A Lonesome Life

 Bob Green has always lived a solitary life. Born as an only child, he'd gone out of his way, much of the time, to be alone. He had nothing against people as such, he just found small talk, chatting about the weather, or celebrity gossip, tediously boring. Fortunately, Bob had an amazing imagination. So instead of real friends, especially as a young child, he created his own, in his head. Some of them existed only fleetingly, whereas others, namely Jackie, a girl he imagined with long red hair and green eyes, stuck around for years. Jackie was by far, Bob's favourite. He even called her his girlfriend. By convenient coincidence, she and he shared the exact same birthday. Growing up together, enjoying the same books and movies, they were almost inseparable. With Jackie there by his side, quite simply, Bob didn't need anyone else.

    Like all relationships, things weren't always perfect. Bob confesses that he wasn't the best communicator. He knew he bottled things up. Whereas Jackie on the other hand, she wore her heart on her sleeve. She said everything as it is, and barely never stopped talking. Together they were the stereotypical Ying and Yang perfect couple.

    Jackie, because she was such a bossy and controlling sort of friend, Bob rarely had the opportunity to go to school. She demanded he spent all his time at home with her. It worked fine, just about. Bob didn't like school very much anyway. He too would much rather be with Jackie instead. Getting older, Jackie would have been the same about work as well, if Bob hadn't put his foot down this is. He explained that without a job, he wouldn't be able to leave home and they'd never be alone together. After a night of fighting, Jackie eventually backed down. She said 'Bobby' could get a job after all.

    The very next day an interview was booked, working as a packer in a kitchenware supply company. Jackie insisted she came along with him for moral support. Bob agreed, on condition she kept her mouth shut.

    Getting dressed, Bob wore his only suit. It was black, double-breasted, and a little too short in the leg. Jackie, on the other hand, took the opportunity to wear her favourite dress. Made of silk, deep scarlet in colour, it plunged low at the front and even lower at the back. Bob particularly loved how tight and short it was. He also thought it totally inappropriate for an interview, but couldn't be arsed to argue.

    They held hands under the table throughout the entire interrogation. It all went swimmingly well. If the interviewer thought Jackie's dress was too short, he didn't mention it. If anything he didn't seem to even notice she was there. Lucky for Bob he was offered the job on the spot and was to start the following Monday.

    The first week flew by. Bob was busy but not so busy as to get stressed. It was useful too that Jackie was there to help. She even came up with one or two ideas that made Bob more efficient, something that didn't go unnoticed by his manager.

    About three months into his role, Bob's confidence had reached new heights, meaning he needed Jackie far less often. Soon, she was only there during lunch. If the weather was good they went to the local park together, where they shared a bench and a round of cheese and pickle sandwiches.

    As more time passed he saw her less and less, until one day, Bob realised Jackie had disappeared altogether. He confessed to himself that he missed her, especially on birthdays. He continued writing her cards, leaving them on the table for her to open. They were still there, exactly as he'd left them, when returning home from work.

    Work continued to go well for Bob. Over years, he was promoted several times. With Jackie gone, he even managed a few girlfriends. The relationships, as fun as they all were, none of them lasted more than a year however. There certainly was never any sign of marriage or moving in together. One relationship broke down just before his 40th birthday. She said he was too immature and that they were going nowhere together. It hurt Bob.

    Having been with the same company so long, Bob was one day gifted a company car and yet another promotion. This step up the ladder made him 'Sales Executive' for the South West of England. Cornwall to Brighton and up to Guildford, with every town in between, was all his patch.

    With such a large area to cover, Bob was having to spend many a night away from home, usually staying in cheap hotels. Travellodges and Holiday Inns, as convenient as all they are, they're certainly not places for mental stimulation. It's whilst in bed alone in these characterless hotels that Bob sometimes missed Jackie. He wanted to contact her - ask her what she was up to, but because she'd never had a mobile phone or even an email address, there was simply no way of finding her. It was up to her to find him.

    There came a time one evening, Bob had just left St Austell. Having successfully sold a complete batch of cutlery and the fifty crockery sets of the 'Royal Emperor' (bone china, 2nd most expensive in his range) to a gastro pub owned by a TV chef. Bob was on high. Only two weeks into the month and he had already exceeded his target. Bob Green had something to celebrate, so rather than staying in a nondescript motel, he found himself a 'characterful' Inn with half a dozen rooms, in the heart of Bodmin.

   

     Booked ahead already, he made himself known at the reception desk and was swiftly shown to room No 2, by a young skinny man with a Somerset accent. After dropping bags, and putting his laptop on charge, he then promptly took the narrow staircase down the restaurant.

    As it was mid-week, the room, just big enough to seat twenty people, was almost empty. The table he took was in a large bay window facing out. Wine was ordered, red, French, and full-bodied. He then requested the 'special', pork with apple sauce, from the blackboard.

     Licking his lips, Bob took his first meaty sip of wine. Swallowing slowly, the Bordeaux, exactly the right temperature, was exquisite. It was very much in contrast with the room all around him. Everything in the restaurant looked dated, tired. The window in front of him had tiny unwashed leaded glass panes. It was framed by a set of dark purple velvet drapes. They were each held back by dusty gold rope tassels. Above, recessed into the low ceiling, was a multitude of ping-pong ball-sized spotlights. The only modern things in the entire restaurant, they shone light onto traditional-looking oil paintings, stags heads and farming paraphernalia no longer used. His parents might have found this place charming, but it certainly wasn't to Bob's taste. Any American tourist visiting would blow out their cheeks in pleasant surprise and marvel at how 'small' and 'quant' it all looked.

    Still partway through his meal, other diners, one by one, were leaving the restaurant. There was no music playing or any other background noise, thus the room was almost completely silent. A grandfather clock, hidden away in some far-off corner, ticked slowly. Tick tock, tick, tock.

    Bob suddenly became acutely aware that it was just he and one other person in the room. They were sitting off to his left, out of sight. He knew they were there only by the occasional chink of glass and the sound of pages turning in a book. Leading such a lonely life, Bob had few pleasures, but one of them was literature. It wasn't the highbrow stuff of course. Bob could never understand Shakespeare or Wordsworth. He was more a fan of thrillers, horrors. Give Bob a Stephen King or James Herbert novel and he'll be in his own little world for hours. He wondered what the book was the other person was reading.

    Dinner was finished now. The crackling, Bob left behind. He didn't want to risk breaking a tooth. The last few drops of wine were emptied into his glass. As he gulped it down, another page was turned, over on the table next to him. There came a mutter of words too. Although they were unintelligible, it was certainly a female's voice he heard. The woman sounded upset. Why? Looking first to his right, double checking there was no one else in the room, Bob then turned his head left.

    The woman he saw had her back to him. The very first thing he noticed was her mane of fire-red hair. It was long, curly. It almost reached down to her impossibly narrow waist. For some inexplicable reason, Bob was unable to turn away from her. He found himself staring, taking in the short, tight-fitting red dress. Completely out of place here in Bodmin, rural England, it looked familiar somehow, but for the life of him, Bob couldn't place where he'd seen it. Long moments passed. The woman continued on reading, as did her tearful whimpering. Her distress seemed to rise as time ticked on. Still mesmerised, Bob had hardly taken a breath. He watched as long slim fingers turned a page and then another. It continued on until she reached the end of a chapter, where, with a brief pause, she then slammed the hardback book closed. The noise seemed to echo about the room. It somehow made the grandfather clock miss a beat. When she pushed the book away, Bob was able to read the title, In The Ganges I lay, it read in large white font. The very sight of those words caused Bob to freeze. By shocking coincidence, it was the very first book he'd ever read. He remembered it was brilliant. Immediately memories of his dear, imaginary, friend, Jackie, came flooding back. Jackie loved that book too. They even took it in turns reading out loud to each other in bed, before going to sleep.

    Bob was still taking everything in when he suddenly remembered Jackie's most treasured dress, the red one. It was identical to what this young woman was wearing now. Bob tried to swallow but his throat had become desert dry. Was this Jackie? Was this the lover he hadn't seen for more than 30 years? Surely not. Even with her facing away from him, he could tell the woman could be no older than 20 years of age. Time must have stood still for her.

    Bob cleared his throat before speaking, 'Jackie?' Nothing. 'Jackie?' he said again, a little louder.

Still she didn't respond. Instead, leaving the book on the table, she came up onto her feet. Continuing to keep her face away from him, she then headed straight for the stairs and began climbing, slowly, one by one.

    It had to be her, thought Bob. 'Jackie' he said for the third time. 'It's me, Bobby, remember?' The woman this time did stop but just for a half second. She gave a tiny nod, an invitation for him to follow.  

    

    It was gone 13:00 the next day, when reluctantly the young man with the West Country accent, knocked on the door to room No 2. After knocking a 2nd time and still not getting a response, he took a breath and let himself in. The room was empty, the bed still made. On the floor was an unopened overnight bag, whilst on the nightstand, still on charge, was a laptop computer.

The room next door, No 1, told a completely different story. Also empty, here the bed had been slept in, covers and cushions were everywhere, signs of a struggle, a pillow fight maybe. In this room there was no luggage. There were no bags of any sort lying around. On the nightstand this time there was a hardback book, its title suggested it had something to do with India. All around the book were a multitude of birthday cards. They were addressed to Jackie. All of them came from the same person, someone called Bobby, he loved her dearly. The very last thing out of place was laying on the chair, an item of clothing of some sort. On closer inspection the man saw it was a dress. It was red, made of silk. The way it had been neatly folded, it looked like it was cared for, an item deeply treasured by someone.