Wassup, “Sent from my phone,” gave me no sense of connection with the twenty-three-year-old Australian I had fallen in love with, or with the forty-five-year-old she must now be.
She had been more formal when she last wrote to me, twenty years earlier.
Dear Adam,
Charlie and I are getting married in three months. For what it’s worth, I still love you and probably always will, but it seems we are not meant to be together. You will be forever my soul mate.
Love,
Angelina
Charlie. She had mentioned him once, barely, in an earlier letter. No details, beyond the predictable profession. And getting married. Not living together, not hanging out for a bit to see how it went. Out of the frying pan.
The letter was handwritten, on proper stationery. To Adam, not Dooglas. From Angelina, not Angel, which had been her signature on the notes she would slip under my door. I wondered how long it had taken her to write it. Songwriters don’t know what they put into songs, and perhaps Angelina did not know what she had put into that note. When I read it the first time, I saw the declaration of eternal love as a sop, an apology, a consolation prize.
I replied, I hoped not with any bitterness. It was a long letter, saying that I would never forget our time together, wishing them nothing but the best, telling her that I was okay in my life.
As time passed, I came to see Angelina’s words as an expression of pain, a wish that things had been otherwise. But it was years before I understood her letter for what it was, consciously or not. Please Adam, come and save me. Save us.
Now, unless we wanted to play a game of one-word e-mails, it was time to be a bit more expansive. What did I want to tell her?
This is what I wanted to tell her:
Since we parted, my career has gone from strength to strength and, as you would expect from someone who was an expert in his field at twenty-six, I am now at the peak of my profession and in charge of the European operations of a major software house.
Thanks to the company share scheme and a well-judged investment in a lottery syndicate, Claire and I are comfortably off, and I work primarily for the intellectual stimulation. I have taken my piano playing to the next level and am in demand as a session musician as well as having a regular gig with a local band.
We have two children at secondary school. Dylan is a talented singer-songwriter and Hillary is prominent in student politics. I keep fit and recently ran the London Marathon.
What I actually wrote, after sleeping on it, then spending most of the day thinking about it, was:
Not much. Still contracting. Living in Norwich. Still with Claire. No kids. You?
Even that was a bit of a stretch, as I was between contracts—the one that had finished four months ago and the one that did not yet exist. At least I’d managed to suppress the sarcasm:
Not much since you last wrote. Besides the Internet. And German reunification. Sad about Princess Di.
After I hit Send, I found myself reflecting on the twelve-word summary of my current circumstances. It was not the gap between what might have been and the way things had turned out. Half the men of my age once imagined themselves scoring the winning goal for England or headlining Glastonbury.
My problem was that I was, in fact, living the dream. Eighteen months earlier, in the dying throes of a demanding contract, I had asked myself what I wanted from life, what sort of lifestyle. The answer was: work part-time, play pub quiz, listen to music, be supportive of my mum, and spend time with Claire. With the exception of the last item, which had been circumscribed by Claire’s job, it was exactly what I was doing. Why should I want to create a different dream for Angelina?
It was the middle of the night in Melbourne, so I was not going to get a reply for a while. And I was now running late for the pub quiz.
Claire was driving up as I walked out. I waved and she waved back.
* * *
Our glory days were behind us. There were only half a dozen pubs running regular quizzes in Norwich, and several teams took it more seriously than we did.
I had started playing after work a few years earlier, when I was doing some local contracting and Claire had started coming home late. Two colleagues of about my age, Stuart and Chad, had invited me along, and my knowledge of music had helped carry us to some memorable wins. I kept it up after the contract finished. Chad had recently stopped coming, but his partner, Sheilagh, was a regular.
It was more a social thing, particularly for Stuart’s and Sheilagh’s workmates who made up the numbers when they were inclined. On this winter’s evening, only Stuart’s colleague Derek had been inclined. Derek was a sports fan, which was useful, but what we really needed was someone under forty-five with a passing knowledge of twenty-first-century popular culture. Pokémon? Grey’s Anatomy? Justin Bieber? Pass, pass, pass.
Tonight’s quizmaster was a man of mature age and conventional tastes, aside from a penchant for multi-part questions.
“Part One: The horse race that stops a nation is…”
Stuart gave Derek a look that said, Let Sheilagh have a shot first. It was technically a sports question, but it touched on history and geography, and our expert in that area needed a confidence boost, or at least a bit of cheering up.
“Melbourne Cup,” she said.
Derek nodded: Write it down.
“Part Two: When is it held?”
* * *
The first Tuesday in November is a public holiday in Melbourne. The horse race may stop the nation for a few minutes, but it stops the host city for the whole day.
My colleagues were not going to accept any excuses for missing the department’s chicken and champagne breakfast at the Flemington Racecourse. Nor, to my surprise, was Angelina going to accept being left out of it.
“I thought you had a commitment,” I said.
“I told you: I had about five invitations and I said no to all of them. I’m an actor, not some sort of … decoration for a bunch of middle-aged businessmen to ogle.”
“Not sure my lot will be any more civilized.”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
It was a bit of a lark: formal dress for some, fancy dress for others, plastic champagne flutes, takeaway chicken, and all of it in the car park.
It took us a while to locate our group among the similarly attired racegoers with their coolers—eskies—and folding tables. Angelina was wearing a knee-length black dress with a black-and-red sash, black stockings, heels, and the most elaborate hat I had ever seen, at least until that morning. Technically, it was not a hat but a fascinator, featuring a stiff net that floated to one side of her face. A racegoer dressed as a beer can recognized her and the two of them narrowly avoided knocking each other over.
Booze on a warm spring morning, high heels on asphalt and grass, fragile headgear: it was a recipe for sprained ankles and perhaps worse. There were signs of overindulgence around us, but my colleagues behaved themselves and made Angelina welcome, after admonishing me for not sharing my personal life with them.
Angelina was more surprised than they were. “You haven’t told anyone you were seeing me?”
“They’re my clients. For two more months, then I’m gone. I wouldn’t expect my doctor to tell me who he was dating.”
“I get that, but…”
“You’re Angelina Brown.”
She laughed. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.”
Apparently she decided that restricting my showing off to databases and piano playing was a positive, because she reached up and kissed me. In front of my workmates, one of whom decided it was an opportunity to introduce herself. Tina—on wobbly heels, with an entourage of admin staff.
I hardly saw her at work and had put our awkward half-date out of my mind. She had not.
“Oh my God, everyone, this is Angelina Brown. Angelina, this is everyone. You’re not going to believe this, but I basically introduced them. I took Seagull to this bar.…”
Angelina burst out laughing. “Seagull?”
Tina helpfully explained the joke, which fitted nicely with her story: “Because, no offense, Adam, I got nominated to tell you, basically on behalf of everyone, to pull your head in a bit, which to be fair you have done, and she—Angelina—was there, in the bar, having a drink, and Sea … Adam … was like a rabbit in the headlights, so I said, ‘Play something on the piano.’ I mean, he wasn’t going to impress her by sounding off about databases.”
“Good advice,” said Angelina.
“Then, after you’d gone, I had to tell him who you were.”
“You told him who I was? He said he’d never heard of me.”
History was already being rewritten.
“Not until I told him. Of course, he was gobsmacked. Anyway, I could see where it was going. I walked out and, well, here you are.”
“Thank you,” said Angelina. “You were right: without the piano, I wouldn’t have been interested.” She smiled. “And that might have been a mistake.”
* * *
“Not bad for computer nerds and insurance clerks?” I said as we joined the throng heading into the racecourse proper.
“They were great. Especially Tina. Considering you dumped her for me. Seagull.”
“I suppose lawyers would be doing something a bit more salubrious.”
Angelina pulled an envelope from her handbag—red and black to match her dress—and passed it to me.
“We’re about to find out.”
“I thought you said no to the corporate events.”
“Dad gave me these. He can’t go—conflict of interest. It’s one of the big law firms. Law’s different.”
I opened the envelope. Angelina apparently had not done so. Because with the tickets was a note. Tony: If you can’t make it, feel free to give these to your famous daughter. She’ll be a lot more decorative than you.
* * *
We were in one of the corporate marquees, in what was called the Birdcage, with no view of the actual races. It was all about the drinking and socializing, and I was grateful that I had gone easy on the bubbly at breakfast. Though Angelina knew only a couple of the guests, and then only vaguely, she still had plenty of attention.
The lawyers were predominantly male, from sharp-suited thirty-somethings to overweight barristers with double-breasted jackets unbuttoned in the heat. They were louder and more intoxicated than our morning group. Even with me at Angelina’s side, and the presence of wives and colleagues, a few were a bit boorish.
The women were dressed to the nines in hats and high heels, perhaps more expensively than the car park crowd, but no less flamboyantly.
My accent led me into a conversation with one of them who was considering a move to the UK. Angelina excused herself to circulate, and the woman and I were well into the London housing market by the time she returned.
“I’m going to put a bet on,” she said. “Are you coming?”
“I’m not a gambler.”
“Come on—what about the roses you sent me?”
“Seemed like a sure thing to me.”
“Lucky you don’t gamble, then. But you have to have a bet on the Cup. Pick a horse.”
I scanned the whiteboard with its list of the twenty-three starters.
“Empire Rose.”
Angelina held out her hand and I gave her ten dollars.
“Each-way bet. Five for a win, five for a place.”
“Wimp.”
The woman’s husband—a nice enough bloke who worked in patent law—had joined the real estate conversation by the time Angelina returned with my ticket.
“Who’d you back?” I asked.
“Hidden Rhythm. For a win.”
We watched the race on a TV screen mounted high in the air, in the sunshine, with delayed sound from all around the course and the cheering of the crowd making the commentary unintelligible. I had no idea which horse was winning or where mine was.
Near the finish, a jockey in a red cap streaked to the lead, the shouting and commentary rose to a crescendo, and a few moments later the place-getters were posted on the screen. Empire Rose was not among them, nor Hidden Rhythm. Nobody seemed to have backed the winner, an outsider named Tawrrific.
Angelina grabbed my arm. “Watch the tall guy.”
A big chap, probably mid-thirties, had turned away from his companion, a shortish, dark-haired woman of about the same age, and was shuffling through a bunch of betting tickets. He found the one he was looking for, tapped his lady, and gave it to her. Her expression lit up, and for the next few minutes we all shared in the glory: twenty dollars on the winner at 30-to-1. Six hundred dollars—more than enough to buy champagne all round.
As the winning lady toured the tent pouring the spoils, my patent attorney friend filled us in.
“Eloise Ditta. Divorce lawyer. Supposed to be a ball-breaker. If you’re bitter, get Ditta.”
Angelina smiled. “Who’s the husband?”
“No idea,” said the patent attorney. “Why?”
“I was behind him in the bookie’s queue. He put twenty dollars on every horse in the race.”
I did a quick calculation. “Bloody hell—four hundred and sixty dollars. Not great odds.”
“I suppose not.”
Later, Angelina joined a bunch of other celebrities to judge Fashions on the Field and I had time to reflect. What sort of life did Angelina want? The car park or the members’ enclosure? Would she rather be the hard-nosed divorce lawyer or the celebrity fashion judge? I had not sensed any envy toward Eloise: her win, her job, even being the center of attention. There was just that moment of admiration for the guy who had backed every horse in the Melbourne Cup to ensure his wife would win.
* * *
“Part Three: Name one winner of the Melbourne Cup.”
“Phar Lap,” said Derek.
“Hang on,” I said. “Do you know what year? Because that’ll be Part Four. That’s how this guy works.”
“Correct,” said Sheilagh.
“Jeez. Nineteen thirty something?”
“Tawrrific, 1989,” I said. “At thirty to one.”
“What do you need me for?” said Derek.
“There must be a song about it,” said Stuart. “But I sense a disturbance in the Force.”