Love at Hindsight

All Terry had wanted was a quiet drink and a slice of cake – which the diner was famed for (at least, that’s what the sign outside had boasted).

Terry had vowed he wouldn’t darken its doors when he first heard his childhood sweet shop had been sold to someone who wanted to turn it into a bar, but as he had watched the builders refurbishing it – ripping out the shelves where the jars of liquorice rock, mint humbugs, and lemon sherbet had sat, vying for their share of his pocket money, and installing a polished, chrome, counter – he felt more curiosity than animosity.

After the due period of three years’ mourning, Terry stepped inside and was transported to America: Flags with the Stars and Stripes adorned panelled walls; a wooden fan oscillated in the ceiling; large jars of sugar, ketchup and mustard adorned the tables.

Terry sat down in an empty booth and was handed a menu by a waitress with a somewhat saccharine smile. There were twenty-three varieties of cake.

He had just ruled out lemon meringue pie, cherry pie, and coffee cake, when he noticed someone had sat down opposite him. Terry hated being interrupted from his snatched moments of solipsism. He lifted the menu – which had been badly bungled into a faux leather booklet – higher over his face and, assuming it would send any decent human being a clear message, returned to the cake quandary.

He was, therefore, understandably surprised when a hand made a sudden grab at the top of the menu and thrust it down.

“Terry. Listen very carefully to me. I don’t have much time,” said the interloper. He must have been approaching eighty; he wore a grey moustache, brown fedora, and dark glasses – presumably in an attempt to look inconspicuous, since it was already twilight. Terry was so taken aback by the interruption that he almost didn’t notice the old man had called him by name.

“You what?”

“Terry! Focus. I told you, I don’t have much time here; so it’s important that you listen.”

Terry opened his mouth to protest but the man spoke too quickly:

“Now I appreciate you have questions – foremostly, I imagine, how I come to know your name – but I promise you it will be a lot easier if you listen.”

He paused here and looked Terry in the eye. Terry considered the request and kept his own council.

“Right, good. No, I was, expecting you to, y’know…”

“Oh, sorry. I thought you said I should listen?”

“No, I did. Yes. Good. No. Excellent. I forgot. Of course you would. Look. I know you’ve got an open mind so I’ll just come out and say it: I’m you…Okay? I’m you; from the future.”

Terry considered this. Something of David Hume crept into his mind about proportioning belief to the evidence and, “rejecting the greater miracle.” On the one hand, time travel was almost certainly a physical impossibility, whereas, “the knavery and folly of men,” was commonplace. (He had just been reading the Dialogues on holiday to Edinburgh). It was, therefore, more likely that someone, wishing to stalk him, would light upon a fantastical excuse. On the other hand, the excuse was, perhaps, too fantastic to sound plausible. Besides, why would anyone want to stalk him? Particularly an old man?

On the other hand, if the claim were true – and Terry had always secretly hoped time travel were possible and, indeed, theorised that, if it were, he would use it to visit himself – then everything else seemed to fit.

Terry decided to to reserve judgement.

“You believe me?”

“Well, I’m open to the possibility. The question is, why did you come back to now?”

“Good. Straight to business. I like that. Listen: The next woman that comes through that door is the woman you’re supposed to marry. Now, unfortunately, in my timeline, you didn’t talk to her. But I’ve been doing a lot of research and, basically. She’s the one.”

There was an earnestness in the old man’s voice, and something familiar about his eyes. Terry decided to play along. After all, it had been almost three years since Gemma had left.

“You’re sure?”

“Certain. So, here’s the deal: I’m going to step out the diner for a moment. You’ve got to talk to her. Strike up a conversation. You need to get her number or something. Our life depends on it.”

“Yeah… thing is, I’m not so good with girls,” said Terry, fixing his eyes back on the menu.

“I know. That’s why this is important.” He snapped the menu shut, which annoyed Terry, and snatched it from his hands.

“Right. The other thing. Quickly. Take this,” he said, looking over his shoulder and then, surreptitiously, taking a small, white, metallic egg from the pocket of his duffle coat and placing it in Terry’s hands, folding his own over them.

“This is my Chronosphere. It’s what makes time travel possible. Now, I’ve set it for five seconds before she walks. Just press here and you’ll chronospheme – I mean, time-jump –to the moment just before she makes her entrance.”

All Terry could think of to say was: “Like Groundhog Day!”

“Not exactly. Now, listen, this is very, very important: You can only use it three times. After that the crystal will run out and I need one more journey to make it back home. So don’t cock it up on the third go. I’m depending on you. So are you.”

“Isn’t that a tautology?

His interlocutor ignored the remark and stood up, taking the menu with him.

“Now you’ve an excuse to go to the bar,” he said. “In fact, I would just sit down there and order – then you’ll have an opportunity to talk to her.”

Terry did as he was told and sat down on one of the red bar stools and ordered a slice of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee as his older Self slipped out.

For several minutes, nothing happened. Terry tucked into the cake. It was rich and moist. It occurred to him that he should have asked for it to be warmed, and had ice cream, on the side.

The bell above the door rang. Terry turned his head. A young woman with short, brown hair, thick lips, and a long nose came in and made her way to the bar. Without giving himself time to second-guess himself and launched into an improbable pickup line:

“Oh my life! Oh, I don’t believe it. May I just say, I loved ‘V for Vendetta’?”

“Excuse me?” said the woman. Her voice had a ring of mirth and she spoke with an Irish accent.

“Brilliant film. And, y’know, I’ve always said, you’re a rich man’s Kira Bloody-Knightly. She is so ubiquitous now, don’t you think?”

“Erm, I think you have me confused with someone?”

“I do? I do! Gosh I’m sorry, I thought you were, y’know, Natalie Portman.”

“I don’t think we look anything alike!?”

“Yes, you’re not wrong. You’re much more attractive. Y’know, I have this theory that actresses are actually really ugly, spotty people,” said Terry, shovelling in a mouth of cake to appear casual.

“So you thought I was ugly and spotty when I walked in?”

“No! No,” said Terry, dropping his fork onto the plate and splashing his shirt with chocolate sauce.

“Well, you must have, because you just said –.”

Terry didn’t take note of the end of the sentence. It had clearly been a disaster. He fumbled for the point on the Chronosphere he had been shown and pressed it.

He was lurched suddenly forwards, as if by a train coming to an abrupt stop.

He must have instinctively closed his eyes because, when he opened them, the chocolate cake had only one bite missing and the fork was in his hand again. While he was still registering the shock, he heard the bell ring again.

He decided to try a different approach:

“Elaine? Elaine Carmichael? My life! How amazing to see you!” He said, extending his hand to the woman.

“Erm, I’m not Elaine. Sorry,” she said, giving a wry smile.

“Oh, really? Well, you look exactly like this girl I had the biggest crush on in school. Completely beautiful. Never forget her.”

“Except you obviously did.”

“Well, it’s just that you’re beautiful and, y’know, I haven’t seen her for fifteen years so…”

“Easily confused.”

“I haven’t seen any other beautiful women since.”

”Oh come on, that’s terrible.”

“You’re telling me!”

“I mean as a pickup line.”

“Sorry. I’m Terry,” he said, offering his hand. She hesitated for a moment but then accepted, giving her name as Julia. As Terry touched her skin he felt a static charge.

“Julia, hi. Gosh it’s like that awful song, Waterloo Sunset: ‘Terry meets Julie, waterloo station. . . ’”

“I love that song. So do my parents. That’s why I’m called Julia,” she said, releasing his hand. And turning to look at the blackboard above the bar.

Terry reached for the Chronosphere again.

This time he let her approach the bar and read the menu. Terry took out his pen and started to sketch out some words on a napkin.

“Can you think of a word that rhymes with ‘die?’” He asked, without looking up.

“Why?”

“I guess that will do.”

“No, I mean, why do you want to know?”

“I’m writing a poem.”

“Oh. Don’t you think that if you can’t think of a word that rhymes with what you’ve written then whatever you do come up with will be too contrived?”

“Yeah, but I hate all that spoken word stuff. It’s like people can’t be bothered to write any more.”

“Really? I write a lot of spoken word.””

“Excellent. Noted,” said Terry, and activated the Chronosphere again.

This time, Terry waited for Julia to pick up her drink and then tripped her up so she spilt it over his cake and napkin.

“Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay. It was pretty terrible anyway.”

“The cake? That’s a shame I was thinking of having some.”

“No, the cake is great. I meant. The poem I was writing. On this.” Terry held up the sodden napkin with smudged ink.

“You’re a poet?”

“Well, just some spoken word.”

Really? Wow, I write a lot of spoken word.”

“That’s amazing. I’m Terry, by the way.”

“I’m Julia,” she said, taking his hand.

“Wow, it’s like my life’s complete. ‘Terry meets Julie, Waterloo station.’ Sorry, it’s like my favourite song.”

“Mine too! My parents actually named me after that song!”

Terry feigned incredulity. Several seconds passed. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Well that just proves the point that opposites attract, I guess,” said Julia.

“How do you mean?”

“Our conversation’s totally died a death but if you’d have said you hated the Kinks, or I said spoken word was for apathetic poets who couldn’t be bothered to think in metre, we’d still be talking.”

“Maybe I was just trying to impress you.”

“Me? But I’ve only just arrived.”

“Do you believe in fate?”

Julia shook her head: “I think we make our own fate.”

“Me too. I told myself earlier on that I was meant to marry the next woman that walked into this bar.”

“So how many have said no since opening hour?”

“You’re the first.”

“I haven’t said no, yet,” she said and, without further ado, kissed Terry softly on the lips.

His hand let go of the Chronosphere, scarcely believing his luck. Third time was clearly the charm.

Two minutes earlier, as the old man in his duffel coat stepped out of the diner, not looking where he was going, he bumped into a woman carrying a stack of books. She immediately fell to the ground.

“I’m so sorry, my dear. Please, forgive me.” As he helped her to her feet, Julia walked past and entered the diner.

“No! Not you – you’re not the one. Come back out here!” he called out in vain.