Who Stole My Life? Read online

  "I should finish early tonight. A drink sounds like a good idea. I'll be round at yours at seven.

  James."

  I stop for a moment. This is crazy.

  Then I think of the kiss against the car, and I hit the 'send' button.

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday

  Surbiton, 8.11a.m.

  .

  I didn't set out to have an affair. And I'm not even sure if I want to have one now. All I know is that what I am doing is wrong, and I should stop. But I can't. No matter how much I reason with myself, like the proverbial moth I can’t stop myself being irresistibly drawn towards the flame.

  As it turned out, I didn’t see Jane last night, but that was only because Sarah had called again yesterday afternoon and announced that Nicole had fallen over and broken her tooth. If she hadn’t, I know I would have gone round to Jane's last night, and we would almost definitely have ended up sleeping together.

  So, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that Sarah called and I had to go home early to take Nicole to the dentist. Luckily Jane understood and we rescheduled for Wednesday night.

  As I shuffle now on to the 8.12am train, I reach into my pocket for the nth time to check if I’ve got any new messages on my mobile from Jane. Nothing yet. Although I'm not really expecting anything. Just hoping…

  The woman with the expensive coffee is sitting in the same carriage again, this time about three seats away. I look up and she smiles at me between all the newspapers and people trying to sleep for a few minutes. I half-smile back and look out of the window.

  Am I heading towards a midlife crisis? Am I already having a midlife crisis?

  I try to think again exactly why I spend most of my time fantasizing about making love to Jane, when there's nothing wrong with my marriage.

  I hate myself for the way I am behaving. And when I look at myself in the mirror or when I listen to the way I am thinking, I hardly recognize myself anymore.

  As I stare out of the window at the world outside, I try to rationalize my behavior. To find a reason, or at least an excuse, for my lying, my deceit, my self-destruction.

  Perhaps it's got something to do with personal insecurity and lack of confidence. Now I'm edging towards the end of my thirties, perhaps this is all just about proving to myself one last time, that women still find me attractive? Proving to myself that I'm not yet past it.

  But it's not just that. This whole preoccupation with other people, what they do, their lives? This whole fascination about the grass being greener somewhere else? Is it normal?

  A thought hits me. It's something that one of my friends said to me over a drink in the pub the other day. Something that stuck in my mind. We were talking about our jobs, and whether we all enjoyed them or not, or whether we just worked for the money because we had to.

  Okay, so it was probably me that started the conversation, but George had said, 'If you were to die tomorrow, would you be happy knowing that you had spent the last day of your life doing just what you did today?'

  Probably not. But the truth is, I just don't know. How can I know if another job or another life would be better than the one I have now if I haven’t got anything else to compare it with? For all I know, the life I lead now is the best it gets.

  The things I wanted to do when I was a kid are probably all just ridiculous ideas that would never have got me where I am today: a wife, two kids, and a house practically all paid off.

  "This is the conductor speaking. We'll shortly be arriving at Waterloo. Would all passengers please keep security risks to a minimum by ensuring they take all their possessions with them."

  I grab my bag from the rack above and follow the others off the train.

  The phone in my pocket rattles against my legs, and I dimly hear the muffled beep-beep of a message arriving.

  It's Jane.

  "Hi James. Looking forward to Wednesday. Bring a bottle of white. I'll fix dinner… Then maybe you can fix me…"

  I smile. Then I think of Sarah. What will I tell her about Wednesday? Working late again to catch up for Monday? At least that sounds plausible.

  I met Jane at school. I fancied her like crazy all the way through Secondary, and right through sixth-form. But when we left for university, we lost track of each other.

  The closest I ever got to having anything with her before was a quick snog under the mistletoe at the Christmas school dance when I was sixteen. I can still remember it. ‘Sultans of Swing’ by Dire Straits playing in the background whilst we gyrated slowly against each other, round and around, our tongues probing grotesquely into each other's mouths, and my hand doing its best to make its way slowly down to her bottom without her noticing it.

  Five minutes and forty-eight seconds of pure bliss. Then the lights went up and we all went home.

  I spent the whole of the following year looking forward to the next Christmas party. And then she turned up with some guy from the local sixth form, and that was it.

  When I finally looked her up on Facebook - after spending the past two years wondering just what it would be like to kiss her again - I half hoped that she would be fat, with five kids and spots. And then that would be that.

  Unfortunately, the photos of her on Facebook were of someone slim and still very attractive. And when she replied to my first email, I soon found out that she also had no kids, and was in a very unhappy marriage. And yes, it would be great to meet up again someday. Why not soon?

  That's when the excitement started again, and for the first time in two years I started to feel alive.

  I actually feel nervous whenever I think of meeting her. It's the same feeling I had when I used to date Sarah, but that's all such a long time ago now.

  And I can't deny it isn't nice to feel this way again. In fact it's great.

  The anticipation. The wondering. The fantasizing. That bit's fantastic.

  The only downside is the guilt, the danger of being caught, and the knowledge that it's all wrong. After all, I have a great wife, and I'm meant to be happy.

  So, just what, exactly, am I doing?

  I feed my travelcard through the barrier at the end of the platform, walk through the gate, heading straight towards the underground and forgetting completely to go into M&S and pick up some sandwiches. I wander down the stationary escalator, still not fixed from yesterday and without much conscious thought, follow the crowds blindly through the ticket barriers, down two more escalators and onto the platform for the Jubilee Line.

  The first train to arrive is full and I decide to wait for the next one. When it arrives, the carriages are much emptier and I get a seat straightaway, pulling out my latest book and quickly disappearing into its pages, starting off from where I left the story on the journey home last night. I've been enjoying the story, a recent Wilbur Smith, and soon I'm on a ship sailing down the east coast of Africa, a nobleman from England making his fortune overseas. Devouring the pages one by one, I can almost feel the movement of the ship beneath my feet, hear the creak of the timbers as they move with the swell of the sea, smell the salt in the air, and see the seagulls circling the ship high above.

  I look up, realizing I have not been paying attention and have lost track of time. The train is just pulling into a station. I quickly look at the color of the tiles on the platform walls. Blue tiles. No, not my station.

  A cannon fires, and an explosion sweeps me off my feet. Screams are all around. The ship heaves heavily to one side, and swings around to face the oncoming Arab vessel. It's coming straight for us. We're going to collide.

  An automated voice booms out. "New Cross Gate North. Change here for the East London line."

  I look up briefly, tearing myself away from the oncoming ship. No, it's not Canary Wharf. I return to the smoke and the smell of cordite, the screaming all around me, and pick myself up off the deck, pulling my sword free from my belt and preparing to engage in battle with any boarders.

  I look up again, something pulling me back from the battle.


  New Cross Gate North?

  I look out onto the platform. I don't recognize it. Green tiles, new and modern, but not a station I recognize. The doors are closing, the train is accelerating away.

  I look around me. A few people have got on the train and are sitting down. The rest of the carriage is now mostly empty.

  New Cross Gate North? Shit. I'm on the wrong train.

  I jump to my feet, closing the book and losing my place in the battle. Picking up my small rucksack from the seat beside me I move quickly down the cabin and scrutinize the map of the Jubilee Line above the double doors.

  New Cross Gate North…Lewisham North… Lewisham South… Patton Street…then the last station, East Dulwich. Not a single station name that I recognize.

  I check the name of the line again.

  The Jubilee Line.

  My heart starts beating faster, and I feel a little strange.

  This is not right.

  I look around the carriage. Everyone is looking at their papers, or staring at their feet. They don't see me. Everything just seems normal to them.

  I stare at the map again and quickly check the stations going northwards. Alworth Street... Lambeth East. Waterloo.

  Waterloo. Thank god.

  Then further north, Waterloo… Charing Cross…Green Park… Charing Cross?

  Where is Westminster?

  I've ridden on the Jubilee Line for years now. I know every station off by heart. Southbound to Canary Wharf:- Waterloo-Southwark-London Bridge-Bermondsey-Canada Water-Canary Wharf. Or Northbound: Waterloo-Westminster- Green Park-Bond Street, then upwards to Stanmore.

  So where the hell is New Cross Gate North and who swapped Westminster for Charing Cross?

  I check the name of the line written in grey above the map of the network. Jubilee Line. I check it again. Jubilee Line.

  The train pulls into the next station, and as it slows down I search for the name of the station on the walls of the tunnel. Please say Canada Water, or Canary Wharf…

  Lewisham North. Lewisham North? What the hell is going on?

  I jump from the train as soon as the doors open, and walk quickly along the length of the platform searching for a tube map on the walls.

  My heart is beating fast now. Very fast. I feel strangely cold, my forehead is clammy, and my hands are beginning to shake. The same shakes I get when I am really hungry and I haven’t eaten for ages. The sort of shakes that normally only an immediate dose of chocolate or sugar can cure.

  I find a sign on the wall, and drop my bag on the floor beside it. I look at the map before me. I find the grey stripe of the Jubilee Line, and see with dread the names of the stations confirmed in little black letters beside each circle signifying the stations.

  New Cross Gate North…Lewisham North… Lewisham South… Patton Street…Last station East Dulwich.

  I'm in a dream. I feel lost, disorientated and dissociated from everything around me. I feel the onset of panic, and I break out into a cold sweat. My mind begins to think very slowly.

  This doesn't make sense.

  The train behind me has left, and I hear another one swooping into the tunnel opposite, heading back in the other direction.

  I hurry along to the end of the platform and then cross over onto the northbound platform. The approaching train slows and comes to a stop, the doors part with a rush of air and I jump onboard. I go straight to the map above the next set of doors further down the carriage, and check to make sure I see the word Waterloo.

  Waterloo. Fantastic.

  As the train moves off I hang from the pole by the door, swaying backwards with the acceleration and looking at the other people around me. Everyone else seems oblivious to my panic. A child at the end of the carriage screams and draws a quick scowl from his large, black mother. The little boy turns away from his mother, and for a few seconds stares straight into my eyes. There are tears in his eyes. I see the quick change in his expression as he looks at me, and suddenly his own confusion is gone. I am now the object of his attention, and he is staring at my face. He alone, amongst all the people on the tube, senses that something is wrong with me.

  I look away.

  The train pulls into the next station, and I check the name on the blue tiles. New Cross Gate North. I'm back at the station I was in a few minutes ago. My eyes look quickly back up at the map, and then return to the sign. I look back at the boy, and he starts to cry, turning quickly to his mother and burying his head in her lap, his face disappearing from view into the folds of her colorful white, red and yellow dress.

  New Cross Gate North. According to the strange map the next one will be Alworth Street, then Lambeth East. Then Waterloo.

  As the train accelerates into the darkness once again, I feel my knees shaking beneath me. I sit down.

  Is this a dream? Have I fallen asleep on my way to Canary Wharf? Am I going to wake up soon? My thoughts are slower now, and I feel as if my mind is beginning to dull over. None of this makes sense. It's all wrong.

  I feel lost. And strangely, I begin to feel very alone. Everyone else seems fine, everyone else is going about their business as normal, calmly waiting for the next station to arrive, reading the papers, or talking to a friend. To them everything is normal.

  Except it quite clearly isn't.

  As the train moves from Alworth Street to Lambeth East I long for Waterloo. I look forward to greeting it like a long lost brother. I can't wait to see it. To jump out of the train onto the platform, for this strangeness, this weirdness all to end. For it to go away.

  And then suddenly it is there. Waterloo.

  The safety doors, the familiar platform I walk along every single day, the escalators up, then the connecting tunnel to the Northern line on the left, and the escalators to the train station on the right.

  I take the moving stairs two at a time, and emerge a minute later, sweating, and out of breath at the ticket barriers at the top of the stairs. I move quickly towards them, reaching automatically into my pocket to pull out my red travelcard holder and to remove the ticket from within the clear plastic sleeve.

  As I pull the ticket out and feed it into the barrier, the gates open before me and I move swiftly through. I swoop up the ticket as it pops out from the top of the gate, but dimly register in my slow mind that the travelcard holder is black, not red.

  As I step outside onto the pavement outside the entrance to the back of Waterloo station, I stare at the travelcard holder.

  Why is it not red?

  I stare at the ticket in my hand. It looks different from the travelcard I normally use. I look at the date. It's today’s date. The 16th of August 2012. But the photograph on the owner's card inside the other plastic sleeve is wrong. I stare at it. It's me okay… But in the photograph my brown hair is cut differently to normal. Shorter. Spiky. And there are blonde highlights on top.

  My heart is beating uncontrollably fast, and I feel sick. I am scared. Very scared.

  And then I throw up.

  Chapter Four

  Waterloo 9.21 am

  .

  "Are you okay, mate?" the taxi driver asks as he springs from his cab to come to my aid at the edge of the pavement.

  I look up at him again briefly, then bend double once more, vomiting for a second time, the contents of my breakfast emptying itself into the gutter, joining the muesli and yoghurt so glamorously already adorning the roadside.

  The cab driver puts a friendly hand on my back, and bends over towards me. He hands me a Kleenex from the front of his cab. I wipe the rest of my breakfast from the corners of my mouth and struggle a response.

  "Yes." I cough a little. "Yes, thanks, I am."

  "Are you sure, mate? You don’t look too good to me."

  "No, honestly, I'll…I'll be fine. I just had a fright that’s all."

  I turn away from the sadly rare gesture of human warmth from one person to another and walk back into the station.

  As I walk back into the main concourse, I look arou
nd me. Everything seems normal. The vomiting has brought back a flood of senses, and the wave of panic that had swept over me seems to have subsided. In its place, as I see the familiar sights around me, I begin to feel more relaxed.

  I head into Marks and Spencer’s and walk around the shelves. Everything seems as it should. The sights and sounds of any normal Tuesday morning.

  I walk out onto the concourse and look up at the arrivals and departures, displayed as usual on the large electronic overhead information system. I see that in five minutes there is a train to Surbiton. I consider it briefly. It's tempting. I stand in the middle of the concourse and look around.

  Everything is as it should be.

  I walk amongst the passengers and commuters and my calm returns. I must have dreamt it all. It wasn't real.