1
Friday, March 20, 2020
To call it “running” would be a stretch. I’m lurching and weaving past shoppers, haring down Montpellier hill like a maniac. Lack of sleep and my current fitness level leave my head feeling as though someone’s buried an ax in the top of my skull, and the pain is making it hard to see. As I reach the Promenade, a wide tree-lined pedestrian street through the center of Cheltenham, my phone starts playing “Should I Stay or Should I Go” by the Clash.
I answer the call, trying not to lose momentum. “Vinny!”
“Yo, Cash,” he says. “You there yet?”
“Nearly. I’m running a bit late.”
“Considering . . . everything, your timekeeping is rubbish,” he chuckles.
“It would help if I could sleep,” I say, panting as I cross the street.
“That viewing again?”
“Same one. Three nights in a row now. It stopped in exactly the same place, with Scarlett telling the other traveler that she’s giving him another chance.”
Scarlett’s a time traveler. I caught her planting a radio in my shop, a focus object that bonded me to a dangerous mission in 1960s London. Vinny came with me on one of the jumps. Although he got badly injured, it hasn’t dampened his enthusiasm for time travel, and he’s one of the only people who knows about my travels.
Vinny harrumphs. “If you ask me, after what Scarlett did to you, I doubt she’s trying to help that other guy.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, dodging a lamppost and crossing the street at a jog. “I just wish I knew why I’m seeing this.”
“Have you heard from Iris yet?”
“Nothing.”
Right after I completed the London mission, my sister, Amy, sent me a letter from the future, telling me that a woman called Iris Mendell would be in touch to explain what had happened and why. It’s been two months and there’s been no contact. Nothing. I’ve been wondering if this Iris person has forgotten about me, and maybe my time traveling days are over. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Maybe Amy was wrong,” Vinny says.
“Maybe.” I don’t even have conclusive proof that the letter from Amy was genuine, and I haven’t asked her about it because the letter told me not to, which is a bit of a catch-22 and drives me mad when I think about it too much.
“So what are you going to do?” Vinny asks.
“There’s not much I can do but wait. It seems odd though, nothing for ages and then this viewing . . . I’ve had it every night for a few days now. It feels like the world has shifted a bit, like something is about to happen.”
Turning into Ambrose Street, I see the Different Corner bookshop just a few doors away. In the window is a poster, which reads: “Book Launch Today—11 a.m.” Below the text is a photo of a book and two grinning people. One of them is Alexia Finch.
Alexia is a hypnotherapist who helped me travel back in time to save Amy, and we started to fall in love. When I got back, though, everything had changed, and Alexia didn’t remember our relationship anymore. What she actually remembered was a doomed fling with my alter ego, Other Joe, the version of me who was making his way very successfully through life until I saved Amy and replaced him. (I still get flashes of guilt.) I discovered through a viewing that Other Joe had behaved like an idiot and hurt Alexia, and now I’m having to deal with the fallout.
I sent Alexia a heart-on-my-sleeve message a couple of months ago, trying to explain that I’ve changed, but I haven’t heard back. Then, Vinny spotted the poster for this book launch last week and told me about it. So now, I just want to say my piece to her face. If it doesn’t work, I’ll let it go.
“I’m here now, Vin. Better go.”
“Good luck. Tell her how you feel. Be honest and vulnerable. Maybe even cry. Women love that, apparently. I read it in a magazine. Right; time for my celery juice.”
I’m not sure I heard that right. “Celery juice?”
“As if.” He’s still laughing when he hangs up.
The shop window is thronging with people. I wonder briefly if this is a bad idea and nearly turn on my heel, but a young couple coming out of the shop holds the door for me. It’s the nudge I need. “Thank you,” I say and push my way through into the cozy interior.
I like the place immediately. Someone with obvious taste designed it to feel friendly and welcoming. The external walls are stacked with books on simple white shelves, and small tables here and there are loaded with piles of paperbacks. To the right of the front door is a small café, responsible for the enticing aroma of good coffee and homemade cakes.
At the back of the shop, a podium is surrounded by people, and a very tall, robust man speaks into a microphone. I recognize him as Alexia’s coauthor from the poster. Pushing a little nearer to the crowd, I accept a glass of sparkling wine from a jovial man in red trousers and tune in to the speaker. He keeps pulling back from the microphone because his voice is so powerful, a deep basso softened only slightly by a friendly Canadian twang.
“Oftentimes, people think that when they love someone, the other person makes them feel that way,” he says. “Am I right?” There’s a murmur of confirmation from the crowd, and a few helpful people exchange thoughtful glances. “Actually, I’m wrong,” he says, beaming his lighthouse smile. “Love is not a choice. Passion is not a choice. Our feelings of love and passion come from in here.” He thuds his fist against his chest, and it sounds like a barrel. “The trick is to find someone who enables you to feel love, to find something you’re passionate about. And there is no limit to how much love you can feel. If you stay open to it, your heart just gets bigger and bigger. Circumstances change, people change, but love just grows.”
The audience breaks into an appreciative round of applause, and the huge man steps down from the podium. I crane my neck to spot Alexia, wondering if she’s up next, but there’s no sign of her. I scan the room but get distracted by a red-haired woman sitting in the café. She’s dressed entirely in black—that deep black you only get from really expensive gear—and her long, wavy copper hair lies loosely over her shoulders. She’s wearing huge sunglasses, despite the fact that we’re indoors on a gray March day. They suit her, though. I realize I’m staring, but before I can turn away, Rock Chick pushes her buggy glasses down her nose and eyeballs me, flashing me a bold grin and neon-bright teeth.
I have to say, I’m getting used to this. It’s been three months since I landed back into Other Joe’s life, but I didn’t inherit any of his memories. So to cover for this, Amy and I decided to tell everyone I’d hit my head in a bike accident and developed amnesia. Other Joe was a big part of Cheltenham’s social scene, with his fingers in lots of pies, so I’ve had plenty of practice at deciding in a split second whether someone knew him, and whether they liked him or not. He was also a bit of a player and left a trail of broken hearts across town, so I’ve had more than my fair share of women shooting daggers at me too.
I wave hesitantly at Rock Chick, disinclined to initiate a conversation but also not wanting to appear rude. I decide she’s not likely to be an old squeeze of Other Joe’s because she looks too happy. A work contact? She winks, then pushes her glasses back onto her nose and begins to scroll through her phone. I’m relieved.
I’m just heading back toward my red-trousered friend for another glass of courage when a loud voice from behind startles me.
“What are you doing here, Bridgeman?” I’m assaulted by the sickly smell of oversweet citrus and turn to see Gordon, Alexia’s boyfriend, regarding me with distaste. He’s taller than me and good-looking—I suppose, if you like that sort of thing—but his too-tight curls and expressionless face are unsettling. He looks like an android. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Shouldn’t you be at charm school?” I reply, without thinking.
He sneers at me. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”
He steps forward and stands way too close for comfort. It feels as though tiny bitter lemons are invading my nostrils. I stifle a sneeze. “Seems you’re struggling to find an answer,” he says. “Let me tell you why I’m here. I’m here to support my girlfriend’s book launch.” He waits for a response. I say nothing. “By the way, did you hear? She’s got an office in the building where I work now, right next to mine. Obviously makes it easier to manage our lives; now we can share the commute. She’s so much happier, you know?”
Silently, I curse Other Joe again for messing things up. When I landed back in his life and discovered his relationship with Alexia, I also found out that he had been her landlord, but he’d sold her office building to a hotel company and served notice to all the residents. Desperate for Alexia not to leave Cheltenham, I canceled the hotel deal at substantial cost and embarrassment to Bridgeman Commercial Properties, but she moved out anyway. Gordon saw his chance and moved in on her. I curl my lip and shake my head. I can’t help it.
Gordon flexes his jaw and puffs out his chest. “Today’s a big deal for Alexia. Let’s all be grown-ups about this, OK?”
“You can try.”
“Don’t spoil this for her, Bridgeman,” he says condescendingly, as though I’m a naughty child.
Fury starts to build inside my chest, but before I can formulate a suitable put-down, Gordon’s attention flicks to someone in the crowd. “Ah, there’s Alexia’s father,” he says smugly. I follow his gaze, but I can’t tell who he’s looking at. “I don’t suppose you’ve met him. He’s an excellent chess player. I must go and say hello. Will you excuse me?” He straightens his tie, then saunters off into the crowd.
“Smarmy arsehole,” I mutter under my breath. I spot the time on a large retro orange clock on the wall and note with a jolt that I have to leave in twenty minutes. It’s Dad’s birthday party tomorrow—we’re having a big bash at a posh restaurant in town—and I’m meeting Mum and Amy there at 1 p.m. for the rehearsal. When I told Vinny about it, he was incredulous: “Whoever has a rehearsal for a birthday party?” Well, that’s my mother for you. Nothing left to chance.
First, though, I need to find Alexia. I notice a line of people snaking around the side of the shop and disappearing behind a tall bank of shelving crowded with plants. Peering around the edge of the shelving unit, I see her sitting at a low table stacked with copies of her book, looking tired but happy. She’s wearing a dark-green silky jumpsuit, silver hoop earrings, and her hair in a ponytail. She has a pen in her hand, and she’s making small talk with the customers. I decide my best course of action is to wait in line, so I join the back of the queue, watching people proudly walk past me, signed books in their hands.
Finally, it’s my turn. The shop disappears, and it’s just me and the love of my life.
“Hi, Alexia.”
She shows a flicker of surprise as she recognizes me, then recovers her composure. “Hello, Joe,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I saw the poster in the window the other day. I think it’s brilliant you’ve written a book. Congratulations.”
She flicks a glance across the store toward Gordon. “Thanks.”
“It’s OK. He knows I’m here. We’ve . . . chatted.” I pause, almost losing my nerve, but then decide just to go for it. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”
“People are waiting in line to see me. Does it have to be now?”
Back in January, I had a viewing of Other Joe and Alexia in conversation at a friend’s wedding. They’d been seeing each other for a while, but things had become awkward. It seemed clear that Other Joe was playing away from home, and Alexia, visibly upset, finished things with him. After the viewing, I sent Alexia a message, saying how sorry I was for being an idiot, asking if we could talk, but she never replied.
“I won’t take up much of your time. I just need to know, did you ever get my message? About what I said at the wedding?”
Her face falls. “I did. But I don’t think this is the time or the place, Joe.”
“I was hoping to hear back from you.”
“What did you expect me to say?”
Now that she asks me, I don’t really know. Was I really expecting Alexia to throw herself into my arms with a simple, “I forgive you, you’re the love of my life, and can we pick up where we left off please?” I fix my gaze on her left shoulder, face flaming with embarrassment.
She says, “Anyway, I thought you couldn’t remember anything?”
“I’m getting treatment,” I lie. “Some of my memories are coming back now.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I just hoped you’d give me a chance to explain. I messed up at that wedding. I acted like an imbecile. I want to tell you now what I should have told you then.”
“Joe, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m with Gordon now.”
“Are you though? Really?”
She looks affronted. “What does that mean?”
“Just hear me out, please?” I remind myself that I must play the part of Other Joe here and remember the history he shared with Alexia. I channel him and apologize on his behalf. “You and I had something good going on. So good, I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t appreciate how unbelievably lucky I was to be with you. I acted like a child, messing around with other people. Pointless, stupid behavior.” I draw in a breath. “I’ve learned a lot since then.”
She leans toward me and lowers her voice. “Don’t pretend to be the man you think I want. You won’t be able to keep it up. I’m not interested in a relationship with anybody who can’t be honest with himself.” She sits back up and scans the line behind me. “Anyway, thanks for coming!” She dismisses me loudly with fake brightness. “I think you’d better go. Looks like your friend is trying to get your attention.”
“What friend?”
“Over by the door.”
I turn around and see the red-haired Rock Chick waving at me from the front of the shop. Oh God, has she decided she wants to speak to me now? “She’s not my friend. I have no idea who she is.”
“Really? She certainly seems to know who you are. Perhaps you’ve conveniently forgotten?”
I can feel Alexia slipping away. I play my last card. “I wanted to give this back to you.” I pull her butterfly earring, the one that triggered the viewing of the wedding, out of my pocket and place it on the table between us. “You dropped it at Andy’s wedding,” I say. “I kept it for you.”
“Thanks, but I don’t want it anymore. I threw the other one out.”
I was hoping she might be more pleased. “I probably should’ve given it back to you sooner. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. They weren’t expensive, just costume jewelry.” She looks at me, her smoky blue eyes steady. “Worthless, really. See you around, Joe.” She pastes on a smile and beckons forward the couple behind me.
That’s that, then.
As I weave my way through the crowd, someone taps me gently on the shoulder. I turn, expecting to see the red-haired woman who just ruined my conversation with Alexia, but instead, I come face-to-face with a man’s chest. I tip my head back to see his face. It’s Alexia’s coauthor.
“Colin John,” he says, his voice even deeper than it was through the amplifier. He holds out his hand, and it completely dwarfs mine.
As a rule, I don’t trust anyone with two first names, but he is a huge bundle of kindness, I can feel it. “Joseph Bridgeman,” I say. “Good to meet you.”
He beams down from his great height. “I saw you with Alexia.”
“Right,” I say. “I . . . er . . . used to be her landlord.”
“Uh-huh. I know.”
This guy is a relationship guru, so I steel myself for some not-too-subtle coaching, but he doesn’t say anything else. He just watches me. I feel uncomfortably hyperobserved. My need to fill the void becomes overwhelming.
“So . . . you guys wrote a book. That’s impressive.”
“It had to be done,” he says confidently.
“Why?”
“I kept coming across people who were stuck, and then I met Alexia at a conference, and we got talking about how we might be able to help. We both wanted to do something bigger. Reach more people.”
I want to take part in this conversation in a meaningful way. “I thought it was interesting what you said about love, that we don’t get it from other people.”
“It’s true, Joe, isn’t it?” He leans forward, really eyeballing me. It doesn’t feel intrusive, though; it feels like connection. “The trick is finding someone who enables you to feel love. It comes from within you, do you understand?” he asks kindly, checking that he’s explained properly. I sense empathy, like he really wants to help me see another angle.
The feeling of love comes from inside.
“I think I do know what you mean, actually.”
Colin John winks, smacks me on the shoulder, and laughs like a mountain. “Good luck, Joseph Bridgeman,” he says. “I hope to see you again sometime.”
“Likewise. Thanks.”
He holds open the door, and I step out into the brisk spring air.
I walk back along Ambrose Street, and as I turn the corner, I nearly walk straight into the red-haired woman. She’s leaning against the wall, smoking.
“Jesus, Bridgeman, you sure took your time.” Her American accent is strong, unexpected. “This country! I’m freakin’ frozen!” She throws her cigarette to the ground, stubs it out with a black stiletto boot, and holds out her hand. “Gabrielle Green, temporarily at your service. I’m here to take you to meet Iris Mendell.”
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