen Boulding.

She looks at me, hesitating for a second before replying, "No, I think he's busy tonight. I'll come alone. Why don't I meet you there just before it starts?"

"Eight o'clock? Outside the Borderline bar on Tottenham Court Road?"

"Fine. It's a date," she replies.

..

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

..

It's ten past nine, and Gail hasn't turned up yet. I've waited over an hour for her. From downstairs I can hear that Helen has just started singing one of her best songs, "Housework", and I decide that I am not going to miss her set for anyone. As I pay for my ticket at the door, and head downstairs into the dark, smoke filled bar in the cellars, I push back the disappointment I begin to feel welling up inside me.

Okay, so I know Gail has a boyfriend and it wasn't really a date, but the first time I actually arrange to meet a woman in London, and she doesn't show up. It isn't exactly helping me to build my trust in women, is it?

Fortunately, by the time I have finished my first pint of lager, I am lost in the music, and am singing along to Helen's latest single "If it hurts, it ain't love." "Exactly," I say to myself under my breath, thinking of my recent fucked up relationship with Kate. In the end, it just hurt too much. So it definitely wasn't love then, was it?

..

..

### Chapter 12

A New Start

....

I am at the office early the next morning, a full day of work mentally mapped out in front of me.

After switching on my computer, I return from making myself a cup of tea to find my phone blinking, a little red light showing that I have a voice message waiting for me. I hit the green button while taking a sip of my tea, and listen to a message just left by Gail.

"Andrew, I'm really sorry about last night. Something came up. Give me a call and I'll explain. Sorry. I hope you enjoyed the gig."

I think about it for a second, but then delete the message and decide not to call her back.

The day whizzes by. I'm in a customer meeting for most of the time, busy extolling the virtues of one of our product ranges to a collection of managers from the IT department of a merchant bank in London. As the meeting draws to a close in the afternoon, James invites the customer and the marketing team out for a drink in one of the local pubs, and as I swing by my desk to pick up my jacket I quickly check my emails. There's one from my sister wanting to find out if I listened to the tape, and there's one from Gail-"Call me...Are you angry with me?"

Of course, as I am coming to understand is par for the course in London, the 'one quick drink' soon turns into a second and then a third, with the option for a curry, and another few drinks afterwards.

With fresh memories of my weekend hangover, I manage to escape after the curry, and get home just before 10pm, nevertheless still slightly the worse for wear.

"Your sister called," Guy shouts from his bedroom as soon as I walk in the door.

"When?"

"About 8.30. She told me to make sure I got you to call her back. She's quite bossy, isn't she?"

"No kidding," I reply, retreating to the bedroom with the phone from the hall. There's no avoiding it so I might as well get it over with.

"So how do you feel?" Hannah asks me, after I have explained to her that it's really over, and that Kate doesn't really want to see me again.

"At first I felt really relieved, I mean that it's finally over. It probably gave me more closure than it did her. But then, later on today I thought about her for the first time,...and I almost even missed her..., it was really strange."

"Did she you tell you why she did it? Who the other guy was?"

Should I tell her this?...Probably not, but I do anyway.

"She said it was a lot my fault. That I pushed her away because I don't trust women."

"And did you?" she asks.

"Let's not talk about it. I _know_ there's a few things I have to deal with, and I will. But in my own time, okay?"

"But you won't do anything stupid? Will you? I mean, you're not going to go and..."

"Maybe I will. Maybe I won't," I interrupt her again. "The fact is, I'm in London now, and whilst I'm here, I may as well do it. Even Kate thinks I should. It was the last thing she said to me before I destroyed the tape."

There is silence at the other end of the phone.

"...Andrew, I really don't think it's a good idea. If dad knew, you know he'd be mad."

"Well, he isn't going to find out is he?" I reply, just a little too quickly, and immediately regret it.

For a moment I think I can hear Hannah crying. But then she coughs, breathes in deeply and ends the conversation.

"Whatever...I just don't think it's a good idea. You know I don't. But I can't exactly stop you, can I? Just promise me, that if you do do anything, you'll never tell me what happens. Ever."

"Are you serious?" I ask, surprised.

"I've never been more serious," she insists. "Do what you have to, Andrew, but keep me out of it, okay?"

I hesitate.

"Promise me Andrew. I mean it!" she insists.

And as usual, I give in to Hannah.

"I promise."

..

Sleep doesn't come easy to me tonight. I have been on what I can best describe as a 'high' all day, and now I lie awake on my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of the motorbikes and cars going by on the street below. For some reason, tonight they sound very loud, and I wonder why I have not noticed them before. I find myself thinking about Kate again. I also notice that when I think of her now, it is not with anger, but actually with some degree of fondness. It's not just that I miss her, but for the first time, I miss us. What we had. And I wish that we still had it.

I'm a little confused.

It is a long time before I finally manage to drift off, and I only realise that I am asleep, when I notice that I am flying,...a particularly favourite nocturnal past time of mine. Escapism in its purest form.

I am flying high above some strange town that I do not recognise, soaring on the thermals that rise from its warm buildings. I concentrate for a moment on the tiny little figures I see far below me in the street, and by slightly bringing in my extended arms, angling my head down and lifting my legs up behind me, I swoop down towards the street far below.

With the wind rushing past my ears and my clothes billowing all around me, I soar effortlessly between some tall buildings. With a small inflexion of my arms,-spreading them back out slightly from my sides-, I instantly regain control of my descent, and I level off the angle of approach and glide over the traffic beneath me about thirty metres above the ground. The traffic crawls below, and I see people looking up at me, some little children waving upwards and jumping up and down excitedly as they watch me flying over their heads. Having seen enough, I look again towards the blue sky above, and straining my neck a little backwards, I swoop upwards and rapidly once more gain altitude.

Soon I am flying high and free, all my earthly troubles left far, far below...

Only then, through thick foggy clouds do I notice that my mobile phone is ringing. Its thin, repetitive screeching dragging me slowly awake.

..

A feeling of dread immediately fills me, and in an instant the pleasure of the dream is lost. I look at the faint glowing green numbers blinking on the display on my hi-fi system across my room. It's 4.32am. A call this late can only be bad news.

"Hello," I mumble into the handset, wiping my left hand across my face whilst screwing my eyes up, as if in an invisible protest to the person who has just woken me up.

"Andrew," the voice of my sister says. "...Dad is dead..."

I'm instantly fully awake.

"What? What are you talking about?" I almost stutter, sitting up and hitting the light switch beside my bed.

"Dad is dead, Andrew. He's gone!"

I close my eyes, and shake my head, desperately trying to shake off the fogginess that is weighing me down.

"What do you mean he's dead?" I ask, not understanding what she's trying to say.

"I mean just that...Andrew,...Dad...he's dead! He's gone."

For a moment I wonder if this is part of a nightmare, if I am still dreaming, but then Hannah says my name again and I realise this is only too real.

"Andrew,..."

"Hannah," I interrupt her. "Dad's been dead for three years! What are you saying...? Are you alright? Are you crying?" I ask, worried that my sister is going through one of her bad patches again.

"I'm fine. Don't worry about me. But I can't sleep. I'm worried about you and I've just been thinking over and over again about what you were saying earlier."

"About what? What was I saying?"

"Listen Andrew, I don't think that I have the right to tell you what you should or shouldn't do. I know why you went to London, we both do, and it's true that Dad would be mad if he knew what you were thinking of doing,...but you're right. He'll never know. He's gone. And it's not about him anymore. It's about us. The living. Not the dead. We have to live life the best way we know how, and each of us has to do what we believe is the right thing to help make sure we live our lives fully,...and truthfully."

"So, what are you saying Hannah?" I ask, not believing what I am hearing.

"What I am saying Andrew," she continues, "is that having thought about it some more, I think you are doing the right thing after all. Kate knew it, you know it, and now I know it too. But dad never will, and what he won't know, can't upset him. And I've change my mind....I want you to tell me everything that happens, and how it goes. You promise?"

..

And so, for the second time that night, I make another promise to my big sister.

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

..

My father is dead, and I cannot sleep. So I get up and walk to the kitchen, opening Guys food cupboard and taking out the whisky bottle I know he has hidden there. I pour myself a large glass of malt and sit down, pulling up another chair opposite me so that I can put my feet up. Taking a small sip of the golden liquid, I wrap both my hands around the glass, cupping it in my hands with my thumbs hovering over its edge.

Memories of my father coming flooding back. Good memories. Memories that make me smile. I do not cry. Instead my mind searches the happy reflections in the liquid in my glass, and once again I am with him. Hannah has not yet got over his loss, and I know she struggles with the empty hole in her life that his death has left behind. I cried for a year, perhaps more, off and on, until I realised that life had to go on and that like my father had once got over the death of his father, I too had to accept the passing of my own. Since then, my memories of him are not accompanied by sadness, but of the happiness that he brought both my sister and I for so many years. I swallow some whisky. Remembering.

The past few days have been full of self-discovery, and perhaps now too, there is something more I have to face.

Myself.

I look across the kitchen to the mirror beside the door, hanging so passively on the wall, and I see a tired young man. My hair, brown and short, is sticking up on one side of my head, but flat on the other where I have tried to sleep on my side. I reach up and smooth it down, at the same time sitting up straight and peering across the room at the face that glares back at me.

Green eyes, high cheekbones, a thin face with the characteristic Jardine chiselled chin. At the ripe old age of twenty-six I look probably about three years younger than I am. I once saw a photograph of my father when he was about my age now, and the similarity to the man I have become is quite striking. I am my father's son.

I smile at the thought. It makes me proud.

Guy coughs from his bedroom, and for a moment I worry that the light in the kitchen may be sneaking under his door and disturbing him, so I switch it off. It takes a minute or two, but slowly my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I can see again.

I can see, for example, that there are things I need to sort out and face if I am to become more like the man I want to be. There are things that I must know about myself that only I can discover. And I know that I must listen to the voices of my sister and friends that tell that me that relationships are made by two people, not one, and that my apparent luck of trust in women was there before Kate slept with someone else, and may even have been a contributing factor to pushing her away from me. As it may have been with my girlfriend before her.

I look at the glass of whisky, now half empty, and mentally decide that from now on the glass must be half full. Things have to change. For the better. And I acknowledge to myself that if they are to change, it starts with me. Now.

I swallow the rest of the whisky in a single gulp, a fire igniting at the back of my throat and burning downwards into my stomach. I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation, wallowing in the feeling of warmth and security that immediately follows it.

Getting up, I rinse the glass under the tap, dry it and put it back in the cupboard, then walk back to my bedroom. As I open my door, close it behind me and climb under the covers on my bed, I promise myself that from this point forward, it will all be different. The past is the past, and from now on I will trust more. With each new person that I meet, I'm going to stop looking for all the reasons why I shouldn't trust them, and instead try to see all the reasons why I should.

### Chapter 13

Thursday Evening

....

The next evening I am lying on my bed reading "Marrying Slovakia" when Guy pops his head round my door. "Sal's going to bed now. Fancy a wee dram?"

I follow him through to the kitchen, and he hands me over a glass with one hand, whilst holding and staring at the bottle in the other. There is a quizzical look upon his face. "That's funny, I thought there was more than this," I hear him mumble to himself. He turns to me and raises his glass.

We drink some whisky.

Guy walks past and shuts the kitchen door behind me.

"Andrew, listen I need to tell you something," he says, lowering his voice. "This Saturday I'm going to take Sal out for a big, fancy meal in London. I've got seats at the Ivy, and then after our meal we're going to the theatre. It's going to be a big night out."

"So, what, you want me to make myself scarce on Saturday night, and not come home till really late?" I say, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs.

"No, don't worry about that," Guy replies, sitting down opposite me at the kitchen table. "I'm going to spend the night at Sal's flat. It's easier to get back to after a late night out, and Mandy won't be there this weekend. What I wanted to say was that I'm going to be leaving on Sunday night for the business trip to the States, and I won't be back till the next Sunday morning. I just wanted to ask you to look after Sal whilst I'm gone. Give her a call during the week to make sure she's not lonely or something. She's having a really stressful time at work at the moment, and she's behaving a little strangely recently... Differently..."

"What do you mean? Is there something wrong?" I ask.

"No. Nothing like that. Everything's fine. It's just that I worry about her, and I wish I wasn't going next week, especially so soon after this Saturday night."

"So what's so special about this Saturday?" I ask, intrigued.

"Nothing," Guy replies, but I can tell immediately that he is lying. "Nothing at all...Anyway, we'll talk some more tomorrow night over a few beers when we go out, and I'll see you on Sunday before I leave? Okay?"

"Sure," I reply, nodding in affirmation.

We finish off the whisky, and I go back to my room. A little later, I am putting some clothes into my cupboard and tidying up in my room when Sal appears in my doorway.

"Andrew?" she asks, speaking quietly and suddenly coming over as if she is really shy. "I really _would_ like to talk to you sometime..."

"Sure, no problem. I'm sorry. I haven't been avoiding you, it's just that everything in London is so fast paced and I've been busy the whole time. What do want to talk about?" I ask.

"About Guy,...and me...Do you not think that he has been behaving a little strange recently. Different than normal?" she asks me suddenly, her eyebrows lifting up inquisitorially.

I laugh.

"What's so funny?" she asks.

"Nothing." I reply.

"So when can we talk?" Sal asks, sounding nervous.

"How about next Thursday night? Why don't we meet up for a drink after work?"

"That sounds good. But don't tell Guy? Okay?"

"Why not? I don't want..." I start to protest, not wanting to end up a piggy-in-the-middle hiding things from either one of them, but before I can finish, Guy appears in the doorway and wraps his arm around Sal's waist.

"Bedtime. Come on, Sal, I'm knackered."

As I say good night to them both again, I can't help but feel that Sal looks quite sad. For a moment I think that I can see something in her face, but then it is gone, and she is smiling again.

"Night, Andrew," she says, closing the door after her.

Ten minutes later, I'm also in bed. For a while I wonder what it is that Sal is still so keen to talk to me about, and I feel a little guilty that I haven't made the time for her yet. Then I turn off the light and go to sleep.

.

### Chapter 14

Friday Afternoon

..

Halfway through the afternoon Guy calls to tell me he won't be able to meet me for a drink tonight after all. "I'm way behind with work and I still have to pack," Guy says, apologising.

"Okay, don't worry about it. If you're not coming out I'll probably just go to the Lemon Tree and see if anyone else from work turns up there. Are you going round to Sal's later tonight?"

"No, I'll be here. I just called Sal, and told her I'm staying home, and she said she's going to go out for drinks with some people from her work," he replies. "And don't forget that I won't be back tomorrow night, because I'm taking Sal out for a big evening out. Oh, and in case you've forgotten, tomorrow is the Live8 concert."

"Yes, I know. I even tried to get tickets, but there was no chance. Okay, I'll see you later, and maybe we can hang out tomorrow and watch Live8 together? Adios."

"Sounds like a good plan. Adios Amigo."

I'm really looking forward to tomorrow's Live8 concert. I can only remember snippets of the original Live Aid from when I was a kid, but my dad used to go on about it all the time. "The best concert I ever saw," is how he used to describe it.

I look at my watch. It's three thirty. Up till now the day has been dragging, but at last the end is in sight, and already I can feel the excitement and anticipation building, wondering what another Friday night in London will bring. Tonight is going to be special. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. Something big is going to happen this evening, and I can't wait.

I suppose that's why London has become the most amazing place to live in the whole world. Each weekend is like the spin of a roulette wheel, and by 7pm on a Friday night, all the tubes and buses on the way into the city are full of people coming into town to throw the dice, or spin the wheel of life, and see what they can win for the evening. It's the unpredictability that makes it so exciting. At the start of the evening, no one knows just what is going to happen over the next few hours. That's why everyone wants to live in London. _Everyone_. And I am here.

..

It's now three-forty. The phone rings.

"Eurocom, Andrew Jardine speaking," I answer absentmindedly.

"Hi Andrew. It's Gail."

"Hi Gail, how are you?" I reply.

"I'm fine. Listen, I know you're angry with me about the other night, but I honestly have a very good excuse why I didn't show up. Something came up and I couldn't get away....honestly, I'm really sorry."

She sounds sincere.

"It's okay, don't worry about the other night. I accept your apology. You're forgiven."

"Good. But honestly,...I _am_ sorry," she says, sounding genuinely relieved that she is forgiven. "I was worried that you weren't going to talk to me again. Andrew, I was wondering if you were going to go to the Lemon Tree after work? I'm thinking of going, and if you go too, then maybe I'll get the chance to buy you a drink and tell you exactly why I stood you up, I mean,...kept you waiting."

"I'll look forward to it," I reply, and then say goodbye and hang up.

It's three forty-nine. That's one hour and eleven minutes left until the weekend.

I decide to kill some more time by fetching myself a cup of tea, and walk around to the kitchen area nearest my desk. There are four such areas on our floor in the different corners of the building, each providing about ten different types of coffee from a state of the art coffee-vending machine, or your choice of a variety of fancy teas. Preferring the old fashioned way, I fill a kettle, pull a cup from the cupboard and drop a tea-bag into it in preparation. Knowing that a watched kettle never boils, I fold my arms across my chest and look out the door onto the floor outside, casually observing the people at their desks. Already I can detect that the Friday evening effect has spread throughout the whole floor, and people are beginning to push back from their desks, chat with their colleagues, or surf the net, checking out bars or restaurants for this evenings activities.

It is five past four.

A woman walks past the entrance to the kitchen without noticing me hovering inside. I follow the wiggle of her bottom as she walks past, admiring the curve of her legs and her fit, sexy body. She stops at a water fountain, fills a cup and starts walking back towards me. It's Dianne.

She sees me, smiles and comes into the kitchen.

"Andrew, hi. How are you?" she asks, beaming.

"Fine. And you?" I reply, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and a little embarrassed.

"Good. So, where have you been hiding then? I haven't seen you around recently?"

"Nowhere in particular. Just working hard. Trying to get my feet under the table, I suppose."

"Working hard? Yes, I heard about you falling asleep the other day. That was funny," she laughs.

I wince. She moves a little closer towards me, filling her cup up with some more water from the sink. I look at her and a sudden mental image appears in my mind of her lying naked beside me in her bed, immediately followed by a twinge of sexual excitement.

Someone else walks into the kitchen, says hi, and then turns towards the coffee machine and starts to fiddle with the controls.

Dianne looks at me, and I look back, the person beside us still fiddling with the machine. There is a moment of confusion where perhaps one of us should say something, but during which I cannot decide what I want to say. Instead, I pour boiling water over a tea bag, add some milk and stir it with a spoon.

Dianne walks towards the door of the kitchen, hesitating for a second.

"So," she says, "Are you going out after work?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I haven't decided," I remain non-committal.

"Well, if you go clubbing, maybe I'll see you later?" her meaning obvious.

"Perhaps," I reply as Dianne turns and walks back down the corridor.

The person at the coffee machine finishes fiddling with the controls, picks up his drink and turns around, smiles, and walks past me out of the kitchen. I follow him out without speaking, wondering why he is smiling so much, almost as if he is smirking or laughing at me. Was it something Dianne or I said?

I get back to my desk and sit down. It's ten minutes past four.

..

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

..

At twenty minutes past five, I am standing at the bar of the Lemon Tree, ordering the first round of drinks for those that have already arrived from the office. I've just met Tom from accounts, Marsha from Shipping, Sandra from Sales, and Ben, my colleague from Product Marketing. By six o'clock the group has grown to about ten people, and by seven there are around thirty of us dominating the pub and separated into four or five small huddles. Ben is just about to order our group's third round, when I spot Gail talking to some others in one of the groups closest to the door. She sees me looking over at her, smiles but then returns to her conversation.

Some people are talking about going to the sit-down area in the room upstairs to order some Thai, and I decide to join them to get some food inside me before what could be a heavy night of drinking. We manage to find a few spare tables and soon we are all busy ordering a mixture of Phad Thais, or red, green and yellow curries.

"Aha, you're going for the green curry," Gail's voice chirps in, as she pulls up a seat and sits down beside me. "Good choice. It's addictive."

Very soon the room upstairs is full of people from Euro.com, and everyone is laughing, joking and shouting loudly at each other in an effort to make themselves heard. A real party atmosphere is developing.

"This is great," I say to Gail. "Is it always like this?"

"Pretty much. But I think tonight is a bit better than most. There is definitely something in the air. It's summer, the company is doing well, bonus time is coming up, and we're all young, footloose and fancy free. There's nothing better than being young and single in London."

"But you're not single," I let slip out, before I can correct myself.

"Oh, yes I am!" Ben chirps in from the other side of the table, raising his glass and chinking it off mine as I return the salute. "And tonight I'm going to bloody well take full advantage of the situation. I'm going to "Downtown", my favourite club in London. You're all welcome to come with me if you want?...In fact, why don't we try to get a big crowd of us going? It would be great! Are you up for it?" he asks, looking at Gail first, then me and the others.

"Where is it?" Gail asks.

"Near the Angel tube station on the Northern Line. It's the best club I know and we could be there in half an hour."

"Okay, I'm in," I reply, looking at Gail, hoping that she will say yes without feeling the necessity to bring her boyfriend Luke along.

"I don't know. I would like to come, " she replies, "...but I'll just have to call Luke first to see if he is okay," she adds, almost as if she can read my thoughts. "Maybe he'll want to join us."

As Ben starts to spread the word around the room, Gail gets out her mobile and walks out of the room. I watch her leave, admiring the way she is dressed, and perhaps starting to wish for something that I can't have.

She returns ten minutes later saying, "No, Luke doesn't want to come. I guess it's just us."

"And them..." I say waving at the rest of the room, happy and relieved that Luke is staying at home. "Almost everyone else wants to come too."

..

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

..

It's gone ten o'clock when we all begin to file our way into the downstairs club, each forking out eight pounds at the door for admission, dropping off our coats and then heading straight to the bar. Although its relatively early for a London club, the place is already packed, a mass of alcohol fuelled people, jumping up and down to the pulsing music.

Ben thrusts a twenty pound note into my hand, and grabs Gail, heading off to the dance floor shouting, "Here, you get my round, Gail owes me a dance."

After getting drinks for myself, Gail and Ben, I stand and chat to Tom and Marsha for a while, almost shouting at each other in an attempt to make ourselves heard over the loud music. When Gail returns with Ben, I let her have a few mouthfuls of her drink, before whisking her away for my turn to dance with her and the opportunity to be alone together.

"Have you been here before?" she asks me, as we weave our way through everyone, trying to find a small gap where we can fit in and start to dance.

"Nope. First time," I reply. "But I've only been in London for two weeks so I've hardly been out anywhere." I reply, bending forward and talking into her ear so she can hear me. She smells wonderful.

We find a space on the dance floor, turn to each other and start dancing. For a few moments we don't say anything, just moving with the music and looking over to each other every now and again and smiling. She dances well, and as she dips and spins in front of me, flicking her head and her hair from side to side, I think of Luke again and question whether I should be wasting my time getting to know a girl who is out of bounds, something which can only result in trouble.

The music begins to change, and Gail stops dancing, wrapping her arm around mine and leading me off the dance floor. As we near the others, I notice that Ben is looking at us both, his gaze shifting quickly from me to Gail, where it lingers. It's then that I see the way he is watching her, and I recognise the interest in his eyes.

"Back in a moment," I say to Gail . "Time to find the gents." And with that, I lean past Ben, pick up my pint from the bar where I left it, and disappear back into the crowds.

Reaching the other side of the dance-floor, I see that there is a staircase that goes up to a floor above, as well as down into yet another floor beneath. Following the steps down I find that the floor beneath is hidden beneath rows of old stone built barrow vaulted arches which are tastily illuminated with soft lighting. Whilst probably long ago just the dank, damp, foundations of the building above, a new stone floor has been laid, which is now covered with red leather sofas huddled together in comfortable little groups around small glass tables, forming the perfect chill zone, where people can come to sit and chat in relative quiet. Not yet as busy as the floor upstairs, I slump down in one of the red sofas near the bar and slowly finish my beer. I am just about to go to the bar for a refill, when I see Gail coming down the stairs. She quickly spots me and comes over.

"Aha, so this is where you are hiding?" she says, plonking herself down beside me on the sofa. "Do you mind if I sit here with you? I need to get away from Ben for a while. He's getting a little drunk and I think he's coming on to me," she laughs.

"Yeah, I know. I spotted that too."

We both laugh. Followed by an embarrassed silence.

"So, I haven't properly explained to you why I stood you up the other night, I mean, why I was late."

"It's fine. It's no problem...It's a shame though, because you missed a fantastic concert.

"Andrew, I really wanted to come with you, but Luke was pretty upset, and I couldn't just leave him by himself. I wanted to call you and tell you I couldn't come, but I don't have your mobile number."

"I'm sorry, maybe I should have given it to you beforehand. So what was Luke so upset about?" I ask without thinking, before I realise that it's got nothing to do with me.

"Relationships. He's still really upset about what his ex did to him."

"Get used to it. All men are just as messed up. I mean, all men that have had a girlfriend. It's what women do. They screw you up."

She stares at me.

"Present company excluded, of course. Not _all_ girlfriends screw you up, I mean, my flatmate Guy has got the best girlfriend in the world. She's almost perfect, so maybe not _all_ women count....just _most_ of them."

"And men are never to blame?"

"Don't know. Maybe a little," I reply.

"But not _a lot_? So, men are just _wonderful_ and never deserve the blame for anything ?..." she replies, laughing a little.

"Sorry, perhaps I'm being a little too cynical, but that's only because my ex ran off with someone else, and I'm still angry about it."

"Your last girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"But what's your current girlfriend like. Or are you still single?"

"I'm still single. Why?... Are you interested?"

She doesn't say anything in reply, but I notice the slightest shrug of her shoulders, as if it was almost an involuntary response to my question. As if she was saying, "Don't know, maybe..." The wonders of body language.

"Sorry...," I apologise. "It's been so long since I was single, I can't remember how to talk to attractive women like you without talking rubbish."

"No, don't worry about it," she says. "Since we're making sweeping generalisations, it's probably fair to say that I'm used to it, because all men talk shit."

"Touché. You fancy a drink then? It's my round."

"Actually, it's mine. What do you want? Another pint of lager ?"

"Please."

I watch her walk over to the bar, and find myself wishing again that she wasn't going out with Luke. She returns with our drinks and sits down beside me and we talk for a while. She seems to be responding to my drunken attempts to flirt with her, laughing when I laugh, smiling when I do, and mirroring lots of my body language. So much so that I could swear she's actually flirting with me too. So what's with Luke?

"Listen, Gail. I'm maybe getting a little plastered here, and I'm enjoying talking to you, but if I sit here any longer, I'm probably going to end up saying something else I may regret in the morning."

"Like what?" she asks.

"Like, how even though you have a boyfriend and I know it's wrong, I keep letting myself flirt with you. And, if I'm not mistaken, I think that you may be flirting with me back...But since I know about you and Luke, it's probably better if we just go upstairs and join the others."

She reaches out and touches me on the arm, stopping me in mid attempt to get up from the ridiculously comfortable sofa.

"No, stay. You're not offending me. The truth is, I like you, and you're right, I _am_ probably flirting with you too," she says. "...But I think you may have got it all wrong about me and Luke..."

Unfortunately, it's just at that point that somewhere in my mind the level of alcohol reaches the critical tipping point where the little 'don't make a fool of yourself' safety switch is shorted out, and the ability to listen to what an attractive women is saying is replaced with an uncontrollable urge to lean forward and kiss her.

Her lips are soft and warm. As they part slightly, our tongues meet briefly in the middle and I feel her respond by leaning in towards me, meeting the kiss half way. The kiss lasts for a few very long seconds, then, from out of nowhere a hand comes up between us, pushing my chest gently away from her.

"No...sorry...I can't do this," she says.

"Yes, you can. I mean, that felt as if you can do it very well."

"No, I mean, I can't get involved with you, even though I really like you."

"Because of your boyfriend Luke?"

"No, not because of him. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You got the wrong end of the stick somewhere. Luke's my flatmate, but he's gay," she says, watching as my jaw drops open. "Paul's his boyfriend. Well, was... until the other night, when Luke caught him in bed with some other bloke. That's why he was so upset, and I couldn't come out with you."

"Luke's gay? You're kidding." I laugh, momentarily feeling really stupid. "So does that mean, you're single then? Or do you have another boyfriend?"

"No. I'm single. Have been for ages. London is a really rubbish place to be if you're trying to find someone decent and honest to go out with."

"That's what my flatmate Guy says. But he ended up with his girlfriend Sal, so it can't be completely true, because she's probably the most fantastic and honest woman I know...not that I fancy my best mate's girlfriend or anything, but you know what I mean."

"He sounds very lucky."

"He is. Anyway, if you're single, just like me, and you can kiss as well as you obviously can, why don't we try again..." I say, as I start to move in for another kiss."

"No," another hand on my chest. " I can't. Even though I really like you."

"I don't understand," I protest, sitting back, frustrated as hell. "Tell me why not?"

"Honestly?" she asks, almost asking for permission to tell me.

"Yes, honestly." I reply.

"Because you slept with Dianne. And everyone knows about it.... _And_ I don't want to get involved in an affair with someone from the office that everyone will talk about behind my back."

"Dianne?" I can't believe what she is saying. "How the hell do you know that I slept with Dianne?"

"I just do... Everyone knows about it, but you're in good company. All of the good looking guys in the office have slept with her. She's very nice. Very sexy. You didn't know it, but as soon as you walked into the office a couple of weeks ago, the 'new good-looker in town', there was practically an office sweep-stake for people to guess how long it would be before she got you. It was pretty impressive though. A week is quite fast, even by Dianne's standards."

"What? What does this make me then. The Office Slut?" I ask, sitting up straight, and feeling the adrenaline starting to course through my drunken bones.

"No. I didn't mean it like that. And I didn't mean it to sound so nasty about Dianne. I mean, there's no denying that she is very attractive, and she _does_ have quite high standards....but I can't go out with you if you have already slept with _her_.... _Especially_ since everyone else will talk about it. If you hadn't done it, then definitely, _definitely_ , I'd love to..."

"So why are you talking to me now then? I mean, what with me being damaged goods and all that," I ask, not believing what I am hearing.

"Because I like you. And I think we could be really good friends. We do get on great together, don't we?"

"Yes. But...shit, I can't believe this. You're honestly telling me that you won't get involved with me, because I slept with Dianne? That's totally unfair. How was I to know that she had such a big reputation in the office? Come on, give me a break!" I protest.

Gail smiles.

"It's not fair on me either. I really fancy you. I have done for ages. I just wish I'd got to you first!"

"Gail, this just doesn't make any sense. If you fancy me, and I fancy you, then let's do something about it."

"Sorry...can't. Honestly, I can't. Not now. Unfortunately, it's just too late..."

I sit there, stunned. Uncomprehending. Frustrated, and fucking mad. Why on earth did Dianne have to ruin everything by blabbing on about us to everyone else?

"Perhaps we should go upstairs to the others now...?" Gail says, standing up. I look up at her, and feeling a mixture of anger, stupidity, and a touch of shame, I meekly get up and start to follow her blindly up the stairs to rejoin the others. As we reach the bottom of the stairs, she stops, turning towards me.

For a moment we stand looking at each other. Although it is quite dark, I can see that her face is full of emotions, and it is almost as if her eyes are trying to tell me something. I am just about to speak, when she raises her forefinger and places it on my lips. Her finger lingers there, her beautiful eyes studying mine, a wonderful moment of poignant intimacy that seems to last a long, long time.

But then all too suddenly it comes to an end. She leans forward and kisses me slowly on the side of my cheek, her lips just missing mine. Pulling back, she smiles, then turns and walks back up the stairs.

As we approach the bar, Ben sees us returning together, and I can see him looking first at me, then at Gail, then back at me.

"So,...." Ben asks me, without actually asking.

"So, what?" I answer him, pretending not to understand.

"I was just wondering...if you and Gail...were, sort of..."

"I think the answer to your question is probably no. Although it depends what your question is. But I wouldn't worry about it, whatever it is that you are thinking...Listen, just out of interest, do you know a girl in IT called Dianne?"

"You mean "Dianne-'I'll have that Man!'-Dianne" ?"

"Yes, that's probably her."

"Then not really," he says, pausing. "But from what I hear,...you know her quite well. All of her. Quite well?" he says, nudging me.

"You too? Shit, who else knows?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Bloody hell..."

I leave Ben to laugh by himself at my expense and suddenly feeling very self-conscious and perhaps rather infamous amongst the rest of the Euro.com crowd, I decide to go for another wander, just to get away from my own notoriety. Skirting around the edge of the dance floor, I find myself again at the staircases on the other side of the room. Deciding to see what is upstairs this time, I take the stairs two at a time, following them up to another dance floor even larger than the one downstairs.

Although still very full, the place is not yet quite as packed as below. The lighting is a lot dimmer, and the music being played is slower and more romantic. At the far end of the room a long bar stretches from one side of the dance floor to the other, with people queuing two deep to get served. Around the edges of the dance floor, there are green sofas, contrasting with the red colour scheme of the basement. With my half–finished pint in my hand I find a seat in one of the corners and plonk myself down. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, but soon I can see quite well, and I start to look around the dance floor.

A very attractive woman at the far end of the dance floor quickly catches my eye: an incredible figure with high heeled shoes, dancing alone in a black figure-hugging dress, gyrating slowly and sexily to the music.

As I watch her, she runs her hands upwards through her long dark hair, her arms and elbows held high above her shoulders and painting slow curves in the air around her head, her beautiful bottom gyrating slowly and sexily in tune with the music. For a while I am mesmerised, following her figure moving slowly back and forward, erotically imaging just what it would be like...

After studying her for a few minutes, my gaze wanders to the couple dancing behind her, something very familiar about the other woman drawing my attention away from the Brazilian beauty I was admiring before. I watch the couple as they dance closely together, the man and the woman's hips pushing against each other and moving together in long, slow curves. Slowly the couple spins away from me, and I see the man's arm move up the woman's back, drawing the woman's head towards him, their lips meeting in a passionate embrace that seems to go on and on and on.

At first I watch them, almost with indifference, as I see them lose themselves in a long, slow, passionate, snog. But as the snog progresses, -and that's the best word to describe it-, I begin to start wondering what it would be like if I was the one that was kissing her.

Yet, there is something about the woman that is fascinating me. Something very familiar, but out of place.

Realising that I can't see as clearly as I would like from here, I get up from my chair and move to the end of the bar, from where I can lean on the counter and get a better, closer view of the goings-on.

By now, I am screwing my eyes up, straining to be able to get a better look at the woman's face. There is something uncannily familiar about her, but for the moment I cannot see her face as it is turned away from me and buried deep in the mouth of the man she is currently trying to suck the living daylights out of.

As the track of music comes to an end, the couple slowly come up for air. The man's face is momentarily illuminated by one of the flashing lights, and I see that he is pretty unremarkable. He could be just any old bloke out for a drink on a Friday night. Nothing special. I watch as he puts his arm around the woman, and they turn and walk towards the other end of the bar furthest away from me.

As they do, I see for the first time, just why I found the woman so familiar. Her shining hair, her almost perfect nose, her smile, and the way the lights shine and reflect from her beautiful eyes: a face that I know only too well. It's unmistakably her.

..

The woman is laughing now, her arms wrapped around the man beside her. She looks up at him, whispers something intimately into his ear and then turns and starts to walk away from him in my direction. As she starts to move away, I see the man wrap an arm around the front of her body and draw her back to him, and in spite of it being dark I see him slip his hand up her top and inside her blouse, cupping one of her breasts and massaging it playfully. The woman stops still, her own right hand moving up to the outside of her blouse, pressing down on the man's hand and welcoming the attention. She cocks her head back, her eyelids close and a smile spreads across her face in a display of obvious erotic pleasure, and then I watch as she spins around within his arms and start to kiss him again, the embrace this time even more passionate than before.

..

I watch all this in total disbelief, not understanding or comprehending, but recognising without any doubt, that the woman is Sal. Guy's beloved, trusted and loyal girlfriend.

..

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

..

A feeling of nausea and anger surges up inside and threatens to overwhelm me, and suddenly confronted with the primitive choices of "Fight or Flight" I turn and dive through the door to the Gents, only several metres away. Pushing past someone coming towards me in the opposite direction, I pile into one of the cubicles, kicking the door closed behind me and slamming home the bolt.

..

I turn and lean back against the door, steadying myself against the spinning world around me, and struggling to regain control of my pounding heart. Breathe deep, hold, let it out, breathe in again, deep, hold, let it out.

Again. Repeat. Again. Repeat.

..

The minutes go by, and although my pulse continues to race, my mind slowly begins to clear. My eyes are still closed, my jaws tightly clenched, my hands pressed firmly against the door behind me.

..

As the mental mist eventually clears, I start to think again. "What a fucking bitch!" I hear myself shouting aloud. A picture of Sal's face pops into my mind, her face contorted with the erotic pleasure of the man's hand exploring her breasts, and once again the anger surges within me.

..

This time, there is less of the 'flight', and more of the urge to 'fight', and I turn to open the door, intent on rushing back out onto the dance floor and confronting her, demanding to know just what the fuck is going on. For a moment I struggle with the lock and it takes a minute before I am able to free the round metal bolt from the cylinder, push it back and emerge from the cubicle.

..

Someone at the urinals turns around from his business and glances over at me, but as we exchange momentary glances, he sees the fury in my eyes and quickly looks away. Storming out the door back onto the dance-floor, I emerge from the bright fluorescent lighting of the toilet only to find myself blinded by the darkness outside, and it takes several minutes before I can see anything clearly, my eyes struggling to adjust to the poor lighting and smoke filled air around me.

Adrenaline pumping through my veins, I start scanning the crowd for Sal and the man with her. Not finding them where I last saw them, I start pushing my way through those gyrating on the dance floor, hunting for them amongst all the heaving bodies, now jumping up and down to the Scissor Sisters. I circle through the dancers several times, rudely pushing past people without any attempt at apology or politeness, occasionally lifting my hands to shield my eyes from the flashing disco lights and trying to see people more clearly. Not finding them dancing anywhere, I check the bar and then the clusters of green comfortable chairs, but without success. After circling the dance floor several times more, I am sure they are no longer here, so I hurry downstairs, checking both the floor beneath and the chill zone and all the red sofas in the basement below.

..

It's half an hour later before I finally accept the fact that they are no longer here. Sal and the man have both left.

..

### Chapter 15

"Gail," I say, interrupting her conversation with one of the other Euro.com employees who I have not yet met, and whispering in her ear. "I'm leaving. Goodbye."

There are now tears in my eyes, and my hands are shaking. I start to walk away from the group, and am just collecting my coat at the door, when Gail appears by my side.

"Andrew, you're crying? What's the matter? What happened? Why are you rushing away?"

I try to swallow, not wanting my voice to betray what I am feeling. "Something came up. I'm sorry. I have to go."

"Can I come with you? Do you want someone to talk to? Listen, I meant what I said earlier. I want to be your friend, and if you're upset I want to help. Talk to me. What's going on?"

I can see that she genuinely seems concerned for me, and that she can sense that something bad has happened. "Okay," I say, "Get your coat, and I'll wait for you outside. I just want to get out of here. I need some fresh air."

Moments later we are walking together down the main road heading towards the Angel tube station. We walk in silence, Gail sensing that when I want to speak I will. My head is awash with confused emotions, and my heart is racing again. What the fuck is the matter with women? Why is it that they cannot be trusted? And Guy...? What do I tell him?

"Here, let's go in here," Gail says, touching me gently on my arm and pointing towards a late night café that is still open.

Luckily, the café is not too full: Gail points me to a table at the back, and I obediently go and sit down.

"Here," she says, bringing me over a cup of coffee and a large slice of chocolate cake, and pulling up a chair beside me so that we don't have to shout at each other over the table. "Now tell me what on earth happened. When you came back, you looked like death. Your face was as white as a sheet."

"Sorry. I didn't want to drag you into my fucked up world," I reply, breathing deeply.

"No problem. Just talk to me, okay?"

"Fine. You asked for it. Can you remember how earlier on this evening I told you that all men are fucked up, especially those ones that have had a girlfriend before? And then I backtracked and admitted that not all girlfriends were bad, and I cited the case of my flatmate Guy, and his girlfriend Sal, who I then classified as being a paragon of beauty, decency, and virtue. And I think I mentioned how lucky Guy was to have her?"

"Yes, it's fair to say, that the conversation was one of the highlights of the evening so far, and I can remember you saying that..."

"Well, about twenty minutes ago, I just saw Sal snogging the living daylights out of some man that I have never seen before. A complete fucking stranger. And when I say snogging, I mean, the works. He had his hand right up her blouse stroking and groping her breasts and she was _loving_ it. She was all over him, he was all over her, and she didn't do anything to stop him."

"You're sure it was her?"

"Of course I am. I practically live with her. She's round at our house all the time."

"So where's Guy this evening?"

"At home. Packing to go to the US on business, and finalising the preparations for tomorrow night, when he's meant to be taking Sal out for a major night out on the town. Dinner at 'The Ivy", followed by the theatre and then champagne or something at a trendy club. Gail, what am I meant to tell him? How can I look him in the eye when I go home tonight? He's really in love with her. He just told me this week that he thinks she may be the one!", I practically shout.

"Calm down a little. Drink some of your coffee, "Gail says.

"I can't calm down. The thing is, this isn't just about Guy. One of the reasons why I came down to London was to get away from my ex, who just slept with some other bloke. To be honest with you, I have a real issue with allowing myself to trust women. But Sal was becoming a beacon of hope for me, hope that if there were honest decent women like her around, a woman who could be _trusted_ , then there must be others like her. Then tonight,...SHIT...my whole new world has just coming crashing down around me. She's just the same as all of them!"

"It's not only women, Andrew. That's why I'm single too. I went out with this guy in London for about three years. It was great, until one day I caught him in bed with another girl. It turned out he'd being seeing her for a year. Behind my back. The other woman didn't know anything about me either. That was eight months ago. I haven't seen him since."

"Ouch. I'm sorry. What the hell is it with people? Why do we do this to each other? Why can't we trust anyone anymore?"

"Because it is just life. It's the way things are. We just have to pick ourselves up, and move on. But somewhere out there I really believe that there is an ideal soul-mate for each of us that we will meet one day and fall in love with. It's just a matter of time. But en-route, we will have a few crashes, get burned a little. It's inevitable. We just have to make it our duty to survive and get over all the crap that gets in our way, because we owe it to that other person in the future to keep on going and persevere. Somewhere, someplace, somebody is waiting for us to discover them, and it's our duty not to be late for that meeting. Whenever or wherever it is. "

"Do you honestly believe that?" I ask, incredulously.

"I used to," she replies. "Anyway, what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know. What do you think? Should I tell Guy?"

"I don't know. Perhaps you should...?"

"But he loves her. If I tell him that she is two-timing him, he might resent me telling him, and it could damage our friendship."

"So, not telling him, and letting him believe everything is hunky-dory is even better? How unhappy is he going to be if he finds out about it in two years time, as opposed to finding out about it now? And every time you see him and Sal kissing each other in the future, how are you going to feel?"

"Terrible..."

"So you've got to tell him now," Gail insists. "If his girlfriend is messing around behind his back and you know about it, it's _your job_ to tell him."

"I know," I agree. "I've got no other choice. But not tonight. I couldn't face him just now. I'll tell him tomorrow afternoon."

Silence.

"Gail,..."

"...You want to come and stay at my place tonight? Is that what you're going to ask?"

"Yes. Don't worry, if you let me come over, I'll sleep on the kitchen floor or something. I promise to behave myself. After tonight, ever getting involved with a woman again is going to be the last thing on my mind.

She laughs.

..

Half an hour later, I am paying the taxi-cab for the ride back to Gail's flat in Muswell Hill. By the time we get there, Luke is already in his bedroom fast asleep, so Gail and I sneak into the flat unseen. I turn down the offer of a cup of fruit tea or something stronger and soon I am lying on a Futon in the lounge. It turns out to be surprisingly comfortable, but it's a long time before I start to fall asleep. Lying in the dark, I am wide awake.

I can't get the sight of Sal kissing that other man out of my mind. I find it almost impossible to accept that after building her up in my mind as the almost perfect girlfriend, and knowing how much Guy loves her, that she would be just like the rest: a two-timing cow! My thoughts turn to Guy: I remember just how unhappy I was when I found out about Kate, and I would never wish that on anyone else, let alone my best friend. What the hell am I going to tell him?

I am too scared to face him, but I know that I have to. I have to do what is right, no matter how bad it will make me feel.

..

As soon as I make the mental decision that I will tell him, I suddenly feel very tired. I close my eyes. The next thing I know, I am flying. High above the ground. Escaping the reality of tonight.

..

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

..

The sound of curtains being drawn wakes me the next morning. Gail is standing by the windows, wearing a white fluffy dressing gown, looking out onto the street below.

"Morning," I say, shielding my eyes from the light.

"You mean, 'Good Afternoon'. It's two o'clock."

"What? You're joking?" I laugh, reaching across to the watch in my shoe. "Bloody hell, you're right. That's half the weekend gone again."

"Do you want a cup of coffee?" she asks, tip-toeing around me and making her way to the door.

"Any chance of a cup of tea?" I reply.

By the time she returns, I have pulled on my trousers and shirt and jumper and am rearranging the futon back onto its frame.

"Thanks," I say. "And thanks for last night. I appreciate it."

"No problem. Just don't tell anyone at work, or no doubt they'll jump to the wrong conclusions as usual."

"I promise. Don't worry about that." I sit down on the newly reformed couch and look at Gail. She looks very sexy in the bathrobe, sitting opposite me on a chair. Her legs are crossed, the dressing gown having fallen to the side a little and exposing the bottom half of one of her legs. "Gail, what do I do? Do I tell Guy?"

"I think so."

"Good, because so do I. I promised myself last night that I would. I just hope he doesn't shoot the messenger. I once told a good friend of mine just how mad he was to mess around with drugs, and I persuaded him that he should stop. He did. But he never talked to me again. It's not exactly the same, but I hope Guy doesn't blame me for what I have to tell him."

"Don't worry. I don't think he will. Just pick the right moment to tell him, that's all."

"Is there ever a right moment for something like that?"

"Probably not. Anyway, how about you let me cook you some breakfast. If I'm going to send you home the bearer of bad tidings, just let me make sure you do it on a full stomach."

"I don't exactly see the connection, but that would be great."

"Okay, then why don't you take a shower while I get busy in the kitchen. I've left a towel in the bathroom for you already. It's the blue one."

..

As the steam in the shower does what it can to wash some of the stress away from last night, I begin to smell something wonderful coming from the kitchen.

It turns out to be a Spanish omelette with some toasted German rye bread.

"My gran taught me how to cook that," she says approvingly, watching as I devour the lunch and clean my plate. "It's dead easy to make, but it tastes amazing."

"Oh no!" I suddenly announce half-way through breakfast, " I completely forgot... _Live8!_ Today is Live8! Blast, what with all the excitement of last night, I completely forgot all about it. Do you mind if we switch the TV on?" I say, already moving through to the lounge.

"I can't believe I've missed half of it! I've been looking forward to this for months," I say, switching the TV on and picking up the remote. The TV comes alive and I immediately switch channels a few times until an image of Hyde Park fills the screen.

"You won't believe this, but I was six years old when the original Live Aid took place. I can remember sitting with my sister and my dad in our front room and watching some of it. I got bored after a while though and fell asleep, but my dad watched the whole thing from start to finish."

"Was your dad really into music?" Gail asks, as she comes to join me.

" _Absolutely_. I think that's where I got my interest from. He used to be crazy about Pink Floyd. He used to play their music over and over again, and I think he must have brain washed me, because now I love Pink Floyd too."

"They're on this later," Gail replies, pulling her legs up underneath her on the couch and settling back.

"I know, I'm really looking forward to it..."

For the next few hours, Gail and myself sit back and veg out to Elton John, Coldplay, and a myriad of other unbelievable groups who all take their turn to come on stage and create history. It's a hot day outside, and we open the windows to let in some fresh air. We can hear the strains of Live8 music drifting in from other flats in the street, and it all adds to the feeling of taking part in something truly special and global, just like the original all those years ago.

During the likes of Scissor Sisters, Annie Lennox and Josh Stone we swap stories of different concerts we have been too- it turns out we were both at Glanstonbury last year-, and we chat about our favourite artists, and each recount a few stories from our childhood when the first Live Aid concert took place.

The afternoon passes slowly, and I forget all about the time.

During one of the many breaks between the bands finishing on stage and the next band coming on, the conversation starts to drift back to the present day and reality.

"So what are you doing this evening?" I ask her.

"I don't know. Did I tell you that Ben asked me out last night?"

"No. So, was that after or before we shared our little kiss?" I ask, half-jokingly, but semi-seriously.

She turns a little red.

"Afterwards," is all she replies, although there is a trace of a smile as she visibly remembers the moment between us. I sip my tea. She picks up the dishes and starts to pack the dishwasher.

"And? Was it yes or no?" I prompt, judging that a sufficient amount of time has passed to carry on.

"I said no. But then he asked me again, just before you came back and we left." I watch her put both of our cups into the top tray of the machine. As she is trying to adjust the plates on the bottom deck to make room for the frying pan, she turns to me and asks, "So what do you think of him?"

"Why are you asking me?" I reply.

"Because you work with him."

"Yeah, but he isn't asking me out. You're the one with all the curves in the right places. And may I say, what wonderful curves they are..."

She turns, picks up a tea-towel and throws it at me.

"Stop. Don't make it worse than it is. I told you last night that I like you, but I mean it when I say that nothing like that is going to happen between us. So, there's no point in making those sort of remarks. It just reminds us both of something we can't have."

"Gail, I don't understand this thing you're going on about. Just because..."

" _But I do_. And that's all that matters. Maybe it's different for men, but I'm a woman,"

"I've noticed," I interrupt very quickly.

"...and female office politics are pretty harsh. It's just not going to happen okay?"

I look at her, not knowing how to react, but when I sense that she is entirely serious, I shrug and make a small facial expression, indicating some form of unwilling acceptance of a ridiculous situation.

"So," she continues." I'm asking you as a friend, what do you think of Ben?"

"He's alright. He's harmless, don't worry. I actually quite like him. Why, are you thinking of changing your mind and going out with him?"

"No, I don't think so..."

"Listen, far be it from me to encourage the love of my life to go out with someone else...", I say as Gail shoots me another warning look, "but, if it's definitely not going to happen between us, then maybe you should just meet up with him for drinks or something. If not now, then maybe sometime in the future. You never know, he might grow on you? You could do far worse, and he's quite good looking, at least, not being that way inclined, I think he's...well, you know what I mean."

She finishes putting the cutlery in the machine, looks around the kitchen to check she hasn't missed anything else, then closes it and hits the little red button. There is a moment of silence, then an audible whooshing sound as the water starts to work its magic.

"Yeah, he's not bad looking, and he seems very nice. It's just that he seems so keen. It puts me off a little bit."

"Gail, give the guy a break. No, give _all_ men a break. You're a very pretty girl, and you have a good head on your shoulders, you are caring, kind and considerate, _and_...and this is the big 'and',...you are single. That is an incredible and magic combination and from what I am learning, a very scarce commodity in London. No wonder he's keen. And what is it that a single woman wants? She wants a good looking, interesting guy to sweep her off her feet and make her feel special. So why don't you give the guy a chance, and just see what he has to offer when he's not tongue tied and a bit more relaxed and himself. You never know, maybe he will be the love of your life. And even nicer than me?"

She sits down opposite me, digesting what I just said.

"I don't know...maybe you're right."

"No, take it from me. I do know. And I am right."

And for once in my life, maybe I am.

..

It's five o'clock. I have successfully procrastinated going home until now, but I realise that I can't put it off any longer. I am just about to leave Gail's flat when I get an SMS from Guy, asking where I am and informing me that he has to leave sooner than planned so that he can get some flowers for Sal before the florist closes.

For a moment I consider calling him on his mobile, but then I realise that there was no way I could just break the news to him over the phone. Something like this you have to break gently, face to face. I have no choice but to wait and tell him when he comes home tomorrow afternoon..., before he leaves to go to the States.

I spend the next ten minutes with Gail debating how to reply to his SMS, and eventually we go for the cowards way out and just send a text message back saying that everything is fine. "I'm fine, will be back late. See you tomorrow afternoon."

When Gail suggests that if Guy was planning a heavy romantic night with Sal, then there could be a strong possibility that Sal may break up with Guy tonight, I realise that there could be some truth in it. If Sal really liked the other man I caught her with last night, then her conscience might just drive her to telling Guy the truth and they would split up tonight. In which case, by default, I would be let off the hook...

"If that happens, then perhaps I'd better be in the flat and ready for when he comes home? He'll be devastated, and maybe I can help him through it by being there to talk to him?"

"Good plan."

"You know what?" I say to Gail as we stand at the doorway to her flat, just as I am leaving.

"No,...what?" she laughs back.

"I'd say that spending today with you has been the most enjoyable time I've had since I arrived here to London."

"Me too."

"Gail, I appreciated you being there for me last night and today, and 'yes', I would really like to be friends with you."

"Me too. Good luck tonight if Guy comes home, and call me if you need to talk about anything, okay? Either way, let me know what happens, because I'll be wondering the whole time what's going on."

We exchange phone numbers, give each other a quick hug, and I leave.

### Chapter 16

....

The flat is eerily silent when I return home. Even the traffic outside sounds quiet, which surprises me, since it is a busy Saturday night. After making myself a cup of tea from the kitchen, I sit in the lounge and put my feet up, switching on the TV and returning to Live8, which is still in full swing in Hyde Park. My thoughts are elsewhere, half-expecting the door to open at any time and for Guy to come storming into the flat, his heart broken and his life seemingly in tatters. But the minutes tick by and there is no Guy, no broken heart, and nothing much to do except continuing waiting.

I allow myself the luxury of drinking one can of beer while I watch Pink Floyd take the stage, my mind drifting back to thoughts of my father. The music stirs distant memories that swirl around in my mind, evoking thoughts and feelings from long ago and another age.

In spite of the desire to drink heavily, I limit myself to one beer and no more. When Guy comes home,...if he comes home...I need to be sober in case I need to offer some advice on how to cope with a broken heart. My recent speciality.

By eleven o'clock I am getting restless. Not able to concentrate on the highlights of the day from Hyde Park or any of the other venues around the world, I briefly think about going for a walk down to the shops to pick up the Sunday papers, but then start to worry that Guy may turn up when I am not here.

..

At eleven thirty my mobile rings. I dive for it, picking it up and answering without looking at the display first. "Guy," I say, so sure that it must be him.

"No, Andrew, sorry it's just me, Gail. So, I gather he hasn't come home yet?"

"Nope. Nothing. I keep expecting to him to burst through the door at any second, but nothing. Nada. Nietch."

"Well, if he hasn't called or come home yet, I doubt he will now. Andrew, I was thinking, have you thought about maybe just taking Sal aside and telling her what you saw and telling her to come clean with Guy, or threatening her that _you_ will if she _doesn't_."

"Yes I have, but I don't think I could do it. I don't think I could face her now. I'd rather force myself to tell Guy."

"Okay, but you've got to talk to one of them," she says, then is silent for a moment. "...By the way, I called Ben. I'm taking your advice and going out with him next Thursday night. And actually, it may just work out. He sounded really nice on the phone when we talked just now."

"Good. I told you he might not be so bad."

"You might be right. Perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to judge people."

A moments silence.

"Will you call me tomorrow when you've talked to Guy?", she asks.

"Yes. I promise. I'm dreading it though."

"Don't think about it. Just do it."

"Okay mum, I will."

### Chapter 17

..

By eleven o'clock the next morning I am a nervous wreck. Resigned to do my duty, I am just eager to get it over and done with, but still Guy is nowhere to be seen. Twelve o'clock comes, and I am in the lounge staring at some boring Sunday morning political programme on ITV but not able to concentrate. Every couple of minutes I pick up my mobile phone and check its display to make sure that I haven't missed a call, or that I didn't miss hearing an SMS message arrive. By now I have sent Guy two texts asking where he is and how last night went, as well as leaving a voice message asking when he will be back at the flat. All remain unanswered.

At one o'clock I find myself in my bedroom pulling on some running gear, and by one-fifteen I am a mile away from my flat, running alongside the railway arches and heading towards the River Thames.

The air is warm and it's a wonderful, summers day. The sort of day that by this time would normally find me on top of a Monroe in the Scottish Highlands, walking along a ridge somewhere at the top of the world with a fantastic view over the quiet and beautiful glens and lochs. I suddenly feel incredibly homesick, and for the first time since I got to London, I wish I was back in Scotland.

Scotland is a land full of interesting, voluminous skies and distant horizons, where everywhere you go there is room to breathe and live freely. In contrast, London is dirty, flat and restricted, the tops of the buildings on the other side of the street being just about as far as you can ever see.

My response to this encroaching sense of claustrophobia is simply to run faster and faster, before eventually making it to the river and running along the banks of the Thames on the pedestrian walk-way until I end up collapsing exhausted beneath the London Eye at Waterloo.

Bending over and supporting myself on my knees whilst I try to catch my breath, I gawk upwards up at the towering wheel above me and wonder what sort of view you get from the top? How far can you see? Is it higher or better than the view you get from the top of Arthur's Seat, the big hill that dominates the centre of Edinburgh?

After I recover the ability to breathe normally again, I find a spot amongst the tourists eating picnics and reading the Sunday papers, and I stretch out on the grass. An airplane passes very high overhead, a thin white vapour trail appearing in its wake the moment it passes. With the sun beating down on my face, I shade my eyes and watch as the smoke plume expands, broadening out until it becomes too thin to see, and is slowly eaten up again by the intensely deep, blue sky.

I close my eyes and the temptation to sleep is very strong: I feel so warm, relaxed and secure. It's been over a year since I last lay on the ground and basked in the summer sun, probably the last time I did it being somewhere near Ullapool on the west coast of Scotland, at the end of a hard day's cycling with Kate...The memory,...the first pleasant memory I have had of Kate in the past few weeks...brings a smile to my face, but the warmth of the feeling is quickly replaced with a sense of loss, and regret.

Regret not only for myself, but also for the pain I am just about to unleash on my best friend. Rather like what the Campbells once did to the McDonalds of Glencoe, I will soon abuse the hospitality of my host by bringing his happy world to a painful end.

Ten minutes later I am sitting on a train leaving Waterloo, the next stop Clapham Junction, and only minutes away from ruining Guy's life.

..

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

..

I jog slowly back from the train station to the flat, in through the main door and up the stairwell, stopping hesitantly in front of our door with my key in my hand and listening to see if Guy has already arrived home or not. The flat is quiet, and almost relieved I put the key in the lock, open the door slowly and step inside.

"Guy?" I call aloud. There is no reply.

Walking into the lounge, I check the phone for voice messages, and then look at the display on my mobile phone in my bedroom. No one wants to talk to me.

It's three o'clock. Guy's flight is sometime this evening, so he must be coming back soon. In fact, it looks like he's already running late. Although I have been dreading telling him about Sal all day, I now start worrying that I will not have enough time to talk to him before he has to leave for the airport.

When I call him, his mobile rings three times before he answers it, Guy's voice booming across a clear connection, sounding alive and exuberant, "Andrew? Where are you now? Are you at home?".

"Yes, I just wanted to find out when you're coming back to the flat? I want to talk to you about something important before you leave for the States..."

"Me too. I want to talk to you too, but I'm going to be in a real hurry. I'm on my way back now, and I should be there in about fifteen minutes. I'm just about to get on the tube. Can you ..."

The phone connection suddenly dies, and after trying to call him back several times, I give up.

Realising just how sweaty and smelly I am from my run in the summer sun, I disappear into the bathroom, where, face turned up to the cool, refreshing shower, I practice my words: "Guy,..hi...well, you know I thought that Sal was absolutely lovely? Well, I was wrong. You see, it turns out she's a two-timing bitch, just like the rest of them!"

Or perhaps not.

How about, "Hey Guy. I may be wrong, but on Friday night, I think I saw Sal practically having sex with another man in a nightclub..."

No. Too harsh, even though it's the truth. What on earth am I going to tell him?

I towel myself down, and move back to the bedroom where I dress whilst listening to some calming classical music. Unfortunately Mozart may do wonders for making babies intelligent, but it doesn't seem able to stop my hands from shaking nervously in anticipation of what I will have to do in the next ten to thirty minutes.

It's twenty minutes since I spoke to Guy. He should be back any moment...

"Andrew?", the front door opens and Guy piles into the flat, his buoyant mood already self evident in the way he inflects my name when calling after me.

Taking a deep breath I step towards the door, firmly grasping the handle in anticipation of opening it and stepping out confidently and with purpose. For a second I wonder for one last time if I am about to commit social suicide with my best friend, but I quash the thought immediately and step out boldly into the hall way.

"Guy...there's something...", I start, but am stopped dead in mid-sentence by the sight of Guy kissing Sal passionately in the hallway.

"Hey...." Guys exclaims loudly, breaking off momentarily from Sal, before kissing her quickly one more time. "Listen, have you got a moment?" he says, as Sal smiles at me, turns and walks towards Guy's bedroom, Guy playfully reaching out to her bottom and spanking it lightly as she goes.

"Yes...sure..." I stutter, flummoxed as to what I'm meant to do now. What was it again, about the best made plans of mice and men? The last thing I had considered was that Sal would come back to the flat with Guy.

"Here, let's go into your room for a second. I want to tell you something," he says, hanging his jacket behind the front door, then guiding me into my room.

"Guy, there's something I want to tell you too...I...," I try to start, suddenly feeling an overwhelming urge to get it out in the open and say it before Sal comes back.

"In a minute. I'm really short of time. I have to be at the airport in an hour or I'll miss my flight. Sal's taking me in her car, and I'm just going to shower and change, pick up my luggage and leave."

"Oh, shit,...I was thinking that maybe if time was short, maybe _I_ could go with you to the airport. We need to talk about something."

"The rent? Listen, don't worry about it. You can pay me next week when I get back."

"No..., actually..."

"Andrew, sorry to interrupt you, but I've honestly only got a few minutes, and there's something _really_ important that I've got to tell you. You know how I told you that I was taking Sal for a big night out on the town last night? I mean, The Ivy _,_ champagne,...the works!"

"Yes," I reply quietly, struggling to gain any control over the conversation.

"Well, it was a brilliant night out. Brilliant! And the thing is,...last night Sal and I got engaged!"

..

His words strike me like a lightning bolt out of the blue. My jaw drops open, and I blink three, maybe four times.

"You what?" I exclaim. "Engaged?", now completely lost as to what the hell I should do next.

"Yes! I mean, well almost... I mean, I asked her, and she said 'maybe'. But I know that the answer will be yes. She wants a week to think about it, and she's going to tell me when I get back from the States next Sunday. Andrew, it's going to be great. We're going to get married!...And it's all thanks to you! I took your advice..."

"Hang on," I reply, grasping desperately at the obvious. "Maybe she will say 'no'? And why does she need a week to think about it? Surely, if she..."

"Don't be so negative. Of course she'll say 'yes'. We've been going out for three years, we're great with each other and we're in love. So, why would she want to say no?"

I stare at Guy, the reply half forming in my mouth, but deciding instead to go again with, "So why did she ask for a week to think about it?"

"I don't know. I can't remember but I think it may even have been my idea. We were in The Ivy, and I had just ordered some champagne, and I got down on one knee. Even before I said a word, she started to cry, and before she said anything, everyone started to stare at us, and Sal got really embarrassed. She was so happy, she just couldn't stop crying. I just leaned across and kissed her to calm her down, and I said that before she gave me her answer that I wanted her to think about it whilst I was away. And when I got back, if she said 'yes'-which I hoped she would because she the was the most important and only woman in the world for me-that we would tell everyone, and start to plan the marriage, when and where, and how many people to invite etc. And then when I kissed her, the next think you know the waiter starts pouring the champagne and then another bottle of champagne arrives at our table a few minutes later as a present from Ewan McGregor, the actor, who was dining there too and who had seen me down on one knee, and..."

"So, she'll tell you her answer on Sunday?" I ask.

"Yes. Sunday night. Come on amigo, are you going to congratulate me or what?", Guy asks, stretching his hand out for me to shake it. His enthusiasm and happiness is overwhelming and I can sense a little frustration from him that I am not sharing the news with him as positively as he obviously thought I would.

"Absolutely!" I reply, giving in, shaking his hand and then wrapping him into a big bear hug.

As he squeezes me into his massive chest and lifts me playfully off the floor, I close my eyes and realise now is obviously _not_ the time or place to tell Guy. I have no option but to change my plan.

My new plan is simple: I now have no choice but to talk to Sal before next Sunday afternoon and persuade her that either she must tell Guy the truth herself, or that she must turn his proposal of marriage down and walk away from him once and for all.

### Chapter 18

"He did what?" Gail exclaims in disbelief, as I bring her up to date as soon as Guy and Sal have left for the airport and I tell her about my new plan.

"I'm not kidding. He popped the question in the middle of The Ivy down on one knee. The only good thing is that he told me that he never really gave her the opportunity to reply. He gave her until next Sunday when he gets back from America for her to make up her mind and give him an answer."

"So, how's that good? If he had just waited for a reply, she may have turned him down there and then and that would have been that."

"Yeah..., apart from the fact that Guy would have been heart-broken and his life would be over. I know him. He is the kindest, gentlest, most sensitive man you'll ever meet and he isn't going to take this easily."

"Still, the truth has to come out. Nothing has changed, except for the fact that he won't find out for another week."

"And what if she calls my bluff and doesn't tell him, and tells me she'll just deny it to his face?"

"That's the nightmare scenario. Don't worry about it. She won't do it."

"But if she does?"

"We'll think about it then."

"Okay. Okay." I say, although it's not really okay at all.

We are both silent for a while, but I can sense that Gail wants to say something and is holding back.

"What is it?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"Gail, I can practically hear the cogs turning in your mind. Is there something you want to say?"

"Andrew, listen, I've been doing some more thinking..."

"Go on...."

"I know you saw Sal and some other bloke getting off with each other, but maybe it's not as bad as it seemed,...maybe..."

"What are you talking about? They were having sex together in public, right there on the dance floor!"

"Don't get angry with me, all I'm saying is that sometimes, it's possible that people, women and men, well, they might do something that's fun and wrong, but it doesn't mean as much as you might think."

"You're scaring me, Gail. You're beginning to sound like Dianne."

"Don't compare me with her, okay? I'm nothing like her. Andrew, I'm your friend, and I'm playing devil's advocate for you just now. I personally would never do this, but I would be lying if I said that I don't know a few girlfriends that have snogged other men on a drunken night out, even though they were in love with their boyfriends. Come on, men do that sort of thing all the time! Anyway, all I'm saying is that just because Sal was getting off with someone else, it doesn't definitely mean that it was anything serious. And it also doesn't mean they are sleeping together. It could be that nothing else happened."

"Gail, first of all, they left the nightclub together. Where do you think they went? And secondly, this is the woman my best mate has just proposed to. If snogging some other guy and letting him feel her up in public is something that doesn't mean anything to her, then I think she's not the woman for Guy, okay?

"Fine, I know, but I just want you to be sure..."

"Are you changing your mind about either telling him or confronting Sal with it?"

"I don't know."

"Well I do. Where I come from, people don't do this, okay?"

"But this is London, Andrew. Maybe things are a little different down here..."

"Who's side are you on, Gail? Are you telling me that you would be happy if any new boyfriend of yours was out there having sex with another woman in a nightclub? Would you?"

"No. Of course not. You know I wouldn't. "

"Exactly."

We are both silent again.

"So when are you going to call her?" Gail eventually asks.

"I don't know. Do you think I should do it tonight?"

"Possibly. If you're going to do it then I think you should try to get hold of her as soon as possible. The sooner she knows you're on to her the better."

"You're right. I'll call her this evening."

"Let me know tomorrow at work how it goes. I'm going out with Luke tonight to try and cheer him up."

"No problem, I'll keep you up to date with all the latest details. Don't worry, as my world slowly turns to shit I'll keep you completely informed. It will be better than CNN."

"You're such a drama queen, Andrew. You're almost worse than Luke. Okay, I've got to go now. I'll speak to you tomorrow."

"Have fun with Luke."

"I'll try. See you later."

"Bye..."

Putting the phone down, I look at my watch and try to calculate when Sal will be at home. It's five o'clock now. Guy's flight leaves at six o'clock, and he would probably go through the departure-gate about ninety minutes earlier, so I guess that she would probably get back about seven o'clock.

For the next two hours I plan just what I am going to say to her when she answers her mobile. The first thing to do when she answers the phone is to establish that she is somewhere where she can talk without being interrupted, or at least to arrange to call her back later when she is. Or maybe I should meet with her face to face? Thankfully, it doesn't take me long to dismiss this idea and I am then able to start planning the rest of my little speech. After choosing a few possible introductory sentences, I retrieve some computer paper and a pen from my bedroom and make myself comfortable at the kitchen table, deciding that it would be better to write my little speech down, so that I don't mess it up when I finally get her on the phone. Unfortunately, when my initial ideas are converted to the written word, I realise just how stupid they sound, and I have to start again.

And then again. And again.

By seven o'clock, Guy's special whisky reserve has materialised from the cupboard and I am slowly sipping a wee, sly dram, in search of inspiration and Dutch courage. Delicious as it is, by seven thirty I am beginning to run out of paper, and I have still been unable to put together anything that really seems adequate for what I need. Apparently, it would seem that William Shakespeare I am not.

At eight o'clock I realise that I am just putting it off and subconsciously trying to delay speaking to her, but the last thing I want is to have to go through another day of feeling as nervous and apprehensive as this. I have got to get this over and done with as soon as possible. So, breathing deeply three times, I reach across the kitchen table, pick up my mobile and find her number.

"Hello?" I say, as soon as Sal answers. "It's Andrew..."

"Andrew, hi! Can you hear me okay?"

"Yes, I can. Where are you? Are you at home yet?" I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that she is back.

"No, I'm on the bus. I'm just going over to a friend's house for dinner."

"That sounds nice. Listen, when are you going to be back home this evening? I would really like to have a chat with you about something, but I don't think it's a good idea if you're somewhere busy. It would be better if you were in your flat, or somewhere, so that you could concentrate."

"Why? What's it about?" Sal replies, a defensive edge quickly developing in her voice.

"Just about things. I'll tell you later. Just let me know when you want to talk."

"Actually, tonight is not good. I'm probably going to stay over at my friends afterwards. Can we talk during the week?"

I think for a second, immediately wondering who the person is she will be staying over with. The man from Friday night?

"If tonight's out, how about tomorrow evening?"

"Possibly, but what's it about? You sound dead serious."

"It's nothing. I just feel really guilty that _you've_ been trying so hard to meet up with me so that we can talk about whatever it is _you_ want to discuss, but I'm always so busy. Now Guy's out of town, I think we should speak before he gets back."

For a moment, there is silence on the other end of the phone.

"If that's what it is about, then don't worry. It's too late. I wanted to talk to you about something to do with Guy, but now he's proposed to me, it doesn't really matter. Guy _did_ tell you didn't he? I was just guessing that he told you when you were having your little private chat in your bedroom?"

"Yes, he did. And he told me that you'll be thinking about your answer whilst he is away, and will let him know your decision next Sunday."

"That's about the size of it..."

"Well, I still want to talk to you about something. So is tomorrow evening good with you, or would you prefer another night?"

"Actually, I'm meant to be meeting up with friends this week, so I'm pretty busy now...", she answers evasively.

"It's _important_ that we speak. Especially if you're meant to be giving Guy an answer on Sunday."

"Okay. Okay. What about Thursday night? About 8 pm. Do you want to come round to my flat, or should we meet in town?"

"Let's meet in town," I reply, trying to think quickly where we can talk quietly, but where it won't be too full on a weekday. There will probably be a bit of a scene when I give her my ultimatum and I want to be able to get in quick, say what I have to say, and then leave. I only want to be with her for as long as I have to. Not a second longer. "How about we meet in the pub on the corner of Covent Garden, just down the road from the entrance to the Opera House? I can't remember it's name, but it's painted white on the outside, and if you stand with your back to the pub, the Opera House is on your right, and Covent Garden is directly in front of you."

"Okay, I know the one. They play jazz there on a Monday night. I've been there a couple of times."

"So, I'll see you there on Thursday at 8pm."

"Come on Andrew, give me a clue what it's about."

The temptation to shout at her down the phone is immense. Suddenly a picture of Kate pops into my head, and I am very angry. I start to experience a flash back to just how confused and upset and furious I was, standing at the entrance to our bedroom talking to Kate whilst she sat on our bed, confessing to having slept with the man she picked up somewhere: the man she _SCREWED_ behind my back! As I start to reply to Sal, I feel my blood pulsing in my veins, and my hand begins to shake whilst holding the phone. Scared that I am just about to lose it, I use all the self-control I can muster to simply say, "...I'll tell you when I see you. It can wait till then. Bye." And then probably quite rudely, I hang up, not even listening properly to her reply. Whatever it was.

### Chapter 19

....

We are sitting in a café around the corner from the Euro.com offices, Gail listening intently to me as I fill her in on what was said between myself and Sal, repeating the conversation almost word for word. Her elbows are resting on the café table, her hand clasped underneath her chin, and her head cocked slightly to one side. She is looking at me intently, her eyes wide and attractive, and with her only centimetres away it is all I can do but prevent myself from leaning across and kissing her. I struggle to remember the rules of our platonic friendship.

When I have finished relaying everything to her, she asks me to repeat a few things, just so that she gets it all perfectly. And then she sits back, lifting up her coffee and taking a sip, mulling it all over in her mind.

She leans forward, looking into her coffee cup, as if considering a question that she wants to ask me, but hesitating.

"Go ahead," I say, pre-empting her.

"How did you know I was going to ask something?" she looks up, genuinely surprised.

"The look in your eyes. I can see you thinking. What is it?"

"It's just that the way you're reacting to all this, there has got be something else behind it all. Yes, I know that your ex-girlfriend slept with another man, and that just as you're getting over it, Sal might be doing the same, and that brings it all back. And I know that whilst you are angry with Sal, you're probably actually really angry with Kate, and that Sal is partly just a focus for your anger..."

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, and try to interrupt her, but she fends it off.

"No, hear me out. I know I don't know you all that well, but there is something I can sense about you that I can't quite touch. What I wanted to ask you, is if there is anything else in your past that might be behind it all?"

I smile. I don't know why, because happiness is not exactly what I am feeling inside. It's just that, how am I meant to react to such a direct question? Is it so obvious that I am completely messed up, not just superficially, but so completely and utterly?

"What's with the Freudian psycho-analysis? Where did this all come from?"

"Perhaps my mum. She's a doctor in Birmingham. I grew up with mental psycho-babble in the house since I was a kid. Maybe some of it has rubbed off."

"Not maybe. _Definitely._ You sound like my sister. Recently she keeps on going on about how little trust I have in women, and how I must learn to forget the past and not to let it affect the rest of my life; that I have to start afresh, and give women a chance, learn to trust them more, take more of a risk with my feelings whenever I meet someone nice, and not to be scared to fall in love."

"Why? What happened?"

"It was a long time ago, and I don't really remember any of it. My sister and I were just toddlers. Anyway, my dad brought us up because when I was about four years old my mum had an affair with some other man, my dad caught them together, and she ran off with the other bloke. We never saw her again."

"I'm sorry," Gail whispers.

"Don't worry about it. We never missed her, because we never knew her. Dad brought us up, and he was great. He was pretty strict, but he was always there for us."

"Did he remarry?"

"No. He had quite a few girlfriends, but after the thing with my mum, I just think that he never wanted to settle down again. He didn't seem to stay with anyone for very long."

"Were any of them serious or last for any period of time?"

"A couple. They were always coming and going. When I was very young I can remember one called Aunty Cathy, but she always made me cry and I didn't like her. Then there was another one that stayed in our house for about a year when I was ten, and after her he was pretty serious about another one for about two years, but when she moved in, I could hear them rowing at night time, and then she left too. Probably only after a couple of months."

"So you never really had a mother figure?"

"Nope."

"That explains a lot. And what with all the fleeting relationships your dad had, you never ever got the chance to trust any women, did you?"

"Bingo. And after my mum, I don't think my dad ever trusted another woman again, and maybe that's rubbed off on me. My sister says that I don't know _how_ to trust, and she reckons that I'm always pushing women away from me as soon as I fall in love with them. She thinks I'm too scared to trust anyone properly just in case they do to me what my mum did to my dad. And she's right. She broke his heart and ruined his life. He never got over it. And I don't want the same thing to happen to me."

"Except it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, and your girlfriends probably get fed up competing with the shadows from your past, and you end up losing them all? Am I right?"

"Bingo again. The stupid thing is that it's probably only been in the past week or two that I have actually figured this all out for myself. How come you've managed to figure it out when you don't even know me?"

"Actually, now I probably know you quite a lot."

"Almost as much as I do."

"So?"

"So what?" I ask, this time not knowing where she is going.

"So what are you going to do about it all, now that you've figured it all out?"

" _Are you sure you haven't met my sister?_ We had this exact same conversation last week, and I promised to try and learn to trust people more, especially women. Except the only problem with my newly made resolution was that the very next day after I made it, you stood me up at the concert, and then a few days later, I catch Sal snogging a complete stranger."

"I'm sorry about that, but now at least you know that my one didn't count."

"I know. But it still made me angry at the time..."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. You were only doing the right thing for Luke."

We sit for a moment, neither of us feeling the need to say anything, comfortable in each other's silence. Eventually Gail speaks.

"So, you're meeting Sal on Thursday night?"

"Yes. But not for long. Just long enough to give her the ultimatum then leave. Then it's up to her."

"I don't envy you."

"Neither do I. Do you want to do it for me?" I joke, looking at my watch and suddenly remembering that we both work for a living and have to get back to the office.

"Nope. No thanks. Anyway, I have my date with Ben that night," she says, going a little red.

"So where are you going?" I ask, as we pick up our jackets and head back to the office.

"Don't know yet. He's the man. He can decide."

..

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

..

I spend the next couple of hours trying to work on writing a new datasheet to help arm the sales force with collateral for a new product Euro.com want to launch in September, once the dead sales months of the summer pass. Normally I'm quite good at this sort of stuff, but today I really struggle. The conversation Gail and I had at lunch keeps mulling around in my mind. It's not just that she was bang on the mark about how a lot of how I am reacting to this is more deep seated than it appears, but I am amazed that I actually opened up to her and told her so much about my past.

Towards the end of the afternoon the phone rings. "Euro.com," I start to reply formally, only to be interrupted by Guy's voice, clear as a bell, and hard to imagine that he is actually calling from the other side of the Atlantic somewhere.

"Guy, where are you?"

"New York. We're just about to go out for lunch, so I thought I'd give you a quick bell. Everything okay?"

"What with? Me or the flat?" I ask, hoping he's not going to ask about Sal.

"Both. And I was wondering if you had heard from Sal at all?"

"Not yet," I reply, pausing to take a breath. "Why, are you expecting anything?"

"No. Just nervous. I can't wait to get back on Sunday and pop that ring on her finger."

"Guy,..."

"What?" he asks.

"What happens if she says no?" I ask,

"She won't. Why should she? Honestly, it's going to be fine. Stop trying to talk yourself out of a job!"

"What job?"

"The Best Man!"

Shit.

"Anyway, listen, I have to run, because I'm calling from my mobile, and it'll cost me a fortune. But can you do me a favour and just check up on Sal this week and make sure she's alright for me? Or maybe, if you're going out somewhere, invite her along. I don't want her to be sitting at home all by herself. Okay, _Best Man_?"

"No problem. Maybe I'll give her a call later." I reply weakly.

"Good. Speak to you soon. Bye"

"Adios," I reply, suddenly feeling like Judas Iscariot who has just made an appointment to meet the Romans.

When I put down the phone, any ability to concentrate on work finally vanishes. I push back in my chair, and turn to look out of the window, trying to lose myself in the tireless movement and excitement of the river Thames. After a few minutes, I stand up from my desk and stretch, and walk towards the kitchen, gathering requests for tea or coffee from my colleagues as I go. Picking up a tray from beside the coffee machine, I start to press the buttons one by one that automatically delivers up the orders of coffee with milk, coffee without but with sugar, a green tea, and a hot chocolate. Having collected the drinks, I am just about to walk back to my desk when Dianne walks into the kitchen area, blocking the way out. Her face lights up as soon as she sees me, and I half-smile in return. This is the first time I have seen her since Gail's revelation to me about Dianne last Friday night.

"Andrew, wow. It's good to see you. How are you?" she asks, not moving from the entrance.

"I'm fine," I reply.

"You look well," she says.

"So do you." I reply, not lying. She actually looks great. She is wearing a figure hugging blouse and a shapely business skirt, black tights and a pair of black leather boots. In spite of myself, I feel the same instant attraction to her that I felt the first time I saw her.

"It's a shame you didn't make it to the Road House last Friday night. I was kind-of-hoping you might come, so that we could maybe have a dance together?" she says, moving slowly into the kitchen and leaning backwards against the coffee machine, the exit now free to escape through.

"I went dancing somewhere else, with some friends from work," I reply, still standing holding the tray.

"Anywhere nice?" she asks me.

"Well, let's just say it was, until I found out that everyone in the office was laughing at me behind my back because you told them you had slept with me."

"They're not laughing, Andrew. They're jealous," she replies, not missing a beat.

"Why did you have to tell everyone?"

"I didn't. Well, maybe I just told one person, and she told the rest. The Office Grapevine, faster than the speed of light. And anyway, I'm not ashamed of sleeping with you Andrew. I do what I want, with whom I want. When I want. And I enjoyed it. Very much," she replies, cocking her head to one side and slightly raising her eyebrows: the body language of a confidant, sexual predator. " _Did_ _you_?"

I can feel myself beginning to blush. I know that the right thing to do is just to turn and walk away, and not to take the bait. But before I control myself, my mouth opens by itself and replies, "I think that was obvious. But it won't happen again."

As I walk out of the kitchen, I hear her reply. "That's a shame. I was hoping it would..."

"But it won't, " I reply loudly over my shoulder without turning to look back.

..

### Chapter 20

It's Monday night and I'm alone in the flat. Several empty cans of beer are neatly stacked on the coffee table beside me, and I am watching one of the latest movie releases to have just come out on the Sky Movie Channel.

For the most part I am able to enjoy the film, but every now and again my mind wanders back to Sal and Guy and I run over in my mind once more all the reasons why I believe that giving Sal the ultimatum is the right thing to do.

When the movie finishes, I go through to my bedroom to fetch a CD. I flick through the selection of my current favourites, Jamiroquai's 'Dynamite' album, some Franz Ferdinand, Coldplay's 'Speed of Sound', Hard-Fi, and James Blunt, but given my mood, I eventually decide for my father's favourite cassette, "Dark Side of the Moon", pop it into Guys hi-fi, and lie back on the sofa, thinking. As the mellow tones of arguably the best album ever made slowly waft their way into my bones, I begin to relax.

My thoughts drift back to the conversation I had with Gail at lunchtime, and how the lack of a mother figure has accounted for so much in my life. Then I think about my dad, and for some strange reason, I am soon remembering a holiday he took Hannah and I on when I was about fifteen. He had bought us both new bicycles for Christmas, and come the summer school holidays, he fitted panniers to the back wheels and proudly announced that that year we would be going on a cycling tour of the Scottish Highlands.

"We'll stay at all the youth hostels that I used to visit when I was a kid of your age," he insisted to both Hannah and myself, "...and we'll cook our lunches on a gas stove and fall asleep in the sun each afternoon." It sounded idyllic and initially Hannah and I were really enthusiastic, but after four days we were all beginning to struggle, and could hardly face climbing onto the saddle each morning to start each new sixty mile journey to the next hostel. My dad kept us going though, promising that by the second week we'd all be loving it, and that our bodies would soon be used to doing sixty miles a day with no problems.

The best part was that he was right. As the first weekend passed and we left Achmelvich Youth Hostel in the Highlands behind us, we found ourselves in love with the clean, fresh air, the wide open valleys with fantastic scenic horizons, and the empty roads where we were the kings, and our bikes were our chariots. I will never forget the long downhill freewheel to Torriddon Youth Hostel, staring up at the jagged cliff edges which towered above us and ran on for mile after mile like the pictures I had seen of the Grand Canyon in my books at school. We were never closer as a family than as we were then, the afternoons spent singing and chatting to each other as we cycled through the beautiful glens, or when we cooked our evening meals together in the communal kitchens in the youth hostels.

I miss my dad.

For a moment I consider calling Hannah to reminisce together, but then I decide against it. I know she has always missed him even more than I do. Which means that she misses him very much indeed.

..

..

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

..

On Tuesday I catch the train up to Birmingham, and visit a customer with my boss James and the account manager. The presentation with the customer goes well, and after taking a couple of them out to dinner afterwards, we stay at a hotel in the city centre.

It's lunchtime when we make it back into the office on Wednesday, but nothing much gets done for the rest of the day: London is celebrating!

At 12.49 BST, relayed live by satellite from Singapore to a massive crowd in Trafalgar Square, the Olympic committee announced that the 2012 Olympics would be held in London.

The city went mad.

Only half a mile south of the river, James and I heard the roar from the assembled crowd in Trafalgar Square as the decision was announced. By the time we got out of the lift on the second floor, most of the office had assembled in the Executive Suite and were glued to the TV, watching the commentary from the BBC coming live from Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square.

A wave of excitement quickly sweeps around the office, and even though I am not a Londoner, even though I have only been here a few weeks, I can't help but feel some of the excitement rub off on me.

An excitement which is however, very short lived.

Checking my emails I find that Guy has emailed me to ask if I have seen Sal and if she is okay. In a flash I am brought back to my own personal reality and my happy disposition begins to ebb away. Thankfully I am able to tell Guy that James had taken me on an unplanned trip out of the city, so I haven't had the opportunity to see Sal yet. "Maybe later on in the week," I tell him. From his email it would seem that he is now starting to get a little nervous what her reply will be. I text Sal afterwards and confirm with her where and when we will meet tomorrow and she replies, ' _8pm at the pub near Convent Garden, as planned_.'

By the time I get home I am knackered. I'm in bed by ten, and I'm asleep by five past.

..

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

..

I awake on the Thursday morning, fresh, alive and raring to go. Unfortunately, my upbeat mood is short lived: as I am popping a tea-bag into a cup and adding some water, I remember just what I have to do this evening, and in an instant, my day has become grey and foreboding.

On the train into London I am not lucky enough to find a seat, and I am forced to stand, hanging onto one of the poles near the door, swaying back and forward and trying to avoid banging into my fellow commuters whenever the train lurches forward or rattles on its tracks.

My mind a blank, I start studying the faces of those fortunate enough to be sitting. After several minutes watching a businessman from the city hilariously struggling to stay awake, his head rolling forwards and jolting quickly upright every few minutes, I jump from looking at a spotty teenager to the more attractive face of a blonde woman, who I immediately recognise from somewhere, but cannot place. Subconsciously biting my bottom lip, I try racking my brains as to where I could probably have seen her before, matching her appearance in my mind to anyone new that I have met in the past couple of weeks. At first she doesn't click, but as she suddenly looks up and catches my gaze, I find myself once again staring into the eyes of the very attractive woman I sat opposite to on the train into London last week. This time neither of us immediately looks away, and without a newspaper to hide behind, I simply smile directly back at her, acknowledge her, then slowly turn and start looking out of the window. A few minutes later, I look back, but she is reading a book. For a second or two, I study the gentle curves of her face, her interesting eyes, and her soft, blonde hair. Then not wanting to get caught leering after her like I did last week, I turn my head and start studying the faces of others elsewhere.

Five minutes later, the train arrives at Waterloo, and within seconds my mystery blonde woman has left the train and melted into the faceless masses of commuters in the station.

..

It is a beautiful morning, and as I walk out of the train station towards my offices, my mood lightens again. I think back to how different my life already is to what it used to be in Edinburgh. In so many ways, the move to London has been good for me: I have made new friends, started a new life, and developed my career. Looking forward, I know that I still have to find the courage to make the bus-trip back down to Mitcham to fulfil the real reason I moved down here, and I mentally plan to do that this coming weekend. It's funny how life works out. It is only through the death of my relationship with Kate, and only through the emotional pain I have had to experience from our break-up, that I am now evolving into a new life. But that's typical of the way life works: from death comes new life, such is nature's way.

..

Walking around the corner to my office, and staring up at the tall, glistening and impressive Euro.com office in front of me, I smile to myself. I haven't done too badly for myself now, have I?

..

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

..

It is 9.32 am.

My phone rings.

As I pick it up to answer it, I am unaware then that this single moment of time will be captured in my mind's eye for the rest of my life. In future when I think of this moment, I will be able to recall every aspect of the office around me: the smell of the flowers on someone's desk only metres away, the sound of a colleague laughing quietly to someone else on the phone, and the light reflecting from the river as I gaze out onto the Thames as I put the receiver to my ear.

"Andrew?", a voice, urgent and shrill. My sister.

"Yes, Hannah? Are you okay?" I answer, my senses immediately alert and quickly recognising that Hannah is very upset.

"I'm fine? Are _you_?" she asks quickly.

"Yes...why?"

"Bombs are going off all over London! You need to turn on the news...I'm watching it now. Listen, I'll turn up the volume..."

On the other end of the phone I hear the volume of the television set increasing, and soon I hear the voices of excited reporters saying '...and reports are coming in, as of yet unconfirmed, of bombs going off on the London underground. We stress that these reports are as of yet unconfirmed, but...I'm sorry, I'm just being told that we now have confirmation of a bomb exploding on a underground tube near Liverpool Street station...."

"Shit!" I almost shout aloud, drawing the attention of my nearest colleagues. "Hannah,...Hannah?" I call down the phone. "Are you there?"

"Yes. I'm here. It's terrible, Andrew...Listen, if you're alright, stay where you are. Don't go anywhere just now....And call me back in an hour or so? It looks like it's another 9/11 or something."

"Hannah, I'm going to hang up now. I want to go and find a TV somewhere."

"I love you, Andrew. Be safe, okay?"

"I will."

I hang up the phone. The people sitting nearest to me are staring at me, wondering what is up.

"Several bombs have gone off on the underground in London. I'm going to the Executive Presentation Suite to switch on the TV."

As I leave my desk and head to the Executive Suite I can sense that the office floor is coming alive, as other people start becoming aware of what is happening in the world outside. All around me the phones begin to ring, and in the far corner of the floor I hear a woman scream then start to cry. Fear starts to ripple throughout Euro.com.

The door to the Executive Suite is wide open when I get there and a group of eight or nine people are already hanging on to every word that the reporter on the BBC is relaying on the News Flash.

"...it would seem that a bomb has gone off on the underground on a train near Liverpool Street station. Other unconfirmed reports coming into the studio talk of other bombs going off in other parts of London. No other bombs have as of yet been confirmed, but we are currently waiting for the police to...."

A group of people come into the room behind me, some with their coats still on, one crying and being comforted by a workmate.

"Shit, I was just there," she is crying aloud.

"And so was I," someone in front of the TV joins in. "I must have left Liverpool Street just before it happened."

Within seconds, everyone is talking aloud, and the room is full of nervous excitement, fear and subdued panic.

One of the men at the front shouts at us all to be quiet, and he leans forward and pumps up the volume on the TV.

"...and reports are just coming in of another bomb going off on another tube near Edgware Road. This too is as of yet unconfirmed, but..."

The room is now full of people, some crying, the rest just staring wide-eyed at the TV set. It reminds me immediately of the student union at Edinburgh University where we all stood around dumbstruck and watched the terror attacks on the World Trades Towers. And now it is happening again. Now London is under attack.

I am not a Londoner. I am not from here. Suddenly I am very scared, and in spite of all the people around me, I feel very alone and vulnerable.

For the next hour we all sit in the room staring at the television set, scared and starved of information as to what is actually going on in the city outside our windows. The television stations are recycling the same news over and over again, and as we flick between the channels, one common factor becomes evident. Confusion.

No one really understands what is going on in London.

Eventually people begin to drift out of the room, some going for a smoke and a chat, others to get a coffee or go to the toilets; some to call loved ones. No one even thinks of going back to their desk to resume work.

I go back to my desk, pick up my mobile and walk down the stairs and out of the office onto the street, desperate for some fresh air. As soon as I walk out of the door the sound of police car sirens and ambulances wailing in the distance hits me like a foghorn. Before I have even had time to walk around the corner from the office, five police cars with blue flashing lights and sirens blazing have passed me on the way to Waterloo.

Shit. What is happening?

My phone rings. It is Hannah again.

"Where are you?" she asks straight away.

"Still at work. I was just about to call you."

"Have you been watching the news? I can't believe it!"

"Yes, but nothing's been confirmed yet. No-one knows what's going on. It's ridiculous."

"Kate called me. She wanted to check that you were alright."

"Tell her I'm fine, but don't give her my telephone number or anything, ok?"

"Andrew, I'm worried about you. On the radio, they were saying that about fifteen bombs had gone off in London. Maybe you should try to get out of the city?"

"Not yet. Until we know what's happening it's probably better just to stay put. Anyway, I think they may have had a bomb at Waterloo, because there are lots of police cars heading over there. I might have to walk home."

"Will you call me at lunchtime?"

"Yes."

Hannah hangs up, and I decide to head back upstairs and check the TV again. Maybe they've found out something new. As I am walking back up the stairs, my phone goes. It's my boss James.

"Andrew, are you in the office?" he asks.

"Yes. Where are you?"

"Standing outside Liverpool Street Station. They've closed it all off, and it doesn't look like we'll be able to go anywhere soon. All the buses are packed, and some are even refusing to go anywhere, and they're just standing at the sides of the roads. It looks like I may have to walk into the office."

"Have you any idea what's happening?"

"I think there was a bomb. There are thousands of ambulances everywhere, and all the streets around us are cordoned off and full of fire-engines."

"We've been watching the TV in the Executive Suite trying to find out what's happening with the other bombs, but no-one knows."

"What do you mean, other bombs?"

"You haven't heard? It looks like it's another 9/11. The TV is reporting bombs going off all over London, and I just spoke to my sister who told me that on the radio they said there were fifteen bomb explosions reported."

"How many?"

"Fifteen, although none of them have been confirmed yet. I think everyone is just guessing at what's happening..."

"Oh dear,..."James says, interrupting me. "For the past hour people have been coming out of the tube station onto the street. Some are being carried out on stretchers, others are being helped out. They don't look good...Listen Andrew, I want you to do me a favour, okay? I want you to call everyone in the marketing team, and check that everyone is alright. I can't do it because it took me twenty minutes just to get through to my wife before I called the office, and there is no signal here with everyone else on their mobiles as well. I've already spoken to Ben, and Simon who normally comes in via Liverpool Street, so just call the others. Try calling me back or send me a text when you've contacted everyone."

Returning to my desk, I first call Gail and am relieved to find out that she is fine. She got to work at 8.30 am. before any of the problems started. We talk briefly, and then I start to do the roll call of my colleagues as James requested. It takes me twenty minutes to establish that everyone else is accounted for and okay. They are all in the office now, apart from one who I call and find out is at home off sick, but unhurt. After letting James know, I return to the TV room, only to find the screen full of images of wounded people coming out of tube stations, and a horrifying image of a bus, blown to pieces, sitting on the road near Tavistock Place. We sit for the next hour mesmerised by the scenes of death and carnage filmed by the camera crews when they finally arrived at the scenes of four bomb explosions: three apparently on underground trains inside the tube tunnels themselves, and one on a bus. Horrific television images of blackened walking wounded people fill the television set. Fire-engines, police, and ambulances are everywhere, and as the news stations struggle to find out what is going on, we watch as people, scared out of their minds, shocked and dazed, are interviewed by reporters who are just as scared as those they are interviewing. Everyone is asking the same question, "There have been four confirmed bombs so far, are there going to be anymore?"

Slowly, reports start to come in about the numbers of those estimated to have been killed by the bombs. At first the numbers are very high, with some reporters talking of hundreds of dead or dying.

Most of us forget to take lunch. At two o'clock James finally makes it into the office, having walked all the way from Liverpool Street Station. He tells us that we can go home whenever we want, although he warns us not to take the tube, train or bus wherever possible. According to the news, catching a train or tube home may be impossible anyway, as most of the train and underground stations have now been closed.

.

I am undecided what to do, to walk all the way back to Clapham Junction, or to try to catch a bus or a taxi.

Still feeling rather lonely and scared, I am longing to see a friendly face, and I decide to go off in search of Gail who I eventually find in the boardroom watching the news with others from her group. Together we go down to the canteen and sit in the corner, drinking a coffee. She looks terrible, as white as a sheet, and yet I suppose I look no better myself.

"Have you heard that they think it was done by suicide bombers?" she says, the stress showing in her face.

"Yes, and if it is, then apparently they are the first suicide bomb attacks on the British mainland ever."

"I can't believe that anyone has actually gone and done this. I know that they've been worrying that this could happen for years, but that someone would actually sit on a train in rush hour and blow themselves up to deliberately kill as many people as possible..." her voice tails off.

"How are you going to get home?" I ask her.

"I don't know. I'm just going to walk, I think. The whole of London is probably going to walk home tonight."

"Is Luke alright?"

"Yes. I spoke to him about ten o'clock. He cycles to work, and he was fine."

"Do you think it is over, Andrew, or will there be more bombs this evening? Are more people going to be killed?"

"I hope not," is all I can reply.

When we get up to leave the table, she comes around to me and gives me a quick hug. For a moment I hold her close to me, squeezing her and giving her as much strength as she gives to me. Ordinarily, a woman giving a hug to a man in the canteen may have raised a few eyebrows, but today, no one else pays any attention: all day long people have been comforting each other, hugging each other or holding hands.

.

It takes me almost two and a half hours to walk home later that afternoon. An afternoon in which the streets are full of people, all trudging back to their families, all thankful to be alive and uninjured, but scared of what still could come. As I walk through the busy streets, I can sense a communal spirit that is shared between us all, and I wonder if what we are feeling now is anything like what the people felt during the German's Blitz on London in the 1940's. The London I walk home through this afternoon is very different from the London I woke up to this morning. I don't think it will ever be the same again. No one yet knows exactly what has happened today, and confusion is everywhere. But today the nightmare that everyone has been dreading for so many years, has finally come home to us all. The nightmare has become reality.

.

As I turn to walk along Battersea Rise towards the building where my flat is, I pass a newspaper shop, and for the first time the significance of today's date hits home. The evening headline points out that today is the 7th July 2005: Now the UK has it's very own 9/11. Except for us it's a catchy 7/7.

.

It's then that I remember that I'm meant to be meeting Sal tonight at 8.30 pm.

.

### Chapter 21

The answer phone is blinking when I walk through the door. There are three messages, all from Guy.

"Andrew, are you alright? I'm watching the news just now. Please call me. And please _try to get hold of Sal_. I'm trying to call her but the mobile network is absolutely jammed. Make sure she's ok, and call me back."

The second message is a little more excited. "Andrew, where are you? I've tried calling you at your desk all day, and you're not answering either. I still can't get hold of Sal. Can you try calling her flatmate Mandy and see if she knows where Sal is?"

The third one was only five minutes ago: "Andrew, you've got me scared now. You're mobile is not working, you don't seem to be at work, and you're not at home. And neither is Sal. Oh, and I'd better give you Mandy's mobile number, just in case you don't have it," and he reads it out to me on the message, and then finishes by giving me a contact number where I can reach him at a desk in New York, which he forgot to do in the first message.

Without even taking my jacket off, I immediately try calling Sal. Not only do I want to make sure that she is safe, but I also need to confirm that we are still meeting for a chat this evening. By now the mobile network is freeing up, and I manage to get through to her phone, although it goes straight through to voicemail. I leave a message. It occurs to me briefly that given the events of today, that tonight is perhaps not the best day to give Sal the ultimatum. Then I think of Guy coming home this weekend to get the answer to his marriage proposal and I realise that I have no choice. Suddenly I am kicking myself for not being more pushy and insisting on meeting her earlier on in the week.

I try calling the switchboard at her work, hoping that someone may still be there, but there is no reply. Next I try calling Mandy. She picks up straight away.

"Mandy, hi it's Andrew. Are you alright?"

"Andrew? Hi! Yes, I'm fine, but I'm not in London just now. I'm in Germany this week. I'm in a hotel in Berlin at the moment, just about to go out. Is Guy okay?"

"Yes, he's still in the states. Listen, do you know where Sal is, or have you spoken to her today? Guy spent all day trying to reach her on her mobile and in the office and he couldn't get hold of her."

"Yes, I called her and spoke to her this morning. She was on the way to visit a customer outside London. She was fine. She would have had her phone switched off whilst she was with the customer, and she wouldn't have gone back to the office afterwards. I wouldn't worry, Andrew. She'll be okay. Just send her a text and ask her to call you as soon as she gets it. And don't forget that the mobile network is completely useless today, and everyone in the world is trying to call their friends and relatives in London to make sure they are fine."

"I hope you're right. Guy is really frantic. Do you have her parents number, so I can call them, just in case she's called them to say she's fine?"

"No. Sal's an only child, and her father is dead, and her mother is in a home. It's probably better not to disturb her, just in case you upset her unnecessarily."

"Ah, I didn't know."

"I'll try calling her too, and as soon as either one of us gets through to her, let's send each other a text message, okay?"

"Good idea. If you do speak to her, let her know that I'm still on for tonight. I'm meant to be meeting her for a quick drink. Anyway, I'm glad you're safe. When are you coming home?"

"Next Tuesday. I'm staying for the weekend and I have to visit another customer in Munich on Monday."

When I call Guy, he picks up the phone straight away, and practically shouts at me when I say "Hi!"

"Thank God you're alright. Have you spoken to Sal? Is she okay too?"

"I haven't spoken to her yet, but Mandy say's not to worry because she was meant to be visiting a customer outside London today, and wouldn't be in the office or have her mobile switched on. It's only 6.20 pm here. She may not be home yet. It took me two hours to walk home from the office. There aren't any tubes, trains or buses tonight..."

"I know, the bloody terrorists blew them all up. It just said on Bloomberg that there were four confirmed separate bombs, and they think about ninety people have been killed. All the bombs look like they went of about the same time."

"I know, they're saying it was a sophisticated operation and well planned. Probably Al Quaida."

"Bastards. Everyone in New York is glued to the TVs here. No-one is doing any work. It's like 9/11 all over again. People are scared of an another attack happening here too."

When I hang up, I promise to call him back as soon as I know anything, but don't tell him that I am meant to be meeting up with Sal later.

Trying Sal's mobile, and then her flat number, I get answering machines again and no-one is picking up, so I grab a beer from the fridge and go and have a short cool shower. As I am towelling myself down afterwards, the phone rings and I dive into the hall to catch it, tripping over my towel.

It's Hannah, checking I got home safely.

"Whatever you do, don't go out tonight!" she instructs me, "...And maybe you shouldn't go into work tomorrow either. It's not safe yet. They still don't know what happened, or if it's even over."

"Hannah, I'm fine. I have a job. I have to go to work tomorrow. I'll just walk in or catch a bus. But I'll be okay," I promise her.

.

.

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

.

.

I'm lying on the couch, the cordless phone on my lap. I've been glued to SkyNews and the BBC, watching endless footage of the injured coming out of the tube stations and being helped by other passengers, and some darkened video shot on someone's mobile phone of people walking along the underground tracks as they escape from the wreckage of one of the bombed tube-trains...Above ground on the surface, the imagery is dominated by pictures of red-fire engines, ambulances and people in orange jackets helping victims receive medical attention. The most incredible image of all is a single picture of two people standing upright at the front of the top-deck of the bus that was blown up: the explosion has just happened, the roof has just been blown off, and the two people at the very front of the bus have just stood up from their seats, apparently unscathed. Someone passing by caught the image in the seconds after the blast. The rest of the bus is twisted and burnt, others are dead and wounded, but they are fine...just looking around them...wondering what just happened.

It occurs to me that death is so random, and life is so accidental.

.

It's twenty past seven and an announcement has just been read on the news on behalf of the world leaders gathered at the G8 Summit in Gleneagles in Scotland, denouncing and deploring the atrocities of today: George Bush, Tony Blair and Vladimir Putin standing side by side, united in the fight against international terrorism. I have just finished eating and am about to leave to go to Covent Garden to try and meet Sal when the phone rings. I've been calling Sal's phone repeatedly over the past couple of hours, and I'm hoping it is her.

I pick it up, hit the green answer button and put the receiver to my head. It's Guy. He's crying.

.

"Andrew, Sal was on the underground train at Liverpool Street. She was blown up by the first bomb...she's in hospital..." is all he manages to say that I can understand, before he breaks down incoherently.

"What?" I shout back at him, jumping to my feet. "Guy, is she okay? Is she wounded? Will she be alright? Guy? Talk to me!"

"I...I don't know..." He replies between gasps.

"How do you know it is her? Maybe it's a mistake? Who told you?"

"Someone called me from her mobile a few minutes ago. It was a police officer...she was just trying to track down a next of kin...my number was the last number she called last night just before she went to bed."

"Where is she? Is she going to be alright?" I ask, beginning to panic.

"The police-officer wouldn't say. She just said she's in a serious condition in intensive care, and that she would encourage the next of kin to go to the hospital as soon as possible. I told her that she is an only child and that her mother has got Alzheimer's and that for all intents and purpose I was practically the next of kin...her mum doesn't even know who Sal is anymore... Even if she did, the shock of this would kill her. When I told her that I was in New York, the policewoman asked if she had any friends in London that could identify her and come to the hospital. I told them you would go...You could go with Mandy if you want."

"Me?..."I reply in surprise without thinking, but immediately regain control of myself. "Sure...absolutely...I'll go straight away. I'll go by myself. Mandy is in Berlin just now. She won't be back till next week."

"Andrew, as soon as you have seen her, you must call me okay? I need to know how she is. If it's serious? Is she going to be okay...?" He starts to sob on the other end of the phone. "I love her so much! We're meant to be getting married! Shit, I need to get a flight back home immediately. I've got to get to the hospital..."

"I don't know if the planes are flying to the UK from the US just now. I think they may have stopped them..."

"If that's true I'll go via Canada...Andrew, take your mobile with you, so that I can speak to her when you get there. Tell her that I love her and that I'm coming home, okay?"

"Sure... Where is she?"

"The police officer told me that she was taken to the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. She gave me a number to call..."

I take the number down. We speak for a little longer, with Guy struggling the whole time to prevent himself from crying again. He promises to call me back as soon as he knows when he will be getting back to London, and I promise to call him as soon as I have seen Sal. Then I call a taxi to go to the Royal London.

### Part 2

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### Chapter 22

The taxi takes forever to arrive. I call the company twice, demanding to know where it is. Apparently most of the trains are not working and the tubes are all out of commission so every taxi in town is busy taking people home out of London. There are no taxis to be had anywhere. Infuriated and desperate I eventually tell them where it is I want to go and why, and the lady in the taxi company promises to have a taxi pick me up in ten minutes.

True to her word, fifteen minutes later I am on my way to the Royal London. I sit in the taxi trying not to think what I will find when I get there, hoping that she will be okay. My thoughts become abstract and weird: it was a bomb, will she be maimed? Was she one of the people I saw on television being carried on a stretcher out of the tube-station? Will she die?

Shaking my head and physically trying to snap myself out of it, I try chatting to the taxi-driver, wondering if he knew any more about what had happened today.

"Bloody terrorists," he shouts back at me as soon as I give him the invitation to speak. "They should bring back the death penalty, that's what I say. Find the bastards, then tie them all to a big bomb and blow them all up."

It occurs to me that there is a certain irony in what he says, given that this is exactly what the terrorists do to the themselves. But I don't say anything.

"I know," is all I can muster in reply. "My friend is one of the people on the first underground train to be hit," no sooner having said the word 'friend' than realising how hypocritical I am being.

There is little traffic in London tonight, with everyone wisely staying at home and tuned to their TV's. Most of the streets are eerily quiet for this time of year, but as we near the Royal London on Whitechapel Road suddenly the roads are full of blue flashing lights, ambulances and televisions vans and camera crews.

"I'll have to let you out here, mate," the taxi driver turns to me and says. "That'll be eighteen pounds, pal."

I hand him over a twenty and as I wave away the change, he replies "I hope your friend is okay."

"So do I," I reply without thinking. As I start to walk past the cameras and police-cars and fight my way through the commotion, an evil and shocking thought hits me: "Do I really hope she is alright? Wouldn't it be simpler if..."

The thought shocks me, and I stop dead in my tracks and shake my head in disbelief as if in an attempt to wipe the brutality of such a thought from my mind. What is happening to me?

.

A policewoman stops me at the entrance and I explain to her who I am and why I am here, and ask for guidance as to what I should do next and where I should go. She points me through the doorway into the hallway where a makeshift table has been set up, and several policewomen and nurses are busy answering questions from distraught members of the public, now queuing up like myself and waiting to be directed as to where to go next. As the people in the queue in front of me come up to the desk, one of the nurses takes their name and refers to one of the clipboards. As the names are located on the clipboard, another nurse and a female police-officer step forward and gently guide the relatives to a private room further down the corridor. Others, perhaps the more fortunate ones, are simply given instructions as to which ward to go to and where it is, and they walk away by themselves.

Am I going to be one of the escorted or the directed?

People are crying all around me, and from the bottom of the corridor where some of the others have been escorted to, a spine-tingling scream erupts and echoes around the tiled walls of the hospital. Suddenly I am really scared. I am sweating and my heart is beating faster and faster. I am beginning to feel like I have walked onto the set of a disaster movie, except unfortunately, I know that this is all only too real.

"Hello, could you please give me the name of your relative?" a nurse asks me gently.

"Sally Wentworth," I reply very quietly, having to cough and clear my throat once before repeating it more audibly for a second time. "Sally Wentworth."

"Are you the next of kin?" The nurse looks back at the list and runs down it with the tip of a pencil. She finds the name on the list and then looks up at me very seriously. "Are you the next of kin?"

"Not exactly," I reply, and explain the situation to her. " I was told the police were expecting me."

"That's okay," she says, handing a piece of paper to one of the other nurses, who reads the instructions on it and politely invites me to follow her. "Oh no," I think to myself. "I am being escorted to one of the rooms to get bad news."

I follow her down the long corridor, past the first few rooms from which heart-breaking sounds of distress and sorrow are emanating, and I am led into a room at the far end. The room is empty except for a small table and two chairs. We walk in and the nurse waves gently to one of the chairs. I sit down, resting my hands on my lap, expecting the worst.

The nurse who accompanied me into the room now leaves, and I am left alone for about fifteen minutes before another nurse arrives. She opens the door, says 'hello' and sits down beside me. She is looking very serious.

"Mr Jardine?", she asks.

"Yes," I reply. "That's me.

"Mr Jardine, I am afraid the news is not good. I am sorry to have to tell you that your friend's fiancée was caught in the first blast that happened this morning. She was on the underground train travelling from Liverpool Street Station, and was in the same carriage in which the bomb went off."

"Is she dead?" I interrupt her, just wanting to hear the truth.

"No. She is not," the nurse replies very matter-of-factly. "She is still alive, but we are very concerned. The situation is very serious. Although we have managed to stabilise her and her vital signs are good, she is not responding as well as we would have hoped. Although we don't yet know for sure, it may be that she has suffered some form of brain damage. We will be running further tests over the coming days, and later tonight we will be running some scans..."

"Is she awake? Can I talk to her?"

"No. Unfortunately she hasn't yet woken up. It could be she is suffering from concussion. It appears that she may have received a bang to the head when she was caught by the blast and thrown against the side of the carriage."

"When will she wake up?" I ask.

"I'm afraid we can't say. It could be any minute now, or it could take longer. Perhaps tomorrow, or maybe next week. It would seem..."

"Is she in a coma?"

"Andrew, it may be that she is. However, for the moment it's better to hope that she will wake up soon."

"Has she lost any limbs?" I ask, suddenly picturing the worst. On the television this evening, the survivors being interviewed as they came out from the tunnels were already recounting scenes of unforgettable horror where some victims had lost limbs. Was Sal one of them?

"No. Thankfully not. What we _can_ say now is that she has suffered a broken arm, numerous cuts and quite severe bruising, which actually looks a lot worse than it is. The good news is that if there is no brain damage, and she wakes up soon, she may actually turn out to have no long lasting damage."

"Where is she? Is she in this hospital? "

"For now she is in the intensive care ward, although we may be transferring her to another ward quite soon which specialises in brain traumas. Mr Jardine, the primary reason you were asked to come here today was to formally identify Sally. We first need to be sure that it is her that we are treating. Unfortunately, as is so often the case in bombings, the victims clothes are blown off their bodies, and initially we can only identify the wounded from personal effects found around their bodies. Sometimes those personal affects belong to other people, so we want to make sure we clearly understand who the patients are. It would also be helpful to us if you could tell us if she is allergic to anything or if she was taking any medication that we should know about?"

"I will ask her fiancé later tonight. Can I see her now then?"

"Yes. Let me take you up to her. Remember what I said, that superficially she looks a lot worse than she is. It's the internal head injuries that we are worried about."

We both get up and I follow her out of the room, back down the hall to a corridor on the left. We walk for about five minutes, through several long corridors, and past two wards which are filled with people being treated from the effects of the bomb blast.

I have never seen so much suffering in my life before. The corridors outside the wards are full of relatives crying and being comforted, their anguish affecting everybody around them. Grief, anger, relief, and joy all mix together, the relief and joy of the relatives who find out that their loved ones are only lightly wounded being quickly replaced with a shared grief for the relatives of those who have not been so lucky. As I see the human devastation all around me, I know that the sights and sounds of the wards in the Royal London tonight will haunt me for the rest of my life, and I will never forget the destruction a terrorist bomb can wreak. I have been watching the television all day following the accounts of the bombings, but nothing, and I mean nothing, is able to prepare you for the reality of death, twisted bodies and blood that is still so obvious all around me. This is not a sanitised news report for consumption at six o'clock by people eating their evening meal and drinking cups of tea. This is the sharp end of the stick. People are dying here, fighting for their life. And Sally may be one of them. This is where they should bring the terrorists when they catch them. They should force them to see exactly what human destruction they cause, and tell them to imagine what it would be like if their loved ones were among the dead and wounded.

As we turn into the ward where Sal is being looked after, blue-dressed nurses buzzing around everywhere and attending the wounded and critically ill, I feel a strange concoction of emotions stirring within me. I feel like an impostor being here. All the other visitors are overwhelmed by emotion because they either love or are very close to the person they are visiting. Me? I hardly know Sal. Before coming to London I had only ever had fleeting conversations with her in a pub or over the phone. Since getting to London I have got to know her a little more, but not much.

My reactions to Sal have been very mixed. Initially I was in awe of how lucky Guy was to have her, Sal being seemingly everything you could ever wish for in a girlfriend. But now,...now I hate her. I can't believe what she has done... she is just like the rest of them, just like...

"Mr Jardine, are you okay?" the nurse is asking, standing in front of a green curtain surrounding a bed on the ward.

"Yes. Yes, I am," I reply, swallowing hard, and stealing myself for the next few minutes.

"Could you wait here a second. I would like to get the doctor for you. He may be able to answer any more of your questions."

She is gone for a few minutes. I stare at the long green curtains in front of me, wondering what on earth Sal will look like. Will she still be asleep,...in a coma..., or will she have woken up? What happens if she has any brain damage?

"Mr Jardine? Hello. I am Dr Sonecha," a voice interrupts my thoughts, a soft hand thrust out towards mine looking for a handshake. "I believe you are here to help identify the young lady?"

"Yes. Her mother is in an old folks home and isn't well enough to travel. Her fiancé is in America. He asked me to come."

"Good. Well, thank you for coming. Let's step inside then. If she is who we think she is, please just nod and then step back outside."

The nurse opens up the curtain in front of us, and I step through, the doctor following immediately behind.

.

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### Chapter 23

A woman is lying in the bed, her face swollen, cut and badly bruised. One arm, her left, is in plaster, and the other is partially wrapped in bandages. Her hair, once golden blonde, is now matted and dirty, swept out of her face and lying lifeless on the pillow on which her once beautiful, now slightly grotesque face is resting.

I walk to the edge of the bed and look down at her, tears immediately rushing up to engulf me, a reaction that I had not anticipated, catching me completely off guard. My legs feel slightly weak, and subconsciously I find myself reaching out to the edge of the bed for support. Immediately the nurse is beside me to steady and comfort me.

"Is it her?" the doctor asks, which even to me in my grief stricken state seems like a stupid question: why would I be so upset if it wasn't her? And then again, to myself, "Why the hell am I so upset? Why am I reacting this way?"

"Andrew?" the nurse prompts me.

"Yes," I reply, nodding quietly in affirmation. "Yes. This is Sally Wentworth."

"Thank you." The Doctor says, his hand on my shoulder. Together we all step back outside of the green curtain.

"Mr Jardine, I'm afraid I can't ask you to stay for very long. Miss Wentworth is scheduled to go for a brain scan in twenty minutes, and we can't afford to miss the slot. I believe the nurse has already explained to you the condition Miss Wentworth is in?"

"Yes, she's in a coma," I reply.

"Well, ...yes and no. At this point in time, all we can conclusively say is that she is not yet waking up and responding as we would hope for. We will know more after the scan, during which we can look for signs of damage, and also in more detail at her brain activity. In cases like this, where we are waiting for a patient to wake up, it often helps if a relative or friend will sit with the patient and talk with them, or touch them, or hold their hand. Sometimes this elicits a response from the patient. Often a patient may be roused to consciousness through such external stimuli."

"I don't really know her that well," I try to tell the doctor.

"But you know her well enough for her to recognize your voice? Why don't you talk to her about the last time you saw her?" he asks.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," I reply.

"But it might help, Mr Jardine. Anyway, I have to get on. The nurse will come back in ten minutes, but perhaps you could sit with Miss Wentworth till then, if you would like?"

Do I have a choice?

The nurse opens the curtain again for me, and I step through and sit down on a chair beside Sal's bed. She is surrounded by an array of electronic equipment, with wires taped to her head and other parts of her body which constantly monitor her vital functions. I look up and see the steady "blip, blip, blip" of her heart trace periodic jagged green lines on one of the machines.

"Hi, Sal." I say, emotion beginning to well up within me again. "It's me Andrew." Then perhaps totally unnecessarily I add, "...Guy's flat-mate."

I watch her closed eyes, hoping for some sort of response. There is none.

"Guy says 'Hi!' He is stuck in America at the moment, but will come back as soon as he can. He's going to catch the first plane home. Hopefully he will be here tomorrow. Mandy says 'Hi' too..."

Still no recognition in her eyes. No eyeball movement. Nothing.

"Guy says he loves you. He misses you. He's very worried about you. He asked me to tell you that you have to get well soon. He loves you Sal. He needs you..."

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I imagined it, but for a second I thought I saw her eyelids move, or at least a slight movement of her eyeballs underneath her eyelids. Standing up, I lean over her, closer, and say it again.

"Guy loves you Sal. He loves you very much. He needs you. You have to wake up soon so that you will be well by the time he comes back. You don't want him to see you like this, do you?"

No movement. No response. I must have imagined it the first time.

Her unbroken arm is lying beside her body on the other side of the bed, and I walk around to it, gently lifting her hand up and placing it in my open palm. I squeeze it gently.

"Sal," I say gently. "I have to go in a minute. The doctor says that they are going to do some more tests on you to see how you are, but I will be back tomorrow as soon as I can. Would you like me to bring some grapes or something? Something nice to drink? Just squeeze my hand if you want me to bring you something?"

I look at her hand, my fingers and palm alert and waiting. I hold my breath, hoping for some form of response. "Sal, just squeeze my hand if you can hear me...?"

Nothing. Her soft hand lies inert in mine, her fingers not moving.

"Sal, try once more. Guy sends his love...are you looking forward to seeing him?"

Nothing. Although perhaps that may have been a dumb question to ask her, especially if she is thinking about another man now,...and not Guy.

"Sal, should I tell your mum about your accident...squeeze once for 'yes', and twice for 'no'..."

Or don't squeeze at all if you can't hear me.

There is no response.

So I sit alone in the cordoned-off cubicle holding Sal's hands, wondering how on earth it is that I have come to this? I look at her face, and another wave of emotion rolls over me, surprising me with its intensity and I fight back the urge to cry. I bite hard on the back of my teeth, clenching my jaw together and swallow hard.

I am so confused. I am angry...so very angry...with the woman who is lying in the bed in front of me. For the past week this woman has been responsible for so much anguish within me, and she has the potential to cast my best friend into the same pit of despair that I have been living in for the past month. She led me up a garden path, attracting me to her and making me believe she was different than the others, and I was pleased, genuinely happy, for Guy. Sal gave me hope, hope that there were other decent women like her out there,...And yet, at the end of the day, I find out that she is no different than any other. She is exactly the same as the rest. Deceitful, dishonest and a liar. Then suddenly, part of me thinks that perhaps she deserves everything that has come to her.

I close my eyes and shake my head, breathing deeply. What am I becoming? Surely, with thoughts like that, then I am as much a monster as she is...no, more so. In fact, I am far worse. How on earth can I wish so much pain on another person, especially someone like Sal?

She does not deserve this. No one deserves this. No one! To be blown up and put at death's door by some bloody terrorist, for a cause that Sal has no interest in or no connection to. Her only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time... it could have been anyone. It could have been me.

I open my eyes and look at Sal. In spite of the bruising, she is still so very beautiful.

.

I feel a hand upon my shoulder and I open my eyes to see a Kleenex tissue being offered to me by the hand of the nurse.

"Mr Jardine. You have to leave now. I'm afraid it's time to take her upstairs for the scan. You come can come back tomorrow during the day at any time, although it's probably best to call on the way in, just to let us know you are coming. The best time to visit would be about 11 o'clock, as the doctor will be on the ward and he will be able to give you the results of today's tests."

"Thanks," I say, wiping the tears out of my eyes. "And please call me immediately if there's any change."

.

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

.

I am sitting at home in the darkness in the lounge. There is a half-empty tumbler of Guy's special whisky sitting in front of me. I have already drunk a full half-glass. I have just dialed Guy's number and the phone is ringing. It is picked up after four rings.

"Guy here," he answers in a semi-formal way, the stress in his voice immediately discernible even from these two short words.

"Guy, it's Andrew. I've just got back from the hospital..."

"Is she alive? Did you see her? How is she?" he practically shouts at me, the desperation in his voice wrenching at my heart. I can feel his love for Sal from all this distance, reaching out to me, praying that I will give him good news.

"Guy...I'm just going to tell you exactly what happened okay? The news is both good and bad, but the bottom line is that Sal hasn't regained consciousness yet, and the doctors don't yet know the reason why she hasn't."

"What do you mean?" she asks. "You're scaring me."

"I went to the hospital, and Sal is in intensive care. The good news is that she hasn't lost any limbs, and she seems to be all in one piece, apart from a broken arm which should heal without any problems. They've already put it in a plaster. Sal was in the same carriage in which one of the bombs went off and she was thrown against the side of the carriage by the blast. She got severe concussion. She hasn't woken up yet and the doctors don't know if she has any brain damage or not. I stayed with her for about half an hour and then they asked me to leave so that they could take her away and give her some brain scans."

"So is she in a coma?"

"To be honest, I don't actually know what a coma really is...She looks like she is, but the doctors said they can't tell if it is a coma or not until they get the results of the scans back. Anyway, they told me to go back tomorrow morning, and the doctor should then be able to give me the results of tonight's scans."

Guy breaks down in tears at the other end of the phone. I say nothing, waiting for him to come back to me.

"Did you talk to her? Did you tell her that I love her and that I'm coming home as soon as I can?" he asks through his tears.

"Yes. I did. Several times. I don't know if she heard me or not, but I definitely told her."

"What did she look like?"

"Bruised, and her face is swollen. Guy, should we be telling her mother?"

"No. Not yet. We'll talk about it tomorrow when we get the results from the doctor."

"I'm sorry Guy. I wish I had better news for you."

A few moments silence, and I know he is still crying.

"Guy, can you hear me?" I ask gently.

"Yes. Yes, I'm here."

"We have to be positive about this. We just have to be there to help her through this. Let's not worry about things that may not even be and which we can't control. You never know, the doctors said that she might just wake up this evening and complain how hungry she is!" I say, trying to lighten the mood a little. "The thing is, we'll know more tomorrow morning, and the news could be all good. Let's not imagine anything bad, okay?"

"No... You're right. You're right," I hear him trying to persuade himself.

"So, when are you getting home?" I ask.

"I don't know. The travel agency is doing their best to get me anything they can out of New York to anywhere close to London. It's a nightmare. Lots of flights aren't going to London just now, and those that are, are all booked solid. I'm still short-listed for a couple this evening, but they're a long shot. It looks like that the earliest I'm going to make it back is on Saturday morning. I will probably have to fly to Canada tomorrow, and get the night flight back from Toronto."

"Where can I reach you when I've spoken with the doctor tomorrow."

"Call me at the hotel, the moment you hear anything. Room 412. You promise me?"

"Yes", I reply, and he gives me the number for the hotel.

A few moments later I hang up, and then go through the whole thing again with Mandy.

.

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

.

I am lying on my bed in the dark. It is late, probably about 2 am. I am wide awake staring at the changing shapes dancing on the walls, as the wind gently blows the trees outside and the yellow streetlights cast shadows on the wall that move with the wind.

.

I was doing so well. I came down to London, found a place to live, got a new job, made new friends, started a new life. Then suddenly, in an event that lasts less than a second, my world is blown apart. Not by the direct blast of the explosion on the underground, but by the aftereffects, the waves that ripple out from the centre and affect not just one person, but scores of people all around. It will be difficult to imagine just how many lives have been destroyed or turned upside down today by the senseless, cold-blooded actions of a mindless bunch of terrorists; how many families have been ripped apart, how many relationships have been ruined? How many tears are being shed tonight?

I haven't decided yet if I believe in fate or not. The jury inside my mind is still out on whether or not, when each of us is going to die is predetermined in the stars; perhaps it is, perhaps it is not. Maybe one day I will know what to believe, but for now, it occurs to me that if you do believe in fate, then in some bizarre way those who have lost their lives today may be the most fortunate of all those who are affected; it is an odd thought, perhaps a cruel one, but surely those who are left behind and who are forced to live with the loss of a loved one day after day, they are the worst affected of all the victims? Perhaps when you are gone, then quite simply, you are just gone,...and there is no more being, no more consciousness of any kind, and maybe those that have left this world today do not even know that they have left? For them, there is no loss, no mourning, no suffering, or at least none that they will ever perceive or feel. They are departed from this world, and it is those who are left behind that have to suffer.

My thoughts of death turn to my father. Where is he now? Does he exist anywhere else, or is there just nothing? What happens when someone dies? Do we just cease to be, does everything we have been in life just vanish?...Like a bright burning flame that once extinguished, is never seen again?

I think back to the week my sister and I had to go through our father's possessions. There was so much that he left behind, so many things that were of so much value to him, but honestly speaking, probably of little value to anyone else. How could Hannah and I decide what we should throw away, and what we should keep? All those piles of photographs of relatives, long dead and long gone: who were these people? When did they live, and what sort of lives did they lead? Were they related to us, or just photographs that dad had kept all his life, because like us, one day he had had to wade through the remnants of someone else's life and could not decide what to keep or throw away.

In the end, we kept the photographs, and after a week of sorting, crying, and laughing at memories until then long forgotten, my father's life had been filtered down to the contents of three large boxes, two of which were immediately relegated to the attic of Hannah's flat in Edinburgh.

For me, the saddest lasting thought about my father's passing was the fact that at the end of it all, his entire life- his hopes, his dreams, his successes and his failures, his loves, his passions and a life time of work- all fitted into those three boxes. Three boxes that only had sentimental significance to his two children, and one day when we are both gone, the boxes in Hannah's attic that contain his life will be thrown away by someone else who never knew him or anything about him. And in that moment, all traces of my father's life will have been expunged, as if he had never ever been.

In fact, I am already guilty of beginning the process, because I have forgotten what is in the boxes,... which means that even now most of my father's life is no longer remembered.

The expression "from dust to dust" wanders through my mind, followed by a depressing thought of my own: "Life: what is the bloody point?"

I need to talk to someone. I pick up the phone, and I am mildly surprised when I watch my fingers dial the number of Gail, and not my sister.

The phone rings a long time, but I am in no rush to go anywhere fast so I let it ring.

"...Hullo?" a man's voice, groggy and still half-asleep.

"Luke? Is that Luke? I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you up...I wasn't thinking...I'm a friend of Gail's...is she there? Please..."

"Who is it? Do you know what time it is?"

"It's Andrew...is it two o'clock? Sorry...Can I talk to Gail?"

"I'll see if she is awake. Are you okay or is this just an unsocial call?"

"I'm not okay. That's why I want to talk to Kate,...sorry, Gail..."

"Kate? Are you drunk? Who is it that you want to talk to? Have you got the right number?"

"Look Luke, please see if Gail is up. My world was just turned upside down today by one of the bombs on the underground, and right now, I need to talk about it with someone, and I think that in the whole of London, Gail is the only person who will understand. Please..."

He hesitates for a second, and I can almost hear him weighing up what to say next.

"I'll get her for you," is all he eventually replies.

I hear the sound of soft footsteps, a knock on a door, some voices, and then I am talking to Gail.

"Andrew? What's up? Is something wrong?"

"Yes," I reply. "I just need to talk to a friend. And right now, you are the only one I have in London. I have to tell you something. Sal's in hospital. She might be dying. She was one of the people blown up by the terrorist bombs this morning and the doctors don't know whether she'll live or die. And yesterday,...Gail, it was only for a second, just a stupid passing moment when I was angry, but yesterday I wished that maybe Sal was dead. And now...now Sal is lying in a hospital bed in a coma...Gail, do you think it was my fault? Has this all happened because I wished it yesterday? I know it sounds stupid, but I just can't stop thinking about it."

"Are you serious?" she says, almost in disbelief.

"Never more, Gail. I'm totally serious. Tomorrow Sal may die, and it's just because of something I wished."

"Don't be stupid Andrew, that doesn't make sense!"

"And being blown up and killed in a random bomb explosion for no reason whatsoever does make sense?"

"Andrew, no it doesn't, but blaming yourself for it just because you had a bad thought is really silly. So stop it, now!"

I don't say anything in reply.

"Now tell me about Sal...what happened? Start from the beginning, and calm down, okay?"

It's not okay, and I don't know if it ever will be okay again, but I start from the beginning and bring Gail right up to date.

"...Fine, so this is what you should do Andrew: tomorrow you call James and tell him you have to go to the hospital to see a close friend injured by the explosions. You don't need to tell him any more than that. Then when you know what the results of the scans are we can talk again. Until then, honestly, there's nothing more to do. At times like this all we can do is to take one step at a time."

"You're right. I know you are. It's just that..."

"It's fine, Andrew. I understand," she replies, and the best part of it all is that, genuinely, I think she does.

.

### Chapter 24

..

I am sitting in a small room at the end of the ward where Sal is lying. The doctor in front of me is just studying the results from the scans that the hospital ran on Sal last night, and I am sitting patiently waiting to hear the news. I can hear a clock ticking on the wall above the doctors head, and looking up I follow the second hand as it moves around one full circle, noticing the momentary pause before the hand makes the jump from one second to another. There is a large calendar on the wall underneath the clock, with the name of a well known drugs company plastered on every page. On my right hand side, light is coming into the room through a small window, although the glass is dirty and looks like it has not been cleaned in a long, long time.

"Thank you for coming back this morning, Mr Jardine," the doctor finally says, looking up from the notes.

"I understand from the nurse that her fiancé will not be back until Saturday?"

"Yes,...he's still stuck in America, but he wanted me to come in and sit with Sal and find out the results of the scans."

"Thank you. Sitting with her just now and providing as much external stimuli as you can is very important. I'm sure you want to hear the test results so I will just get straight on with it. We ran a number of tests on Miss Wentworth last night to see if we could establish if she had received any internal damage to her brain or neck, any bruising, swelling or haemorrhaging of any sort, and we looked at the activity within her brain as well, to see if we could detect any abnormalities. During our examinations we were able to detect signs of focal head injury and slight haemorrhaging and the brain activity that we monitored was in-keeping with such injuries. You asked yesterday if she was in a coma, and now we know that the answer is yes, probably due to the focal head injury she sustained. Unfortunately she is not responding to external stimuli as we would like her to, and she is continuing to remain in an almost sleep-like state, although we know from the brain activity that we have monitored that there is a lot more going on inside her head than would appear from her outward appearance. So what does this mean? Well, the bottom line is that there is room for concern, but there is also room for some optimism too. On the one hand, from experience we know that some people can remain in this form of coma for many weeks, and some may never regain consciousness at all. On the other hand, there is every reason to believe that she should wake up at any moment."

"If she wakes up," I interrupt, "...will she remember everything and recover fully? You mentioned before the possibility of brain damage?"

"That is a good question, and one which I'm afraid I can't answer. In Sally's case, we will only find out the answer when she finally wakes up. From experience, however, we think the likelihood of some form of brain damage which may result in loss of memory or some basic body function, is more likely to occur the longer the person remains in the coma. Basically, the sooner she wakes up, the better the prognosis is likely to be. "

"Doctor," I ask, "you read these stories in the press about how when people are in a coma, someone is sitting by the person's bed and they say something, or do something, and for no apparent reason the person in the coma suddenly wakes up? Does that mean we should make sure that someone is always sitting beside her and trying to wake her up by doing something or saying something? Will that help?"

"No one really knows why some people suddenly come out of a coma, if there is a physical reason for it, or if it is a direct result of some form of physical or mental stimuli, but for lack of any concrete scientific proof, all we know is that sometimes people seem to be shocked into waking up by something that happens around them, or they are suddenly stimulated enough to open up their eyes, or move a hand, or say something. Andrew, the truth of the matter is that we simply we don't yet know enough about the human brain to understand why these things happen."

"What do you mean...'loss of basic body function'? What does that mean?" I ask, going back to something scary he said a moment ago.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have mention it. Let's not dwell on all the negatives..."

"I just want to know what we're dealing with here..." I interject.

"I understand...Fine, well, what I meant was that sometimes people find that the parts of the brain that deal with walking or talking or hearing are affected and they no longer function properly, or at all. Of course, you may have heard that there are cases of people who later regain the ability they lose...although we don't know how. Perhaps this is due to the brain rewiring itself in some way...Like I said, the reality is that the human brain is still a mystery to us all. We know very little about it."

"So, what do we do now?" I ask.

"We wait. It's all we can do. In the meantime, it would be very beneficial to Sally if you could sit with her and talk to her as much as you can,...just as you suggested. If she has friends, perhaps you could try and arrange to get a rota of visits arranged between you, so that she always has someone sitting with her during the day?"

I sit staring at the doctor, trying to take it all in.

"So...."I start to say, feeling that I should say something else now, but not knowing what. Surely that can't be it. "There must be more that we can do?" I ask, almost pleading. I feel so helpless.

"I'm afraid there isn't. For now, all we can do is to let nature take its course, and just hope that Sally is strong enough to come through this by herself."

.

After thanking the doctor for his time, I am led back through to the bed where Sal is lying, still asleep, almost as if she has not moved a centimetre from last night. I notice though that someone has washed her hair, and she looks somehow more peaceful today than she did last night.

Sitting down at the side of her bed, I look at her for a while, trying to make a decision as to how and what I am meant to feel towards her. The nurse brings me in a cup of hot tea, and I sip it slowly while staring at Sal's broken and bruised face. So beautiful, even in sleep. Albeit, a deep, deep sleep.

I don't hate Sal. I don't. I just hate what she has done. The human part of me is pushing me to forget everything, to focus only on the injured person in front of me. What cruel twist of fate has brought us both to this position now, with her lying there on that bed, with her lead accuser the one sitting beside her wondering whether or not to reach out and hold her hand? Is God trying to teach me some sort of lesson? If so, then what?

In the end the humanitarian side of me wins over; that and the realisation that Guy is my best friend, and that he loves this woman. For his sake, I find in myself the reason to put my confused feelings about Sally on hold, to file them away for another day, and to allow myself to take her hand in mine and to stroke it slowly while speaking to her as gently as I can.

So, what do we talk about? I think for a second, how I would feel if I was in a coma unable to open my eyes, but maybe able to hear or feel the outside world. What would I want to know?

"Sal. This is Andrew, you know,...Guy's friend? Can you remember me or Guy? Can you remember Guy, your fiancé? Can you remember how he proposed to you last Saturday? He loves you Sal. He truly does..."

My voice quavers, and I think of the Friday night and what I saw Sal doing with another man. Perhaps it's not good to talk about Guy and her.

"Sal, do you know where you are? Do you know what has happened to you?" I ask, wondering whether or not I should be telling her this. "You were in an explosion. A bomb went off on the underground train. You broke an arm when you fell over, but apart from that you are fine...Can you hear me? If you can, just squeeze my hand. Sal, you're alright, but you just need to wake up. Leave the dream behind Sal, wake up, okay? Wake up!"

.

.

Except she doesn't wake up. Not now, or anytime in the next five hours, and she is still asleep when the nurse insists that I should go home and get something to eat. Apart for stepping outside to call Guy for five minutes I have not left her bedside all day.

As I pull the curtain aside and step outside into the rest of the ward, I notice that the bed opposite, which was occupied this morning by another victim of the blast is now empty, the curtain drawn back to the wall, with the bed stripped and bare.

I look briefly at the nurse and glance towards the empty bed. She slowly shakes her head and closes her eyes and her meaning is only too clear.

.

When I emerge into the world outside I look up at the sun still quite high in the early evening sky, and I think to myself how much a world of contrast we live in. Inside, behind me, people are dying, fighting for their lives, but here outside it is Friday night, a beautiful evening still ahead. I feel lost, alone, slightly desperate. I need to talk to someone, I need human contact. I desperately need a hug. I consider calling Hannah for a while, but then remember that she will be at her yoga classes just now. My next thought catches me by surprise, and I fight with the urge to call Kate. It's the first time I have thought about calling her since I moved to London. I know she would talk to me if I called her, but what's the point? My thoughts of Kate do nothing but add to the despair that has engulfed me. Then it dawns on me, why not call Gail?

"Hey, it's Andrew isn't it? Listen, I'm sorry about last night. I was still half-asleep when you called." Luke answers, recognising my voice this time.

"No problem. Anyway, how are you?" I ask, politely, not really bothered about the answer.

"I'm okay. I'm back together with Paul. We talked. Made up. He's here now... It's good..."

"Excellent," I say, thinking the complete opposite. He must be mad. "Is Gail in?"

"No, sorry. She just left. She's gone out on a date. I think Gail said that it's with the guy from work you persuaded her to out with?"

Blast. I forgot about Ben.

"I thought that was last night?" I reply.

"It was meant to be, originally, but they rescheduled because of the bombs."

.

The knowledge that Gail is out with Ben just now somehow makes it all worse, and I find myself feeling at my lowest point since I arrived in London. The day spent talking to Sal and sitting with her, watching and waiting, has been both emotionally and physically draining, and now I am left feeling tired, empty and very, very sad. Without realizing it I somehow manage to walk miles without paying attention to where I am, and very soon I am lost. Looking around me I do not recognize anything, and in the end I resort to flagging down the first taxi I see.

"Take me to Porter's Bar please. You know, the big Irish bar at the back of Covent Garden."

It cost me twenty pounds to get there, but I only stay for five minutes. I had hoped that the sight of so many young people enjoying themselves, talking and dancing, may have snapped me out of my depression. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect, and like the first time I came here with Guy and Sal, I soon leave feeling slightly alienated, and even lonelier than before. Desperately. Lonely. And stressed.

.

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

.

So stressed that I am unable to eat, and not having eaten anything since breakfast, the first pint of beer I have at the bar around the corner goes straight to my head. I leave the pub a little drunk, not sure exactly where I am going, but finding myself heading by default to Covent Garden. It's the only place I know in London where comfort is almost guaranteed. Which is how, four hours later, against all my better instincts, knowledge and judgment, I end up in bed beside Dianne.

.

### Chapter 25

.

Someone is getting out of the bed beside me, slipping out of the protective arm that I have wrapped around her, a large breast sliding free of the hand that seems to have been cupping it while we slept. I open my eyes just in time to see an attractive naked woman walking away from me towards the bathroom, my attention focusing on the sexy sway to and fro of her beautifully formed, round bottom. A few moments later she walks back into the bedroom, her equally beautiful breasts bouncing mesmerizingly up and down as she comes towards me.

"Good morning, sleepy head", Dianne greets me, leaning over the bed and kissing me full on the lips, her breasts tantalizingly close to my mouth.

"Good morning," I muster up in reply.

"Fancy a tea?" she asks, followed rather timely by "...or me?"

"Both, please," I say, "...and in that order". She smiles and walks away to the kitchen.

I sink back into the bed, lying back and pulling the covers up over my face. "What the hell am I doing here?" I ask myself, a half-smile lingering on my face as I recall what happened when we got back to Dianne's flat last night. "Or rather, why am I still here?"

Hearing the pitter-patter of Dianne's naked footprints I pull back the covers and prop myself up on some pillows. Still naked as the day she was born, Dianne is carrying two cups of tea into the bedroom. She is smiling from ear to ear, her eyes sparkling in the morning sunlight that is streaming through the half-opened curtains. She is smiling because she knows that I am staring at her naked body, approving of every centimeter of her almost perfect form, comfortable in the power she has over men with the knowledge that most men desire her, including me.

"So," she says, handing me a mug, and sitting down on the bed beside me, cupping her tea in both hands, her chest once more facing me, in full view and within arm's length, her legs crossed sexily towards me.

"So," I reply.

"I'm surprised you're still here. I thought you would have left before I woke up."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Have I just committed the cardinal sin of meaningless, one night stands and actually stayed until the morning? Do you want me to leave now?"

"Not yet. At least, not until afterwards..."

"After what?"

She smiles. "Some more of last night."

"Perhaps," I reply. "But first, Miss Dianne, I have a question for you."

"And what would that be, Mr Andrew?"

"I was just wondering, if last night and this morning will remain for our own private consumption this time, or is all this due to once again become the official office headlines by Monday lunchtime?"

"Hmmm...That depends who I decide to tell..."

"Exactly. Could you perhaps tell no one this time? Or is that just asking too much of you?" I say half-jokingly, half-totally seriously, a slight edge of warning in my voice. Dianne looks at me, raising her eyebrows quizzically, then laughing.

"I'll ignore that little rebuke," she says, getting up from the bed, putting the mug down on the side table, lifting the duvet and slipping underneath the covers.

"What are you doing?" I ask, mocking protest.

"Nothing you can't stop me from doing at any time, simply by staying 'stop!'", she replies, as her mouth nuzzles into my neck, her hand sliding down to my groin, her fingers exploring, stroking, encouraging.

"And what happens afterwards?" I ask, in-between kissing her.

"Afterwards...then you can leave." She answers without hesitating, "But not before."

Her voice, so full of authority, so confidant, and so enticing.

"Dianne,..." I say, looking into her eyes, so close to me, so attractive.

"What Andrew?" , her free hand caressing the side of my face and pulling me towards her lips again. The sides of her cheeks are flushing red, and her pupils are dilating.

"I'm sorry," I reply, "This meaningless sex, one-night stand thing...I just can't do this. I can't."

"Of course you can Andrew. Of course you can."

Without flinching, she reaches out to the bedside table, pulls open a drawer and reaches inside. She takes out a condom, rips it open with her teeth and disappears under the covers where she remains for several very wonderful minutes. Frustratingly she eventually stops what she is doing and re-emerges from underneath the duvet, thrusting her breasts into my face and climbing on top of me, her legs straddling me and pinning me underneath her.

"Dianne, stop. I have to go," my hands digging into her back, pulling her bottom onto me.

"I'm not stopping you..."

Moving now, back and forward...

"This is the last time, Dianne, it won't happen again."

"Okay,...no problem. Whatever you want...Whenever you want..."

Her breasts are in my face, her hands pulling on my hair, pushing down. The pressure building.

Increasing. Faster, harder. Deeper. Until...suddenly...Suddenly...

She collapses into my arms, her head heavy against my face, our breathing laboured, both gasping for air. Knackered in the truest sense of the word.

"Now," she says minutes later when our breathing returns to normal.

"Now what?" I ask, sweaty and no longer protesting about anything in the world.

"Now you can leave," she replies.

.

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

.

The bus comes and I show my pass, climb the stairs and find a seat at the back of the top deck, hiding myself in the corner. My thoughts turn from last night to the day ahead, and instantly a tingle of dread runs down my spine. According to the voice message Guy left me on my mobile last night, he will be back this afternoon. His flight arrives about seven o'clock, and he'll get a taxi straight to the hospital. I look at my watch. It's twelve o'clock. I'll probably get to the hospital in half-an-hour, which means I will have to spend another half-a-day alone with Sal.

The thought of seeing Sal again lying so helplessly in the bed, the thought of me sitting there holding her hand trying to find the courage to support her and will her back to life, when out of all the people in London, I am probably the least qualified to do this...the ridiculousness of the whole situation...why does it have to be me? Why couldn't Mandy be here to support her? A wave of anger surges through me, and in a moment of clarity I see once again what a simple solution it would be if Sal...how to put it...if Sal were not to make it? Then I wouldn't have to explain to Guy what she had done, and he would be free to find a new girlfriend without having to suffer through all the years of anger and hatred towards Sal for going off with someone else behind his back.

Even before the thought has left my mind, it is quickly followed by more self-loathing and disgust. Why am I being so horrible? How is it possible that such horrific thoughts can be generated within my brain? Sal is so young, she doesn't deserve this! She is the victim of a terrorist explosion, is lying at death's door, needs my help and these are the thoughts that I am having? With thoughts like these, I am definitely just as bad as the bastard terrorists that blew her up in the first place...

.

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

.

The ward is a hive of activity this morning, full of the sounds of visitors fussing over their injured relatives. As I walk past the closed green curtains surrounding each bed, I overhear their positive words of encouragement, unashamed expressed emotional outbreaks of relief and love, and even some laughter. All of the beds have visitors today except for one bed, which this morning has the curtains pulled aside back to the wall, and lies empty. As I near it, I stop dead in my tracks, a cold-clammy sweat instantly breaking on my forehead and the palms of my hand. For a moment I am confused and wonder if I am mistaken. Perhaps I have it wrong. I look at the bed opposite, which I am sure was empty yesterday but now seems full? Am I disorientated and facing the wrong way down the ward? With a sickening feeling of dread I realize that no, I am right, that the bed that was empty yesterday already has a new patient today, it's curtain now closed, the new patient and relatives all secreted away inside. There is no mistake here. The empty bed I am looking at now, is, without doubt, the one where Sal was lying last night. It's just that now, Sal is no longer there. The bed is empty.

In her place, fresh blankets are stacked neatly on top of the mattress and the pillow is fluffed up and ready and waiting for its next occupant. I think back to the nurse returning my questioning look as I stared at the other empty bed yesterday. Her meaning then was all too clear: the patient had died.

.

I'm too late. Sal is gone. My evil wish has come true.

.

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

.

I make it to the bathroom just in time, launching myself into a cubicle and reaching the toilet bowl just as the contents of my stomach erupts from my mouth. Once, twice, three times I retch, my whole body and soul going into simultaneous spasms of dread, fear and self-disgust.

This is my fault. I wished her dead again, and this time it has happened.

I retch once more.

But how? How can this have happened? The doctor never said anything about the possibility she might just die without warning? How the hell am I meant to explain this to Guy? To her mother?

Pushing the cubicle door closed behind me I start breathing deeply, trying to control my emotions, trying to prevent the waves of guilt from piling over me, again and again. It takes me ten minutes before I start to calm down and am able to gather my thoughts enough to start to think clearly again. I need to find out what happened to Sal before Guy gets here.

Wrapping some toilet paper around my hands I clean off some of my vomit from the toilet seat, flush it all away, and then walk over to the sink where I wash my hands and face. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, disgusted by who I see staring back at me. I hate myself.

.

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

.

I feel almost claustrophobic as I walk back into the ward towards Sal's empty bed. The ward now seems so confining, the walls pressing in on me from all sides, the voices of the visiting relatives all so very loud. Not finding a nurse, I stand in the middle of the corridor surrounded by closed green curtains and relatives attending the other survivors. Every nerve in my body is telling me to get out of here, to run as far away as possible, but I stand my ground. I have to find out exactly what happened to her.

After five minutes a nurse emerges from one of the closed curtains. She is pushing a trolley containing some metal trays full of water and some towels, looking like she has just finished giving the patient behind the curtain some form of bed bath.

"Excuse me," I say, hurrying over to her. "Can you tell me what happened to Sally Wentworth? When did she die? I was only here last night....she...she looked fine then...?"

The nurse looks up at me, and then glances over at the empty bed at the end of the ward.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, I am so sorry," starting to go through the motions of the comforting ward sister.

I interrupt her, "Could you just tell me what happened? Her fiancé is due to arrive in a couple of hours time and I need to know what to say to him."

She looks at me questioningly.

"Are you the next of kin?"

"No," I reply. "That's the fiancé. Guy. I'm a friend...someone who knew her ..the best friend of the fiancé...The police and the doctor know who I am."

"What is your name?"

"Andrew Jardine."

"Andrew, I am so sorry, but who told you Miss Wentworth is dead? She's fine...Well, let me correct that. Her condition is much the same as yesterday, but because she is now stable and will be requiring long-term treatment, we have transferred her from the Intensive Care ward up to the Brain Trauma unit. It's two floors up..."

"She's alive? I..., I thought the bed was empty because...because she was... She's honestly alive?"

"Yes. We only took her upstairs about two hours ago. Oh dear, Andrew, I can see what you were thinking. You must feel terrible. Would you like a cup of tea to refresh you?"

Tea, the great British cure all.

"No, I'm fine. Can you just tell me where to find Sally?"

.

### Chapter 26

When I am finally shown where Sal is lying in her new ward, I am so overjoyed to find her still alive that without thinking I walk over to her and kiss her on the cheek.

"Sal," I say happily, "Hi, It's me again, Andrew?". I don't know what I am expecting when I say this, perhaps a miracle, perhaps some outward sign of recognition,... but there is no response whatsoever, not even a fluttering of her eyelashes.

"So," I say, holding her right hand in mine and stroking it quite vigorously. "How do you feel? Do think you will be able to wake up soon? To come home with us? You know, Guy is hoping to get back today to see you. He took an early flight and will be flying back via Canada today, so hopefully he will be here in a few hours time...Are you looking forward to seeing him?"

I look at her hand. No movement.

"Well, what do you want me to talk about? Why don't you tell me? Sal, listen, we need you to fight whatever is happening in your head. We need you to be strong and to come back to us. Guy needs you. Why don't you try to wake up before he gets back? Sal,...can you hear me? Squeeze my hand?"

I look at my watch. It's only one o'clock. Guy probably won't get here till about nine o'clock. What can I talk to her about until then?

A nurse walks past Sal's bed.

"Excuse me?" I try to catch her attention. She stops, and comes over to me. "Can I ask you some advice?" I ask. "My name is Andrew. Sally, my friend here is in a coma..." I immediately feel stupid for saying this... talk about teaching someone how to suck eggs... "What should I be doing or saying to her to try and help her wake up? Should I be asking her questions, trying to prompt her to reply, or should I just be speaking about anything? I'm running out of things to talk about..."

"Just say whatever comes to you. What you did at work today, what you're doing tomorrow. It might be good to talk about things that you did together, perhaps throwing the odd question into the conversation. And when you run out of things to say, you could just read a newspaper to her or maybe even read her a book. I think it's a good idea to keep touching her, letting her know that you are there. Andrew, just do whatever you can. I'm sure she's grateful for you just being here."

"Do you think she can hear me?"

"I don't know. I can't tell you that she can, ...or if she can't. Sometimes when a coma patient comes round, they tell us that they can remember hearing voices, so we know that some people do. But even if they can't consciously remember anything, I think the subconscious probably does. The human brain is an amazing thing. It's just that we don't understand as well as we would like exactly what happens when it gets damaged. Can I get you a cup of tea? I was just about to make one."

"Yes please. It'll help keep me awake."

I turn my attention back to Sal.

Looking at her now I realise that I know practically nothing about this woman. The only connection to her that I have is through Guy, and all I know about her is from what he has told me. We've only been out together socially a couple of times, so, apart from a few scattered meetings over the years, we've never really spent any quality time together. So what on earth can I talk to her about?

Over the next hour I try to recall aloud every moment of the evenings that we have spent together. I talk about Guy, what I know about him, his childhood, our time at university and the things we got up to together. I recount to her tales about "The Three Amigos" and how much fun we had being young, carefree and stupid together. By six o'clock though, I am spent. I have once more run out of things to say. So after texting Guy the details of where Sal now is, I just sit there, holding her hand and staring at her peaceful face, listening to the sound of her heart beating through the electronic beep, beep, beep on the monitor beside her bed.

"Would you like another cup of tea? Or coffee?" The nurse asks me, catching me unawares. "I'm just about to go off-duty, but I can get you one before I go."

Putting Sal's hand gently back on the bed, I stand up and stretch. "Please, I think I was just about to nod off."

"Actually, I think you did. I walked past a moment ago, and you were snoring."

"What? Me? You're kidding." I can feel myself turning bright red.

"Yes. I think you just nodded off for a moment. Don't worry about it, we're used to it. And you're not exactly disturbing anyone. Both of the other patients on this ward are in a similar condition to Sally," she says, waving at the other two occupied beds, both cordoned off with curtains.

"Do they have visitors too?"

"Not just now. Unfortunately both the other patients have been here for several months. It's difficult for relatives to get down here to visit them as much as they would like, so after a few weeks, the visits tail off as relatives re-organize their life so that they can settle down into a regular visiting pattern. Relatives come as often as they can, but we try to encourage them not to give up their own lives and to try and lead as regular a life as possible, given the circumstances. Unfortunately, the truth is that we don't know how long a patient may be here for. You can't put your life on hold, or give up your own relationships until they get better. Some never do, and life has to go on. We just have to do our best."

A thought occurs to me.

"Nurse, can I ask, has anyone else been to visit Sally?"

"Not yet. You're the only friend to have come so far."

"Do you know if any other men- or women- have called to enquire about her?"

"No. At least not while I was on duty today. Of course, I don't know if she received any calls whilst she was in Intensive Care. Were you expecting anyone else?"

"No," I lie.

The nurse's answer is interesting. So, what happened to the other man I found her with? Why hasn't he been to visit? Maybe he doesn't know about what happened to her yet. What happens when he finds out? Then the nightmare scenario dawns on me: what happens if he finds out about her one day, and comes to visit her at the same time as Guy is here? Then another question: does Mandy know about her affair? It strikes me that she must. She's her flatmate, and they would talk about everything together. Blast, what do I do now? Do I talk to Mandy? Ask her if she knew what was going on? Or do I just leave it and stick to my original plan and wait for Sal to wake up, and then confront her?

"Here," the nurse says, returning with a fresh cup. "I'm going off duty now. Will I see you tomorrow?" she asks.

"I don't know. Her fiancé will be here tomorrow. He will probably want to be alone with her."

"Well, don't worry about Sally, Andrew. She's getting the best treatment she can. Why don't you let us worry about her for now. Rest assured, we'll contact you immediately if her condition changes."

.

I sit in silence for the next hour. The tea revives me slightly, but then I realise just how hungry I am. My arm is aching from sitting holding Sal's hand, and I am getting really restless. My trips to the toilet start to become more frequent, simply because I am so bored.

Where is Guy?

I consider popping out to get something to eat, but decide against it. I want to be here when he arrives. So, returning to my seat, I find myself beginning to talk to Sal about the only remaining subject that I know anything about.

Me.

Soon, without me consciously realising it, I am telling her about Kate. I tell her how we met, what we did together, the things we got up to, and even how much I loved her. Then, with Sal being the best listener I have ever met, I find myself telling her how we split up, about Kate sleeping with the other guy, how she confessed to me that she had done it, and then even about the tape she sent me. I even tell Sal about Hannah's theories, and my self-realisation that I have been pushing women away from myself for years. Gail even makes a guest appearance in my confession, and I tell Sal about her ideas that my lack of trust in women stems from my mum's adultery and her abandoning us as kids. Finally I tell her about my resolve to fix my life. To make it better. To find a way for me to love and trust women. To become a better person.

.

She listens to me. Every single word. She doesn't judge me. She doesn't question me. Nor criticise or laugh at me. Instead, she lies there and absorbs every word. When I am finished, Sal says nothing. Her eyes remain closed, digesting all I have to say, but comforting me throughout by never removing her hand from mine as I make my confession.

At the end of it all, when I have said all there is to be said, I feel emotionally exhausted, as if I have just gone through a marathon self-analysis on a psychiatrist's couch. "Wow," I think to myself. "That was....that was _weird_. But good."

I look at my watch. It's half past nine. And then I feel a hand on my shoulder.

.

### Chapter 27

I turn with a fright and stand up. It's Guy. He's as white as a sheet and staring straight at Sal. He doesn't look at me, although I feel his grip tighten on my shoulder by way of a greeting. He walks around to the other side of the bed and bends over Sal, kissing her on the lips. Tears begin to flow and he whispers something in her ear that I do not catch.

Realising that it's best if I make myself scarce for a while, I step outside of the green curtain, pulling it closed behind me to give them both privacy, and then go of in search of a nurse. I know that Guy is going to have a lot of questions, and I'm not the best person to answer them.

I return about ten minutes later with a nurse and a doctor. The nurse steps inside the curtain, advising me to wait outside for a few minutes. Inside, I can hear her comforting a very distraught and upset Guy and it is a few minutes before they both emerge together. I quickly wrap Guy into a man-hug, trying to give him whatever strength I can. No words are said. The doctor puts forward a hand, which Guys shakes, whilst wiping an eye with his other free hand. Waving towards a room at the end of the corridor, we all go in and sit down, and the Doctor explains to Guy everything that I have been told over the past few days. When we emerge back onto the ward thirty minutes later, Guy thanks the doctor and the nurse, and Guy and I both go back to Sal.

"Guy,..." I start to say.

"It's okay, Andrew. You don't need to say anything." He smiles at me.

"You heard the doctor, Guy. There's no reason why she can't make a full recovery. All we have to do is wait."

"Yes, but will it be a day, a year, or ten years?"

"Let's be positive about this. The majority wake up pretty soon. This time next week we could all be at home together."

Guy sits down beside Sal, taking her hand in one of his, and with the other hand he gently picks some strands of hair away from her face.

"She was meant to be giving me her answer tomorrow. She was going to be telling me that she wanted to become my wife..." Guys says, distantly.

"She still might. Who knows what will happen?"

"Have you managed to be here much with her?" Guy asks.

"Yes. I was here yesterday, and then all day today. I've been with her all that time, talking to her, trying to get her to respond in some way to any of the questions I was asking."

"And...? Was there any sign at all that she could hear you?"

"None. I kept hoping that she would squeeze my hand, or blink, or something. Anything...but to be honest, she hasn't responded at all."

I stand at the bottom of Sal's bed, watching the two of them. He has started talking to her again, quietly. I can't hear what he is saying, and I feel that I am intruding again. Time to go.

"Guy, I think I should leave you both alone. I've got my mobile switched on. If you need me at all, just give me a buzz, okay?"

He turns around and looks at me, the expression on his face one of so much hurt and so much pain that my throat tightens in response and my heart goes out to him. He looks so utterly helpless. Gone is the big, cuddly, powerful bear that I know as Guy. All that is left is a little scared, lost cub.

"I may not be home tonight... I might just sleep here...and you don't need to come in tomorrow. I want to be with her by myself. Andrew, can you take my luggage home with you?"

"No problem. But call me, okay? Let me know if you need me, or you want anything? Or if she opens her eyes or something?"

"I will buddy. I promise."

Then he turns his back on me, and he is alone again with Sal. Just the two of them.

It's ten thirty. By eleven thirty I am home, lying on my bed, with the another full glass of Guy's secret whisky reserve in my hand.

By eleven forty I am fast asleep.

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.

I awake on Sunday morning at 10 am. I feel empty, alone, and deflated. There is nothing to celebrate, nothing to feel good about. No reason to smile today. The flat resounds of the unhappiness and sadness that Guy must be going through just now, and I know that I have to get out of here.

I try calling Gail as I walk out of the flat into the glorious summer day outside, but there is no reply. Walking to a nearby café I grab two bacon rolls and a coffee and head off to Clapham Common. Sitting on the grass I devour the rolls, wishing I had bought a third, and then lie back in the sunshine, trying to absorb some internal warmth from the sun's rays.

As I lie back relaxing on the grass I call Hannah, and when she picks up the phone, it all pours out. All the frustration, pain and loneliness I have felt over the past few days. I tell her all about Sal, and she is shocked to the core. For some reason, perhaps because of the precarious state that Sal is currently in, and maybe because of the guilt I felt when I thought she had died because I had wished her dead, for these reasons or perhaps others, I do not tell Hannah about what happened last Friday night when I saw Sal with the other man. We talk until my mobile battery goes dead and we are cut off, by which time Hannah has managed to lighten some of the burden that I feel crushing down on my shoulders.

Unfortunately the relief is only temporary, and walking back towards the flat, the loneliness soon returns. When I call Gail, Luke tells me that she has gone out with Ben again. Seemingly it went well on Friday night, a revelation which does nothing to help my confused mood.

"Shall I tell her that you called?" he asks.

"No. It's okay. I'll see her tomorrow in the office," I reply, wondering if my status of new best-friend has just been usurped by Ben.

I am just about to cross the road, when I see a bus coming towards me, the sign on the front announcing that it is heading towards Tooting Broadway. Without further thought, or anything like what could be classed as a rational decision making process, I run to the bus stop and wave it down. A minute later I am on the top deck heading towards Tooting, where I jump off and swap buses for the number 42 heading past Mitcham Common. There is something that I have to do today, and this time, I am not going to back out or run away. What with everything that has happened to Sal and Guy and the confusion that it has generated in me, right now I may not have the strength or the will to face my future, but before the day is out, I will have taken the first step to facing up to my past.

### Chapter 28

.

Standing outside the house with the cracked window, the red-tiled path and the green door, I question what I am about to do. I know that once I knock on the door, there is no going back.

The past few days have left me feeling jaded, almost distant and detached from my surroundings, but already I can sense a different reality and view of life emerging from the whole near-death experience that I am going through with Sal and Guy. From this I take the courage to realise that it's time to face up to the past. There are questions which need to be answered.

Against all expectations I am experiencing very little emotion just now. It's almost as if I have taken a tranquiliser. As I put my hand on the garden gate, ready to push it open, I look down at my hand and notice that it is rock solid; there is no nervous shaking, In fact, as I open the gate to number 38 Beech Gardens and start to finally walk up the short path I am surprised how calm and steady I am.

I have dreamt about this moment so many times before and have pictured in my mind's eye a thousand different scenarios for how the next five minutes will go, but now it's time to find out what happens in reality.

I breathe deeply, lift my hand and ring the doorbell. There is a brief second where I contemplate turning to the gate and running away, but I shake my head and bury the idea without further consideration. Today is the day, and nothing is going to stop me. So, expecting to hear the sound of footsteps at any moment, I step backwards from the door and straighten up my back, improving my posture to make the best possible first impression.

No one comes.

I ring the doorbell again. And wait.

Still no one comes.

Stepping backwards from the door, I look up at the windows of the floor above, and then I hop over the ankle high little white fence onto the grass and try to peer through the front window only to find that the curtains are firmly closed.

I ring the doorbell again, and bang the letter box a few times for extra effect.

The house remains eerily silent.

Blast. Of all the scenarios I had painfully dragged myself through over the years, none of them had included the possibility that having plucked up the courage to come here and knock on the door, that no-one would be home.

Feeling stupid and even more deflated than before, I walk back down the garden path, and stand outside on the pavement, looking up and down the street and then back at No 38 in search of some guidance as to what I should do next. When I return an hour later after having gone for a long walk across Mitcham Common, the house is still empty. I walk up and down the street a few more times, perhaps hoping for someone to turn up and go into the house, but no one does.

Half an hour later, for the second time in only three weeks, I am sitting on the number 42 going home, mission aborted.

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.

My head is resting on the glass window, and my eyes are shut. The warmth of the seat above the engine at the back of the lower deck, and the gentle rocking of the bus quickly sends me to sleep, but as we are nearing Tooting Broadway I am awoken by the sound of children laughing at the front of the bus. I open my eyes, and stretch. I have probably only been asleep for about ten minutes, but it never fails to amaze me how deep such sleeps can be.

My attention turns to the children at the front of the bus: two boys playing around and being loud and obnoxious. They are eating packets of crisps and as I watch, one of them starts to stand on the seat, whilst trying to swing from two of the hand-supports hanging from the roof in the centre of the aisle.

A woman in the seat behind them stands up and says something very sternly to the two children, and both of them immediately shut up, and sit back down on their seats. I don't get a chance to see the woman's face but a few stops later, both the children get up and go to the door. The woman gets up behind them and as she stands at the exit behind the two boys, waiting for the bus to stop, I am pleasantly surprised to see that it is the attractive blonde woman that I have twice seen on the train going into London.

As I look at her, she looks towards the rear of the bus, and catches me,...once again... looking at her and admiring her. She smiles back, obviously recognising me. The bus is stopping now, and the doors are opening, the two children in front of her jumping off onto the pavement. She takes a step towards the door and then looks back in my direction, half-raising a hand towards me in a small wave. She steps out of the door, and the door closes, but as the bus starts to move off she turns to look at me once again, just in time to see me waving at her out of the back window.

.

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

.

The incident with the attractive mystery blonde woman on the bus lifts my spirits for the rest of the day. It wasn't a big wave, as far as waves go, but it is enough to make me spend the next hour or two thinking about it. There is something about this mysterious blonde woman that I like. "Next time I see her," I promise myself, "I have to try and talk to her. At least, just to find out her name and where she comes from."

When I get back to the flat it is almost six o'clock. The flat is empty, and when I check the answering machine there is only one message, which is from Mandy saying that she cancelled the rest of her business trip across Europe and she is back in London. Will Guy or me call to tell her exactly where Sal is so that she can go and visit her?

When I call her back she doesn't answer, so I leave her a message.

I'm a bit worried about Guy. He didn't come home last night, and there's no sign that he has come back this afternoon either. After grabbing something to eat in the kitchen, I pick up some fresh clothes from his room and head off to the hospital, hoping to persuade him to come home tonight and get some rest. As I am leaving the flat I wonder to myself what on earth I will talk to Sal about tonight if Guy does leave me alone with her, and in a moment of inspiration I pop back into my room and pick up the copy of "Marrying Slovakia" from the floor, thinking that maybe I can start reading the book to Sal while I am with her.

.

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

.

As I walk into the ward, the nurse on duty recognises me and waives at me from her glass fronted office, beckoning me to step in.

"Andrew isn't it?" she enquires, half-smiling and waving me to a chair.

"Yes. Well remembered," I reply. "You must meet thousands of different people here."

"Oh," she says, pointing to a diary-daybook on the table. "I take notes. I couldn't do it otherwise."

"How's Sal?" I ask.

"She's stable. There's been no real change. But I wanted to talk to you about her fiancé. He's taking it rather hard. He won't leave her bedside and he's crying an awful lot. We let him sleep in a spare bed last night, but we can't really let him do it again tonight. And I don't think he has eaten anything all day long. I was hoping you could persuade him to go home this evening and get some proper rest," she says. "It does the patient no good if the relatives kill themselves in the process of looking after them. It may sound harsh, but Sally won't be going anywhere by herself for a while, so her fiancé should make sure he looks after himself properly and tries to establish a regular, comfortable regime of visiting. I think that Sally would prefer to have visits from a cheerful boyfriend, rather than one that hasn't eaten or slept for days..."

"I know. I'll try talking to him. It's just that he really loves her and..."

"Please don't apologise. We understand. Anyway, let me know if I can help at all, or if you have any questions...In the meantime, would you both like a cup of tea?"

I smile. What would we do without tea? "Yes, please. Tea would be really nice."

We both get up and I walk back out onto the ward. There are four occupied beds in the room, and tonight three sets of curtains are drawn, with relatives or friends inside doing what they can to keep their loved ones comfortable.

I stop outside of the curtain surrounding Sal's bed. From inside I can hear the sound of Guy crying, his soft sobs interspersed with gentle conversation and words that I cannot quite make out. A shiver runs down my spine and I brace myself, take a deep breath and step inside the curtain.

Guy is huddled over the bed, cradling one of Sal's hands in both of his, his face only centimetres from Sals. His eyes are red from crying, and he doesn't seem to notice me as I come in. He looks terrible. Sal, on the other hand, looks just the same: peaceful, healthy and serene, her looks mocking the condition she is really in.

"Guy, are you alright?" I say, asking a really stupid question.

He looks up at me then, the look on his face a picture that tells it all.

"What do I do if she dies?" he asks.

Guy places Sal's hand gently back onto the bed, stands up and comes over towards me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, and hold him tight, and he begins to cry, letting loose a torrent of tears.

I am silent, letting him release it all. It only lasts a minute or two, and then I feel him pull back and straighten up. He coughs a few times, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. After blowing his nose he looks at me and laughs half-heartedly.

"Sorry about that buddy. I didn't mean to..."his voice tapering off into silence.

"No problem, amigo. I know where you're coming from. It's understandable," I say, offering him my hand, which he takes in both of his, and squeezes hard in thanks.

"Thanks for coming," he says.

"I thought I'd better bring you a change of clothes and make sure you eat something. I also promised the nurse that I'd send you home. You need to rest, Guy. Sal needs you to be strong for her now. You have to look after yourself as well as her."

"I know," he replies weakly, "but I don't want to leave her, and I can't stand the thought of her lying here all alone."

There is the sound of footsteps and then the nurse appears at the curtain with two very welcome mugs of tea.

"A lady called Mandy was just on the phone," she says as she hands us the mugs. "She said she is Sally's flatmate and was wondering if she could come in and visit just now. I told her that Andrew has just arrived, and suggested it would be better if she left it until tomorrow. Actually, I think that it may be good if Sally was left alone for a while. We don't know if she can hear you or not when you speak to her, but if she can, even though she may be in a coma, having _constant_ attention may be quite tiring for her. I think that it might be a good idea if Andrew were to take you home, Guy. Get some rest, come back refreshed tomorrow? What do you think?" the nurse asks in a friendly manner, but not really leaving an option for not agreeing with her.

"I think you're right. Actually, I probably won't make it in during the day," Guy replies. "I have to go up and see her mother tomorrow to try and tell her what has happened. She's in a home and she might not understand what I have to say to her, but I think she has the right to know. Unfortunately, there's no one else that can tell her..." his voice starts to quiver again, and he turns to me. "Andrew, if Mandy comes in in the morning, can you be here in the afternoon...you know, just to hold her hand until I get back?"

"No problem," I reply, "...but only if you let me drag you out of here right now. Let's go and get a meal somewhere. I think it would be good if we talk."

Guy looks at me. "What about?" he asks.

"About Sally... ", I reply, hesitating.

Fifteen minutes later, Guy has changed his clothes into the fresh ones that I brought with me, and we are walking out of the hospital en-route to a café that the nurse has recommended.

We walk in silence, Guy lost in his thoughts, and I in mine. Inside my head there is a question going round and around and demanding an answer. "Do I tell Guy what I saw and if so, is now the right time to tell him...?"

### Chapter 29

The train into London the next day is almost as busy as usual and in spite of the threat of more terrorist attacks, life seems to be getting back to normal. Given a choice, most people would probably prefer not to have to travel by train, bus or tube, but unfortunately for those that live and work in London, there is no other choice but to take the risk and climb back onto the saddle. Otherwise life would simply come to a grinding halt, and then the terrorists would have won.

Unlike most Londoners, I never had to live here during the years the IRA were terrorising the city, and whereas having lived with terror bombings in the past may be helping most local people to overcome their fears and adapt quickly to a renewed terror threat, I have no such previous experiences to help me acclimatise. I am not from London. I am a northerner, used to living in tranquillity and peace and lots and lots of rain. So, I am not adapting as quickly as Londoners are. Each time I step on to a train, a bus or a tube it is with an increasing sense of great trepidation and fear, a fear which I do my best to suppress, but which is now ever present.

If I am lucky, over the months to come this fear will dissipate and disappear and one day I will be able to travel again without giving the terror threat a second thought. In the meantime though, I know that I have no choice but to try and grin and bear it.

For the past three weeks I have almost always caught the same train into work, leaving my flat punctually at 8.30 a.m. and arriving on the platform just in time to step on board the 8.42 am train to Waterloo.

It's only 8.45am but already the train is hot and humid. As I push through the first few carriages, I think back to last night and the conversation I had with Guy. I wasn't exactly planning to tell him last night about Sal and what happened with the other man, -it was just a spur of the moment idea that came to me while we were in the hospital-, but as soon as I sat down opposite him in the cafe and he began to talk about much he loved Sal, and how hard it was for him to accept everything that had happened to her, I realised that just then wasn't the time to tell him.

.

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

.

By the time we pass through Vauxhall I have found a seat in the first carriage and I sit down and reach into my bag. Apart from people-watching, there is one other activity that all other Londoners seem to engage in while commuting: as soon as anyone finds a free seat on a train or a carriage, most commuters either immediately start to read one of the various free London newspapers, or they pull out a book and disappear into another world, which is instantly conjured up for them by the likes of John Grisham, Jill Mansell, or Dan Brown. And today, I too join their hallowed ranks by pulling out my very own copy of "Marrying Slovakia", and in a feat of spectacular pure indulgence, literary self-gratification, and an attempt to momentarily forget the events of the past few days, I chalk up another five pages.

.

The Monday morning marketing meeting has been cancelled. The board of Euro.com are having a meeting today, security at Euro.com being the main topic of discussion. James sends us all out an email, setting some goals for this week and pointing out that we will probably be having a short conference call later on during the week to replace the marketing meeting this morning. I have a ton of work to get on with, so I am quite relieved the team meeting has been cancelled. I want to get as much as possible done before lunch, so that I can get away early this afternoon and off to the hospital.

Early this morning Guy left to head up north and visit Sal's mum. It's a task I am not envious of, and I feel sorry for him that he has to be the one to do it. The only conciliation being, -if it can be classified as one- that her mother probably won't even understand what he has to tell her. This thought in itself is however also rather depressing, and I think just how sad it is that Sal is lying on the edge of life in a lonely hospital ward and she has no real relatives to worry about her. All she has got in the world, is Guy, Mandy, her other friends,...and me.

I phone Mandy on her mobile, and thankfully I manage to catch her before she walks into the hospital and has to switch her mobile off. We talk for a while, and I fill her in on what to expect and how to try and help Sal. She promises to spend the whole day with her if the nurses allow, and I tell her that I will probably be there about five o'clock. We talk about Sal's other friends, and Mandy agrees to contact everyone she knows, and to try and arrange some visits from them over the next few weeks, hopefully trying to get some sort of rota organised to keep Sal company. There is one question that I am dying to ask, and it keeps coming to the tip of my tongue, but each time the words start to form in my mind, I chicken out. Asking Mandy if she knew about Sal's other man is perhaps something that I need to do discreetly with her face-to-face and not over the phone. What happens if she knows nothing about him? Should I say anything to her at all? Perhaps I should just rely upon her common sense: if she did know about Sal having an affair with some other man, then surely she would apply discretion in whether she should tell him or not, and if she did, she would hopefully be clever enough to make sure that he would never visit Sal while Guy was there?

About ten o'clock, Gail emails me, asking me out to lunch, and I agree to meet her in the café around the corner. When she walks in, I am already sitting down reading a newspaper someone left on one of the tables. Almost half the paper is full of details on the bombings, and who is suspected of being behind them. Some of the pictures are quite horrific, and as I read a few of the stories from the survivors as they describe what happened and what it was like, I begin to wonder if I should ever travel by tube again. The most ominous quote of all is that the police expect that it is only a matter of time before something like that could happen again, "Please be vigilant, and report any suspect packages."

I look across the café, and in the corner, sitting on one of the tables and resting against the wall there is a large plastic yellow bag with no obvious owner. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, wondering if I should get up and say something to the café owner. I'm still pondering what to do when a woman walks out of the toilet, picks up the bag and walks out of the café passing Gail in the doorway as she walks in.

"Hi," Gail says, bright and breezy.

"So?" I ask... "How did it go? I'm guessing you're in love and planning your wedding. I haven't heard from you in days."

"Are you jealous?" she asks, sitting down beside me.

"Absolutely. You know I am. So, give me the details," I press.

"First things first, let's order lunch."

We both order fish and chips, and some mushy peas, the speciality of the house. With a cup of tea.

I look around me, perhaps for the first time, at the café itself, noticing the classic green glazed tiles on the walls, and the scenes of fishing boats that form an interesting relief on a band of green and white tiles that ring the café at head height. The café is a throw-over from yester-year, something from the thirties or forties that has withstood the test of time, surviving the German bombing raids and the Doodlebugs intact. A typical English café. Full of character. Charm. And jellied eels and winkles.

"It's good." She finally says, drawing me back to the conversation. "He's a really sweet guy." She is blushing.

"Sweet?"

"Yeah...caring, sensitive, you know what I mean."

"Nope. Details please."

"Can't. I'm not the kiss-and-tell kind-of-woman. But, it's great."

"So, is it serious?"

"Could be."

"Wow. So what did you do at the weekend."

"Lots. He took me to the theatre and dinner on Saturday, and we went for a long walk at Kew Gardens on Sunday....so, how was your weekend?"

"I spent most of it in hospital..."

"Ouch. Sorry, I forgot. Oh dear, what sort of friend am I? I completely forget about my friends when they are going through hell....Andrew, I'm sorry. Honestly. Tell me about it. _Please_."

"Don't worry about it. There's nothing wrong with you finding a piece of happiness and enjoying it. After last week, I think we all owe it to ourselves to grab any piece of happiness that we can and savour every last minute of it."

She reaches across the table and places her hand on mine. "Tell me all about it. How is Guy?"

So I tell her, and once again, I am glad to have met someone like Gail. She sits there and listens, and without realising how or why, she helps.

"So what am I going to do?" I ask, coming to the most important question of all. "Should I tell Guy?"

"No. Not just now. You can't. I think that for now, you just have to be there for them both. I don't think you should say anything at all, at least, not until Sal wakes up."

"And what then?" I ask.

"I don't know. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

.

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

.

It is three twenty-five in the afternoon. My mobile phone rings.

"Andrew, it's Gail. Are you mad or what?" she demands to know.

The brevity and tone of her question takes me by complete surprise.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, rather sheepishly. What have I done now?

"Get yourself down stairs now. I'm around the corner, half-way to the café."

Grabbing my cup, and feigning a visit to the tea-room, I head off downstairs, wondering what on earth is wrong. I walk out of the building, momentarily checking to make sure I have remembered my security pass- security has been doubled in the past few days, and now we have a security guard staring ominously at everyone who comes into the building. Gail is waiting for me around the corner. She screws her face up and come towards me, her finger up and pointing at me, pressing into my chest. I am almost scared.

"Are you insane? I can't believe you did it again! Don't you ever learn from your mistakes?" she asks, genuinely furious with me.

"What on earth are you talking about? Why are you so pissed off with me?"

"Dianne. That's what. You screwed her again didn't you? And the whole office is talking about it!"

Oh, shit...

"You're joking! How on earth did you find out? She promised me..."

"Andrew, everyone knows. _Again_."

"I can't believe she told anyone. We talked about it. She promised that no one would find out about it."

"You're a right tart aren't you. I can't believe you did it..."

Gail looks and me, shakes her head and walks around me, starting off in the direction of the office.

"Gail, please....wait," I say, reaching out and grabbing her arm.

She spins around and stares at me, her mouth opening to say something, but thinking better of it.

"Why are you so bothered, anyway?" I ask. "You've got Ben now. Why do you care who I sleep with?"

She goes a little red and opens her mouth to speak again, but hesitates for the second time in a row.

"I...I...I just can't believe you did it. I thought that...well,..." She coughs, looks up at the sky, clears her throat and then looks at me again. "I just hoped you weren't like that."

"Like what."

"Like all the other men that just grab sex whenever they can get it. I really liked you. I thought you were better than that."

"Gail, maybe it was wrong, but on Friday night I really, _really_ needed to be with someone. I tried calling you, but Luke told me that you were out. Gail, I was really depressed, I needed to talk to _someone_ , I _needed_ company, but there was no one there for me...I don't know that many people down here yet. Guy wasn't around, you were busy, the pubs were full of people who are happy with their own lives and I was completely alone, and then there was Dianne, and _she_ wanted me. It wasn't even for the sex this time. She was just another human being who helped me to forget some things for a while, and she _wanted_ to be with me, and right then at that moment, that made all the difference."

Gail is staring at me, both hands resting defiantly on her hips.

"Gail, fine, listen, I don't need to defend what I did. Given the circumstances, I'd probably do the same again, and quite truthfully, I think I'm probably grateful for her being there for me. She's not a bad person, and I don't think it's such a big deal, okay? Please don't be mad, or think any less of me. Just _try_ to understand. If you'd been around on Friday, it wouldn't have happened ,...and I'm not blaming you for not being there, but you weren't and I was so lonely and down....anyway, it's happened, it's history. Come on, please don't be mad with me. I need your friendship Gail."

"Andrew, oh dear...I'm sorry. I _am_ your friend....Perhaps I'm just a little confused. And I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you on Friday. Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"About what? I was happy you were out with Ben. I have my own problems to deal with."

"Were you really happy about Ben?"

"The truth?"

"Yes."

"Then some yes, and some no. But in general, yes. Let's just leave it at that."

She steps towards me.

"Gail,...let's talk some more about this later. Right now though, I'm starting to get angry. I'm think I'm going to kill someone."

I start walking towards the building, leaving Gail behind me.

By the time I get to the entrance to our office, my blood is boiling. I show my pass to the guard, step into the lift, and without waiting for Gail, hit "B" for basement, the home of the IT support department.

I storm out of the lift, heading straight for IT, which is buried away in one of the cellars. At the end of the corridor I turn left, and am confronted by security doors which are closed. I swipe my electronic badge across the security lock, but it blinks red and denies me access. I try it again. It's still red. Blast.

I try to peer through one of the small windows in the door, but there is just another small corridor on the other side with two doors leading off it to the right and left, and I cannot see anyone. I stand there for a second, wondering what I should do next. Eventually, not going anywhere fast, I calm down and realise there is nothing to be gained from shouting at Dianne in front of her colleagues, so I head back up to my desk, grabbing some fresh tea on the way back.

"Way to go,...stud!" Ben smiles at me and whispers as I walk past him. I grimace back and simply say, "Funny ha ha."

When I get back to my desk, I click open Outlook, and after staring at a blank screen for ages, I start to write an email to Dianne. After several false starts and subsequently deleting everything I write after each attempt, I eventually settle on the following:

.

"Dear Dianne,

Thanks for promising not to tell anyone.

But just remember this: if you don't respect other people, how can you expect others to respect you? You certainly know how to make friends.

Andrew."

.

For a while I consider if it's just best to completely ignore the whole thing, -after all, she's done nothing illegal- but my ugly pride is shouting at me to not let it pass without saying something. I'm not only angry with her, I'm also disappointed. I hate to admit it, but Friday night was actually quite good, and I enjoyed being with her. I just don't understand how she could possibly benefit from breaking her promise and broadcasting about her conquests to the entire office? In the end, I hit the send button.

Yet only a few minutes later I am already having second thoughts and I consider trying to recall the message before she can read it. So I start to play with Outlook to try and find out how I can delete or recall sent but as yet unread messages.

Not having much success I briefly consider calling the IT helpdesk and asking how it can be done, but I am instantly reminded of the futility of such an action: Dianne runs the helpdesk.

There is a small beep, and looking at my Inbox I realise with a sinking feeling that it is already too late.

"Dear Andrew,

No need to thank me, lover boy. It's all part of the service.

Don't get me wrong, I like your company, but I never said I wanted to be your friend.

I thought you knew the rules?

Still, anytime you want to repeat last Friday...

_Like I said, for you Andrew,..._ Whatever you want...Whenever you want.

Dianne.

P.S. Sorry if I upset your girlfriend. I know she wasn't too impressed by what we did. "

### Chapter 30

.

When I get to the hospital at six o'clock, Mandy is still sitting by Sal's bed. She is holding her hand and chatting away to Sal as if there was nothing wrong with her. As I open the curtain and step through she looks up at me and stands up, followed by an awkward moment when we both wonder if she should hug each other or just shake hands. In the end we both quickly decide not to do either, and I walk around to the other side of the bed and sit down on a chair opposite her.

"How is she?" I ask, for lack of anything else to say. It's pretty obvious that there has been no improvement.

"I don't know. The nurse said she was just the same, and all the time I have been here, she hasn't moved or done anything to indicate that she can hear us."

"We've got to believe that she can," is all I can reply, fighting the urge to ask her if she knows about Sal's affair. "How long have you been here?" I ask, moving on.

"Since ten o'clock this morning. I had lunch in the canteen."

"Maybe you should go home now. You looked knackered. Guy will probably come in this evening if he gets back in time. I'm going to stay until then."

"Thanks for looking after her Andrew. I know you don't really know her all that well."

.

Mandy turns to look at Sal again, and she bends over her, stroking her face. "Come on, girl. Wake up, please. We miss you." When she straightens up, she picks up her coat and bag and I see that she is crying.

She looks at me briefly and I nod, and she leaves.

.

"So," I say to Sal, pulling out 'Marrying Slovakia' and turning to page twenty-two. "I'm going to read you a story, so when you are lying comfortably, I'll begin..." mimicking the beginning to _Jackanory_ , one of my favourite children's TV programmes from when I grew up.

.

After an hour of reading, I am starting to feel quite light headed, and I need to take a break. The nurse assures me that the canteen will be open till eight, and that if I hurry down I should still be able to get some food.

In the canteen I check what is on offer,- none of it looking particularly appetising-, and I settle for dried chips and greasy battered fish with peas and carrots. Sitting down at a table near the windows, I look around the café at the others enjoying the haute cuisine with me this evening, a mixture of nurses and doctors, and I open up my book and carry on reading from where I left off on page forty-five. Soon I am lost in the magical world being created for me by the words and images jumping from the pages, and Sal and Guy and Dianne are all left far behind.

.

"Hullo," a voice says to me, dragging me back to the sterile hospital café. "I think you reading interesting book?"

I look up, blinking and adjusting my eyes so that I can see the person standing beside my table: a tall woman carrying a tray with a pot of tea and some cake, her long curly blonde hair cascading down over the shoulders of a white blouse. It's ' _MBW_ ', my 'Mystery Blond Woman' from the train and the bus.

"Sorry,..." I say, automatically standing up from my chair, startled and really surprised. I look at my book, then back at her. "Yes, yes. It's very interesting."

"And interesting topic?" she asks, nodding at the title on the front cover.

"Yes. I think so...." I hesitate, suddenly incredibly nervous. "I'm sorry, my name is Andrew," I say, thrusting out my hand at her. She laughs a little, looking at her tray. She leans forward partially resting the tray on the table, and shaking my outstretched paw with her free hand.

"And I am Slávka."

"That's a nice name," I reply, lamely.

"Yes." She agrees. "It is Slovakian name."

I look quickly at the title of the book again, suddenly comprehending.

"Aha...." I say enthusiastically and laughing. "Actually, it's a brilliant book. Have you read it?"

"No..."

"Sorry," I say, interrupting her. "I'm really rude. Would you like to join me?"

I see the hesitation in her eyes, and I quickly pursue the opportunity before it will be lost.

"...If you've got a few minutes, I would like to ask you some questions about Slovakia?"

"Okay. Yes. For that I have time. I am on break."

I move my tray out of the way, and she sits down opposite me. There is a silly awkward moment of silence when we both look at each other, which I manage to break by offering her the sugar.

She sips her tea and starts to eat her cake.

"Slouka," I start out, not quite believing that out of all the hospital cafes in the world, MBW has just walked into mine. _What is she doing here?_ "I don't know if you recognise me, but I have already seen you a few times..."

"Yes. I see you yesterday on bus. You were asleep for long time."

I blush.

"I also see you on train." She replies. "I think I embarrass you, and I am sorry."

"No, no, you shouldn't apologise. It was me that was staring..., sorry, it was me that was looking at you," I say, quickly rephrasing my reply.

She cocks her head to one side. "Why were you looking at me?" she asks.

I am just about to burst out that I couldn't help but look at her because she is so attractive, but I catch myself just in time. "Sorry. It's probably a very bad habit. I love studying people's faces. I've just come to London from Scotland, and down here it's just amazing how many different types of people there are. You can sit on a tube or a train and see people and faces from every corner of the world...You name any country or ethnic minority in the world, and there's people from there, living here. One trip on the tube is better than watching any National Geographic channel on cable. And you've.... _you've_ got very interesting features. I couldn't help looking at you...I'm sorry."

"You mean, I have big nose?"

I laugh, and she raises her eyebrows, questioningly.

"No," I say. "Actually, you have a very nice nose. But, it is rather different. Not like an English nose, or a Scottish nose. Anyway, what I wanted to say was that your face is....it's eh,...I mean, now I know where you're from, it's Eastern European and...Can I just be honest and say that the reason I was looking at you was because I think you are very pretty?"

She blushes.

"It is good reason. I think you flatter me. Maybe perhaps you have not so good eyes...you need test?"

"No, honestly. You are very attractive..."

She looks at me and laughs.

"Thank you, Andrew," she says, starting to eat her meal. "So what is book about?"

I pick it up, turning it over nervously in my hands.

"It's about a man from London who meets a woman from Slovakia who comes to work here as an Au Pair, and he falls in love with her. It sounds a bit trashy, but it is actually quite funny. And interesting. I'm learning a lot about Slovakia."

"Aha," she says, in between mouthfuls. "Maybe you teach me something?"

"Maybe later. I've just started it, but I have learned that Bratislava is the capital, which is a big start and not bad for someone who hated Geography at school." Slávka is busy eating, so I keep talking. "I saw you with the two children yesterday on the bus. Were they yours?"

"You think I am mother already?"

"No. I meant, sorry,...I was just assuming you are an Au Pair too."

She looks up at me and coughs on her food.

"What, you think that I am Au Pair? So British person thinks that all Eastern European women in London are Au Pairs? Or perhaps you think I am plumber or builder?"

"Oops. Sorry, there I go again. I didn't mean to offend you. I didn't want to label you with a stereotype. It was a natural mistake, because I am reading a book about it, and then I saw you controlling those two kids on the bus, and they listened to you, so..."

"Badly behaved children were nothing to do with me. I think they listen to me because I tell them off and I must be very scary?" she says, half smiling and raising her eyebrows again, the net effect being to make herself look very, very attractive and not the slightest bit scary.

"Nope. That you are not. Anyway, so what brings you to the hospital? Are you visiting someone?"

"No. Are you?"

"Yes. Someone I know was injured in one of the terrorist blasts on the underground."

"Oh dear. Is he badly injured?"

"It's a she, and she's in a coma."

"Your girlfriend?"

"No. My flatmate's girlfriend."

"I am sorry for your friend. Is she stable?"

"Yes. For now. There's been no change in her condition since Thursday."

"Well,...is good she now in stable condition," she says, finishing her cake. She glances quickly at her watch. "Oh dear, my break is over. I must go back."

"Do you work here?" I ask.

"Yes. I am hospital plumber."

I stare at her for a second, as she starts to rise from the table.

"Are you serious?" I ask.

"Yes. I fix tubes, and make internal plumbing work properly."

"No...?"

"What? Now you think I cannot be good plumber? Please make up mind."

"Okay, I think you are probably a very good plumber."

"Or maybe even doctor...?"

"You're a doctor?"

"Yes and no. In Slovakia I am qualified doctor. Here, in England, I must do conversion year for make English NHS believe I am good enough for saving lives of English people. But in few weeks I be good English doctor too."

"Wow. You're not only pretty but you're smart as well."

"Thank you. English people are so charming."

"I'm not English. I'm Scottish."

"Oh dear, now it is I who make mistake. Apologies. But now I must hurry quick. I will be late."

I get up from my seat and she picks up her tray.

"Slouka, since you really are a doctor,....can I meet you again and buy you a coffee or drink sometime? It would be great if I could talk to you about my friend's medical condition. And maybe you could tell me a little about Slovakia?"

"Ah ha, so you not want speak with me if I am only plumber?" she asks, frowning.

"No...I mean, yes, absolutely yes. I would love to talk you, but...but..." I say, beginning to turn a little red. "Plumbers are great. But if you're a doctor, you might know a bit more about my friend..."

I look at her eyes, my pulse suddenly racing, worried that I've just blown it and hoping that she won't say no.

"I am sorry..." she begins to say, and I prepare myself for the rejection, "... I am very busy today and tomorrow...But if maybe you free on Wednesday night, then perhaps we could meet for then talking about your friend?"

"On Wednesday? Yes, definitely. That would be great."

We swap phone numbers, Slouka reluctantly scribbling down her details on the inside of my book, "I not want ruin your book. Perhaps better write it elsewhere?"

"No, don't worry about the book." I reply. "In fact, I think it's the most appropriate place to write it. After all, this book is about your country."

As I watch her write down her number on the inside cover, I find it rather touching and considerate the way in which she thought about not wanting to ruin the book, and I can't help but wonder if she is so thoughtful and caring in all things?

We agree to meet up at the entrance to the Embankment Tube station on Wednesday at 7pm. When I return to Sal's bed, I am walking on cloud nine. Could it be that I may have just arranged my first real date in London?

.

At 9.30pm the nurse suggests that I should go home, and I agree. I am exhausted. I call Guy on his mobile on the way out, and catch him somewhere on the M40 just driving back into London. I tell him it would be better just to go home and get some rest but he insists on popping into see Sal, even if it is only for a short while. I say good night and head home.

.

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

.

In my dream I am flying above the hospital. People below do not see me, and I am able to watch everyone unobserved. Little specks walking in and out of the front door, miniature white ambulances pulling up to the entrance and small people in green jackets running around to the back door and helping people out of ambulances and into the hospital.

I fly lower, now able to make out the people's faces, and I circle around and around above the entrance to the hospital.

Suddenly I see her. It is Sal, walking out of the hospital, holding hands with a man I do not recognise. This is what I have been waiting for.

They walk out of the main gate, and the man flags down a taxi, and they both climb in.

Determined not to lose them and to follow them both home, I start to follow the taxi as it pulls away, hovering above them about ten metres in the air. From this height and angle I can see them both through the rear window, and as I watch the man puts his arm around Sal, draws him to her, and starts to kiss her. Suddenly I cannot keep my anger under control any longer, and I swoop down to the back of the taxi, knocking furiously on the back window. As if in slow motion, they both turn to face me. Sal stares at me in shock, and for the first time I get to see the man's face clearly in the daylight.

.

"Andrew, Andrew," Guy is shaking me hard, trying to wake me up. "Andrew, open your eyes! Andrew!"

"What? What is it?" I ask, struggling to wake up and adjust to reality, the dream still running in my mind's eye. "What's happened? Is Sal okay?"

"Yes. Yes. Andrew, she moved her finger. She moved her finger!"

The image of the taxi is fading now, the man's face is no longer visible.

"What? She woke up?" I ask, sitting up, Guy pacing the bedroom in front of me.

"No. No. She didn't wake up. But she moved her finger. I was talking to her, holding her hand in mine, telling her how much I loved her. I asked her if she remembered me proposing to her, and if she loved me, and just as I said it, her finger moved in my hand. I felt it. I'm sure she was trying to tell me something."

"Did you tell the doctor?"

"No. He wasn't there, but I told the nurse. She said it was a good sign. She said, it definitely gave us something to be hopeful about. Andrew, do you think she might get better?"

I can see the hope in his eyes, and I know that he wants me to give him hope in return to his question, so I lie. I don't like to lie, but perhaps a white lie is alright, now and again.

"Yes Guy. Sal is going to get better. I'm sure of it. The finger thing is just the start. This time next week, she'll be sitting up, walking around like normal and maybe even fit enough to leave the hospital."

"Do you really think so?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply. "...In fact, I just dreamt it."

.

### Chapter 31

.

The next day drags by at work. I spend most of the morning and the afternoon thinking about Wednesday night, and planning where to go and what to do with MBW. It's a long time since I have been this excited about meeting someone, and I feel like a little kid again, going on his first date after school.

Just after lunch I get an email from Gail, asking if she can take me out for a drink on Wednesday night, saying that maybe she was a little harsh to me about Dianne. When I reply, I can't help but tell her that I have to say no to her because I am going out on a date with a woman I met at the hospital, and Gail immediately replies, asking me about her, "Is she pretty? Do you like her? Where are you taking her?" and other questions that even I don't yet know the answers to.

Guy has taken the week off work, and he spends the whole day by himself at the hospital, full of hope that today will be the day she wakes up, or moves a hand, or a leg. I offer to go and visit her in the evening, but he says that Mandy has arranged for one of her other friends to stop by.

"Is it a woman or a man?" I ask, perhaps stupidly.

"A woman. I don't think she knows many other men. Why?"

"Oh,...no reason. I was just thinking if it was a man, I might stop by anyway, but if it's one of her female friends, I would rather leave them alone together."

"What difference does it make?" he asks.

"I can't stand all that crying," I lie, and then change the subject, realising that I am digging myself a big hole.

.

Later that night I talk to Hannah, filling her in on the latest. She has some news for me too, informing me that at long, long last, she has received a letter from the solicitor, informing her that the sale of our father's house has gone through and has finally been completed, and that the balance of the outstanding funds have been deposited in our respective accounts.

It's good news. I suppose. It's something that we've both been looking forward to for a long time. When dad died, the house was jointly left to us in his will. We let it out for awhile, knowing that the property market in Edinburgh was going through the roof, but a few months ago the solicitors advised us that it had probably reached its peak and we should consider selling it to maximise the price we would get. Over the years the house had gone up significantly in value, and when we finally had it valued we were both stunned to find out that it was worth £550,000. Theoretically that makes me pretty rich for someone my age, but the joy that should accompany sudden wealth is significantly dampened by a heavy feeling of loss which weighs down upon me for the rest of the evening: the house in which we grew up, where we laughed and played, and lived with my dad for so many happy years is finally gone. Even sadder than losing the house is the feeling that we have just cut the final physical connection between us and our father. Now the only tangible thing that connects us to him is a tombstone and a hole in the ground.

I try to shake off the sadness and morbidity which has descended upon me, and pick up one of the local property papers that are posted through our letterbox every week. So, what can £225,000 buy me here in London then?

When I go to bed ten minutes later I am even more depressed than before. It would appear, that I am not as rich as I thought. £225,000 in London buys you nothing. Nothing at all.

.

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

.

Wednesday is a beautiful day, and I wake up excited, determined to make my date this evening as enjoyable as possible. My cunning plan includes dinner at the Lemon Tree,- the best Thai in town-, followed by taking Slávka to see Helen Boulding in concert at a pub somewhere in Holborn, a gig that I learned about only yesterday when surfing her website at work. The timing could not have been better.

.

At lunchtime Guy calls me, jumping up and down with excitement, shouting down the phone, "I asked her if she wanted to marry me and she moved her finger again. But this time she moved two of them. I saw it! And she breathed in really deeply at the same time. It was brilliant. The doctor was really pleased. He said it moved her one point up the Glasgow Scale, which is apparently really good news although I don't know what it means. Andrew, I think,...I mean, I know she could hear me. I think she was trying to let me know that she loves me." He is so excited, I can't help but feel happy for him, but when we finish talking and he hangs up, my thoughts take on a more negative track, returning to the whole issue of Sal deceiving Guy, and her messing around with someone else behind his back. I begin to feel guilty that while I know the truth, Guy is ripping himself apart, his love for her driving him mad with worry. Two pictures pop into my mind: one of Guy slouched over her bed, cradling her hand in his, patiently waiting by her side, trying to nurse her back to life; another, side by side in my mind's eye, is of another man's hand stuck up Sal's blouse, exploring her breasts, her head cocked back in erotic euphoria, enjoying every second of it. How much longer can I keep my mouth shut? Should I not tell Guy that the woman he is pining away after is in fact a two-timing bitch, who might run off with another man as soon as she wakes up? How would he feel if he knew the truth? Would he still be sitting there day after day, stroking the hair out of her eyes and watching every breath that she makes?

.

Gail calls me at five o'clock to wish me luck for the date, and making a point of dropping into the conversation that she is now going to go out for the evening with Ben. I look over at him, sitting only feet away from me in the office. It occurs to me that he hasn't mentioned Gail to me once since they started seeing each other, even though we talk business at work every day.

"Thank you. I hope you enjoy your evening too," I say to her, still looking at Ben. He catches my eyes and turns to smile at me, pointing to his watch and indicating that we only have thirty minutes to go.

"Can I see you on Thursday night? Can we meet up for a chat then?" Gail asks me.

"Probably," I reply, "...although I may have to go to the hospital."

"Do you want me to come with you?" she volunteers.

"It's nice of you to ask, but probably not just now. Guy or Mandy or her friends may be there."

"Can we talk on Friday then, at the Lemon Tree?"

"Sure. If I go. I don't know what's happening on Friday night yet. I might want to try and drag Guy out for the evening. He needs a break."

"Okay. Well, it would be great to see you when you have some time. What about the weekend?"

"Could be. Maybe Saturday night, depending upon when I get back. I have to go and visit someone in Mitcham on Saturday or Sunday."

"Fine. I understand. Can you just let me know when you are free. Promise me?"

"Do you think I should buy her flowers?" the question popping out of my mouth before I can qualify it.

"Sal? What's the point. She can't see them."

"No, for the woman I'm seeing this evening. Would you like it if someone bought you flowers on a first date?"

"Yes. I would," she replies, hesitating for second. "I'm almost jealous. It sounds like she's going to be a lucky woman. I hope you have a good evening. Anyway, got to rush now... Bye...", and she hangs up.

.

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

.

Emerging into the sunlight from the underground tube station at the Embankment, I nervously scan the crowd of people already waiting outside the entrance, who like me, have arranged to meet their friends, relatives or potential lovers at one of London's busiest but most convenient meeting places.

I am ten minutes early, and realising that she is thankfully not yet here, I hurry back into the tube station entrance and buy a packet of strong mints from one of the newsagents who do a roaring trade from London commuters, and then I quickly chew two of the mints in an effort to ensure that my breath is fresh.

Walking back outside, I look closely at the ten red roses I have brought with me. They cost a fortune and they do look beautiful, but now I am standing waiting for her to arrive I feel really uncomfortable having them with me. Although Gail seemed to think that giving flowers to a woman on the first date would be a good thing to do, I am no longer so sure.

Will I not just make a fool of myself? Will MBW not think that I am too keen if I give her roses? What happens if it's just too over the top and I scare her off? What happens if she doesn't actually look upon this as being a date?...Ouch, so many questions.

I stand there outside of the entrance, nervously shifting from foot to foot, trying to make up my mind, knowing that at any moment she may step out of the tube station. Looking around I see another man a few metres away from me, also obviously waiting for someone special. He is dressed up smartly, and checking his watch every few minutes. Without much further thought I sidle across to him, and ask him, "Excuse me, can you tell me what time it is?"

"Almost five past seven."

"Thanks. Are you waiting for your girlfriend?"

He looks at me questioningly.

"Yes," he says. "She's late."

"Mine too. Listen, I've bought my girlfriend some flowers, but we're going dancing now, so we can't really carry them. Do you want them? You can have them for nothing, if you think your girlfriend would like them?"

He looks at me, then the flowers, and he smiles.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I reply. "Here you are," stretching out my arm and giving them to him.

"Honestly. You don't want anything for them?"

"No. I hope your girlfriend likes them."

I smile back at him, and walk back to where I was standing a few minutes before.

I look at my watch. It's eight minutes past seven.

"Am I late?" a soft, warm voice asks me.

I look up, bursting into a uncontrollable smile by the sight that greets me. MBW is standing in front of me, her long curly blonde hair glistening in the early evening sunlight. At a first glance it's obvious that MBW has gone to some trouble to make herself look good this evening and I feel flattered that she felt me important enough to make the effort. She's wearing a casual but smart brown skirt, a light green jumper and white blouse, stockings and black high heel shoes, with a thin black leather jacket draped over her arm. She looks absolutely stunning and suddenly I feel very self-conscious and left wondering if I have made enough of an effort myself.

"Hi," I say, immediately fighting with the urge to start complimenting her and tell her just how amazing he looks. "You're looking very nice," I say, quickly moving on. "It's nice to see you again."

She smiles modestly. I suspect that she is quite used to hearing compliments, and over the years she has learned to accept them gracefully.

"It's nice to see you too, Andrew. I am also sorry I must run away last time to do plumbing. Tonight, I hope we more have time to talk."

We start to walk up the Embankment, passing the man with the flowers who is just now being covered in kisses from his girlfriend who appears genuinely overwhelmed to have received them.

"Aha. Such beautiful red roses!...She is very lucky girl," Slávka says as we pass them. "She has very romantic boyfriend. English men are so charming."

I glance backward at the woman still cuddling and kissing her boyfriend, who sees me over her shoulder and gives me a thumbs-up sign as a token of thanks. Blast.

"So," I say, trying to write off my first mistake of the evening and move swiftly on, "...what would you like to eat? I was thinking that we could go to my favourite Thai restaurant. Do you like Thai?"

"Oh yes." Slávka replies. "I love spicy food. Thai is very nice. I haven't eaten that for long time, so is good idea."

"I have to warn you that it's not exactly a restaurant. Actually it's a room just above a pub called the Lemon Tree, just around the corner from here, but it makes the best Thai food I've ever tasted. If you like Thai, you'll love it!"

"You promise?", her eyes twinkling.

"I promise."

As we walk up the hill from the Embankment to Charing Cross train station, for the first time since the bombings of last week I once again sense the excitement that London life offers. Whatever that magic ingredient is that normally permeates the air in the city centre, whatever that sense of excitement that tantalises and entices those attracted to the big lights and the city centre, tonight it is back.

"How long have you been in England, Slouka?" I ask, wanting to learn as much about her as possible, hoping to be able to delete the "M" from "MBW".

"I am here now for fifteen months."

"Do you like it, or do you miss home."

"Oh, I love here. Yes I miss home too. I miss sisters and parents and town I live in, but now I think I find it hard go home live there. Home town is now too small, not exciting like here. For example, only theatre is in next big city one hour away. We not have five theatres in just one street, like Shaftesbury Avenue!" she laughs.

"You have sisters?"

"Oh, yes. Two small sisters. Little one is sixteen years old, bigger one eighteen."

"Aha..." I reply, dying to ask how old Slávka is.

"You too have sisters or brothers?" she asks, as we approach the entrance to the Lemon Tree.

"One sister. Older, called Hannah."

"In London too?"

"No. Back in Edinburgh, where I come from."

"Yes, I remember. You _not_ English. You Scottish." She says, laughing again.

I like it when she laughs: her eyes twinkle, and I love the way her laughter sounds, slightly sexy, but not overtly so.

She follows me as we enter the Lemon Tree and I force a little path for us through the busy bar towards the stairs at the back of the pub, climbing to the second floor and luckily finding a table by the window overlooking the street below.

"So, Andrew, what do you recommend for drink and eat?" Slávka asks, picking up a menu from the table and studying it.

"Oh, if you like 'hot', I would definitely recommend the "Chicken Thai Green Curry", but if you want mild, then I'd go for the Phad Thai stir fry. And I always like to drink the Bombadeer Beer."

"It's an English Ale, or a beer?" she asks.

The question stumps me, and I have to admit rather sheepishly that I don't actually know what the difference between an Ale and a Beer is. "I think it's a beer."

"You recommend it, so I try it. I am not coward, so I also try Green Curry. But I not like chicken, so...."she says, summing up the other options, "...I choose Prawn."

A few minutes later a waitress pops up from the bar downstairs and takes our order, reappearing minutes later with our drinks.

"Interesting bar," Slávka comments, looking around at the myriad of framed cinema posters on the wall, each one promoting some classic famous film from the past ten years. "Ah," she says, pointing to the one above my head, "I see this film once. Very good film."

I turn around, twisting my neck to see the large advertisement for "A Perfect Murder" with Michael Douglas and Gwyneth Paltrow.

"I've seen it too...yep, great film. But my favourite film of all time was an old film called _The Poseidon Adventure_. My dad had it on DVD. Have you ever seen it?" I ask, the conversation easily leading us into an discussion on our likes and dislikes in films and music.

The meal arrives about ten minutes later and we start to eat, already beginning to enjoy each other's company.

"So, Andrew. What do you know about Slovakia?" she asks.

"Not much. Except that it used to be part of Czechoslovakia but split apart a while ago. I've got to be honest, I keep getting it confused with Slovenia. They sound like they somehow both stem from the same root name. Are Slovenians anything to do with Slovakians?"

"No," she says, shaking her head and reaching for her glass of beer. Her face is going a little red.

"Sorry," she gasps, quickly swallowing several mouthfuls of beer. "I just eat hot chilli!"

"Oops. I should have warned you about them. Do you want me to get you some water?"

"No. Beer is fine," she replies, taking another few sips. "There, better now. But is not good that you think Slovenia just like Slovakia. We are very different country, and there is not connection between two."

"It's a bit embarrassing really, how ignorant us British are about our European neighbours. I think it goes back to our arrogance where we just assume everyone should speak English, and that Great Britain still rules the waves."

"Which is sadly inaccurate view. Such days I think long gone."

"Most people in the UK have heard of Poland, but the other Eastern European countries are still very mysterious. Very few people from here ever go there. I think nowadays, we just think that since more and more people from Poland want to come here that it can't be very nice there, so we don't bother to learn anything about those countries."

"I understand, but is not true. Poland is beautiful country, and so is Czech Republic and definitely Slovak Republic. Very beautiful. Have you heard of Tatra Mountains?"

"No. Where are they?"

"On border between Poland and Slovakia. Very beautiful. You should go there one day. Lots of skiing."

"Do you ski?"

"Oh yes. We all learn ski when we are young."

The conversation begins to really flow, and soon I can sense that Slávka is as relaxed with me as I am with her.

I like to listen to her talk, studying her beautiful face as I am slowly mesmerized by the lilting way her soft voice carves delicate patterns of sound between us, entranced by the quaint way she formulates her sentences, pulling together words that clearly make sense but which are not always accurate in their choice or use, and the way she misses out the word "the" or "a" every time I expect to hear one.

"Is it difficult to learn English?" I ask her when a suitable moment arrives. "When did you start to learn?"

She blushes a little, and I almost regret asking the question, except for the fact that I am genuinely interested in learning the answer and quite touched by her sensitivity and the way she blushes.

"Sorry, my English bad. I only begin learn proper last year. When I get here I only speak few words, you know, 'Hello? Goodbye? May I have cup of tea?", but then I go English course everyday for three months and I must learn very quick."

"What, you came to Britain without being able to speak English at all?" I ask, thinking that she must be very brave. There's no way I'd move to Slovakia if I couldn't speak the language. "Did you come here with anyone else?"

"No. I come by myself. No one else in Slovakia want come England then. I only doctor on whole bus! Now every bus has two doctors, three nurses, dentist and vet. Oh, and four plumbers!" she laughs.

"It's amazing that you can speak so fluently so quickly. You must have a gift for it. What other languages can you speak?"

She puts her knife and fork down and starts to count on her fingers.

"I think I speak five languages. Most people in my village do. There is Slovak, Russian, Carpathian, Polish, Czech, Ukrainian, and now bit of English. Wow. I am very clever girl! I speak seven languages..." she beams.

"Wow," I reply, incredibly impressed. "Seven languages. And you are a doctor? You are beginning to make me feel very stupid."

"Oh no," she says, reaching across the table and briefly touching my hand. "I'm sorry. I am talking all about me. Now you must tell me about Scotland. You are also brave person to leave your country and come to England? Tell me about Edinburgh. I have not yet visit Scotland."

"I would like to," I reply. "But once I get started on that topic, you won't be able to shut me up," I say, looking at my watch. "Slouka... actually, before I say anything more, can I just ask you how you pronounce your name properly? Am I doing it right?"

"Yes. You say it right. Good pronunciation."

"How do you write it?"

"I need pen..." she says, looking around the pub. Just then the waitress comes through the door to collect up some of the empty beer glasses from the tables, and I wave at her and ask if I can borrow hers.

Slávka reaches across the table and pulls a napkin towards herself.

"Look," she says, "It is written like this...", and I watch as she writes down the letters

'S...l...á...v...k...a'

"Slavka?" I read aloud.

"No, how say before was right. We not pronounce letter 'v' same like English person."

"Slávka?"

"Yes. Very excellent," she smiles.

"Ok, Slávka. Thank you... _Slávka_." I say once more, practicing saying the word and picturing the spelling of her name in my mind's eye, trying to memorise it. "Anyway, Slávka, I was thinking that maybe when we are finished eating I could take you to a concert? There is this female singer I know..." which is how, two hours later we are both walking out of the Helen Boulding concert, having enjoyed the best gig I have heard her play yet.

"What did you think?" I ask Slávka, hoping that she will have liked her as much as I do.

"I think she _is_ _excellent_ ", she replies, "and I am very pleased you invite me and take me listen her this evening. Is much better than studying."

All evening long I have been dying to ask Slávka one question, and now I can resist it no longer.

"Does your boyfriend not take you to concerts in London?"

She turns and looks at me appraisingly before replying.  
"He used to. Last year. A lot. Always to theatre to see show or music. But not any longer. He go back to America."

"Do you still see him?" I ask, determined to get the answer.

"No, but I think what you want for know is really if I have boyfriend now, or not? Yes?"

"Eh, yes. Actually, that is exactly what I was wondering."

"Perhaps you should ask other question. Would I be now here enjoying myself so much with new man who stare at me on train, if I already have boyfriend?" she asks, reaching out and touching my hand very gently.

I think I am blushing.

"And you? If you have ask me, then perhaps I allowed ask you same question?" she asks.

I laugh, a little embarrassed by her directness but flattered by her interest in knowing.

"No. I only got to London a few weeks ago, and to be honest, I don't know many people here yet. Only a few people from work, my flatmate Guy, and his girlfriend Sal."

The sudden mention of Sal is accompanied by a rush of guilt. The whole evening I have not given a single thought to her or to Guy, and now I feel almost like as if I have somehow let Guy down. Earlier on in the evening when I spoke to him on the phone, I couldn't bring myself to tell him that I was going out on a date tonight in search of some happiness while he was suffering in such misery. Perhaps I can redeem myself...

"What time is it?" I ask aloud, looking at my watch. "It's almost ten thirty. How are you getting home ? Do you have time for a quick drink? I was enjoying your company so much that I forgot that I wanted to ask you a question about my friend Sal and her coma?"

"I have time," she replies. I am on late shift tomorrow. But it's unfair. All night you ask me about me, and still you tell me nothing about you. You know everything about my family now, and why I here, but I know only you have sister Hannah, but nothing what you do or why you here in England!"

"Aha...it's part of my cunning plan", I confess, pointing to a bar just across the road that looks much quieter than the place where Helen's gig has just finished. "But that means you have to go out with me for another evening to ask me questions about my life, if you are interested."

"You drive hard bargain," she laughs.

.

A few minutes later we are sitting down at a quiet table in the corner of the bar. They have just called last orders, so I am conscious of the fact that in less than thirty minutes we will be chucked out onto the streets. Slávka is drinking a cup of hot tea, and I am just starting a pint of Stella.

Slávka is sitting beside me on the upholstered leather bench beside the window, her legs almost touching mine. It is interesting to see that as the evening has worn on, we have both become more relaxed in each other's company, and as we sit side by side on the seat, I notice how close we are sitting to each other. I can feel the warmth of her legs against mine. It is a good feeling.

"So Andrew, tell me about friend in coma," she asks me.

I turn halfway towards her, tucking one of my legs under the other and sitting on it on the seat.

"Sal is my flatmate's girlfriend. She was in one of the tube trains that got hit by the terrorist bombs. She's been in a coma since last Thursday. She's breathing independently but wasn't speaking or moving at all until about two days ago, when she moved one of her fingers. Then yesterday, Guy asked her a question and she moved two fingers. He thinks that she was trying to say something to him. Anyway, the doctor said that it was a good sign and that apparently it moved her a point up the ' _Glasgow Scale'_. I wanted to ask you if you knew what the _Glasgow Scale_ was?"

"What has Doctor said?"  
"Not much. He just said that we should assume that she can hear everything we say to her, and that the sooner she wakes up the better."

"That is true. The longer she lies in coma without responding, I think probability of bad damage to brain is higher. Have they done scans...you know, MRI or CTI?"

"Yes. Well, they did some scans, but I don't know what they were. They said the results were good. No real signs of obvious damage..."

"That is good..." she says, sitting forward in the seat and turning towards me, her face now quite close. As she begins to speak I notice that her whole demeanour has now changed. Before she was all smiles and laughter, but now Slávka has become serious and I can see that mentally she has put on her white coat and is now talking to me as Slávka the professional doctor. Something stirs within me, which I quickly recognise as admiration and respect: "...but we know very little about brain", she continues, "...so even though test results good, risk of damage to brain is always possibility. Doctor is right to worry that longer she sleep, bigger is risk of damage to brain that last long time. You ask me what Glasgow Scale is? Well, I am not expert of neurological medicine, but I know that this is way for doctor to measure and try to...what is word...", she reaches forward into her handbag, and for the first time this evening pulls out a little dictionary. " Aha, yes, 'describe!'. Yes, this is way for doctor _to_ categorise or measure and _describe_ level of coma of patient. Scale is based upon three things: Eye Opening response, Verbal Response and Motor response. This means that doctor look at ability of patient to respond to stimuli by movement of eye, or physical movement of hand, leg, head or any part of body, or by what they say or sound that come out of patient mouth. Is Sal able to speak or does she move eyes? Are eyes open at all? Please describe me in more detail physical condition of Sal."

So I spend the next ten minutes describing in as much detail as possible how Sal is, and how the only real signs of life so far are that she can breathe independently and has started to twitch her fingers in an apparent response to Guy's questioning. She listens patiently, making a few notes with a pen on a beer mat that is lying on the table. I try to see what she is writing but it is in what I presume is Slovak and it makes no sense to me at all. When I have finished describing everything I know, she sits back in her chair and takes another sip of her beer.

"Act- _uaa_ lly," she says, drawing out the last part of the word and turning a rather mundane sound into something rather cute. "From what you describe, situation is not so very good. Doctor for Sal is being optimistic, perhaps, and not trying alarm you. Although I not specialist doctor for brain, I know that on Glasgow Scale, Sal has not many points. She does not open her eyes, or make sounds at all, and only moves fingers, so is very low number." She pauses. "I think also, that longer she not open eyes or remain in condition like this, that possibility of damage to brain is greater. It is important that she wake up from sleep soon."

"But how do we make her wake up?" I ask, alarmed by what she is telling me. Why has the doctor on the ward not told us all about the Glasgow Scale?

"That is not easy. Doctor is right that you must talk with her, and try and wake up memories from past, or ask her questions. If she is responding at your friend's questions by moving fingers then we know that she can hear what people are saying with her. That is very good. I think that you and friend must try think of ways so that you make her _want_ so she wake up,...so then Sal _want_ fight for her life, and also fight with her own mind so she _make_ herself wake up."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Maybe Sal is listening to you, can hear you, and trying already open her eyes. You must make her want try _harder_."

"Should we tell her that she is dying, and that unless she does open her eyes that she will die?"

"Hmm. No. I do not think this is good idea. Maybe you scare her too much. Perhaps good if you say you have present for her, and please open eyes, or you have something for show her,...please open eyes... Sorry, I not know what tell you exactly, but you must think of ideas about what you should say when you go visit her."

Just then, a big burly man in a black suit bends over our table and invites us almost rather rudely to leave the pub, reminding us that it is time to drink up. As he walks away, I breathe in deeply and sit back against the wall.

"What are we going to do?" I ask rhetorically. "What do we say to her to stimulate her enough to force her to _want to_ wake up and open her eyes?"

Slávka gently puts a hand on my knee, "I am sorry Andrew. Sometimes Doctors are not able for helping very much. Unfortunately, now I feel I am just plumber, not magician."

Slávka does not move her hand, and without really thinking about it too much, I place my right hand on top of hers, squeezing her hand underneath. I look into her eyes, and I see genuine compassion pouring out of them. She smiles.

"Thank you, Slávka." I reply, looking through her eyes into the Slávka beyond, and immediately sensing that she is a very warm, caring, gentle and kind person.

There is something about this woman, something very special indeed. She is smart, intelligent, attractive, patient, kind, and funny. Throughout this evening, she has made me laugh an awful lot. I sense that Slávka is looking back at me, also searching deep within me, trying to learn as much about the man who is Andrew and who is now sitting gently holding her hand.

Neither of us makes any attempt to speak, both recognising that we have moved from simple conversation to a moment of deep intimacy where words are superfluous. I feel a warmth swelling within my chest, and my lips curl up in reply to her infectious smile. A single thought fills my mind: 'I like this woman. Very, very much.'

Such moments are rare in life, and when they do occur, they should be treasured and made to last for as long as possible. Unfortunately, this realisation is sadly not shared by the idiot bouncer who once again leans forward into our space and says rather abruptly, "Can you give me your glasses please and move outside?"

.

As we stand up and walk through the door out into the street, I think that we are both conscious that something important just happened between us. Outside, we stand on the pavement for a moment, facing each other, each nervous of what to say or do next.

I realise I am shaking a little bit, both from nervousness and excitement. She is standing close to me, and I feel an incredible urge to take her in my arms and hug her, to hold her tight against me, and to place my cheek against hers.

Then for the third time in five minutes, the bouncer continues in his vendetta to ruin my life, by stepping out of the pub and saying "Excuse me," as he encourages us to move further away from the door so that he can retrieve the pub's billboard signs from the pavement and take them back inside.

We both shuffle along the pavement a little, before turning to each other again, not wanting the moment to dissipate.

"How are you getting home?" I ask her.

"Wimbledon Park. From here I catch the train from Waterloo for Wimbledon."

"Me too, I get the train from Waterloo to Clapham Junction ..aha! That's why I see you on the train into Waterloo in the morning..." I reply as it dawns on me that we are almost close neighbours. Relatively speaking.

We start to walk together towards the tube station side by side, our arms brushing against each other, but neither of us making the bold move of reaching out to hold the other person's hand. My heart is racing, and I feel what I can only describe as wall of electricity between us. Not a wall or a barrier that separates, but a more like a tide that flows back and forward between us.

I look across at her, and she laughs, reaching across and slotting her arm through mine, gently resting her head against my shoulder.

"Okay, now we must hurry," she says. "Or we miss last trains home."

.

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

.

On the tube ride south to Waterloo, we make small talk, both of us still nervous to admit the attraction we feel for each other. We talk about the gig tonight, and I ask Slávka what she thought of Helen's music, and which was her favourite song.

All too soon we are at Waterloo, and I walk with Slávka to the train platform and wait with her for our train to come. Unfortunately it arrives too soon, and when we get on, I ask her if we can stand by the doors rather that sit down, since I have to get off at the next stop.

Again, more nervousness, two people dancing around the flame of mutual attraction, but neither trusting themselves to make that next step.

Then suddenly we are at Clapham Junction, and I have to get off. The doors open, and I reach forward to her, impulsively touching her hand, but not man enough to do anything more.

I look at her, her face so beautiful, her eyes sparkling so brightly, and I freeze, stumbling with the words and not knowing what I should say or do next...

Then there is the beeping sound announcing the imminent closing of the doors...

As I step backwards onto the platform Slávka sticks her head out of the doors and kisses me gently on the side of my cheek, saying, "Thank you Andrew for wonderful evening. I enjoyed it. And I also want thank you for beautiful red roses you bought me."

I stare back at her, surprised. She winks at me.

"I _saw_ you..." She laughs, and the train doors close in front of her.

A moment later I am left standing on the platform by myself. Slávka is gone, but for the first time since I got to London, I no longer feel alone.

.

### Chapter 32

.

Guy is in his bedroom when I get home, but rushes out into the hall as soon as I walk through the front door.

"She started moaning and making sounds!" he shouts at me, thrusting a glass of whisky at me with one hand and walloping me on my shoulder with his other hand. "I was there, talking to her about the wedding, and suddenly this sound came out of her mouth. At first I couldn't believe it, but the nurse was in the cubicle with me at the same time, lifting Sal's legs up and down to exercise her muscles, and she heard it too. Here, I'm celebrating! Apparently it's another point on the Glasgow Scale."

He clinks his glass against mine, and swallows his in one gulp. I can tell that he has already had one or two.

He walks back into his room and returns with the bottle of special reserve, now almost empty, topping up his glass and then mine.

"Blast, it's finished. That was my favourite £120 twelve year old malt. A special present from my parents." He looks at the empty bottle and then at me. "I know they say that a good malt is so smooth that it just slips down your throat without you knowing it, but I can't even remember drinking it. We must have been drinking an awful lot of it the other night before I went to the States..." He looks at me quizzically, then shakes his head. "Never mind, I'll just have to buy another one. Something to celebrate with when Sal comes home. Cheers!"

For a second or two I wonder whether or not I should own up, but I decide against it. I have another idea instead.

"So, where have you been all night? What are you all smiles about?" Guy asks, walking into the lounge and flopping onto the sofa. I follow him through.

"Nowhere. I just went for a long walk through town."

Guy looks at me, suddenly going very serious. "Listen Andrew, I'm really sorry for all this. I mean, you come to London to escape your own life, and you end up in all of this. Dealing with all my crap. It should be me that's helping you, and instead, it's the other way around."

"Hey, don't worry about it. That's what friends are for."

"Thanks, but I just realised how stressful this must be for you. I'm so caught up in my own world, that I'm not even thinking about you..."

"And rightly so. Honestly, none of this is your fault. You're my best friend. And I'm here for you, and that's all there is to be said about the matter okay?"

He looks at me, and nods, his eyes saying all there needs to be said.

"Cheers _Amigo_ ," he says, clinking his glass on mine again. "You're a good mate."

We drink some more whisky.

"Listen," I continue, changing the subject. "Tomorrow night I think it would be a good idea if you come home early and get some proper sleep. You're looking terrible. I'll go up to the hospital and spend the evening with her."

"No way pal. Every day she's making a bit more progress. Tomorrow may be the day when she wakes up, and I want to be there when it happens. Anyway, the nurse said that tomorrow afternoon they're going to do some more scans on her to see what the inside of her head looks like now, just to check that everything is still the same, if not better. What with the fingers moving, and now with her making sounds, maybe there will be some positive signs of improvement."

I consider for a moment telling him the information that I got from Slávka this evening but decide against it. After what she told me, I'm worried that the doctor may be being less than frank with Guy about Sal's chances, and perhaps it would be better to reset his expectations more realistically. On the other hand, perhaps the doctor will do that himself when they get the test results back tomorrow.

We talk for a little while longer, Guy getting progressively more plastered as we do, and after him showing me some more of the holiday photographs he took of Sal last summer in Greece, I help him to his feet and take him through to his bedroom. He's asleep within minutes. I on the other hand, spend the next half an hour lying on my bed thinking about this evening, and planning when to call Slávka again. I play with my mobile for a while, writing and then re-writing several text messages to her, but not sending any of them. In the end, I just send her a simple one: "I really enjoyed this evening. Thanks for your company and advice."

I wait for a while, hoping that I might get a reply, but in the end none comes, and I fall asleep too.

.

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

.

The next morning, I am busy working on an Excel spreadsheet for the business plan of a future product development when a new email pops up on my screen: "Personal," from Gail. " _So...,_ " it reads, " _...how was last night? Did it go well? Did she like your flowers?_ "

"It was good. Don't mention the flowers. It was a bit of a disaster on the flower-front. How was your date with Ben?" I reply quickly.

Two minutes later.

"Lunch at the café at 12.30? I want to hear all about it. I didn't see Ben last night. He forgot that he had arranged a poker night with his 'lads'.'

"Sorry, Can't do lunch today. I need to work through it so that I can leave on time to go to the hospital tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

A moment later the phone rings.

"So when will I get a chance to see you?" Gail asks on the other end of the line. I look briefly at Ben only a few metres away from me and I turn towards the window. "...I want to hear all about it."

"Soon," I reply. "I'm probably going to be busy this weekend, but like I said yesterday, maybe Saturday afternoon or Saturday evening?"

"Good", she replies, sounding pleased.

"And you can tell me all about how it's going with...Ben." I say, whispering Ben's name and cupping my hand over the receiver.

"Okay. Although there's not so much to tell. Speak to you later. Bye." And she is gone again.

I glance back over at the Ben, who is busy talking to someone on the phone. "Interesting," I think to myself, and briefly consider asking him how it's going with Gail. Just then though, my phone beeps and a message arrives from Slávka. I eagerly pick up the phone and read it.

"Andrew. Thank you for taking me to concert. Very good singer. Want to buy album. I enjoy your company too. Please let me know how friend Sal is. Perhaps, if you at hospital later this week, maybe you let me know and we go coffee in canteen?"

The urge to respond immediately is very high, but not wanting to come across too keen, I decide to wait for a few hours before I reply. Which is how precisely four minutes later I send:  
"I would like that. Looking forward to seeing you again. Andrew."

.

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

.

The hospital is a grim and depressing place when I get there. As I walk through the hospital up to the ward I keep a keen eye open for Slávka, just in case she is here today, but with no success I arrive at Sal's ward and am immediately hit by an atmosphere of sadness and foreboding that is so strong that it is almost tangible. The nurse sees me walking in and quickly beckons me into her glass office. I step inside, fearing the worst.

The nurse asks me to wait for a while and she walks out of the office, returning a few minutes later with a doctor.

"Hello, Andrew isn't it? I'm glad you've come. Your friend Guy was given some slightly bad news this afternoon and I'm afraid that he is taking it rather badly. Coupled with the fact that one of the other patients died during the night, and there were some very sad scenes this morning when the deceased's relatives came down, I think that the seriousness of Miss Wentworth's condition has really hit home now."

"What was the bad news?" I ask, looking out onto the ward towards the curtain surrounding Sal's bed.

"Yesterday afternoon we took Miss Wentworth back up for another scan just to check her condition and see if the recent motor responses...she moved her figures a few times...to see if they were indicative of any improvement. Unfortunately, this scan showed there was nothing new. I sat down with Guy after lunch and explained to him that since we have seen no real improvement in her condition in the past week, that we are quite concerned about the future prognosis."

"But I thought that her moving her fingers and making that vocal sound were really good indicators of improvement? Guy said that she has been moving up the Glasgow Scale, which was really positive."

"Do you know about the Glasgow Scale?" she asks.

I nod, " A friend of mine is a doctor and she explained it to me."

"Well in that case, you'll understand that this is just a method by which we can classify the degree of coma which patients are suffering from. When a patient first comes into the ward, we try to remain as optimistic as possible for the first few weeks, because in a lot of patients this is when we see the most dramatic improvements. Some patients do not improve in the first few weeks, and with these the long term prognosis is not so good. Experience tells us that they are likely to suffer from long term damage. So the longer they are unresponsive, the greater the risk. Unfortunately, Miss Wentworth is so low down on the scale, that _any_ improvement is significant. Moving a finger is a form of Motor Response, and making some sound is, or could potentially be classified as, a form of Verbal Response. Unfortunately, these initial movements have not been followed by any other forms of improvement, which is what we would hope for."

"Also, the scans we have done are still rather inconclusive, which in itself can be viewed as both positive and negative: negative because we cannot identify if there is any damage, but positive in that because we cannot identify anything we still have every reason to believe that she could make some sort of recovery, although it is really impossible to say what degree of recovery that would be."

Whilst he has been speaking I have moved to the chair opposite the desk and sat down, trying to absorb what is being said.

"But Guy was sure that she could hear him, because when Sal moved her fingers, it seemed to be in direct response to his questions, almost as if she was trying to answer his questions?"

"Which all sounds good, and it could be a really good sign. Hopefully it does mean that she can hear us, which is why we did some more tests today, but unfortunately we were not able to observe any improvement. But for that matter, we also were not able to observe any further deterioration. The thing is, as I've said before, we really do not know enough about the human brain, and in circumstances like this we have to draw a lot upon empirical experience. Unfortunately, as I've also said, this tells us that the longer she remains so unresponsive, the more likely the danger of serious and permanent brain damage, or perhaps also death."

"She might die?" I ask, looking up at the doctor, suddenly very worried.

"I'm afraid this is a possibility. Which is what unfortunately happened to another one of the patients on the ward during the night. Rather unexpected, and quite suddenly."

I stand up, and walk towards the glass separating us from the beds on the ward.

"So, is there anything we can do?" I ask, already thinking about the conversation I had with Slávka last night, and how she recommended that we have to somehow shock her into waking up.

"More of the same. You are already doing everything you can. The best thing you can do though is to support your friend Guy. Be there for him when you can, and make sure he is getting enough sleep and food. The nurses are telling me that he is here all the time. The thing is that we don't know how long Miss Wentworth will be in this condition, so your friend Guy has to adjust accordingly. He can't give up his life. This could go on for months."

"I know, I know." I say, turning away from the glass wall to the doctor. "Thank you. I'll speak to him."

"I'm sorry we can't do any more at the moment. The key is to remain hopeful, but to put that hope into perspective."

As I walk out of the office into the ward, I wonder what on earth that last sentence means.

I can't help but stare at the empty bed as I walk past it, it's previous occupant now embarking on a journey that one day we all must take, but which we deny and refuse to consider, all of us believing that it will never happen to us. It occurs to me then that this is the first time in my life that I have associated hospitals with death: until now, a hospital was always a place where you came to get well, to get fixed, patched-up, repaired, and then ultimately set free again, refreshed and revived to enjoy the wondrous life that is only just outside the hospital door. Yet, sadly the reality is for many people that when they come through those big white glass doors at the front of the building, that they will never again see the light of day. For a second I think to myself what that would be like,...never to see the sun or a blue sky again, never to see Hannah, or the Alps, or the snow falling in the Highlands, or to see Loch Lomond, calm and still with the reflection of Ben Lomond stretching out for miles across its surface...I think all these things and others, and then like we all do all the time, every day of our life, I block out the possibility of my death, and carry on: not for me is the death that claims all others, not for me will everything just cease and disappear, not for me will everything I have achieved or strived for in my life just blow away on the wind the moment everyone forgets my name; no, I will never die, I can't, because tomorrow I will be meeting friends, and then I must buy a flat, and then get my next promotion, and find a wife and bring up my children. Not for me will there come a day when all I am, and everything I was, will be contained within three cardboard boxes which my sister or my son will put in their attic.

Without realising it, I am now standing outside of the dreaded green curtain that's shuts off and conveniently locks away Sal and Guy's suffering from the outside world. Slowly I raise my hand and gently pull back the screen, allowing myself to peer in unseen on the silent world of hell that Guy is enduring. For what seems like an age, I watch him patiently, seeing how he talks constantly to the woman he loves, how he strokes her face, and then brushes her hair with a bright yellow brush that Mandy brought from Sal's bedroom; how he gently puts some earphones into her ears and plays her some of her favourite music from her new iPod.

I realise now how confused my feelings towards Sal still remain. On the one hand, my heart is wrenched by the condition she is in, lying there day after day fighting for her life, a random victim of a pointless act of barbarism that could have affected anyone of us; her future and all she could be, tottering on the edge of oblivion.

On the other hand, I still cannot help but recall the look on her face as she writhed in pleasure at the touch of another man's hand on her breast, and yet again I feel angry and furious that Guy is breaking his heart over her, when he has no idea of the truth. He is living a lie, chasing after a dream of love and happiness that he believes was just around the corner before Sal was ripped from his outstretched arms by the bomb, and probably blaming himself for every single time he ever shouted at Sal, or has been angry at her, or made her unhappy in any way.

It dawns on me that if Sal were to die like the occupant of the other bed, she would become a martyr in his eyes, and for the rest of his life he would pine after her, his heart broken irretrievably, and without the ability to discover the truth. For years to come he would fantasise about the day she would have walked up the aisle with him, about the children they could have had, and happiness that they would have shared. Over the years he may come to blame himself in a thousand different ways for her passing, and in some ways her death may lead to his own. He will become a shadow of his former self, his eyes no longer bright and sparkling, but sad and forlorn.

Of course, there are two people who know the truth in all of this. One is asleep on the bed before me now, and the other is myself. Yet both are silenced by the situation we now find ourselves jointly in. Watching Sal lying there now, with Guy so lovingly in attendance, I know now beyond all doubt that there is no way that I can tell him the truth while she lies there at the whim of fate: I can see clearly now that Guy would never be able to listen to me describe to him how his beloved wife-to-be was in fact a two-timing cow, and how the night before he proposed to her, she probably spent the evening in bed with another man. Any attempt by me to say such things would be the seen as vile, slanderous, allegations that cannot possibly be true, and how could I, Andrew, Guy's best friend say such vicious, deceitful things about Sal his future wife, when she is not able to defend herself in anyway? I know that it would be the end to our friendship, and then he would have lost not only Sal, but me too, leaving him even more alone than before at a time when he needs me more than ever.

I try to imagine what it would be like if the situation was reversed? If my fiancé were to die like this, her other life hidden from me, would I prefer to imagine for the rest of my own life that once upon a time there was a woman I had met that had loved me as much as I had loved her, and who had agreed to become my wife, and love me for all the years to come? Or would I rather know the truth?

Of course, to know the answer to that question, I would also have to know what the rest of my life would pan out like, and if after her, whether or not there would be someone else that I would meet, who I could love as much as I do the wife-to-be-lying-in-the-coma.

If I knew there was going to be no-one else, then for me I think I would rather live not knowing the truth, but with the security and knowledge that once-upon-a-time I was loved, and that life could have been beautiful.

Which leads me to conclude, that because I do not know where Guy's life will lead him, it is right for me not to tell him under any circumstances while Sal continues to sleep like Sleeping Beauty waiting for a kiss to wake her up. I have to wait, either for her to die, and then case dismissed, or for her to wake up,...and then and only then can I take some form of action. What I will do then, is as Gail and I discussed before, something that we must decide if and when that bridge presents itself to be crossed.

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I cough lightly, and Guy turns around and looks up at me and smiles.

"Hi there mate," he says. "Thanks for coming. I could do with seeing a friendly face. It's been pretty tough going today."

I walk over to the bed, shake Guy's hand, and then stroke Sal's head, saying "Hi there Sal. It's Andrew. Just come over for a quick visit after work. How about a smile today or a word of welcome? Or just squeeze my hand to say that you can hear me."

I put my fingers in the palm of her hand and we both stare at her, hoping for the fingers to move or encircle mine. There is nothing.

"Has Sal moved at all, or said anything more?" I ask Guy.

"Nothing today. I got the results back from the test..."

"I know" I say, making a "Ssshhhh!" sign with my finger against my lips and nodding at Sal. I beckon to him to come outside the curtain with me. "I talked to the doctor already and he filled me in on the results. I was just thinking that perhaps it's not a good idea to talk about the test and the results in front of her. She may be able to hear everything, and we don't want to scare her."

"True, but on the other hand, the doctor said that we really do need to try and find a way of stimulating her mentally to get her to try and really _want_ to wake up. Maybe we just have to tell her the way it is. If we have to scare her into waking up, then we just have to do it."

"What, like, 'Hi Sal. If you don't wake up in the next week, you're probably going to die?'"

"Maybe."

"But we don't know what sort of battles she is fighting within herself, and maybe if she is struggling already, hearing everything we say, do you not think that putting it as bluntly as that could just tip her over the edge, and with the added pressure she might blow a fuse and end up having some sort of brain haemorrhage or something?"

"I don't know. Listen, I'm not a doctor. I just know that from what the doctor was saying today, if we don't do something soon, I'm going to lose her..."

He turns away from me, emotion overcoming him. He lifts both his hands to cover his face for a moment, and I put my hand on his shoulder, waiting for it to pass.

"I'm sorry, mate, it's just that..."

"No need to excuse yourself. I think you're doing an amazing job of coping with all this. Honestly."

"You think so?" he asks, his eyes searching me for some form of approval.

"Absolutely. If that was Kate, sorry, bad example, if that was Hannah lying on the bed there, there's no way that I would be able to cope with it as well as you are doing. Sal's lucky she's got you. You're giving her all the support she needs."

"But it's not enough though, is it? Shit, but what is? What do we have to do?"

"I'll tell you what we're going to do now. You're going to go home right now and get some food and sleep, and I'll stay with her for an hour or two. Look," I say, waving my copy of Marrying Slovakia in the air, "I've got my book with me, and I'm going to carry on reading the chapters to her. I think she'll enjoy it. Now get your stuff and go, okay?"

Five minutes later we are alone, just me and Sal, and for a while I sit there in silence just looking at her, the classic Mexican stand-off, waiting to see which one of us is going to say something first. Which it would seem, is pretty much a foregone conclusion.

I pick up the book to start reading from where I left off, but as I start to read I instead find myself telling her about Slávka. I tell her about the chance meeting in the café right here in the hospital, and all about our first date, describing to her how I felt at the end of the evening.

All the time I am holding her hand in mine, just in case of any sign of any acknowledgement that she can hear me.

"So, what do you think?" I ask her. "Do you think she might like me?"

No response.

"You know, I don't even know how you and Guy met," I lie. "What was it like the first time you saw Guy? Was it love at first sight? Can you remember?"

Her finger moves.

I almost jump with shock, just as if a ghost had jumped at me out of the wall.

"Sal? SAL? Did you hear me?" I ask quickly, watching her finger intently. "Can you remember what it was like the first time you saw Guy? The first time you met him? Can you remember how you felt?"

This time there is no response.

"Can you remember what it was like the first time he kissed you?"

Three of the fingers on her right hand curl inward, and I see it. I laugh aloud, shouting for the nurse.

A few seconds later she appears through the curtain, "Andrew, is everything alright?" she asks, immediately coming over to my side and starting to examine Sal.

"She's moving her fingers in response to my questions. She can hear me. I'm sure about it. Look, watch, we'll try again."

The nurse stands beside me, her hand on my shoulder, and together we stare intently at Sal's fingers.

"Sal? Sal, if you can hear me, please move your fingers. Listen, I have a friend here that I would like you to meet. Her name is..." I look up at the nurse expectantly, as she mouths the word 'Mary' back at me....Mary. Please open your eyes to say hullo to her?"

Her fingers are not moving.

"Okay, okay,...can you remember what we were talking about a moment ago? Can you remember how you felt the first time you saw Guy? The first time you kissed each other? Or can you remember the first time you slept with each other? How did it feel?...or can you remember the first time you told him that you were in love? Or when he told you that he was in love with you?"

Nothing. No movement. Her hand is once again as passive and immobile as it was before.

"Honestly," I turn to Mary. "honestly, it moved. At first it was just one finger, then the next time it was three fingers. I felt them, and I _saw_ them."

Mary smiles at me.

"It happened to Guy too. That's why we did the further tests. Unfortunately, unless we can get her to open her eyes up, or establish some sort of _regular_ communication with us through touch, then there's no real proof that it's not just spasmodic movements of the fingers which may occur as a result of the nerves firing off at random."

"But she moved them in direct response to my questions..." I protest, still excited, but now also very frustrated.

Mary puts her hand back on my shoulder, "...and if she did, then let's hope she does it again. And again, And that it all leads to something. The bottom line is we have to be patient, but the important thing is that you keep doing what you're doing because it could be that you're getting some results."

She smiles encouragement at me and then walks away, disappearing through the curtain.

I spend the next thirty minutes trying to get another response, but with no success. At ten o'clock, I kiss her gently on the forehead and leave, catching Guy on my mobile just before he goes to sleep and telling him the good news. Ten minutes later I am in the corner of a nearby pub, a pint of Pride in my hand and my mind replaying the moment over and over again when Sal proved to me that she could hear every word I was saying to her.

Slowly, very slowly, a plan begins to form in my mind.

### Chapter 33

For a single person, the joy of any Friday in London is always two-fold. Firstly, simply because it is Friday: in the same way that Sunday night in the Western world automatically elicits the 'Sunday Evening Blues' in everyone who must return to work the next morning, everyone who wakes up on a Friday morning knows that the weekend is only hours away and can't help but feel good. Secondly, Friday night is party night! The night when all someone's hopes, dreams and wildest expectations could, _just could_ , come true.

Except not for me, because for the first time since I got to London, I am going to give tonight a miss. Tonight I have other plans, none of which involve carousing, flirting or dancing. My plans for tonight involve yet another trip on a 42 bus and knocking on a certain door in Mitcham.

Gail seems disappointed when I tell her that I will not be stopping by the Lemon Tree after work. I ask her if Ben will be there too, but she mumbles something that I don't quite catch, but sounds like a sentence containing the words ' _Poker Nigh_ t' and ' _night out with the boys._ '

I work through lunch, getting progressively more nervous as the afternoon passes by. By five o'clock I am finding it difficult to concentrate on anything, and I slip out of the office at five-fifteen, hoping that no-one will try to stop me and drag me off to the pub. On a Friday night, the call of the pub in the centre of town to someone young, single and admittedly on heat, is probably rather akin to the mating instinct that drives salmon up waterfalls and rivers against the current. It just doesn't seem natural to me to be getting on a bus and heading _away_ from town, instead of into it. However, tonight my determination wins through, and soon I am in Clapham Junction, swapping buses and boarding the southbound number 42.

It's half past six as I turn into Beech Gardens and walk slowly up to number 38. Having already failed twice to find anyone at home during the weekend, I decided last night that I should try an evening during the week. Failing that, if there is no-one home tonight, I'm going to try knocking on the neighbour's door and making a few enquiries of my own.

I am about fifty metres away from the house on the opposite side of the road when I see a light go on in the upstairs front room of the house. I stop dead in my tracks and watch mesmerized as an arm reaches across the window and draws the curtains.

In stark contrast to last week when I was cooler than any refrigerated cucumber could ever be, my legs and arms immediately begin to shake, and I break out into a cold sweat.

For no apparent reason, except perhaps as a subconscious stalling tactic that my inner coward throws into the works, I look at my watch. It's six thirty-six, a time with no particular significance except that it marks the moment I decide that I will override the desire to run away and hide, and I begin to cross the road.

The gate is already open, and I walk swiftly up the path and knock on the door. By now, my heart feels like it is about to explode, but having come this far, I am looking forward to this moment of truth. This is it. No more dreaming, no more fantasising, no more wondering.

I hear footsteps.

I cough, thrust my chest out, and hurriedly check my flies.

From the other side of the door, I can hear the sound of someone fumbling with a chain, the dull thud as a bolt is drawn, and slowly, as if in some weird time warped slow-motion, the door begins to open.

A figure is standing in the doorway before me, taller than I expected, _older_ than I expected, fatter than I expected, but as I stare up into those dark green eyes, the same clear hazel irises and those same dark eyebrows that Hannah has, and that same, unmistakable nose that points back at me every time I face myself in the mirror, I struggle to choke back the tears and say the word that has been denied me for the past twenty two years of my life. "Mum...?", I whisper nervously, before coughing quickly to clear my throat and say much louder and more boldly the sentence that I have prepared and practised a million times before. "Hi, My names is Andrew Jardine,...and I think that I may be your son..."

### The End of Book One

### For Chapters Thirty Four to Fifty Nine, and to continue reading where Book One has left off, please search for and download The Sleeping Truth (Book Two).

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In Part Two you will find answers to the following questions:

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Has Andrew at long last found his mother?

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Will he fall in love with Slávka? Or will he seduced by Dianne or Gail?

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Will Andrew finally learn to trust a woman?

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In Book Two we follow Andrew as he realises that he will never be able to discover happiness until ultimately he discovers himself: who is the real Andrew Jardine? What is the secret from his past that will turn Andrew's life upside down? Why is it that he cannot trust women?

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Does Sal live or die? And if she dies, will Andrew responsible for her death?

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Book One has just set the scene. Now read Book Two to follow the story to its surprising conclusion.

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Please look out for others books by IAN C.P.IRVINE:-

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The Orlando File : A Medical Conspiracy Thriller

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Crown of Thorns : The Race to Clone Jesus Christ.

London 2012 : What If ? ( A Romantic Mystery Adventure )

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Haunted From Within

21st Century Pirates Inc.

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### Reviewing this novel:

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If you have enjoyed this book, please return to the site you purchased this book from and let others know what you thought by reviewing the book.

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If you are a member of Goodreads, please review this novel there.

If you have any comments, please contact the author at :- iancpirvine@hotmail.co.uk

To connect with Ian C.P.Irvine on Facebook, please go to:  FACEBOOK

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