There are moments when I can still hear the gentle reprimand, the loving rebuke. Always it would come in those moments of quiet, embarrassed realisation that I had forgotten something, left something out, overlooked it. “Slow down son. Stop and think. Be more careful, more thoughtful, more thorough.”
It’s odd how little things like that stay with you and resurface at different times of your life, creep up on you unawares when you lease expect it or come back to haunt you when you feel at your most vulnerable and insecure. Part of me, at the end of this day – the part that hadn’t consumed a celebratory two beers, half a bottle of champagne and three whiskies – could still hear the correction.
Looking back, I can see why it happened. It shows how dependent on these little pieces of consumerism we have become; ten years ago we would never let the things out of our sight; these days it’s a reflex pat of the pocket every now and then. We had both been in a hurry after lunch; she had to get back for a client immediately, so she left quickly. I settled up and grabbed the phone without looking. I took my time getting back to the office, the better to savour the crisp spring air and the views along the river on the way back. By the time I got back to my desk I was straight back onto emails; then project planning. I needed to get it finished before four, so I could get off to the jeweller’s in good time before closing. They were going to call to let me know the ring was ready; then plans for the weekend would be complete, planned to the last detail. Answer certain, but surprise inevitable. I knew she expected me to wait till the summer, when we would go back to see her family. She, though, didn’t know I had phoned her folks - they were in on the deception. I allowed myself a moment of smugness as I worked.
I was deep into the project at 3:20, just enough to feel optimistic that I would finish in time. The phone vibrated; looking back it should have struck me as strange. I never leave it on silent. I answered without pausing to think.
“Hello?”
“Is Rachel there?”
“Er you’ve got the wrong number. This is her fian…boyfriend…Who is this?”
“Could you tell her I’m stuck in traffic and I won’t make the appointment. I’m already late?”
Next I said something I shouldn’t have. Not to a client; especially not one of hers.
Straight out the door. If I had time to stop, that sinking feeling would have quickly overtaken me. But it wasn’t going to. If it wasn’t already too late, I had to find her. Straight down the street, two blocks away. Into the lobby. I stared breathlessly at the woman on the desk, reaching back into my memory for her name. It wasn’t there. No matter – by some miracle she remembered me.
“You’ve missed her. She left to go shopping. She said she needed something for the weekend.”
“Where?”
“Not sure. High street I think.”
It was as good a guess as any. Straight out the door again, lungs burning, shooting pains in the legs – these shoes weren’t built for this. I must have looked possessed, desperate or both. Past the station, up the high street. A hundred yards away, there she was, swiftly walking past the shopping centre, swinging a bag in her hands.
Too breathless to shout now, I kept running as she seemed to accelerate towards the crossing. I stumbled, straight into a passer-by; I lost my footing and reached out as I fell, hands stretching for her bag.
Trying to use it break my fall, I heard her scream in surprise. Back on my feet I looked from her to the bag, where a familiar ring tone kicked into life. I grabbed it; just as I did so I felt my legs go from under me, falling under the weight of a well-meaning defender of public order.
I could hear Rachel protesting, laughing as he wrestled me into submission.
“It’s fine, it’s OK, it’s nothing!” she managed to get out between breathless giggles. She touched my assailant on the shoulder. “Leave him; really. My fiancé just wants his phone back.”
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Bypass Cottage
Inspired by a building a short drive from my home.
Ever since she was a young girl, she had dreamt of living in a cottage. She wasn’t too particular about the exact appearance, but a few things were non-negotiable; a large, sweeping garden that hugged two sides of the exterior of the building. A wooden gate, wider than it was high. A drive gravelled in such a way as to make that satisfying crunching noise as people drove or walked up it. Inside the building she didn’t mind if there were one or two floors; what mattered instead were a few little touches that in her mind said ‘cottage’: one of those laundry drying racks that were suspended from a kitchen ceiling and could be lowered down by turning a black handle in the corner. A utility room with unpainted stone. An Aga.
If these things were there – or had the potential to be there after some work – then her dreams would have been fulfilled. It was these thoughts that were in the forefront of her mind as she undertook the laborious process of looking for a place. She wasn’t going to settle for just a place to live – she wanted a place that spoke to her of home - and home, in her mind, was just such a cottage as she had pictured all these years.
She had never really sought to live out dreams; not since the marriage fell apart anyway. That whole affair – an appropriate choice of words, on reflection – was such a predictable let down, such a painful crushing of dreams, which resulted in her determining never to allow the possibility of disappointment again. Don’t expect too much, and you don’t get let down.
That mood lasted for three years. The divorce had taken longer than it needed to come through, hardening her cynicism. But money and the gentle passage of time since had a funny way of dulling the sharp edge, so it was when she one day sat down with her accounts and realised that she could finally afford to move that her thoughts turned to the cottages of her dreams.
The first two she looked at had proved to be nearly perfect but either too far from work, friends or her maximum spend. The third was also nearly perfect and ideal in value – but she was beaten to it by a lawyer. The fourth didn’t have everything, but it certainly had potential to be just about everything. So when the offer was accepted, the contract signed and the keys handed over, then the champagne could flow.
Names had never meant much to her, and she always liked to think of herself as something of a maverick; so she took it as something of a complement when friends told her it wasn’t quite what they expected. Yes, the area was a noisier one than many cottages were found in. Yes, parking would be an issue when they came to visit.
But it didn’t matter. The cottage was named for the road it was on; and to her, Bypass Cottage was just perfect.
Ever since she was a young girl, she had dreamt of living in a cottage. She wasn’t too particular about the exact appearance, but a few things were non-negotiable; a large, sweeping garden that hugged two sides of the exterior of the building. A wooden gate, wider than it was high. A drive gravelled in such a way as to make that satisfying crunching noise as people drove or walked up it. Inside the building she didn’t mind if there were one or two floors; what mattered instead were a few little touches that in her mind said ‘cottage’: one of those laundry drying racks that were suspended from a kitchen ceiling and could be lowered down by turning a black handle in the corner. A utility room with unpainted stone. An Aga.
If these things were there – or had the potential to be there after some work – then her dreams would have been fulfilled. It was these thoughts that were in the forefront of her mind as she undertook the laborious process of looking for a place. She wasn’t going to settle for just a place to live – she wanted a place that spoke to her of home - and home, in her mind, was just such a cottage as she had pictured all these years.
She had never really sought to live out dreams; not since the marriage fell apart anyway. That whole affair – an appropriate choice of words, on reflection – was such a predictable let down, such a painful crushing of dreams, which resulted in her determining never to allow the possibility of disappointment again. Don’t expect too much, and you don’t get let down.
That mood lasted for three years. The divorce had taken longer than it needed to come through, hardening her cynicism. But money and the gentle passage of time since had a funny way of dulling the sharp edge, so it was when she one day sat down with her accounts and realised that she could finally afford to move that her thoughts turned to the cottages of her dreams.
The first two she looked at had proved to be nearly perfect but either too far from work, friends or her maximum spend. The third was also nearly perfect and ideal in value – but she was beaten to it by a lawyer. The fourth didn’t have everything, but it certainly had potential to be just about everything. So when the offer was accepted, the contract signed and the keys handed over, then the champagne could flow.
Names had never meant much to her, and she always liked to think of herself as something of a maverick; so she took it as something of a complement when friends told her it wasn’t quite what they expected. Yes, the area was a noisier one than many cottages were found in. Yes, parking would be an issue when they came to visit.
But it didn’t matter. The cottage was named for the road it was on; and to her, Bypass Cottage was just perfect.
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