CHAPTER SIX

Although it was a good place for daydreaming and people watching, I didn’t always use the bus. I also owned a three-year-old Audi A4 Quattro. I think to the majority of the female half of the population that won’t mean much, and to be honest I’m with them on that. My wife was the car-mad half of our partnership, being weird that way. She loved cars, football and boxing. I could do the football bit, the boxing I never understood the point of, and cars to me were really just about getting from A to B.

When I first met Lindsay I was driving a ten-year-old Honda Civic, in my opinion a perfectly acceptable and very reliable vehicle. (I remember that I said those exact words to her on our second date. I daresay that if we’d had that conversation on our third date, we might not have had our first shag.) Anyway, she had just taken a large mouthful of wine and choked. Some of the wine dribbled out of her nose (attractive or what?) as she coughed and spluttered. That was when I started to learn more about Lindsay and cars. She owned a bright red (every car had to be bright red for her) Mercedes SLK convertible, and the insurance costs at the time for her must have been huge – she was only twenty-four. Soon after, she traded it for a BMW 1 series and just before we got married, that was traded for the Audi. (Note the car lingo, ‘traded’: Lindsay taught me that.)

The Audi for Lindsay was an acknowledgment of her becoming an adult; it had room for five grown-ups. One night, not long after our wedding when we were out and had, just for a change, drunk too much, she tried to explain her theory about cars with five seats in a sexy slurry voice. I was daft enough to listen – probably because she had a sexy slurry voice. Blokes love sexy slurry voices, especially when they belong to their wives.

‘Cars with five seats are either for a mummy, daddy and two kids in child seats, because after the child seats are installed there’s no room really for anyone else, or for the catholic family with three kids – but in reality that wouldn’t work because if you had three kids the boot wouldn’t be big enough for all the stuff, and you would need to move up to an SUV or a weird family car like the Renault Espace. No, what really happens in cars with five seats is that you have space for mummy, daddy and baby. Then if you need help there’s room for your mother, or if you are really posh, an au pair, though she would probably demand to sit in the front.’

Lindsay paused and I could see her alcohol-fogged mind whirring. ‘When we have our baby, I think we could afford a nanny, or an au pair, especially if I went back to work full-time. What do you reckon?’

I nodded and smiled, agreeing to anything as long as the sexy slurry voice kept talking. ‘Yeah, probably.’

She misinterpreted my contented expression, probably because in my inebriated state it resembled a leer.

With an aggressive change to her voice she said, glaring at me, ‘Then the cow would want to shag my husband and that would definitely cause some problems, and if she was nice-looking then you’d probably want to shag her back.’ Lindsay paused with tears in her eyes. ‘I can’t believe you want to shag the au pair; we’ve only been married a few weeks, and you are cheating on me already.’

I remembered, unsuccessfully, trying to work out where the sexy voice had gone and how the hell I’d ended up in this conversation, especially in the middle of a busy bar. Lindsay stomped off out of the pub in a huff. I chased after her, the cool air only accentuating the effect of the wine we had drunk. ‘Lindsay, what’s the matter?’

She turned to face me. ‘You’re the matter. Shagging the fucking au pair, and we’ve not even got a baby yet.’ Three youths walked passed jeering at us arguing.

‘Lindsay, stop shouting. I haven’t shagged the au pair, I wouldn’t shag the au pair. We haven’t even got an au pair.’

Lindsay considered this new information for a moment. ‘I know, but you would, wouldn’t you?’ She pointed her finger at me accusingly, her eyes blazing. ‘She’d be a little blonde thing, twenty-two, over from California or Thailand for work experience and she’d make sure she was alone with you when I was out, and slowly wheedle her way in, seduce you, then before you know it, I’d come home and catch the two of you. She’s got her knickers off and your hand’s up her skirt. I’ve seen it before, happens all the time.’ She turned and stomped off again.

I couldn’t help smiling now. I doubted very much she’d seen it before, and I also doubted it happened all the time, maybe in porn-land it might happen all the time, but not to me, and not in Edinburgh. Also I wasn’t sure anyone coming from Thailand would be blonde, and I didn’t think ‘wheedle’ was a word.

Eventually I caught up with my wife and promised that we simply wouldn’t employ an au pair and the problem would never happen. We flagged down a taxi and, thankfully, Lindsay fell asleep as soon as the door closed.

So that was how a discussion about cars ended up with me shagging an imaginary au pair. The image was not unappealing but a complete fantasy. Every day some memory would find its way to the front of my mind. It might be something I saw, smelt, or heard, like a song, and I would instantly be transported back to some event or incident connected with Lindsay. I had to admit they had become less common over the last few months as time moved on.

I was brought back to reality as it was my stop and time to get off the bus. I squeezed past a double buggy with cute twins, waited for the doors to open and plodded up the hill toward the office. I stopped at a small bakery for a fruit scone and a sandwich for later. The sunny morning had disappeared behind dark clouds and rain looked likely. I hated it when the weather forecasters got it right.

I ran the gauntlet of good mornings – seventeen on that particular day, which must have been a new record – and sat at my desk, switched on the computer and stared at my computer screen waiting for the log-in procedure to finish. My job at Perennial Mutual was Regional Risk Assessor, known internally as RRA. Whenever I said that it sounded incredibly dull, and to be honest it was incredibly dull, but it was a secure job that paid well.

I didn’t ever set out to be an RRA. Who does? I was awarded a second class BA in Business, by my third-class university, attended a recruitment day sponsored by Perennial Mutual, and before I knew it I was employed as a Regional Risk Assistant, known internally as RRa, note the small ‘a’, a very important distinction within the firm. Several years later, my elderly boss dropped dead of a heart attack whilst skiing in Biarritz and Bob’s your auntie, I’m promoted.

I’d discovered that huge companies hate the word ‘risk’. It doesn’t matter to them that what you do is largely ineffectual and irrelevant, the fact you have the word ‘risk’ attached to your job title gave you gravitas and credibility. Perennial Mutual, known by staff as PM due to Perennial Mutual being a bit of a mouthful, was no different in that respect. The PM bit had led to some distractions for bored staff and I had heard it referred to as Pre-Menstrual, Pretty Mental, Poor Money and Post-Modernism by a trainee actuary who went to art school.

Most people regretted asking me what I did for a living, because after less than twelve seconds (and I’ve timed it) their eyes would glaze over and they would rather be sticking needles in their genitals than continuing the conversation. I’d taken to just telling them that I opened envelopes all day long. That way they are never sure whether to believe me or not. The wonderful thing about that is that kids believe me. One of Amy’s little friends had an older brother called Kieran, and whenever I saw him he would ask me how many envelopes I’d opened that day. I always told him some astronomical number that he could not, with his ten-year-old brain, possibly comprehend, like three hundred and fourteen thousand twelve hundred and three. I always tried to end in a three for continuity.

In reality I’d always seen my job as a means to an end. It provided me with something to do during the day so I didn’t get too bored, I got paid reasonably well and it was a decent environment to make friends and meet new people, hell it was here that I had met Lindsay. If I hadn’t have been working here I would never have set eyes on her, and we would never have got together. Lindsay, incidentally, didn’t like the envelope story much, as she thought it was demeaning, which made me use it more and more – but I’m a bloke and annoying that way.

These days I had my own office and didn’t sit in the open-plan arrangement anymore. I picked up the phone and dialled Jamie’s number. A chirpy female voice answered. The voice belonged to Meredith, whose high-pitched tone sounded like it belonged to a 16-year-old school-leaver. In actual fact, Meredith was seventy-one years old, had more stubble on her chin than me after four days without shaving and wore wire spectacles held together by Sellotape. She had gone to work for the council after retiring from a bank. I was not sure why they hired her as there were scores of young unemployed kids begging for jobs. I believe she benefited from some obscure council policy of positive discrimination for older workers. As always, her first response was that Mr Reitano was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. I’d learned over the years from calling Jamie that arguing with Meredith was pointless. I knew three things for sure:

• Jamie never had meetings in his office because there was nowhere to hold a meeting in his ‘office’. It consisted of one small room with a tiny toilet cubicle they shared with Madame Gonzo, a spiritualist who rented the shop next door. Jamie worked for Edinburgh District Council and headed up a department called ‘Edinburgh Resource Distribution’. The title sounded very grand but in reality he had responsibility for himself and Meredith. His principal role was to find and allocate housing, charity funds or benefit entitlements to those unable to navigate the complex systems for themselves. He always met the people he was trying to help away from his office.

• It was 10 a.m. and Jamie would be in Starbucks catching up on his emails and drinking a crappy frappe latte or something.

• He’d have a hangover from drinking red wine the night before.

I left a message and hung up. Thirty minutes later my mobile rang and Jamie’s gruff voice asked, ‘Andy, what’s happening?’

‘Just the usual, Jamie: running after Amy, trying to work and keeping lots of balls in the air.’

‘How is Amy?’

I knew Jamie wasn’t really interested in how Amy was, he just asked as he thought it was the right thing to do. Jamie and his girlfriend Molly had no kids, well, not yet anyway, so his comprehension of what it meant to be a parent was limited. I didn’t hold that against him. It wasn’t that long ago that I was as clueless about kids as he was.

‘Amy’s good, Jamie, a pain in the arse just now, but I understand that’s normal.’

‘Look, Molly was saying last night that you haven’t been over to the flat since. . . .’ The pause on the line made me smile. Jamie was not good at dealing with personal issues such as my widowerhood. It was ironic given his skill at manipulating the system for all the underprivileged and lost causes he dealt with on a daily basis.

I bailed him out. ‘. . . since Lindsay died. I know, Jamie, don’t worry about it. I’ll get over soon, I promise. I’m actually calling for some advice.’

‘Advice?’ I could hear Jamie’s incredulity on the other end of the phone. ‘I thought you were financially ok after Lindsay died. I mean, to be honest, Andy, I’m not sure that the sort of accommodation I can get would suit you, it’s all a bit . . . well . . . crap I suppose.’

I laughed out loud on the phone, partly because he’d misunderstood my request and partly because he’d described the accommodation he secured for his waifs and strays as ‘crap’. ‘I hope you do a better sales job than that when you meet your prospective tenants.’

‘Yeah, well. You have different . . . standards.’

I laughed again. ‘Oh yeah, I forgot I’m a hopeless capitalist.’

It was Jamie’s turn to laugh, ‘OK then, I’m assuming from your tone that you aren’t looking for access to my office’s professional services?’

I smiled at the picture in my head of Jamie and Meredith squeezed into their tiny space. ‘No, I need to ask you an IT question.’

‘IT? Is there nobody in your office who can handle that stuff?’

Good point. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind. That would’ve been a better option. Never mind, too late now.

‘Yeah probably, but I know you are up on this sort of stuff and need to know something – is it possible to send emails from the past?’

‘Eh?’

This was going to be difficult, I’d decided at the last minute not to tell Jamie about the emails from Lindsay, he’d probably think I’d lost the plot.

‘OK, I’ve been receiving some emails from a company that no longer exists, it closed down years ago, but the emails appear to be current.’

‘Eh?’

For someone with a brain capacity the size of Wales, my friend’s vocabulary was surprisingly limited at times.

‘All I need to know Jamie is, is it possible for someone, or some company to set something up that means that emails are delayed from being sent by say a week, or a month?’

This time there was no response, no more ‘Eh’s’ thankfully. I took that to be a good sign and that he was actually thinking. He could of course have put the phone down with boredom and wandered off somewhere, to the other side of his expansive office or out for a sandwich I suppose, but I assumed he was thinking. Jamie liked to think.

‘Well, if you had someone good, who knew what they were doing, then, yes, you could do that. I’m not sure why you would want to – but, yes, it could be done.’
That was all I needed to know, Lindsay was very good at her job.

Jamie continued. ‘You just need to build in a delay so that the email is only sent on a pre-determined date in the future. What’s this all about?’

‘I’m not altogether sure,’ I replied, which was the first honest answer I’d given him. ‘I’ll let you know when I find out,’ I lied. ‘One more thing, how can I check when the actual email was written?’

‘Well that bit’s pretty easy, you just go to the file section of the email, click on properties and it should show you when it was modified, and that would give you a date.’

‘Thanks, Jamie, I just wanted to make sure that what is happening is technically possible.’

‘Well, yeah, it is technically quite easy, but it sounds like it’s worrying you, Andy. Maybe you should report it to your IT people and see if they can stop the source, but you need to make sure it isn’t being done via different service providers.’

‘Eh?’ My turn to lose the power of speech.

‘We recently dealt with some cyber bullying in one of our case conferences.’

I smiled as two visions flashed into my head: Jamie and Meredith sitting huddled round a manila file in Starbucks discussing one of his clients, and then Meredith being smacked over the head with a miniature plastic Cyberman from ‘Doctor Who’. Maybe that was how her glasses kept getting broken.

Jamie was oblivious to my visions and explained with a sigh. ‘Basically a service provider is a company that allows you access to email, there are thousands of them, but if we are talking UK only and assuming only the free ones would be used, you are probably looking at a few hundred. That includes your AOL, Yahoo!, Gmail and so on. . . .’

I was silent for a moment thinking it through. ‘OK, thanks Jamie, that was very informative. I’ll let you get back to your busy day.’

I promised to go over to his flat soon, something that I would put off for as long as possible. Jamie was my best friend, but going over to his flat for dinner with him and his girlfriend Molly felt desperate in some way. I’m not sure why – maybe because they were a couple and it would be a painful reminder of what I had lost.

Lindsay and I had sometimes hung out with Jamie and Molly and maybe it was the reminder of good times I was shying away from, but maybe I was simply over-thinking everything as usual. All I knew was that I wanted to avoid going there, and I didn’t try to analyze it any further at that point.

After I hung up the phone I sat back in my seat to ponder on the conversation. Jamie had rightly detected I was worried, but I wasn’t worried about cyber bullying – although part of me wondered if what Lindsay was doing could be construed as such? I imagined her smacking me over the head with a plastic Cyberman and smiled. It was comforting to think that my contact with Lindsay wasn’t finished. The problem with death is its finality. One minute there is this living, breathing presence and the next you are left with nothing except memories. The fact that there was still going to be some contact from her excited me. It meant it wasn’t the end. I knew, of course, that it would be a one-way conversation. But for me, for now, that was enough.

I allowed my memory to drift back to the first time I ever set eyes on Lindsay. It had been early one morning on 10 February 2009. I knew that because I recorded it on my Outlook calendar. She was working on some IT thing – she called it an ‘SS Rebooting Upgrade’, which sounds like something Hitler might have done if he was still around. I only remember that because I’d entered it on my calendar as well (must have been a slow day).

It was a quirky way to meet, because after being on holiday for a week I’d sat down at my desk with a large latte from Starbucks, switched on my computer and tried to log on to the company network. Suddenly there was a scuffling noise from under my desk and her head popped up between my knees, dark hair falling over her eyes.

I’d quickly glanced around the open-plan office to see if everyone had a pretty girl under their desk, just in case it was a new company perk which had been introduced while I’d been away, but everybody else seemed to be bereft of such a benefit.

She smiled up at my puzzled face and explained she was doing the SS thing, and I wouldn’t be able to log on for at least an hour. And that was it. No lightning bolt, no romantic meeting during a thunderstorm. Just a pretty face staring up at me from between my knees – a wonderful male fantasy moment, except we had our clothes on. She probably sensed this because she soon stood up and asked me to move away so she could work properly on whatever it was she was doing.

Thankfully she was working on the ‘Main Hub Node’ which just happened to be situated under my desk, and had to come back to that point on a regular basis throughout the week. This meant I had time to work up the courage to ask her out. Thank God for Main Hub Nodes and whoever their inventor was because it took me four days and six hours to do so. She told me later that she didn’t actually need to be there on the Friday, but just came back to see me and if I hadn’t have asked her out, she would have left the office and never have seen me again, which would have been a shame, especially for Amy who wouldn’t exist.

My desk phone rang to rudely pull me back to reality and remind me that I was actually supposed to be working. I spent the rest of the day trying to be productive but my mind kept drifting back to Lindsay and her email.

Then at three o’clock I received another shock. My phone pinged telling me I had a new text and when I read it I could hardly believe what I was seeing.