The Wildcard

By Richard King

Just when his own life appears to be back on track he gets a visit from Jess' family - the inlaws he never wanted - and reluctantly agrees to play out a facade of the world Jess remembers as they try to protect her.

Within this carefully constructed web of lies though, the couple find themselves facing up to a few truths that Phil had avoided during their real relationship.

The Wildcard is the story of a second chance to salvage a lost love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard King
• Release date: Jun 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301570218

Book preview

THE WILDCARD

By Richard King

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Richard King

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

1.

‘Are you sitting down?’

It was unusual for her to call him at this time of day.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Why?’

‘I have some news.’

‘News? What news?’

‘I’ve been reading Jess’ Facebook page.’

His heart sank. Why were people so keen to tell him about his ex fiance and her exciting new life? He didn’t care that Jess had moved on, that she had a new job and a new boyfriend, and that everything in her life was just bloody wonderful.

Breaking up with a girl used to be easy. You just went your separate ways, maybe split a DVD collection and never heard or saw anything of them ever again. Of course if you were unlucky you might bump in to them on a night out, but you could always just pretend not to have noticed them and walk away in the opposite direction, to the gents, where you could lock yourself in a cubicle for half an hour and in some rare drink-fuelled psychotic episodes, wish your life was over.

Now though, thanks to the Internet and social networking sites, there was simply no escape. Your past was only ever a mouse click away.

But what people didn’t seem to realise though was that Phil Connolly had moved on too. Phil Connolly was now running his own business, he was in a relationship of his own with a sexy and ambitious woman, in a league way above what he was used to.

Nobody seemed to respect this though, not even his own mother.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I think she’s been involved in an accident, it looks serious.’

‘What kind of accident?’

‘A car crash.’

He cleared his throat. ‘And how do you know it’s serious?’

‘There’s a load of messages on her page.’

‘Saying what?’

‘They’re just well wishes and messages of support, that kind of thing.’

He was usually distracted when he spoke to his mother, his mind usually elsewhere, but right now she had his full attention. ‘Do you think you should call her family?’

‘I don’t know, do you think that’s a good idea?’

‘Well you did used to be engaged to her?’

He wasn’t sure whether he should make contact or not. He didn’t even know what to say for a start. ‘I guess they don’t want people phoning, that’s why it’s on Facebook,’ he said, trying to find a way out of his mother’s suggestion. He might have been a vital piece of Jess’ past, but all the same, he was in her past now and he didn’t feel it was his place to get involved. She had moved on, they both had.

This time last year he couldn’t have imagined that the only way he would find anything out about Jess would be through Internet social networking sites, or rather, his mother.

He was back in the elevator, this time on the ascent to his office on the top floor when his mother phoned again. He was almost afraid to answer this time.

‘She’s in intensive care,’ she announced. ‘She had a car crash last night, somewhere outside Coventry. Her sister has just put something up on Facebook.’

He took in a lungful of stale air, he was leaning against the elevator’s safety rail to steady himself. He took another deep breath. It was easy to lose control in these situations. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I see.’

‘I see! Is that all you have to say?’ his mother shrieked. ‘The two of you were engaged! You were together for eight years!’

‘I know, I know,’ he said. ‘I’m just stuck for words.’ He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the elevator mirror; he couldn’t help noticing that he’d turned a tad pale. ‘Does it say anything else?’ he asked her. ‘Does it say anything about her condition?’

‘It says she’s in a coma and the family are praying that she will be OK.’

**

The monkey looked distressed in this particular observation. Its elbows were slumped over the table and its hands were shaped like guns, delicately massaging its temples.

Jess McClean couldn’t go on watching the creature suffer any longer so she handed it a couple of painkillers. ‘Phil, please,’ she said, ‘people are looking at us.’

She continued to study her fiancé as he rose to his feet. He started to potter around this up market coffee shop like an embarrassing dad, peering in to the chillers for mineral water.

He’d done something like this before in Argos.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked on his empty handed return. ‘You can’t just help yourself, it’s table service.’

‘Jess,’ he said feebly. ‘Just because the Hairy Bikers once did a cookery demonstration in here, it’s not the bloody Ritz.’

The waitress was still eyeballing him as he returned to his seat. ‘Phil,’ Jess said. ‘You’re upsetting the staff.’

He was supposed to be a young professional, at 31 years old he was a reputable estate agent in the town. Just six months ago he’d appeared on Homes Under the Hammer, the episode was still on their old Sky Plus box up in the roof space.

‘They’re just glorified school dinner ladies in here,’ he said after they’d finally placed an order. ‘Did you see the way she looked at me?’

Jess didn’t answer, fearing that bad things would happen to her cinnamon swirl. ‘So,’ she said instead. ‘my mum and dad’s anniversary, what should we get them?’

He was fiddling with the condiments now, twisting a sachet until it split in the centre and a fountain of brown sugar sprinkled on to the table. She’d lost him again, his mind was elsewhere, and she wasn't sure exactly where but sometimes she thought he was safer there.

’Thirty five years is so rare now don’t you think?’ she asked him anyway.

‘I guess it is.’ He was stroking the stubble underneath his chin now, perhaps realising it might have been a good idea to shave before he left for work this morning. Designer stubble he often referred to it as. Jess however, just thought it was laziness.

‘So any ideas on a present?’ she asked him again.

‘Why don’t we get them one of those faceless ceramic figure things?’ he suggested.

‘You mean the figurines?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t know Phil, I was thinking of something more practical.’

Her response had wounded him. He’d obviously thought about this more than she’d given him credit for. He began to fiddle with his iPhone as their order was being loaded on to the table by the waitress.

Perhaps trying to avoid eye contact with the lady, Phil’s face was fixed on the screen, his thumbs tentatively stroking it in a way that she hadn’t been stroked for two and a half years.

He raised his head again, Google had spoken. ‘Hand crafted from resin, it says.’ There was more stroking. ‘They’re made to look like wood.’

She smiled at him as if he was one of the kids in her class who had made a valiant effort but had given a wrong answer.

‘Is it because they don’t have eyes? Because you can always draw them on if it bothers you.’

‘Are you being serious?’

‘Look, let’s not argue, I have to be back at work for an appointment-’ He paused to look at his watch. ‘Heck, in 15 minutes.’

‘Funny that.’

She found herself staring beyond him in to the distance, at a framed photograph of two leather-clad creatures with beards posing with Lemon Tree Coffee Company's waitress.

The Lemon Tree Coffee Company was very proud of its association with the Hairy Bikers. They reminded Jess of The Twits; characters in a Roald Dahl book that she occasionally used in lesson plans to teach children about the dangers of social withdrawal. They were pictured staring in to a giant casserole pot; it was an image that would alarm any environmental health department.

They continued to eat and drink in silence; she wanted to believe it was the scone that had killed the conversation, the butter seeping through the fluffy crust, the raisins exploding on her tongue. It wasn’t that though.

She continued to observe him as he staggered towards the toilets; he had become distracted by the Lemon Tree Coffee Company's visitor book.

‘So what did you write down then?’ she asked when he returned.

‘Just the truth,’ he said. ‘A truly unpleasant experience, and that the waitress was just downright rude.’

‘God,’ she said. ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘Jess.’ He gave her a hard stare. ‘This type of behaviour has to be nipped in the bud.’ He muttered something else about decadence and pavement cafes and how this was Brighouse and not Paris.

‘She’s probably just having a bad day; people are entitled to an off day.’

‘Not when they’re taking people’s money.’ He opened his wallet and handed his fiance a £10 note. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘That should cover it. I’m gonna have to shoot. I’ll see you tonight. Love you.’

Before she could say anything she felt a finger on her lips. ‘Don’t say it just because I said it. Tell me another time.’

She knew how it worked, although she had actually just wanted to remind him to call for milk on his way home from work later, but then he was gone, leaving her with the Daily Mail, which reminded her that the economy was in meltdown.

She rose from her seat to grab the women’s supplement from the next table only to discover Sharon Fielding heading towards her like a steam train.

Before she could do anything she found herself in an airtight embrace. ‘You look awful,’ Sharon said. ‘I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t believe it when Marcus told me, the both of you must be devastated.’

‘I think we’re over the worst of it now,’ Jess said once she could get her breath back.

They caught up over a coffee and talked about the one thing they had in common, their partners Phil and Marcus had been best friends since school.

‘I just passed Phil down the road,’ Sharon said. ‘He was in a rush so he had to head on.’

Jess rolled her eyes. ‘He’s always in a rush lately. You have to make an appointment with him now if you want to see him.’

‘How has he taken it?’ Sharon was looking awkwardly at the salt and pepper pots. ‘Does he talk about it much?’

‘He’s barely said a word about it, although I haven’t exactly made it easy for him.’

‘What about you?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s a sign that I should start focusing on teaching again. I’m probably best suited to other people’s children.’

‘Don’t say that.’

It was true though. ‘I guess I’m just a little envious of Phil,’ she added. ‘Things are going well for him, career wise, I mean. He’s even got this swagger now.’

‘I did notice him walking funny earlier, now you mention it.’ Sharon was cackling. ‘Marcus went through a stage like that a few years ago; he joined the gym and stopped speaking to people.’ She was about to take a sip of coffee. ‘No bad thing though.’

‘You should have seen Phil in here earlier.’ Jess told her about the bottled water incident. ‘He was acting like he owned the place.’

Sharon’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘You’re shitting me?’

‘Then he eyeballed the waitress over there.’

‘Who?’

‘Her in the corner.’

Sharon looked over, her eyebrows shooting skywards. ‘But that’s Carol, why would he eyeball Carol?’

‘I know, I wouldn’t mess with her.’

‘But she’s-‘

‘Dangerous?’

‘No she’s... you know... special.’

‘Special?’ It was a reference she hadn’t heard since 1999.

‘She has strokes and things, she doesn’t speak.’

Jess felt the blood drain from her face and her hands retreated from her coffee cup to her purse, and then to her forehead. Then she clutched on to the napkins as horrible flashbacks occurred, flashbacks of Phil scribbling furiously in a red book about his ‘truly unpleasant experience’.

‘She’s always in the Echo holding one of those giant cardboard cheques,’ Sharon continued. ‘She’s in there every other week. She got one of those community awards, from those two celebrity chefs. What are they called?’ She smacked her own forehead in frustration. ‘The Furry Bandits.’

Jess tried to swallow, but her throat was dry and sticky. ‘You mean The Hairy Bikers?’

‘That’s it.’ She cackled again. ‘The Hairy Bikers.’

Jess felt a little bit more scone trying to work its way back out on a particularly violent fountain of stomach acid as Sharon continued to talk about this wonderful woman, this community champion.

Apparently Carol worked here on a voluntary placement programme, a community relations scheme which had been pioneered by a mental health charity and local traders. The Hairy Bikers were involved too.

‘Furry Bandits.’ Sharon cackled again.

Sharon handed her the remains of a leaflet which explained the groundbreaking initiative – Phil had used one half of it as a shovel to clear up brown sugar – but she was able to read the part that urged interested businesses to register in one of the red books which had been left in various places around the town. The programme was called ‘The Wildcard’.

‘Is everything OK?’ Sharon asked. ‘You’ve turned a funny colour.’

2.

‘Look at this Ray, they’ve got her job wrong,’ Sandra McClean, the patient’s mother turned to her husband. She was holding a copy of the July 20th edition of the Birmingham Star. ‘They’ve got her down as an art teacher.’

He was gazing down at his critically ill daughter. Jess seemed to have a tube for every bodily function; breathing, eating, urinating... everything.

‘You’d have thought they’d have contacted the school,’ his wife continued to protest. ‘She’s an English teacher for God’s Sake.’

Her mother had always struggled to put a firm grip on reality while her father was the opposite, a pessimist, always expecting the worst. He turned to his wife, the mother of his fractured daughter, and gave her a hard stare, his face a picture of anguish. He gasped in what could only have been an act of astonishment. ‘Does it even matter, Sandra?’

His wife’s concentration was on the newspaper article though, reporting her daughter’s accident in the West Midlands countryside. Teacher critical, it read, after horror smash.

‘She could have been trying to avoid an animal in the road or something,’ Sandra suggested. ‘She’s always loved nature.’

The doctors had been unable to establish the full extent of Jess’ head injury in the first 24 hours. A CT and MRI scan had shown signs of what they referred to as Traumatic Brain Injury. They said it was unclear at this stage however if Jess had sustained any permanent or temporary damage.

All her family could do now was hope, and drink tea, it seemed. Sweet weak milky tea from the hospital vending machine, they would switch between her bedside and the hospital’s new family room, where they could take in the sunlight and admire the artwork.

‘You would love the pictures in there, Jess,’ her mother said. ‘I read a newspaper article criticising the hospital for all the money they spent on art work.’ She gripped Jess’ hand. ‘It’s only when you have someone you love here though,’ she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue now. ‘It’s only then that you realise just how comforting it is.’

Her father looked as though he couldn’t care less about art work. There was only one image in this building that he was focusing on, willing it to heal, or for it to be taken from this world perhaps, depending on who, or what, was going to emerge from this sleep. He wouldn’t want his daughter to be a vegetable, Jess didn’t want that either.

**

Phil woke to a fantastic view. Worryingly though he had to drive a good four miles before he was treated to the pleasure, but there it was in all its glory; the Galpharm Stadium, home of Huddersfield Town, the football club he had supported since he was five years old.

He was driving Jess to the other side of Huddersfield where she was beginning a weeklong teaching assignment at a primary school.

She’d dragged him out of bed at some ungodly hour on his day off, but at least it gave him a chance to try out his new satnav which he’d unearthed in the backwaters of Tesco the other day. He’d only called in for a litre of milk but had got sidetracked down to the bargain area of the entertainment department.

‘So,’ Jess said, yawning. ‘Any plans for today?’

‘What?’ He was listening to a discussion on Radio One about the launch of something called an iPad.

‘Any plans, for your day off?’

‘Well I can rule out a lie in, can’t I?’ He tried to imagine what this new so-called tablet device would look like. ‘It’s just another gimmick,’ he decided. ‘It’ll never take off.’

‘And what makes you such an expert?’

‘It's just going to be like a giant iPhone, I can't see anyone shelling out all that money for one.’

Jess began brushing her hand along the inside of his upper leg. ‘Thanks for running me in to work today. I’ll make sure you get your reward later.’

‘And what do you have in mind?’ He knew exactly what she had in mind; apparently it was her most fertile time of the month, but she didn’t respond, not verbally anyway.

‘All