Over 300 5* reviews for
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME on Amazon and below are some of them! And then the first chapter!
‘I hadn’t expected the author’s style of writing and extremely vivid descriptions to bring me right into the story.’
‘
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME is an absolutely captivating story from beginning to end.’
‘I warn you, start reading
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME and you will not want to stop.’
‘The twists and turns in
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME will leave you breathless.’
‘
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME sinks its claws into you & doesn’t let go until the very last word.’
‘I know it’s a cliche thing to say, but genuinely could not put
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME down!’
‘Sooner someone in the film industry makes David an offer, the sooner we can all be enjoying
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME at the cinema.’
‘David’s writing style draws you right in until the point you forget what is around you.’
‘So go on, walk the streets of Marbella with Mr Perlmutter, I promise, you won’t be disappointed.’
‘Really have to read David P Perlmutter’s account yourself to get the gist of what happened.’
‘One of the books that, for me anyway, will stay with me for some time.’
‘His tale is a roller coaster ride and you don’t want to get off until the end.’
‘So tense, waiting to find what happened, that I could barely keep reading.’
‘Felt David’s desperation and discomfort seeping from the pages.’
‘Sat there reading reviews & thinking, ‘Hmm is
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME for me? The answer is YES!’
‘More than sure
WRONG PLACE WRONG TIME will be first book that I have ever read twice!’
BLOW
One
minute later, maybe even less, was all it took for my life to be turned
completely upside down.
The
result was positive.
A few
hours earlier I’d been at work sitting behind my cluttered wooden desk at the
estate agents I worked for in London, blissfully unaware
of how my pretty ordinary day would come to such a catastrophic end.
For the
majority of the day I’d been liaising with various clients, but more
specifically trying to clinch a sale on a substantial property in the West End.
The potential buyer, an arrogant prick with more money than sense, was being
particularly difficult, demanding that various items be left in the house
before he’d commit to buy. So when the phone rang for the umpteenth time that
day and he requested that the hallway mirror be a part of the sale, I almost
felt like buying him one myself, just to get the deal in the bag. On
reflection, it had been a week of stupid, unnecessary negotiations and I
couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. I called the seller, a middle aged,
soon to be divorcee, and told her the news.
“He wants
the hallway mirror"
“Oh, does
he now?”
“Yes he
does.” I followed with the same irony. “And if he gets the mirror it’s a done
deal, Mrs Evans.”
I shifted
in my chair and threw some letters into my out tray. I could hear her on the
end of the phone taking a long on from her cigarette. I could almost smell the
smoke weaving its way down the line as she pondered the proposition. A part of
me knew she was enjoying this; enjoying the control. There were moments
throughout the week when I actually thought she had no intention of selling at
all and was just relishing the attention I was giving her. I’d seen it all
before and couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a wanker she’d been married
to.
“It’s
just a mirror,” I told her, opening the drawer and removing her file from its
slot.
“But a
rather nice one, don’t you think?” I could hear her inhale another shot of her
cigarette and I clenched my fist, willing it to be over.
“I guess
it depends who’s looking into it.” I flipped through the paperwork, found the
prick’s phone number and keyed it into the phone. “I think a mirror is only as
beautiful as its beholder.”
She
chuckled, but said nothing.
“He has
another appointment with us tomorrow, a similar property just around the corner
from you actually and slightly cheaper too.” I tapped my fingers on the desk,
knowing I’d just told a fib. Justin, my colleague was nearly out the door as he
tossed his coat over his shoulder. “Mrs Evans,” I said, rolling my eyes at him,
“I really need to give him your decision now. If you lose him it could take
ages before you…..…”
“Ok, ok,”
she interrupted. “He can have the bloody mirror.”
"Finally!"
I said, hanging up the phone. "I didn't think she was gonna crack!"
"Well
done, mate, "Justin said, striding over to my desk with his hand in the
air. I high-fived him with a grin firmly fixed on my face.
"Worked
out the commission yet?" he said, heading back to the door. Then he
laughed. "That was a bloody stupid question, wasn't it? Come on, how
much?"
"Five
grand, give or take a few quid." Before I left the office I called Roger,
my boss, to tell him the news. Justin waved goodbye and left me to lock up.
"Well
done, David," he said. "Great work! Now get the hell out of there and
get yourself a pint. You deserve it."
"I'm
half way there already," I responded, picking up my jacket.
"Well
enjoy it." But don't go getting yourself hammered; you've got two more to
settle tomorrow."
“Don’t
worry boss, just a couple and then I’ll be heading home for an early night.”
If only I
had kept my word!
Half an
hour later, I was at The Horse and Crown for a well-earned pint. It was a small
place, but substantially cheaper and more welcoming than its sister pub on the
main road, which always attracted the tourists.
I was
half way through my pint when Michael slapped me firmly on the back.
“Good to
see you mate!” he said, slinging his jacket over the bar stool.
Mike was
a good friend and a former work colleague. We’d met several
years ago when London was new to us both, when we were desperately trying to
carve out our careers amongst the hardened property executives in the capital. Our grit and
determination had paid off though; Mike was now a business development
executive with a top London firm and after three promotions I was in a very
comfortable place within the same firm at which we had initially met.
Mike
rolled up his shirt sleeves, loosened his tie and took a swig of his drink.
"So,
how's life in the fast lane, mate?"
"Can’t
complain," I answered. "Closed on a great deal earlier. It took all
bloody week - cute owner, prick of a buyer - but just under 5k in my pocket."
"Nice
one. Tonight's on you then buddy!"
"Well,
I haven’t got it yet," I took a sip of my drink and continued. "I've
been running around like a blue-arse fly too. I've got two girls off sick so
I've been covering for them as well."
"Flu?"
"Something
like that."
Mike
shook his head.
"Man,
you're so soft. Didn't I tell you not to hire women?" He said pushing back
the mop of blonde hair from his forehead.
I
laughed.
“I
wouldn’t say a bad word against them. They keep the office ticking over, trust
me.”
“Trust
you? You’re a Jewish estate agent.” I rolled my eyes before him.
Michael the
atheist laughed, then had a mouthful of his bitter. He had grown up in
Northampton where he’d been privately educated and come to London just after
graduating. He was a bit of a snob really, but a loveable one. He supported the
local football team, The Cobblers, but he was more of a rugby man and his
physique was testament to the fact. Just over six-foot-tall, broad shoulders
and a neck to match.
The
banter continued throughout the evening and as it had been a good few months
since we’d last got together, we lost all track of time as we spent quite a
while in the bar chatting about work and life in general. Forgetting what I’d
said earlier to Roger about just a couple of drinks and an early night, it must
have been after our third or fourth pint that we decided to head off to a local
Indian.
We
ordered our meal. I had my usual chicken korma, Mike ordered a hot chilli madras
and a bottle of house red and then we both proceeded to converse with a couple
of girls sitting at the adjoining table. They were sisters as it turned out - Mandy
and Jane - and during the course of the meal the conversation became rather
flirtatious. At one point Mandy reached over and cheekily helped herself to a
piece of my naan bread, and it wasn’t long before they joined us at our table.
The sisters, in their mid-twenties, were like chalk and cheese. Jane the older
of the two by a couple of years, was wearing a pin striped skirt suit and had
her hair twisted up in a loose bun. She looked every part the PR executive she
was. Mandy, on the other hand - a girl running the family horse stabling
business in the West Country - was casually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt,
with her long hair cascading messily over her shoulders. It was a thrown
together look but it worked, and of the two, she was the one I
focused my attention on. I liked her; I liked her arrogance and her ‘couldn’t
give a shit’ attitude.
The girls
ate their meal, and half of ours, and when the bill had been paid it was
mutually agreed that we’d head to a bar for a late night drink. The girls
had their own car and had chosen a venue unfamiliar to me. But I didn’t want to
leave my car, despite the amount I’d had to drink, so I stupidly but without
question decided to follow them in my car.
Everything
was fine for the first ten minutes or so of the journey; we were nose to tail
with them for pretty much most of the way, but after Mike rolled a joint and
the affects had begun to take their toll, we somehow managed to lose them in
the heavy, night-time traffic. We tried to find them, but it was impossible, it
seemed like the whole of London was on the road at the same time and eventually
after a ten minutes or so we admitted defeat. So with no desire to end the
evening, Mike rolled another joint, I cranked up the music and we drove around
the streets of West London without a care in the world.
It must
have been about half an hour later when for some reason, which to this day is
still a mystery, I turned into a council estate in Hammersmith. Feeling pretty
invincible by then, I stupidly decided to use the car park as a Formula
One racing track. Mike was far too stoned to even acknowledge where we were or
what the hell I was doing; he was slumped in the passenger seat, eyes glued
together, with an almighty grin on his face. George Michael was belting out
from the stereo, the windows were down and a cool, city night-time breeze was
keeping me alert.
I’d been
driving around the car park for quite a while when I noticed a man on a bicycle
riding close by talking into a radio which was attached to his jacket. Before I
could put two and two together, and to be honest I would have probably made
five that night, two police cars with sirens and flashing lights were
heading towards me. I immediately put my foot on the brakes, with my heart
beating louder than the tune blaring out from the BMW dashboard. I turned to
Mike, he didn’t stir one little bit, he was far too stoned. It didn’t take a
genius to work out that a local resident had obviously called them, not too
happy about the sound of the roaring engine echoing around the enclosed
estate and the ear piercing noise of the wheel spins I’d submitted them to. I
quickly lifted the handbrake, switched off the music and held my breath as
three coppers got out of their cars and walked towards me, their
silhouettes increasing in size with every step they took beneath the glow from
the street lights. As I poked my head out of the window, one of them asked me
to get out of the car, in fact he opened the door for me. I obeyed and as he
directed me to the rear of my car, I glanced back at Mike. Even with the noise
of the sirens and all the commotion, he was still utterly oblivious, out for
the count!
The
policeman asked for my name, to see my driving license and then questioned what
I was doing driving in a reckless manner in a residential area after midnight
with a very real possibility of endangering someone.
What
could I say? I was stoned. I was drunk. I’d wanted some fun however this was
turning out to be anything but. He obviously smelt alcohol on
my breath because he asked if I’d been drinking.
“Just the
two,” I replied a little too urgently. But from the expression that formed on his
face he knew I wasn’t telling the truth. He’d seen and heard it all before.
With
that, he produced a breathalyser and told me to blow into the tube. It was with
no small measure of hesitation – knowing full well that I was way over the
limit and anticipating the potential consequences – that I did as was requested
and took a deep breath. After twenty seconds or so I withdrew and waited
for the results with my raging heart hammering against my ribcage. Sweating
profusely and sobering up fast – very fast - I was already regretting the
night, wishing I was at home, tucked up in bed, anticipating my alarm to go off
at 6.30 to get ready for another day in the office. But no, I wasn’t in bed
asleep. I wasn’t having a dream. I was having a nightmare. A true life
nightmare.
I had no
one to blame but myself, hands up, it was all my stupid fault. I could have
seriously hurt someone, never mind myself or Mike. I felt like a complete
lowlife, any respect I may have had for myself vanished. Scared doesn’t
come close to how I felt at that moment, terrified, anxious, beyond nervous....
I’d never been arrested before and I knew, I just knew that this very moment
would be the first.
After a
pause, which seemed like a lifetime, I was told to put my hands out before me.
I was handcuffed, arrested, informed of my rights and pushed into the back seat
of the police car. It all happened in a flash and I was in a daze. The drive to
the station was spent sandwiched between two policemen in the back of the car
and from what I can recall I did nothing more than stare into my lap for the
entire journey, looking at the metal rings around my wrists. Upon arrival at
the station they took my belongings, fingerprinted me and then led me into a cold
clinical white-bricked windowless cell. I had no idea what they’d done with
Mike, but to be honest, at that point he was the furthest thing from my mind.
ALL TO NOTHING
When the
cell door slammed behind me it made me jump. Then I froze for a few seconds as I
heard the key in the lock turn on me, closing me in. I took the few steps to
the grubby bed against the wall and slumped down, holding my thumping head in
my hands with my mind racing back and forth over the evening’s events. I’d been
so stupid. So fucking stupid. Unable to settle, I stood up and anxiously paced
the floor desperately wishing I could turn back the clock. It seemed ironic that the cell
was about the same size as the box room in the property I’d been negotiating on
that afternoon. I thought of Mandy and Jane and how the hell I’d managed to
lose them. I’d taken my eyes off their car for ten seconds, probably less than
that, and as a result I was in a police cell. I was scared, scared of what may
lay ahead, scared about my future and scared that I'd just thrown my life right
down the fucking drain.
Nervous
exhaustion finally got the better of me and I lay motionless on the stained blue
mattress, eyes closed, curled up on my side with my arms folded tightly against
my chest as I relived the moments that had brought me to where I was now. The
blanket they’d left did little to warm me, but within minutes, and with the
effects of the alcohol subsiding, I drifted off to sleep. For a few hours or
so, I escaped.
I guess
it must have been early morning when the cell door opened. I jerked up and for
a few seconds was completely unaware of my surroundings. But when the policeman
handed me a cup of coffee with his face expressionless, I knew exactly where I
was.
“Shit,” I
muttered, after taking a gulp.
“Problem?”
“No, its
fine,” Wondering where the sugar was. But sugar was the least of my worries.
Normally
by this time I’d have been on my way to the office and even though I detested
the hour long drive in the morning rush hour traffic, I’d have given anything
to be behind the wheel of my car right then. No amount of hoping was going to
make that happen.
I was
taken to the front desk of the station.
“Sobered
up now have we? reality sinking in?”
I nodded.
I didn’t need reminding.
“You’ll
receive a letter in the post advising you of the date of your court case.” The
policeman informed me as he emptied my belongings on the desk. “And we’ll send
you details about how to collect your car.”
I nodded
again embarrassingly, knowing that I wouldn’t be the one collecting my car, my
company car that would almost certainly no longer be mine. Unable to force one
word from my mouth, I gathered up my things and left the station with my
head down and my tail firmly between my legs.
Outside a
sobering cold wind wrapped itself around me as I hurried down the High
Street to Hammersmith underground station. I weaved my way through the hordes
of commuters fighting their way to work and then it dawned on me, I wasn’t one
of them. I was on my way home after spending a night in a police
cell having been arrested for drink-driving. I bought my ticket at the kiosk
and boarded the train. I looked up and down the carriage and just wished I was
one of my fellow commuters, going to work with only the day ahead to worry about. I became
paranoid, wondering if they saw through me, but thankfully I was still wearing
the suit from yesterday, so I tried to blend in as much as possible. It struck
me that I hadn’t ridden on public transport for over two years and I certainly
didn’t want to start now, but with a driving ban imminent, my soon to be
encounters with the train would not be so brief. The thirty-minute journey
seemed endless and I couldn’t wait to get out of there, so when we pulled into
Finsbury Park station and I finally got off, it was with huge relief that I
made the short ten-minute walk to my apartment.
As soon
as I’d closed the door, I locked it and headed straight for the bathroom to
turn on the shower. I stripped off my clothes, threw them on the floor and
stepped under the water. I’d felt dirty all morning and it was so good to feel
the crap being washed away from my body. My breath stank of stale smoke and
alcohol and I grabbed my toothbrush to clean my teeth, scrubbing away the
filth from the enamel. As the steam filled the shower cubicle, I closed my
eyes, lifted my face to the water and stayed there until a little of the
tension left me.
Wiping
away the steam from the mirror above the sink, I was horrified. I looked rough. My
hair, in desperate need of a cut, was a mess. I pulled my fringe away from my
eyes, trying to ignore the widow’s peak blatantly staring back at me. I was
only twenty-seven years old and already starting to recede. My dad was bald but
I’d always thought I’d have years before I’d have to start worrying about that.
Perhaps this was the start of it? My sister always said she loved my hair; it
was black, straight and shiny, and as long as hers. She said I was handsome,
that I reminded her of Micheal Praed, the actor who
played Robin Hood in the popular eighties TV series. Others told me that too,
but looking at the face staring back at me, they couldn’t have been more wrong.
“Fuck,” I
shouted. And then “fuck” again. It suddenly hit me. I glared at myself in the
mirror, into my eyes despising myself. I shouted, “You fucking wanker,” and
continued to do so as I gripped the taps before me, squeezing them tighter with
each yell.
Once
dressed and considerably calmer, as calm as one can be in the situation I’d
gotten myself in to, I knew I had a few people to
speak to, but my first call had to be to my parents. I nervously dialled their
number wondering who would pick up the phone. It was Mum.
Somehow I
managed to relay the story to her and felt so guilty when she started to cry.
She told me how stupid I’d been and when the tears subsided she said that I had
to phone my boss immediately to explain what had happened. He was the second
number on my list.
“Pray
that you’ve still got a job, darling,” were her parting words.
I made
another strong, black coffee, took a deep breath, and dialled my manager's
direct line.
“Good
morning, Roger speaking, can I help you?”
“Morning
Roger, it’s David. I need to see you today. It’s urgent, I’m afraid. And…” I
hesitated “...it’s rather sensitive.”
“No
problem!” he said, and then paused. “You’re not resigning are you?” He laughed;
completely unaware of what was about to come his way.
“No,” I
told him. “Is three ok?”
“Sure,
David, I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
I hung up
the phone.
By half
past three I’d lost my job. I was surprised it had taken that long.
I handed
the car keys to Roger telling him that the car was in a compound in Camden. I
then gave back the office keys and was told to clear my desk before close of
business that day. As Roger had pointed out in the contract he’d earlier retrieved
from my file, any employee who loses their driving licence under the influence
of alcohol whilst in a company car, would automatically, and with immediate
effect be dismissed from their position. I was gutted to learn that I’d only
receive one month’s salary and that all the commission
due to me – including the recent five grand I’d worked so hard for – was not
going to be forthcoming.
Roger
thanked me for my services over the past few years, shook my hand and wished me
luck for the future.
"Oh,
and David?" he said, as I was halfway out the door.
"Yes?"
I turned around to face him.
"You're
a fucking idiot."
I closed
the door behind me knowing full well he was right. I walked down the stairs and
out of the office onto the busy London streets. That’s the
last time I’ll leave that building I thought to myself as I negotiated my way through the
masses of people and headed down to the underground. I paid for a ticket and
boarded the train with the words “You’re a fucking idiot” ringing in my ears.
That evening,
I visited my parents. They were more upset than angry; they could see how I was
feeling and didn’t have to tell me what an idiot I’d been. I phoned Mike that
evening too, and told him what had happened. He was sorry, very sorry, but what
more could he say? I told him I’d catch up with him soon and finished the call.
I really wasn’t in the mood for talking.
My first
ever court appearance followed within a matter of days. I felt like such a
lowlife standing in the dock. I went to face the music alone; I didn’t want any of my
family in attendance. I didn’t want any of them to see me as a criminal,
waiting for my conviction. I got myself into this mess and I, alone wanted to
deal with it. As I waited for the judge to deliver my punishment, I thought
about what I thrown away. I’d had it all: an excellent career and a salary to
match with a smart BMW and a luxury apartment. But I’d lost everything in one
stupid, reckless night which had resulted in a twelve month driving ban and a
hefty fine.
Not being
able to afford the payments on my apartment, my parents suggested that I move back in with
them. Although I was more than appreciative of their support, depression
quickly set in when it hit me that I’d kissed goodbye to my salary, my home and
the lifestyle I’d loved. I think it was depression,
I’d never suffered from depression before, but I was at the lowest ebb of my
life. I spent months staring at a TV screen, watching the same shows, the same
familiar faces with the same voices. It became a routine and my days were
now dictated by what programme I watched and at what time. It wasn’t long
before I was feeling extremely sorry for myself, depression had definitely
taken root to the point that I refused to go out because of the shame I’d
bought onto my family. I became a complete recluse, a couch potato and hated
myself for it.
I needed
to get away, I needed some breathing space and to re-evaluate my life, to get
my life back into some sort of perspective, so with nothing better to do, I
decided to take some time out. I booked a one-way ticket to Spain with the last
of the dwindling savings that I’d managed to hold on to. I planned to
spend the summer there to clear my head and to try and regain my almost
shattered confidence. To me it seemed like a good idea at the time.
The night
before I left, my family arranged a small party for me. Actually, it was
more of a get together considering that losing my job, home and driving license
wasn’t really a cause to get the party poppers out.
We were a
very close and very large family. Mum and Dad had produced six children in
eleven years, ironic considering my dad was an only child. Gary, the eldest,
was already married. I will always remember him sending me to bed at 9.30pm
most nights even though I was thirteen years old. My sister Sue revelled in
being the only female amongst us. Stuart came next in the pecking order and may
have been the third child but he was always the first on the pitch when we
played football. My twin brother John and I were like chalk and cheese. He was
arty and extremely clever, whereas I was sporty and now, it seemed, not so
clever. The baby of the family was Bobby, a year younger than John and I, also
in the same business as me. At least the same business as I used to be in. Not
anymore.
The
champagne flowed that night. Okay, it wasn’t champagne but sparkling wine, and
it was a lovely evening, albeit rather emotional. Just before midnight the
family started to say their goodbyes as each headed for home. Bobby, gave me a
hug at the door.
"David,”
he said with his eyes focused on mine, “Look after yourself."
“Of
course I will, I just need to get away, clear my head.” I replied.
"I
know, but just be careful."
I smiled.
“Don’t
worry, I’ll be fine.”
There
were hugs all around from John, Stuart and Gary. They all wished me good luck
and told me to stay in touch. Then there followed a huge hug
from Susan. For as long as I can remember I’ve always called her Pink, but to
this day I have no idea why.
"Please
David, take care." she said, squeezing my arm affectionately.
"Don't
worry Pink, I will, I promise.”
"Good,
because you’ve put Mum and Dad through enough already."
"Yeah,
I know, and I feel so ashamed but don’t worry. I love you."
She
leaned into my face and kissed me, then headed down the path after her
brothers.
I thanked
Mum and Dad for the get together and headed to the spare room where I’d been
sleeping for the past few months. My empty suitcase was on the bed beckoning to
be filled, and just as I was about to start packing there was a faint knock on
the door. I turned round to see my Mum standing there.
It
couldn’t have been easy bringing up six children, but Mum had always been
there for us all. She was warm, kind hearted and did all she could to take care
of us. You’d have thought that with the demands of having such a large family
to look after, her physical appearance may have taken a back seat. But far from
it; she was always immaculately dressed and she looked lovely that night.
“Do you
need any help, darling?”
I shook
my head.
“No don’t
worry Mum, I can do it. But thanks.”
She
smiled, nodding her head, and closed the door quietly behind her.
I
finished packing and got into bed. Lying there, with my arms behind my head
looking at the white painted ceiling which I had become so accustomed to, I was
excited about getting out of London and my miserable day to day existence. I thought
of the sun, the sea and the adventure in front of me, and before I knew it, Mum
was knocking on the door the following morning with a cup of coffee, one sugar,
and a few slices of toast. Every morning without fail she had breakfast ready
for me, even though I always told her not to bother as I could obviously do it
myself. She wouldn’t have dreamed of letting me do it though, and twenty-one
years on, that still brings a smile to my face.
