Page 18 of Love Is: Two Bodies One Soul

ChapterSeven

Saturday morning in Pimlico,Owen opened his eyes, feeling relatively healthy. His customary hangover wasn’t slicing his skull open, instead he only had a mild headache, the sort easily ignored. He’d been dreaming about a girl in a buttercup-yellow raincoat.

Sprawled on top of the bedcovers, he tried to work out who the girl was. Why was she in his dream? Was she important? Did she fit somewhere into yesterday’s events? He strained to fill in the blank canvas in his brain and Friday started to return in disorderly random fragments.

First was the argument with Margaret. His fault. He’d overslept. Owen recoiled from the memory. How could he have been so stupid? He’d meant to set the alarm – must have forgotten – he was getting increasingly forgetful lately. Was that down to the alcohol? Surely thirty-five was too early for dementia? His rambling thoughts skidded to a halt as he remembered Margaret saying he would never see Emi again and the waking contentment evaporated as he disappeared down a wormhole of memories:

A bar in St. Martin’s Lane. Several whiskies. Then the Ram Inn. More whisky. Quite drunk. Nearly ready. Ready for what? Not the girl with the yellow coat. Who was she? He frowned, irritated he couldn’t find where she belonged. Did she fit in his plan? What plan? Whatever the plan was, George Halcyon had loomed into sight and interrupted it. Good old George, older and fatter, with grey bleaching the fire from his ginger hair.

Owen’s thoughts drifted to the WIV office. People had stared as he’d staggered into George’s office. Embarrassment. Not so drunk, he didn’t care what people thought. Then a pretty redhead who looked like George’s mum. A waft of Chanel No. 5 and a flash of bright red fingernails. What was her name? Oh, yes … Kate. She was crying at the end. Why? Was it something he’d said? He tried harder to remember, but his mind remained blank.

The walk home. Still raining. His sockless feet squelching inside worn-out trainers. It must have taken about twenty or thirty minutes to walk from Covent Garden down St. Martin’s Lane, across Trafalgar Square, along The Mall and into St. James’ Park.

In the park, he’d stood for ages, fascinated by the rhythm of raindrops splashing into the lake, speculating about ripples, reflecting on their relevancy to the rhythm of life. American tourists hurried past, sharing an oversized umbrella. They laughed when they saw him. Did they think he was mad, standing there in the rain? Perhaps he was. Was it hereditary? The coroner’s verdict on his mother’s death stated she’d taken her life while the balance of her mind was disturbed. Owen shook his head at such a genteel description for something so desperately ugly as suicide by hanging. He’d deliberately not thought about her action for a long time. Now he wondered if she’d had any last-minute regrets. Did she thrash at the end of the tow rope, wishing someone would break down the door and save her?

Recoiling from the thought, he forced himself to think again about the park. It had been dark when he gave up watching raindrops. Streetlights were reflecting on the wet pavement, as he walked through the back streets to the house where he rented a small top-floor room. His home. It was pretentiously described as a studio apartment so the landlord could charge twice what it was worth. He’d always hated it, resented calling it home.

He couldn’t remember arriving, but he was here, and still he had not placed the girl in the yellow coat. Perhaps she was a figment of his imagination because here he was without having met her. He must have crashed on arrival, soaked to the skin – the bedding under him was still damp. He was lying on top of his duvet, fully clothed, except for his jacket and shoes.

Owen sat up, stared at his feet stained with city dirt and cupped his face in his hands, dragging his palms over weary flesh. Then he remembered.

I have a job!

Surely not? The sheer effort of assembling more memories was painful. Had he accepted work? Features editor sprung to mind. Was that right? Was he going to be the features editor for WIV?

Yes!

He remembered. George wanted him to write an article on a place called Paradise. It seemed fantastical. Dropping his hands to his side and shivering, he stared across the room and remembered Kate, the girl with red hair and green eyes, saying she would do a bank transfer.

His empty stomach lurched. Maybe it was true! Clambering off the dishevelled bed, he stumbled to the table where his laptop sat closed. Like everything else in the room, it was covered in a thin veil of grey dust. Owen flipped it open and pressed the power button. The time, nine-thirty. The date, Saturday 10th October, appeared on the screen. He opened the browser, typed in the URL for his bank and logged in. There it was. A whole two thousand and one pounds, fifty-two pence in his account.

Owen clutched his head, running his fingers through the mess of curls. It was true! He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He paced a circle. It was real. It wasn’t a dream. Wow! He had a job.

Stopping the insane prowling, Owen looked at the mess around him and thought it was time he took control of himself, of his life. Margaret had been right. He wasn’t fit to be Emi’s father – not like this. But this wasn’t him. Once upon a time, he was in control. Despite every destructive element in his life, he’d kept things tightly buttoned down. Everything clean and in its place. George used to rib him about his orderliness in their student days. He’d even once asked him if he might have OCD. Owen had laughed. Sure that was not true, but he was more comfortable in a tidy, clean environment. It was a small rebellion against his mother’s chaos.

Owen looked again at his room and wondered if he was becoming like her? He shook his head. He wouldn’t allow that. Never! Time to take control. He ought to start by clearing the unopened mail. Yes, that’s what I’ll do! Pay some bills. He had the money now. Wash the dishes. Change the bed. When were the sheets last changed? Go to the laundrette. Most of all, he had to stop drinking so much. Where to start? Everything was such a mess. Owen scanned the room, and his eyes fell on his half-empty bottle of whisky. Temptation twisted him. Only one drink before I ….

‘No!’ he shouted, turning away from the bottle. I don’t need it. I am not an alcoholic, whatever George might think.

Owen remembered George arriving at the Ram, his shocked expression, the pity in his eyes. Then the offer of one last chance. Work. A way to turn his life around. Thank God for George!

Energised, Owen knew the first thing was to see Emi as soon as possible. Seizing his mobile, he scrolled through his contacts until he found Margaret (wife). Noting that he needed to edit that ID to ex-wife, he pressed call.

* * *

Owen passed the Fig& Firkin pub two hours later and walked into the street where George and his family lived. Outside the house had changed little since his last visit, except for a new door in place of the one he’d repaired. The replacement, shiny black with brass letterbox and knocker, wouldn’t have looked out-of-place in Downing Street. He lifted the heavy, well-polished knocker and let it fall, wondering about Sally. It was years since he’d last seen her. Would she have changed much?

Almost unchanged, Sally opened the door.

‘Owen! My lovie.’ She flung her arms out to him. He fell into them as if he were twenty years old again, vulnerable, and so much in need of the love she gave him.

‘Sweetheart,’ she sighed into his chest and stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. ‘You’re still as sexy as you ever were.’

George appeared in the corridor behind Sally. ‘Move over, Mum.’ He eased her aside to get to Owen. ‘You made it. That’s great. Come in. Come through. Millie’s in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to lunch.’

Memories flooding back, Owen stepped over the threshold. There were clattering noises coming from the kitchen, childish laughter in the sitting room, anchoring him in the present.

‘Hi, Owen.’ Millie looked up. It must be three or four years since he’d last seen her but she hadn’t changed, either. ‘We’re going to eat in here,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but there’s more room.’

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