Paul breezed in on another cold draft.
“Sorry I’m late.” He bent to plant a chilly kiss on her cheek. “It’s supposed to be summer and it’s freezing out there tonight. Couldn’t get the car started and had to wait ages for a taxi.”
“You’re always late and I’m used to it by now, so stop stressing.”
“Do you want another drink?” He threw his overcoat on the chair next to her and looked down at the table. “What are you on? Gin and tonic?”
“I think I’ve had enough already. This is my second.” The fact it had been a double she kept to herself.
“Well have another and it’ll loosen your tongue over dinner.” Sometimes it's easier not to argue with Paul.
“Stan,” he shouted through to the landlord. “Your services are required herewith, forthwith, and with whatever other with you can think of.”
“Paul! You’ve been drinking!”
“Would I do a thing like that?” He turned and winked at her from the bar. “Or would you come to that?”
“Two more G & T’s, my old man. Is our table ready yet?”
“I'm not your old man and your table’s been ready for half an hour.” Stan was back to his moribund self. “Go through when you want, but don’t take long about it. It’s Sunday and we shut at half past ten in case you’ve forgot. I’ll put your drinks on the bill.”
Paul started to sing. “Happiness, happiness…”
“Shut up you idiot or he’ll hear you and we won’t get a drink after closing time.”
“You’re right, Brig. Let’s drink this quick and go and eat before I fall over?”
When they'd finished their drinks, Paul stood up and picked up their empty glasses with one hand. “Should have been a barman me, look at that.” He was holding them with just two fingers inside the rim.
“Put them down before you drop them, idiot.” That would please Stan. Brigitte got up and opened the door. “Come on or we’ll be getting fish and chips from the chippie instead.” Paul followed her down the short hallway. A buzz of voices and the smell of cigarette smoke drifted from the bar as they passed by the open-arched entrance. Brigitte caught a glimpse of the man. He was talking to a woman with blonde hair. For some inexplicable reason she felt a stab of jealousy.
“It’s quiet in here tonight.” Paul commented as they sat down in the dining room. “I thought it would be busier, all queuing up for their roast dinner.”
“We’re a bit late, that’s why Stan rushed us through. The kitchen closes soon so they can get everyone out on time.”
“That’ll be a first then.” He laughed, “Are you having your usual? I think I will.”
“Yes, the prawn cocktail and roast beef to follow. Plain and simple just like me.”
“The least you are is those two things. In fact, I’d hedge a bet you’re probably the most complicated woman to ever cross my path.” He's off on the same track again and I'm just not in the mood. A picture of a pair of blue eyes under dark eyebrows flitted through her mind.
“Thanks very much, I’ll keep that compliment for future reference. Do you know what you’re eating? The waitress is on her way and she doesn’t look happy.”
“Never mind the food, let’s sort out the most important first. What wine are we having? Do you want a bottle of that nice Spanish plonk we had last time we were here. What was it called, I’ve forgotten?”
“Sangre de Toro. Don’t tell me as well as your hair going white your brain cells are dying off too?”
“Touché. I deserved that. Isn’t it the same waitress as we had last time? No wonder she’s not looking pleased. We were here till well after midnight. Stan had to throw us out. Remember?”
“We left her a big tip and if she doesn’t smile she won’t get one this time.” Brigitte leaned over and whispered across the table, “Maybe she fancies you and she’s jealous.”
Paul’s loud explosive laugh raised heads at the other tables. “Oh Brig, you’re just too much. Do you think so?” He gave the girl his best smile as she took out her order pad. “Two prawn cocktails for starters and I’ll have a brown bread roll and butter with mine. Do you want one, Brigitte?”
“No, not for me.”
“We’ll follow those with two of your best roast beef and a bottle of that red Spanish stuff, por favor, please.” He really put on the charm as he ordered their food. Brigitte couldn’t help but smile. He’d believe anything. The waitress stayed straight-faced and, like a naughty school girl, Brigitte had to stifle a giggle as she walked away.“So are you going to tell me or am I going to have to hypnotize you at the table to get it out of you?”
They’d chatted about anything and everything apart from why she’d called. They’d eaten their starters and the main course had been served. Now she didn’t feel like talking. The carrots on her plate had developed enough fascinating characteristics to keep her enthralled. They left an open track of white plate in the gravy as she slid them round and round with her fork. She wondered who the man in the bar was keeping company with and hoped it was more interesting than hers.
“Brigitte Anders! Don’t tell me you’ve dragged me out here on a Sunday night and have now decided to avoid the issue.”
“No Paul, I was just thinking how to explain it without you deciding to send me to the nearest psychiatrist.”
“Nothing can be that bad. I know you’re perfectly sane. Stressed, yes, but off your rocker, I don’t think so.”
It wasn’t easy to admit to him all the things that had been happening. It took her half an hour to recount the details of the dream: the sensation of a presence, the night fantasies and the coincidence of the internet presentation. He didn’t say a word throughout and the last ten minutes he’d sat, twiddling with the stem of his wineglass while he listened.
“Paul, you’re too quiet, you’re worrying me.”
He leaned back in the chair, legs stretched out underneath the long white tablecloth.
“Don’t start looking all pensive and moody. You’re making me nervous.”
The waitress had cleared their empty plates what seemed like ages ago. Brigitte’s discarded napkin lay on the table in a knot. She picked it up and twisted the white linen through her hands again. A wisp of black smoke drifted upward from the soot-stained oil lantern. The flame flickered, and then died. It's run out of fuel. And I know just how it feels. “Oh, for goodness sake Paul, spit it out will you, what do you think?”
“What do I think? I’m glad that napkins not my neck is what I’m thinking!”
“Can you be serious, because I don’t feel like being silly.” She was tempted to throw the tortured cloth at him.
“Shall we go and have a brandy in the bar. Then we can work out what we’re going to do with you.”
“Now who’s avoiding the issue?”
“Not me, Brigitte, I just need a few minutes to get it all in perspective and after two bottles of wine, believe me, it’s not that easy.”
“It doesn’t look as if we’ll get a table in here.” Paul said as he pushed his way into the bar. “Where have all these people come from?”
“Somewhere else. Look, there’s one free in the corner. I’ll grab it and you get the drinks.”
Brigitte left him to scrummage his way to the bar. Even though she hadn’t looked at him she could feel the stranger’s eyes on her as she crossed the room. Tipsy she might be, but she hoped he’d keep on looking.
“You were quick getting served”
“Looks like supersonic Stan’s after an early night.”
“Careful, Paul! You almost spilt that on top of me.”
The brandy sloshed in the fish-bowl glasses as he thumped them down on the table.
“I think I tripped on a bump in the carpet, but somebody’s moved it.” He said, sticking his head under the table..
“You mean you can’t walk straight.”
“Excuse me,”
They both looked up. It was the black haired stranger with the sexy accent.
/>
“Sorry to interrupt.” He didn’t look very sorry.
“We’re just leaving and I wanted to give you this. You might need it soon, Brigitte. Please take it.” He handed her a white card. “Anytime, if there’s anything you need, just call. I’ll be waiting.” Brigitte couldn’t take her eyes off him. “Don’t forget will you. If you need to, call me. Enjoy the rest of your evening. Goodnight.”
He was gone before she’d had a chance to decide if his last comment had really held a trace of sarcasm or if it’d just been her intoxicated imagination. It took a moment longer for her to register the fact that he bore a striking resemblance to the man of her nightmares.
Paul broke their stunned silence. “Who was that?”
“How am I supposed to know? He stuck his head in the bar earlier while I was waiting for you. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
“Look at the card then, you daft mare. I might be one over the eight, but my brain cells are still working. Not like some I could mention.”
“There’s nothing on it, just a name, Jack Jamieson and a phone number. It’s not even printed. It’s written by hand.”
“Then that’s the cheekiest pick-up line I’ve ever heard. The face of him! Especially when it’s quite obvious you’re with me.”
“Is it?” She laid it on thick. “He was very handsome, wasn’t he? Reminded me of a...” The drink had gone to her head and she needed to think a minute. “A well-dressed gypsy. All sort of dark and mysterious. He even had an earring and everything.”
“Stop being a tease, Brig. Are you going to phone him?”
“Why would I phone him, Paul?” She slipped the card into her bag out of the way. “Let’s just forget it. Now will you tell me what you think before we get thrown out?”
Paul took a large swig of his brandy, “I’ll be honest, I’m not sure all this is my field. You’re probably suppressing something. Maybe the after-effects of your divorce, stress or it could just be lack of sex.”
“Very funny, but I’m still not going to bed with you.”
“Well it was worth a try, wasn’t it? The truth is, I’m a bit at a loss. I’d still like to give the past life regression another go though. You never know, we might come up with something that’ll help.”
“For once, I think, I’ll agree with you. It’s not going to make it worse anyway.”
“Do you want to come in tomorrow?”
“No. Let’s wait a couple of days. I don’t fancy doing back-to-the-past with a hangover. You’ve had far too much to drink to drive home. Shall I get Stan to call you a taxi?”
Paul leant across the table and took Brigitte’s hand. He turned it palm up and traced across the soft skin with his fingertip. “I was sort of planning on walking you home.”
“Oh, were you?”
He drew her hand up to his mouth and planted a sloppy kiss on it. She tried really hard not to cringe.
“Will you behave, you drunken sod. It’s a good job I don’t take you seriously. Stan! Taxi for one, please.”
Stan nodded without comment and shuffled off to make the call. A few minutes later he was back behind the bar and held up his hands, all ten fleshy digits extended.
“Get your jacket on, Paul. The taxi will be here in ten minutes. Let’s go and wait outside till it comes. The fresh air will sober you up.”
“I don’t need to be sober. I just need to be loved.” Paul’s words were slurred and he almost fell over as he tried to stand up. Brigitte couldn’t help but laugh at him as she herded him out of the door. The cool of the night air hit him like a slap in the face. He swayed a little and just to make sure he didn’t topple over, Brigitte linked her arm in his.
“I hope you’ve got some paracetamol in the house. Mixing gin, wine and brandy you’re going to have a serious headache in the morning.”
The headlights of an approaching vehicle illuminated the tarmac of the car park. “That was quick. You’re taxi’s here already.” The car pulled to a stop. Brigitte opened the rear door and bundled Paul onto the back seat. “Take him home, please,” she said to the driver then bent down and kissed Paul on the cheek. “And I’ll call you later in the week.” She shut the door on his muffled reply and stood and watched the red tail-lights of the departing taxi until they’d disappeared in the darkness. Walking the short distance home her thoughts weren’t of Paul, but of the enigmatic stranger, Jack.
Jack sat, in the pitch dark, in his car in the far corner of The Roses car-park. Amazing. It's her. The woman. I'm sure of it. The state they're in they’ll never see me. Her friend's staggering drunk. She's holding him up, but he's making the most of it. Obviously not one to miss an opportunity. Throwing his arms around her shoulders, trying to kiss her. Still, she's holding him off well. Jack smirked. I hope she slaps his face. More’s the pity she hasn't. He slid lower in his seat when the strong beam of a pair of headlights swept across the car park. Observed as she bundled her friend into the taxi and stood peering after it as it drove away.
Oh, that’s good. Jack was pleasantly surprised, but pleased he’d made an impression. You’d be thinking about me, would you? Time to play. Well, I’m right behind you... He smiled when she glanced quickly over her shoulder and then scurried across the car park as if she had all the demons of hell after her.
Must be the luck of the Irish? Or not? Anne, the organizer of the Holistic fair, had booked him a room in the village where she lived. It’d be easier, she’d said, for sorting out any last minute problems. He couldn’t have hoped for more. He’d known the second the woman had walked in the pub. His whole body had vibrated with the strength of the psychic connection. However he’d imagined her, she wasn’t what he’d been expecting. She was different. On all scores he’d have to wait and see how things developed. He had time. He was going nowhere. Whistling quietly to himself, he left the car, went back into The Roses and up to his room.
Chapter 6
Brigitte shifted and tried to settle. The cracked leather on the old sofa in Paul’s office creaked its protest. “Do you have to fiddle with the camera so much, Paul? You’re making me nervous.” He's hypnotized me loads of times, but I just can't relax.
“Lay back and think of England. That’ll take your mind off it.”
“Thanks, you're full of bright ideas.” She did as he said, just in case it worked and looked up at the white expanse above her head. “There’s a crack in the ceiling. Which, by the way, could do with a coat of paint. Ten dead flies and dust all over the light fitting. Can’t you point that thing in a different direction?”
“If I point it at the wall would it make you feel better?”
“Maybe. It’ll make a more interesting subject.”
“My, aren’t we bitchy today. While I remember, guess what I found out?”
“I’m not photogenic? How the hell am I supposed to know, Paul?”
“Don’t be so touchy, Brig. It really doesn’t become you. I was in The Roses yesterday lunch time…”
“Again! My God, you’re a glutton for punishment.”
“I know.”
“Don’t bother with your little boy lost look either, I’m immune to it. I haven’t recovered from Sunday yet and you’ve been out on another session?”
“No seriously, I stopped by to have a word with Stan.”
“About what,”
“Your friend...”
“You did what?” Brigitte sat straight up. “I can’t believe you, Paul. What on earth did you do that for?” It dawned on her. “Don't tell me you're jealous?”
“Just protecting my interests. Do women ever listen without interrupting?”
“No. Are you going to keep me in suspense?” This is like squeezing juice out of a lemon. I've to know something more about that man. “Well, did you find out who he was?”
“The name Jack Jamieson really doesn't ring a bell?”
His, I know more than you routine is really getting on my nerves. A swift kick would sort him out. “Other than ma
king him sound like an Irish whiskey magnate.”
“The name really doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“No, can’t say as it does.”
“Well, when we’ve finished this session I’ll tell you what he does. Now lay back, relax and try to empty your mind. Which, considering the way you are today, shouldn’t be too difficult!”
Sometimes I just hate him.
“Brigitte,”
The voice called. Rousing her, summoning her back from the depths of a profound blackness. She squinted against the bright light in Paul’s clinic, then blinked, trying to get her vision back to normal.
“Welcome back to the world of the living. Are you okay?” Paul’s face hovered over her, blurred and concerned. “Drink this.” He offered her a glass of water. She was still lost in some far off limbo-state and didn’t respond. “Can you hear me? Brigitte?” It was an effort for her to nod. “Try sitting up.” He perched beside her on the padded arm and the sofa groaned in a sighing exhalation of stale air. His fingers swept across her forehead brushing away the stray hairs which had fallen onto her face. “Brig, it’s nearly lunchtime. Why don’t we go to The Roses for a coffee and sandwich? We can come back later when you’ve recovered a bit more and watch the video then.” He stood up, went to fiddle with the camera and then switched it off.
“Is it that bad?”
“Let’s just say... it’s different. I think you’ll want to be feeling a hundred percent before you see it. Come on, grab your bag. I could do with a change of scene.”
“So tell me,” Brigitte stirred sugar into the dubious looking brown liquid in her cup. “Whose Jack when he’s at home?” She grimaced. “No wonder Stan doesn’t have many lunchtime customers, this is disgusting.” One sip of the lukewarm coffee was enough to confirm it tasted as bad as it looked.
“Do you want half a Guinness instead?”
“No, I’ll stick with this. I’m not in the mood for drinking. Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Curiosity got the better of you, has it? It seems your Mr Jamieson is a medium and pretty well known too. Oh good, here comes my favourite waitress with our sandwiches.”
“A medium, you’re having me on?”