Turn Back Time

This is an entry for the Summer Lovin' competition. After over twenty years childhood sweethearts Rachel and Bob find each other one summer. Do they still feel the same about each other now they are 30 somethings? Can they turn back time?

******************************

We met the first day we began school. She bit me! The following week neither of us could remember why and neither could our parents but parents are like that, only interested in the long term where their kids are concerned. She didn't break the skin but the teeth marks were there and, despite being a boy, I did cry. But she wasn't in the least concerned and ran to the far end of the playground to be with the other girls.

Our class teacher, who was on playground duty, was there immediately she heard the commotion and saw me crying. She told my mother, when she came to collect me that afternoon, how much she had wanted to console me but couldn't. She'd been a teacher for many years, not far from retiring, and told mum that 'back in the old days' she would have sat me down, put her arm around me, given me a cuddle and wiped away my tears. But she wasn't allowed to do that now for fear of repercussions. The fear of parents complaining she had assaulted their child. My mum and dad, like most parents wouldn't even think of doing so. They would be grateful she was concerned about their little boy rather than just ignoring him but there's always the odd one, the parent who doesn't think the same way. The irrational ones, perhaps hoping to get some financial reward, or they were just the type of person who liked causing trouble.

Anyway, that's nothing to do with the story just me rambling on about something I never realised until I was older. When you're small and think the world is magical everything is different from when you're older and your naivety has long gone.

Strangely, that bite began a friendship we both thought was going to last forever. We lived not far from each other, hardly surprising when we were at the same school, and like all little angels we spent more and more time together both at school and in each other's homes. As time went by our parents became friends and we went out for the day as two families. Our favourite place was a lake just a few miles away, less than thirty minutes in the car, and we had joint family picnics. We threw stones in the water watching them skip over the shiny surface and, once after it had rained, couldn't resist running through some puddles and getting absolutely muddied up. That didn't go down well and we both had to sit on towels on the drive home.

We swore eternal friendship and told everyone we were going to be married when we were old enough. But then the world changed and not for the better. Her parents announced they were leaving. Her dad had been promoted and he had to work at the head office two hundred miles away. It might as well have been on the moon. I was devastated. At ten years old my life had fallen apart. We promised we would keep in touch, her mum and dad said they would send their new address as soon as they'd found a house but it never arrived. It was in the days before email and perhaps the letter got lost. Who knows? But I never forgot her.

I discovered a desire to read and, not surprisingly, my favourite subjects at school were English language and literature. I didn't go to university, my parents couldn't afford to send me, but after leaving college I was fortunate to get a job as a junior, very junior, reporter on a local newspaper. I stopped making the tea when the editor realised I had a talent for writing and it wasn't long before, at his recommendation, I got offered a job on a national newspaper. One of those examples of being in the right place at the right time and knowing the right person.

Like many people, particularly journalists, I'd always had the fantasy of writing a best seller. Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime but was only three years, the big day arrived. I sent my manuscript off to a publisher. The weeks went by and then the letter arrived with the publisher's name on the envelope. I eagerly tipped it open, desperate to read the good news, and then sat down. Completely deflated. The black words I had never expected to read jumped from the scrap of white paper I held in my hand. "We are sorry to say..." The further I read the more blurred it became. I didn't have the energy to be angry. All I could do was sit in my chair, staring at the blank screen of my laptop in front of me as if, magically, the words "your story had been accepted for publication" would appear. I've never been a big drinker but I swear, if there had been a bottle of whisky handy I would have downed it all without a problem.

After everyone at work, and others, knowing I was trying to write a best seller how could I tell anyone I'd failed? The weeks went by and I went for a haircut. I'd been going to this ladies hairdresser for a couple of years and had got used to the stares which had got less as the regular female customers had got used to seeing me every few weeks. You might ask why a ladies hairdresser and the answer is because I'd got fed up with going into men's hairdressers and coming out with a different haircut every time.

One day I had walked past this ladies hairdresser and saw they did men's hair as well. It had taken a little courage, quite a lot of courage actually, to walk in and have all those female faces, staff and customers, look at me as if I was from outer space, or so it seemed at the time.

"I see you do men," I said, realising as soon as the words were out of my mouth what a stupid statement. The receptionist smiled, not smirked, at the unintended innuendo. "Could I book an appointment, please?"

"Of course, you can," she replied, "but Donna is free now if that's convenient?"

Five minutes later I was in the chair, staring at myself in the mirror, draped in the usual gown, and seeing Donna behind me wielding the scissors and comb. We chatted away with the usual silly stuff you do in that situation and for some reason I told her about my book and it being rejected. When she asked how long ago, and I told her several weeks, she wanted to know why I hadn't submitted it to another publisher and I told her I couldn't see the point. If one publisher rejected it then the others would as well. She asked me if I'd ever heard of a writer called J.K. Rowling and I thought 'what a stupid question." Who hasn't heard of J.K. Rowling? She asked me if I knew Harry Potter had been rejected by umpteen publishers before being accepted. Don't give up, she said. Send your book to every publisher you know and see what happens. I did and, a few weeks later, after reading one rejection after another, the golden letter arrived. I now have three best sellers to my name. Well, not my name because a more established writer had the same name so I had to use a pseudonym.

Life was good. I bought myself a nice house in a nice suburb of a nice town. I had some nice girlfriends, none of whom I wanted to settle down with but I enjoyed shagging them, and they seemed to enjoy being shagged by me, so that okay with them and me. In fact, everything about my life was nice. Nice and ordinary.

Then one hot summer something momentous occurred. I heard on the news about a new drug that had been invented for use with those men diagnosed with prostate cancer, a disease that kills more men in the UK than breast cancer kills women. I wasn't at the age when it should worry me but I had plenty of friends who fell into the danger age range and my father had suffered from it, although fortunately that wasn't what killed him. Apparently, there was a chance it could run in the family.

Although it had been created in Britain the news was in the media in every country around the world, which you would naturally expect, because the benefit would be for the whole world. I was at home when the news came out, sitting in my garden, listening to the radio. Relaxing as I allowed the sun to warm my body. Plenty of suntan cream on to protect me from the uv-rays because with my skin, if I don't take care, I look like a lobster about to be served up.

I'd given up my journalistic career because I was earning a good living, a very good living, from my books and with the good summer I was able to write outside. The best of both worlds. My routine was to write in the morning, and sunbathe in the afternoon because it got simply too hot to write. My brain just couldn't deal with thinking in the heat. In the evening, when it was beginning to cool down, I got back to the writing. Although, I must admit, on some days I just got my bike out and headed off in any direction that took my fancy.

This particular day, after a hard day's writing, I settled back to watch the special programme. I got comfortable in my favourite armchair, ready to listen to the same old geriatric experts they wheeled out every time for this type of programme, hoping this time it might be informative and entertaining. Maybe today there would be something new.

There she was. Even before she was introduced I knew there was something familiar about her but, as I was trying to remember where I must have met her, the presenter made the introductions.

"Today I'm pleased to introduce Doctor Rachel Stevens," she announced. I sat up in my armchair so fast I spilled cold beer down my bare chest. I didn't realise immediately because I was so intent on staring at the screen.

Over twenty years since I'd last seen her and she had blossomed from a pretty schoolgirl into a beautiful woman. Intelligent as well because if that wasn't the case why would she be there? She was answering questions as an expert on the subject and, apparently, leader of the team who had made the discovery. Unfortunately, she was being asked questions from a presenter who was trying to sound intelligent. An interviewer speaking as if she couldn't understand the questions let alone the answers. Why hadn't they chosen a male presenter to do the interview? At least a man would know what they were talking about. They wouldn't have chosen a male interviewer for breast cancer. Would they?

I couldn't tear myself away from the screen until the end of the interview and then I did some serious digging into what she'd been doing since I last saw her. Not much about her early schooling on the internet apart from the names, but then I discovered she'd left Oxford with a double first, immediately being snatched up by one of the foremost pharmaceutical companies, not just in the UK, but in the world. She was now in demand by companies and organisations around the world as a consultant. How many letters does a person need after her name?

The most amazing thing I discovered was she lived about a mile from me!

What to do now? Should I accidentally bump into her? But that would mean I'd have to follow her and maybe be picked up as a stalker. What would be my explanation? I used to know her when we were kids twenty years ago and I just wanted to talk to her? I could see that going down like a lead balloon. Maybe the truth would be the right way.

I decided to take a chance she would be returning home, we were only an hour from London on the train, and perhaps she didn't want to spend the night in a hotel. What time would she be home? I looked up the train timetable and saw, if she left the studio within half an hour of the interview ending, and making the assumption they would provide transport to the station, and her taking a taxi at this end she should be home at about 8.30. It wouldn't be dark until about eleven at this time of year so I wouldn't be approaching her in the dark.

At 8.15 I was sat in my car a hundred yards from her house with a clear view of her driveway. I'd decided smart, but casual, clothes were best, but no jacket as the evening was still very still warm. I had jumped in the shower to scrub up. Shaved, brushed my teeth, deodorant. Aftershave? Decided against it. That might have been a little over the top. I was so nervous I had another shower fifteen minutes later, a cold one this time, to try and prevent me sweating.

The taxi pulled up at 8.26. I know because I checked the time on the digital clock in the car. Five seconds later I checked my watch. My emotions were ahead of my brain which kept telling me to calm down. At exactly 8.50 I began moving and, with sweaty palms on the wheel, almost drove out of the T-junction without stopping. At the last second I jammed the brakes, once again telling myself to calm down, before slowly moving across the road to park outside her house. The hedge forming the boundary with the pavement prevented me from seeing the house but also provided me with a shield. I had to sit in the car for several minutes, the air conditioning on maximum, to cool down but could still feel perspiration under my arms. I checked the time, saw it was just coming up to nine, and decided it was now or never.

Forty-two steps later I was standing before her front door. Why I counted the steps I have no idea. I raised my hand towards the bell push and then stopped, frozen like a statue. This was the moment of no return. Push it or run. My finger pushed as if it had a will of its own before I'd consciously made my decision.

A minute passed. Two minutes passed. I was in the point of running when I heard footsteps. I began to panic. What if she had a partner? What if he, or she, was going to be the one to open the door? What would I say? The problem was solved a few moments later when the door opened.

"Rachel?" I said, hesitantly. What was I doing? Why hadn't I just said hello?

"Yes." A frown appeared, spoiling her lovely features. "Do I know you?" she said, backing away slightly, ready to slam the door.

"Bob. Bob Harris. We used to know each —," That was as far as I got.

"Bob Harris?" Her brow furrowed as her memory searched for the name. "Bobby! Bobby Harris!" she exclaimed. "Not the Bobby Harris from —."

"That's me," I said, my nerves receding as her smile appeared.

"What are you doing here? How did you know..."

"I saw you on tv earlier. I checked you out with google, which was easy. I couldn't believe it when I discovered we lived in the same town. I only live a mile away."

That was when the furrowed brow reappeared, the uncertainty crossed her face, and her body stiffened.

"How did you find which town, let alone where I live? None of that's on google." Once again it looked as if she was going to slam the door. She was seeing visions of a stalker.

I've got to get this straightened out quickly, I thought. I only have seconds. Tell the truth.

"I used to be a journalist and it's part of the job training to be able to discover information and find facts about people. It wasn't too difficult to find you." The words spilled out of my mouth faster than my brain could think.

"You're a reporter?" The suspicion was still there. Maybe even more so. She moved her palm higher on the door, ready to close it quickly.

"I'm not a reporter anymore," I said, hurriedly. "I gave up being a journalist a few years ago. I'm a writer now," I said, quickly. By way of further explanation, I added, "I've had three books published and I'm working on the fourth."

She still looked uncertain so I decided to retreat, and took a step back.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have come unannounced. I wanted to surprise you but maybe I should have sent a letter first. It never crossed my mind how unsettling it might be for someone you hadn't seen for over twenty years to suddenly arrive at your door. Would it be okay if I called again when it's more convenient for you?" That seemed to do the trick.

"Nonsense!" she said, after a few seconds consideration. "You're here now so you may as well come in. We can talk about old times." She stepped to one side to allow me to enter, closing the door behind me. "Straight down the hallway and into the kitchen."

"I didn't realise you might not have eaten. I'll come back some other time." I didn't want to but it would be uncomfortable for both of us sitting there with her eating and me not, or alternatively I didn't want her to feel she had to prepare some food for both of us.

"I've already eaten at the studio. They provide a buffet for everybody. A little bit of a rush with having to catch my train but they packed up some extra to take with me. Too much so I shared with other passengers." She laughed at the memory and I laughed imagining the scene.

"It's cake and biscuit time," she said, opening the cupboard and taking out a half eaten Black Forest gateau and an unopened packet of chocolate chip cookies. My mouth watered at the sight of both.

""Coffee or tea?" she inquired, opening a cupboard and looking over her shoulder.

"Tea, please, or coffee if that's what you are having. Whatever is easiest." After the poor beginning to the renewal of our relationship I was desperate to say anything to please her.

"Pull up a stool while I boil the kettle." She turned away from me, as she busied herself with the cutlery and teabags, allowing me to admire her further. She'd changed from the smart business suit she'd worn on tv into jeans and a t-shirt. The jeans were stretched tightly across her rear and I could feel myself hardening under the breakfast bar.

We sat in her kitchen for ages, drinking our tea, and then moving onto a bottle of wine, then another, reminiscing about all the adventures we had as kids, all the good times, the holidays. Then we moved on to after she had moved away, our schooling, her time at university, my job as a junior reporter/general dogsbody, and our successes since then. More so hers than mine. Eventually I said I had to go, or perhaps she threw me out. I can't remember. She probably threw me out because I didn't have to get up the following morning for work and she did. I'd had too much to drink so I walked, or should I say staggered, the mile home. I'd return for my car tomorrow morning. Not too early tomorrow morning.

After waking up the next morning, or maybe it was the same morning, and a long soak in the bath, followed by one, or two, or three cups of coffee I ended up sitting in the sun, unable to think about writing because I was so busy thinking about the night before. Eventually I wandered off to collect my car. When I got to her house I remembered I didn't have her phone number. I searched my pockets, looked on my phone hoping she'd given me it and I'd forgotten, but nothing. Should I put a note through her door? Maybe that would be too pushy? Having found her, after all those years, I didn't want to lose her again. Should I call round this evening? But what if that was pushing too hard? I was so busy thinking I didn't realise I was back home.

I managed to get my mind back onto my writing. I suddenly realised my phone was ringing.

"Hi, it's Rachel," said a voice I would now recognise anywhere. "I wondered if you were doing anything this evening? We could continue reminiscing and I'd also like to hear more about your writing. Doing something you like and getting paid for it. It's good. I should know."

"Did you have anything particular in mind?" I was really glad she'd called but I was wondering where this was going.

"I was wondering about maybe a takeaway at your place?" Her voice was hesitant. She sounded exactly how I'd felt yesterday evening.

I had a moment's hesitation, because of the untidiness of the place, and then decided I could make it tidy before she arrived. "That would be great. Anytime you want to get here would be fine. I'm not going anywhere."

"That's good to know," she laughed. "I don't want to make a wasted journey! Anything you want in particular?"

"I leave it up to you to surprise me." I would be happy with anything she chose.