realizing something. I’m actually at the beginning of a very long road.
9.51 a.m.
When I eventually limp into work, having decided that I can’t sit at home and mope around all day, unbelievably there’s an email in my inbox from Sally Hall. She’s still using the same surname, which suggests to me she’s not married, and when I nervously click ‘open’ there’s a phone number—her work number, I guess—and just one word: ‘Intrigued’. I call Dan for advice.
‘Well, phone her, dummy.’
‘And say what?’
‘That you’d like to meet up. And that it’s important, but you can’t tell her why over the phone.’
‘But what if she says no?’
‘She won’t. Trust me.’
I put the phone down, and after I’ve steadied my nerves with a guilty cigarette, pick it up again and dial Sally’s number. Her secretary—she has a secretary —puts me through, and although I nearly bottle out when she asks, ‘Will Ms Hall know what it’s concerning?’ after a few seconds, Sally comes on the line.
‘Well, well. Edward Middleton. To what do I owe this honour?’
I’ve not spoken to her for ten years, but recognize her voice immediately, even though it’s heavy with sarcasm.
‘Hi, Sally. How are you?’
‘As I said in my email. Intrigued,’ she replies. ‘Nothing for ten years and then, out of the blue…’ She leaves the sentence hanging.
We chat a bit, about people we knew at college mostly, and then I remind her that I need a favour.
‘So you mentioned. What kind of favour?’
I clear my throat. ‘I can’t really tell you over the phone. But something’s happened to me, and I need your help. Can we meet?’
Sally leaves a suspicious pause. ‘Okay. Just let me check my diary.’ There’s the sound of tapping on a keyboard, then, ‘How does Thursday next week sound to you?’
‘Can’t you do any sooner?’ I ask, conscious that my three-month clock is ticking.
‘I don’t think I can,’ says Sally. ‘I’m away tomorrow on business. I don’t get back for a week.’
So, not only does Sally have a secretary, she also has a job where she’s away on business. And for a week at a time. The closest I get to being away on business is walking to the end of Ship Street to post a letter.
‘Well, how about today? Lunchtime? It won’t take long.’
Sally sounds hesitant, ‘I don’t think I can…’
‘Please,’ I say, putting as much urgency into my voice as I can muster. ‘It’s really important.’
There’s an even longer pause, and then, ‘Fine. Somewhere public, though.’
I have to think fast. She works in Pimlico, so… ‘How about Victoria Station? One-thirty? In front of WH Smiths?’
Sally laughs. ‘Ooh. How romantic. And how will I recognize you?’ she asks, playfully. ‘Do you still look the same?’
I’m about to laugh myself, and nearly tell her that that’s the point. Thinking about it, Jane doesn’t seem to recognize me any more, so why should Sally? My eyes flick to my waste bin, where yesterday’s Big Issue is still sitting, and I have an idea.
‘I’ll be carrying a magazine,’ I say. ‘Just in case.’
‘Well, I’ll see you at one-thirty, then,’ says Sally.
As I put the phone down, it suddenly occurs to me that there’ll probably be rather a lot of people carrying magazines in the vicinity of Victoria Station’s biggest newsagent, and I’m wondering whether to call Sally back when a voice from the doorway makes me jump.
‘Making a date already?’ asks Natasha, who’s come in at the tail end of my phone conversation.
‘Not a date, exactly. More of a second opinion,’ I say, explaining Dan’s theory to Natasha. When I’ve finished, she shakes her head.
‘What on earth are you doing that for?’
‘I thought it might help me find out where I’ve gone wrong. And what I should be aiming for.’
‘But you’re assuming that Jane is still looking for the old Edward. The one she met at college. Maybe her tastes have changed since
9.51 a.m.
When I eventually limp into work, having decided that I can’t sit at home and mope around all day, unbelievably there’s an email in my inbox from Sally Hall. She’s still using the same surname, which suggests to me she’s not married, and when I nervously click ‘open’ there’s a phone number—her work number, I guess—and just one word: ‘Intrigued’. I call Dan for advice.
‘Well, phone her, dummy.’
‘And say what?’
‘That you’d like to meet up. And that it’s important, but you can’t tell her why over the phone.’
‘But what if she says no?’
‘She won’t. Trust me.’
I put the phone down, and after I’ve steadied my nerves with a guilty cigarette, pick it up again and dial Sally’s number. Her secretary—she has a secretary —puts me through, and although I nearly bottle out when she asks, ‘Will Ms Hall know what it’s concerning?’ after a few seconds, Sally comes on the line.
‘Well, well. Edward Middleton. To what do I owe this honour?’
I’ve not spoken to her for ten years, but recognize her voice immediately, even though it’s heavy with sarcasm.
‘Hi, Sally. How are you?’
‘As I said in my email. Intrigued,’ she replies. ‘Nothing for ten years and then, out of the blue…’ She leaves the sentence hanging.
We chat a bit, about people we knew at college mostly, and then I remind her that I need a favour.
‘So you mentioned. What kind of favour?’
I clear my throat. ‘I can’t really tell you over the phone. But something’s happened to me, and I need your help. Can we meet?’
Sally leaves a suspicious pause. ‘Okay. Just let me check my diary.’ There’s the sound of tapping on a keyboard, then, ‘How does Thursday next week sound to you?’
‘Can’t you do any sooner?’ I ask, conscious that my three-month clock is ticking.
‘I don’t think I can,’ says Sally. ‘I’m away tomorrow on business. I don’t get back for a week.’
So, not only does Sally have a secretary, she also has a job where she’s away on business. And for a week at a time. The closest I get to being away on business is walking to the end of Ship Street to post a letter.
‘Well, how about today? Lunchtime? It won’t take long.’
Sally sounds hesitant, ‘I don’t think I can…’
‘Please,’ I say, putting as much urgency into my voice as I can muster. ‘It’s really important.’
There’s an even longer pause, and then, ‘Fine. Somewhere public, though.’
I have to think fast. She works in Pimlico, so… ‘How about Victoria Station? One-thirty? In front of WH Smiths?’
Sally laughs. ‘Ooh. How romantic. And how will I recognize you?’ she asks, playfully. ‘Do you still look the same?’
I’m about to laugh myself, and nearly tell her that that’s the point. Thinking about it, Jane doesn’t seem to recognize me any more, so why should Sally? My eyes flick to my waste bin, where yesterday’s Big Issue is still sitting, and I have an idea.
‘I’ll be carrying a magazine,’ I say. ‘Just in case.’
‘Well, I’ll see you at one-thirty, then,’ says Sally.
As I put the phone down, it suddenly occurs to me that there’ll probably be rather a lot of people carrying magazines in the vicinity of Victoria Station’s biggest newsagent, and I’m wondering whether to call Sally back when a voice from the doorway makes me jump.
‘Making a date already?’ asks Natasha, who’s come in at the tail end of my phone conversation.
‘Not a date, exactly. More of a second opinion,’ I say, explaining Dan’s theory to Natasha. When I’ve finished, she shakes her head.
‘What on earth are you doing that for?’
‘I thought it might help me find out where I’ve gone wrong. And what I should be aiming for.’
‘But you’re assuming that Jane is still looking for the old Edward. The one she met at college. Maybe her tastes have changed since
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