Page 9 of Love Is: Two Bodies One Soul

ChapterFive

Owen staredat the rainwater puddle, darkening the beige carpet tile under his feet. How did he get here? His last clear memory was in the pub, getting morbidly drunk, trying to muster the courage for something and then .… Then he was out in the rain, stumbling beside George.

He looked up. Was this WIV? The room spun around him. He gripped the edges of the chair to prevent a fall and tried again to inspect the surroundings. A small office, contemporary furnishing, posters on one wall, a window overlooking the street, a ceiling to floor blind by the door presumably concealing a glass wall and George sitting at his desk watching him expectantly, saying, ‘So, are you interested?’

Interested in what? George wanted an answer, that was clear. But what was the question?

Owen wiped his face and ran his fingers through his tangled hair, still wet from the rain. A groan escaped him. His head hurt, a hangover setting in, even though he was still drunk.

‘Well?’ George stood up, and his face zoomed in towards Owen. Owen realised there was no escaping it; he’d have to ask for clarification.

‘Run it past me again, will you?’

‘Jeez, Owen!’ George walked back to his seat, shaking his head. ‘I told you in the Ram, I want you for my new features editor. Of course, I’ll also want you to write articles. That’s the main thing. It’s what you’re known for and it’s very much a hands-on position. Lead by example, sort of thing. Be great to see your byline in print again, won’t it?’ He smiled, adding, ‘And there’s the big feature. Tailor-made for you. I planned to send Victor, but now I’ve got you. This has got the Owen Kingsley name stamped all over it.’

‘What feature?’

George leant back in his chair, eyes widening. ‘I told you on the way here. Weren’t you listening to anything I said?’

Owen dropped his head in shame, shaking it slowly. Sudden movement was painful. ‘Not to everything. Sorry,’ he said, lifting his eyes to meet George’s exasperation.

‘Jeez!’ George shot a look at the ceiling and muttered: ‘What the hell’s happened to you, Owen?’ and not waiting for Owen to answer, he went on, ‘As I already explained, in the pub and on the way here, I want you to go to a small group of islands called Sawan. That’s Thai. In English, the word means Paradise. Can’t be bad, can it? Being sent to a paradise island in the depths of an English winter.’

Owen, feeling irritated by George’s joviality, grumbled, ‘I don’t do travelogues.’

‘I know you don’t, and this isn’t one.’ Standing again, George paced the room, jingling his loose change in his pocket. ‘The Sawan Islands are in the Andaman Sea.’ He stabbed his index finger into one of the posters on the wall, a green clad rocky outcrop in a sparkling turquoise sea. ‘That’s the main island, and it’s under threat from a bunch of eco-vandals planning to turn it and the other islands into a holiday hot spot for the rich and famous. I want you to write a feature that will stop them. Write something so earth-shattering it will syndicate, cause a ruckus so extreme no one in their right mind would want to holiday there.’

Alarmed even at the thought, Owen argued, ‘I didn’t think WIV was into campaigning?’

‘It wasn’t, but with you as our main writer, it could be. It’s what you always did best.’

‘Maybe, but I’m not the man I used to be ….’ Owen paused, saw the flicker of disappointment in George’s eyes and realised he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t destroy the last vestiges of his friend’s hero-worship, not when he’d lost everyone else’s respect. His refusal morphed into: ‘It sounds like a challenge.’

‘It is, but you can do it. I know you can. So, what do you think?’

A knock at the door gave Owen time to search for an answer.

A pretty redhead entered carrying a tray loaded with a coffee pot, mugs, milk, sugar and a plateful of Bourbon biscuits.

‘Ah, Kate.’ George beamed at her, then turned to Owen. ‘This is Kate, my righthand woman. Couldn’t run this place without my Kate.’

Kate murmured a denial, squeezed by Owen and cleared papers strewn across George’s desk to make space for the tray.

In past times, the splendid view of her rather lovely backside might have been exciting, but Owen simply stared impotently at it. There was no life left in his long-misused body, which was, in some ways, he thought wearily, a relief. Life without women was less complicated, even if it was lonely.

‘There.’ Kate looked at George. ‘Buzz through if you need more.’ She pivoted on her incredibly high heels and edged back past Owen with an ‘Excuse me’.

Owen glanced at her face. She looked like a youthful version of Sally, George’s mum. Same green eyes, concerned and curious, examining him. Was she wondering why George had brought a drunk back from the pub? Perhaps she was planning to put the police on speed dial in case he got difficult.

She offered a smile. Bright, friendly, startlingly open and kind. Remarkably like Sally. Owen was hurtled fifteen years back in time to Christmas 2001. His mother’s suicide. The Halcyon’s providing him somewhere safe to stay. Sally saving him from himself. He owed so much to George and his mum. He almost returned Kate’s smile, but embarrassed by other memories of Sally, he dropped his eyes to the floor and focused on Kate’s shoes, randomly wondering how she could stay vertical, tottering on such high heels. The dainty feet moved. He looked up again. She’d gone, leaving a faint mist of French perfume and the long-buried memories of Sally floating around inside his head.

George picked up the coffeepot and filled a mug. ‘Black, no sugar, as I remember?’

‘That’s right.’ Owen dipped his head and couldn’t resist burying his face in his hands. His head hurt too much. Then the memory hit him – what he’d been doing when George found him. He shouldn’t be here. He should be on Westminster Bridge. Jumping off it.

‘Hey, this takes me back.’ George clinked the coffeepot. ‘Pouring strong coffee into you after you’d had a skinful.’ He chuckled. ‘Do you remember?’

Owen emerged blearily from his cupped palms and stared silently at George.

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