Lost in my Notebook

The first chapter of my new novel

I’m not great at writing, but I’d like to think I have some talent, if not talent then patience. After publishing my first novel I went through a lull in my energy for the craft. I still wrote a lot, but avoided committing to a novel. Hence all the short stories. Over the last month that energy has returned.

I started this Substack by releasing new chapters of my first attempt at a book (never published) every week or so. While I don’t intend on doing that for this new one, I’d like to share some extracts along the way. This is the opening chapter. Feel free to leave a comment, I always love to hear feedback, good, bad and ugly. Or start a conversation in the chat.

P.S for those of you who like my short stories I’ll be releasing a collection soon (hopefully before Christmas). And I’ll continue to write short stories when I have the inspiration and time.

It only takes a moment to change a life. One irrelevant minute can spring you into another world where the flowers are brighter and their scent stronger. Or their petals are dull and rotten. A single bar of music, a flicking frame of film, a line of literature, a touch of passion; these are the turntables that send us marching down a new path. And it's impossible to anticipate these fleeting moments. Each time anticipation crawls into the equation, no matter how subtle, if you embrace it or ignore it, these subtle moments lose their power to overcome life's inertia. 

And we should be thankful for it. Otherwise, we'd spend our life as a pair of forgotten socks in a washing machine. One unsuspected moment is all it takes to end the cycle, shattering monotony with a brush of a hand or a finger poke. 

If you're lucky, you might get a couple in your lifetime. For the unlucky, a handful will come your way, knocking you off kilter each time you haul yourself back to your feet. 

Last month, as summer beckoned me into shorts and linen shirts, I was hit by my first. 

Sunlight forced me into a squint as I leafed through the first couple of pages of A Picture of Dorian Grey. I'd picked up the damp scented, discoloured copy from a bookshop at the edge of town. A place you can't believe affords the rent. Somehow, it's been around since I was born. Regular visits award me a nod at the door from the decrepit owner, but nothing more because we have nothing to talk about. 

"Have you finished Gatsby yet?" He asked every day for four weeks after I picked up a copy. 

"Haven't started." 

In the fifth week, he stopped asking, and he's resorted to a firm nod ever since. He doesn't know I only read when I'm on the move. Maybe if I ever told him, he'd start asking questions again. Like why? The most challenging question one can be asked. And then I'd have to think because I hardly know myself. It's got something to do with the captivity or the motion. Or, more likely, the eyes around that I want to impress. That's always been one of my worst habits, zigging when everyone else is zagging. And never in a way that makes sense. I'd never read in a library or relax in a spa. Reading on a busy platform, surrounded by bowed heads and glowing screens though, that's right up my street.

I'd managed to lull myself into the rhythm of Oscar Wild, one of two classic writers I can stand (the other being Dostoevsky, don’t ask me why) when I felt a push on my shoulder. It wasn't a very hard push, more like a poke. Not firm enough to flood my blood with adrenaline but enough to lift my gaze and crease my brow. 

"Sorry," she said, smiling shyly. 

"No worries," I replied automatically, smiled, and returned my gaze to page twenty-two. But waiting for me wasn't page twenty-two. Pink nail varnish and dry knuckles took its place. Delicately pinched between index finger and thumb, a note written on an old receipt. 

"My train's about to leave. Do what you want with it," she said and left, placing the Sky Lounge receipt in the fold between pages twenty-two and three. A puff of warm air brushed my cheeks as I snapped the book shut. I looked up, tracing her between the crowd flowing from the recently arrived train. An ordinary pair of Levi jeans hugged her waist, a white T-shirt rippled in the breeze, and clean white trainers plotted their way between the flood of people. Her brown hair turned ginger where the late afternoon sunlight landed. She was my first moment. I knew then as I held my book in my clammy palm and boarded my train, heading in the opposite direction. Suddenly, it felt like the wrong one. 

The note is next to me now, as it has been since she placed it in the folds of chapter two. As it happens, I've not turned another page. Instead, I keep retracing the sentence neatly underlined by that ninety-six euro and fifty cent receipt. That is one of the great secrets of life, to cure the soul of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. By no means am I the most voracious reader. Gatsby is still waiting for me on the dock of his Rhode Island Mansion after five years. It's hard to get all that way when you only read when you're on the move. Unless, of course, I become a nomad. And I never claim to be a person of great intellect either. Average is what I am, plain and simple. But I've taken to dissecting that one line like a therapist listening to a recurring dream. Fate has handed me a sign on a plate, and to leave it unfinished would be disrespectful to my host. There are some things you aren't meant to realise before a designated time. Over the last week, going to and from work clutching my increasingly beaten copy of Dorian Gray, 

When I'm waiting on the platform, tired from a day of emails and meetings, I hear her voice. 

"Do what you want with it." It says, and I look up from page twenty-two. But no one is there, just a crowd of bowed heads. Then I look down again and read those heralded lines again, hoping their repetition might clear my confusion. Because that is what I have been, that is what reading one line over and over, and hearing voices does to you. It's what clinging to a book you aren't reading does. I'm lost, adrift, pushed into the middle of the sea by a single poke of a finger. 

Rain falls in heavy vertical lines on my journey home, snaking diagonally along the train windows. It's the type of rain that spoils everything within its reach. 

Crowds hover at the station exit, gauging the downpour, hunting for lighter batches in the sky, under which they might run home without drenching their summer suits and dresses. I tuck Dorian Gray under my jacket and lean forward as I run to protect him. After five minutes, I'm out of breath and drenched, but home. A trail of water follows me up the stairs, and I can taste the floral fragrance from my hair wax at the corner of my mouth. Dorian is soaked too. Each page melts into one another, and the ink from the receipt has run and split. The number scribbled on the back is a black river, curling between spoiled white banks. It's eligible. 

"Hello," she said, distracted. In the background, the sound of something sizzling in a pan. "Hello!" she repeats. Then, cutting above the sizzling and the drops of water dripping from my nose onto the laminate floor at my feet, a scream. Two screams. 

"Mum! Mum!" They shout, and I hang up. My stomach turns, and suddenly, my head aches with sleepless nights. Turning my phone between my fingers, I plot my next move. Outside, the rain continues. Umbrellas drift along the street, as though they're sticks in a current. I turn my phone again. 

I leave my sodden clothes in a pile by the washing machine and warm myself in the shower. ‘Do what you want with it.’ plays on a loop in my head, growing louder and more leading each time I remember the screams. My phone buzzes next to the sink as I dry myself and shave three days worth of stubble from my face. I still have adolescent patches on my cheek and under my chin. Raindrops drum on my window, and the smell of garlic drifts into my apartment from the downstairs neighbour. My head aches again, stabbing me in the temple. Another buzz. Damp fingertips leave drops on the glass as I type in my password, and the screen reveals the message. There's an address. Then, sitting above that, a date and time. 

Not all inspiration comes from beautiful vistas or romantic nights ringing with laughter and pretty dresses. Some come from places of sorrow and heartbreak, scrapped from between life's dirty toes. But I see it as my job, for some reason I can’t figure out, to take that filth and turn it into something meaningful. 

Cigarette smoke meets me at the door as I bend over to tie my laces. My stomach turns, grumbling with its lack of decent food. Two crackers and a piece of cheddar is all I've given it tonight. Blood beats against my temples as I strain to hold myself in position. Each year I get older, my muscles tighten and my joints stiffen. A few more like this and I'll have to resort to sitting down to reach my toes. In a decade I might even surrender to slip-ons. It doesn't seem that long ago that I was thrashing around a bouldering hall, never feeling an ounce of pain other than the pleasant reward of sore fingertips. Maybe that's what the note-woman saw in me; that youthful recklessness which stirred me into deep waters and carried me out again without letting on how close I was to disaster. White dots flicker across my eyes as though they're the final spoiled frames of film and a faint whisper of cramp strokes my hamstrings. But both fade after a couple of deep breaths. Another wave of stale, stomach-turning smoke reaches my nose as I turn and face my reflection. Running shoes, loose blue jeans, no Levis’ but unbranded supermarket cheapies, and a greying white T-shirt. An untrained eye, or perhaps a generous one, might see me as a man capable of fixing a shelf. But in reality, I'm the type who'd call a real man to do it for me. 

I wonder what the note-woman saw in me, what inspired her to scribble down a number on that Sky Lounge receipt? Had she seen straight through me, past my dark and bruised soul full untidy rooms and carried on to a corner where I was confident and charming, optimistic and romantic. Is that why I'm sliding my keys into my pocket, chewing a fresh piece of gum on my way down the stairs, crossing half the city to an address I'd been sent without context? 

Midnight ravers and restaurant revellers took the places of the usual crowd who travel with me. Although I suppose some of them were the same. Familiar faces with unfamiliar clothes. Two rows down, long blond hair rests on a shoulder as though painted there. Passing by in flashes of yellow light, scenes of life; families at the dinner table, a young man leant towards his television with a headset clipped to his head and a beer between his knees and a couple standing on a balcony, watching the flow of the street below. 

I check my phone again as though it's my passport and I'm on my way to the airport. Westerkerk Palace, room 601. She's left it at that. And I suppose that's all I need to know. 

Room 601 is on the fifth floor. I take an empty elevator, it smells like vanilla and rose. A maroon flower patterned carpet clashes with the lime green walls and antique furniture in the corridor. The air conditioning is working hard, humming loudly and the back of my neck pricks with goosebumps. All of a sudden I’m nervous, as though I’m fourteen again and walking to my first date. Doors 605 and 603 are well spread. These rooms are spacious. 601 is at the end of the corridor, there’s a framed picture of a windmill to the left of the door. I pause for a minute and stare at it. My heart’s beating out of my chest and my mouth is drying with each breath, then the door opens. 

She’s wearing a satin bathrobe, it’s tightly pulled in at the waist. Her light brown hair is twisted around curlers. Only one of her eyes is lined with a black frame. The contrast is odd,as if she’s about to perform some avantgard play. But the most noticeable aspect of her appearance is her lack of surprise. 

“Sorry about this,” she says, glazing down at herself, looking sheepish. Perhaps it’s not just my mouth that is dry. “I’ve been called into a client's dinner tonight.”

“I can always go,” I say, pointing down the corridor as though I live a couple of doors down. 

“Don’t be silly. Come in, come in,” she says, pulling lightly on my arm. The door closes with a satisfying click and I know my fate, whatever it may be, is sealed. 

“You smell nice.” She leans towards me, trying to play a character that doesn't fit. My skin prickles again, then she backs off and wanders into her huge marble tiled bathroom. Her room is bigger than most one bedroom apartments. The dark, hardwood floor gives the place a sense of regularity and elegance. Long, wide windows flood the space with city lights; red, blue, orange and green. Perfectly centred between two windows and a door to the narrow balcony. Two chairs, a table and an ashtray leave little room for people. Long sage curtains ripple in a draught. 

“So, what made you come?” she asks, her voice echoing from the bathroom. I’m looking out the window at the busy street below. 

“To be honest, I’m still trying to work that out myself.” I say watching the street. A train of drunk men, arms on shoulders as if they’re doing the conga splits the crowds gathered outside bars on either side of the street. They’re singing loud and ruffling hair as they pass. Encouraging cheers follow them like a shadow. Such a reception is a rare sight in this city. 

“What made you leave me that note?” I open the door a crack and grab a few seconds of the nocturnal enthusiasm flowing below. 

“I promised a friend. You were in the right place at the right time.” She says, emerging from the bathroom with a dress on. It’s lush leafy green, fitted well to flatter her figure but with a modest neckline.  “But don’t take it too harshly, I was happy to find you.” 

“Nice dress.” 

“Thanks.” she says inspecting it in a mirror opposite the enormous windows. 

“You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that.”

“How come?” 

“I don’t know another woman who’d do what you did. And answering the door in a bathrobe. To be honest, I don’t know a guy who’d do that.” I say, lowering myself into one of the deeply set armchairs. Slurred songs float through the ajar door, then the breeze picks up and it creeps open before slamming shut. 

“I know what you mean. I don’t know anyone either. But I’m pretty careful about these things. And like I said, you looked safe and normal, I was happy to find you standing there.” 

“You sound like someone who’s never been in danger.” I say, following her with my eyes. She heads to the door and crouches down to knee height. 

“Drink?”

“Nah, I’m okay.” 

“Sure? I have vodka, whisky, rum and a non-alcoholic beer. I drank the real one yesterday” 

“Is there a coke?”

“Pepsi.”

“That’ll do.” 

“Wow, you must be a dangerous guy, drinking coke on a Friday night.” She mocks, putting the unwanted mini bottles back in their place. She stands up straight, flattens her dress and walks over to the armchair opposite mine. My Pepsi sprays me in the eye when I crack it open. I flinch and wipe it clean. She’s inspecting the label of the mini vodka. Suddenly I realise I’m calm, much calmer than I should be in a stranger’s hotel room. It’s as if my brain has surrendered to my illogical circumstances. It’s just another normal Friday night, sipping coke in a hotel suite sitting opposite a mysterious woman, who now I’m thinking straightly I notice is beautiful. Not just in that novel type of way, but objectively. You could change her hair, eye or skin colour and she’d still be as gorgeous. Her beauty lies in her symmetry or something else hidden behind her surface. 

A silence breaks out, now more deafening without the soundtrack of the street. Her feet start tapping the rhythm of something and I glance at them. This isn’t what she expected, I see that now. She’s either disappointed or growing anxious. Her hands are fidgeting with the recently empty vodka bottle, twisting the cap on and off. 

“How long are you in town?” I ask. 

“Not sure, could be a couple of days. But I come here every once in a while. I have some friends living in the city.” 

She’s regaining some confidence. I look out the window and when I look back she’s walking towards the desk tucked in the corner of the room. There’s a bag sitting on it and she plunges her hand into it. 

“I think it’s a waste of life if you never try anything bold,” she says, her back still turned to me. 

“So you do this type of thing a lot?” 

“Not this.”

“But you’re a skydiver or… let me guess… a free diver?”

“I’ve done one of those things. But I can’t say I make a habit out of it.” She’s returning to the chair opposite with a notebook in her hand. 

“What’s this? Am I being interviewed?” She pulls at her dress, preventing it from riding up her legs. 

“This,” she says “is filled with regrets from people who were dying.” Now this is getting interesting. She passes me the notebook and leans back in her seat. You could be forgiven for mistaking the notebook for any other. The contents are, at best, a collection of forgotten dreams. But the format is what catches my attention. 

“I always assumed people would say ‘spend time with family and friends’ or that sort of stuff.” She looks up, her green eyes level with the top of the notebook. 

“I always asked for anything but the obvious.” she says, and I continue flicking through the pages. There are hundreds, each one filled with three or four ‘regrets’. 

11/03/09 - Mary Wilson - Cancer

Swim across a lake in the lake district.

14/03/09 - Wendy Gilmore - Heart Failure

Visit Rome and have an Italian romance. (a promise she made to a friend)

02/04/09 - Jerry Simon - Parkinsons 

Play a concert in Trafalgar square. (he never performed in front of anyone)

There are hundreds following the exact format, each one no more than a week apart. I look up and she’s grinning. 

“Cool, Huh?” 

“That’s one way to put it.” 

“Go to page 112.”

03/07/15 - Lisa O’Connor - Cancer 

Hook up with a stranger from a train station. More mysterious the better. (I promised I’d do this one.)

“You promised.” I say, remembering her reasoning earlier. 

“I did.” Her grin has fallen. 

“How do you even have this?” 

“I worked as a carer. Three years in, I decided to keep this notebook.” 

“I still don’t get it though. How come each one is so… weird. No…I don’t mean weird, but specific.” 

“Like I said, I rejected all cliches and generalities. Things about family are out, and so are ‘travel the world’ or ‘read more’. I wanted things I could go and do.” 

“This might be the strangest thing that’s happened to me.” 

“The notebook?” 

“This entire situation.” I say, pulling myself out of the chair. The notebook is still in my hand, I can feel my hand sweating against its fake leather cover as it does against my copy of Dorian Grey. Page 112 is held open by my middle finger. I open the balcony door again and a wave of noise floods the room. 

“Is it always this busy?” She asks, still slumped comfortably in her chair.

“In this neighbourhood, yeah. I thought you came here every once in a while?” Blue lights flicker against the glass pane as a couple of police bikes set off down the road. “You don’t really have a client dinner tonight, do you?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Just a hunch.” I reply, lifting the notebook to eye level. She’s fidgeting with her dress, pulling the fabric to cover her thigh. I retake my seat opposite. A siren moans somewhere in the distance. 

“So who is… Lisa O’Connor?” I ask, checking the entry again for her name. 

“Lisa is…was one of my favourites. She was a similar age. I was looking after her for four months.” 

---

Love Luke,

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