Time in the Sun - Novel

TIME IN THE SUN 

Chapter 1.

“What’s the time? Only 5 o’clock?” I said to myself. 

It was getting dark already and I was all too aware how the darkness of the evening always creeps up so quickly. I was not sure that I have achieved much at all this weekend. 

The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere; whatever that means. Oh well it’s a bit early but a quick glass of wine won’t hurt. I looked at the bag of bottles by the bin whilst this thought was running through my mind. 

Ah, perhaps not, said my conscience. I must go to the bottle bank in tomorrow morning on the way to work. I think I should wait at least until 6 in the evening before having a drink. That’s what my Grandparents always did, a glass of sherry at 6 pm on a Sunday; regular as could be. That was their routine whenever I went to see them with Mum and Dad. That was such a regular life, so constant. 

I thought about how I had made that life for myself; I love this house and in some way it is a mirror of my childhood home but why does it feel so empty? Where is she?  

Glancing at the clock again, it was ten to six, I poured a glass of Pinot Grigio and sat down in my chair in the otherwise empty sitting room. I looked around but saw nothing. I didn’t notice the fireplace, the framed photos, the French doors leading onto what I knew was a beautiful garden. The stylish curtains caught my glance for a moment but all I saw was a blur of elegantly draped fabric. Claire had been so pleased with those curtains. She loved the way they shimmered when the light caught the silver thread that was woven into the thick green fabric. Why had I been so dismissive when she had described them to me on the phone? She had seen then in a sale and was so excited. I remember her saying “they are perfect, you will love them”. 

All I had said was “How much? Is that the sale price!” and then said I didn’t think green curtains sounded very nice. With a great eye for style, she had been right; they really brought an extra dimension to the already elegant room. What was the point of all of it now? I poured a second glass. I would pace myself tonight. I did have a lot to do tomorrow at work but even doing what I loved at my Property and Design Company didn’t hold the joy it used to when Claire was around. 

Then it happened, I leaned forward, put my head in my hands and cried. I sobbed like a baby. I don’t know how long I was crying but I felt I couldn’t stop. In a strange way it was bliss, a relief even if as a grown man in my late thirties I felt I shouldn’t be crying at all. I needed to cry, I wanted to cry. Why did she have to go? “Claire, I love you!” I called out to the empty room. 

Self-pity enveloped me like a fog in November. Nothing else could be seen or felt. What was the purpose of the big house, the cars, the personal number plates, a wardrobe full of smart clothes I didn’t feel like wearing? Just tokens, just empty trophies. What really mattered was gone. “Claire you shouldn’t have gone”, I called out through my tears. 

Grown men don’t cry, I said to myself, “yes they do’ said my inner voice. My mind whirled, I thought about birthdays, Christmases, happy events but the memories just added to my deep loneliness. I had never felt so completely alone as at this time. I poured another glass, the fog cleared for a moment as I realised that two thirds of the bottle had gone already. I must pull myself together. 

I went to the rack of CDs; she had loved her CDs and had refused to let me give them away when I had downloaded them onto her phone. Why hadn’t she taken them with her? I couldn’t understand. She would never have left them. Mind you she hadn’t even taken her jewellery, she had been wearing her wedding ring in the Hospice but the engagement ring was still on the little ring stand on the dressing table. What should I do with that? 

I sat back a little more composed. Perhaps I could phone a friend. That wasn’t fair though. Since Claire had gone I realised how few friends I really had. We had always had wonderful parties and 120 guests were not uncommon for a special occasion but where were they now? Now, the party consisted of one and the only bottle open was the one I was steadily going through by myself and the only catering was the packet of fries I had eaten and the open bag of nuts. 

It had come as a shock but I had realised that I only had about three or four real friends. Perhaps I was being unfair because a few people had said ‘do call anytime’ or ‘let me know if I can do anything’ and I am sure that they meant it but how many friends could I call now when the wine was getting to me and depression was overshadowing me like a black cloud. 

I run through the list of close friends in my mind. Who could I call at three in the morning if I had had a crisis. A crisis, ha, I had a crisis now! 

How could I expect anyone else to like me if I didn’t like me myself? I certainly did not like myself at this moment. I couldn’t see how I ever would. Think happy thoughts, be positive; the self-help book said. Did the authors of such books ever experience deep grief and if not, how could they give advice? 

I thought about my last Christmas with Claire and sobbed again. That would never be the same again.

My mind went back to my dear Mum; bless her, She wouldn’t be able to explain why Claire had gone. I ought to check on Mum’s grave in case it was overgrown; mind you she had always said she wouldn’t be there and told me not to keep going to the grave so there was no point. 

I thought about a friend who had passed away just last week, dear José, wonderful José. I must learn from her attitude to life. In her late 80's, she still found time to ask me round for Sunday lunch when she knew about Claire. She cooked a full roast meal for me despite knowing she was, in her own words, ‘on borrowed time’. I suppose she had known me all my life, I certainly always knew her, a deputy Mum if that makes sense. Oh, I am getting sentimental. It must be the wine. 

I thought about Claire’s wonderful evening meals. Such a good cook, each one had been like a dinner party presented just for me. Why did Claire have to go, why Oh, why? Why had I made it happen? I must have fallen asleep because it was completely dark, I was cold and I heard an insistent sound; the phone was ringing. It better not be a sales call I thought. 

“Hello, Oh hi Ian” I quickly tried to switch on the ‘wide wake and switched on’ button but my brain wasn’t functioning. Ian was one of my long-standing friends; the sort you don’t see for ages but when you do the conversation picks up just where you left off. Even so, I didn’t want him to know I was crying over Claire. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Speaking to you,” I tried in a failed attempt at humour. 

“Are you OK?” I paused, “I'm fine, I lied.” 

“Its Claire isn’t it?” 

“Who else?” “I know I shouldn’t but I miss her so.” 

“I understand, you need to get away, you need a holiday.” “Yes and rub sun-cream into my own back! Sorry that was harsh, I know you mean well but what’s the point?” 

“You really do need to get away.” 

“I must work, I need to”. 

“You can manage a week, the world won’t fall apart if you leave development and design for a week”. 

“I need to work, I need Claire but I can’t have her.” 

“I know, I am sorry but sometimes friends know best. Better in fact that we do ourselves. Setting aside your need for Claire because you cannot have her. You actually need a break, time to re-charge and to be the old James.” 

“I don’t think I will ever be the old me; he left when Claire did. Anyway even if you are right, what do I do, where do I go? Join the over 80's on a cruise or go on a coach trip full of old biddies? 

Sorry, I am feeling a bit sorry for myself.  It is just that I am not there yet.”

“I know. Why don’t you go somewhere hot, I don’t know, the Canaries. We did meet there after all.” 

I thought back to my 20's when I was on my own and met a group of guys on holiday. It was an amazing coincidence that they lived near me. We became firm friends and Ian was someone who would always be there for me. 

"I don’t know, holidays alone always conjure up images of lonely sad people. I suppose I am lonely and sad so perhaps that is the right image.” 

“You are lonely, I know that and that is quite understandable. As to sad, there are two types of sad, the feeling of sad through loss whilst being appreciative of the good times and the sad that is full of self-pity. You know that. Is your glass half full or half empty? Only you can fill it.” 
“OK, you win, I know I need a break.” 

I thought for a moment, “There was that seminar, I think I binned the flyer as I couldn’t imagine going to Property Talk property with a load of self-important International so called experts in property". 

"It would give me some purpose and better that a singles trip. The seminar is actually going to be held somewhere in the Canaries.” 

“Do it, you will have something in common with the other delegates, there will be sunshine, I expect it is a nice hotel and you never know, you might even meet someone.” 

“I assume by someone, you mean someone significant, I don’t want to. I keep thinking she will come back. Anyone else would feel like a betrayal of her memory.” 

“You have to move your life forward. Claire wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your lifesad and alone.” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“That means you won’t do it.” 

“I will and…” 

I started to feel tears welling up inside me. I knew he was right but how I could I go on a seminar, well a holiday in fact, but without Claire? I hadn’t done that for years. 

He sensed my mood. “Do it, book it, you need to. I will be upset if you don’t. More importantly you will be upset and would have missed a great opportunity.” 

“Perhaps you are right.” 

As he was speaking I had walked over the kitchen bin, the phone clasped to my ear by my shoulder. I ferreted around, pulled out two ready meal trays and wrappers. There it was, the magazine from my Professional Society. I read it, it sounded good, nice hotel, Canaries, abutting the beach. I scanned the itinerary. 

“I really will think about it.” 

“You know you need to. Ring me back when you have booked it”.

“OK.” 

I had to admit that re-reading it, the agenda did sound quite interesting and if a couple of the lectures were dull I could always cut them and go on the beach. It was only for three days but if I made it a week I would be sure of a real break. I went on-line and booked the seminar. The hotel website did look good. A suite, a Junior suite, what to do? I decided to upgrade to a full Stateroom. I needed to treat myself and it did say that the Staterooms had 180 degree view of the sea and the beach plus a massive terrace. I pulled myself together and a few clicks of the mouse later, the hotel and flights were booked. I made a few more clicks and a car was booked as well. 

It might have been the wine but I felt warm. The Canarian sunshine cannot have reached me in my empty house in Hampshire but it seemed to have done so. I rang Ian back; he was genuinely pleased albeit a bit surprised. 

“Wow, you did it, that was quick.” 

“You said to, so I did”. 

“I know you, you are no pushover; you must have known in your heart that you needed it.” 

“You are right, I did. Thanks.” 

I made a coffee and felt around in the depths of the permafrost in my freezer and grabbed a ready meal. I scanned the instructions but the oven would take too long so I decided to give it a zap of instant global warming in the microwave. A few pings later my calorie filled, e-number meal was bubbling. It looked nothing like the photo on the front although I did have to acknowledge that it looked better when I put it on a proper china plate instead of the plastic trough it came in. It tasted OK; well it wasn’t haute- cuisine. I looked at my waist. I had always been trim but living alone had taken its toll. Most people would still have said I was trim or even fit but I knew the difference and the bulge that lingered above my belt was something I was determined to lose. The holiday, I couldn’t call it is seminar, would give me the encouragement to eater better and not snack.

I sent the rest of the evening in a rosy haze of happy contemplation at this first step to finding myself and starting living my life again interspersed with sorrow at what I had lost. I looked at Claire’s picture and the cloud descended again. I decided to go to bed and read. Positive, that’s what I had be; I would do it. 


Chapter 2. 

I must have heard Sarah moving around in the flat. She was the perfect flatmate; independent and tidy. We had become good friends at University and when the time had come to work in the real world it seemed natural to find a flat to share. 

It was a beautiful morning when I awoke; a little chilly but with a sparkling sun and light, scurrying clouds. Somehow though, I just couldn’t get myself going with my usual speed, I had nothing suitable to wear, even after considerable effort on my face, my make-up looked a mess, the milk was on the turn and we had run out of cereal. Even though I enjoyed my work; once I was there, I would have given almost anything to stay at home that day. Deep down I knew that the more I tried to hurry the more things would go wrong but despite knowing that, I noticed nothing, felt nothing, I just feared that it was going to be one of those days. My premonition was going to prove to be accurate. 

“Why is life like this?” I said to myself. I knew the answer from those self-help books but the trouble was however much I read them I never really took them to heart. Have a positive attitude seemed to be the main tenet. Perhaps the writers didn’t have to commute on a crowded train and then spend most of the day coped up in an office. 

Arriving late at Green Park Station, I raced breathlessly up the steps, and went in the direction of The Ritz. On a fine day, when I also had the luxury of time, I would often turn into Queens Walk and enjoy a leisurely stroll along the edge of Green Park. After admiring for the hundredth time the elegant beauty of the garden front of Spencer House, I would turn from the park through a small gate, cross in front of St James’s Palace and walk up St James’s Street, until I reached my office. Today, without the benefit of spare time and already feeling stressed, I headed with a determined pace under the arcade of the Ritz and deep in my own thoughts, I walked straight into a tall man of about sixty who was striding in the opposite direction. 

“I’m sorry, my dear” said the man in a polished public school voice. Despite his polite apology, he managed sound patronising and to convey more than a hint of reprimand. Having already endured a long, hot and cramped journey on the London Underground, which left me flustered and agitated, I managed to respond by blushing deeply and breaking out in a hot flush. I think that I muttered “sorry” but I rather fear that my word may well have been inaudible, spoken as it was to the inside of my coat collar. What I really wanted to say was that I was not his dear to anyone! Some people say that the disadvantage of London and other major Cities is that they can be very lonely places; on this occasion I thought that this was a distinct advantage in that I was unlikely ever to see him again. Had I suffered a similar encounter in my Great Aunt’s Suffolk village there would have been a certainty that not only would I see him again very soon, but also that he would have been related to half the families with whom she came into contact. 

“Thank heaven for London,” I said almost out loud as I broke into an inelegant trot. Suddenly I realised that by so doing I was only going to arrive at work hotter and more disheveled than I would if I slowed down to a normal pace and composed myself. “I’m sorry,” I said again, this time out loud to the world in general, as the man of my encounter had long since continued on his journey, no doubt berating the ill-mannered female who had barged into him. I could do nothing to right that wrong, but I did realise that the few minutes gained by rushing would only be lost in the office ‘Ladies’, where I would have to do some urgent running repairs to try to restore dignity to my appearance. “I’m not a school girl!” I exclaimed out loud to the astonishment of a well- dressed older couple, I judged to be American, walking out arm in arm from the main door of the Ritz in St James’s Street. Another full blush followed. I had meant to tell myself that I wasn’t a schoolgirl, late for class and having to face teacher’s wrath. Instead, I had managed to announce half my ‘mantra’ to a couple of tourists who would probably recall with laughter the strange English woman they saw on the London part of their holiday around Europe. 

I wish I were on holiday, I thought to myself. Instead of continuing down St James’s Street, I crossed over and continued back along Piccadilly and headed towards Fortnum and Mason. I went into a Coffee bar a short way along Piccadilly and ordered a Cappuccino. Late by twenty minutes but composed and collected was much better that late by ten minutes and looking an agitated mess. “Hi, didn’t expect to see you this morning”, said friendly Barista. Briefly, I told her what a perfectly awful start I had had to the day and how I had started to run until I had decided that some decorum was better than none. “I know,” she said, “I told my boyfriend not to run everywhere. I told him to be cool. Well you know, it’s like I have to run to keep up with him and he says he is walking normally. I know he’s tall and slim but I think it’s more because he is used to rushing around at a mad pace in the Brokers at Canary Wharf where he works”. 

“I know what you mean but I wouldn’t complain if I had a tall, slim boyfriend to keep up with, and he had a good job.” I felt a little jealousy rising, even allowing for her understandable bias, how did she get an attractive boyfriend and one who had a good job, whilst I had no-one?

“I’ll try to be cool. ‘More haste less speed’ my Great Aunt would say.” “Now do you feel better?” she asked. “Thanks, I do, much better.” I paid and with ‘have a nice day’ ringing in my ears, I returned back along Piccadilly and turned once again down into St James’s Street. Feeling much more able to face the day, I headed past the former Economist building. I looked around. I loved working in this area. I had even turned down the offer of another job as that company was based in a run-down area of London and much as I was a hard-working and loyal member of any team, I also valued my own time. I knew that I would soon have become depressed, especially in the summer, if I had been trapped in an area without a park or at least a garden square in which to exhale the stresses of the job. No, St James’s had everything and I found that even the worst of days could be cleansed from my soul by a walk in Green Park. When I felt that I needed retail therapy I could spend a happy lunchtime shopping in the refined and elegant surroundings of Messrs Fortnum and Mason’s wonderful store. In flush times I could treat myself to something decadent; a box of their Blanc de Blanc Champagne Truffles was my favourite. In leaner times, I could at least buy one of their numbered bars of Chocolate or some of their delicious biscuits although I did share those with the team. From my office I could just see over St James’s Palace into St James’s Park and across Green Park to Buckingham Palace. The whole of London from my perspective seemed to be comprised of parks and squares, all breathing life as though it were a sanitised version of the countryside that had been delivered into the teeming metropolis. 

Unknown to me, a little way across London in a parallel universe a fairly young and very successful businessman was considering how to pick up the pieces of his life. A little over six foot he had begun to develop a slight stoop and despite the outward trappings of success now found himself avoiding eye contact unless it was essential. Life had knocked him hard. Closer to my own life, my flatmate Sarah was always lurching from one romantic crisis to another. Despite her protestations that she wanted happiness, I felt that she enjoyed the drama she created in her life and actually thrived on the contrast between the highs and lows. I was different, I cherished the tranquility of my life which was why I hated myself when I looked back on mornings like this one and realised that I had been rushing out of control and was just on autopilot. 

“Morning Chrissy,” said the imposing man on reception as he held open the large glass door for me. He was really a cross between a Concierge and a Security Guard but immaculately dressed in a uniform bedecked in gold braid he cut an imposing figure, it was sometimes hard to remember that he was not a General in the Army. “Morning, Bill, lovely morning,” I replied. I pressed the lift button and was about to say that I’d had a terrible journey but I stopped myself as it would have sounded as though I was apologising to him for being late. The lift arrived, its silent operation only broken by the ping of the bell as the doors slid open. I walked in to the maple-lined car, feeling now much composed, and pressed the button for my floor. “Morning Liz,” “Morning Jan,” “Oh Chrissy, Declan phoned to say that he was going to be late. Some crisis in his love life, I think.” “Quelled surprise,” I said. Declan had all the charm and looks of the Irish at their best but despite this, found his relationships soon foundered as crisis overlapped crisis. Sometimes I had to cope with tears and at other times with anger as he relayed his tangled love life which was played out following endless hours on Dating sites on the web and by encounters in the Clubs and bars of Soho and South London. Robert, his stalwart partner, had even phoned a few times in desperation to ask me where Declan was. Despite the obvious philandering of his partner, Robert and Declan enjoyed a loving relationship that had survived almost ten years and many indiscretions. “Was Declan home when he called?” “I don’t think so,” said Jan “he was calling on his mobile from somewhere; it sounded like a busy street.” “I suppose we’ll have Robert on later, in floods of tears. Trouble is you can’t help loving Declan, and the clients love him.” “Too much sometimes, little devil he is,” said Jan.  “Morning Diane. We were just agonising over Declan again.” “Poor dear, he’ll never change. Your notes are on your desk” she replied. “David wants to see you at 9.45.ave checked and there are 34 new e-mails for you; I have flagged the most important 6. About 15 are just copies so you needn’t bother with those. Also, the tenant of number 44 has already called three times. He says if we don’t sort out the tenant above and stop the leak by today he is going to the newspapers. Oh, don't forget the three o’clock meeting”. 

“Thanks Diane, I won’t. I appreciate it.” I opened the glass door to the booth that served as my office. Whilst Diane and the rest of the staff had flexible work areas arranged like yachts in a Marina and screened by planting of Yucca, Parlour Palm and Christmas Cactus, my status as manager entitled me to a glass box of my own with Venetian blinds set within double glazing. Here at least the world could be quieter although in line with the ‘open at work’ policy, the cabin door was only shut when I was in the middle of a face-to-face meeting. I looked at the computer screen, touched the mouse and the sedate image of tropical fish spending long and happy virtual lives around an imaginary coral reef, vanished. In its place, with the company logo as a background were set no less than six red flashing ‘urgent e-mail communication’ notices and another seven pop-ups instructing me to open the box to reveal the information within. The company strap-line ‘Together we build’ under the logo made me feel that I could do with a few less buildings and a few more people carrying out the construction at that particular time. I surveyed the piles of paper and files in the two brushed steel in-trays. 

“I thought that computers were going to lead us to the paper-less office,” I said to Diane who had just come in to my office. Diane acted not only as my secretary but also as the unofficial office Mother figure. Over the course of a month everyone, from the Directors down, generally had recourse at least once to unburden themselves on Diane. Sometimes it was just enough to hear her reminiscences of the 'old days' to put everything into perspective. 

Now it was my turn as I desperately needed a dose of her no nonsense advice and homely good sense. She must have known enough secrets to make a healthy living as a blackmailer but true to her adopted role she was always the soul of discretion. 

“I think computers are part of a conspiracy to deforest the world. You type it, check it on the screen, press print, you have six copies, someone suggests an alteration so you throw those in the bin, retype and run off six more. Twelve pieces of paper and you could have just picked up the ‘phone in the first place.” 

“I know,” I said sighing deeply, “but you should really e-mail it, and to all the right people, so you wouldn't have to print all the copies”. 

“That's a fine idea in principle but if I ever suggest that here, the Corporate Leadership Team always say, ‘just keep a copy for the file’ and so I've given up even suggesting that we only use the e-mail. Even when we do stick to email it gets copied to too many people and the Server crashes and IT say its because our mail boxes are full. You can’t win.” 

“I know what you mean,” I said, “its OK with the youngsters but nearly everyone who is over fifty here, the men, I mean, seems to be stuck in a time warp.” 

“You’re so right. When I started in an office, if you typed, you did it correctly or you would have to start all over again. Correction fluid wasn’t tolerated. I can tell you that you soon made sure you were accurate, particularly if you had a man like my first boss breathing down your neck. Actually, my boss wasn’t too bad but it was a family company and although he was supposed to be retired it was my boss’s father who everyone was terrified of. Old Mr Dawson was one of those men who, as they say, ‘didn’t suffer fools gladly’ and I think he especially disliked women. I was lucky, ‘though, as I was only sixteen and I think his son, Mr George, as we used to call him, seemed to take a shine to me. So I was fairly safe, though now I think I would report his father for sex discrimination. I don’t think he would ever be able to deal with a female manager.” 

“The way I feel today, I think I would have given your Mr Dawson more than a taste of his own medicine.” 

“I know, but those days were different and despite that he was always a gentleman at the factory party. We used to have a great time. I worked in the office and was the youngest in that section but it was a clothing factory and we always had the party for the whole work force in the canteen. They used to push back the Formica topped tables and put all the orange and brown plastic covered chairs to the side...” 

“My cousin would love those - she's very into ‘70's retro.” “Well I saw the real thing, not ‘retro’. Mr and Mrs George were there all morning, seeing everything was done correctly and on the dot of one o’clock, Mr and Mrs Dawson would arrive to declare the party open. Mrs Dawson was always swathed in furs and was very much a grand lady, although rumour had it she had met Mr Dawson when he was a travelling salesman and she worked on a shop counter in a haberdashery department. Anyway, there was a good spread with bridge rolls, slices of veal and ham pie, corned beef sandwiches and sometimes there were delicious vol-au-vents filled with prawns. We also had pineapple and cheese on sticks and little sausages on sticks - both of which I loved. Then to follow there was trifle and a colourful fruit salad. Although I had saved up for some flared jeans, my Mum said I couldn’t wear them for the office party. She was right really, so instead I insisted on wearing a wide denim skirt with embroidery on the bottom. Attached to the inside of the hem was a row of white lace. I thought it looked so pretty and was really pleased with it but I nearly burst into tears when an old crow who worked in the office, I think since Victoria was on the throne, said my petticoat was showing and if I couldn’t dress with dignity I shouldn’t come to the party. I remember she sneeringly said that when she was brought up a hint of leg was considered provocative and certainly no respectable (and she stressed respectable) girl would show herself in her undergarments.”

 “Don’t worry,” I said, “I don’t suppose anyone ever wanted to see an old girl like that anyway, other than fully covered from head-to-toe.” 

“No, you’re right but you know how crushing a comment like that can be for a young girl.” 

“I do". 

"When you are old enough and confident enough to be able to give a suitable sharp retort, you seldom need to, as people no longer put you down.” 

“That's true". 

"We could all have done with old heads on young shoulders but that's not the way of the world. Mind you, we really were more naive in those days. If you compare it with the youngsters around now, we were just children. That last work experience lad we had here was almost belligerent.” 

“I know, even the famous Diane magic was lost on him.”

“Thanks Chrissy, I did try. I never like to give up but I have to say I was not sorry when he left after only one week of the three he was due to be here.”

“Tell me more about the ordered world of life in your clothing factory, stories of your life make me feel calm. I really then should do some of this work.”

“Well, the men all wore a jacket and tie. Mr Dawson preferred them to wear a suit, which the older ones did, but I remember that some of the younger ones wore really loud check jackets and wide kipper ties. I thought they looked so handsome! I was too shy to dance, so I usually went to the Ladies when Mr Dawson was doing his dancing.”

“No-one would think of you being shy, if they saw you doing the dancing you did after our Christmas party,” I said.

“No, well I’ve come on a bit over the years... and broadened a little,” she said, patting her hips. “Mr and Mrs Dawson only stayed about an hour-and-a-half although Mr and Mrs George stayed the whole time and the party was all over by about six, but for us it was the highlight of the year and gave a great atmosphere for the rest of the time. Anyway I’m rabbiting on.”

“No, I’m really enjoying it, it makes this place seem so modern and advanced, I’m beginning to feel better already. Sometimes I’m pleased that I’m working in today's business world.” I sighed.

“ What, was it a bad journey?” she guessed.

 “Awful, I really could do with a holiday. How on earth do you manage Diane? You are always here before anyone.”

“I’m an early riser, I usually arrive by 7 o'clock at Victoria, then I walk across St James’s Park and Green Park ‘till I come in by St James’s Palace. It sets me in a good mood for the day and sometimes if it is frosty, I love to see the ducks on the lake. It keeps me sane - especially in a madhouse like this!”

“I know, I love the job; I love working here and being able to spend lunchtime either in the shops of Jermyn Street or in Green Park is heaven. It’s just the journey... and sometimes I don’t feel that I’m going anywhere.” 

“Oh, you are my dear - he’ll come along, you mark my words.”

“I didn’t say I wanted a man. You do let down the Women’s Movement you know. I was complaining about the journey, not about my love life... or lack of.”

“I'm all for independent women but its what you didn’t say that comes across most strongly; I say that we all need a partner. Whether it’s a man or a woman, I don’t care. We all need someone to share our lives with and that’s what you need. I know that you’ve got that lovely apartment (the pictures you showed me look great) and I know that Sarah is a good friend of yours. True, you’ve got someone to talk to when you get home but you can’t live your life vicariously through hers. She’ll always be having affairs, just like Declan does, poor love, but you need a settled relationship; someone to share everything with and I say you need a man. I know what your taste runs to; trust me. My own Bob is a good man and we love each other. It means more than anything in the world,” she paused, “lecture over,” she laughed.

“I know, thanks.”

“Let’s get on with all this.”

We settled down. Work and the world of a property company took over. I think that I just went into auto pilot and to this day I couldn’t list a single thing I did but I do know that I didn’t stop and I suppose I must have achieved all I had to. Lunch break was meant to be a high spot in an otherwise stress-filled day but it often didn’t happen, as due to a series of panics, deadlines and meetings I was unable to go out for my shot of rest and relaxation in Green Park. Instead, at 2:15 Diane came to my rescue. “You look like you could do with something,” she said, as she placed a miniature paper carrier bag on my desk. Inside, the Styrofoam cup held promise of cappuccino; there was a long tuna-and-cucumber baguette, and the best treat of all - a slice of chocolate-coated shortbread.

“Thanks, Diane, you’re a star. Here we are,” I said, as I reached for my purse.

“No, it’s on me,” she said,” You need it.”

“You do spoil me, thanks.”

“We all need spoiling sometimes my dear.”

“I need a holiday,” I said, ruefully,”Oh well...”

The ‘phone rang. It was a friendly voice but I detected a little less of the usual polish and optimism that I was used to hearing.

“Hi, Chrissy,” said Sarah, “I’m having a bummer of a day.”

“Sarah, that’s not like you, you never feel down.”

“I’m sorry, its just that creep in the art department asked me out again and just when I was getting Mr B. round to the idea that we should have a photo shoot on his yacht in the South of France - and that I should go too - Mrs B. rang and I was ushered out of the office. When I returned the idea had sunk like an anchor in the ocean.” 

“Well at least you keep getting asked out here, there and everywhere. I never seem to find anyone and they never find me.”

“Sorry Chrissy, I thought I was having a bad day and now I find that you’re in the depths of depression.”

“No, I’m not. It’s just that I’ve been thinking. Diane says I need a man.”

“Don’t we all.”

“You’ve got at least three on the go at any one time.”   

“Not any more, I want to be a one man girl.”

“Well you had better pass the other two on to me.”

“They’re not your type and in any case, each time I have tried to set you up it has been a disaster.”

“I should think so too, that awful old man who started groping me in the taxi and that was on the way to the dinner date. I hate to think what he would have been like after a glass or two of Bordeaux.”

“He wasn’t old, he was mature and he was only the Chairman of one of the biggest advertising corporations on the planet.”

“He was also the biggest letch in the universe and then there was that chap on the motorbike, he looked about eighteen and the whole time he talked about nothing except motor racing.”

“Some people would die to go out with him, he’s a three times world speedway champion and he has women fainting at the sight of him in his leathers - all trying to pull them off him.”

“They have obviously never tried to have a conversation with him.”

”I don't think that is what they are after.”

“I understand and I’m no prude but I do like the man to have something reasonably intelligent to say as well as being good in the sack. Then there was that Neanderthal,” I continued, now anxious not to accept blame for the recent failures in my love life, “I know he was an Internet billionaire or something but to talk bites and nodes all night and I don’t mean neck bites; really.”

Sarah had the cheek to leave a noticeable pause in the conversation before resuming. “You might be thought of as just a little prudish or at least a bit naive. You’re a good friend but I’ve given up trying to find you a man, you’re much too fussy.”

“That’s OK Sarah. Its just been a bad day.”

“You and me both. Still, it can only get better.”

“True.”

“Look Chrissy, its good to talk but I’ve just realised the time and I’d better get back to the grind. I feel better just talking to you.”

“Me too, ciao Sarah. Oh, are you home this evening?”

“Yes I am.”

“OK, I’ll see you around the normal time.”

“London Underground permitting!”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

   

Chapter 3 

I was standing on the platform at Holborn Underground station. Somehow I had managed to negotiate the tube journey from Green Park Station to Holborn with relative ease. I could almost say that I quite enjoyed that part of the journey to and from work. There were not too many stops and any one of the places along the route was truly Central London and contained streets that felt familiar from many hours of walking in the area, discovering hidden historic lanes, specialist shops and exceptional architecture. This was my London. I spent much leisure time in summer making it mine. Finding a job in St James’s had been a dream come true, because even though I couldn’t yet realise my dream of living close to St James’s Park, I was able to absorb the sites and sounds of my favourite part of London every day.

When my long standing friend Sarah and I had discussed buying an apartment together we had started with our sights on Westminster but, given our strict criteria of two large bedrooms, a large sitting room and a new kitchen, ideally in a purpose built modern block with parking and a communal garden, we had been forced by our budget to look further out along the Central Line until we had reached Snaresbrook. Not that Snaresbrook was inexpensive, it was just that it was less expensive than locations nearer the West End and it had the great advantage of being a pleasant place which we had both taken to when we first visited.

We could equally have looked to the West, North or South, but Sarah’s job in Canary Wharf had seemed to point to East as being the preferred direction. A chance to see Epping Forest in the Autumn had clinched it as despite the selection of excellent apartments in new and converted buildings in Docklands, we both hankered after a view of trees and somewhere to walk on land as much like countryside as a reasonably central location would allow. We had been in the apartment for about six months, when she had managed to secure an excellent job in PR right in the heart of Soho in Golden Square so the leafy suburbs of North London would equally well have suited our brief but by then we had settled into the apartment. It was in a small block built in the style of a Docklands conversion and it fulfilled our criteria in every way. It also had the advantage of only being about five minutes walk from the tube station where the open expanses of Epping Forest thrust deep towards the metropolis so that we could enjoy open space only a short walk from the apartment. The neighbourhood was made up of grand Edwardian houses, blocks of maisonettes built in the 1920’s and ‘30’s and purpose built apartments dating mainly from the 1950’s, ‘60’s and ‘70’s. Whilst some of the Edwardian houses nearer the station were converted into apartments, the majority of the grander houses, especially those in quiet roads, or set behind the long greensward had been sumptuously restored for use once again as single family homes. The maisonettes were built with a human scale in mind, generally in the mock Tudor style so beloved by the suburban builder in the inter war period. For all their pastiche they made comfortable and attractive homes. Here and there, the avant garde of the 1930’s had triumphed and the Art Deco shapes of rounded corners, horizontal lines and stylised fountains emerged from under their flat or green pantiled roofs. The 1960’s blocks were contained as generally they were confined to the site of just one Edwardian home no doubt demolished in the World War when all parts of East London suffered heavily. 

The neighbourhood was interesting, generally quiet and convenient. Legions of second generation immigrants progressing from the East End towards the leafy and expensive areas around Chigwell and Loughton, had made their mark on the culture of the area so that it was only a short walk to one of the best Bagel shops outside of Brick Lane. Across the road there was a plentiful supply of restaurants offering fare from Turkey, Greece, Italy, Pakistan, India, China and many other near and far places. Taxi cabs too were in fairly plentiful supply and we felt safe in the building of just eight flats. Safe and isolated, I suppose was the truth. We hardly ever saw our neighbours. They were all very pleasant when we did see them on the stairs or parking the car, but everyone seemed happy to keep themselves to themselves. As it was a relatively modern block, built in the late 1980’s on the site of a builders yard with ease of maintenance paramount, there was little the residents needed to worry about. Thanks to our all agreeing to contribute to the cost of a Managing Agent, we were spared the ‘Meetings of the Residents’ Association’, which friends had to suffer in some of the large mansion blocks around London. I knew from experience in the property company how such blocks seemed to spawn the ‘chair of the residents association’. He - or occasionally, she - was around 60 and they liked to give the impression that they had just resigned as C.E.O. of a major multinational and they were determined that their word would be law. Sadly, their old business suit brought out for such meeting belied the suggestion of a high position as the shiny fabric showed too great a sign of wear and the straining at the buttons suggested a little too much snacking in front of the television as retirement failed to live up to its promise of luxurious travel and catered comforts. I sometimes had to represent my company at these meetings and I remembered one evening at a 1930’s block in the suburbs, where from 6 pm until after 8:30  the chief topic of conversation had been the quality of the toilet tissue for use of the porters and the shocking cost of begonias for the manicured communal gardens. Here in our block, the parking area was all block paved and the garden comprised a square of grass bordered by hardy shrubs. Our entire maintenance expenditure involved paying Dave, a happy cockney of about 50, to cut the grass, sweep the parking area and pull out any weeds from the paving. He was also very obliging and when we had moved in he had put up Sarah’s modern art mirror.

“Don’t worry, it’ll look great,” she said, when it was delivered, “Just imagine it against the bare brick of the walls.”

She was right. Once fitted, the twisted steel and wire surrounding the sheet glass of the mirror looked superb. The glass rectangle was hung to level whilst the main frame hung almost diagonally across it but set forward from the glass itself. There seemed almost no physical contact between them except a gossamer-like web of steel wire which wove its way around the whole creation. The resulting art was certainly dramatic and it gave the impression of being light and almost weightless but its looks belied the sheer weight of engineering and glass which had combined to form one of Daniella’s largest and most talked about works. This notoriety hadn’t resulted in a sale and so Sarah, who had expressed admiration for the work, was able to acquire it at the end of the exposition for a modest sum to her delight and probably to the relief of Daniella herself who would otherwise have been left with the transport and storage costs of the masterpiece.

“How are we going to get it fitted? It must weigh as much as a small car,” I had said after recalling the two delivery men struggling up the stairs with it.

“I don’t know - it’s by Daniella Kerchick, very today,” she said. 

“I expect she had someone to carry it.” 

Ignoring my retort she said, “They were dismantling the exhibition and I just had to have it. You’ll love it when it is up.”  In truth, I had learnt to love it and it was to our shared apartment that I was returning now after a hectic day at the office. It really was a very good apartment, we couldn't ask for more, although... if only we could move the whole block nearer Westminster and exchange Epping Forest for St James’s Park. One can but dream.

As I continued to wait on the platform I remembered that we had nearly ended our friendship over that mirror. There was no way we could lift it let alone hold it up preparatory to hanging it in the chosen position in the apartment. I don’t know which of us had noticed Dave working in the small garden adjoining the parking area but once asked, he had soon responded to our cry for help and it seemed that in almost no time he had fixed the monster to the wall. Sarah had not looked amused when he had quipped “Don’t worry love if I drop it, you’d never know the difference”. Dave had proved to be quite a help to us and he always seemed to know someone who could do this or that for us and it also turned out that he had a cousin who drove one of those vulgar stretch limousines with carriage lanterns along the side. He had turned up in the car when Sarah had mentioned casually to Dave that she was going to a film premiere with their company in the West End and a few of them needed a car to drive them. I had grimaced but Sarah had enjoyed every minute of it although what their client thought about the PR team arriving in a larger car than the star herself, I was not told.

I could never say that the Central Line was pleasurable. Sometimes it was bearable, occasionally even quite passable but tonight the indicator board twinkled with monotonous regularity to advise those on the increasingly packed platform that there were delays to all destinations. I heard a sound of clanking and realised that the gates to the platform were being closed to prevent further crowding on the platform. One could have felt trapped but being a seasoned commuter I accepted being incarcerated underground after work as a necessary part of life. We were obviously in for a long delay. I was becoming increasingly hot and I longed to sit down. Some people were actually sitting down on the platform but I decided not to do so. Dressed in my reasonably smart business suit, it would not have been a good idea if I wanted to wear it again looking even half decent, once the present creases had been pressed out. My mind wandered and eventually the sign flashed “Leytonstone train 7 minutes”. Those last seven minutes seemed like an hour until once again I looked up from my reverie. The train indicator board flickered into renewed action and within a short time there was rush of hot stale air which announced the imminent arrival of the train in the station. The train doors opened to reveal an already crowded carriage into which at the most about three or four short, slim people could have squeezed. In the event about twenty people that I could see pushed into the carriage and finally, after two attempts the doors closed and the train departed leaving the platform no less crowded than before. I had had no chance of boarding that train as the doors had not been in line with where I was standing. I shuffled along the platform a little, in order to gain some advantage and hopefully to be in line with the doors when the next train arrived. I had already determined to take any train which came along.  For Snaresbrook I really needed an Epping train as the Hainault trains branched off before Snaresbrook at Leytonstone which was also where some trains terminated but I could easily walk to the apartment from Wanstead which was on the Hainault line. If a Leytonstone only train arrived I had the choice of a short taxi ride or of waiting on the platform for the next train. At least that platform was above ground and in the open air and so would be much cooler.

In the event, the next train was an Epping one. With great difficulty I squeezed into a carriage. It took much dexterity and a little luck but I was able to board the train even though I was forced to stand under the low part of the roof with my neck bent forward almost pinned against a neighbouring passenger’s rucksack. With every move of the train the rucksack rubbed against my cheek. He or she might have taken the thing off in this crowd, I said to myself crossly. I couldn’t even move to determine the sex of the offender but being a seasoned traveler in London I knew that it would neither have been safe to reprimand fellow passengers nor was it even acceptable to speak. The unwritten rule was not to speak to strangers for any reason at all, on tube trains, even if one saw the same person every day. Sometimes I wondered if in England we had progressed at all from the stiff reserve of the Victorian era. In the tube train it was impossible to move my arms let alone open the evening paper I had purchased outside the station. There was nothing I could do to lighten the experience of the journey. I think all commuters develop the ability to day dream or even sleep standing up when they are suffering a crowded tube train. I was no exception and I suppose I was hanging on to the metal bar close to the roof of the carriage. I might well have been supported by the sheer crush of my fellow passengers so that I needed only to sway with the motion of the train and people in order to remain standing.

My mind wandered back to my day at work. The computers had crashed twice, we had a security alert which meant that we all had to gather in the piazza outside the old Economist building. To cap it all there had been the long delays on the tube, probably a broken down train, the result of which, I was still suffering. Commuting was no fun. The morning commute was acceptable because at the beginning of the day I usually felt fairly fresh but here at the end of the day the last thing I needed was a long, hot, stuffy journey home when all I really wanted was a bath, a good meal and a chance to relax. No wonder that tempers became short on the trains and there were so many difficulties in relationships. If either party had to suffer a journey like this and then had difficult children at home to contend with or an argument with their partner, no wonder there were so many divorces. Thank goodness I was still single without any ties, it was so much easier. Oh, be honest with yourself Chrissy; as Diane said, you know you would love to have a partner. Someone to share with, love with, laugh with, cry with. Come on, pull yourself together, I said to myself, it was just a bad day, tomorrow the trains would run on time, there would be no exceptional problems at work. I dreamed on.

I know that I was able to stand up straight by the time the train reached Stratford and many passengers disembarked for the main line trains but true to form, no seat presented itself. I finally staggered out at Snaresbrook and once through the Victorian ticket hall, I could see the trees surrounding Eagle Pond. I took a deep breath. It was only a fairly short walk to the apartment and strangely, I never felt nervous walking along the well lit streets even though the green lung of Epping Forest was close by. In fact, I always thought of the trees as protecting and comforting. Their size and age makes me think of wise old men who would always know the right advice to give, be there when needed and who would protect a lady in distress. Even the young whipper snapper, sapling trees would be imbued with the same spirit of dependability when they matured in their turn. I think that in any case, I was usually so stressed after a work and the journey home that any would-be assailant would have got much more than they bargained for had they had the temerity to approach me. As I walked, I realised that my neck had sunk into my shoulders, my mouth was set firmly and I think that I was frowning. I was so stressed, this was ridiculous; life seemed to consist of wake up, rush to get ready, rush to work, rush at work, rush home in the hopes of a relaxing evening but usually arriving home too tired to do anything other than to have a meal, then maybe watch a little television and then to bed ready for the cycle to start all over again. There had to be something better than this, it was fun sharing the apartment with Sarah, she was a really good friend but she wasn’t a partner. Perhaps Diane was right, maybe I did want a partner, being an independent ‘Ms’ wasn’t that much fun. I was truly tired. What I really wanted was a holiday, a long, hot, relaxing holiday. Oh well, I said to myself as I opened the door to the apartment, I would shower, change and then Sarah and I would have our meal which gave us time to chat about the day and to get it all out of our system.

Sarah was still not home. We would always telephone or text each other if we were going to be late or were not coming home at all which was something which tended to happen much more to Sarah than to me. We were both grown women but one had to be safe and sensible. It was good to have someone knowing where the other was.  Thank goodness for mobile phones. No doubt she too was caught up in the delays on the Underground. There was no point in calling her, she was obviously on her way and personally, I always hated it if my phone rang in a crowded train. I certainly did not want the whole carriage to hear my conversation and in any case I always laughed inwardly at the business men who seemed to call their wives every night from the train, “I’m on the train darling,” they would say as it clattered along, “won’t be long”. Unless they were trying to prove that this time they weren’t having an affair and were indeed really on the train, I saw no point in the call. Perhaps it was a code through which they really meant to say, “Time to prepare the meal, dear.” I didn’t know, perhaps it was an attempt to convince others that they had partners eagerly awaiting their return. It can't have been to show off that they had a new smartphone, every child from about eight years old upwards had one of those nowadays - and probably a smaller, more modern one than those of us who were old enough to have to work for a living.

Working in different places Sarah and I seldom met up on the train. Now safely ensconced in our home in Snaresbrook which some elderly people still referred to as the Village, I contemplated my existence. I dreamed of a house in St James’s, no more commuting and best of all, a gorgeous man to complete my life. I knew I already had nearly everything a thirty-something girl desired. I was successful in my property career and by combining resources with Sarah, I had my own home in a pleasant area which would be out of reach financially of many people but I knew that in time I would love to move to the West End. 
My brother too was in property and by moving frequently and doing up properties he now lived in the best lane in the village where we had grown up but I think he rather chose to ignore the fact that the village had changed considerably and was continuing to change at an alarming rate. No, I wanted the West End; increasingly, all my social life seemed to be there. Even on the weekend, I often found myself going back to the centre only to find myself close by my work place, having spent all the working week there. It was generally because, aside from Dave and a passing acquaintance with some of the people in our block, I hardly knew anyone near where I lived. In the country you could join local societies or interest groups but that sort of contact did not seem to be available in the suburbs. In any case, that was all rather more for Maiden Aunts than career women but it was rather wasteful giving myself so much additional commuting. 

Ruefully, I considered my social life: it was certainly pleasant and social but there was no consistency to it. I suppose my determination to succeed and my Parents’ long standing but mutually unhappy marriage had only served to build my defences higher so that any potential relationship tended to falter at the first hurdle. Not that I was unattractive, I was slim with dark brown hair framing a slightly rounded face distinguished by a good pair of cheek bones which served to ensure I frequently received a second glance from people. Indeed I was often told that I was attractive, never beautiful; to be beautiful you have to be very special and you have a lot to live up to, almost as much as those to whom the adjective stunning would genuinely apply. No, I was happy with attractive, it was just that I valued my independence and I did not want to become anyone's property. I suppose Diane’s correct observation had made me a little wistful. To be strictly honest with myself, I found it hard to distinguish between being cared for and being put upon and when I did think I was being put upon I had a tendency to overreact causing a rift in the developing relationship.

Still no sign of Sarah, I thought about telephoning her but decided against. It was not too late and no doubt she was suffering from the knock-on effect of the Underground delays. It was my turn to prepare the meal but as I wasn’t an adventurous cook it wouldn’t take long . I decided to have a bath to wash away the tensions of the day. I always showered in the mornings when I was working but usually on the weekends and occasionally on weekdays when I needed to relax I would indulge myself with a full hot bath complete with fragrant bath essence and if I really wanted to go the whole way, a candle on a dish at the end of the bath. Tonight was one of those times which called for the whole treatment. I ran the bath feeling slightly naughty as I recalled the blurb accompanying the latest water bill, how many litres did a bath take as against a shower? Oh well, never mind, I need it and in any case the whole block is on water meters so we pay for all we use. It wasn’t until I climbed into the hot bubble-filled water that I truly appreciated just how tense and stressed I was. It was bliss and the trials of the day and the journey home started to ebb away; fancy feeling guilty about using the water for a bath. For the second time that day I found myself saying  “I’m not a child!” I didn’t need to ask permission of anyone to have a bath. 

I heard a key in the door. No doubt Sarah was home.

“Hi Chrissy, you OK? I thought I heard you call out as I came in,” called Sarah through the door.

“I didn’t realise I was talking out loud; its been one of those days.”

“Tell me about it,” said Sarah.

“You suffer on the tube too?” I called out.

“Ugh!” she replied.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Sarah.”

“OK.”

Chapter 4

Sarah had a quick shower and I was still wearing my bath robe. I poured us both a glass of Chardonnay. I sat down at the bar in our stainless steel kitchen.

“Come on Chrissy, you look pooped. I’ll do the meal tonight.”

“We’re supposed to take it in turns.”

She gave me a quizzical look.

“OK, I know it was only token resistance, I would be delighted. Thanks Sarah, I would appreciate it. The way I feel at the moment, the best I could have managed would have been to heat up a ready made pizza from the freezer and put it into the microwave.”

“The way you look, I just know that the pizza would turn out like the last one you attempted”

“Oh, that’s not fair, the ‘phone rang and I got carried away. It was only a little dark on top.”

“It was burnt to a cinder and you know it.”

If the truth were told, I was not a great cook but I could turn my hand to an edible meal and even when I was entirely on my own I always ate well, even if the cooking was unadventurous.

“I’ve said I’ll do it, come on, either get dressed or give me a hand. Have you got any Uncle Mark left?”

My late Great Uncle had always grown copious quantities of various types of mint; apple mint and lemon mint being the favourites. My Great Aunt still grew it and whenever I visited her I would return with enough dried mint to prepare mint sauce for an army. True to tradition, I tended to add the various types of mint to as many dishes as possible and Sarah had rather taken up the habit. Tonight it seemed that lemon mint was going to be added to the dish.

“What are you going to make?” I asked. “Mind you, anything would be good.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” replied Sarah, “Pass me some of the dried lemon mint or would you rather I didn’t use it? There isn’t much left.”

“Don’t worry I can easily get some more when I go to Suffolk even if I have to dry the leaves myself.”

“I’m not sure if we want to have the apartment looking like a dope factory or a witches cottage.”

“Sarah” I said with mock indignation “How dare you pass dispersion on my Great Aunt. You know there is the world of difference between herbal and class A.”

“I’m not so sure, only yesterday I read on a menu in Soho that customers were requested not to smoke pipes, cigars and herbal cigarettes  under the heated awning for fear of upsetting other customers. That certainly meant no hash or dope, please.”

“I don’t know what restaurants you frequent but I haven't seen that request in St James’s.”

“I can see that you are not going to be any help at all so go and get dressed and then we will have the meal and put the world to rights between us over another glass of Chardonnay.”

By the time I returned, Sarah had already prepared most of the meal. She had turned her hand enthusiastically to Watercress Lemon Chicken and the smell of the strips of chicken were beginning to make my mouth water whilst the chopped watercress was awaiting its fate and amalgamation of all the ingredients she had meticulously lined up on the polished granite work surface which served to separate the cooking area from the eating area.

“This looks very professional. Not at all like you.”

“Don’t be cheeky or I’ll eat it all myself.”

“You wouldn’t want to lose your supermodel waist line and I can see what looks suspiciously like an open pot of cream on the work surface. Seriously though, this smells delicious.”

“It does look rather good. I must be honest; at work, we had promotional copies of NickE’s new recipe book ‘Seasons Through My Table’ and even I, thought they sounded scrummy.”

“Can’t wait. You added Uncle Mark though?”

“Oh yes, we couldn't leave out the secret ingredient, I bet NickE has never heard of Uncle Mark’s secret herbs. In any case, I thought that the lemon mint would add another level of flavour to the chicken. I kept the lemon juice as recommended but reduced the amount of watercress and made it up with lemon mint.”

“It sounds almost too good to eat, thank you NickE and Uncle Mark”.

“It will be ready in just a moment.”

That assertion obviously tempted providence for no sooner had Sarah uttered those words than the telephone rang.

“Why must people ring just when the meal is ready, I swear it is a conspiracy to spoil home-made meals and prompt everyone to buy microwave meals which can be heated up any time,” said Sarah, obviously anxious that her masterpiece was not going to be spoiled.

“Don’t worry I’ll answer it,” I said.

“Hello, is that Christine, Miss Christine ...?” He swallowed the last word. It was not that my surname was hard to pronounce, it was more that he had no confidence in himself that he was correct in his pronunciation. He wasn’t, but I wasn't going to disabuse him. Whenever my surname was mispronounced I knew the caller did not know me and so I was alerted to a likely sales spiel to follow. This somehow made me feel protected as despite their obvious knowledge of me, they did not know everything.

“Ye-e-es,” I said cautiously, "who is calling?". So far, the caller had made three mistakes in his first few words. Not only was the pronunciation of my surname wrong but it was only ancient Aunts who generally called me Christine. To cap it all, in his quest to add some gravitas to his call he had addressed me as Miss rather than Mizz. I was definitely Ms and not Miss which conjured up in my mind fluffy haired spinsters with a life full of crochet and gossip.

“Well, Christine,” continued the voice,” I have excellent news for you.”

Here it comes, I thought, it is either new double glazed windows, a conservatory (which was out of the question living in an apartment which wasn’t on the ground floor) or “would I take out a monthly subscription to a charity I had never supported in my life or invest in some get rich quick scheme.”

“Oh, good,” I said, without any enthusiasm, as Sarah indicated that the meal was now completely ready. When she made the effort, she was a much better cook than I and I could see the chicken was really ready.

“Yes, Christine, I am pleased to tell you that you have won.”

“Oh, good,” I repeated, not even anxious to learn what it is I had won, “Thanks,” I continued, “send it round, you’ve obviously got my address.”

I was a frequent buyer of raffle tickets. I could never seem to bear returning unsold raffle tickets back to the charity even though they usually arrived completely unsolicited. Equally, I never liked to burden them on friends so I tended to take the easy option; stick on some of the little labels with my name and address which some of them sent and return the stubs with a cheque for the full amount. The little labels usually had the name of the charity which sent them but I would use any labels which came to hand so the stubs would have my name and address in a variety of styles. The tickets were then usually confined to the drawer without my ever really studying the prizes until I thinned out the ones well past the draw date.

“No, to verify, I must ask you a few questions.”

“It’s really a rather bad time now - can I ring you back - or you ring me back - later?” I asked, in desperation.

“No, I’m sorry, but if you don’t answer my questions now, your prize will be forfeit.”

It was conceivable that I really had won a prize. Toiletries may be, or a good bottle of bubbly if we were lucky.

“What is the prize,” I asked, anxious as Sarah was now pointing furiously at the chicken and holding her other arm forward to show her wrist watch.

“I’m pleased to tell you that you have won a holiday.”

“A holiday”. I repeated. I warmed to this, not only was I much in need of a holiday but perhaps all those raffle tickets might finally have produced a prize and a worthwhile one at that. I did not even think to ask for details of the holiday, where to, when. Quite honestly, the way I felt, any holiday, anywhere would do. At least that is how I excused myself later for my lack of sense in not asking for more details.

“I’m sure I can find the ticket but it will take me a while, I’ll have to go through the drawer. If I call you back with the serial number you can validate my prize.”

I racked my brains to think which charity had offered a holiday.

“I’m sorry, you must receive your prize in person. You would need to come to our office to verify details and bring with you proof of identity. A utility bill in your name would be ideal. You are a home owner?”

“Which charity did you say that you are from?” I asked, as I began to become aware that he had not given the name of where he was calling from.

“I am representing the holiday company.”

Still I didn’t connect. I thought the charity must have passed on the arrangements to the holiday company for them to contact the winners.

“I haven’t got the tickets to hand, I will have to ring you back” I said, conscious that Sarah was now grimacing at me and making signs that I should end the call otherwise we would have a ruined meal.

“You must answer my questions now and arrange the meeting or you lose the prize,” said the caller.

 

“Well, I’m busy now,” I snapped. “If you can’t send the tickets and we can’t speak later, I’ll just have to live without it.”

I put down the receiver and said “Oh hell, what a day,” my head still echoing to the caller’s protestations that I couldn’t afford to miss this opportunity.

We sat down to the Watercress Lemon Chicken with added ‘Uncle Mark’, which lived up to the steaming promise. Somehow the ‘phone call had brought back the difficulties of the day and especially the journey.

“He said we had won a holiday but if I didn’t answer his questions now the prize was forfeit. I also had to go to their offices and bring with me a utility bill. I don’t think it was a prize at all, it was some sort of con and I wasted a whole lot of time having an inane conversation with him.”

“And nearly ruined the meal.”

“I know, I’m sorry, its not ruined is it?”

“No, I just managed to salvage it!”

“Oh, I wish we really had won a holiday, I could just do with one now.”

“So could I. I would love some sunshine after all this rain.”

“I would just like the chance to relax, do some sightseeing and regain myself. I know I’ve been tense,” I said, “I hope that I haven’t been too short-tempered. We’ve known each other a long time and I know that I can tell you; I don’t feel my life is going anywhere. Perhaps I’m just tired but all my positive outlook seems to have disappeared recently. I think I’m stuck in a rut.”

“ I wouldn’t say that,” said Sarah, “You’ve got a good job; it’s in property, which you love; and you work exactly where you wanted to, right in the heart of St James’s. This isn’t too bad, either,” she said as she indicated, casting her eyes around the apartment. She paused, a thought suddenly coming in to her head, “Oh, I forgot to tell you - the magazine want to photograph our mirror here. I told them how good it looked against the bare brick of our walls and they want to do a shoot, so they can headline it on the cover to go with the feature on Daniella Kerchick which they are running for the Art in the Home edition.”

“I suppose you won’t tell them it took Dave and an army of helpers to put it up... or that I said it would look nice covered in holly for Christmas.”

“No! You know how designers are - she would go ballistic if she thought we were so much as going to touch her art.”

“Well it is ours - yours actually - so you could put tinsel and fairy lights all over it if you wanted.”

“I think not.”

“I assume there’s a big fat fee that comes with the shoot - perhaps you could treat us to a holiday?”

“I’d love to Chrissy, but I think I really ought to give it to the nice people at Visa card, first. I seem to be scraping the ceiling of my card limit just at the moment. I agree that we could still do with a holiday, though, but it’s got to be free.”

“OK. Let’s win one, that's all we can do. I’ve got a drawer full of raffle stubs - I must have bought tickets to win holidays around the world - Bali, the States, Thailand...”

“I know, I know, even the moon, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Sarah, “but the trouble is that your ticket never comes up.”

“I did win the perfume and bath stuff,” I protested.

“That!” she exclaimed, “It was all fluorescent pink and let’s face it, had you ever heard of the range? I think I know a little about labels and no-one can ever have heard of that one. When it said facial cleanser and eau-de-toilette, I think the labels were muddled up - the whole lot was toilet cleanser!”

“OK, so it wasn’t designer.”

“It wasn’t even designer rip-off. it was so bad that no-one would want to rip it off! Now, how are we going to get this holiday?”

“We could enter every competition we can find. They say that if you are determined enough to get something you draw it to you. I read somewhere that a woman wanted, I don’t know, a certain amount of money and had no hope of getting it so she entered everything she could. Just when she was about to give up she heard that a local radio were running a competition that if they played the same song twice over the course of a day, they gave a prize. She listened to the radio avidly and noted down every title they played and on the second day she heard a song repeated, called the station and won some money which turned out to be exactly the sum she wanted.”

“That is a nice idea and I’m pleased she got her money but neither you nor I can listen to the radio all day at work, I don’t think it would go down too well so we’ll have to do find another way.”

“Next time someone rings to say we have won a holiday, we’ll accept it and whatever we have to in order to make sure we really get it. I’m sick of them saying we have won something when we haven’t. No - when they say we have won, they have to give us the prize. We’ll probably have to go along to some heavy sales meeting where they will try to browbeat us into buying something instead of giving us a free holiday so you will have to be strong willed and say no.”

“Have I ever bought something, when I didn’t want it?” asked Sarah.

“Well, you bought those sparkly platform shoes which you have never worn,” I reminded her.

Colouring slightly, she said, “You should have seen the salesman - he was gorgeous, an all over hunk.”

“That’s as maybe, but you have to agree, the shoes are ghastly.”

“OK, I know but don’t worry, I'm not going to buy anything I don’t want and nor are you. I’d rather get the mortgage lower on this place, first, to cover my rest periods...”

“When you chuck the jobs, you mean,” I interrupted. “Alright, we’ll do it. You know that this so called winning a free holiday will probably mean it is a timeshare sales ploy. There was an article in one of the newspapers all about timeshare and the antics the reps get up to. They promise anything to make a sale.”

“You never know; I might accept if they make the right promise and the rep is drop dead gorgeous.”

“You must be serious Sarah.”

“OK, I will be cool and efficient and reject any offers he makes, even if he is stunning, so you need not worry.”

I thought for a moment. “Alright we’ll go but when we do we won’t take credit cards, cheque books or anything.”

“Even if it is timeshare (and you are probably right), they aren’t going to torture us until we sign. You can be melodramatic at times, you know Chrissy.”

Having set the plan in our minds we actually wanted the ‘phone to ring with our free holiday, but just as when you wanted the boy in the next class to like you when you were twelve years old and he didn’t, so nothing happened. We felt that now we knew what we wanted we were near our goal. It was another evening and it was my turn to unzip the meal from its plastic permafrost. The ‘phone rang.

“Hello, I wanted to tell you about our special promotion...”

I quickly put the icy box back on the work surface where the stainless steel range sat patiently waiting to devour not the side of oxen which it looked as though it had been built for, but the ready-prepared meal for two which we (and I suspected most of the owners of similar designer ranges) actually used them for.

“...do you have a kitchen?” asked the voice and without waiting for an answer continued, “we are offering, without obligation a free design and measure service to give you the latest in cooking theatre technology and ergonomic layout and with nothing to pay for six months.”

I wanted to say “actually, no, I don’t have a kitchen. I usually cook over a pile of stones on the living room floor and I’ve long wanted a better way of holding the urn without having to prop it up using a forked piece of stave I found in the woods”. However, having decided to win our holiday and therefore be nice to unsolicited sales callers, all I could say was,

“No thanks, I’ve got a nice kitchen. ‘Bye.”

Sarah came in from her room. “ ‘I’ve got a nice kitchen’ she repeated. You sound like a 1950’s housewife in the adverts who's just had her hair done and now she is gazing lovingly at her new plastic bowl set while the children eat something she has just made using her new all-in-one electric mixer.”

“I know I was hardly cool, but he was trying to earn a living and it must be awful to have ‘no’ after ‘no’ after ‘no’.”

“Had a sexy voice, did he?” asked Sarah.

“I’m not like you - going after everything with a male body.”

“No, but you wouldn’t mind a well-spoken man would you?” she teased.

We had just about given up hope of the holiday and we settled back into accepting our routine. My work was going well, the journey was still numbing but I was learning to live with it. There was even a memorable occasion when I was racing for a seat on the Central Line from one set of doors when I had met head on, a man heading straight for the seat from the next set of doors. Not only had he offered me the seat with the most wonderful smile and “you win” but he had actually been slim and good looking, I generally found that it was only elderly gentlemen who offered seats to women, unless it was leering middle-aged men in strained t-shirts who only wanted the opportunity to strap hang, leaning over me and to try to rub their leg supposedly by accident against my leg. This man was genuinely good looking and had lovely bright blue eyes and a shock of groomed blond hair.

“Well,” said Sarah, when I got home and recounted the incident to her, “what happened then?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

“You mean you didn’t get his number, or give him yours?”

“No,” I said, lamely. “He got off at Bank, gave me another smile, I smiled back and that was it.”

“You could have dropped your handkerchief or something,” she said.

“I thought that only Victorian heroines did that. I could hardly say ‘Thanks for the seat, you’re very good looking, are you single? Do you want my number? Lets go for a drink now?’, could I?”

“No, but you could have got into conversation, then he might have asked you for your number.”

“It’s not quite as easy as that you know.”

“Was he married?”

“How should I know?”

“Well, was he wearing a wedding ring?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You are hopeless. You are so naive. You will be an old maid if you go on like this.  Now Bank, this evening, you say?”

“Yes.”

“He could be going on the ‘drain’ to Waterloo, so perhaps he lives in Hampshire. He could be going on Eurostar, he might live in Paris or Brussels. Try and be there at the same time tomorrow.”

“Let’s face it. He could live anywhere and I'm not going to hang around a station in the hope of catching a glimpse of a person I have only seen once and I know nothing about. If I see him again I’ll say ‘nice to see you again’ or something like that.”

“That’s a shot, anyway,” said Sarah, “Now, we’d better eat this before it gets cold.” She laid the dish of Mediterranean penne on the plate. “Tuck in, I slaved for hours over that.”

“You just opened a pack of pasta and tossed it around with some olive oil”, I teased.

“Taste it and see.”

It was superb. “You really can cook well when you put your mind to it.”

“I got that one out of NickE’s new book - you really should look at it sometimes. In fact, perhaps you had better look at the picture of him too.  He might be your type. Short cut red hair and a lovely smile. You are not listening to me.”

“I was thinking what you said. I’m not really naive am I?”

“You know you are a little.”

“Well I suppose I must be just a bit. Did I ever tell you about a holiday I had years ago with friends? It was not long after we were out of college.”

“Go on, tell it all” said Sarah with a smile, “it sounds as though you were very naive, then.”

“We were wandering around in the evening in the town near where we were staying. You know, as you do, just aimless but looking at the shops and the sights.”

“I know.”

“We happened to pass the same girl twice after the space of about an hour and a half. She seemed to be waiting for someone outside a shop. Being a single girl I had real empathy with her situation and I remarked to one of our group that I hoped that she hadn’t been stood up and I wasn’t sure that I would have waited that long for anyone. My friends doubled up with laughter and told me in no uncertain terms that she was a hooker plying her trade. That part of the street was probably her patch. Thinking back I suppose she was over made up but I truly didn't realise, I just put myself in her position and felt sorry for her being stood up.”

“You are right, you are naive, totally. If we do get a holiday and you wait on a street corner for an hour and a half, don't be surprised if someone makes an improper suggestion. In fact, If I didn’t get an improper suggestion within ten minutes I’d think I must be looking old.”

“You hussy, Sarah!”

“In fact it might be fun for you.”

“I thought you were a friend. Sarah, you are quite without any shame.”


Chapter 5

Sarah was quite on edge for a couple of days. When I asked why, she just said ‘nothing’ and shrugged it off. You can’t live with someone, even as a friend, without knowing something of their moods and temperament. Sarah was one of those people who preferred to stand on their own and to deal with problems in private. If they needed help they would say so and if there was anything they wanted to discuss they would do so in their own time and then only with someone they knew well and could trust. I liked that, there was no side to Sarah, if she was upset with someone (and that was rare enough in itself) she would say what was troubling her, get it out of her system and that was that. As my Great Aunt would say, once she buried the hatchet she did not mark the spot.

“I’ve met someone,”  she said as we sat down one evening to supper. “He’s gorgeous and I'd like you to meet him.”

This must mean something serious, I thought. “You don't usually ask my opinion”, I said, “probably because you guess that I wouldn't think much of them. As our tastes differ so much, you are probably right in most cases. So tell me, what is wrong with him?” I asked.

“Nothing, everything is very much right with him, its just, well, he is a bit younger than me. I really do love him, he's gorgeous.”

“Yes, you said that, look I don't want to put a damper on your passion but I think you may be muddling up love and lust.”

Sarah looked a little crestfallen.

“Perhaps I'm being unfair”, I continued, “ when I know nothing about him, tell me all about him. Where did you meet, what's he like, how old is he really?” I said, anxious to make up for my initial lack of enthusiasm. 

“Slow down! one question at a time,” she said. “I met him at ‘The Brush Bar', you know its in Soho, its all steel and glass with mirrored walls.”

“No, it sounds a dangerous place to be in if you've had more than a couple of drinks, its bad enough seeing double at the best of times.” I joked.

“Be serious, do you want me to tell you or not?”

“Sorry but I don't know the Bar; one of your hang outs, no doubt, rather than mine.”

“Its just near Frith Street, down a passage which opens up into a sort of courtyard at the back of other buildings.”

“Sarah, your descriptions are priceless, you could never be a tourist guide could you? All the buildings in London are at the back of other buildings, except Buckingham Palace, I suppose.”

“May I continue,” said Sarah, still good humoured but it was obvious that this was weighing on her mind and she wanted to tell me. My attempts at humour to bring some lightness to the proceedings were unfortunately misplaced. “Anyway its young and trendy and very ‘now’.”

“I know, expensive exotic cocktails with rude names and the whole place crowded out.”

“Well, its more vodka or bottled water only and anything else you can find but you’re right it is absolutely packed nearly the whole time with the young, trendy and those who aren't but have the money and like to pretend that they are.”

“I see,” I said, “What were you doing there anyway, it sounds a little too extreme even for you.”

‘Oh, some of the crowd suggested that we go there after work. Its the favourite hang out of someone’s brother, I think. It just sort of happened and we found ourselves there. As the evening progressed most of the people I knew had melted away or got lost in the corners and he and I just got chatting. Simple as that.”

“Sounds all very normal if not terribly innocent but you’re a grown girl now so why the big worry?” I asked.

“I know, it is all very normal, its almost too easy and normal. The thing is I really like him, a lot, and I feel a bit nervous with that. He gives me a very special feeling and I’ve not had that for a long time. I knew that I could trust you. I know you are going to say I’ve been in love lots of times but this really is different. Its funny really, I like to think of myself as a modern, independent girl and them I feel all wobbly inside like a schoolgirl.”

“This is serious then.”

“I suppose that is what makes it almost frightening. Anyway, one of his friends is going back home so they are having a leaving party and I told him about you so he said, come along. You will, won’t you?”

“Of course, I’d love to, when and where?”

“Tomorrow, its in a Club Laser near Tottenham Court Road. They have hired the room at the back, I’m sure you will like it.”

“Do they serve proper drinks?”

“Yes, don’t worry, cocktails, wine, mixers, you name it they have it. We went there yesterday to check it out.”

“OK, what time does the party start?”

“Tomorrow, after work, from 7 pm onwards.”

“I'll check the address on line and I’ll meet you there. You'll be there at seven?”

“I'll try to get there just before. I shouldn’t be too delayed at work tomorrow.”

“Do make sure you get there earlier, I don't want to turn up to meet a group of strangers I’ve never seen before. I suppose I really ought to know his name just in case I am there before you. I might want to chat him up myself, you never know!”

“Don’t you dare, he’s mine.”

“Only joking , you know you can trust me. What is his name?”

“Javier.”

“That’s unusual, where is he from?”

“Spain. You will come, wont you?”

“Of course, I can’t wait to meet your hunky Spaniard.”

“Actually, he is not so much hunky as really well toned, he is quite slim, oh he is perfect. Come and see for yourself.”

“Calm down. I’ve said I would but you had better give me proper directions. I don't want to be wandering the streets looking for a Club I don’t know and a slim, toned but not swarthy Spaniard I’ve never met.”

“You are making fun now.”

“I’m not, well if I am, its only in a nice way.”

“I know. Seriously though I could walk there but I’m not sure of the actual address of the Club but I know its not far from the Dominion. Call me at work if you  can't find the address and I can check it or at least the actual street name.”

“Thanks.”

“I feel better now. I’m very pleased that you are going to meet him. I’m sure you will like him but I would like your opinion.”

Sarah’s mind was much eased and the rest of the evening passed without any mention of Javier and the following morning being much like any other morning, there was no time for any chatting aside from the usual minimal greetings to each other in between getting ready and grabbing a coffee before work.

Work was much the same as usual but I had the considerable luxury of being able to go out to lunch knowing that I didn’t have a meeting until 2 pm. Thankfully, that was in the office, so as long as I was back by ten minutes to the hour I would have enough time as I had already prepared the file I would need for the meeting.

I went into Green Park and walked towards St James’s Park. Having crossed the Mall I went up to what I always referred to a Spanner Lake. I know that it is really called St James’s Park Lake but on a map it resembles, to my mind, at least, a spanner with the open end formed by Duck Island, facing Horse Guards Road and the closed end with the hole in the spanner formed by the small island facing Buckingham Palace. Diane, and indeed most of the people in the office, knew of my peculiarity and some had even taken themselves to calling it Spanner Lake. I rather doubt that John Nash would have approved of my irreverent re-naming when he was engaged by George IV to transform King Charles II’s Dutch canal into its current, more natural form.

I had an idyllic time. I had brought a roll with me and a bottle of juice. It was a typical English day; bright, but not sunny and whilst it was generally grey there was a certain light in the sky which seemed to highlight every tree in the park. I sat at the Buckingham Palace end, intending to rest quietly on one of the many benches and enjoy my roll and juice. In the end, I only managed to eat part of my roll before I was surrounded by pigeons and had ducks quacking nearby. Despite the signs instructing do not feed the wildlife, some people were tearing off parts of their sandwiches until most of their lunch was devoured by greedy ducks, their voracious appetites not content until the bread was gone. They would quite happily have eaten the entire filling as well and as soon as the food was entirely gone, they quacked almost to signify annoyance rather than thanks for the generous meal and waddled off in search of other morsels from susceptible humans.

My meeting at the office went well and I worked until around 6 pm. As I had arranged with Sarah, I set out towards the rendezvous. It was a fine evening and with plenty of time, I decided to walk. It took longer than it actually needed because, true to form, I went first into King Street, into the heart of St James's and found myself looking in the windows of the Fine Art and Antique dealers which proliferated there. As there was hardly a day when I did not look in the windows of Fortnum and Mason, I steeled myself, for once, to pass by without so much as a second glance. Once across Piccadilly, I indulged myself by looking in the windows of as many of the shops of Mayfair as I could whilst still making some sort of progress towards my destination. In fact my route was taking me further West than I actually needed and as I turned to walk in a more Easterly direction, I lingered even longer outside the many elegant emporiums of Bond Street. Finally, I walked a little way along Oxford Street and crossed the road near Oxford Circus. As the streets started to become narrower, I started to look in earnest for my destination. It wasn’t long before I found it.

The premises occupied a corner site and for once the designers had resisted the urge to tear out the ground floor of the building and replace it with their corporate style. The old brick building showed signs of a previous incarnation, possibly as factory premises of some sort. It retained much of its character although, inside the brick arched window reveals, the windows on the ground floor had been replaced with sheets of smoked glass. On the upper floors, the original metal framed windows were still in place. The front door seemed to be the original timber one and whilst smartly painted, it showed signs of many years of workday use. The inner doors were new sheet glass, again smoked. A doorman (or was it a bouncer), greeted me and held open a door. Once inside, I saw that the interior seemed to have been painted in every primary colour of the spectrum.

Although not quite 7 pm, it was seething with people. I couldn’t see a soul I knew although I suppose that wasn’t to  be unexpected as it was only really Sarah I knew properly. I knew some of her friends from her present job and one or two people from other places she had worked previously. Those jobs where she had stayed for more than a week or two, that was.

I scoured the bar for any sign of Sarah. I looked up and down, there were a few women and there was a group of young men clustered together. Some had dark hair so they could conceivably be Spanish and a couple of them had what one would describe as a good or possibly very good, gym trained physique so could even be Javier but there were also some young blond guys among them so I couldn’t be sure. They seemed very much of a tight knit group so I decided not to enquire if one of them was Javier. I wasn’t even sure that I had remembered his name properly so I ordered myself a glass of red wine and decided to wait for Sarah to turn up.

Sarah was right, this was a good bar, I was offered a choice of six red wines by the glass which was very encouraging. I chose a Cabernet Sauvignon and decided to wait. Glass in hand, I wandered around the bar as best as I could, given the crowded conditions. Thankfully, it had good air conditioning; not so cold that you needed to wear thermals but cool enough to ensure that the establishment remained fresh and clean tasting even with a large crowd.

I made my way to the back of the bar, where, up a couple of steps, an archway led into a small room. It was really an hexagonal niche and seemed as though it may have once been a bay window in a Victorian house. Perhaps the factory premises had swallowed up an adjoining house until they were both converted into licensed premises. The large hexagon had one side open, where I stood, three sides were occupied by walls, one by the side of the main bar and the sixth by a false window where a painted view of the ocean with a golden beach was lit by strip lights, partly concealed on either side. A notice hung across the opening from the main bar to the wall declared ‘Reserved for private party’. This was obviously the private room at the back that Sarah had mentioned they were hiring. I glanced at my watch; now a little after seven and no sign of Sarah or of any potential occupants of the private area. I turned around and saw Sarah advancing towards me. She greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks and a waiter removed the notice and we went into the niche. We were soon followed by the young men I had noticed when I first arrived.

“Sarah, this is Javier.”

A tall, dark god approached me, took my hand in his, kissed me on both cheeks and transfixed me with his liquid brown eyes. A light growth of stubble showed on his strong chin and his tight tee-shirt proclaimed a smattering of hair on his chest.

“You must be Chriss-ey,” he said in the most delectable accent. “Sarah has told me all about you. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”

He made it sound as though he had waited half of eternity to meet me and now his world was complete. Sarah beamed. All was obviously going well and I was visibly melting in the hands of this Adonis.

Javier was as charming as he was good looking. Charm with a capital C. I could see why Sarah had fallen for him.

“Let me introduce you to my friends.” He reeled off a list of names and one by one, tall, good looking, young men, most of whom had been in the party I had noticed at the bar, came forward to greet me. A couple of girls had also joined the group and Javier introduced them too. They were friendly but a little less effusive. The waiter brought a pitcher of brightly coloured liquid.

“It’s house speciality here” said Sarah in answer to my unspoken question. “Go on, its only a cocktail.”

Everyone else seemed happy to have it and as I thought it would have been rather churlish to have asked for another glass of red wine, I decided to risk it and sample the concoction. It tasted very nice, a mixture of fruits with just a hint of alcohol. The noise in the bar was getting louder, both from the main bar which now seemed to be packed solid and from our circle of about ten souls gathered in the niche.

Talking even to one’s immediate neighbour was becoming harder and so I saluted Sarah with the drink to indicate my pleasure and once again she beamed back at me. She must have been very nervous about this meeting as it was unlike her to concern herself so much with someone else’s opinion of a new boyfriend. I feared it was because, deep down, she herself, thought he wasn’t really right. We did not share a similar taste in men at all. Although I could see his obvious attraction and indeed, I wasn’t immune to his charms myself, I rather feared he would leave her or she him as had happened so many times before.

The waiter brought another pitcher of brightly coloured cocktail and someone, I don’t know who, suggested that we try all the cocktails on the list. I relaxed and despite the noise, managed to have some sort of conversation with a number of people in the party.

I couldn’t tell what the cocktails were but each time the pitcher was empty we were presented with another of a different colour. After a while they all tasted the same, just the colour varied and that was despite my only having half a glass each time. One of the party had saved a little from each pitcher and blended them into a disgusting looking greeny brown concoction which he declared tasted delicious but which I declined to sample. The conversation flowed as fast as the drink. We were a multi-cultural party, which I loved.

I tried to shout to Sarah who was sitting between me and Javier but without much success, such was the din. “This is great, only in London or one of the major cities of the world could be all sit for a drink together, Northern and Southern European, Asian, West Indian, Chinese, Indian, Turkish.”

It seemed as though our party had delegates from across the globe.

“Who is going home and to where?” I shouted to her, despite the fact she was beside me.

“Wenzil, he’s going back to Bermuda.” She pointed out the very person who had mixed the revolting greeny brown concoction. He flashed me a dazzling smile. The drink obviously had not affected him.

Javier seemed mainly to divide his conversation between Jens, who seemed to prefer to be called Jen, and Sarah. Every so often, he gave me one of his melting looks but even through the partly drink induced haze I wondered whether it was a genuine look of friendliness or one more calculated.

The two girls, Bihim and Su seemed to be getting on very well and Su and I much admired Bihim’s shimmering shawl of fine silk with mirrored beads.

Sahed seemed to keep his conversation to the other boys. He seemed to be a little in awe of the others, including Javier. Perhaps he was a little younger than them although with his fine brown skin set off by an open necked white cotton shirt he looked as though he was descended from a long line of Maharajas or Sheikhs. I wasn’t quite sure which but he certainly looked exotic and beautiful. I knew that was hardly the correct description for the male of the species but it was accurate. Handsome, implies a certain ruggedness which he neither possessed nor looked as though he needed to possess. His looks implied that doors would always open for him without any effort on his part.

Jens was blond with a chiselled face and almost fluorescent blue eyes. I found at times it almost disconcerting to look at him and yet I, together with a number of the party were constantly drawn back to look at the face again. Due to the general noise and hubbub, I hardly had a chance to speak to him and for his part, he seemed to prefer the conversation of the original group he had been in when I had first arrived.

The evening passed happily in a cloud of noise, drink and general goodwill. Sarah seemed to be in heaven and relished the attentions of Javier and the other guys. She was in her element, a beautiful person among beautiful people. Despite her efforts to make me feel included I felt a little as though I had stepped into a film set. It was not that anyone was unfriendly; they were most solicitous and despite my protestations I was not allowed to buy even one drink. I suppose I felt a little left out. My best friend was in a beautiful dream. Subconsciously, I knew straight away it was not right for her; she herself had put her finger on it when she had told me it was too perfect. It was just too perfect and so I rather feared despite the smiles, good humour and air of well being could not entirely be for real.

The party began to break up at about 10 pm. First, the girls went, then Sahed and Wenzil and finally I left leaving Sarah with Javier, Jen and the other guys whose names I hadn’t gathered. One of them very gallantly offered to escort me to the station but although I declined, I did decide to get on the train at Oxford Circus which I preferred as the approach to Tottenham Court Road station seemed to feel a little lonely at night and could almost feel threatening.

I walked to Oxford Circus in good spirits but feeling a little perplexed. The evening had gone really well and Sarah had been her usual bubbly self throughout. I wasn’t quite sure, something was nagging at me but now was not the time to worry about it. Going for a drink after work was certainly sociable and this had been very pleasurable but after a full day at work, there were times when I would rather have gone home, had a long relaxing bath and stayed in. I was certainly ready for bed now. I could mull it all over in the morning.

I decided that in any case, I would get a taxi home from the station to our apartment which was just as well because three Hainault trains were shown in a row. I did not want to wait a long time in the hope of getting an Epping train, as even the platforms of central London stations could be eerily deserted and a little frightening, the later it became. I was confident but I had to be sensible, I was a girl on my own and one never knew who could be around late at night.

In the event, the train was quite crowded with a mix of people like myself, still dressed in office garb, obviously they too had gone on somewhere after work. Some people were more dressed down, they were presumably either tourists or they had been home and changed before going out. It was a less crowded version of the rush hour, the only real difference was that people were actually speaking. I suppose it was because they were with partners and friends whereas directly after work the crowded carriages were crammed full of strangers who, true to the nature of those living in London, had no wish to communicate with each other.

It was a short taxi ride home from Wanstead station and I let myself in, locked up and got ready for bed. I don’t think that I could have stood another brightly coloured drink for a long time.  The answer machine was flashing ‘2’; I pressed play, both calls were from Jen who wanted Javier for some reason. Sarah, I knew was spending the night somewhere with Javier but as I didn’t know where, I decided it was too late to ring him back even though the second call sounded almost desperate. No doubt he would sort it out himself. I did not know why Sarah or Javier had given him our number and there was nothing I could do to help him as I wouldn’t see Sarah until tomorrow evening at the earliest, if she came home at all that is. She seemed to lose all sense of proportion when she was ‘in love’ as the tabloid newspapers would have called it. It had been a fun but tiring day. I had a couple of glasses of water, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

Chapter 6

The next day passed much like any other. I was pleased that I was so busy at work because it denied me time to mull over my thoughts.

“Well, what do you think?” said Sarah, when she did come home the next evening.

“Stunning, isn’t he?” she said triumphantly.

“He is certainly that,” I felt a but... rising in my mouth. Sarah was so effusive, what could I say? Looks aren’t everything, that would sound like jealousy. My mind started to agonise and then the moment was passed; for now anyway.

“This is it. Don’t you think he is gorgeous?”

I couldn’t disagree. From his rippling muscles to his tight cut jeans there was no doubt that everything was very much in place. He was Sarah’s usual type - a shock of dark hair, a torso to die for, tall, tanned and underneath the charm an arrogance borne of constantly being the centre of attention. A ‘six pack plus’ is what Declan would have called him.

“I hope that it will all work out really well for you,” I said.

“Thanks Chrissy, I knew you would like him,” said a beaming Sarah.

I’m not sure that I really did like him but Sarah was obviously happy and I decided not to say anything more. Sarah’s love life was really none of my business and her tangled affairs rather went to the back of my mind. 

It was company year-end for a number of the apartment blocks we managed and for most of the next week I was so busy at work that I hardly saw Sarah. A good deal of the work involved evening meetings at blocks all over London and by the time I arrived home all I wanted to do was to go to bed. Anyone who thinks that it is easy to get around London is sorely mistaken. So many former villages have grown into suburbs each one connected to the next so that they become ‘London’ and yet the travelling is harder than if they were to have remained separate entities. I know that my Great Aunt thinks nothing of travelling across Suffolk to have dinner with friends but despite the lack of public transport she does it in half the time and with much less stress, than friends do in travelling from Acton to Clerkenwell.

I hardly knew whether Sarah was at home or not had it not been for the sounds coming from the other side of her bedroom door which indicated that she was in bed and evidently she was not alone. Although Javier was apparently our house guest I hardly ever saw him other than in the kitchen when I was grabbing a quick night time snack or a glass of water. With him working as a waiter and me holding down a regular day job, albeit with extended hours during this time of the year, his hours and mine hardly coincided. I suppose he did not need to get up until around midday and sometimes it sounded as though it was the middle of the night before he arrived at the apartment. I have no idea how Sarah managed to see him and to be ready for work given her lack of sleep. It would not be until the following week that my pace would slow down.

More and more, I seemed to be alone in the apartment as Sarah was spending a great deal of time with Javier. Her obvious lack of sleep was telling as she called me a couple of times at work to say that she was spending the night at Javier’s and then left a message on the answer machine at home to tell me the same thing. I much appreciated her calling me because although we had always promised that we would not interfere with the other’s life we did agree that when we went out we would tell the other where we were going and generally with whom. This was particularly sensible now as with her current prolonged absences, it could have been days before I would have realised that anything was amiss.

Sarah spending more time at Javier’s apartment coincided with the completion of the year end meetings and my life returned to a sense of normality but a solitary normality, with much less in the way of companionship with my friend.

I am ashamed to say that I began to feel lonely. She seemed to be spending her whole life with her man. I was convinced that he was not right for her but when I sat down to think about it, I realised that I could be feeling jealous. They certainly enjoyed each other’s company, carnally, of that I was sure although I did not know if they had anything else in common. I sat down and tears welled in my eyes. “You are becoming a jealous bitch, Chrissy,” I said to myself. She is your friend and you are missing her. Who is there in your life? There was no one.

The ‘phone rang and I hoped it was Sarah but it wasn’t. It was Sahed.

“Hello,” he said it that quiet but authoritative tone I had noticed when I had met him at the Club near Tottenham Court Road. “It that Sarah?” he asked.

“No, its Chrissy” I said, “What can I do for you?”

“I remember you are Sarah’s friend, it is good to speak to you. I remember we met some weeks ago with Javier, is he there by any chance?”

“No I’m afraid not.”

“Do you know when he will be back?”

“I’m sorry I don’t, if it is urgent I could pass on a message to Sarah tomorrow at work. I don’t even know if she is coming home tonight.”

“Oh” he sounded crestfallen.

“If it is really urgent I could call her, I don’t suppose it is too late for her.”

“Thank you, no don’t do that but if you do see Javier,  please tell him I called. I’ll give you my number in case he may have mislaid it.”

I scribbled down the number, he thanked me profusely and the conversation was ended. I returned to my reverie feeling no less unsettled that before. Beneath the perfect English, his tone had a note of desperation. I had not been able to help him and I had the feeling that he had wanted to say more to me but I had not given him the opportunity.

I went to bed feeling quite inadequate. A fellow human being had wanted help and I had merely acted as the perfect Secretary but in doing so had ignored the need within the request.

Over the next week Sarah and I passed fleetingly as she returned for more clothes. Most of our conversations were via scribbled notes left on the breakfast bar. As the weekend approached, I realised that I had had one call from Sahed, three or four from Jen or Jens who almost seemed angry that I did not know where Javier was, two calls from Bihim plus a post card from Bermuda addressed to Javier from Wenzil with ‘lots of love’ but no proper conversation with Sarah.

I called Sarah at work. “I have hardly seen you for the last couple of weeks. Are you home tonight?”

“Oh so sorry Chrissy, no, I’m spending the night with Javier, he is going to take me to a club under the arches at Charing Cross Station. It will be very late so I will stay over with him. I’m planning to come home on Saturday to sort out some things. Javier is busy working that night so I can’t see him. Look, are you doing anything on Saturday night?”

“Nothing planned, I had toyed with the idea of going to see if there I could get a last minute ticket for a show in Town but there is nothing I’m itching to see. It will be lovely to see you. It seems to be simply ages since I have seen you properly.”

“Ok, that's fine. Let’s meet up at the apartment get a taxi and go for an Italian at the Trattoria on the Green. We haven't been there for a long time.”

“That will be lovely, I’ll book it.”

“Great, we’ll go Dutch and if we get a taxi we can have a couple of glasses of vino. You are right, it will be lovely.”

“I’ll look forward to that and as it is only at Woodford Green it won’t matter if we make it a late night. I can’t wait. I’m dying to hear your news.”

“Me too. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Ciao.”

In a flurry of excitement, Sarah was gone until Saturday evening.

Saturday morning was the usual one of washing, shopping and planning for the evening. When I got back from buying a few groceries the answer machine was flashing ‘2’ again. Both were from some guy who hadn't left his name.

I made a cup of coffee and the ‘phone rang again.

“Where is Javier?” a stern voice demanded.

“Who is calling?” I asked although I had my suspicion as to who it was.

“You know where he is and it’s your fault he isn't returning my calls.”

“Is that Jens?”

“You know who I am and I hate you.”

“I beg your pardon I...”

“It was all fine before you had to come along and take him away.”

“I haven’t,” I started to say.

“Bitch, he’s mine he doesn't love you, he loves me.”

“I beg your pardon, I...”

“You wait, he’ll come back to me you bag bitch.”

The ‘phone was slammed down. I sat down and despite it being only about three in the afternoon, I topped up my coffee with a nip of brandy. I sat on the sofa and shook. This was too much, the person, I suppose it was Jens, obviously thought I was Sarah and it was equally very obvious that I had been right, Javier had an eye for the boys and this one in particular felt that he had a prior claim on him. I had had my misgivings about the handsome Javier but now they had turned into something personal and unsettling.

I decided that I would have to say something to Sarah but I very much didn't want to spoil our evening out. It was a long time since we had had a proper girlie evening out and I had been looking forward to it. As I was so anxious not to mar the evening, I was rather tense and Sarah obviously noticed even though she was still wrapped up in dreaming about Javier. I assured her that everything was alright and the evening passed without incident although I felt a certain chill in my heart. The food was good as always and we shared a bottle of Frascati. Ordinarily, I should have felt relaxed in such circumstances, dining with my closest friend but for my part anyway, the evening never really got off the ground.

When we got back to the apartment after what had really been an excellent meal, I felt more relaxed but perhaps a little guilty that my reaction to the ‘phone call had clouded the whole evening. I just needed to find the right time and words to say my piece.

However, it was Sarah who opened the subject. “Come on Chrissy, you’ve hardly spoken all evening.”

“That is not so, I have hardly stopped chattering. I thought I talked too much.”

“You know that you have talked about everything except the really important things,” said Sarah.

“What do you think of Javier, isn’t he just to die for?”

“He is but I thought that the holiday was the most important thing for us both.”

“So it is, but love has to come first.”

“You may as well say what is really on your mind, Chrissy, I’ve known you long enough to know that something is bothering you.”

”I know that love is important but Sarah, just I’m not sure that it is love, at least on his side.”

“Oh I wouldn’t say that, you don’t really know him. We have talked and talked about things and he says that I’m the only one for him.”

“From what I saw when we all met up the other night, not only did he seem to have eyes for every good looking woman who entered the bar but his eyes and taste also seemed to extend to good looking young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty five who seemed to be his constant companions and were hanging on his every word. I’m worried for you.”

“You certainly have a funny way of showing it. That is a bit much Chrissy, you don’t even know him. You only really saw him at the bar and you have hardly spoken to him when he has been staying in the apartment.”

“That is hardly surprising, we have only passed like ships in the night. You asked me to say what was on my mind. I’m not trying to be hurtful.”

“Well it certainly feels a lot like it.”

“What was that guy Jen or Jens doing. He telephoned here at least twice last night and more than a couple of times today. The second time he was more than irate. I wasn’t terribly happy when I realised that you or Javier had given out our number to half the people in the bar but when one calls me a bitch and slams down the ‘phone it is too much.”

“I thought you liked the friends I introduced you to at the bar and you know that Javier works odd hours so I thought it would be no problem to give the number to a couple of friends. As he and I have spent time in our apartment and I stress our apartment, he had obviously also given out the number. You don’t have to do anything if you can’t be bothered but I thought that you could at least have taken a note of the name and number. Even you could have managed that and instead you start a slanging match with one of our friends.”

“I didn’t start anything and I definitely got the impression that it was more Javier’s whereabouts which interested him. When I actually spoke to him, he was already irate that I did not know where Javier was he said I was a bitch. In fact, I don’t know whether he meant you or me, or Javier for that matter that was the bitch but I’m not having some storming queen slagging me off over the ‘phone. I don’t care if you, your boyfriend and his boyfriend all have it out with handbags at dawn but I know that I don’t want any part of it.”

With that and the look on Sarah’s face I knew that my friendship with her had reached an all-time low.

Realising that in the heat of the moment, I had probably overstepped the mark, I tried again. “Sarah, I don’t care who you’re sleeping with, or how many you're sleeping with but I don’t want his jealous boyfriends crying down the ‘phone and swearing at me.”

“You’re just jealous, you virgin queen. Just because you want to play the ice maiden and sit in judgement on us lesser mortals all because you have got no-one of your own, that is no reason for accusing everyone else of playing around”.

“I am sorry but I am sure Jen or Jens, whatever his name is, is more than just a mate. Did you see how Wenzil and Sahed went off, they were obviously together and did you notice at all how Jens looked at Javier? He positively worshipped him.”

“Leave it Christine, Javier is just the kind of guy that others look up to. They are mainly all strangers in England so they tend to stick together and look out for each other. I can assure you that Javier is all man and knows how to use it - not that you would know much about that at present.”

“That was way too harsh, Sarah, he’s gay” I yelled, “he might be screwing you but he’s sure as hell screwing all the boys in town, too. Just remind me - where did you meet?”

“You know it was in that cool new restaurant near the old West End Hospital building.”

“Yes and that's in Soho yes? and Frith Street runs from Soho Square to Old Compton Street. Old Compton Street is the centre of London’s Gay village - in Soho.”

“OK I don't want a geography lesson just because we met in Soho doesn't mean he's gay. Half the design, media and PR companies are in Soho and grant you a lot of people there are gay but by no means all of them.”

“I agree there and I’m sure that there are a lot of married and straight men in Soho. Although if I was their wife or partner, I would sometimes question the reason they are still there long after dark but that is their business and I don't care how people live their lives. However, I do care about you and face up to it Sarah, he swings both ways.”

“Well you might as well know that he won’t be here much longer to upset you so you needn't worry. He's had a call from his family to say that his Grandmother is seriously ill and he feels that he should go and see her right away. So you see you've got him all wrong. It’s just that lots of people like him, he’s good looking and good looking people like to surround themselves with other good looking people. It just happens that some of them come to rely on him. And one more thing you ought to know, which will probably make you even more jealous.”

I looked up from a mixture of anger and tears with a query in my face.

“I’m going with him.”

“Going where with him?” I asked lamely now that I was almost done with exhaustion from the upset.

“To see his Grandmother.”

“Where is she? Is she in London?”

“No, she is in Spain, well in Tenerife actually. She lives in a beautiful valley on the edge of the mountains. So you can stop being so jealous, you won’t have to see either of us for a while and if you can’t be civil when a couple of his friends, whom you’ve met, I might add, ‘phone up, then leave the answer machine on and he or I can call them when we are back.”

“You mean that when he suddenly has to go back to see his sick grandmother in a remote mountainside hamlet in Tenerife, you want to chuck everything to follow him.”

“It’s not a hamlet, it is almost a town, well a large village surrounded by Palm trees and plantations. I don’t know, it’s ...  It sounds beautiful, it is where the majority of bananas come from.”

“Well I say he’s giving his banana to the boys.”

I retreated to room, where I relaxed with my Robbie Williams in my ears. At first, I heard some sounds from the kitchen and the Sarah’s door slam shut followed by silence.

“Sorry, Sarah,” I said later, as I heard her back in the kitchen.

“Sorry, Chrissy.”

“I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

“I know, but I really think he is straight, he couldn’t do some of the things he does with me if he wasn’t.”

“OK spare me the details. Let’s leave it at that. Sometimes perhaps I am inclined to judge and I probably don’t know all the facts.”

I felt I was backing down but I really had no choice. It was Sarah’s life after all and she should make her own mistakes. I couldn't really talk as I had no man trouble but that was due mainly to the fact that I had no man. They say it is better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all. I had loved a little and Sarah had loved a lot but perhaps I was wrong about Javier. Even if I was right about him that still didn’t give me the right to dictate to Sarah what she should and shouldn’t do.

“Friends again?” I said.

“Friends.”

We exchanged hugs and I think we both had tears welling in the corner of our eyes.

“He has got to go to see his Grandmother, the Spanish race are very strong on family duty and he is very fond of her anyway. He was crying when he told me the news that she was seriously ill. It takes a big real man to be able to cry.”

I could have added to Sarah’s statement a comment that it can also take a gay man to be able to cry freely but I kept that thought to myself.

Sarah continued, “Obviously he won’t be free all the time as he will want to catch up with the other members of his family so I had been thinking of asking you to come with me. If you want to that is.”

“Well as you say Sarah, we did talk about holidays and I could certainly do with one, especially now. That is very nice of you. I don’t know, I’d love to come but I wouldn’t want to be in the way”.

“Don’t worry Chrissy, I’ll give you strong hints if you are in the way. We both said we could do with a holiday, do come. I could be beside him as much a possible and you can get under a shawl and do crochet or whatever you like.”

“I’ll ignore that,” I said. “I would love to come, it would be perfect.”

“I am not sure that, feeling as you do, your spending time with Javier could ever be described as perfect but I honestly think that it will work out fine.”

“Yes I think it will work out too. I assume that the failing Grandmother couldn’t send over three tickets in the post could she?”

“No such luck, the family are going to pay for part of Javier’s ticket but they aren't rich so there is no chance for me or for you.”

“No I would not really expect it, it is just that things are no more flush than they were when we first started talking about the need to have a holiday.”

“Chrissy, we will just have to make sure that we get a free one.”

“I know we said that but you cannot actually say ‘I wish to win a free holiday’ and one miraculously appears. Half the junk mail would have you believe that out of three possible prizes you are bound to win if you buy their product, it will be the car or the holiday but in reality it is more likely to be the ball pen which only lasts as long as it takes to write out the form for the next order.” 

“In Ancient Greece they used to go to visit the Oracle at Delphi to ask for their wishes to be granted. Perhaps we could do that?”

“Sarah, if we had the money to go to Greece to see the Oracle we would have the money to go to Tenerife”.

“You do have a point there Chrissy. We could always ask some travel agents if they ever offer compassionate holidays.”

“I accept that Javier’s visit to his Grandmother could be called compassionate but I don’t think that even you, in your present pink haze could reasonably argue that to follow him was anything beyond love and lust.”

“Love, definitely love.”

“OK, but that still does not help us getting there.”

“Perhaps I could get a job with a travel agency or in the media reporting on holiday destinations.”

“Knowing your luck Sarah, you probably would actually land such a job.”

“I know and then when I got my assignment it would be reporting on short breaks in Southend-on-Sea.”

“I rather enjoy the occasional visit to Southend.”

“So do I but it’s not where we want to go at the moment.”

“No, Southend is hardly Spain, let alone Tenerife and even with your luck I can’t see you getting a job with a trip for exactly the right time and right place. Not forgetting that you need to be free where you are out there. The whole point is to be with Javier, not just on the island but stuck in an office miles away.”

“Focus your thoughts and visualise, that is what the guru says in the article I was reading.”

“Yes, I believe you are right. We must be clear about what we want, be determined to get it and believe that we will have it then somehow it will come about.”

“In destiny’s hands it is then; for Javier.”

“For rest and relaxation!”

Chapter 7

The storm had passed and with it the time for those, so polite, pieces of conversation which even the closest of friends indulge in after a disagreement. As happens in such cases, the moment for normal conversation to resume came about naturally and we were able to move on.

“I’m beginning to think that we will never get our free holiday,” I said to Sarah as life settled back into a regular routine of work and weekends with the occasional highlights after work which enlivened an otherwise pleasant but not exciting existence.

“You obviously haven’t had two or three calls offering us free holidays,” she said wistfully.

“No such luck, I even bought a chocolate bar at lunchtime because it said; Win tickets to one of six exotic destinations. I opened it and all it said was; Sorry, better luck next time.”

“So, obviously you gave the chocolate away!” said Sarah, joking.

“Well, I sort of had to eat it,” I said.

The photo shoot that Sarah had arranged at our apartment went well. She took the day off in order to supervise proceedings and when I arrived home there was little to show that our apartment had suffered an invasion of apparently epic proportions, aside from an exhausted Sarah and the fact that everything was nearly, but not quite back in its usual place.

“How did it go?” I asked innocently when I arrived home.

“I have been on quite a few photo shoots with the magazine so I suppose I should have expected it but its not quite the same when its not your own is it?”

“What isn’t?”

“Well first it takes a small army to take a photograph. If you thought it was just a man with a camera who points and shoots, you’re wrong.”

“I just thought it would be a couple of people and some of those white umbrellas to reflect the light. What was it really like?”

“The photographer does finally take a picture but that is only after the gophers have set the lighting, the reflectors and changed the whole apartment more than once to his total satisfaction. They tripped the fuses twice and once they even managed to blow the main fuse for the block because someone had the bright idea they would plug some of the lights into the power point on the landing outside our door. I suppose it was put in in case someone wanted a lamp on a table to make the landing look more homely.”

“I always assumed it was there in case they ever had fitted carpet on the stairs and therefore needed to plug a vacuum cleaner in.”

“Whatever it was for they managed to overload it so I had to get hold of Dave so he could reset the trip switch in that cupboard by the front door. Of course, any clock without battery back up, went wrong.”

“Yes I noticed that the clock on the microwave is flashing 00.00.”

“I must have forgotten to reset that. Oh, that means everyone else in the block will have lost their power and will have the same problem.”

“If they weren’t here during all the fun they will probably just think it was a power cut. We can’t really put a note through every door saying sorry, well I suppose we could if they are upset but if we don’t hear anything I think it is best to do nothing. What else happened?”

 

“Half our furniture then ended up on the landing because they brought a truck load of accessories including some furniture to dress the room, as they put it.”

“Sounds like you had fun, I think I’m not sorry I missed it.”

“You will see the pictures in next months issue of ‘Art in the Home’ magazine but you won’t recognise the apartment. I didn’t and I was here.”

  

“They didn't leave anything nice for us did they?”

“Sadly not, they had a wonderful pair of steel candle sticks which stood about chest high from the floor. They were twisted to look like willow and had a circle of bronze catkins hanging around the top which then had two of the largest church candles I have ever seen. I did rather covet those but nothing doing. They also put up a long run of yellow watered silk at the window, twisted into a rope and hung to one side of the window.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

“It was. I think you would have liked it, the fabric must have cost a fortune.”

“Perhaps we could do the same with Sari silk. We could take a trip to Newham on Saturday. I love seeing those shops anyway, its like visiting Delhi and Jaipur rolled into one without leaving home.”

“OK we’ll do that” said Sarah. “Talking of exotic places, what do you think about this free holiday idea?”

“It’s bound to be a con.”

“They have to give you what they say you have won - you know I won that hair dryer.”

“Yes and how many ‘phone calls did you have to make to get it? You didn’t even want it.”

In fact, the bright green hair dryer in question languished at the back of Sarah’s dressing table drawer unused.

“True, but the point is they said I had won it and as a matter of principle I made sure I got it.”

“Okay, let’s be prepared and look at the likely criteria: we own our own home; well, we share it with the mortgage company, who own most of it, but as we can’t take the bank staff with us, say that we own it; we are under 65.”

“Even combined,” Sarah laughed.

“Only just,” I reminded her, as her 33rd birthday was fast looming.

“Seriously though, they are bound to want people who are still of working age.”

“They might stick at 55. We had some details at work wanting us to  invest in retirement properties and those were for the over 55’s!”

“That’s frightening. What else will they want?”

“They will want to know if we are in a stable relationship - they are going to think we are a couple of lesbians, aren’t they?”

”I don’t care. We are honestly in a stable relationship, I don’t suppose there will be a section for friends. We’ve been together since university when we shared those awful digs - do you remember the landlady? - ugh, what a woman.”

“I always thought she was a man! Well, we are probably okay in the income - I expect we will at least be in the middle of the criteria, if we take ourselves together. Of course, that doesn’t count your rest periods when the boss you fancy doesn’t respond and you throw in the job.”

“Well, this is different. Javier is special. This is it.”

“Okay, Don’t blame me if it ends in tears,” I said, not wishing to be drawn into the argument again, “We’re both in need of a break. When we get the call we’ll go to the meeting and win the holiday. Where shall we go?  Portugal, Italy, Switzerland?” I said jokingly, knowing only too well that Javier was going to one of the Canary Islands and therefore there was nowhere else in the world that Sarah would rather go than to the very same island.

“Well, we do want some heat and although I love Switzerland it wouldn’t be that hot at this time of year.” said Sarah. “The Canaries would be hot though,” she said half concealing a grin”.

“Just where did you say your Spaniard has run off to, the Canaries wasn’t it?” I asked suspiciously.

“Tenerife actually”, she corrected me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

“I realise that is where you obviously want to go. That's absolutely fine by me, I’m sure it is lovely, let’s go there and once we are there you can go off chasing Adonis and I can relax, sunbathe and see the sights.”

“Agreed,” we both said, and clinked our coffee mugs together. “All we need now is the free holiday.”

We both jumped because at that moment the telephone rang.

Swiftly, I answered “yes?”.

“Hi, is that Chrissy”.

“Yes, oh sorry is that  you, Anna?”

“Yes, are you alright?”

“No, I mean yes I’m fine. I was just expecting a call and when the ‘phone rang I was surprised and jumped to answer it.”

“It must be love, I’ll ring back another time when it is more convenient.”

“Its not love and its fine now, really.”

“Its Anna,” I called to Sarah.

“Oh send her my love,” said Sarah recognising one of our friends from University, as I settled down to catch up with all the news from her world.

Anna was a lovely girl, she always knew what she wanted and with an easy natural grace everything seemed to fall in her lap. Despite now having everything including a loving husband and a house in Fulham, she always kept herself grounded and you couldn’t begrudge her obvious success and happiness.

“I bet she didn’t have to win a holiday did she?” when over half an hour later I came off the ‘phone.

“No, what do you think? She and Hugo have bought an apartment in Port Grimaud. She said they would lend it to us any time we want it. They are only going to let friends stay there and they don’t want to rent it out because they want to keep it special. We could go there.” I said.

“You could go there,” said Sarah with emphasis on the you, “but I’m determined to go to Tenerife.”

“There are probably good looking men in Port Grimaud, you know.”  I said with a laugh.

“I’m not looking now and you know that.”

“Sarah, I’m only trying to wind you up.”

“You’re succeeding.”

“Don’t worry, we agreed on Tenerife and somehow that is what we will do. Although Port Grimaud would be wonderful another time.”

“Oh, I agree with you but despite what you think, I really do love Javier and I want to see him. I know you don’t think it’s real but something I read just the other day in the hairdressers made me think. Someone was being interviewed, I can't remember who it was but what he said made sense to me. He said he wants to try everything he can so that at the end of his life, if he has any regrets, he wants them to be regrets that he did something which perhaps didn’t work out; not want any regrets that he didn’t do something.”

“I know what you are driving at, fair enough.”

“I believe in Javier. If I don’t try to make it work I would only have regrets.”

“Enough said, Sarah. Port Grimaud will still be there after you have walked down the aisle with Javier; Tenerife it is.”

“I hadn’t thought about going down the aisle, I’m madly in love with him and I’d love to settle down with him. You’ve made me think there, I just don’t know about white weddings and all that. It’s one thing reading all the magazines but I’m not sure I really want all the problems that go with a big wedding. If I did get married I think I would prefer to say ‘I do’ on a beach somewhere in front of a couple of witnesses than have a big Church wedding full of people I hardly know”.

“Don’t forget the patter of tiny feet!”, I said goading her a little more.

“Steady on, I’d love to have his children but I’m not sure if I’m ready for children just yet”.

“You would love making the children, I’m sure of that but would you really want the bulge that follows and then having them sick over your shoulder. You know, puking and mucking all over the place.”

“Christine, you are supposed to be my friend, you are quite disgusting!”

“Anyway, if you don’t have them soon it will be too late,” I said warming to my theme.

“Thank you so much, I have plenty of years left yet and in any case I think that mothers in their mid to late thirties make the best mothers. They are old enough to have experienced something of life but still have their best years ahead of them.”

“I agree about mothers in their thirties but I thought that the best years of your life were supposed to be your school years.”

“Ugh., don’t even mention those, it was better when I was older but the early years at boarding school were hateful.”

“I don’t suppose they were half as bad as you say they were.”

“They were worse. Anyway, Chrissy”, said Sarah changing the subject from memories, painful or otherwise, “Don’t you want to have children?”

“Do you know, I don’t think that I do. I’ve thought about it. I quite like children, other people’s that is, but I am always glad when I hand them back.”

“You would feel differently if you had your own.”

“I don’t think I would do. My Great Aunt and Uncle had no children. They had a wonderful life together and really loved each other. They did so much, travelled the world, saw things and realised all their experiences together as a couple without anyone coming between them.”

“Children are supposed to add another dimension to your life.”

“I know they say that but they had a complete and fulfilled life as it was.”

“Yes, I remember when I met her. She is a fascinating and remarkable person but it is sad that now she is a widow, she has no-one to look after her.”

“I don’t think that you should produce children just to have someone to look after you,” I chided, “and in any case there is no guarantee that your children will want to look after you. They might just shove you in a nursing home, send you a card for your birthday and if you are lucky visit you once a year at Christmas and then wait for you to die so that you can leave them all your money.”

“That is a rather jaundiced view of life,” said Sarah.

“Well perhaps it is but in answer to your question, no, I do not want children. I want a full life, hopefully someone I can love and who loves me to share it with. When I am old and decrepit I just hope that I have my faculties then I won’t be burden to anyone. I can look after myself and leave anything I might have to anyone who really cares about me, family or not. I would be happy to leave any money I had to an organisation if I thought they would genuinely put it to good use.”

“You seem to have your whole life planned out haven’t you?”

“Well so have you with Javier, except of course you don’t seem to know if you want to marry him” I said and you haven’t decided if or when you want to have children.”

“There is just one major fault I can see in your plan.”

“Yes?” I asked.

“You don’t have the one to share it with and the way you don’t even try to follow up opportunities, you don’t stand much of a chance of finding him.”

“Don’t go back over it all! But I do feel strongly that women are conditioned to think that they are unfulfilled if they don’t have children and that still holds true nowadays when most women work and lots of them have very onerous careers. They are made to feel that they must have a frilly wedding and a husband.”

“Well the two of them often go together, husbands and weddings that is,” said Sarah.

“I’m not in the mood to be made fun of, I am deadly serious. Oh yes, they have a wedding and then they are expected to run the home, clean, cook meals, have children and still hold down a job which produces a third to half at least of the joint family income. No wonder they are expected to be a super woman, every advert you see has women either lounging around in bra and pants looking like a hooker and waiting for their man or else they are shown beaming like a Cheshire cat over a couple of implausible angelic children whilst they knock up a haute cuisine meal for hubby to enjoy when he gets back from a busy day at the office. They don’t show her cramming onto the commuter train at eight in the morning having dropped off the kids at the child minder or at their grandmother’s and then getting back at six in the evening, if she's lucky and the trains are working and she wasn’t kept late at the office, collecting two screaming, unhappy children and then having to supervise homework whilst hubby is out for a quick drink with the guys from work. That is to say nothing of the fact that she has to go shopping, do the ironing, clean the house and a hundred and one other things which are taken for granted.”

“You are a bit of a soapbox queen, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” I said and I was about to expand my point when the telephone rang.

“Hello, is that Christine?” A slight pause followed as the caller struggled with my surname.

“That's right, speaking,”  I said, my excitement rising, ignoring his obvious problems with the pronunciation.

“Well, I’m delighted to tell you that you have won a holiday to one of our select world-wide destinations for you and your partner as our guests.”

Normally, I might have grimaced at his phraseology but instead I gesticulated wildly to Sarah and whispered “its the call”. Pick up the extension phone I mouthed to her.

Having lost his place in the script which he was so obviously reading, the caller continued, “Well you have won a holiday to one of a number of exclusive world wide destinations as our guest. All we ask is that you answer a few questions and come to our special presentation at your convenience.”

“Sounds fair to me,” I said in as non committal a way as possible. We had rehearsed what we were going to say when the call came and I was anxious not to appear too keen but equally, I did not want to miss the opportunity which had finally presented itself.

“Can I just confirm your name?”

I spelled out and pronounced my surname.

“Fine, I take it that you are aged between 18 and 65?”

I laughed “you should never ask a lady her age but, yes I fall into that category.”

“Have you lived at the same address for at least one year or if not, were you at your last address for at least three years?”

I thought for a moment, “Yes that’s right.”

I did not want to complicate things by explaining how Sarah and I had been friends for years but it was only here that we had actually shared a home. Thankfully he made no comment to my answer and proceeded swiftly to the next on his list.

“You have a partner?”

We had already worked that reply out in advance;

“I share the ownership of my home with my friend, Sarah.”

We had decided that ‘friend’ sounded vague enough and was open to interpretation if they so wished. It also had the considerable advantage, as with my other replies, of being the absolute truth. Sarah was my friend, maybe not in the sense that my Great Aunt would mean when she referred to the famous millinery designer in her village and his ‘friend’ who in fact was his equally famous haute couture partner of many years standing. I knew that she and her generation had to hide behind euphemism when describing a gay couple as they couldn’t bring themselves to utter the words defining such an alien concept. In her day the ‘love that dare not speak its name’ was not only unspoken but it was also in fact illegal and revelation of such relationships could bring imprisonment on the couple involved. Hardly surprising that even among those on the edge of society, such as she, that circumspection was ingrained. Nowadays such reticence was unnecessary and outmoded but I was able to use the uncertainty created to my advantage.

“Your friend, Sarah,” he used quotation marks as he spoke, “is she in the same age range?”

I was so tempted to tease him and wind her up at the same time by saying that she only looks in her thirties, in fact she is pushing 66 but I decided that it was not politic to risk the outcome of our longed for call.

“She is.”

I left it at that. He then asked if our salaries fell between two wildly disparate amounts. Satisfied that we fell neatly into that broad bracket, he summed up.

“Excellent, now Christine, if you and Sarah would like to come to a special presentation at our luxury headquarters, we will be able to outline details of the holidays and the concept behind them.”

Mention of the word concept rather than a more tangible holiday brought my earlier suspicions flooding back.

“We have won a holiday haven’t we?”

“Oh yes, most certainly,  we just want to explain who we are and what we do which is why we invite you and a few other specially selected couples to a special presentation. We are sure that you will be very impressed, so much so, that instead of wanting to accept one short complimentary holiday, you will be keen to secure a lifetime of holidays throughout the world.”

“Fine,” I said with slightly false enthusiasm as I tried to cover my scepticism for his reply which I had translated as ‘we will give you a cheap, quick holiday under sufferance if you don’t succumb to our long hard sell session where we try to get you signed up for life for something - whatever, the word concept translated into.’

“We’d love to come.”

“Can I have details of your friend Sarah.”

Again, quotation marks appeared in his voice. This is going to be hard, I thought, especially if he tries to pigeon hole Sarah in his mind as some big, butch Lesbian with spiky hair and a deep voice. He is going to get a shock when we go to the presentation. I shot a glance at Sarah for the first time. I had heard her come back into the room but I had refrained from looking at her during the earlier part of the salesman's’ spiel as I feared any silent expressions between us might have come out in my voice. I certainly did not want to convey any impression that we were other than keen. She raised her eyebrows in a mock grimace and I just had to look away for fear of laughing.

“Are the meetings in the evening?” I said hopefully as I brought myself back to the present.

“No, they are all in the day at one of our many centres. All we ask is that you give us four hours of your time and we give you a holiday. Its a simple as that.”

“Its a long, day time session,” I whispered to Sarah who put down the extension phone in case it was obvious that someone was listening to the call. She was now right beside me, straining to hear the other side of the conversation as well as my replies.

“Where do we have to go?” I asked.

“We meet at a number of purpose built centres. Let me see, now the nearest to you at Snaresbrook, that would be Harlow.”

“You don’t have any in central London?” I asked, mindful that Harlow was further out into Essex and the four hours presentation would translate into a whole day off for us both.  

“No, we prefer to keep our costs down and also be near the most number of our clients. Harlow is very convenient for the whole of Essex and is just off the M11 motorway.”

“Oh, I know where Harlow is, it’s no problem”.

I was anxious to reassure him that we were keen. I certainly didn’t want to have got this far and then lose it.

“We will email you to confirm the details. Our next meeting is on Wednesday week.”

“We will just have to take the day off work, that's no problem.” Sarah nodded to me that she would do the same.

“You won’t regret it. We will be able to explain the whole holiday concept to you when we meet . Oh, bring your passports with you.”

“We don’t go off there and then do we?” I asked joking but nevertheless slightly alarmed.

“No, we need proof of identity and what nicer way to do that and show that you intend to go on holiday than to bring your passport. Its just a bit of fun. See you then”. I put down the ‘phone.

“We are on our way!” I said. “Mind you did you hear that at least twice he mentioned holiday concept, whatever that is.”

“No, I came off the extension ‘phone as I didn’t want him to hear my breathing and realise that we were suspicious,” said Sarah.

“He also said about the luxury headquarters and then in the next breath said they had a number of centres.”

“Oh don’t worry, I expect it is either a franchise or its a nationwide set up. It must be time share, that's what he meant when he said about holiday concept. I must say though, 9.30 for 10 in the morning is a bit early to face Harlow.”

“I know but it means that we will be finished by 2 pm at the latest.”

“So they obviously won’t give us lunch, probably just as well,” said Sarah.

“I would hardly think so, it will be a cup of weak coffee and a biscuit if we are lucky.”

“I don’t mind what it is as long as we get our holiday.”

“I agree.