Page 4 of Love Is: Two Bodies One Soul

Was that the wrong thing to say?Did he sound pathetic? Any sign of weakness, any sign she was hurting him, and Margaret might be tempted to do worse. That was her nature. But what more could she do? This was the worst, and he could not hold back his feelings, not on this. He missed his daughter. ‘I’m begging you, Margaret. Please wait. And I am sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to oversleep. Really, I didn’t. I was just so tired.’

Met by Margaret’s ominous silence, Owen went on: ‘Listen, I’m across the road from the bottom of St. Martin’s Lane now.’ In fact, he was outside the church, St. Martin’s in the Fields, but it was close enough. ‘I’ll be with you in three minutes. Less if I run. Please wait there.’

Margaret spoke again, cool and aloof. She’d always done cool and aloof well. It was one of the few things he’d liked about her initially. He’d mistaken it for the safety of a woman not interested in commitment. How wrong he had been. She said, ‘There is nothing to sort out now, Owen. I told you.’

‘Please,’ he said, gasping for breath, trying to increase his pace. He was feeling ill. Could this be a heart attack? Surely not – he was only thirty-five.

She said something else he didn’t catch. Then she followed it with, ‘… that’s an end to it. Seeing you only disrupts Emily, so I’m cutting you out of her life completely. You won’t see her again.’

‘WHAT!’ he shouted, loud enough for the bronze lions in Trafalgar Square to hear. He staggered to a halt by the corner of the church steps. ‘You can’t do that, Margaret. I’m her father.’

‘You’re not fit to be a father anymore,’ Margaret hissed and cut the call.

He wailed, ‘IESU GRIST, NO!’ and threw his head back, holding the phone to his aching head, letting the rain stream down his face. This was the end of the world.

‘Can I help you?’

Bewildered, Owen stopped staring at the sky and located the source of the question. A young woman, dressed in a bright, buttercup-yellow waterproof with a pointed pixie hood worn up against the weather. For one mad moment, it seemed like he had travelled from hell to heaven and was looking into the eyes of an angel. She was fresh-faced, no make-up, dark blonde curls damply clinging to her forehead and large, concerned, violet-blue eyes softly inspecting him without criticism. She reached out her hand, wet with rain, pink with cold, and touched his arm.

He shivered at the electric reaction. Embarrassed, realising the girl in the yellow waterproof must have heard him screaming profanities. Owen shook his head and backed away from her.

‘No, thank you,’ he said, striving for dignity. ‘I’m all right, just late … that’s all.’

Before the girl could say anything, he turned away, pocketed his phone, and without a backward glance, strode the remaining yards across William IV Street and into St. Martin’s Lane. No point in running now, no point in calling Margaret back. He didn’t even know why he was still walking towards the solicitor’s office. Margaret wouldn’t be there.

He paused outside a pub … a slight moment of indecision before entering. The amber lights behind the bar and the smell of booze were welcoming. The staff setting up for the day were less so. They didn’t even bother to look at him as he dripped onto their stripped pine floor. He felt invisible again.

Ten forty-five on the first Friday morning of October, the worst had happened. All for the sake of ten lost minutes. He desperately wanted a drink.

Not long later, he had downed three large whiskies in quick succession. They’d hardly touched the sides, and Owen needed a trip to a cash machine so he could buy more.

Back outside in the still pouring rain, he crossed St. Martin’s Lane and walked towards a narrow cut-through connecting to Charing Cross Road and darted through the street traffic to reach a row of ATMs outside Barclays Bank.

Owen keyed in his PIN, shivering, rain dripping from nose, hair, eyelashes and chin. The machine whirred and clicked, returned his card, churned out one ten and two twenty-pound notes plus a receipt. He stared at the balance. Although it was no surprise, the single number took a few seconds to register. Then he leaned his dark head against the smooth wet marble above the cashpoint and closed his eyes as tears, indistinguishable from the rain, streamed down his face. It was then he knew with gut-sinking certainty, mingling with the acid and alcohol in his empty belly, he had reached his limit in every sense. No daughter, no career and very nearly no money. This was the end.

Strangely calm, resigned even, Owen pocketed his cash. Then heedless of cold and damp penetrating his bones, he walked down a narrow alleyway that would have been there in Shakespeare’s time. He was heading for the Ram & Bugle, which by the look of it might also have existed in the bard’s time. Cosy and usually crowded, the Ram was a drinking establishment Owen knew well. A favourite with media folk and a place where the already lost might vanish. He could prop himself up in the corner unbothered by false bonhomie, watch humanity getting on with life and, invisible to everyone, he would drink away the last of his money. Then it would be time to take a final walk to the bridge.

Which bridge?

He didn’t know. He’d not thought that far ahead.

Waterloo?

Probably.

Or maybe Westminster, the helpful head voice suggested, adding: Westminster was nearest, and it was on the way home. It would be best if he should change his mind.

I won’t.

So, Westminster or Waterloo … either would do. He’d decide later. What did it matter? The Thames would be as cold and unforgiving whichever bridge he chose.

He turned the corner in the alley, and there was the Ram & Bugle ahead of him, the light through its windows glowing pale gold like fine malt whisky.

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