Chasing What's Already Gone

By Michael Ross

Danny Pearson is cruising through life on the edge of contentment—even in his marriage... His wife seems distant, yet perfectly happy. They work on different schedules and pass like ships in the night. But that’s how marriage is after so many years, right? When Danny meets a mysterious girl, his idea of the meaning of love shatters at his feet... She’s not extraordinary, but somehow she’s so much more than just another girl. When he catches her gaze, he knows deep in his gut that she’s the one—the love of his life. But being a decent guy, he holds his feelings in check, and there is no ulterior motive when he shares a coffee with her. As she leaves, she gives him a business card. That's all there is to it. Her name is Ella. And after that, she is nothing more than a fond memory. Danny puts Ella out of his mind and moves on with his life—until his world falls apart...When his wife confesses to having an affair and demands a divorce, his life is thrown into chaos. It’s a challenge adjusting to the single life, but it’s not impossible. As time passes, he continues to reminisce of his brief encounter with the woman he’s sure was his chance at true happiness. How far is Danny willing to go in the pursuit of love? How far would you when, in all probability, you are only... Chasing what’s already gone?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Ross
• Release date: Mar 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781310274114

Michael Ross

Multi-award-winning Electric Fields create a striking and haunting merging of living traditional culture with electronic music, bringing moments of breathtaking beauty and power to the stage. Featuring the rare and beautiful voice of Zaachariaha Fielding - who often sings in his traditional languages of the Anangu people - and the brilliance of producer Michael Ross, Electric Fields' music ranges from soulful pop to epic-scale electronic works, from intensely intimate story-songs through to contemporised versions of traditional music from the APY Lands. Named as 'Movers for the Next Gen' by Vogue magazine, and finalists for the ARIA Award for Best Live Act, their awards include the three top spots for the National Live Music Awards in 2019: Best Live Act, Best Live Voice and Electronic Act of the Year. 2022 has seen them playing the G'Day USA AAA Gala in Los Angeles; at the SummerStage festival in Central Park, NYC; composing the music for the VIVID Lighting of the Sails, and live performance for the AFL Dreamtime Round. Tjitji Lullaby is a very special lullaby written and performed by Electric Fields for ABC Kids, and is now an accompanying board book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The front door was taking ages to be answered, but he would wait. He was going nowhere until he had negotiated this long-anticipated confrontation out of the way. For the last few weeks, the piece of paper he held in his hand had been lying beside him on the bedside table, disturbing his sleep several times a night.

He was surprised at the untidy state of the front garden, but there again, it was doubtful that was a priority at the moment. The door was opened sooner than he had hoped.

Hi. The sound of his own voice was bewildering to his ears, no more than a whisper; he needed to clear his throat and start again. Hi... are you, Miss Jenkins?

In primary school, he had had a teacher called Miss Jenkins. The person standing in front of him could hardly have been more different than his old spinster schoolteacher, and it seemed such a strange way to address her, but how else? She stared quizzically at him before replying, Mm, and you are?

His dry throat was making this far worse than he had imagined; for a long while, no words came—an impasse he had not anticipated. My name’s Will. Will Edwards. I’m...

I know who you are, her voice snapped.

Of course, she did. He needed to get this over with. The discomfort of the moment confused his emotions; for some reason, did he feel guilty? Why was he on the defensive? He decided to plough on and thrust the envelope into her hand. I’ve written you a letter. He tried to avoid her eyes, but the contempt was unmissable even in that briefest of instants. He had to keep speaking before she interrupted, or even worse, slammed the door in his face. He rattled the words out. I’ve written a letter to you and your dad. I don’t expect you will want to read it just yet, and it might be a long time before you even consider reading it, but I need you to promise me that you won’t throw it away. I want you to keep it until you are up to reading it, something written by me or my family. The words did not quite make sense, and he could only hope she would understand what he was trying to say.

The door closed on him and he tried to make sense of his emotions; he felt drained, yet a relief flooded over him. Maybe everyone needed a bit more time – he himself knew that three months was nowhere near long enough to realign your life to cope with a tragedy.

***

Emma Jenkins, up until that point, believed the angst which racked her body had drained away some time ago. She stopped and thought the last few seconds through; she was struck by the man’s eyes, dark green eyes, seaweed green, by far the saddest eyes she had ever seen. Before he spoke a word, she had a horrible feeling she knew who he was, and she could not find a way to make it easy for him.

Emma considered herself to be good with words, but for a moment, she had been speechless, and without thinking, had turned and slammed the door in the man’s face. Surely, that was not who she was - that unforgiving! If the roles were reversed, would she have done what he did?

Upon re-entering the kitchen to pour out her father’s tea, she was amazed to find as she lifted the teapot, the handle was difficult to grasp. Emma was still holding the man’s damn letter firmly in her left hand. She walked back into the living room carrying the mug of tea. The apprehension over recent weeks had secreted itself deep into her DNA now threatened to overflow.

She was disappointed to find her father sat stony-faced, staring at the TV screen, seemingly unmoved by the canned laughter accompanying the mind-numbing daytime comedy series. She recalled a heated argument between her parents less than a year ago when, after work, Emma had cadged a lift back home with her mother. The two had returned to find the house in the same untidy, calamitous state they had left it in at eight o’clock that morning; her father sitting in an armchair reading the paper. His nine to four shifts in a local warehouse gave him ample time to contribute, but everything of late appeared to require too much effort. Neither mother nor daughter said a word, but they did not need to speak for him to react.

I’ve got a bloody job as well, he’d grumbled at them. I need a few minutes to unwind, just as much as you.

It was best for Emma to put that memory to the back of her mind; she needed to continue making an effort to counteract his negativity which threatened to drag both down. A deep breath and as she was leaving the room, she turned and spoke gently to coax him into action. Come on, Dad, it’s only ten minutes before we must go. She left him no space to reply before running upstairs to block off the sounds of his expected dissenting response.

Emma entered the spare room, which was now her room once again, and wondered how long it would take this time for her father to get properly dressed for a hospital visit. She had allowed herself fifteen minutes of me time – time to calm down and take stock; for a bit of self-criticism with her own short temper. What would her mother do in this situation? Certainly not flounce about like she had; maybe ten minutes lying on the bed with her eyes closed was the answer.

As she struggled out of her jeans, a crumpled paper fell from her pocket. Emma never swore, it was one of her principles, but as she picked the recently delivered letter off the floor and flung it onto her bed, she yelled, Oh, piss off!

After the trauma of the last three months, there were only a couple of decent dresses left that did not need a visit to the dry cleaners. Although Emma had worn it every day for the last four days, she still put on the blue dress, her mother’s favourite, brushed her hair in the mirror, and with a heavy heart trudged downstairs. He had not moved.

Oh, here we go again, she thought. Dad, for heaven’s sake, get a move on.

His response was pretty much word for word as she had anticipated. If it’s all right with you, love, I’ll skip it for today. Maybe go a bit earlier tomorrow? Speaking softly, without looking directly at her.

Dad, don’t make this any harder than it should be. Plan B was already in her head. I tell you what, we’ll only stay for five minutes, and then we’ll grab some fish and chips from the High Street. That way, we’ll be back well before seven.

He continued to ignore her, staring at the TV schedules in that day’s copy of the local paper; selective deafness was his default position. It was like drawing teeth trying to get him to contribute positively.

She stayed calm, picked up the remote control, turned the television off, and forced herself to smile. Come on. I’ve brought you down a fresh shirt. Let me brush your hair through.

It was hard work and totally unnecessary because he usually was anything but helpless.However, despite everything, she found she was still overwhelmed with love for him.

The last three months had been hard on both of them, a moment they shared but never talked about. If only her mother could intervene, provide the bridge to fill the hurt that father and daughter felt so intensely that their internal emotions were somehow impossible to share. So when he leaned forward, and his whiskered cheek brushed hers as he kissed her tenderly, his actions took her breath away. He left no space for her to respond before picking up his paper and heading for the bathroom. For a precious instant, his one loving gesture made everything worthwhile.

Chapter 2

The next day, Will had not been able to shake off the feelings aroused by the previous day’s visit. Although he had never met Emma before, there was something of a kindred spirit about their circumstances; he wondered how her father was coping with the situation, better than his he could imagine.

I’ve made a bacon sarnie, Dad. Get it down you before you have a shave.

It was gone two o’clock, and Will Edwards had found enough time during his lunch break to leave his staff busying with his instructions and come home to make his father a cooked breakfast. If Will didn’t cook, he knew his father would fast for days, even weeks at a time.

I’m not hungry, but thanks anyway. You’re a good boy, Will.

Dad, I’m thirty-two, don’t keep calling me a boy! The hurt in his fathers’ eyes had the guilt resurfacing as fast as ever. Sorry, Dad, but I need to get back to work, and I want to make sure you eat something. It was only this morning that I realised why Wavy was getting so fat. I’m staying here until you get that down you.

But I’m not—"

Dad! Will was now a parent to his father.

Martin Edwards was a gentle soul, a gentleman who had always commanded his son’s admiration and love. People used to say Martin would never hurt a fly, and yet, within the briefest of unexplained moments, everything changed. He no longer considered himself a gentleman; he no longer thought he deserved his son’s love and admiration.

Will’s thoughts were pulled back to the here and now as the family dog waddled past on his way to the food bowl.

When Will had first realised that his father had been secretly feeding the family’s Corgi, his initial reaction was to laugh out loud; however, the more he thought about it, there was very little real humour in the situation.

The kettle has boiled, I’ll make us a coffee, and then I must get back to work.

You’re a good b ... Thanks, Will, you shouldn’t bother. In the kitchen, Will gripped the sink and hung his head for a while. No problem, Dad.

He walked back into the lounge carrying two mugs. If it’s alright with you, Dad, I’m going out with Ben tonight for a few pints at the Feathers. Will did not drink beer, but there was no fear that his father would remember a minor detail like that.

Good for you. You don’t get out enough. This used to be a recurring criticism from his father; how narrow was Will’s world, work, work, work and no play.This time the words were enthusiastic. However, the tone was flat and disinterested.

It’ll only be for a few hours, but he’s got a gig coming up on the weekend, and he wants to run a few things by me. Then we are nipping up to London and shooting the Prime Minister.

No response came from his father.

Ben wants me to do a striptease when he’s playing. Do you think that will work?

Mm, yes, of course.

Good, we’ll do that, then.

Sorry, son, do what?

Will wished the amusement he felt playing with his dad’s lack of attention like that didn’t taste quite so bitter.

Nothing, Dad. I’m going straight from work, but I’ve ordered a pizza to be delivered at seven-thirty. It’s all paid for.

Sorry, what’s paid for?

Sorry, sorry, sorry. If Will heard that word once more, he would scream.I’ve left a note in the kitchen. I’ll be back by eleven. Be good.

As Will walked to the front door, he felt overwhelmed with guilt for looking forward to a few hours of respite.

Chapter 3

Emma’s recent promotion meant that her new role suited her down to the ground, the company was big enough, with over several hundred employees in the UK. Still, small enough for her efforts to be noticed, and the rise to area sales manager had rewarded her with two nice pay increases. Most of her colleagues, particularly the girls, were good company inside and outside the office block.

She was fully aware that recently she had been the focus of much of the coffee machine chit chat, but their hearts were in the right places, and she had no real choice when a ‘girls’ night out’ was organised in her honour. The way things were in her life, she thought she deserved a blowout! So when one of her friends, Allison, approached her with the idea of organising a girls’ night Emma did not need much persuading. Allison’s get-togethers were legendary. It was all arranged within a few hours, giving Emma enough time to ask her best friend Lucy to join them.

Emma was changed and ready well in time before the first knock on the door.

Hey, babe, you look like you’re ready to party.

It was not often that Emma’s appearance met with Allison’s approval. However, Emma had made her mind up that this was one night she was out to enjoy herself. She had been treading gingerly for the best part of a month, and after much internal soul-searching, tonight was the night she was going to let her hair down.

Emma’s oldest friend Lucy, standing just behind Allison, seemed far less certain. Wow, Emma. Are you sure? I mean, you look great, but are you sure? You seem to be sending out some sort of message.

Emma smiled back at her friend. I don’t know what you mean. But she did know what Lucy meant. Emma had bought the little black dress to wear for her thirtieth birthday party last year but had chickened out at the last moment. The dress was well short of knee-length, and with the killer heels she was wearing, all Lucy could see was a pair of extremely well-shaped but uncovered legs.

You look... ; She hesitated, then the word, Nice, came out of Lucy’s mouth.

Chapter 4

At the same time, three miles away, Will joined up with his best friend, Ben, supposedly for a boys’ night out, but Will’s objective was to supply moral support for Ben’s upcoming stage performance at a local pub. It was not long before Ben had dried up, through nerves, Will supposed, so he forced the conversation around to discussing the gig. How many usually turn up?

Between a hundred and two hundred usually, I’m expecting a couple of dozen.

Will shook his head and laughed. Ben, don’t put yourself down; if you remember, that’s my job.

Ben frowned. Do I pay you well?

More than enough. Anyway, congratulations are in order. You’ve got to remember you’ve only been doing this for a year or so. A gig this size in your first year is something to be proud of.

What? Me in a room with twenty people watching?

Ben, I guarantee if there are only twenty people when you start, which there won’t be, there will be over a hundred by the time you finish. Anyway, enough of this negativity. Let’s go get something to eat. Will grabbed his friend by the arm and led him up to the bar, where they ordered steak and chips before finding a free table at the back of the pub.

Within the group of friends who had developed in their late adolescence and grew through their twenties, Ben had been the clown. His humour, the sticky paste that kept them together. However, as is the way of the world, over the years, the group got smaller as some married within and outside the group. By now, there was no alternative outlet for Ben’s desire to please. The group now consisted of him and Will. So, his best friend, about a year previously, had pushed Ben into the logical direction – stand-up comedy. A few gigs over the last year had brought him a small but regular following.

Tomorrow night was going to be his very first headline appearance. As Will had anticipated, Ben’s nerves were starting to get the better of him. Not that Will found that a great source of worry, as his jitters always seemed to diminish the closer he got to performing. In many ways, Ben was a strange one, but always funny and most importantly, a really good friend, in all truthfulness probably his only real friend. Will’s job tonight was to keep Ben busy; tomorrow would look after itself.

The pub had rang the bell for last orders when Will finally brought the conversation back to the forthcoming gig, having realised he knew very little about what was involved. How does it work financially?

Will had never quizzed Ben about the financial side of doing stand-up; he was fairly certain that after twelve months, the whole venture had actually cost his best friend quite a bit of money. Maybe tomorrow would be a turning point for him.

Ben was so useless with figures Will doubted that Ben had considered the commercial aspect of what he was doing. Working as a delivery driver, his days and weeks were mapped out for him, and Will doubted he had ever once queried a pay cheque.

Ugh, in what way? Ben looked puzzled.

Will took a deep breath. Let’s go through this slowly then. How much do you pay for the room?

Oh, nothing, the club earns its money from the bar takings. Ben seemed pleased to know the answer

Okay. So what have you spent on advertising the gig? Will questioned.

Mm … about a tenner on posters. I put some notices up on Facebook and Twitter.

And that’s it?

Yeah – more or less.

What’s the more or less?

A bit of petrol…that’s about it.

So, how much are you charging for tickets.

Mm, I’m not sure.

Ben! Will’s loud exasperation caused a few heads in the pub to look in their direction.

Sometimes their friendship hung by the thinnest of threads, so Ben quickly muttered the truth, Three quid! I thought about charging a fiver, and the first drink would be free, but I decided that might get messy.

So if a hundred people turn up tomorrow, how much will you earn?

Wow, that’s a good question. A few quid, I should imagine.

Like over a hundred quid? Will was half-joking but realised the sarcasm went right over Ben’s head; his friend’s mind was somewhere else.

I suppose so. Ben reluctantly responded.

Ben’s dream of making a success out of the comedy had nothing whatsoever to do with financial gain. But really, surely basic arithmetic was not beyond him, was it? Will took a grip on the conversation. Who collects the money at the door?

Ben took a few seconds to answer. The pub, I suppose.

That apparent disinterest was enough for Will to make a critical decision. I tell you what, buddy; I’ll run the door for you tomorrow, save the pub the trouble.

Ben wasn’t stupid; he just did not have much interest in money. He walked on stage like a down and out, but Will guessed that suited the student-type audience that he seemed to be attracting.

Ben had no trouble in agreeing to the suggestion. Brilliant, mate. Let’s down this one, and find somewhere quieter. I need to unwind.

Will looked at his watch – eleven-thirty. Still, in many ways, he was his own boss, and he could decide if he had no work in the morning. He could ring the office voicemail, leave