The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Four

First, I type 'Oliver Alford' into Google. So the grinning suited twat was a banker. That much should probably have been obvious. He was 39 and had gone from being some executive at Barclays to being Vice President in charge of Overseas Investments & Capital at JP Morgan. Suddenly his shark-like smile took on a whole new meaning. She'd married a fucking banker. I'd never have imagined it. Not in a million years. I thought she'd marry some professor maybe, or a doctor perhaps, a scientist; someone smart and with fucking integrity. Never a fucking banker.

Over the years whenever I imagined what she might be doing, what she had done, and where she'd gone, I'd imagined her in France for some reason. Or Italy. Writing. In the garden of some vineyard sipping on a cool white wine. I'd known she'd become a writer, had even published a book because I saw it in a bookshop one day and almost knocked the stand over my hands had shaken so fucking much. I thought I might shit myself from how loose my entire body had turned at the sight of her name there in cool blue lettering on the cover.

I'd spent an hour reading it there - scanning the acknowledgements in case there was some cryptic message to some random guy from her past. Unsurprisingly there hadn't been any mention of a scrawny Northern Irishman she'd spoken to in a cafe once. There was only one acknowledgement. To my grandmother, Millie - The strongest, wildest woman I've ever known.

Eloise could write. Raw and immediate and sharp, but with a definite femininity to her prose, I could feel her come through her words. She wrote from a place inside her which was real. I'd bought a copy of her book 'A darkening light' and finished it the same night. Wasn't really my kind of book, bit emotional for my liking, but I'd enjoyed knowing it was her thoughts and words and feelings that had gone into it. It was a story about love, and fate and redemption. A sequel had been touted apparently. Film rights talked about.

What the fuck did Eloise Airens want with a fucking banker ten years older than her? I'd known she liked older men, I guess, the guy in the cafe had clearly been older, but what did she see in this twat? Apart from the fucking obvious of course: money.

Googling them both together was what I'd call a sobering experience. Glad I hadn't thought of doing it any less drunk. It drags up one wedding photo, apparently published in a women's magazine she'd worked for. The caption read: "Ladies, he's officially off the market! And we couldn't be happier for our girl!" Patronising cunts.

In the wedding photo Eloise was wearing a simple strapless cream dress made of lace, hair loose about her shoulders, a circular flower headband of purples and greens settled on top. She was holding a glass of champagne and smiling wide as Oliver Alford whispered something into her ear. He looks handsome I suppose. She looked beautiful beyond belief. More than that, she looked happy. Utterly, completely happy. For a moment, I lose myself in the idea of making her smile like that, making her happy like that. To be the cause of her being that fucking happy.

It was painful.

Alford looked smug of course. Couldn't blame him for it since he'd just married her. I'd have looked fucking smug too. Further research uncovers how they met. Eloise had interviewed Alford for an article called 'The Guys Who Run The World.' (He was apparently number 22 in a list of 50) and if the wedding article was to be believed they fell in love almost instantly, before marrying in an East Sussex castle eight months later. The article is three years old. Had I stumbled upon it earlier, two years ago, or even three, would I be coping better than I am now?

I knock back several long gulps from the bottle as I click on the link to the original article written by Eloise.

According to her, Oliver was 'charming and witty' and 'dresses like the million US dollars he made every hour.' If it was possible to hate him any more, it comes when I get to the part where she asks him what he looks for in a woman.