Edward Fyfe

Introduction
7th November 2008
Another day, but today feels different. I’m behind the wheel of my brand-new Jaguar S-Type, the sleek leather interior hugging me as I glide down the road. The engine purrs beneath me, a reminder of the luxury I’ve worked for. My suit, freshly dry-cleaned and crisp, feels like a second skin, laid out by Nina—my Nina—who’s still at home, probably thinking about our evening plans.

The CD player clicks, then hums to life, and for a second, I hold my breath. I burned the disc myself—sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. But when Johnny Powers’ voice belts out “Long Blond Hair,” relief washes over me. The music blares through the speakers, and suddenly, I’m not here anymore. My mind drifts back to the neon-lit nights of London in the ’80s.

Manor House on a Tuesday, the haze of cigarette smoke blending with flashing lights. Fridays at The Phoenix, Oxford Circus, the crowd thrumming with energy. Saturdays were pure freedom—an afternoon at Dingwalls in Camden, then on to The Warehouse at night. Camden had a way of making everything feel bigger, more alive.

A grin tugs at my lips. Life was fast, unpredictable, just like the music blaring through my speakers now. But I’m not there anymore. I’m here, years later, with the woman of my dreams, driving a Jaguar, still feeling that pulse of youth in my veins.

I pull into the office car park, and for a moment, I sit there, staring at the glass facade of the building. The excitement fades. A familiar sense of anxiety creeps in. Tightens. But I know it’ll pass. It always does.

The drive home is different. The Cure and The Smiths fill the car, pulling me back once again. My mind drifts as their familiar lyrics wash over me. Suddenly, I’m back in the days of tribes—the streets of London divided by music and style. Punks with their leather jackets, Teddy Boys in sharp suits, Goths draped in black, New Romantics with glitter and eyeliner. The city was ours, each of us belonging to a different world within it.

I smile, remembering how it felt to believe the world was waiting for us.

The garage door rumbles closed behind me. The soft hum of the engine fades as I step out of the Jaguar, the familiar echo of my footsteps bouncing off the concrete walls. I head up to the third floor, feeling the quiet anticipation as the lift ascends.

I open the door, and there’s Nina, just as I expected. She looks up from the stove, her eyes lighting up when she sees me. Before I can even drop my keys, her arms are wrapped around me, the warmth of her embrace melting away the weariness of the day.
"How was it?" she asks, her voice soft against my neck.
“Same as always,” I say with a tired smile. “Contracts, meetings. The usual grind.”

Nina pulls back and looks at me, her expression teasing but affectionate. "Well, at least you're home now." She’s always like this, finding the bright side in everything.

While she finishes preparing dinner, I head to the bedroom to change. The weight of the day slips away as I swap my work clothes for something comfortable. Back in the living room, I put on some music—Electric Warrior by T. Rex. The opening riff instantly transports me. The sounds of glam rock, Marc Bolan’s voice—like a portal back to my childhood.

I catch a glance of Nina setting the table, and I realise how different we are. She’s always in the moment, content with the here and now. And I—well, I’m always looking back.

We sit at the dining table, the soft glow of the lights overhead casting a warm glow across the room. Nina talks about her day—the train ride into work, the people she met, even the outfit she wore. Every detail lights her up, and I can’t help but admire how much joy she finds in the little things.

It fascinates me. How can someone live so fully in the present when the past pulls at you like a tide? I find myself smiling at her, caught up in the rhythm of her words, but a part of me is still drifting back. To another time, another version of myself.

“Are you listening?” she asks suddenly, her voice cutting through my thoughts.

I blink, realising I’d drifted off. “Of course,” I say with a small smile.

She laughs, playfully rolling her eyes. “You always do that—get lost in your head.”

I shrug, trying to brush it off. “Just thinking.”

She takes over the iPod, scrolling through the playlist until Razorlight’s Wire to Wire comes on. The atmosphere shifts as the soft chords fill the room. We sit there in silence, the music wrapping around us, the words “Love me wherever you are” hanging in the air.

Our eyes meet. There's something in her gaze—understanding, but something else too.

Nina doesn’t live in the past. For her, it’s a place to visit, but never to linger. She believes in the present, in moving forward. But for me, it’s never that simple. The past is always there, tugging at the edges of my mind. A scent, a song, and suddenly, I’m not here anymore. I’m somewhere else—back in those moments I thought I’d left behind.

“It’s funny,” she says, breaking the silence, “how much time you spend thinking about things that already happened.”

“I can’t help it,” I admit. “It’s like the past is always just… there. Waiting.”

She tilts her head, studying me. “Maybe that’s the problem. You’re always waiting for something that’s already gone.”

Her words hit harder than I expect. She’s right, of course. Nina always knows how to cut to the heart of things, even when I’m too tangled up in nostalgia to see it myself.

A few nights ago, we were at Paul and Linda’s. A few too many glasses of wine led to a conversation about time travel. Paul, with his usual enthusiasm, brought up a book—Tempus Motus. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Just a bit of late-night banter. But there was something about the way he spoke about it, the way his eyes lit up.