Twinned (5 page)

Joel

It's the start of a brand new day.
After breakfast, Georgia, Harry and I visit my mom at the Medical Center on Grayson Boulevard. We walk through the noisy corridors and I look down as I walk, avoiding the glare of the lighting and the row upon row of rooms, all full of sick people, IVs, machinery... We arrive at her side room; I glimpse her through the glass in the door while I steel myself to step inside. She looks expectant. Maybe a little nervous, too. I wonder how long she has been watching out for us to arrive. The visit is OK. Her blue eyes shine a fraction brighter when she sees Harry; she is propped up and able to talk a little. Harry monopolizes Gramma’s attention, as he should. She looks pleased but oh so tired, so we don’t stay long.

As we leave the room, blowing kisses and promising to come back tomorrow, I think that she seems a little better in herself and that it could be a good thing; that is until the doctor takes me to one side out in the hall. He explains that she has been put on a different kind of medication to keep her more comfortable. But it’s not going to make her well. Nothing can now. He has a robotic way of speaking about the end of life as I know it, as if he is the one who is sedated. I bet he does this all the time, day in, day out. Delivers the verdict when, one by one, his more terminal patients slip into their last sleep, before some spotty teen comes to wheel their gurney to the elevator for the trip downstairs.

In my head, I christen him the Grim Reaper. Yes, he is dressed in a white coat, he has a beard, he looks quite normal and his badge says Dr. Larry Theobald but I know better.

As we leave the Medical Center with Harry burbling and giggling and Georgia blowing raspberries on his belly, behind my dark glasses my eyes are full of tears. I blink them back but I feel it won’t be long until they fall uncontrollably.

My gray top of the range Dodge Ram is parked out front. Georgia buckles Harry up into his car seat while I start the engine and whack on the air con. It’s a hot day in San Diego. As I pull away from the kerb I see a guy with a camera over on the sidewalk. He is trying to get a shot of me, so I speed up. It’s times like these that you see the dark side of fame. My tears, when they fall, will mean pay day for some scumbag.

That night, I can’t sleep. I keep seeing
the girl
when I shut my eyes. She is stalking my mind. I go into the home studio and play guitar for a while and then record some rough vocals for a new song idea. I hear Harry cry and I go to him; he is hungry so I give him his bottle then cradle him in my arms.

I imagine what would happen if my marriage to Georgia fell apart. I couldn’t lose Harry. I couldn’t be without Georgia. I live with unimaginable good fortune. So it sucks if I can’t hold on to my sanity much longer.

Beth

Having slept for seven hours straight - at least one hour less than my body requires to function properly - I take about thirty minutes to come to the next morning. It doesn’t help that I know outside it’s still dark and cold. In that time, laying somewhere between being awake and asleep, I suddenly hear Joel sing a line or two absentmindedly. It kind of shocks me and wakes me a little for a second or two. It sounds like he is in the room with me but of course he isn’t. I let sleep take me again, hoping this private audience will continue. Then I see him in what looks like a home studio. He is just working on some ideas, playing with sliders on the mixing desk, sitting all alone. Then I see him in his kitchen, grabbing a drink.

I hear a baby cry; he goes straight to the child and cradles it in his arms. But he looks scared. I wonder why? I hope his kid is OK. I can feel the warmth of his skin as if it were my own. It makes me smile. Oh, if he were mine.

Guurrggh. I get up, feeling like an unholy mess. I need to get to work.

I take a different route in the mornings. I like the motorway when I’ve not long woken up, whereas I prefer the back roads in the evening. I think it’s because, when I wake up, I like to be alone with my thoughts and Joel’s, of course. The motorway is comfortably impersonal. It doesn’t care who you are. You are unlikely to ever meet the people around you so, if you sing along to the radio the person who drives past and clocks you doing a Mariah Carey number probably won’t be in the queue at the supermarket that evening. I feel I can be myself on the motorway. There aren’t many places, after all.

I am just pulling out around a lorry into the fast lane when my phone rings. I turn down my music, scramble for the phone, press the answer button and then the speaker button, and then throw it in my lap and yell, “Hey hun!” It’s Richard. He says he’s having a good night and asks how I am. I say I’m fine but I’m driving. He says not to worry and we’ll talk tomorrow. He has a meeting from ten ‘til three but will phone when he gets out, which will be around bedtime for me. We say ‘bye.

I turn up Joel’s music; it’s all I tend to listen to these days. That could be what prompted the connection, I muse. I hear him all day every day, whether on my iPod or in my head. He writes the lyrics from his heart and they go straight to mine. I cringe at my own corniness and absentmindedly sing along, tapping the steering wheel as I pull off the slip road.

As I pull into the car park I catch sight of the Sycamore tree on the hill in my rear view mirror. I look away - I don’t want to see him right now. I have lots to do today. The last thing I need is Joel appearing.

I walk single-mindedly through the open plan office, darting left to right through the maze of beige sameness. I reach my desk and dump my bags underneath, retrieving my laptop and putting it on the desk then straightening my pens absentmindedly. The cleaner has been and moved them. Black, red, blue. I hear laughter and look up. Louise, Trish and Stacey are already in. They are gossiping and giggling under a cloud of perfume. Then the conversation turns to complaining that the heating is broken again. They notice me. We exchange polite hellos.

I decide to keep my coat on. Stacey tells me with wide eyes that it's only ten degrees and really we should all be sent home. I smile and sit down. It is chilly, yes the cold isn’t pleasant but it strikes me as pretty inconsequential. A job is a job.

I have worked there now for about six months but I don’t really see myself staying. I don’t have much in common with the others and there aren’t any great promotion opportunities unless someone leaves or dies. I miss my old job. It was like a family. I wonder if they ever miss me. I dock my laptop and log in. Immediately a ton of emails start to arrive. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Crap. I start from the top and work back, figuring - hoping - some of the old ones might have been superseded.

Here's one that sounds interesting, a psychic medium called David Nash available for interview. He has a story to tell that might fill some column inches. I accept the invitation from my editor to meet with him and schedule him in for a four-hour slot at his home in London in three weeks’ time. By ten o clock my emails are in order and I am ready to begin working. I decide to stretch my legs first with a walk to the drinks machine for a frothy and slightly powdery cappuccino hit.

I nod a few polite hellos on my way. I pass Doreen, a sycophantic, attention-seeking PA whose long legs are practically dangling out of the Chief Executive’s bottom; she's so far up his arse. She has her officious looking telephone head-set on. Who does she think she is – Whitney Houston? The juxtaposition of her age (
forever
49), truly fantastically sexy legs, matronly blouse, short skirt, dated Alice Band and focused expression that screams "The Prime Minister’s on line two" is a truly disturbing combination. Doreen's silver ballpoint pen is poised to react with efficient, urgent accuracy. Her radar for a multi-tasking opportunity is so developed that she is able to theatrically mouth the words, "Not long now!" excitedly as I pass, her arm waving desperately, as if physically grasping for gossip.

I pass Chris and Herb, who work as feature editors for the weekend men's supplement. They are a nerdy double act, tasked with making the supplement equally relevant to both metrosexual and Neanderthal man. Chris's desk is covered with cut out pictures from cartoons and Star Wars, photos of fast cars and cult actors like John Malkovich and Kevin Spacey. Herb's desk is rampant with Kelly Brook, Vinnie Jones, Jordan before she had six kids and magazines ranging from GQ to Sports Illustrated. A signed photo of Steve McQueen has pride of place on his desk where most men would put a photo of their wife and kids. As I walk past I am glad that I have my flat boots on, I always feel too feminine tottering past in heels.

There is a queue for the coffee machine. I wait while an artificially loud and rather flirtatious conversation goes on between the three people before me, as the machine makes a noisy drama of dispensing each generic, frothy drink. I start to think about Joel, then push the thought away with determination.

When it's my turn I use extra sugar and milk, despite my pre-wedding diet. I stir it up, add some chocolate powder then retreat to my desk to silently drink my cappuccino whilst looking out of the fire door window. I'm wishing that I lived somewhere hot and warm as I watch people hurry by, absentmindedly noticing what they are wearing and who is talking to whom. Watching spots of rain hit the window and drizzle down it like they've given up on something; I kind of lose myself for a moment. Then I go back to my emails.

At 12 o clock Trish asks if anyone wants to join her at the canteen for lunch. I have no sandwiches so I say yeah, thanks. As we walk there she asks me about the wedding. I tell her it’s not for another six weeks and she says, “Oh my God, that’s like
tomorrow
!” I am about to explain how it’s just a small wedding and then it happens before I even know it.

Bam!

I see him in my mind’s eye. He looks straight into my eyes. A fully loaded
look
. Then he’s gone, all in a fraction of a second. I stop dead.

HE SAW ME.

But it is twelve o’ clock... working eight hours back that’s four in the morning San Diego time. What’s he doing up? Well, I suppose there is no law against it and he does have a kid, after all. Maybe he woke up.

Trish asks if I’m OK and I nod. I say that I just remembered I left something on my desk. I tell her I will run back to my computer and see her at the canteen later.

I dash to the bathroom. Thankfully all three cubicles are empty. I crash into one of them, lock the door, drop my bag, throw the seat lid down, sit on it and put my hands straight over my eyes to help the connection. Almost immediately I see him. Again, he is in front of a mirror. His chest is bare, bathed in moonlight. I take a mental picture and squint a little, trying to burn it into my retinas for
ever.
His chest is toned; his muscles look carved in stone. He is moving his mouth silently, a look of concern on his face. I’m trying to focus, it’s dark. What’s he doing? Yes he is saying something. No – he’s mouthing something. A message? Oh my God.

Yes. A message. Wayoo? Oowayoo? No - I get it:

“Who are you?” Over and over again.

I can’t believe it! First contact, Joel can see me! I’m quivering, what do I do? What should I say?

I try and picture myself answering back, hoping that’s enough for him to be able to ‘see’ me too. Then I have a better idea. If I can see him looking in the mirror, maybe he can see me better the same way? I tentatively unlock the stall, go to the counter top, open my handbag and grab my lipstick. Shit, what if someone comes in? I go to the farthest corner of the room, just out of sight from the door. I quickly use the lipstick to write my name on the mirror: “Beth Britten”.

I add “Hi” then I wait, feeling like an idiot.

I stare into the mirror, trying to look friendly.

No, sexy.

No, friendly. Friendly.
Friendly.

Can he see my message? Hurry up, hurry up... I give it 30 seconds, then close my eyes to visualise his answer.

He is looking for something. He gives up. Looks agitated. He gets close to the mirror and steam clouds his reflection. Oh, I get it, he is breathing on the mirror. This is fantastic. I have this HUUUGE grin on my face in anticipation. Then he’s tracing with his finger in the steam, I strain to see, what is he writing?

Two words.

Just two words.

Two words that absolutely break my heart.

GO AWAY!

He underlines it, as if I needed him to emphasise the point.

Then I hear him, quiet but so clear it’s like he’s there in the loos. He whispers it under his breath, so fiery that it sounds like he’s spitting the words.

“Leave me alone!”

My mouth is open. I slap my hand over my mouth so I don’t scream. I can’t think for a minute. Oh My God. I didn’t start this! I didn’t ask for it – how come
I
get the blame?

I grab a handful of paper towels and rub at the lipstick frantically. It smears and smears until at last you can’t read what it says. I chuck the paper towels in the bin, grab my handbag and realise I am crying. I try to compose myself. As I leave the bathroom, I change my mind, turn back, pull out the lipstick once more and scribble again on the mirror. I close my eyes. I hope he gets this message. I don’t hang around to check.

YOU
kissed
ME!