Who Stole My Life? Read online

  EAAUUUGGGHHHHH…

  A sudden stream of projectile vomit explodes on the floor, covering my trousers, my suit jacket, and most of the taxi. Richard has just thrown up.

  The taxi driver turns around, sees the scene and pulls over. Jumping out of the front, he takes about two seconds to open the rear door, grab Richard and drag him out onto the pavement, …just in time for him to vomit for a second time. This time catching the taxi-driver's feet.

  The driver shouts something at us both, in some language I have never heard before, but which I guess is probably Eastern European, maybe Albanian. Richard is by now sitting on the pavement, looking up at me with a very childish look on his face, white bubbling champagne oozing out of the corners of his mouth, along with some half-eaten cornflakes.

  Eugh.

  "You give me 35 euros. You give me now!" the taxi-driver demands from me.

  "Sorry, what?…euros…no, sorry, I've only got pounds." I reply, reaching into my pocket and pulling out my wallet. I reach inside and pull out some notes. "Why do you want euros?" I reply, getting a little annoyed, preparing to pay him in the Queen’s own money. This is Britain . Bloody taxi-driver should take pounds. But when I look at the notes in my hand, I don't recognize them. They're strange, like foreign money, the wrong colors, the wrong sizes…

  As I look up at the taxi-driver, one massive question mark on my face, the Albanian reaches out and snatches all the paper from my clenched fist. He spits on the ground, swears, at least I think he is swearing, and turns and jumps back into his cab, driving off and leaving us to fend for ourselves.

  A small crowd has gathered around us, admiring the spectacle of Richard throwing up into his lap and over his own trousers, with me, standing there, covered in puke, trying to work out whether I should laugh, cry, or jump in front of the next car, and simply end it all…

  And then a policeman appears, as if from nowhere.

  "Hello gentlemen, celebrating a little too much are we?"

  I look up at the policeman, almost speechless.

  "Can I see your ID cards, please?" he asks me.

  The crowd is all around us now, as if we are a couple of buskers about to start juggling or swallowing fire. Which would be a miracle in itself, as right now, I don’t think Richard could swallow anything and keep it down for more than a few seconds.

  "My ID card?" I ask. What is he talking about?…

  Richard throws up again, this time on the feet of the policeman, who, not surprisingly, does not seem very amused.

  He bends over Richard to say something to him, and at this point, the pressure just all gets too much: I don’t have any idea what is going on; I don’t have an ID card; I can’t explain anything to myself, let alone a policeman. Fear surges within me. I’m scared, I’m lost, I cannot cope. So...so I do the most logical thing I can think of ...and I leg it. I run away.

  I push my way through the crowd that opens up hurriedly before me, and run like the proverbial clappers. I run for two blocks, disappearing down the side streets off Oxford Street, towards Dean Street. People stare at me as I dodge past them , and I realize that not only do I look a sight, but that I smell terrible too.

  What am I going to do? I can't go home like this.

  I get to the end of the street and stand on the corner, gasping for breath, beside the Prince Edward Theatre, where, to my great relief, ‘Mary Poppins’ is still playing. A welcome and familiar sight.

  I stop to think. I need to change my clothes, but I haven't got any money. I don't carry any credit cards, so I can't just walk into a shop and buy some. I decide to go an ATM and use my switch card to withdraw some money. I find one on the corner beside the Palace Theatre where ‘Singin’ In The Rain’ is still playing, another welcome sight from the London I know. Unfortunately, the green bank card I pull from my wallet, is a different color from the blue Barclays card I started the day with, and when I insert it in the machine and type in my pin number, the machine keeps it. Shit. What the hell am I meant to do now?

  I turn around, and look about me. Suddenly London does not look so friendly. People are staring at me, and I know I must look an odd sight. A sweating business man, covered in puke. And then, just when I think it can't get any worse, I realize that I've left my small rucksack in the cab. With my mobile phone in it. My last contact with those who know me.

  What do I do? I have no money, and I desperately need a change of clothes. I can't go home like this.

  As I look across the road at All Bar One, another friendly sight, I realize I am very close to Seven Dials in Covent Garden. Which is where the offices of Cohen Advertising are meant to be. My offices.

  I hurry across the road, past the All Bar One, one of my favorite pubs where I have spent many a happy evening with Sarah, …and a few with Jane. I cut through the cars waiting at the traffic lights, ignoring the disgusted stares of some of the drivers, and scuttle off down towards the Seven Dials roundabout before turning into Monmouth Street.

  Cohen Advertising should be around here somewhere. I had briefly seen the address of the office on the front of one of the packs given out at the Scotia Telecom presentation, and I'm angry now that I didn't take better note of the street number.

  I hurry up the road, past a hotel on the left, and a row of very expensive shops on the right hand side. Not the sort of place I could ever afford to shop. I'm about three quarters of the way down the street, when I see two policeman come out of one of the doorways in front of me, each of them helping to support a very drunk Richard. I dive off the pavement, ducking through the doorway of the nearest shop, finding myself in a very upmarket erotic shop.

  Red walls, rails full of expensive silk night-gowns, large, very large vibrators with diamonds, yes, diamonds, on the end of them, padded cufflinks, and cushions with very tasteful but incredibly rude pictures on the front. And two very famous beautiful models whom I instantly recognize from TV and the covers of a thousand different magazines, but that doesn't stop me from stumbling into them and knocking one of them flying as she is examining a crotch-less silk teddy.

  She looks up at me from the floor, where she is now sprawling in an undignified, non-supermodel like pose, and is just about to shout, when she sees the puke covering my suit and trousers. Instead, she gags and looks away, covering her mouth with her hands. Her friend pushes me from behind, and goes to her aid, both of them by now covering their noses. I reach out to help her up from the floor and in spite of myself can't stop staring at her face as she lies on the wooden floor beneath me. A perfect face, which has adorned the cover of Marie-Claire and Vogue. I hesitate. Would it be the wrong time to ask for her autograph?

  Just then a large, burly bodyguard grabs my biceps and removes me from the shop, the manageress screaming from behind, advising me to take a bath.

  Thankfully, by now Richard and the two policemen are turning the corner at the end of the street, where I can just make out the back of a police car parked on the edge of the main road. A few seconds later I see it drive away, and I relax a little.

  I walk to the doorway from where the boys in blue emerged, check the writing on the brass nameplate, and then walk in.

  The hall emerges into a large yellow reception area with parquet flooring, from which an impressive wooden staircase sweeps upwards. The scent of flowers fills the air, coming from several large bouquets which overflow from a number of large vases dotted around the room and positioned carefully on top of two glass coffee tables, in front of white leather couches. Several large pieces of modern art adorn the walls. Colorful, yet discreet, they look expensive, and that’s exactly the point.

  The room exudes quiet sophistication. It says, "Hey, We're creative, we're clever. We're tasteful. Now give us your money."

  A gorgeous, curvy blonde, wearing a tight, low-cut black top and a string of pearls stands up from behind a hotel-style reception desk, and smiles at me. I can't help but smile back at her.

  "Not another one…James, what on earth have you two been up
to? The cops just dragged Richard in off the street and asked me to identify him and corroborate his story that he is the owner of one of London's top advertising agencies, and not a drunken bum. They've arrested him for being drunk and disorderly. What am I meant to tell his wife?"

  I sink down into one of the large leather couches, exhausted and at the end of my tether. The receptionist immediately rushes forward, and leans over towards me, grabbing my arms gently and imploring me to stand up again.

  "Get up James. You'll ruin the furniture. You're covered in puke and you smell awful. Come on, let's get you up to your office before the others get back from lunch. You don’t want them to see you like this, do you?"

  Ah. So I have an office. My own office?

  I stand, and let her guide me up two flights of stairs, and through a large open plan area to a suite of offices at the back of the building. She directs me to a door and pushes me gently through.

  "Sit down, and I'll get you a cup of coffee. You need to sober up."

  "Actually, I'm not drunk. I haven't been drinking…" I protest, but she's already gone and I collapse in a chair.

  She returns a few minutes later, closing the door behind her, and coming over to me.

  "I've closed up downstairs for a few minutes. Everyone else is out at lunch. Richard called the office immediately after the presentation to give the good news, and everyone went straight down to the Crown to celebrate. They'll be just as drunk as you when they get back."

  "I'm NOT drunk!"

  "Of course, you are. How did this happen then?" she asks, waving at me to stand up again, and immediately pulling at my jacket and slipping it off my shoulders.

  "Richard puked on me." I reply, looking around the office.

  I stare at my desk. Beside my green brass lamp is a large, glass paperweight. I recognize it immediately. It was my grandmother’s. Since I inherited it, it has followed me from one desk to another, wherever I work. And the last time I saw it, it was on my desk in my office, my other office, in Canary Wharf.

  "Listen, I have a problem," I turn to her, putting on my best pleading voice. "A big problem. I need your help, but I have to ask you NOT to tell anyone else. Will you promise me to keep it secret?"

  "Yes." She says, holding my smelly jacket at arm's length from her body. "What problem? Do you want to tell me that you are an alcoholic?"

  "No. I'm NOT drunk! It's just that I can't remember much. I'm sorry but I don't know your name. It's a miracle I even know my own name…" I blurt out, pretending to rub my head. "I was mugged this morning, and I was hit pretty hard over the head. I think I must have some sort of concussion…"

  "Mugged?…What?…You're not telling me that Richard made you do the presentation anyway?"

  "Well, yes… But to be fair, he did do most of it. Anyway, the thing is, I haven't got any money. Everything was stolen…and I can't walk around like this…Can you go out and get me some new clothes…Please? Some jeans, a shirt and a jumper and jacket? Anything…just something for me to change into?…Please?" I ask, sounding as pathetic as I can. Which, right now, isn't too hard.

  "Sure. Okay. You mean, now?" she replies, looking at the jacket, and turning up her nose.

  "Yes, now would be a good time. Please. I want to go home. I need a bath, and I need to talk to my wife. Today has been one hell of a day."

  "Oh, I meant to tell you. Your wife called. She wanted to wish you luck again for the presentation. She said she couldn’t get through to you on your mobile. She'll see you tonight."

  The receptionist, who still hasn't told me her name, turns and hangs my jacket on the coat-stand by the door. Then without more than a second’s warning she steps back towards me and pushes me into the chair behind the desk. Before I can protest, she kneels on the floor in front of me, and slips my shoes off each foot. She reaches up with both hands and starts to unbuckle my belt, and with a practiced familiarity which catches me unawares, reaches behind my back, grabs hold of the top of my trousers, and then yanks them down to my ankles, and off my legs altogether.

  Then, just as I begin to think my day may be getting a little better after all, she stands up, walks back to the door, picks my jacket off the stand and leaves me sitting alone in the office in my boxer shorts. My tartan boxer shorts.

  For a few seconds I am lost for words, but quickly recovering my senses I jump to my feet and chase after her across the open-plan office.

  "What are you doing? Where are you going?" I shout.

  "You can't sit in those trousers. They're covered in sick. I'm taking them straight to the 4 -hour dry cleaner, and I'll pick up a pair of trousers, and some clothes in the shop down the street. I'll be back in a minute. Don't worry, the others won't be back from lunch for another hour."

  She disappears down the stairs, and I am left standing in the middle of the office in my shirtsleeves and boxers, and a pair of socks that has a big hole in one toe. I look about me, at the empty desks, and flashing PC screens. Thank god no one else is around.

  Alone for the first time today, I walk back to my office, sit down and start to examine my new surroundings.

  Apart from the paperweight, nothing else is familiar to me. The room is totally enclosed, with large glass windows and some blinds that can seemingly roll down and block out the main office outside whenever I may want some privacy. My desk is large. I have two phones, one white, and one red, just like the Prime Minister. I think it’s designed to make me feel important. There are some large wooden filing cabinets along one side of the office, and behind me there is a window, not too large, that looks onto some mews in the street below. It’s not a bad office, in fact it’s much better than my one in Kitte-Kat, wherever that is now. On the wall, there are a couple of posters, and photographs of what looks like advertising campaigns from the past. But whose past? Surely not mine?

  For the first time today I come face to face with my situation.

  I have gone mad.

  There is simply no other explanation. How can this all be happening to me? Where is Canary Wharf? Where is my job as a Product Manager? What am I doing here? Who is Richard, and the friendly receptionist? And how come I have an office in an advertising agency?

  Just what the hell is going on?

  Since throwing up in the gutter outside Waterloo train station this morning, which now seems like a lifetime away, I have been on pure autopilot. It's like I'm living in someone else's body, watching everything through someone else's eyes. I'm going through the motions, coasting along, taking it all in, trying to understand it all, but underneath, there is no emotion. Okay, occasionally, there is a twinge of pure and utter fear, but by and large, I seem to be managing to hold it together. For now, I think I am in control. But as soon as the receptionist returns with some clothes, I'm going straight home to Sarah. She will be able to tell me what to do, and what is happening to me.

  And then I think of Jane. I'm meant to be having dinner with her tomorrow night. What will she think of all this?

  I hear voices. Laughing. Footsteps thundering up the stairs.

  Shit. The office staff are coming back from lunch.

  I pull myself as close to my desk as possible, making sure my legs are tucked under the top and no one can see my cheap, tartan, boxer shorts.

  Just in time. The people see me through the large glass window of my office and start singing, en masse.

  "For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow…" Before I can stop them, they're pouring into my office and standing in front of my desk. "…a jolly good felllllloooooooowwwwww, and so say all of us. Hoorrrrraaaaaayyyyyy!"

  Who are these nutters?

  "James", one of the prettiest girls shouts, coming around to pat me on the shoulder,

  "Well done! You pulled it off. Fantastic."

  "Yes, and what happened to Richard then?" a spotty young man with spiky hair and a pink shirt asks from the back. "Is it true the Big Dick got nicked and banged up for being drunk and disorderly?"

  I think
for a minute. Then I get it.

  "You mean Richard? …Yes, unfortunately, I'm afraid it is." I reply, incredibly conscious that I am sitting in my boxers, and that the girl beside me may be able to see them.

  I want these people out of my office, and now.

  "…Anyway, I can see you have all had a few beers, and that this deal is important to you all…" I start, not knowing exactly what I should say to these people. Strangers. I'm almost naked in front of them, and I hardly know them.

  "A few?" Someone giggles, "We only came back because they ran out of alcohol in the pub."

  "Well, why don't you all take the rest of the day off, I'm sure Richard won't mind. He can hardly complain now can he?"

  There is another cheer, and they all start to sing again.

  "But if I were you, I'd go now, whilst the going is good. If he gets let out of the police station and comes back here, well, it won't be a pretty sight, will it?"