“Go on,” urged Vivienne, as Quentin paused to assess her reaction. Was she humouring him? Quentin wondered. He often felt the urge to confess his predicament, knowing that the Quentin who would have to live with the consequences of it was the Quentin whose body he was currently occupying and who would, no doubt, be thoroughly confused by the memory of this occasion.
But Quentin had long stopped caring about what the Quentins he lived in might think. After all, they weren’t always that kind to him. He had several times suffered venereal diseases, war wounds, and even an uncomfortably generous waistline that had been bequeathed on him for the moment of his residency.
“Are you sure?” Quentin asked. Most women he’d spoken to on this matter (almost always women and almost always when, as now, he was vaguely tipsy sitting on a bar stool) would ask “What you on?” Or they would simply pretend not to have heard anything.
“Yes. It’s fascinating,” said Vivienne, puffing smoke from her cigarette, and running a long fingernail along the rim of her wine glass.
“I’ve seen so many different worlds,” Quentin continued. “There are those where the Cold War continued with the Soviet Union under Andropov until the present day. There are those where President Kennedy was not assassinated at Houston. There are those where the Sex Pistols never existed. There’s even one where some Arab terrorists flew Boeing 747s into the World Trade Center.”
Vivienne raised her eyebrows at that. “I can’t believe that! It’s like imagining that Sir John Lennon had never become the world’s best selling novelist.”
“I’ve seen that. He was assassinated, in fact,” Quentin admitted. “I’ve even been in a universe where the richest man in the world was that geek who runs Microsoft.”
“I can’t believe that, either! How would IBM, Sun or Lotus have allowed that to happen?”
“It’s like everything since the time I was born in the early 1960s that could happen has happened. Everything before then, the date of my conception, not of my birth, is the same in all the universes I’ve inhabited, but after that it sort of diverges.”
“No nuclear wars?”
“Not ones that I’ve survived, though there was a small one in the Middle East in the 1970s that led to universal disarmament. It’s amazing what difference a few craters and radioactivity can do to a world!”
“I can imagine!” Vivienne said.
There was a curious sparkle in her eyes that suggested to Quentin that she was genuinely fascinated by what he was saying and an unusual lack of that amused scepticism that usually accompanied the most sympathetic ears to his predicament. Was she just very good at hiding her real thoughts? Or was she playing him along?
“I once decided to write an account of my life,” Quentin continued. “I had this 4GHz computer running this operating system called Winix. It was fantastic! And this was a few years back, whereas the best computers in this continuum aren’t a quarter as fast. And I’ve known computers in the last few years the best they can offer is as much processing power as I’ve got in my mobile here.” Quentin nodded towards the large mobile phone by his elbow with the long protruding aerial. “Anyway, I wrote all day and all night, while the wife I had, a pretty woman I’ve not seen since, wouldn’t stop moaning about me staying up. And then I thought I’d review what I’d written. And you know what?”
“What?” wondered Vivienne, whose eyebrows were raised in what appeared to be genuine interest.
Encouraged by the apparent enthusiasm in her face, Quentin persevered, still half-expecting a sarcastic rejoinder. Vivienne didn’t seem the sort of woman who’d show interest unless it was genuine.
“I just didn’t recognise what I read at the start of my account. It was like someone else had written it, with totally different memories. It was then it occurred to me that there is a sort of continuum of Quentins, just like me, also sliding sideways through space and time. In fact, maybe everyone has a kind of host of selves like me, perhaps an infinity of them in the infinity of parallel universes. And maybe people like me are everywhere.”
“Fascinating!” remarked Vivienne, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray.
Quentin scrutinised Vivienne closely. Was she guileless? Did she really believe him? She was an attractive woman, who carried around with her a kind of self-assurance that normally manifested itself in contempt towards a man like him, any man, who might tell a story that must seem ridiculously far-fetched.
“You think I’m mad, don’t you?” he asked her, as she brushed her black shoulder length hair off the sharp shoulders of her Giuseppe Marconi suit.
“Not at all,” Vivienne said with a smile. “In fact I think I might be falling in love with you.”
“Now, you are taking the piss!” remarked Quentin.
How plausible was that? He knew he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke and at least the Quentin he was now had some reasonable dress sense with well groomed hair and an expensive Ben Jones leather jacket. But no one had ever said that to him after such a short encounter. And certainly not after he had divulged his most intimate truths about himself.
Vivienne shook her head. “I’m not taking the piss, Quentin. I suppose it’s a bit of an exaggeration to say I’m in love with you, although you are just the man I’ve always wanted to meet. All my life, in fact.”
Despite himself, and aided by the alcohol, Quentin blushed. “I just don’t believe that…”
“You’re right. You’re not the only one to be ‘sliding sideways’ through space and time as you call it. In fact, I don’t have a term for it. It’s my life as well, you know. My life has been exactly the same. It’s just I’ve never met anyone else the same as me in that respect.”
Quentin shook his head violently and squeezed his eyes tight. When he opened them, Vivienne was still there.
“You mean you’re like me? Every day you wake up and live in a slightly different world, subtly changing and mutating?”
Vivienne nodded. She opened her cigarette packet and put another Marlboro Gold Tip in her mouth.
“It’s not always gradual. That’s why I asked about nuclear war. I spent a whole week in a kind of post-apocalyptic world. It was horrible! I had to eat rats and wear a lead-lined coat. That Ronald Reagan went just a little too far with his threats against the Soviets in the Pakistani missile crisis…”
“I remember that. It was touch and go, as far as I remember.”
“And then President Brezhnev, the senile git, called Reagan’s bluff and it was fireworks! I wasn’t there for the crisis, but I was there several years later. But the thing is it happened suddenly. One moment I was living in this student squat in Hackney, the next minute in some nuclear wasteland. But when I came out of it, that was sudden as well. I was walking through some woodland trying to avoid some thuggish scavengers, and when I emerged at the end, it was by a motorway, only instead of it being empty and overgrown with mutant grass, there were cars driving along it, just like there’d never been a nuclear war. As I guess there never had been. I was fucking delighted, I can tell you!”
Quentin shook his head again. “And I thought the Cuban Crisis might have become the big one!” he exclaimed.
“But I’ve never met anyone else who knows what it’s like, not so much living in a nuclear wasteland, but living each day in a different world. I thought I was alone.”
“So did I!” admitted Quentin, who himself was falling in love.
At last! After all these years, he had discovered for sure that there were others who knew what he knew and lived the life he lived.
“So, how did you first discover things were like that? I was in my teens when I first realised. As you grow up, there are so many changes you don’t realise that some are not to do with the other changes that happen to everyone. You know, milk teeth falling out, your shape changing as you grow older, puberty, all that stuff.”
“I guess it was in my teens, too.”
“When I tried telling people they thought I was mad. Sometimes, I was taken to see a psychiatrist. But what I discovered was that pretty soon after I told people, they seemed to forget. The people I’d told, my parents, my friends, my teachers, just didn’t have the same memories as I did. Eventually, I realised that it was the Quentin who I’d been before and who lived with my confessions who’d have to live with the consequences of it, not me. It was like I could start afresh every day. Indeed, I discovered I could do whatever I fucking liked and I’d never have to worry about living with more than the memory of it.”
“Me too!” exclaimed Vivienne, drawing on her cigarette. “It’s so fucking liberating! In fact, I’ve done things several times, just because I knew I could. I stripped naked in a pub. Just because I could. I sucked a stranger’s cock in public because I knew I wouldn’t have to suffer for it. I’ve had sex with anyone I fancied.”
Quentin raised his eyebrows. “Well…” he remarked, “I’ve been a bit bolder than I might have been. Like I’ve been with you, you know, approaching an attractive woman knowing that if you rejected me it’d be the Quentin I’m inside now who’d have to live with the rejection. I’ve been unfaithful to the several different wives and girlfriends I’ve had, who, after all, I often didn’t really know very well and didn’t always like. I’ve sometimes done things I can’t claim to be proud of. No Groundhog Day redemption for me, I’m afraid. But I’ve never been as bold as you.”
Vivienne shrugged. “I guess us spacetime travellers all have our different ways of coping with the freedom we’ve been granted,” she mused, “but I know that the Viviennes whose bodies I’ve occupied have all been pretty different. All the different ways I could have been, and, of course, somewhere in space and time actually am. On some occasions, the Vivienne I’ve been was pretty tight-arsed, so that’s probably when I’ve been most wicked. The current Vivienne’s got a boyfriend who works in the City, but she seems pretty free and easy. Which suits me! None of that ‘Christ, Viv! What’s got into you?’ that I’ve heard so many times.”
Quentin finished his glass of beer and pulled out a twenty pound note, with its head of King Charles the Third on the back, and waved it at the barmaid. “What do you want?”
“I’ll have another glass of house dry white,” Vivienne said.
“And I’ll have another pint of Blackwell’s. I’ve never heard of that beer before this week, but it seems to be the most popular there is around here.”
“It’s the little things that are most confusing,” Vivienne commented. “I was amazed to see that there’s no Jubilee Line here. And no one’s ever heard of Madonna. She never made it big in this world. And who’d believe that Colin Powell would have become President of the United States!”
The two of them sat together on seats by the jukebox on which was playing a selection of old pop songs, some familiar, some peculiarly and surreally different in detail and some totally unknown. Quentin studied Vivienne with an approving eye as they sat down.
She was a little younger than him. Probably in her mid to late thirties, but a woman who being so slender and assertively pretty now, must have been quite a head-turner when she was younger. She crossed her long slender legs, almost all her stockinged thigh on display under her short skirt (as most skirts were) and her blouse coquettishly unbuttoned under her smart jacket.