basildoneye.com

　STELLA

When I first saw Stella I was sitting at a table by the main doors of The White Horse Pub in Horseferry Road. She peeked around the door and asked the way to the Graftons pub. I went outside with her and gave her directions to Strutton Ground. She and the young chap she was with said thanks and they walked off in the drizzle like a couple of lost sheep.

"She a darling", said my companion as I returned to our table.

"Not my type.", I replied.

I noticed that the girl that I had given directions to was good looking, but perhaps not my type. Her eyes were large, but tapered slightly at the outer edges, which reminded me of the look some Mongol kids have and reminded me of madness. Nevertheless my new friend was impressed. His name was Mike. We were both swarthy looking and each of us sported a moustache. Mike also seemed to have the same attitude to life as I did. It was he who suggested sitting by the main door of the pub. Although a regular, I always stood at the bar or sat at the back, never near the door.

Mike and I sat drinking for an hour talking about our current situation. He had recently separated from his wife and child, moving out of their flat into a hostel in Monck Street. It was a Salvation Army Hostel and one of the rules was that guests could not stay on the premises during the day, but had to leave at nine and not return until four. So, life was particularly difficult for him, not least because he was also unemployed.

I had a flat at Millbank and was employed as a messenger by a large venture capital company at Waterloo. I was divorced, but my relationship with my ex-wife seemed to be morphing back into love. Mike said that he had met a girl who was a barmaid in the Graftons and he had promised to go see her, and would I like to go with him.

On the way to the pub I had not thought about the girl who had asked for directions, but when we walked in she was there at the bar with her boyfriend. He looked so young and so unsuited to her that I thought them a curious couple. He had a pale round babyish face dotted with pimples and a pair of thin-framed glasses straddled the end of his small nose. His hair was uncombed and as that of a middle-aged man. He was dressed in a black casual coat, sweater and brown corduroy jeans with a pair of well-worn trainers on his small feet. He looked like a student.

She could have been a student. Her fair hair, lank with the rain, framed a soft, but square face with dark arched eyebrows above large light blue-green eyes. Her nose was straight, classical, a perfect profile, not upturned, but defiant, insubordinate. Below, her mouth sat in perfect proportion to her nose with lips that could contract from Catherine Deneuve to Betty Davis within a nano second. She was dressed in a white, short leather jacket, a pink patterned blouse, black stretch woollen leggings and a pair of yellow six-inch high heels. She may well have been a student, but somehow it did not seem so. They were an odd couple.

As I ordered a Fosters and a Carlin for Mike, she turned, saw me and came over. She introduced herself as Stella. I thought the name did not suit her at all. She asked if we knew anything about the pub. I said it was famous for being the birthplace of the seminal comedy group the Goons, although you would not have guessed it. There was not even a notice, not even a picture on the walls to indicated Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe or Michael Bentine had ever been in the place.

The pub was named after Jimmy Grafton, the landlord at the time the four entertainers frequented. They did much of their rehearsing there for their radio show, which was broadcast in the late 50's and early 60's. It dismayed and baffled me why the current owners did nothing to commemorate them. Stella seemed impressed with me. She said that she and her friend had travelled all the way from Clapham Common just to see the pub and she too was disappointed that there were no photographs or anything to see.

"I love the Goons, especially Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan. My dad used to laugh out loud at them. I like Bluebottle. How does he go...?’

"I've fallen in the water!" I said doing a passable impression of the squeaky voiced character.

Stella laughed. She seemed surprised and pleased.

"That's great! Do it again!" I did the impression again, but felt my face flush; I fell into a false modesty.

Mike seemed slightly annoyed that I was commanding Stella's attention and tried to interrupt a couple of times.

"I like that jacket you've got on, I like white leather! Great shoes too, I like high heels! Do you live local?"

This was a stupid question. Stella had just said she had travelled from Clapham Common. I quickly realised that this was typical of Mike when a woman he fancied was in company, so bent on making an impression was he that words fell out like rubbish down a builders shoot. Stella seemed to be ignoring her friend so I asked her to introduce him.

"Oh, this is Philip”, she said, “He's a student, we live together."

"What as a couple?” said Mike, more in surprise than as a question.

"Oh, no were just friends. We share rooms in a house at Clapham Common. It's better if two pay isn't it" Stella laughed nervously. She looked down at her glass. It was empty. I said,

"Would you like a drink?"

Stella looked up quickly as if surprised by offer, "Oh no, thanks very much, you don't have to."

"No matter, come on, just have one." I was puzzled by her mild, but obvious distress. She seemed slightly embarrassed at the revelation of her relationship to Philip and at the fact that looking at her glass might have been mistaken as a prompt for an offer of a drink. She quickly gathered herself and said,

"Let me go and get it." By this time we all had been moved away from the bar by to escape the ebb and flow of other customers. "I'll go to the bar." She insisted, as if to make compensation for the fact that I was buying the drinks. I liked that. It gave me the sense that here was an independent girl who would work for a living rather than sponge off a man. Some woman will let you pay for drinks all night with out making an offer in return. Here was a girl who 'paid' for her drink by at least going to the bar and getting the drinks. Another thing I liked about her was that she did not have a handbag. That also smacked of independence to me. This girl travelled light.

While she was at the bar I looked at her. A girl I was quickly coming to like. To meet a woman who liked the same humour as me was a gift. Although I had met quite a few men who had an acute sense of the ridiculous I had never met a woman the same and I was reminded of what was lacking in my life. If a couple lack a similar sense of humour there will always be a gulf between them, even if they have many other things in common. I liked this girl, but would she like me? Mike had gone to the other end of the bar to talk to his barmaid. Phil was telling me about himself and I took the opportunity to look over his shoulder at Stella.

Her figure was slim and well proportioned, her long and shapely legs fulfilling the promise that woollen leggings hardly ever kept. The high sunny yellow shoes vivid under her black as night tights, whilst above and wrapped around her, as I then suddenly wished my arms were, the leather jacket as white as summer cloud. Stella was the promise of sunlight in the now cold October night. Her fair hair hung loose like captured waves around her face. My heart slightly sunk as I thought 'She's too good for me', I mentally shrugged, 'Oh well, never mind. Mike will probably get her' He was a better-looking man than me. My large nose spoilt my looks and although I had had women love me before, I could never figure out why. Whether or not I thought myself handsome or ugly depended on my mood, whereas true good looks are not dependent on such ephemeral frames of mind. I had come to think, in that brief first half hour of knowing her, that indeed Stella was 'a darling'. If she had not been a fan of the Goons, perhaps my judgment might have remained objective and dispassionate. Instead her rejoice in the humour endeared me to her in a way nothing else could have.

Mike came back saying that the barmaid had given him the bullet. I was surprised and asked him why. He said that she had seen him with another woman. That did not surprise me. Stella was being served; Mike spotted her and said he would help her with the drinks. I asked Dave if he liked the Goons too. He said he did and remembered that his uncle liked them as well, and Prince Charles. Phil seemed awkward and nervous at our presence; I felt that he wished Stella had not talked to us. She came back with the drinks. She handed me my pint of Fosters and as she did so I felt a surge of pleasure that she brought back my drink and not Phil's.

"Only had a half David, thanks very much. Cheers!" she said razing her glass and taking a gulp.

"That OK. Could have had a pint if you'd wanted.", I said.

Mike moved between Stella and me and tried to initiate a conversation. He put his arm around her shoulders struggling to establish an intimate bond. Stella laughed and displayed enjoyment, yet a slight touch of resentment seemed to lie not far below the surface, as if she did not want to be disobliging, but Mike was being a little too tactless. I did not understand Mike's barely hidden desperation. I knew that he must get her in the end, so why was he being so animatedly attentive? I asked Phil. if he liked the Goons too. He said,

"That one you did before – who was it again?"

"Oh, Bluebottle."

"Yes. Do it again. It's funny. What did he say? I'm in the water?"

I did the impression again feeling a little more confident now that the alcohol was stripping away my inhibitions.

"There's another great Goon character" I went on, spurred also because I noticed Stella looking at me over Mikes shoulder, "Eccles!"

I did Eccles. It was the low voice of a complete idiot who could tell the time twice a day because he had it written down a piece of paper. Mike saw that he had almost lost Stella's attention and turned around to join in.

"Where's your bike" he said in a low voice. "Where's your bike gone? Who said that? I bet you don't know who said that?"

He had me baffled. Mike looked at Phil and Stella. Both had puzzled expressions. Mike laughed and said,

"That bloke from that show, you know that show - years ago. You must know it, er, had it on the tip of my tongue. He was so funny!"

"Why's the pub called the Grafton, David? Do you know?" asked Stella.

I related my limited knowledge about Jimmy Grafton and his friendship with the Goons. I wished I had kept alive my interest in the Goons instead of letting it flag over the years. I wanted to impress Stella as by now my desire for her had awakened and was now reaching out. Mike kept an insincere grin on his face all the time I was talking. At nine thirty Stella announced that she and Phil must go. Mike insisted they have one more drink. He was so insistent he got upset and Stella agreed to have one more. Phil went to the toilet. Mike moved to the bar. I was left alone with Stella. This was my chance! My heart began to simultaneously flutter and throb.

"Could I phone you Stella? We seem to have so much in common it would be a shame never to see you again."

"I don't know David. I've just come out of a relationship, I need time to sort myself out."

"No pressure. It's just that I thought, well, we could meet up and talk about the Goons, you know Peter Sellers, I like all his films, and that's all. I don't know anyone else who is as interested as you. And it is such a waste if two people meet who are alike then depart because neither one will suggest a meeting."

"Okay then."

My heart fell over itself.

"Have you got a pen and a piece of paper?"

A smartly dressed office worker obliged me, and Stella scribbled down her name and number. I quickly stashed the number away before Mike came back with the drinks. I do not know if Mike spotted me getting Stella's number, but later after she and Phil had gone, he said,

"One day me and you are going to fall out over that bird."

* * *

I waited two days before I rang Stella. I did not want to seem too eager. I thought about her all the time though. I went about my daily work delivering documents and cash to various banks in the City of London. It was a good job. The company provided not only a decent wage, but also a three-piece blue surge suit, shirts, ties and shoes so that the messengers looked well presented. I was proud to represent the company and conscientiously did my job, both out in the city and in the building at Waterloo, where, when not deleivering, I worked in the mailroom. I arrived at eight every day after taking a 507 from Horseferry Road to Waterloo Station.

Including myself there were four messengers and the mailroom. All were decent. Except the manager. He was a Portuguese African and very strange. I did my best to get on with this guy, but as I discovered later, I was not his choice for the job, as that was the remit of the personnel department, and from the outset he resented me. However I did my job well and although he tried to provoke me many times and we mutually had a poor of each other.

The woman who answered the phone was Stella's good friend, I imagined, so I adopted my 'posh' voice. She shouted up the stairs "Stella! Phone!" I nervously waited, and waited. The woman came back after a few minutes and said, "Hasn't she come down. I know she's in. Stella!" I heard a distant reply. "She’s just coming."

"Hello?"

"Stella? It's Dave, I met you in the Graftons the other night. I wondered if you'd like to come out with me."

"When?" I started to deflate: she seemed uninterested.

"Well, whenever you like. What about Friday night? I could meet you in the Graftons."

"I'm busy Friday night David." That was it; she didn't want to see me. "What about Thursday?" My heart leapt!

"Yeah, sure Thursday's fine..." It wasn't really, I never go out on Thursdays because I have to get up for work the next day and going out for me is getting pissed. "Yeah, ok - what time?"

"About eight thirty?"

"That's fine. OK, see you then." I didn't want to let her go. "Did you get home alright?" What a stupid question.

"Oh, yes thanks. Have you seen your friend?" She didn't remember his name - great!

"No. I haven't seen him" Fuck him, the shit. "Yeah, well I only live around the corner from there so it's only a few minutes walk, whereas you had to go all the way to Clapham Common. Get a tube ok?"

"Oh, yes. Look David I have to go now." I thought ‘Ballocks, I'm making myself a nuisance.'

"Oh okay. See you Thursday then."

"Yes, bye."

"Bye."

I went over the short conversation again and again analysing what I'd said. Did I sound all right? Will she turn up? She seemed a bit abrupt. Still, only two days to go. If she does she does, if she don't she don't. I am forever the fatalist.

Sherrie looked like Julie Garland. I never saw the similarity until she showed me a black and white photograph one day.

"That's great Shel, where did you have that done? Looks professional."

"It's not me Dave,” she said. “It's Julie Garland"

If she had not told me I would never have known. Sherrie had an outgoing and cheerful personality. I have seen her get everyone up dancing in a pub within half an hour of her arriving. She had a ready smile for everyone, an easy going attitude mostly, and such a caring nature that I nicknamed her 'Mother Earth'

I met Sherrie six years before meeting Stella. I was living in Pimlico and Sherrie had moved from Basildon back to Pimlico after leaving her husband with her three children. I fell in love with her one summer Saturday afternoon in 1980. She was sitting outside The Ebury Arms in Pimlico Road. She was talking to a guy and we glanced at each other as I walked into the pub. That flash of her eyes struck my heart like sunlight reflecting off the coloured window of a church. That day a mutual friend introduced us and in no time we were an item.

I had spent the previous three years before meeting her in virtual social isolation working as a porter for Westminster City Council. I had made no friends on the Westbourne Park Road estate and I was relieved to get a transfer to Pimlico. My loneliness was a big incentive in my decision to allow Sherrie to move in with me as well as take on one of her three children.

I was thirty-seven and had no children of my own. Although capable of fatherhood, I had taken the choice a long time ago not to raise a family. As a child I had painfully experienced the malcontent that poor, large families can generate. I did not want to repeat that in my adult life. Also I wanted to travel and have done so. I would also accept that selfishness also took a part in my decision not to have children, it depends on your point of view. Some would say I have been unselfish, for to bring unwanted children into this world is cruelty, whereas other might say that if one can produce children then it is against Gods' will not to. However no matter what choices you make, someone will always disagree.

Sherrie fell pregnant within three months of our meeting. Two of her children, Fonola and Paul had moved back to Basildon to live with their father. George, the youngest stayed with his mum and me. I saw the hurt in Sherrie’s eyes when I told her that I did not want a child. She had an abortion. Later she came to respect my decision. We had a few tumultuous years together, lots of parties, lots of people, lots of fights. We married and divorced within three years.

Sherrie now has her own flat in New Cavendish Street in the West End of London, where she lived with George. I missed her terribly and had taken to writing her letters telling her how I felt. The letters had gradually won her and, although she was seeing another man, we started to go out together again. This time it would be different. How many misguided, but hopeful souls have believed that?

* * *

Thursday came and I was in the Graftons at seven thirty. Stella arrived with Phil. I was disappointed that she had brought him along, by doing so had reduced our date from a secret rendezvous to a coffee morning. Phil seemed ill at ease again, and I wondered why she had dragged him along. We settled into booth and we talked once my about the Goons, with Stella saying that she also liked Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther films and many of the old black and white films, an especially Dr Strangelove. All this endeared me to her more, because although she was only twenty-five, fifteen years younger than me, she seemed to like many of the personalities and films that came from my era, which made my feel special because I had first hand knowledge of the time she was interested in. I felt at home with this girl. She had turned up, so she must like me, even though she had brought Phil, whom I felt a little sorry for, because he obviously felt extraneous - a gooseberry.

I suddenly felt my stomach hit the floor as l saw Mike making his way through the crowd and fog of cigarette smoke.

“Don't mind if I join you do you."

It was not a question. I did, but he sat down anyway. He was with another scruffy man who was also staying at the Salvation Army Hostel. Mike proceeded to take over the conversation. I did not compete. I had gone out with him the previous Saturday and had gotten a measure of his personality. I knew that all I had to do was sit back and let him hang himself.

Mike had taken me to visit a woman he was having an affair with. She lived in a plush basement flat in Eaton Square and edited an obscure, but glossy and thick magazine called Puppies. It was aimed exclusively at the spoilt rich and gave advise on grooming dogs. I found myself both amused and disgusted at the same time. Was that all rich people had time to do? As a boy we had no money to but dog food. Such indulgence in dog lifestyle made me feel not just disconnected with how the other half lived, but disconcerted as well. I had thought only about working class toots, but here I was in another world, a world I knew of, but not about.

Cissy was in her mid forties; more my age than Mike's, who was thirty. She said her name was Cissy. She was blonde, slim yet plain. Although educated, her posh voice slurred a little as she became more than generous with her drinks. When I told her about my love of books, music and art she tried to engage in conversation, but I had no interest in her. My mind was occupied with next Thursday night and my date with Stella. Mike seemed a little disappointed at my lack of awe.

I think he thought I would be mightily impressed that he had such a wealthy girl friend, but I am not impressed with money, or large cars, or any of the adornments of wealth. That is not to say I dislike it, but I don’t believe it makes a person happy.

Both my indifference and Cissy's attention towards me caused Mike to go into competitive overdrive. He butted in on our conversation, which at that moment was about the books we both liked, and began incessantly talking. Words gushed out of him like rubble from a builders shoot.

“Yeah, dogs that’s it. I had a dog once. So did my mate. We both had dogs. Dogs. The way they bark. They bark and wake up the neighbours and get you into trouble and who wants trouble? You don’t want trouble, I don’t want trouble, but if it comes along, well, you just got to handle it haven’t you? I mean, ‘You looking for trouble, then look in my face.’ Do you like that song? It’s by Elvis man.” He jumped up and down and rolled about the floor, and then amongst the ceaseless scramble of words he said something funny.

“Elvis died on the bog eating dog biscuits.”

Cissy and me laughed. Mike looked at us speechless for a moment, and then he repeated what he had said. We laughed again. Then he said it a third time. We giggled a bit. He started to sing it up and down the C major scale. Cissy and me sat silent. Shortly after Mike’s strange performance I made my apologies and left.

* * *

The clatter of the Graftons returned to my ears. Stella's smile was frozen as she listened to Mike. He went on and on without asking a question or an opinion. The only thing that made him stop was his empty glass. When he went to the bar, Stella and Phil looked at me smiling,

"Where did you find him?” said Stella as she broke into laugher. Even Phil genuinely laughed for the first time.

"I met him the night I met you. Remember the pub you looked into to ask directions, The White Horse? Well, I was introduced to him about an hour before you looked in. I don't know why he needs to impress so much. He has a rich girl friend in Eaton Square"

"How do you know that, David?" asked Stella.

The question had an accusatory tone. I felt guilty. I did not want her to think I was a gallivanted all over the place. Yet I had no reason to make excuses. It is a weakness of mine, that I am easily made to feel guilty, it comes from being brought up a catholic and taught that God can read my mind, and by fallacious extrapolation, so can priests, so can parents, so can any one in authority and anyone who has a strong authoritative personality - in fact I believe most people can read my mind. It is a repressive and neurotic condition causing micro reactions in facial and behavioural gestures that makes me appear guilty when I an not. She made me nervous and I was glad Mike came back. I let him take centre stage for a while, until Stella, who had been animatedly engaged with Mike, started to look at me and finally said,

"Your quite, David"

I acted surprised, but was actually pleased that she noticed me, so I heaved myself out of my dark silence and joined in. I was really pleased to be with her, she was funny and had a great laugh and did not mind pulling faces, whereas some girls avoid it because they think it might lessen their femininity. guise. Stella on the other hand did not mind playing the fool. I found it endearing that a beautiful woman buckled a perfect visage for the sake of a laugh.

Overall the evening went well, it was at the end things went sour when Mike decided to assert himself.

"I told you we'd fall out over her."

Stella had gone to the toilet, Phil was putting on his overcoat and Mike was standing an inch from me. I was feeling happy. Drink causes elation in me, very rarely do I get broody or sullen with drink, and I had got on well with Stella and I was also pleased that she seemed to have a good night. At first I thought Mike was joking. I grinned and said,

"Don't be silly. Were not going to fall out."

"No? All right then, outside. I'll do you. You stay away from her. She's my bird."

"That's for her to make up her mind about and, anyway, it's you who are causing us to fall out. Now pack it in."

Stella came back and said,

"What's the matter?" She looked at us both and smiled nervously.

"Well, come on,” challenged Mike, stiffening his back. I walked past him to the door. He came after me, pulled my arm and blocked the doorway. By this time most of the punters had left and the pub was almost empty, just the bar staff collecting glasses.

"Listen Mike, get out of the way, your being stupid,” I said. It was then that I realised that he was deadly serious, he was ready to hit me, he wanted to impress Stella and he would attack me to do it.

I punched him in the face. He fell back off the step, staggered and fell onto an empty market cart. He lay there for a moment, his hand to his cheek, surprised as a burglar caught in the act. I stepped into the street. Stella pushed past me,

"No,” she said, “No don't fight, don't fight over me." Bright girl.

Stella glanced from Mike to me, "We've had a good night, come on get up" She helped Mike to his feet. He glared at me, but did not make a move. I waited a few presentable seconds, and then walking backwards a few steps with the palms of my hands raised I turned and walked away.

"I'm going" I said.

As I walked to the corner and turned into Victoria Street, my back was hunched because I expected Mike to coming running after me. When I had walked twenty yards I knew he wouldn’t follow. My shoulders relaxed and I hoped Stella would come running after me. I looked back. There was no sign of her so I guessed she decided to stay with Mike. I felt disappointed, but pleased that I had acquitted myself well against Mike. He had asked for it, but I had lost a friend and the girl of my dreams. I turned up my collar and tucked my hands into the pockets of my herringbone crombie overcoat, in the manner of all good film gangsters and wished the pubs were still open. Then I heard Stella's voice,

"David, wait!"

I turned as she approached, still some distance away. She was everything I always wanted, a tanned beauty with a sense of humour. Phil was training along behind.

"Are you all right?" she asked a little breathless, "Why did you hit him? He was upset but reckons that you didn’t actually sock him one. He said he slipped.” She laughed and held her hands to her cheeks. Phil caught up and said,

"What happened back there?"

As we walked towards Victoria station I told them what Mike had said the previous week and what led up to the fight. We reached the tube station,

"Will I see you again?"

"Yes, but I don't know when, I'm going to be busy for a while. You've got my number; call me in a few days."

I watched her wait for the lights, then walk across Vauxhall Bridge Road with Phil in tow. The bright lights of the busy station forecourt and the surrounding shops and theatres reflected in the wet roads and pavements. I walked home to Millbank with a sense of satisfaction. It had been my night. I had not asked for trouble, but I had sorted it out and I maybe I had impressed Stella. I felt a glow of pride and with a warm thrill of certainty I knew had fallen in love.

* *

I decided to tell Sherrie about Stella. Before meeting Stella I had made a concentrated effort to get Sherrie back and had recently made progress by writing intimate letters to her. We had met a few times and it felt as if I had rekindled her love for me. I did not have the deceit needed to see two women at the same time. If Stella was the girl of my dreams then Sherrie was the girl of my limited aspirations. When Sherrie answered the ‘phone, I said,

"Sherrie, I've fallen in love" Her response was immediate, and not what I expected, I thought she would be surprised and say something like, 'What, I'm sorry? What did you say? What do you mean - you've fallen in love?' Instead she exclaimed,

"Oh, no!"

Perhaps a woman knows about love more than men, perhaps they are more in tune with their emotions and accept that someone can fall in love so quickly. If Sherrie had said the same thing to me I would have been shocked. Surely there was a period of doubt. Had it not happened to me, then I would not have believed that you could fall in love so quickly.

"I'm so sorry Shel, it just happened. I want to be up front with you. I don't want to deceive you. I'm sorry" I hung up even though I could hear that she was distressed. I felt relieved and also a bloody coward. I was glad that I had told her and felt that I could get on with my relationship with Stella without having to lie about my relationship with anyone else. I felt cowardly, but clean.

* * *

A week later on an unusually bright sunny day for October, I drove to Clapham Common in the companies van. It was a dream to drive because it was agile, low and had large windscreen, all of which gave the impression of skimming, instead on merely driving over the road. Yahoo! Stella had invited me to her place. I felt privileged that only after a couple of meetings she should ask me to visit. I hoped it would provide proof that she liked me. A mixture of trepidation and delight charged the bright warm day and I opened the window to let in the rushing air as I drove along Clapham Road. Sunlight glinted off the shop windows and the polished passing cars. I was pleased that the van was mine for the weekend.

I turned left into Elms Street from the common and quickly found number forty-three. It was a commanding Victorian four storey terraced house with large bay windows on the ground floor and small jutting balconies above. I rang the bell and a pale-faced woman with dark rings under her eyes answered the door. I introduced myself andd told her that I had come to see Stella. The woman went to the foot of the stairs and called out. I recognised the woman's voice, it was she who had answered to telephone, the landlady. Stella's voice answered, my heart leapt, and the landlady called out,

"You've got a visitor. David’s here to see you.’

I recognised the woman’s voice. So it wass the landlady who had answered the telephone whenever I’d called. My heart leapt as I heard Stella call from somewhere upstairs.

‘Come on up David, I’m on the top floor.’

I thanked the landlady and climbed the stairs. I looked up between the thick wooden banisters, but I could not see her. The threadbare carpet on the stairs was kept in place by thin rods and stopped short of the wall and banisters by ten inches, where the bare wood abutted a foot high skirting board. Out of this grew faded flock wallpaper. I reached the third floor, not sure where to go. Then Stella's head sprang out from a doorway and said,

"Come in David, don't be shy." She had a tall half-full glass of beer in her hand. "Would you like a vodka? Take your coat off and sit down over there by the window. Philip, open the window, let some air in for David."

Phil mumbled a ‘hello’ and then dutifully opened the narrow French windows that led out onto a cramped balcony. The sunlight streamed in, its rays teeming with dust moats shaken from the net curtains. The room was sparsely furnished and with such a high ceiling the place felt spacious. A mirror hung above a stylish Victorian mantelpiece but the fireside was grimy from years of neglect. There was an odd assortment of mis-matched furniture in the room. The bulky, worn lounge chair by the fireside was in complete contrast to the spindly wooden chair opposite. At the far end of the room there was a single bed and an elaborate wardrobe that looked large enough to contain the entire clothing of two families. The wardrobe door was ajar and I could see that the innards were empty except for a few wire coat hangers. Over one hung a white leather jacket. 　

"Here we are David, welcome." She handed me an opaque glass that had thin rings of gold plate around it, it was the glass she had just been using, and it was full to the brim. I took a slug, baulked, swallowed and holding the glass at arms length said,

"Blimey! That’s strong."

Stella giggled. "Let me show you the other room."

She walked back out on to the landing and into a bedroom containing a double bed. Stella pressed her hand on the think duvet and bounced the mattress.

"Nice and bouncy isn't it David? We take turns in here. Sometimes I sleep here and Philip sleeps on the single bed in there, but I mostly sleep in there, because I prefer the single bed.’ I wondered why, but did not ask. I did not want to pry lest she thought me nosey or possessive. Stella was a mystery that would unravel slowly.

"Yeah, it's a nice place Stel" I said. It was not, but I had slept in rougher digs so I was not being completely dishonest.

"My name's Stella, David, not Stel."

I was taken aback, "Oh, right, sorry, er. I’m sorry Stella.’ I felt deflated.

"You've got eyes like my dad, kind eyes, I like that,” she said, broadly smiling.

I bathed in her kind words and felt good again.

I’ve always had a low opinion of my physical appearance and believe that most of my features are unattractive. If I could, I would part-exchange eighty percent of myself. My nose is too large and bulbous, my lips too thin and a mouth that naturally turns down, so I appear bored or miserable even when I'm not. Perhaps the only redeeming features are my slim body, good head of hair, and as others have said, my brown eyes, despite the fact that I wished they were blue. I did not receive complements that often, and Stella’s comment about my eyes made me feel good.

We went back into the other room and Stella took my glass to replenish it. I sat down and examined the features of the room more closely.

Stuck on the wardrobe was a picture of Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau, his beady eyes staring out from under the rim of his hat. Stella noticed me looking at it and struck the same pose as Sellers in the photograph. I laughed thinking she was wonderful. We talked about our favourite scenes from the series, making each other laugh.

"Put some music on, Philip. What sorts of music do you like David? Like Madonna? Put Madonna on Philip, the tapes over there. You like Madonna don't you David?"

"Yeah, I think she's great. I've got most of her stuff at home. Play it all the time. Her and the Police."

"You like the Police too! (Is this scene before the dance?) I think they’re great." The opening bars to Madonna's 'Holiday' struck up

"I met Sting's brother once in Whitley Bay,” she said. “That's where Sting comes from." She began to dance, moving her slim-hipped body to the rhythm.

　 She was wearing a long-sleeved black and white top, black woollen tights and an old pair of white trainers. I thought if she looks this good dressed down, she must look fantastic dressed up. I just wanted to sit and look at her, but instead I stepped out onto the balcony, because I did not want her to realise just how much I desired her and hoped that we would become romantically involved. I did not want to seem too eager, yet I was more than keen; she was the kind of girl that I had dreamed of, but resigned myself to never having. The women I had known, and truly loved, had been always a step away from what I would have chosen if I had been handsome and had my pick. I had accepted the random encounters as being the best I could hope for.

"We're almost out of drink. Would you like a beer David? There's an off licence down the road. I'll go and get some." She went to the wardrobe and took out her white leather coat.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I asked, hoping she would say yes. I wanted to spend every minute in her presence. She said no and I felt a flutter of loss in my heart as if once she was gone out of my sight I would never see her again. She skipped down the stairs and my heart rate escalated. I turned to Phil and took the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity about their strange relationship.

"She's full of life, ain't she?" I said rhetorically, "You known Stella long?"

"No, I only met her a couple of weeks ago." he said, bashfully. I detected awkwardness, as if he was aware that his association with a girl like Stella was somewhat implausible. He went on quickly like a devout Catholic keen to confess, "She came up to me in fact. I was in a Wimpy bar in Nottingham, by myself, feeling alone like, when Stella sat down at my table. There were plenty of other tables empty, but she sat down at mine. I was a bit surprised, but she was so friendly and chatty that it was good to have someone to talk to. A couple of hours went by, then she suggested we come to London."

A wave of suspicion flooded my brain. "What?” I said taken aback, “You’d only just met this woman and you agreed to drop everything to come to London with her?"

"Yeah, just like that. Well, I'd finished college and I had nothing to do and it seemed like a good idea, fun, an adventure - you know."

A withered smile like a crack in a pie spread across his anaemic face. "I told her that I didn't have much money, but she said not to worry about that, we'd bunk on the train, she'd done it a hundred times and when we got to London she said her aunt would put us up and would give us some money. Sounded a bit funny, but she was so certain that things would be all right, so I agreed to go with her. Well, we did bunk on the train and managed to get out at Kings Cross with Stella giving the guard some amazing story. She had him eating out of her hand by the time she'd finished. I thought we'd get caught but we didn't. Then we went to her aunts. I don't know quite where it was, but she did put us up for a while. She lent Stella some money - that's how we got this place, but Stella put down most of the money as a deposit, which didn’t leave much for food or travel come to that. The night we met you, we’d walked from here to the Graftons.”

"You walked? From Clapham Common to Victoria? That must be ten miles, eight at least!" I was astounded. "But you got a tube back didn’t you? I saw you cross the road to Victoria Station tube"

"No, we waited until you had gone then we walked home."

My feelings about this news were a mixture of irritation, delight and pity. I was irritated because they had deceived me with their charade of going for a train, delighted because Stella was broke, which afforded me the opportunity to come to her aid financially, and pity because both were like a pair of lost puppies, which awakened my feelings of sympathy. I also thought it touching that she would walk so far to see a place where people that she admired, like Peter Sellers and the Goons, once went. It embodied all the true spirit of a pilgrimage. Not only was it a quality I aspired to, but to find it in a girl I desired sent ripples of warmth through my body.

I looked up the street and saw Stella walking back with a carrier bag full of cans. She looked up and waved. Madonna started up with 'Papa Don't Preach'

We stood out on the balcony singing to Madonna, drinking vodkas with larger chasers, and waving to passers-by below. Stella and I were in high spirits, laughing at each others jokes, even Phil got merry, although he said he did not drink very much and sloped off to bed early. He couldn’t have got much sleep because we did not stop playing music until every can and bottle was sucked dry. Stella and I danced closely and kissed and held each other in drunken affection until we fell onto the single bed in the corner and slept.

We spent that weekend together. We did not make love that Saturday night, but just slept curled up in each other’s arms. On Sunday we talked a great deal. It was blissful. I enjoyed being in her presence as she was intelligent, funny, vivacious and always concerned about my comfort. I wallowed in the joy of being with her, yet nevertheless constantly felt edgy because I did not want to say anything to upset her, to voice an opinion that might be anathema least I turn her against me. I felt like a man who had found treasure in some remote place and would not feel at ease until the fortune was safely deposited in his bank. Yet Stella did not seem the kind to be secured by anyone, unless it entailed a hefty overdraft.

* * *

Stella promised to meet me at seven thirty in Graftons, it was now seven forty and I felt consumed by annoyance and disappointment. By eight fifteen anger was punching its way out of my chest. It was tempered with worry that something bad might have happened to her. I cursed myself for not having her phone number with me. I decided to go home in case I had somehow missed her and she had gone to my flat. Every step of the way home I expected to see her. My disappointment hit the gutter when she was not outside my flat. There was no note on the doormat. I looked in the front room, bedroom and kitchen as if I expected to find her. It was a completely irrational act. She could not possibly have got inside. I was about to go back to the pub when the phone rang. It was her, I was so relieved, but I could hardly hear her the line was so bad.

"Where are you?" I called into the phone. Her voice seemed far away and the line kept breaking up, "What? I can't here you! The Graftons? I've just come from there; I said I've just come from there. Listen, I'll come and get you." The line went blank.

I jumped in the van and raced to the pub. I expected happy greetings and relieved explanations. She was not there. I looked in every booth. I cursed and thought that she might have gone to my flat. I raced back. As I turned into Marsham Street I saw her. I slowed. Her head was down, as if in grim concentration. I called out and she looked up startled. For a second she did not recognise me, then her face turned to thunder.

"What do you think you are doing David?" she spoke in an accusatory tone.

I felt irrational guilt. "What? I've just been to Graftons again. I waited for you, before, I mean. I couldn't hear what you were saying on the phone" I gushed desperate to clear up any misunderstanding. She crossed the road and got in the van.

"Why did you do that on the phone? You know what I mean - playing tricks on me. Don't play tricks on me, David."

I was aghast, "I was not playing tricks! The phone was cracking up, it was a bad line or something, I couldn't hear what you were saying." A car behind blew its horn. I pulled away. "I heard you say you were in the Graftons, that’s where I've just been."

"Why didn't you meet me in there? I was waiting for you. I was on my own; I had men approach me and everything. I got frightened."

I felt frustrated and sorry for her, "Look, I was in there at seven fifteen. I waited until eight fifteen and when you didn't show up, I came home thinking you’d gone to my place." I turned into Erasmus Street and pulled up outside my block.

"You weren’t in the pub, David. I know because I was waiting for you!" Her lips were pulled thin and her eyes glared. I was bemused and argued in a beaten tone as if I had actually done something wrong.

　

"Well, I don't know where you were sitting then because I was definitely at the bar." I was sure that she had not been in the pub. After all, there was only one bar. Sure, it is possible that she was in one of the booths, but I passed every booth and glanced in each both on my way in and on my way out. I must have been blind to miss her, yet her certainty caused me to doubt my judgement and I reluctantly conceded.

As we were climbing the stairs to my flat Stella suddenly turned and looked down at me.

"You haven't got me David. You haven't got me yet. Don't think that you've got me."

That was the last thing I thought; that I had actually won her. I felt I was backsliding instead of making progress.

"I know I haven't,” I said feeling genuinely defeated.

As we entered my flat, I tried to steer the conversation away from contentious feelings. I asked Stella what she had been doing that day. She seemed slightly drunk.

"Oh, I've been on a modelling job."

She said it with such nonchalance. I was impressed and pleased for her. It was great that she had fond work so quickly. She was truly an independent woman.

"That's great Stella. I'm glad for you. Where, what was it?"

"Oh, modelling swim suits at a swimming pool near Camberwell Green. Me and two other girls. They were such a laugh. I had great fun. I even got to keep the bathing suit - look."

She opened her blouse and showed me the top of an all-in-one, black bathing suit. "The photographer was a fat Jewish man, we ran circles round him. He thought he was clever. He promised to pay me £150, but tried to get out of it afterwards. I gave him a piece of my mind and threatened to go to the police - we all did. He got scared than and paid up. Have you got anything to drink David?"

I made a play of looking in the fridge, because I did not want appear unsophisticated, but I knew I had no drink. Any alcohol brought in to my place was consumed as soon as it arrived.

Maybe Stella gussed this was the case. "Don't worry I've got something" She pulled out a half bottle of vodka from her handbag. I was delighted. I had never met a woman who was so resourceful. Most of my heroes were drinking men, like Lee Marvin, Richard Burton and Dillon Thomas, I had never come across a woman who liked a drink so much that she kept a 'stash' in her handbag.

"Stella! What a great girl you are. Talk about coming to the rescue. You've got your own supply" Then I remembered and my eyes lit up. I had hid away a bottle of vodka! I remembered that I had put it at the back of the hallway cupboard. "Hold on! I can do better than that!" I pulled out a couple of black sacks full of old clothes and a couple of empty suit cases and there in the far corner stood a cobwebbed bottle.

We had no lemonade, but orange juice would do. Stella poured the drinks while I put on some music,

"Police ok, Stella?"

"Yeah, great!"

We clinked glasses and kissed lightly.

"Would you like to see my swimsuit, David”?

I was taken aback with the bluntness of her suggestion and a little shocked as she stripped of her jacket, blouse and leggings to reveal a slim shapely body now clad only in a one piece black swimsuit. As she put back on her yellow, high heel shoes, I sighed at the sight of her figure. A glamour model had stepped into my living room.

"Do you like it?"

She swayed across the living room with my eyes following her like drugged puppies. I grinned and muttered that I did. She pulled up my Queen Anne leather armchair and sat me down in it.

"Drink up David. Let me dance for you."

She moved to the beat of 'I'll Be Watching You', her hands caressing her body, her pink lips pouting, only to part when she lifted her glass to her mouth and took a large draft. Could this girl drink!

"Here let me take off your jacket. That's it, get comfortable. Let me try it on. How's it look - look good? It looks good on you David. You dress well, I liked that overcoat you had on a few weeks ago, you know that one, yes the corombie, herringbone. You looked so sexy. What's this pattern on the jacket - Prince of Whales check, yes, that's it. Great!"

She bared her shoulders, pushed her back against the wall and pulled the top of her swimsuit down revealing her breasts. As she lowered the material showing her cleavage I did not think that she would actually display her breasts, when she did, I almost gasped. A few minutes ago I she was angry with me and I thought our relationship was close to collapse. She dropped the jacket to the floor and rolled the swimsuit top down around her slim waist leaving her upper body naked. Her fair skin shone slightly with sweat and the dark teats of her middle round bosoms stood proudly erect. It was a position that my cock was fast fulfilling.

"Do you like my breasts David?" As if there were doubt.

"Yes, there just the right size Stella."

She kissed me. Her soft full lips parted allowing her tongue to touch mine and caressingly wrestle. She lifted my hands from the arms of the chair to her breasts. My lips and tongue pushed in silent combat and my finger tips and palms kneading her soft warm topped mounds. My nostrils breathed in her being as her hand went down and cupped my erection. She pressed and hunched over me like a strong, warm wind. She drew away smiling, stood before me and pulled the swimsuit up above her hips and turned to show her bare fair cheeks. I reached out wanting to feel the full flesh, to cup and kneed and press my face into the cushioned breach, but she glided out of reach, turned and danced as Sting sung 'You'll Be Wrapped Around My Finger'

Stella jubilantly chuckled and I submissively giggled. She bent over, touching the floor, leaving her rear cheeks and crouch exposed to my lascivious eye, I gazed at the pale fleshed terrain, not sure, even now, if I would be allow to traverse. Her hands cupped her ankles, ran up her calves, over the back of her thighs, cupped her arse, reached into her cheeks and pulled them apart, unearthing her anus. I reached for my erection. Stella looked at me through her legs, smiled and stood. She unzipped my fly and gently gathered me into her palm. Without hesitation she plunged her mouth over my enlarged pulse and drove her lips to its hilt.

All of it was in her mouth. I had never experienced that before. Her lips and the tip of her nose were hidden in my pubic hair. The first beats of 'Message In A Bottle' washed the air. I could not believe that she could do what she was doing. Yet she drew up her sucking lips, licked the tip of my bursting erection and plunged down again encompassing me like moss a stone. Quickly she bobbed. Then released me the moment I raised my buttocks. She grinned and wiped her mouth with her forearm.

"Like that David?" she reached for her glass and took a long draught.

"How did you do that? How did you get all of it in your mouth? I've never seen that before." I was like a kid asking how a fairground ride worked. The Police sang 'Do Do Do, Dah Dah Dah'

"I had an accident when I was a child. A broom handle went down my throat. I was playing and I put the handle in my mouth and my mate pushed me and I fell. The handle went right down my throat and I was luckily they got it out. So, now my throat is wider."

"That must have been really painful"

Stella rubbed my cock, keeping it erect as we talked.

"I never talked to her again, the girl who did it. She kept trying to be my friend, but I ignored her. I heard that she cried and cried, but I never talked to her again"

Although I thought that harsh I did not express a comment - not now. She was certainly a strong character this Stella, I liked her a lot - admired her. She knew what she wanted and had the strength to go and get it. I had always thought of myself as a weak man, who gave in too easily, listened to others point of view too readily for the sake of harmony. I needed a strong woman to back me, too support my frail and brittle resolve. I wanted Stella to be that woman. However how could I keep her, if she thought me weak? I had to display courage if I were to keep her. What she was doing here with me in the first place I was at a loss to understand - this beauty could have any man. I reached behind her and pulled her down on top of me. We laughed.

　

Stella brought her legs up, over the arms of the chair and sat astride me, and then pulling the crouch of her swimsuit aside, she took hold of my stiff penis and guided it into her. She was tight and it slightly hurt as I pushed to enter between the chops of her vagina, then my sceptre smoothly slipped in and we sighed. Ecstasy swept through my body like a wave, we deeply kissed, her mouth pressing and twisting on mine. Desire danced and euphoric delight lifted my heart into a heaven of carnal greed. I clutched at her, clasping my arms around her waist and back, I felt as if I were embracing Stella’s' essence, as if in this act of sex she were displaying for me alone her base psyche, her creature nature laid bare.

Suddenly she pushed me away, unstralled, handed me my drink, kissed my penis, placed my hand around it and continued to dance. I feebly protested at her abrupt uncoupling, but I was glad I had not ejaculated, since now the pleasure would last and the delight be extended. I drenched my glass, swallowing the vodka with a gratified sough and looked at Stella with grinning askance. She smiled, took my glass and swayed off the kitchen to refresh it.

I was in a state of slight shock. I could not believe that I was in a situation that I had previously only dreamt of. It was a fantasy come true. When ever I had looked at pictures of glamour models in men's magazines I had always dreamed about one of the dancing in front of me and making love to her. Now, here, in my own living room, I had one. I had had sex with other women of course, and it had been delightful, but I had ever wished for the voyeuristic touch, to watch a woman strip for me alone. I had seen strippers in bars, and some I still remember as being so alluring that I wanted grab hold of them, but I was just another punter in a crowded room, all having the same fantasy. Now, my fantasy was no longer a wish, a dream, it was real, happening to me now, she was in the kitchen pouring me a drink. I thought about pinching myself, but however we distinguish reality from vivid dreams, I knew that this was no product of my imagination. My reverie shut down as Stella came back with my drink.

"Do you like this, David?" She ran her hands over her body.

"Yes, I do Stella"

"Is this what you want?

She stood over me, looking down, her face set in an expression that was both contemptuous and sexy, as if she regarded me as an attractive, but deficient creature. A thing that was weak and effeminate. I looked up at her, feeling like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the toffee jar. She seemed to imply that all I was interested in was her body. That was a travesty of my real feelings and I wanted to quickly clarify the true nature of my sentiments.

"Yes, I like your body Stella, but I also like you too. I like the way you speak, move, laugh, I really like being with you, I like your whole personality, your character."

"That's all right, don't get so upset I know you like me. I like you too. I liked you the moment I saw you." I was stunned and did not believe her.

"What? I thought you'd go for Mike."

"No way. He's a real idiot. Very vain, I could see that right away. You’re much better than him. Totally different. You’re kind, he was selfish. You knew I fancied you, come on admit it."

I do not think I am attractive at all and I certainly could not tell if Stella fancied me, in fact, I find it almost impossible to 'read' a woman. Some men know when a woman is 'showing out' to them. Unfortunately, a woman has to take off her knickers and throw them at me before I get the message. It is a real handicap that has, probably caused me to miss many opportunities with women.

"Stella, I had no indication that you liked me. I automatically assumed you'd go for Mike. When you agreed to meet me, you can’t imagine how I felt. I never believed that someone as good looking as you would be interested in me."

"David, I think you're very attractive. Come on let me get you another drink. You change the tape. Then on take your trousers off. You don't need them with me."

I held out my legs and Stella took of my shoes and trousers. I made to take off my socks and she said,

"No, leave your socks on - I like that." she giggled and took off her bathing suit so that she was completely naked. She wasn’t embarrassed about her nakedness. She walked about in her high heels as if she was alone in her own bedroom. As she walked into the kitchen I gazed at her. I had a beautiful naked woman in my flat. I could not believe my luck. I thought I must make the most of it, because I suspected that the opportunity would not repeat itself. My insecurity compelled me to settle for a short term relationship. She would soon be off with a better fellow. I guess a man who had money. She could easily have been a rich footballer’s wife. I told myself to stop analysing so much and just enjoy the moment. Stay in the present and make the most of this gift…

With two full glasses of vodka and lemonade Stella came tripping into the room like a wanton angel. Who had cast off the confines of pity and wanted to abandon herself in careless sexual freedom. I sipped my drink testing the volume of vodka in ratio to Lemonade and, not to my surprise the drink was mostly vodka.

“Blimey Stella, you don’t half make your drinks strong. Can you put more lemonade in this?’ She took the full glass, but instead of adding some mixer, she took a huge draft and half emptied it in one gulp. Now, I like a drink, but I was shocked at her capacity to swallow such a large amount of strong spirit. She replenished my glass and continued to dance, rubbed my cock to replenish that too, and continued to dance. I lit another cigarette and sat back enjoying the view.

I found myself being attracted to not only Stella’s body, but also to her outgoing character. I had not met anyone quite like her. She had a charisma that was hard to fathom. She was so full of confidence, aplomb, boldness and self-possession that not many people attain, which all combined created charisma. It is said that some film stars have great magnetism on screen, but in real life are dull; whereas others glow with appeal, whether on or off the screen. However in my life I have not met many people who had kind of confidence or indeed, presence.

For whatever reason most of us are insecure and all too often display this inadequacy in public. Sometimes it shows in our body language or when we fumble to find the right woeds. Stella was different and didn’t seem to be plagued by any underlying feelings of doubt or self-loathing. I wondered whether there was an equation between the amount of love we receive as a child and the degree of confidence we exude as an adult.

I continued to caress myself as Stella gyrated around the room. I was in heaven. She disappeared for a moment. Then came back with a towel, which she started to drape about herself in the fashion of a striptease. To begin she would hide her body behind the towel then expose her breasts, then her butt. I found it more stimulating than watching her naked. By this time I was was pn the verge of ejaculation, but I forced myself to pause because I did not want to abruptly end the pleasure. I wanted it to go on and on. It did. We played with each other, getting boozed until finally Stella grabbed my hand and pulled me into the bedroom where we made passionate love until we collapsed into the deep slumber of sleep.

　

　

* * *

　

　

The next few weeks were emotionally painful. When Stella left the following day, she would not give a definite time for another rendezvous. She was diffident and vague saying that she would be busy and that she would let me know. I reluctantly accepted the situation thinking that I would not see her again, but still grateful for the fabulous night I had with her.

I carried on working and living my life, but all my thoughts from that night were consumed with Stella. I was in love. My whole body seemed full of her, as if her spirit had infused with mine. I felt her in my chest, filling up my chest cavity like warm wine a leather pouch. Indeed my waking state was a bit like being drunk and giddy with the thought of her I would suddenly for get what I was doing. I would stand there for a moment gazing at the chore and at a loss to remember what I was doing. My thoughts would become completely preoccupied with her.

When driving I have experienced the ‘Auto-pilot’ state, when one’s mind is so deeply engaged that one cannot remember anything about the journey, yet one drives with complete competence. Inner activity becomes severed from the world and ones actions are completely intuitive. That was my state of being after Stella left. Each day would pass in the hope that I might hear from her, a telephone call, a note through the letter box, or even the report that Mike had seen her. But my hopes where met with complete silence. Of coarse I admonished myself for having the remotest glimmer of hope that she would want to see me again. She could have her pick of men. I was nothing special.

Neuroses has dogged me much of my life. To be precise, it manifests itself in the form of a huge inferiority complex. I often associated myself with sad sacks as portrayed by Jerry Lewis or Anthony Newley. This perception of myself has not wholly had a negative outcome, because I have an acute empathy with the underdog. I tend to support anyone who is losing, then swap sides when the loser starts to win. It may be regarded as a daft attitude but it seems that I have a natural tendency to help those who are vulnerable.

I was with a friend once who took me to a café where another friend of his was buying all the coffees. I was told not to offer to buy anything, because this chap was a fool. I let the guy buy stuff for me, but I could see that he was being used and I felt ashamed of myself. Some say, ‘ Take a fool for a fool’, but I do not subscribe to that attitude. If a man is a fool, he needs guidance not exploiting. I think one is obliged to protect a fool, and not plunder him. Help him in his weakness; tell him that his so-called friends are using him. He may be disillusioned and hurt, but that is better than continuing to be ripped off by opportunists.

Another week went by and no news of Stella. I could not get her out of my mind. Every waking moment was preoccupied with her, even though I constantly chastised myself for thinking about her to much. Although I got on with my work and social life, I was like an actor enmeshed in a role. No matter how much his fictional character infuses him, he is always aware of reality. No matter how hard I tried to control my thoughts about Stella, her presence had entrenched itself in the fibre my being. She had become part me.

* * *

　

Two weeks passed during which I saw my ex-wife Sherrie. This was the first time I had seen her after meeting Stella. We met in the Queen Victoria on the corner of St James Street and Victoria Road. She was nervous, not her relaxed and confident self. I guessed that she was still in love with me and I felt sorry for her. I did not want to hert her, but what could I do?

I saw Sherrie like never before. It was extraordinary because during the five years that I had known her, I had always seen her as having a more rounded face. Now it looked narrow. I suppose that I had always looked at her through the rosy mist of love. I fell for her the fist time I saw her. Now the mist had cleared and it was as though I was looking at someone else for the first time.

Love is a dangerous thing. Like a virus it takes complete command of the mind and body. Once afflicted you only see what Love wants you to see and only feel what Love wants you to feel. Scary maybe, but perhaps this is nature’s way of ensuring human variety. Otherwise, you’d have the entire male population chasing after only a handful of women – the Marilyn Monroes and Liz Taylors of this world. An alternative hypothesis was that Stella had put a spell on me so that while she was away I would not fall for another woman. Also scary, but silly, right? However, I was coming to believe that she possessed some sort of hidden power over me.

Sherrie and I talked of mutual friends, how they were and what they thought about our situation. I knew that people would side with her because she was popular and friendly, whereas I was often foolish when drunk and aloof when sober. Not a winning combination. We also talked about her job. She was working as a Lab Technician at Westminster School.

When we first moved in together I had a hell of a job persuading her to go out to work. She had been a housewife for sixteen years bringing up her children in Basildon where she had moved with her husband. She grew used to him being the breadwinner and had assumed that life with me would carry on that way. I saw our relationship more in terms of a partnership, both contributing physically, emotionally and financially. Finally after many arguments she got a job as a counter assistant in a local tobacconists. Then a regular customer she had got to know told he that she was retiring from the Lab Technicians job and would pleased to recommend Sherrie. She got the job and has been working there ever since . She has admitted that I was right about her going out to work and has since acknowledged that work gives her both financial independence and self-respect.

Sherrie believed that Stella was an infatuation and that I would soon get over her and eventually go back. I knew how deep my feelings for Stella were and that I could never return to Sherrie. I felt like a man who had at last left his home town and ventured out into an exciting world. A bit like leaving rain soaked Manchster to go and live in Monte Carlo. Not that Sherrie was dull, but compared to Stella she was prosaic.

　

* * *

I am a weekend drinker, I very rarely go out socialising weekdays, but because I was feeling a little bit low and as a couple of work colleagues were going for a drink that evening, I decided to go with them. One drink led to another of course, and I did not arrive home until half past eleven. A note was on the front door mat. It was from Stella!

My heart stopped beating as I read the note. It was a short and to the point.

‘David, you’re not here. I looked in the Graftons. I’ll contact you in a few days. Stella.’

I sat and read the note about seven times, hoping that other words might appear, like – ‘I love you’.

I cursed. Of all nights to go for a drink! I wanted to contact her right away. It was too late to ring her lodgings. I did not want her to get into trouble. No, I would have to wait until tomorrow. I went to bed feeling excited and expectant. She had come back to me. I fell to sleep under a warm duvet of hope.

* * *

　

The next morning the rush of being in love threw me out of bed. I was excited. I was going to see Stella again, kiss her and hold her in my arms again and that was all I wanted from the world. As I dressed I hoped that the phone might ring, but it didn’t. As I walked to the bus stop I hoped that I would see her walking towards me, but I only saw strangers. I glanced round the crowed bus deperate to see her sitting there, but only saw more strangers. I decided that I could not wait for her to contact me. I would ring her today. What time ought I ring her? If I left it too late, she might have gone out, but if I rang too early she might get annoyed. I was stricken with expectation and indecision.

　

　

* * *

　

　

　

　

At that time I was a Messenger with a large financial company near the Thames in Waterloo Road, SE1. Each morning my colleagues and me had to sort the mail, then carry it to its different departments, the four of us had several floors each, and then at ten we were assigned our deliveries for the day. Mostly it was documents to be delivered to different banks in the City of London. Sometimes we carried cash, often thousands of pounds. I enjoyed the knowledge that I had so much money on me. That no one in the crowd knew gave me a small spark of thrill. We also delivered to the West End. I enjoyed the work, it was like going for a long walk everyday. Not a hard thing to do and it kept me fit. I must have walked four or five miles a day; otherwise I’d travel by bus and tube. I used to catch the Bank Run from Waterloo Station to the Bank. Usually the underground is crowed, but the Bank Run train was hardly ever full. I guessed that the line was mostly unknown to the general public. It was one of the many features of an old city like London, even if born and raised in the city, there was always something new to discover.

During my walks around the City I would suddenly come across an alley that lead to a courtyard where an old church stood in shrouded silence like a Buddhist monk in deep meditation. It was hard to believe that the bustle of the city was less than a minutes walk away. The City is a maze of streets and alleys, but after a while one gets to know one’s way around and it is forever interesting to find new backs streets and short cuts.

Even during the late eighties, I was surprised how easy it was to walk into the inner part where the generally public rearly go. I was hardly ever stopped by security and I thought how simple it would be for a criminal to don a messenger outfit – like the corporate navy blue suit I wore – and gain access to restricted areas. The uniform was like a key – I could pass unnoticed virtually anywhere I wanted.

I sometimes thought of robbing a bank and would even plan my getaway. A motorbike would have been the best bet. I could slip through the traffic, which was always chock-a-block in the City. But these ideas never materialised into action, not because they were impossible to enact, but because I am essentially a conformist, a defender of the traditional and not a rebel. And besides, I was doing all right, I had a good job and a nice flat in Millbank, why take a risk and spoil that? When one takes a risk one must weigh success against the chances of failure and its consequences. I had no illusions about prison and the risk was too high. Even if I decided I had a chance, I still I had no one to do it with and even then they would need to be of strong character. Basically I am too weak. Say what you like about bank robbers, but they have got balls. Either I’m too sensible, or too cowardly, take your pick. Perhaps a bit of both. I have never been a person to take risks. People who Base Jump or go trekking in the Amazon Jungle may be brave, but they are totally misguided in my view. When I hear of a back packer who barely survives some desert or dense jungle I have no sympathy. What did they expect! Man has spent the last couple of thousand years struggling to protect himself and his family from cruel elements and dangerous creatures, to deliberately give up such protection because of some idealist notion of adventure is foolhardy. But I suppose if we didn’t have fools like that, and every one was as careful as me, then I guess human progress would be intolerably slow.

　

* * *

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------I left the office at 10am and quickly made my way across the road to Waterloo Station Concourse. Most of the phones were occupied but I managed to find one by the taxi rank. My finger was shaking as I punched in Stella’s number. The line was engaged. People were hovering to use the phone, but I tried the number again, still engaged. Disappointed, I hung up and decided to try later on when I got to Bank.

I found an unused telephone box in Cheapside. This time I got through.

‘Hello?’ It was Stella’s landlady.

‘Hello. Is Stella there?’ My heart beat faster.

‘Just a minute.’ Then I heard her call Stella’s name up the stairs. ‘Phone!’ My heart leapt. She was in.’

‘She’s just coming.’ said the Landlady. I had gone over what I was going to say dozens of times, each time rearranging my words to get the best possible reaction. I was angry that she had disappeared for three weeks, but so glad that she had come back that I did not want to upset her by admonishing her for what I thought insensitive behaviour. No, I wanted to pretend that it had not affected me, that I was easygoing and not possessive.

‘Hello?’ said Stella. It was a joy to hear her voice. I struggled to remain calm.

‘Hi Stella, it’s John. I got your note. It was a pity I missed you, I’m normally in on Tuesdays, but I just happened to go out for a drink with a couple of guys from work.’

‘Oh, that’s all right John. It’s not your fault. I should have called to let you know.’

How wonderful of her to be so understanding. She sounded weak and fretful, ‘Are you ok?’

‘Yeh, I just got a bit of a cold. Where are you?’

‘I’m at work, in the City at the moment. I didn’t ring last night, because by the time I got home it was gone eleven thirty and I didn’t want to upset your landlady or get you into trouble.’

‘Thanks John. That’s really nice.’

‘I’d like to see you again. Can we meet?’

‘Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment.’

I felt slightly defeated. She is being so nice, yet she is too busy to see me. I wanted to see her immediately, but the earliest was that evening, but I did not want to seem too eager, ‘How about Friday night. We could meet in the Graftons?’

‘No, I can’t. I’m working that night…’ Working? What could she be doing on a Friday night? ‘…what about Thursday night?’

I felt a slight pang of disappointment. I usually did not go out on a Thursday. It was not part of my comfortable routine. I have a habitual procedure and to vary from it causes me to feel uncomfortable.

‘Sure Thursday is fine. What time?’

‘Eight thirty?’ No that was too late. If I go out I like to get started early. I have never been able to understand people who go out at nine. Half the evening is over by that time. Anyway what do they do? Sit around at home just so they can make a grand entrance by arriving later than anyone else? Even the lads I used to hang around with in Woolwich had the same attitude. I used to argue, ‘Why does it take you so long to get ready. You get home from work at four thirty; have your dinner, then a quick bath, shit and shave, dress and then out. An hour and half at most. That means you can be in the pub by six thirty, that is another hour and a half’s drinking time gained. They never subscribed to my view and so I was always hanging about at home or the first in the pub. Then I met a guy named Johnny Stevens. We were working in the same gang on a building site in Carlton during the early seventies. We got to know each other and so one day I asked him if he fancied going out for a pint. He said yes and when I asked him what time should we meet, I was astonished when he said six o’ clock. I had met a soul mate.

‘No, make it seven thirty. That ok?’

She agreed and we said our goodbyes.

　

* * *

As I pushed open the bar door that Thursday night at seven fifteen, I hoped I would see Stella seated at the bar. I held my breath. There were about thirty people scattered about, but I could not see her. I went to the bar and ordered a pint of Fosters. I looked round at the booths and saw Stella seated in one alone reading a magazine. I sighed with relief. She was here, she had come, and she was early. That must be a good sign. I paid for my drink and walked over to her,

‘Hi, Stella.’ She looked up and warmly smiled. She was dressed in a new outfit, A black trouser suit with a low cur v-neck. Her hair was no longer straggly, she had obviously been to the hair dressers and now her hair was blonder and fluffier. She reminded me of the actress Goldie Hawn.

She had a half pint glass on the table that was almost empty. I asked her if she would like another drink. She said yes, but insisted on paying for it and that I get another for myself. She took out her new purse from her new black leather handbag and took ten pounds from a small bundle of notes and handed it to me. I made to refuse, but I was chuffed that she had offered to buy a round of drinks. So many women never do. They cheekily assume that the man will pay. I do not mind, as long as now and again they at least offer to buy a drink. I really liked the fact that Stella was paying, it showed that she had a sense of fair play.

The evening was a delight. We were totally engrossed in each other. She asked me about my past and my family and she told me about herself. She was born in South Yorkshire, Doncaster, in an area called Wheatley Hills. She had a younger brother and an elder sister. Her mother was still alive, but her father had died a year before. She really missed him. She said that I reminded her of him, that I had his eyes and build. I was pleased about that. She was not surprised when I told her that my father was Irish and that my mother’s maiden name was O’Brian. She said that I looked a bit Irish, eventhough I have at times been taken for a Pakistain or a Mexican.

　

　

　

　

　

I thought about Stella all my waking moments throughout the week and I was full of excited expectancy as I drove over to pick her up the following Saturday. It was her birthday and I had bought her a Walkman, a box of chocolates and a bunch of flowers. I was glad of the opportunity to buy her a present, to express my feeling for her; I just hoped she did not think me presumptuous. I did not mind driving all the way to Clapham to collect her, in fact I was glad to do so, I knew she was short of money. I have always had a natural propensity to help people, though if I am honest the urge is somewhat motivated by a need for others to like me. As a child in school I was told that when I was born I had a dark stain within me, a sin already on my soul, an Original Sin. An evil concept I have come to realise, but then as a child I felt all the disgust that was properly deserved a sinner, but my loathing was not directed outward, my detestation was directed inward, to myself. I was taught to hate myself.

I had been conditioned to self-hatred and as a consequence my will power much weakened, to the degree that I would submit to others far too easily. Habitual submission was instilled in me to achieve surrender to the will of the Church, but it had also engendered low self esteem, my confidence was skin deep, if others criticised me I would bleed too easily and sink into depression, until I was healed by the medicine of my own merit or the complements of others. However, if accused of wrong doing the sand that supported my brittle confidence would slide and I would display guilt even if I innocent. I have character, but no faith in myself. I am an inhibited man. All spontaneity jailed behind the bars of induced inhibition. I hated confrontation; I would give in rather then continue an argument. I had argued too much with Sherrie during our marriage for me to ever make the same mistake with Stella.

To me, a Walkman is a decent present, but Stella’s face, although she thanked me and smiled, said, ‘Big Deal!’ We went to a pub facing the south side of Clapham Common. The bar was empty and had the atmosphere of a tomb. I wanted to be bright and witty and make Stella roar with laughter. Instead I felt nervous and inadequate and stuttered, my mind all the while racing about trying to think of entertaining subjects to talk about. We often fell into awkward silences. In an effort to enliven the day I suggested we go to the West End at least it was lively there. Stella brightened at the prospect and we caught the tube.

We arrived at Piccadilly Circus and hit the first pub we saw in Shaftsbury Avenue. The pub was busy with local workers on their dinner brake, tourists and an assortment of ‘characters’: out of work actors; Irishmen; a Rastafarian; a couple of alcoholics, their blue veined faces expressing misery; young scruffy self obsessed twentysomethings chain smoking; and the odd married couple vacantly staring into space. However, most people were in lively conversation including the well-dressed portly chap with a ruddy face, holding up a Brandy glass and loudly laughing at a joke that his small, white rain coated companion had just finished. In fact the usual assortment of public house customers in the West End that engender a feeling of camaraderie and bromine enough to elevate mood to the happy floor. Well, for some people: the faces of the silent couple registered no sign that they were on the same planet let alone in the same bar. Nor did the long faces of the two alcoholics leaning bleary-eyed on the counter. Occasionally, their expressions would enliven when one grunted a remark to the other, which was met with a nod of Zen-like comprehension, but then their faces would quickly melt again into gargoyle solidity.

We were lucky enough to arrive just as another couple got up to leave and so we were now comfortable ensconced with our backs to the window allowing us full view of the large bar and it throng of swilling punters. People watching is an occupation that most humans seem to enjoy. As long as the eyes of a stranger do not engage your own for more that two seconds it is a harmless past time, otherwise one can be verbally assaulted with the accusatory question, ‘Who you looking at mate?’ or ‘Got a problem, pal?’ which can either lead to a fight or a humiliating apology, neither of which is sought by the ordinary people observer.

As I went made to go to the bar, Stella pulled my arm and said,

‘Let me pay David. No that is ok. I had a cheque come though for a modeling job I did and you paid for all the drinks before, now it is my turn.’

After the third pint of Fosters I was beginning to feel relaxed, my inhibitions slowly dancing a seductive striptease. Soon, my confidence would be enthroned and I would be king for another day. Stella lit a cigarette without offering me one. I looked at her pointedly and then down at her cigarette packet. For a second she held a puzzled look on her face, then blurted,

‘Oh sorry David, I’m so used to not sharing … here take two, three, five.’

Now I was puzzled. Why should she make such a silly offer? I said that one would be enough. I lit the cigarette, took a large draw, then took smoke and in a grand gesture, I said, ‘Huff, puff.’

Stella said, ‘Why did you do that David?’

‘What? Just joking. My mate Danny used to do it and I thought it was funny and adopted it.’

‘Do you always copy what your friends do David?’

‘No, but don’t we all adopt the sayings or mannerisms of others sometimes? That is how our personalities form surely? As kids we copy adults, but gradually as we grow and our characters more solidly form we do it less and less, but nevertheless, we continue and who knows if we ever stop. Haven’t you admired someone in the past, say at school and tried to be like them?’

‘No, not at school. Girls wanted to be like me. I remember one girl, we were friends, close friends and I heard that she flirted with a boy I liked. I never spoke to her again. She kept trying to make up, but I never did. I just cut her off. She lied to me, went behind my back, I hate two-faced people like that. She did everything to get back friends with me, but I never spoke to her again.’

I was slightly appalled at her cold heartedness against the girl. ‘Don’t you think that was a bit harsh? I mean were you going out with the boy?’

‘No, but that’s not the point, she knew that I liked him.’

‘Yes, but even so. To cut off a friend forever over a slight flirtation is, well…’ Stella looked pointedly at me. I did not want to upset her, so I said, ‘…well, yes I do see your point. Anyway, you didn’t tell me if you have ever been influenced by anyone.’

‘I knew a woman once, her name was Rita, she was about forty at the time, I was nineteen. She used to sit at the bar with this permanent smile on her face and talk like this. Stella spread her lips into a perfect false smile, showing her teeth and keeping her eyes expressionless. She looked like a jaded actress or madam of a whorehouse. She said, in a pretentiously posh accent, ‘Hello daring, how wonderful to see you. You look devastating. (Then in her own voice Stella said, ‘once the person walked off, she would say.’) ‘Cunts’. She used to make me laugh so much. I though she was great.’

By now I was laughing. I was so impressed with Stella’s ability to imitate, her boldness to so blatantly curse and her beauty that so painfully I found irresistible. Also, I am attracted to the very kind of woman she imitated. A woman who is a painted beauty, but nevertheless with a handsome face beneath and who cares not what others think about her. I have desired such a woman much of life, now here was Stella, herself wonderful, but also able to change into a female fantasy. My heart felt as if were wrapt in honey. I was ecstatic. I must keep this woman!

After three pints we left the pub and headed into Soho, where we trawled from bar to bar as the dusk and night were pushed away by the illumination of street lights, shop fronts and the gaudy nein of strip clubs. After our fifth pint of Fosters we went on vodka and lemonade. Stella’s laugh turned into this loud nasal staccato, that some women make when they want notice taken of them. Although drunk, I found it irritating and embarrassing, people turned at the sound and looked at us as if we were unintentional clowns; which I guess we were, although I thought that it was Stella who was going a bit over the top, myself, I judged to be the put upon boyfriend with who other had some sympathy. When Stella broke out cackling, I adopted a grin as if I were in league with her, when in fact I was totally ashamed of her. I wanted to get her home as quickly, both to relieve my embarrassment and have her all to my self. I did not like the way that she attracted men, some of whom were brazen enough to join in with Stella and even touch her. I pretended not to notice and I am glad to say that Stella gave them no encouragement, she would shoo them away if they got too close.

‘Come on Stel. We’ll get a bottle and go back to my place ok?’

‘Ooo go back to your place, just listen to you David. You sound like a chauvinist pig. I hate men who try and tell me what to do.’

‘I’m not telling you what to do. I just thought it might be a good idea, we can put on some sounds and have something to eat.’ That last bit was a complete lie, because I hardly ever eat when I am drinking, the smell of food in a pub makes me feel ill, I cannot sit next to anyone who is eating a meal, it puts off my beer. The smell of food slivers down the nostrils like an unshelled snail, then sits on the back of the tongue with its neck stretched down the throat daring the vomit to spew. I have to be very drunk to eat a curry.

Stella grabbed hold of me and kissed me full on the lips. I answered her kiss with a five star rubber suction one back. We held each other oblivious to the people milling around us, some of whom cat called and whistled, but we belonged in a different world for a moment, a world of true love and happiness, a place that is only seen when lovers kiss. Slowly we broke apart and looked in to each others eyes, deep and longing and I hoped that what I thought I saw in Stella’s eyes was engendered by the same thing as that I felt in my heart.

Holding her so tightly, feeling her body, her back, her waist, pulling her towards me and her hugging me with her arms around my shoulders, I felt like a war hero who had managed to get home. I looked into her wide Green eyes and thought they were like two jewels set just below the surface of an azure pure pond. Her skin was without blemish with a fluttering of freckles over her fine even nose and her lips, now full, pouting after our long sighing kiss, were pink like the open petals of a rose. I held her face in my hands and I wanted to own her head, to possess it as it were gold, mould the mind inside so that she would think like me, have my sense of humour and love me forever, for I knew that this was the woman for me, this is what I had been dreaming of, seeking for, urging for all of my teenage and adult life. Other girls and women that I had met were but shadows by comparison, faint facsimiles, portraits drawn by an armatures hand.

Then Stella broke the spell. She pulled away, her lips turning into a slight snarl and her eyes narrowing like a predator. My full jug of happiness spilt as something that looked like contempt jarred my sight. My thoughts that just now were suspended on a heavenly cloud of love, now came spinning down, but cushioned on my disbelief, I held back my instinctive conclusion and held my breath as if to disarm the hateful truth, cover it over with a blanket, smother it, choke it, kill it! Then Stella smiled and said,

‘Come on then, what tube do we get back to your place?’

A gust of warm island breeze rushed up in my chest turned into a rapid wind that blew away my unwelcome thoughts. As I put my hand into hers and led her to Leicester Square tub station a minute tapeworm of doubt uncurled in the back of my brain. It was almost unnoticeable, untraceable, invisible and quickly forgotten as we started to spontaneously sing on the escalator. Our voices echoed around the steep arched stairwell and commuters either smiled at us or pointedly kept their eyes straight ahead. We were too pissed to care and carried on singing to each other even when Stella was at one end of the platform and I at the other.

On the train, instead of sitting next to me Stella sat opposite. Then with a devilish grin on her face she opened her legs so that I could see up her dress. I looked. I could see the top of her thighs spread slightly showing the cut of her gusset. Strangely, I did not find it arousing at all, in fact I disapproved of her act. I thought it childish. I pretended to be shocked, so disguise my disapproval. I moved over and sat next to her and we kissed. I deliberately did not look at the other passengers and was glad that the rush hour was over and there were not that many passengers to notice her display, although one young guy kept looking.

Finally we arrived at Pimlico. I would be glad to get home because Stella’s behaviour was getting to wild even for me. She suggested we go to a pub. I resisted saying that we would enjoy it better at home. She gave me a deep penetrating look as if she were trying to see in to my mind. Her eyes looked a little crazed like a child who did not know where she was and blaming others for her confusion. I gave in and said ‘Ok, we’ll go to the pub.’

The jukebox was belting out pops and the drinkers were busy in the kind of social conversation that seems so funny and important, but without a drink might only be mildly amusing and the subject forgotten the next day. As we walked in a couple of local guys I knew spotted us. They waited until we had bought a drink then made their way over. Usually, they would not have moved from their spot at the bar if I had been alone, but no doubt, upon seeing Stella the urge to join my company became suddenly paramount. I did not voice my observation. I cannot remember want we spoke of, nor much about what happened during the next hour or so, only to say that both my ‘pals’ asked Stella to dance, to which I did not object. I had long been of the view that if a girlfriend wants to dance with a man, then it is immature to object, for if a woman wants to have it off with another man, then there is not much you can do to prevent her. If a woman likes you then she would not bother with another man. Since I have modified my view. It may not be fair, but it is true that a woman likes her man to be assertive; she otherwise thinks that he is weak and does not care much about her. Rationally, this is absurd, but when it comes to affairs of the heart rationality has not much to do with it.

The final bell rang, but Stella made no move to leave. I kept saying, ‘come on Stella, drink up.’ She took no notice, but continued to talk Bobby Tavish. He was not a bad bloke, but once when I had invited him to my flat for drinks I had caught him making a phone call to Scotland. When I had asked him where he was calling, he did not lie and guess I had written him down as ok ‘kindof’. I have found that most men of that category. They always seem to have an eye out for a fast buck and the opportunity to relieve a kind or trusting soul of their money. Finally, Stella agreed to go, but as soon as we walked out the door she collapsed. I caught her and struggled to pull her to her feet. Tavish took her by her other arm and together we lifted her. She was either unable or pretending she could not walk. Both Tavish and me cupped a hand at the back of her knees and lifted her in a chair position. As we carried her along Tavish strained his neck to look up the dress of her splayed legs. He tried to hide his not so subtle intention, but he only made me inwardly guffaw at his predicament. He must have been cursing that he could not also walk in front so to look up Stella’s dress. When we got Stella to my front door he made some excuse to come in, but thanking him for his help I said that I could manage from then on. He reluctantly left.

I put Stella's arm around my neck and half dragged her into the bedroom and lay her on the bed. The night was warm so I had no need to cover her, but I did anyway because the early morning temperatures always fell and I did not what her to catch a cold. I now cared more for her welfare than I did my own; such is the mechanism of Love.

Though drunk I did not feel sleepy, so I poured myself another drink and went into the living room. No sooner had I sat down than Stella came into the room. Her eyes were suspicious and accusatory,

‘So, what do you think you are doing David?’

“Nothing, having a nightcap.’ I answered frowning in puzzlement. I thought it a silly question.

‘I suppose you thought I was asleep and that you could do what you liked behind my back?’ She stepped nearer me swaying slightly.

My jaw dropped at the accusation. ‘What? No, of course not. What do you mean behind your back? I’m not doing anything behind your back Stella. You were asleep, or so I thought, and I wasn’t tired so I thought I’d have another drink – that’s all’

‘Why did you let that man carry me like that?’

‘What man?’ I swallowed, perhaps that was a mistake, but I did not mean anything disrespectful by it, yet now I realised that it could be taken that way.

Stella’s lips thinned and her jawbone gritted. I looked up at her, as might a small animal look up at a hunter.

‘Do you think I didn’t notice what you were up to? How dear you expose me to those men! Just who do you think you are David? You don’t own me.’

Surprised at her thick accusatory tone, for a moment I did not know what to say, I spread my hands and hunched my shoulders and spluttered,

‘I…I… I wasn’t up to anything. I… I don’t think I’m anybody. I know I don’t own you. He just helped me get you home. You couldn’t walk and I couldn’t manage you on my own. I…’

‘Yes but why did you have to carry me like that, making me spread my legs like that. I have never been so humiliated. I suppose you think it was funny?’

I smiled, hoping that she would see the funny side of it. Mistake.

‘So you do think it is funny! You’re just like all the rest. You pretend that your different, but you’re not. You’re just like all the other men that I have met – selfish. Why did you take me to the West End anyway? Dragging me around Soho like I was a tart. Is that where you like to go David, up where all the prostitutes are? Fancy taking a girl there, to a place for tarts and pimps. Still I suppose that is where you take all your girlfriends, well not me David, I’m not like the other woman you have laid your dirty hands on. You can’t use me.’

I was aghast. ‘What do you mean, use you? I’m not using you? I just thought the West End would be a bit more lively, you know, to celebrate your birthday.’

‘If you wanted to celebrate my birthday properly why didn’t you take me to the theatre or for a nice meal – why drag me to the red light district – what was on your mind?’

Nothing was on my mind. Then I suppose she has a point, maybe it is not the best place to take a girl, yet lots of girls, lots of different people go to the West End. Maybe she is right about Soho though. I did not realise that she might see things in this light. Oh God, I really seem to have ballsed things up. No wonder she is annoyed with me.

‘But why didn’t you say something earlier? Why didn’t you tell me how you felt? I wouldn’t have gone there if…’

‘Go on blame me. That’s just like a man. After you get your way with me, you blame me for what happened. You suppose I didn’t notice the way you were looking at that girl in the pub? You were staring at her. She must have felt really embarrassed.’

‘What girl?’ I asked, totally bemused. Was I looking at a girl? I know I do look at girls. If I was, then I didn’t realise it. Bloody hell, but I am a bit pissed, maybe I did, but I don’t think I did. ‘Where would I want to look at any other girl, when I’m with you Stella? I think you are beautiful. I don’t want to look at anyone else.’

‘Well, she was not the only one either. You were doing it all the time, gawking at that one gazing at another. Your head was twisting round like it was on a screw. Well I don’t stand for that sort of thing David. I’m not going to be treated like that. Somebody in Doncaster that he could treat me like that, but I showed him.’

Although shocked my Stella’s accusations this was the first time that she had spoken about her past life and my ears pricked up because I wanted to know any story about her life. She was not the most forthcoming woman.

‘Who was that, what happened?’

‘I caught him out with another woman. The bastard. He used me, telling me al kinds of lies. He even bought me a ring saying that we were engaged and I believed him! What a liar he was. I GOT HIM THOUGH. He was sorry for betraying me. He was really sorry. I made him sorry. I found him in a restaurant with another women. I walked part and just happened to look in the window. My heart stopped when I saw him there laughing with his slut. He was probably laughing about me, saying what a naive idiot I was. I was so angry. I had the key to his house, so I went there and set light to it.’

I drew in my breath, ‘you did what? You set light to his house!’

Stella took no notice of my shock. She went on,

‘I got some paraffin from the kitchen and poured it over his furniture, then I collected newspapers, made a bundle in the kitchen, turned on the gas and lit the bundle. I had to see his house burn down so I went across the street, knocked on a couple of doors until I found a woman who I knew I could convince and told her that I was waiting for my friend to come home but I didn’t like to wait in the street alone. She let me in. In a while we heard the fire engines. We looked out the window and saw smoke coming from his place and flames coming up the back of the roof. I left the woman and I laughed all the way home.’

At first I was appalled by the story, then disbelief crept in, because I refused to believe that this woman whom I loved would actually do such a thing. Not only was it criminal, but it was also depraved. To set light to a man's house simply because he went out with another woman was an act by a deranged mind. Stella was not like that, she was ok, and I knew her. She must be lying, telling a tall tail to, no, not impress me, but to affect me, try and scare me a bit in order to teach me a lesson about looking at other girls. Surely?’

I guess I went into denial. I did not want to believe that she could be so cruel, so heartless. I felt sorry for the guy she did it to, I guess he never knew who set fire to his home, and I imagined what it must have been like returning home that night. First seeing the fire brigade and wondering what was wrong in his road, then getting nearer the awful realisation that it was his house on fire. Later there must have been a report as to the cause of the fire. Deliberate. Who? Did he guess who started the fire? He may have been fairly certain, but what could he do? How could he prove his suspicions? Poor guy. Surely she would not do something like that to me? No. I would give her no cause. I loved her. I would never want another woman. She was mine forever.

Later I conveyed the story to a pal and, like me, chose to believe that it was a line, she was tiring to keep me in order, trying to scare me, what a silly thing to do, but women were sometimes like that if they were insecure. Such agreement bolstered my confidence and I buried the story – though its ghost remained to haunt me.

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

The next time I met Stella in Graftons she came without Philip. It was not that I disliked him, but he personified gooseberry and was as alike to us a fawn is to stags. She was already there when I arrived, talking to the landlady of the pub.

"Oh hello, David" said Stella as we lightly kissed. I felt great that we now greeted each other with a kiss, it indicated that she accepted us as a couple, it confirmed my progress into her heart, and I desperately wanted to be in her heart. "This is Maggie, she's a singer" I nodded to Maggie as Stella continued, "She's sings at the Cockney Pride in the West End, isn't that great!"

Maggie was slim and blonde, with a slim figure. She had a thin face, which went from large green eyes, over a pronounced roman nose, past a small thin lipped mouth and sunk into a receding chin. She was very down to earth and not at all egotistical about being in show business. Her husband, Brian, was a heavy set Scot, with a full beard and an accent so thick that it was difficult to follow his conversation, one had to pretend understanding which could be embarrassing when one ought to have responded with a nod instead of a shake of the head. I had got to know him over the months that I had frequented the pub, although our acquaintance had never developed beyond the occasional conversation. Maggie had acknowledged me once or twice with a nod, but had never spoken to me. She seemed surprised that I was with Linda. I was impressed that she was a singer in a club; Stella and me both loved movies and show business and loved the stories that generated from that world.

"I'd like to be a singer, I can play the guitar and piano" said Stella running her fingers up and the bar. "Can you play the piano David? You've got piano fingers. See his hands Maggie, show Maggie your hands"

I felt embarrassed, even though it was not the first time the opinion was expressed, it always boosted my ego a little to have them noticed.

"There just hands" I said as I offered one up for inspection

"Yes, nice and slim. I like a man to have big hands myself" said Maggie drawing on her cigarette and resting her elbow on the counter.

The place was empty apart from us and a couple sitting silently at the other end of the bar.

"Have you met anyone famous?" asked Stella smiling.

"Er, can I have a pint of Fosters, please?" I said wanly not wanting to interrupt, but gasping for a drink. Maggie reached under the bar for a glass and walked down the bar to the pumps.

"Oh, sorry John. Here let me get it"

"No that's alright Stella, I'll get it", I offered still conscious of her financial situation.

"No, that's all right David." she lowered her voice, "My mum sent me some money. The drinks are on me today."

It greatly pleased me that she offered. Most women I have known automatically assume that the man will pay for the drinks even when the women is working and earning an equivalent wage. I like it when a girl offers to buy a round now and again, it indicates that she is fair-minded.

"Thanks Stel, you a good'n"

"Stella, my name is Stella"

"Oh, yeah, sorry."

Maggie brought my pint and Stella duly paid for it asking for change for the cigarette machine.

"You smoke Silk Cut don't you John? I'll get you a packet."

I did not object, I just thanked her and felt warm, even cared for.

I turned to Maggie and said,

"We were surprised that there are no Photographs or anything to indicated that the Goons used to rehearse here."

"God, there are loads of pictures upstairs. All different personalities from around that time."

I was surprised. I called over to Stella, "Did you hear that Stel, Stella? Maggie says there are lots of Photographs upstairs of the Goons."

"Here are your cigarettes David. Oh, are there. That's good isn't it?'

I was a little disappointed that she was not as pleased as I thought she would be, perhaps she was not as interested as I had thought, perhaps I was boring her about the subject. I said,

"Why don't you put some of the pictures up around the walls? I'm sure people would enjoy looking at them and it would be an added attraction, bring customers in"

The pub's main daytime trade during the week was office workers and people from Stratton Ground market, at weekends and evenings with the offices empty and the market closed the pub was always fairly empty. I thought that if it were advertised that the Goons originated from the pub and plenty of pictures and posters of them were put up, then gradually admirers and devotees of the Goons would journey to see the pub. I was at a loss to know why such promotion had not already been done. To me it indicated a complete lack of imagination by the brewery that now owned the premises. Maggie agreed with me saying that, because she was not a particular fan of the Goons, she had never really thought about it. She said that she would talk to the management about it; see, at least, if they would pay to have the photographs framed.

Maggie bought us a drink and when at three o'clock when she locked the pub up at closing time she invited us to stay on. Stella and me were delighted. It made us feel special. For me it affirmed the pubs part in our fate. Brain joined us and we sat chatting about show business, with Maggie dominating the conversation. As time went on Stella gradually took over and soon no one could get a word in.

"I'm going to get lots of tapes done of me singing and take them around to all the agents. I made a tape and I'm going to get it copied and Philip and me are going up the West End and take the tapes round. I'm going to make them listen to the tapes. I'm going to sit in their office and wait till they have listened to my tape."

Maggie tried to interject, "Agents won't like that Stella. The best thing to do is send them a tape with a covering letter asking them to..."

"No! That's no good." interrupted Stella. She was drinking large whiskeys now, "That's not the way to do it"

"Well, forgive me, I've only been in the business for twenty five years", said Maggie curtly.

"That's right Stel, listen to Maggie, she's got much more experience." I said in an effort to calm Stella who seemed to be getting over excited and stubborn. I could see that Stella’s refusal to take advice was galling Maggie.

"David, my name is Stella! I don't call you Dave do I? Dave is such a common name. No, Maggie, you're wrong. You’re not up to date. Things have changed; you've got to stand up to these agents. They're men and you know what men can be like; they will step all over you if you let them. There is only one man in all this world I look up to and that's my dad. My father was the best of all men. He was a proper man, a man with gumption, with fibre, not like all these others with only one thing on their mind, weak men, men who try to use you. They’re all liars! You can see the cunning in their faces, they try to hide it, two faced they are, but I can see through them. All of them. All men are two faced."

Brian left and I sat in silence. I felt dismay that Stella had berated my name and, by implication, thought me weak and a liar. I felt rejected and embarrassed, it was obvious that she had upset Brian.

"You don't think I'm like that do you Stella?"

"No, no not you Dave. Your different, I know that. Your the exception" She finished off her drink and offered a round.

Maggie said that it would have to be her last because it was almost five and she had to open up the pub. Stella took out a wad of money from her new handbag and handed Maggie a twenty-pound note, telling her to have a large one. I was on the shorts to by then and had a large vodka and lemonade, with ice and a slice. I had taken displeasure at Stella's remarks about men and disturbance at her behaviour; it was aggressive, even bordered on savage at times. She had caused me to feel uncomfortable. Maggie came back with the drinks, but did not sit down; instead she excused herself, went behind the bar and started preparing for opening time.

"Why do you hate men so much Stella?" I genuinely wanted to know, I thought that if I could understand the motivation that caused her to rant I might help her. I resolved to show her that I was different from the men she had met, that I was an understanding person and willing to listen.

"Because they are liars David, oh no, not you, you're different. You would never lie to me would you?"

"No, Stella I wouldn't" I thought of Sherrie, that I had not told Stella about her. As she looked at my face her eyes widened as if she had seen my thought, but she did not speak. I could not hold her gaze. I looked away and felt like a cowardly rat. "So tell me what happened to you? Phil told me that you walked here from Clapham the other night because you had no money. Why didn't you tell me I would have paid your fare home?"

With a flick of her fingers and a shrug, she pulled down the hem of her new skirt and said,

"Well, I couldn't take any money off you David. I'm not like that. Anyway Philip shouldn't have told you. Wait 'til I see him, I'll give him a piece of my mind"

"No, don't take it out on him. It was my fault; I pressed him to tell me. I care about you. I really do Stella. In fact I think about you all the time. I look forward to seeing you so much. I want you to be my girl"

She did not respond and I felt rejected, "I'm not trying to push you into anything you don't want to do. I wish you'd tell me a bit about yourself. I'd want to help you if I can. Come on I've been to your flat, you've only got the clothes you stand up in, that's not right. That smacks of someone who left in a hurry. Come on, what happened."

She looked down at her cigarette, she shrugged again, "Well, I met this person named David Davis..."

"David Davis, that's a coincidence?" I said, truly surprised.

"Yes. Like most men, he was OK to start with, and then his true nature came out. He was so jealous that when I went out shopping even if it was just up the road he would question me. Who had I seen, who had I spoke to, all that kind of thing. He even locked me in his flat."

With growing astonishment I said, "Why did you put up with that? I mean, how long were you with him? He really locked you in his flat?"

"Well, he was divorced and had a daughter who was blind and I grew so fond of her and didn't want to leave her. I was frightened that he might do something to her. He was very violent. He had a couple of his friends around one day, and for no reason at all, suddenly he punched one. He punched him in the face. His daughter was in the room. She started to cry. It was terrible, but he didn't care. He could change just like that. One moment he was calm and the next he would completely change. One day he had locked me in again, it was Live Aid day, remember that?"

"Yes, 'couse I remember it. Had a great day out with a couple of pals, Jimmy and Del. We were in a pub in Pimlico where we were watching on one of those giant screen TVs. Anyway, sorry, carry on"

"He would let me watch it on the telly. No. He said it was crap. He was outside working on his car and I decided I'd had enough, so I climbed out a window, on to a roof and escaped down a next-door neighbours ladder. I walked into town, that's when I met Philip. I was so scared that I needed someone to be with"

My heart went out and placing my head on hers I said,

"I'm so sorry Stella. I had no idea. What a bastard. No wonder you feel the way you do. Listen I'll do anything I can to help you, no strings attached. I'm working; I'm earning decent money. Please let me help"

I felt deep sympathy for her. If there is one thing that guarantees to make my blood boil it is bulling. My own experience of being bullied as a kid had left its mark and I could not tolerate cruelty of any kind. It vaunted me to violence against the aggressor without thought of my own safety. I was overwhelmed with a passion to protect Stella and make her life better. She smiled sadly and said in a voice slightly slurred,

"Ah, no that's alright Dave. It doesn't matter. It's over now."

"Look, it's five thirty now, lets buy a few cans, go back to my place and have something to eat..." I had an urge to prove to her that I was solid, someone she could rely on and wanted her to see where I lived. It would prove my veracity. I wanted desperately to win this woman. I knew that if I could prove to her that I was a decent sort, she would accept me.

"No, David, I can't. I've got to go soon"

My hope drooped. "Go, oh - OK" I didn't want to seem possessive, perhaps she was testing me, "No, that's fine."

"Not right away, I can stay for another hour or so" My heart bobbed.

"Oh, good. I thought you meant right now. Fine, OK, lets have another"

I was disappointed and would have much rather she stayed with me, but I was already thinking about what I would do with myself later. A pub-crawl seemed a good prospect; perhaps I would bump into some of the lads. I best be careful which pubs I chose, because I did not want to bump into Sherrie. Half my mind was pretending she did not exist, the other half realised that I would have to deal with her reality sooner or later, either face to face with Sherrie or with Stella or with both, probably both - but not tonight.

Brian was perched at the bar. I turned and said to Stella,

"I used to do boxing Stel, I'll show you how to defend your self. No, come on, don't worry I won't touch you" I paid for the drinks and sat them down on the table. "Right, now put your hands up like this..." I adopted a boxer’s stance with my fists raised in front of my face. "...that's right, that's good, that's the way. Now... Ow!"

Stella had punched me on the nose. It started to bleed. Brain guffawed. Stella, although she looked surprised, there was a look in her eyes that whispered to me that her blow had not been an accident. I was too embarrassed to give the passing thought much credence; I didn't want to believe that it was deliberate,

"Oh, David!” exclaimed Stella with her fingers drawn to her mouth and her eyes wide, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it. Are you all right?"

Blood was running freely now. Brian went behind the bar and got a box of tissues, he was still laughing. I reached for the box, but he drew it away saying that I would get blood all over it and he handed me a tissue. Stella took some tissues and tried to reach for my nose, but I pulled away.

"Nah, it's all right. I'll do it" I wanted a hole to open below me and take me away. I felt a complete idiot....

Stella kept apologising, yet I could not voice the strong suspicion that she had thrown the punch deliberately. I did not want to upset her by accusing her, so I refused to listen to my suspicion. I did not want an argument that would undo the progress I had made to form a relationship.

"Sorry to leave you like this David, but I've got to go." she looked sincere.

"I'll walk you to the station. No, I'm ok, really"

I did not press it. Instead I acted a little off hand, as if I were not that bothered. “Okay, I’ll leave it up to you to call me. Bye”

She did not look back as she walked out the door.

　

　

　

* * *

The following week I called Stella and we made arrangements to meet at eight in The Westminster Arms in Marsham Street, Millbank. I arrived early as usual. Already in the bar was a Welsh guy I knew. He was with his girl. We chatted and I thought that when Stella arrived I would introduce them to her. Perhaps the four of us could become friends and maybe go out together. I felt that Stella would benefit by making friends in the local area as she seemed to know no one except me. We were having a pleasant conversation, when I turned and saw Stella sitting at the table behind us. I was surprised. How long has she been there? Surely she had seen us when she walked in? She was looking in her bag, so absorbed in the task that she did not look up when I spoke her name. I stepped over to her. Her face was pale and there was a wild look in her eyes as if she was enraged about something.

　

‘Stella? How long you been sitting there? Didn’t you see us at the bar?’

　

She looked up and forced a smile, ‘Oh hello David.’ She stood up and I asked her what she would like to drink. Then I said something that I later came to regret. She was wearing a wide rimmed black hat. It did not particularly suit her. Where did she think she was, Ascot?

　

‘Some hat,’ I said. I did not see the punch coming, but I felt the impact though. She hit me with her fist full in the face. My cheek stung. Although shocked I reacted fast. I could not let her get away with it again. The first time may have an accident, but this attack was deliberate. I pushed her and she fell to the floor.

‘Don’t you fucking hit me!’ I said standing over her.

　

In no time one of the bar staff had grabbed hold of me. I struggled half heartedly, because I did not what a full-scale fight to break out. Stella got up and walked to the other end of the bar leaving me to deal with the barman and another guy who had taken it upon himself to intervene.

　

‘Ok, boys I’m calm, let go.’

　

They stepped away and I called over to Stella. I felt the eyes of everyone in the pub were on me and I struggled to remain calm, but my head was crowded with questions. Why had she hit me? Surely she was not so sensitive that a chance remark would ignite such a violent response. She came over half grinning.

　

‘Look David, I don’t want to stay here. This place is nothing but trouble,’ she said walking to the door. As soon as we got outside she started to nag me, ‘I don’t know why you ask me to wait in such places. I was frightened. You are so fucking selfish, just like all men.’

　

I was dumbfounded. ‘You’re the one who made the trouble. Why did you hit me?’

　

‘You insulted me about my hat. I do my best to look nice for you and all you can do is take the piss out of me.’

　

Her view of the situation outraged me. Who did she think she was?

　

‘I’m beginning to realise the type of man you are David . Just what type of family do you come from? They must be a bunch of whores.’

　

I thought her words outrageous and I could not control my anger. If I allowed her to get away with her violence without some sort of punishment I would set a precedent that later I was sure to regret. My frustration burst like a banger on Guy Fakes night and I punched her in the face. She ran out in to the road and hailed a taxi that by chance was passing. She jumped in and the cab sped off. I was aghast. Angry at her and at myself. I walked past my flat and headed for another pub. I guess I got drunk that night because I cannot remember what I did. I just needed to talk to someone.

　

I did not see Stella for a month after that.

　

* * *

　

　

I could not stop thinking about her. Every day was torment. I went over and over the incident, but could not bring myself to take the blame. I did not phone. My pride had been hurt and I was not going to be the first to make contact because that would have been tantamount to an apology and what had I to apologise about? I kept going to the Grafton's hoping that one night she would walk in, but she never did. Time went by slowly and I was getting used to the idea that would not see her again. Then, at three o’clock on a Thursday morning she rang.

　

‘Oh hello, David. Can I come round?’

　

‘Stella? Yes of course. Where are you?’ I was both overjoyed and annoyed that she called at such an hour. I had to be at work in less than six hours, but I was dying to see her.

　

‘Ok, I’ll be round in a few minutes.’

　

My heart was in heaven, but I could not show her that. That would make her feel that I was a pushover. So when she arrived I acted annoyed. She put her arms around me and I melted like ice on a Summer day. She had had her hair cut short. To be honest it did not suit her, she looked like a schoolmarm, but I did not say anything. I was tired and had to be up by seven. Stella undressed and I was surprised that she was wearing black stockings and suspenders. In the time that I had known her she had never worn tights. She was always bare legged or wearing woollen legging. The garments she had on now seemed inappropriate. As she lay beside me I thought that I would cheer her by showing her a letter that I had sent to Time Out magazine and they had printed. I wrote to Time Out magazine to claim two free tickets to attend a recording of a new TV show called Britain. It was a situation comedy set in ancient Britain and stared some of best satirical comedians of the day. I had never been to see a TV show made before and I thought it would be fun for both Stella and me. The studio was in the Docklands area in East London. We found that it was about a mile walk from the nearest tube station. On the way we popped into a pub for a few jars. By the by the time we got to the studio we were tipsy. Stella was particularly in a ruckus mood laughing loudly at anything the actors said. Members of the audience looked round at her. I was embarrassed, but joined in with her. Gripped by pretence and the need to pally up with Stella, I too started to laugh loudly.

One of the actors playing a Roman soldier was wearing a toga and I called out, ‘Look at him wearing a dress!’ which was not the slightest bit witty and secretly I felt stupid. But Stella laughed and snorted anyway. We were so loud that the recording was stopped. A woman approached us and said,

　

‘Look, you two seem to be enjoying yourselves so much that we would like to invite you backstage for a drink with the actors.’

　

I was sceptical, but Stella was all for the offer. The woman led us past the cameras, through a room at the back of the studio where some of the actors were sitting, to a door that she opened and ushered us through. The door slammed behind us. We were outside looking at a canal. We looked at each other burst out laughing. This time with genuine mirth. We had had an adventure.

　

A few days later I wrote a letter to Time Out that criticized the actors who often pretended to be outrageous, indeed relied on the poorest of jokes to evoke laughter. Yet when it came to meeting real people who were like the characters they portrayed they did not like it. Time Out printed the letter. Now, here in bed, I decided to show it to Stella. She would be impressed.

　

‘Stella, I’ve got a surprise for you,’ I said handing her the magazine.

　

She read the letter and with a blank look said,

　

‘Who wrote that David?’

　

I was mildly amused. She must be joking. There was my name plainly printed below the letter.

　

‘I did darling. With your help.’ I added the last part with the intention of sharing my little success with her.

　

‘I didn’t help you.’ She said, still with a blank expression.

　

I wondered if she was joking. ‘No, I mean in the sense that you were there with me.’

　

‘So who helped you with the letter? You have let the cat out of the bag, haven’t you? I can tell by the look on your face. It was someone else and you got mixed up between me and another woman.’

　

I was flabbergasted. ‘No, I didn’t.’

　

Stella jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen. I was slightly dazed by the accusation. She came storming back,

　

‘You are such a liar! You think I don’t know what you are up too behind my back? If you think that you can get away with it, you have got another thought coming. So who is she?’

　

‘Who is who?’ I feebly asked. ‘Did she know about Sherrie,’ I thought, ‘She must and she is testing me. I hadn’t told her. Who could have told her who. Ought I come clean? But what if she doesn’t know.’

　

‘I can see the guilt on your face as plain as day. I knew it! I can read your mind David. I know what you are thinking. Don’t cover up. Guilt covers your face like shit on a baby’s arse.’

　

I almost laughed at the expression. That was a big mistake.

　

‘Don’t you fucking laugh at me! , She picked up a cup and threw it at me. It hit my raised arm. It hurt. I jumped out of bed.

　

‘Are you crazy!’ I blurted, ‘Stella there is no one else.’

　

‘Liar!’

　

‘Jesus Christ!’

　

‘Don’t curse like that, you worm. Call yourself a Catholic? You’re full of sin, an ugly man like you. Who do you think you are? You fucking two-faced snake! So you got a letter printed in some shit magazine and you think you’re so wonderful. Pig. You’re depraved. I have never lied to you have I?’

‘Well, no. I haven’t lied to you ether. Fuck me it is only a letter. I don’t think it is a big deal, but well, it is nice to have a letter printed.’

　

‘Nice to have a letter printed. You are pathetic. . My mother was right about you…’ 　

‘She told her mother about me. Great. ‘ I thought.

　

‘She said that you were no good, but I didn’t listen. I came back. You are wimp comprised to my father. He would smash your fucking face in. If he were alive. But I know some men who will get you, bastard. Don’t worry about that. I’ll get them to take photographs of you after they smash your face in. Then I will laugh. You can’t treat me like this and expect to get away with it. I saw you look at that girl when we were in the pub the last time.’

　

‘Other girl? What other girl? What are you talking about now?’

　

‘Oh you know all right. Don’t deny it.’

　

‘I’m not denying anything. I don’t know what you’re fucking on about. What pub, when?’ Confusion was strangling my brain as Stella continued berating and accusing me. On and on she went as the minutes of the early morning hurriedly ticked away. Suddenly Stella’s mood changed and she said,

　

‘Oh well, David, never mind.’

　

It was 6am. Too late for me to get any sleep now. Suddenly she seemed to understand about the letter in the magazine. She got into bed and asleep. I showered and dressed and left for work without waking her.

　

*

　

The morning dragged. I worked in the mailroom and although the work was mostly tedious it allowed me time to recover from the ordeal of the night. Despite my anger towards Stella, I wanted to get home to see her, to see that everything was all right between us, that it had all been a misunderstanding. I loved her so much.

　

The day at work finally ended and I sped home longing to hold Stella in my arms. I prayed that she was in a good mood. I could not face another row. She was in the kitchen wearing one of my shirts, still in her suspenders and black stockings. She was so manicured I thought that she must have been to a beauty salon. Her face was fresh and bright as she turn to me and said, ‘Oh, hello, David. You must be exhausted. Now sit down and I’ll you a nice cup of tea.’

　

She took my coat, kissed me lightly on the lips and smiled. I was as relieved. She said that she had read the letter again and that she admired the way I had expressed myself. My heart rose like a golden kite. Yet instead of smiling, I pretended that I was hurt. I wanted her to understand that what she had done was wrong and once she had, she would never do it again. Stella took no notice of my play-acting and asked me if I had had the photographs developed that we took that day at the studio. I had and we both laughed as we looked through them. I wanted to ask where she had been the night before, but refrained in case I upset her. She was all mystery.

　

　

* * *

　

　

　

The summer was coming and Stella and me were growing together like blossoming flowers. We still had our arguments, but nothing had happened like that terrible night and so I was in heaven with my Eve and the entire universe seemed in order.

Stella got a job as a secretary working in a small firm based in St. James’s Street, Victoria. She seemed happy with the boss and was earning a decent wage. We went out shopping together and I was always impressed by Stella’s taste in clothes. She always seemed to know what suited her and for that matter what suited me. I’m am a little colour blind and once when I said that I would wear my grey suit Stella laughed and told me that the suit was not grey, but brown. I had in the past worn a blue tie with the suit thinking that it was grey and must have looked ridiculous. Also once I wore a pink tie with a brown velvet jacket and thinking I looked great strutted around like a peacock. No one told me at that time and now I was pleased that I had someone who cared about me enough to advise me. Stella genuinely wanted me to dress well and did her best to make sure that I had the right coloured tie to suit the rest of my clothes. She was wonderful like that and I appreciated it.

　

For my part I advised Stella what to read and who were the important authors and artists. We got into the habit of reading books together, she reading aloud one page and I the next, thus we got through books together and enjoyed our mutual literary growth. Stella had a earning to learn. She told me that she had ever only known men who were in business and interested only in earning money with no time for the arts. One guy was forever on the phone making financial deals while she was left painting her nails. She found it boring and although the man had money, she was glad to meet a man who appreciated culture.

　

One day we were in a pub and opposite our table a painting was hanging on the wall. It depicted a nineteenth century street scene with a woman walking along holding hands with a girl. Behind them were two labours digging a trench. I said to Stella,

　

‘What do you see in that painting?’

　

Stella silently regarded the picture for a moment and then said,

　

‘A woman and a girl walking along the street.’

　

‘Yes, but describe them. What are they wearing for instance.’

　

‘The woman is in a long dress and so is the girl.’

　

‘What colour dresses?’

　

‘Black.’

　

‘And what does black clothing denote. What association does black bring to mind?’ I asked, enjoying myself.

　

Stella looked and thought for a minute and then said,

　

‘Funerals?’

　

‘Correct. And both are wearing black. Now look at the men in the background what are they doing?’

　

‘Digging a hole,’ said Stella in a puzzled, yet expectant tone.

　

‘Look at the shape of the hole. It is not just a hole is it? What shape is it?’

‘Oh my God, it looks like a grave!’

　

‘Yes. So now what do you see?’

　

‘I see what you mean. The women are wearing black and the men are digging a grave. You mean that they are going to a funeral?’

　

‘Well, whether they are going to or coming from is of no matter. The important thing is, what is the artist trying to covey?’

　

‘Death. Someone has died. Her husband! They have been to the dad’s funeral. They are mother and daughter. Wow. I would have never seen that. Oh, I see it now.’

‘Now take an even closer look.’ I said.

Stella seemed puzzled. ‘What do you mean, David?’

‘Concentrate on the horizon. What can you see?’

Stella turned again towards the picture. ‘It’s very bright. The sun seems to be rising or setting, I’m not sure which.’

‘What do you think that symbolises?’

‘I’m not sure. It’s the end of the day. They’re walking towards the light. But it could be the dawn of a new day. Could it be that the light represents the opposite of the darkness they’ve just been through? A ray of hope? A new beginning?’

‘Precisely,’ I said.

‘My God, David, there is so much more to the painting than I would have realised if you had not pointed it out.’

‘We see, but do not see.’

　

　

* * *

　

　

I was at work when Sherrie rang.

　

‘Can we talk, Dave?’ she said with a voice that infused me with pity. I knew that I had let her down and I felt terribly guilty about it. Sherrie was my great love, but she had never satisfied me with regard to artistic spirit, or laughter. She was not interested in poets who die for their words, or artists who give up the world for their vision. Although I loved her she would laugh at some piece of toilet humour that I would not find funny at all and I would roll up at the juxtaposition of words that were so stupid that I held my belly and she would look at me as though I were a creature from Mars.

We met in a pub in Waterloo Road just opposite where I worked at that time. She told me that she didn’t know what to do. That she loved me and asked if she could she see me. I wanted life to be better than this. I did not want to hurt this wonderful woman with whom I had enjoyed so many parties and met so many good friends. We talked. Keeping two doors open, I told her that perhaps nothing would come of Stella and me and I would come back to her. She left with hope in her heart. I was looking forward to see Stella again. I had not seen her for a week because she said that she would be busy.

　

　

* * *

　

　

　

That night I arrived home about ten. Stella was waiting outside. She looked at me with penetrating eyes and said,

　

‘Where’ve you been?’

　

Fuck.

　

‘I went out with a couple of the boys from work. We had a couple of beers.’ I said hating myself for lying.

　

‘No you haven’t. You’ve been with someone else, David. I can see it in your eyes’ I felt desperate and exposed. How could she possibly know that I had seen Sherrie? She couldn’t. She was bluffing, or was she?

　

“Stella, for God’s sake please don’t row. I’ve had a heavy day. Listen, it is great to see you. I didn’t expect you to be here. If you had called me I would have come home earlier. I mean, I hardly ever go for a drink after work, certainly not on a Tuesday. Now let’s go in and settle down and watch a bit of telly or something.’

　

No chance.

　

I knew that face. She would not stop and I walked into the living room knowing I was in for a bad night. Stella rummaged around in the kitchen for a while, opening and closing cupboards. When I turned, I froze. Stella held up a five-pint can of white paint that I had bought a week before to paint the kitchen. Her eyes flamed, fire flashed like brewing lava as she held up the can. I backed away in disbelief. No – she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She held the can above her head and then threw it at me. I ducked. It hit my leg. The lid sprung off and paint splashed over my shoes, the carpet and furniture. I stood aghast. I felt like I was in a dream. This could not be happening. No one would do this. Only a maniac would trash a room like this. All that I had worked for was now covered in white paint. I felt weak. All will flew from my body. I did not even feel anger. All I wanted to do was go to bed, cover my head and wake up tomorrow with the realisation that this had been a nasty dream. I looked at Stella. I stood gazing at an animal, a predator. There was no remorse in her eyes. She glared at me, defying me to fight her, but I was paralysed with shock. Time seemed to freeze as we looked at each other, I with incomprehension and she with utter malice.

　

There was a loud rap at the front door. Who the hell was that? Stella went to the door. I was surprised as a policeman suddenly appeared in the living room doorway.

The policeman said, ‘What’s happening here?’

　

I was stirred out of my numb trance, ‘My girlfriend’s gone mad, she threw a can of paint at me. Look at the place!’

　

Another officer appeared. He said, ‘Both of you live here?’

‘No, she lives at Clapham Common. It is my flat. I came home from work and she was waiting for me, then she accuses me of seeing another woman and then – bang – she throws the paint. I can’t beleive it!’

The first officer turned to Stella and asked if that was true. She said, ‘I know he’s been with someone else. He provoked me.’

‘So you did throw the paint?’ he said holding up his hand.

‘I didn’t mean to. It slipped out of my hand and the top came off by accident.’, said Stella glaring at me. I felt relief that she had not denied the act. I would have had a hard time proving it.

I asked the first officer who called them; he said it was a niegbour. I was grateful. The situation might have got even worse if they had not arrived. The second officer said to Stella,

‘Right, perhaps it is better if you leave now so that tempers can carm down.’ Then almost as an after thought he said to me, ‘Do you want to press charges? I said that I did not. I just wanted her to leave. They took her outside, then after asking me if I was all right they left.

　

After the front door shut, I gingerly sat down and looked at the mess. The carpet was ruined and almost every article of furniture had spots of paint on it. My raincoat, trousers and shoes were irreparable. It was lucky that I had a second set of work clothes. After sitting in silence for ten minutes just numbly gazing at the damage I decided that I had st least start to clear up. I quickly changed into jeans a trainers and after dumping my ruined clothes into the rubbish shoot in the hallway outside, I started the long process of taking up the carpet.

　

Half way through tiding up Stella came back. I had the carpet rolled up and wass dragging it towards the front door. She called through the letterbox,

　

‘David, I’m sorry. Let me pay for everything.’ She started to push twenty pound notes through the letterbox. I picked up the notes and pushed them back out.

　

‘I don’t want your money Stella. Just go away, please.’

　

She pleaded with me for a while, but when I threatened to call back the police she left. I felt shattered, but carried on cleaning up. How I did it I don’t know, but I managed to get the heavy carpet down the stairs and lift it into the paladin.

* * *

　

When I woke the next day I was in a state of complete depression. All my dreams were shattered. What was the point in going on? I wanted to die. I blamed myself for what had happened. If only I had refused to meet Sherrie. I was so weak. If only I had come straight home. I had lost Stella because of my weakness. I could not forgive her for what she had done. The act was too callous. I was buried in a black pit of my own making, nothing would ever go right for me, and I might as well be dead. I decided to commit suicide. I rang work and asked to speak to the head of personnel. She was on holiday and so I told her replacement that I was resigning and I would write a letter to that affect tomorrow. I was met with no argument. I fell back on my pillow and let sleep take me away.

　

　

* * *

　

　

The next day I hit the booze. I wandered from pub to pub meeting no one I knew. At each bar I stood sipping my beer and staring into the void. My thoughts in chaos. I saw Stella throw the can of paint a thousand times. I needed to talk to someone, but although I recognised some faces on my lonely walk, I met no one with whom I could confide. I went to Graftons and although the pubs managers Maggie and Frank were there, they were in company and hardly acknowledged my presence. It was not until the evening that I finally met a few acquaintances, but I could not bring myself to tell them about what happened. I guess I felt ashamed. Surely they would laugh at me for allowing such a thing to happen. I felt too drained to deal with criticism so I just let them talk, but everything they said seemed so trite that I wanted to shout at them – ‘You damn boring cunts! Don’t you know what I have been through? No, because I am too afraid to tell you in case you might ridicule me.’

　

I went on like this for weeks. Ever contemplating suicide, ever drinking myself into a stupor, ever sleeping and it was only in sleep that my tortured mind found release. My dreams took me on adventures with friends I had known in happier days. I would spend days in bed, unable to rise, not wanting to rise. I wanted to wallow forever in my dream life. But gradually degree by degree over the hazy weeks I managed to get my flat back into some semblance of order and my mind regained its purpose to live. I started to look for another job.

　

And Stella? She never left my thoughts. Except when I dreamt. Funny, but she was hardly if ever in my dreams. My vivid wonderful healing dreams. But the moment I woke she was there like a persistent ghost haunting my dreams as water does a theist man. (Needs rephrasing) She existed in me as I cooked, as I drunk and as I watched TV. I saw her far off in the street, but it was never her of course, just a girl who looked like her at a distance. I talked about her too, to anyone who would listen. No matter what the conversation, I brought her into it. I became a bore.

　

There were phone calls. Someone in the middle of the night, but always silent. I knew it was her, but she never spoke. My family told me that they also received silent calls. Sherrie said that she received abusive calls from Stella, ranting calls making no sense. I felt guilty and responsible, but I could not remain angry. I forgave her. I rang the house in Clapham Common, but was told that she did not live there any more. I wondered where she had gone. I continued to go to Grafton's, but she never came in. Then one day it happened and hope got a boost.

　

One Saturday morning I wandered into Grafton's and Maggie said,

　

‘Guess who I saw yesterday?’ My heart missed a beat, ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘The mad one.’ I resented that, despite everything I felt protective towards Stella, ‘She was here. She was on her own. I must say, she looked like a million dollars. She didn’t speak, but sat in a booth on her own drinking heavily. She fell into conversation with Paddy, a regular, she left with him.’ My heart sank.

* * *

　

The days floated aimlessly by like a boat abandoned on a tideless sea. During this period I wrote poems about her, good poems of which I am still proud, so the days were not entirely unproductive. I moved my furniture about and decorated almost in anticipation of her return. For I had this deep belief that she would come back. How powerful love is that it engenders hope where none should be. Reason takes a back seat where love is concerned.

　

The following Thursday the phone rang. I was expecting a call from Terry, one of my friends who had promised to call to make arrangements for the weekend. ‘Hello?’ I said.

　

‘Oh hello, David.’

　

‘My God, Stella! How are you?’ My brain seemed to melt and at the same time my heart began to palpitate wildly.

　

‘Oh, I’m okay. I’m in Grafton’s if you would like to come round?’

　

I thought of saying, ‘you must be joking. Not after what you did. I never want to see you again.’ Instead I said, ‘Well, yeah, okay. I’ll be round in a minute.’

　

I rushed about trying on one shirt after another. I wanted to look good for her. I did not want to show her how desperate I had been over the past month or two. I wanted to seem nonchalant, a man whom she had not affected, a man in control. I had to force myself not to run along Horseferry Road. At Strutton Ground I even slowed my pace. What was I going to say? I did not want to gush. I wanted to appear calm and collected. Did she love me? Perhaps she would laugh at me when I walked in? Perhaps she would ridicule me and reject me. As I approached the pub door, I stopped and took a deep breath.

　

She was sitting on a stool with her back to the door talking to Maggie. They were both looking at photographs. Large glossy black and white ones. I walked up and nodding to Maggie said, ‘Hi Stella.

She looked at me and with a nervous smile said,

　

‘Oh look David, Maggie has been showing me some of the photographs of the Goons.’ She handed me a photograph. It was of a large group of celebrates, including Spike Milligan, Harry Seacombe, Eamon Andrews and Jeremy Lloyd.

　

‘Oh great,’ I said. ‘Boy, I remember most of this lot. This must have been taken in the late ‘50’s or early 60’s Maggie? Is this part of the batch that you said you had in the loft?’

　

‘Yes. We’ve got permission to have them framed and hung up around the pub. What would you like to drink, Dave?’

　

‘Oh, thanks. Pint of Fosters please.’

　

As she called over one of her staff Stella said, ‘Do you recognize any of these other people David?’

　

‘Yes, Eamon Andrews was a sports commenter who later got his own chat show. I remember that he was the only chat show host to interview Jerry Lewis when he was over here promoting his latest film ‘Boeing, Boeing’. He starred with Tony Curtis in that one. Do you remember that one Maggie?’ She frowned. I went on, ‘It was a famous stage play or farce. At that time Jerry was looking to play down his zany persona and go straight. It didn’t really work.’

　

Stella asked me why and I was glad to speak about something I knew and help with what otherwise might have been an awkward reunion. She looked wonderful and I wanted to hug and kiss her, but just to see her again and to be in her company was joy enough for me. I wanted so much for everything to be okay again between us that I avoided mention of the paint incident. Why spoil things? That was all past. Let us start anew. We spent the next hour or so trawling through the photographs. We laughed as memories came back to me of the characters and even Maggie was surprised by my anecdotes.

　

At 3pm Maggie showed the remaining punters out. I was ready to go and not sure what to say to Stella. Should I invite her back home? Would she want to come? But Maggie bolted the door and I knew that we could stay. It was a marvellous afternoon with Stella putting on our favourite music on the jukebox. We fell into each other’s arms dancing and laughing and swooning about each other as if we had never been apart. Even Maggie, who was a fairly hardened show business woman, seemed happy for us. Later Frank joined us and Stella and I secretly laughed at his impenetrable Scottish accent. Nothing could spoil the day and Stella and I were both very happy.

All the pain of the last two months evaporated. It had never happened.

* * *

　

The following week I called her and we made arrangements to meet at eight in The Westminster Arms in Marsham Street, Millbank. I arrived early as usual. Already in the bar was a Welsh guy I knew. He was with his girl. We chatted and I thought that when Stella arrived I would introduce them to her. Perhaps we two couples could become friends, go out together, I felt that Stella could benefit making a friends in the local area, she seemed to know no one except me. We were having a pleasant conversation, when I turned and saw Stella sitting at the table behind us. I was surprised, how long has she been there? Surely she had seen us when she walked in? She was looking in her bag, so absorbed in the task that she did not look up when I spoke her name. I stepped over to her. Her face was pale and her eyes had a wild look as if she was enraged about something.

‘Stella? How long you been sitting there? Didn’t you see us at the bar?’

She looked up and tightly smiled,

‘ Oh hello David.’ She stood up and I asked her what she would like to drink. Then I said something that I have regretted every since. She was wearing a wide rimmed black hat. It did not particularly suit her. Where did she think she was, Ascot?

‘Some hat.’ It was a throwaway remark that Chief Brody hadsaid to an irksome beach complainer in the movie Jaws. I thought funny at the time.

I did not see the punch coming, I sure felt the impact though. She hit me with her fist full in the face. My cheek stung. Though shocked I reacted fast. I could not let her get away with it again. The first time may have an accident, but this attack was decidedly deliberate. I pushed her and she fell on her back.

‘Don’t you fucking hit me!’ I said standing over her.

The barman jumped over the bar and grabbed hold of me. I struggled half heartedly, because I did not what a full-scale fight to break out. Besides I got on with the barman. Stella got up and walked to the other end of the bar leaving me to deal with the barman and another guy who had taken it upon himself to intervene.

‘Ok, boy’s I’m calm, Let go.’

They stepped away and I called over to Stella. I felt all the eyes of the pub on me and I struggled to remain calm, but my head was crowded with questions. Why had she hit me? Surely she was not so sensitive that a chance remark would ignite such a violent response. She came over half grinning.

‘Look John, I don’t want to stay here. It is a trouble pub!’ And walked to the door. As soon as we got outside she started to nag me,

‘I don’t know why you ask me to wait in such places. I was frightened. You are so fucking selfish, just like all men.’

I was dumbfounded. ‘You’re the one who made the trouble. Why did you hit me?’

‘You insulted me about my hat. I do my best to look nice for you and all you can do is take the piss out of me.’

Her view of the situation outraged me. Who did this bird think she was?

‘I’m beginning to realise the type of man you are John. Just what type of family do you come from? They must be a bunch of hoares.’

I thought her words outrageous and I could not control my anger. If I allowed her to get away with her violence without some sort of punishment I would set a precident that later I was sure to regret. My frustation burst like a banger on Guy Fawkes night and I punched her in the face. She ran out in to the road and hailed a taxi that by chance was passing.. She jumped in and sped off. I was aghast. Angry at her and at myself. I walked past my flat and headed for another pub. I guess I got drunk that night because I cannot remember what I did. I just needed to talk to someone.

I did not see Stella for a month after that.

　

* * *

　

I could not stop thinking about her. Every day was torment. I went over and over the incident, but could not bring myself to take the blame. I did not phone. My pride had been hurt and I was not going to be the first to make contact because that would have been tantamount to an apology and what had I to apologise about. I kept going to the Graftons hoping that one night she would walk in, but she never did. Time went by slowly and I was getting used to the idea that would not see her again. Then, at three o’ clock on a Thursday morning she rang.

‘Oh hello John. Can I come round?’

‘Stella? Yes of course. Where are you?’ I was both overjoyed and annoyed that she called at such an hour. I had to work. She is so selfish. But I was dieing to see her.

‘Ok, I’ll be round in a few minutes.’

My heart was in heaven, but I could not show her that. That would make her feel that I was a pushover. So when she arrived I acted annoyed. She put her arms around me and I melted like ice on a Summers day. She had had her hair cut short. To be honest it did not suit her, she looked like a schoolmarm, but I did not say anything. I was tired and had to be up by seven. Stella undressed and I was surprised that she was wearing black stockings and suspenders. In the time that I had known her she had never worn tights. She was always bare legged or wearing woollen legging. The garments she had on now seemed inappropriate. As she lay beside me I thought that I would cheer her by showing her a letter that I had sent to Time Out magazine and they had printed.

　

　

I wrote to Time Out magazine to claim two free tickets to attend a recording of a new TV show called Britian123. It was a situation comedy set in ancient Britain and stared some of best satirical comedians of the moment. I had never been to se a TV show made before and I thought it would be fun for both Stella and me. The studio was in the Docklands area in East London. We found that it was about a mile walk from the nearest tube station. On the way we popped into a pub for a few jars. By the by the time we got to the studio we were tipsy. Stella was particularly in a rocus mood laughing loudly at anything the actors said. Members of the audience looked round at her. I was embarrissed, but joined in with her. Gripped by pretence and the need to pally up with Stella, I too started to laugh loudly. One of the actors playing a Roman soldier was wearing a toga and I called out,

‘Look at him wearing a dress!’ which was not the slightest bit witty and secretly I felt stupid. But Stella laughed and snorted anyway. We were so loud that the recording was stopped. A woman approached us and said,

‘Look you two seem to be enjoying yourselves so much that we would like to invite you backstage for a drink with the actors.’

I was sceptical, but Stella was all for the offer. The woman led us past the cameras, through a room at the back of the studio where some of the actors were sitting, to a door that she opened and ushered us through. The door slammed behind us. We were outside looking at a canal. We looked at each other burst out laughing. This time with genuine mirth. We had had an adventure.

A few days later I wrote a letter to Time Out that criticized the actors who often pretended to be outrageous, indeed relied on loud characters to evoke laughter. Yet when it came to meeting real people who were like the characters they portrayed they did not like it. Time Out printed the letter. Now, here in bed, I decided to show it to Stella. She would be impressed.

‘Stella, I’ve got a surprise for you.’ I said handing her the magazine.

She read the letter and with a blank look said,

‘Who wrote that David?’

I was mildly amused. She must be joking. There was my name plainly printed below the letter.

‘I did darling. With your help.’ I added the last part with the intention of shearing my little success with her.

‘I didn’t help you.’ She said, still with a blank expression. Is she joking?

‘No, I mean in the sense that you were there with me.’

‘So who helped you with the letter? You have let the cat out of the bag, haven’t you? I can tell by the look on your face. It was someone else and you got mixed up between me and another woman.’

I was flabbergasted. ‘No, I didn’t.’

Stella jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen. I was slightly dazed by the accusation. She came storming back,

‘You are such a liar! You think I don’t know what you are up too behind my back? If you think that you can get away with it, you have got another thought coming. So who is she?’

Who is who?’ I feebly asked. ‘Did she know about Sherrie,’ I thought, ‘She must and she is testing me. I hadn’t told her. Who could have told her who. Ought I come clean? But what if she doesn’t know.’

‘I can see the guilt on your face as plain as day. I knew it! I can read your mind David. I know what you are thinking. Don’t cover up. Guilt covers your face like shit on a baby’s arse.’

I almost laughed at the expression. That was a big mistake.

‘Don’t you fucking laugh at me! , She picked up a cup and threw it at me. It hit my raised arm. It hurt. I jumped out of bed.

‘Are you crazy!’ I blurted, ‘Stella there is no one else.’

‘Liar!’

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Don’t curse like that, you worm. Call yourself a Catholic; you’re full of sin an ugly man like you. Who do you think you are? You fucking two-faced snake! So you got a letter printed in some shit magazine and you think you’re so wonderful. Pig. You’re depraved. I have never lied to you have I?’

‘Well, no. I haven’t lied to you ether. Fuck me it is only a letter. I don’t think it is a big deal, but well, it is nice to have a letter printed.’

‘Nice to have a letter printed. You are pathetic. . My mother was right about you…’

‘She told her mother about me. Great. ‘ I thought.

‘She said that you were no good, but I didn’t listen. I came back. You are wimp comprised to my father. He would smash your fucking face in. If he were alive. But I know some men who will get you, you bastard. Don’t worry about that. I’ll get them to take photographs of you after they smash your face in. Then I will laugh. You can’t treat me like this and expect to get away with it. I saw you look at that girl when we were in the pub the last time.’

‘Other girl? What other girl? What are you talking about now?’

‘Oh you know all right. Don’t deny it.’

‘I’m not denying anything. I don’t know what your fucking on about. What pub, when?’ Confusion was strangling my brain as Stella continued berating and accusing me. On and on she went as the minutes of the early morning hurriedly ticked away. Suddenly Stella’s mood changed and she said,

‘Oh well, David never mind.’

It was 6am. To late for me to get any sleep now. Suddenly she seemed to understand about the letter in the magazine. She got into bed and asleep. I showered and dressed and left for work without waking her.

*

The morning dragged. I worked in the mailroom and although the work was mostly tedious it allowed me time to recover from the ordeal of the night. Despite my anger towards Stella, I wanted to get home to see her, to see that everything was all right between us, that it had all been a misunderstanding. I loved her so much.

The work day finally ended and I sped home longing to hold Stella in my arms. I prayed that she was in a good mood. I could not face another row. She was in the kitchen wearing one of my shirts, still in her suspenders and black stockings. She was so manicured I thought that she must have been to a beauty salon. Her face was fresh and bright as she turn to me and said, ‘Oh, hello David. You must be exhausted. Now sit down and I’ll you a nice cup of tea.’

She took my coat, kissed me lightly on the lips and smiled. I was as relieved as kid who had had a telling off from his beloved mother and now was excused. She said that she had read the letter again and that she admired the way I had expressed myself. My heart rose like a golden kite. Yet instead of smiling, I pretended that I was hurt. I wanted her to understand that what she had done was wrong and once she had she would never do it again. Stella took no notice of my play-acting and asked me if I had had the photographs developed that we took that day at the studio. I had and we both laughed as we looked through them. I wanted to ask where she had been the night before, but refrained in case I upset her. She was all mystery.

　

* * *

　

I had never taken in a lodger before, but when, months before, Sherrie had asked me to help a young girl whom she had met and had nowhere to live I accepted. Carol was a slim, ginger haired girl who had an attractive well-proportioned face the only mare to which was a lazy eye. She was good kid when she was sober, but she had a tendency to fall off her stool when drunk. She always wore jeans, kept her hair short and bowled along with a gate more like a boy than a girl. She was a real cockney type who drunk pints of Fosters. Carol kept herself in the background and tagged along with Sherrie and me like a loyal pet. We felt protective of her and invited her to our parties as one might a favourite retainer. She came from a disturbed background, even an abused background that we felt sorry for her and allowed her enjoin our company like a lost stray who had no other place to go.

Carol was living with me when I met Stella. They got along well, which pleased me. I get a warm feeling when people get on well. Carol was impressed by Stella’s knowledge of fashion and although Carol dressed as a Tomboy, she nevertheless was interested in what Stella had to say on the subject. It was like a teacher and a pupil: the one pleased to share her wisdom and the other pleased to receive it. I got the impression that they were alike as is a niece and an aunt.

The summer was coming and Stella and me were growing together like blossoming flowers. We still had our arguments, but nothing had happened like that horrible night and so I was in heaven with my Eve and the entire universe was in order. Stella got a job as a secretary working in a small firm based in St James’s Street, Victoria. She seemed happy with the boss and was earning a decent wage. We went out shopping together and I was always impressed by Stella’s taste in clothes. She always seemed to know what suited her and for that matter what suited me. I’m am a little colour blind and once when I said that I would wear my grey suit Stella laughed and told me that the suit was not grey, but brown. I had in the past worn a blue tie with the suit thinking that it was grey and must have looked ridiculous. Also once I wore a pink tie with a brown velvet jacket and thinking I looked great strutted around like a peacock. No one told me at that time and now I was pleased that I had someone who cared about me enough to advise me. Stella genuinely wanted me to dress well and did her best to make sure that I had the right coloured tie to suit the rest of my clothes. She was wonderful like that and I appreciated it.

For my part I advised Stella what to read and who were the important authors and artists. We got into the habit of reading books together, she reading aloud one page and I the next, thus we got through books together and enjoyed our mutual literary growth. Stella had a earning to learn. She told me that she had ever only known men who were in business and interested only in earning money with no time for the arts. One guy was forever on the phone making financial deals while she was left painting her nails. She found it boring and although the man had money, she was glad to meet a man who appreciated culture.

One day we were in a pub and opposite our table a painting was hanging on the wall. It depicted a nineteenth century street scene with a woman walking along holding hands with a girl. Behind them was two labours digging a trench. I said to Stella,

‘What do you see in that painting?’

Stella silently regarded the picture for a moment and then said,

‘A woman and a girl walking along the street.’

‘Yes, but describe them. What are they wearing of instance.’

‘The woman is in a long dress and the girl is also.’

‘What colour dresses?’

‘Black.’

‘And what does black clothing denote. What association does black bring to mind?’ I asked enjoying myself.

Stella looked and thought for a minute and then said,

‘Funerals?’

‘Correct. And both are wearing black. Now look at the men in the background what are they doing?’

‘Digging a hole.’ Said Stella with a puzzled, yet expectant tone.

‘Look at the shape of the hole. It is not just a hole is it? What shape has it?’

‘Oh, it looks like a grave!’

‘Yes. So now what do you see?’

‘I see what you mean. The women are wearing black and the men are digging a grave. You mean that they are going to a funeral?’

‘Well, whether they are going to or coming from is of no matter. The important thing is – what is the artist trying to covey?’

‘Death. Someone has died. Her husband! They have been to the dad’s funeral. They are mother and daughter. Wow. I would have never seen that. Oh, I see it now, there is much more to the painting than I would have realised if you had not pointed it out.’

‘We see, but do not see.’

* * *

　

Carol was lucky, she got her own flat from Westminster City Council. I was not sorry to see her go because she had over the latter weeks not paid me full rent. The next lodger to come along was a charming Chinese girl name Lou. This was not her correct name, but she had mispronunciation of her own name so many times that she finally settled for a Western account of her name. She had short black hair and a lovely face with eyes that spoke of ancestry and well behaved people. She was like a little princess, although now a woman of twenty-one. Once again Stella got on with her well. Stella had a way with people. She had such a wonderful personality that even the devil would have succumbed.

I was at work when Sherrie rang.

‘Can we talk Dave?’ she said with a voice that engendered within me pity. I knew that I had let her down and I felt terrible guilty about it. Sherrie was my great love, but she had never satisfied me with regard to artistic spirit, or laughter. For, she was not interested in poets who die for their words, or artists who give up the world for their vision. Although I loved her she would laugh at some piece of toilet humour that I would not find funny at all and I would roll up at the juxtaposition of words that were so stupid that I held my belly and she would look at me as though I were a creature from Mars.

We met in a pub in Waterloo Road just opposite where I worked at that time. She told me that she didn’t know what to do. That she loved me and asked if she could she see me. I wanted life to be better than this. I did not want to hurt this wonderful woman though whom I had enjoyed so many parties and met so many good friends. I was a heel. We talked. Keeping two doors open I told her that – perhaps nothing would come of Stella and me and I would come back to her. She left with hope in her heart. I was looking forward to see Stella again. I had not seen her for a week because she said that she would be busy.

　

* * *

　

　

That night I arrived home about ten. Stella was there! She looked at me with those penetrating eyes and said,

‘Where’ve you been?’

Fuck.

‘Went out with a couple of the boys from work. We had a couple of beers.’ I said hating myself for lying.

‘No you haven’t. You’ve been with someone else, David. I can see it in your eyes’

Lou was in the kitchen with her. She sensed the tension and went to her room. I felt desperate and exposed. How could she possibly know that I had seen Sherrie? She couldn’t. She was bluffing.

“Stella, for god’s sake please don’t row. I’ve had a heavy day. Listen, it is great to see you. I didn’t expect you to be here. If you had called me I would have come home earlier. I mean, I hardly ever go for a drink after work, certainly not on a Tuesday. Now let’s settle down and watch a bit of telly or something.’

No chance.

I knew that face. She would not stop and I walked into the living room knowing I was in for a bad night. When I turned, I froze. Stella held up a litre of white paint that I had bought a week before to paint the kitchen. Her eyes flamed, fire flashed like brewing lava as she held up the can. I backed away in disbelief. No – she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She threw the can at me. I ducked. It hit my leg. The lid sprung off and paint splashed over my shoes, the carpet and furniture. I stood aghast. I was in a dream. This could not be happening. No one would do this. Only a criminal would trash a room like this. All that I had worked for was now covered in white paint. I felt weak. All will flew from my body. I did not even feel anger. All I wanted to do was go to bed, cover my head and wake up tomorrow with the realisation that this had been a nasty dream. I looked at Stella. I stood gazing at an animal, a predator. There was no remorse in her eyes. She glared at me, defying me to fight her, but I was paralysed with shock. Time seemed to freeze as we looked at each other, I with incomprehension and she with utter malice.

Suddenly, a policeman appeared. He looked at me open mouthed. Stella drew back into the kitchen. The policeman said,

‘What’s happening here?’

I was stirred out of my numb trance,

‘She threw paint. Look at the place.’

Another officer appeared. He asked whose flat it was. I told him and he went into the kitchen to speak with Stella. I asked the first officer who called them; he said it was a young Chinese lady. She had seen their patrol car and called them to assist. I was grateful. The situation might have got even worse if they had not arrived. Did I want to press charges? I said that I did not. I just wanted Stella to go. They took her outside, then after asking me if I was all right they left.

Lou came out of her room and I thanked her for getting the police. She said that she had heard everything and was frightened that things might get violent. We walked into the living room carefully stepping over the paint. That carpet was ruined and almost every article of furniture had spots of paint on it. My raincoat, trousers and shoes were irreparable. It was lucky that I had a second set of work clothes. I quickly changed and then Lou and I started the long process of taking up the carpet. She was such help. I could not have done it with out her. Not that night anyway. She insisted we get on with it.

Half way threw tiding up Stella came back. She called through the letterbox,

‘David, I’m sorry. Let me pay for everything.’ She then pushed half a dozen twenty pound notes through the letterbox. I picked up the notes and pushed them back out.

‘I don’t want your money Stella. Just go away, please.’

She pleaded with me for a while, but when I threatened to call back the police she left. I felt shattered, but carried on cleaning up with Lou. How we did it, but we managed to get up the carpet, roll it up and carry in down to the paladin. I could not thank her enough for helping me. I apologised that she should experience such a thing especially because she had only recently moved in, but she seemed to take it all calmly. I was truly relived that she had been there to witness the incident, because I felt sure that the police would not have believed me had not she been there.

* * *

When I woke the next day I was in a state of complete depression. All my dreams were shattered. What was the point in going on? I wanted to die. I saw no point in living anymore. I blamed myself for what had happened. If only I had refused to meet Sherrie. I was so weak. If only I had come straight home. I had lost Stella because of my weakness. I could not forgive her for what she had done. The act was too callous. I was buried in a black pit of my own making, nothing would ever go right for me, and I might as well be dead. I decided to commit suicide. I rang work and asked to speak to the head of personnel Jo Dean. She was on holiday and so I told her replacement that I was resigning and I would write a letter to that affect tomorrow. I was met with no argument. I fell back on my pillow and let sleep take me away.

　

* * *

　

The next day I hit the booze. I wandered from pub to pub meeting no one I knew. At each bar I stood sipping my beer and staring into the void. My thoughts in chaos. I saw Stella throw the paint a thousand times. I need to talk to someone, but although I recognised some faces on my lonely walk, I met no one with whom I could confide. I went to Graftons and although Maggie and Frank were there, they were in company and hardly acknowledged my presence. It was not until the evening that I finally met a few aquantences, but I could not bring myself to tell them about what happened. I guess I felt ashamed. Surely they would laugh at me for allowing such a thing to happen. I felt too drained to deal with critizism so I just let them talk, but everything they said seemed so trite that I wanted to shout at them – ‘You damd boring cunts! Don’t you know what I have been through? No, because I am too afraid to tell you in case you might ridicule me.’

I went on like this for weeks. Ever contemplating suicide, ever drinking myself into a stuper, ever sleeping and it was only in sleep that my fevered mind found release. My dreams took me on adventures with friends I had known in happier days. I would spend days in bed, unable to rise, not wanting to rise. I wanted to wallow forever in my dream life. But gradually degree by degree over the hazy weeks I managed to get my flat back into some semblance of order and my mind regained its purpose to live. I started to look for another job.

And Stella? She never left my thoughts. Except when I dreamt. Funny, but she was hardly if ever in my dreams. My vivid wonderful healing dreams. But the moment I woke she was there like a persistent ghost haunting my dreams as water does a thuisty man. She existed in me as I cooked, as I drunk and as I watched TV. I saw her far off in the street, but it was never her of course, just a girl who looked like her at a distance. I talked about her too, to anyone who would listen. No matter what the conversation, I brought her into it. I became a bore.

There were phone calls. Some in the middle of the night, but always silent. I knew it was her, but she never spoke. My family told me that they also recived silent calls. Sherrie said that she receive abusive calls from Stella, ranting calls making no sense. I felt guilty and responsible, but I could not remain angry. I forgave her. I rang the house at Clapham Common, but was told that she did not live there any more. I forever wondered where she was. I continued to go to Graftons, but she never came in. Then one day it happened and hope got a boost.

One Saturday morning I wandered into Graftons and Maggie said,

‘Guess who I saw yesterday?’ My heart missed a beat, ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘The mad one.’ I resented that, despite everything I felt protective towards Stella, ‘She was here. She was on her own. I must say, she looked like a millon dollors. She didn’t speak, but sat in a booth on her own drinking heavily. She fell into conversation with Paddy, a regular, she left with him.’ My heart sank.

The days floated aimlessly by like a boat abandoned on a waste less sea. During this period I wrote poems about her, good poems of which I am still proud, so the days were not entirely unproductive. I moved my furniture about and decorated almost in anticipation of her return. For I had this deep belief that she would come back. How powerful love is that it engenders hope where none should be. Reason takes a back seat where love is concerned.

The following Thursday the phone rang. I was expecting a call from Terry, one of my friends who had promised to call to make arrangements for the weekend. ‘Hello?’ I said.

‘Oh hello David.’ It was she.

‘Stella – how are you?’ My throght tightened. I could have yelled with joy. I put my hand over the receiver so that she would not hear my pounding pulse.

‘Oh, I’m okay. I’m in Grafton’s if you would like to come round?’

I thought of saying, ‘you must be joking. Not after what you did. I never want to see you again.’ Instead I said, ‘Well, yeah, okay. I’ll be round in a minute.’

I rushed about trying on this shirt and that. I wanted to look good for her. I wanted to walk in looking smart and fit and happy. I did not want to show her how desperate I had been over the past month or two. I wanted to seem nonchalant, a man whom she had not affected, a man in control. I had to force myself not to run along Horseferry Road. At Strutton Ground I even slowed my pace. What was I going to say? I did not want to gush. I wanted to appear calm and collected. Did she love me? Perhaps she would laugh at me when I walked in? Perhaps she would ridicule me and reject me. Please God let not that happen. As I approached the pub door, I stopped and took a deep breath.

She was sitting on a stool with her back to the door talking to Maggie. They were both holding photographs. Large glossy black and white ones. I walked up and nodding to Maggie said, ‘Hi Stel.’

She looked at me and with a nervous smile said,

‘Oh look David, Maggie has been showing me some of the photographs of the Goons.’ She handed me a photograph. It was of a large group of celebrates, including Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe, Emond Andrews and Jeremy Lloyd.

‘Oh great,’ I said ‘boy I remember most of this lot. This must have been taken in the late ‘50’s or early 60’s Maggie? Is this part of the batch that you said you had in the loft?’

‘Yes. We have got permission to have them framed and hung up around the pub. What would you like to drink Dave?’

‘Oh, thinks. Pint of Foss please.’

As she called over one of her staff Stella said, ‘Do you recognise any of these other people David?’

‘Yes, Eamond Andrews was a sports commenter who later got his own chat show. I remember that he was the only chat show host to interview Jerry Lewis when he was over here promoting his latest film ‘Boeing, Boeing’. He starred with Tony Curtis in that one. Do you remember that one Maggie?’ She frowned. I went on, ‘It was a famous stage play or farce. At that time Jerry was looking to play down his zany persona and play things straight. It didn’t really work.’

Stella asked me why and I was glad to speak about something I knew and help with what otherwise might have been an awkward reunion I went on. She looked wonderful and I wanted to hug and kiss her, but just to see her again and to be in her company was joy enough for me. I wanted so much for everything to be okay again between us that I avoided mention of the paint incident. Why spoil things. That was all past. Let us start anew. We spent the next hour or so trawling through the photographs. We laughed as memories came back to me of the characters and even Maggie was surprised by my anecdotes.

At 3pm Maggie issued the punters out. I was ready to go and not sure what to say to Stella. Should I invite her back home? Would she want to come? But Maggie bolted the door and I knew that we could stay. It was a marvellous afternoon with Stella putting on our favourite music on the jukebox. We fell into each other’s arms dancing and laughing and swooning about each other as if we had never been apart. Even Maggie, who was a fairly hardened show business woman, seemed happy for us. Later Frank joined us and Stella and I secretly laughed at his impenetrable Scottish accent. Nothing could spoil the day and Stella and I were both very happy.

All the pain of the last two months evaporated. It had never happened.

　

　

　

　

　

Stella said that she was no longer living at Clapham Common, that she found a better room at Honor Oak, again in South East London. I decided not to mention that I had telephoned her Clapham Common address only to be told by the landlady that she, Stella, had suddenly quitted and left a debt of two months rent.

Had I imparted this knowledge to Stella she would have gone ballistic, accusing me of spying on her. Reticence was the only way to avoid the scalding coals of her hot temper.

An elderly couple who were affable and helpful owned the house at Berners Road. They gad taken to Stella saying that she was a kind and thoughtful girl. Apparently she had run a number of errands for them, which cemented even more my admiration for Stella’s obvious generosity of spirit.

The room was on the ground floor front with a large bay window looking out onto a small unkempt garden hidden from the street by a scruffy hedge. The furnishings were in good repair and free of the charity shop persona of tat and used decay that one usually associates with bed sitting rooms.

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

To show Stella how serious I was about her I told her that I would love it if she moved in with me. Yes of course now in retrospect, I know that was crazy, but at the time I truly believed it was the best move I could make. Such an offer would convince her that I was sincere in my feelings for her. She refused, but said that she was fed up with where she was living and had found another place to live in Honor Oak, South London. We made arrangements for a moonlight flit.

I do not know what she said to? To make him leave. She said that it was his decision; he wanted to go back home. All that I know is he never moved with her.

This is now ramdon memories

Who is Plato? She asked with her eyebrows sternly looking at me. I said ‘Whom’, not expecting a question like that to forth for this delightful mouth. ‘I saw the book on your self. I read a few pages. 02/07/03 Ah Plato, he was a man who lived in Athens about a million years ago. ‘

‘Yes’ she said with her elbow on her knee.

‘If you can imagine a cave. Therein are slaves chained. Behind them is a fire. In front of the fire on a conveyer belt are objects – lets us say a vase or sculpture. And other assorted artefacts. The shadows of these objects are thrown against the cave wall in font of the slaves. This is all they see. This to them is reality. The shadows are reality. Then one day one of the slaves breaks free from his chains and goes out into the day. He sees the rolling slopes of grass in all its fine warmth. Beyond are the trees. Standing like men awaiting their well deserve knighthood. Soldiers each one. Up above, the sky was resplendent with clouds of white and blue floating like silk under the milky moons eye.

Stella sat back, opened a new pack of golden Bensons, held the cigarette and started at the air. Her eyes were a monastery, but her mind was a market. I left her to haggle. Then she said,

‘So, what you are saying is that the world that we live in is like the cave. It is not reality, but a dark showdow of what it ought to be? Like being stuck in doors all the time and being depressed. E imagine life is angry and useless, but only because we cannot see the real world which is just outside the window?’

‘Yes that’s it. Sort of. But Plato was saying something much more profound. That even the world is outside is merely a facsimile to what it could be, a place of transient things, things that come and go like fleeting shadows, whereas reality s a place of things that are not only perminatent, but also substantial, universal and for al time. All trees, say, are only a copy of the real or original Tree, which is erminant and fixed as is a vase rather than a painting of the vase.’

‘Is that true of us, then David? Are we only shadows of a perfect reality of ourselves that exists in heaven?’

‘Yes, you could put it like that. Stella, you are wonderful, I have never thought of it like that before. The fact that I am talking to you about it I am beginning to see Plato’s idea in sharper light. He also said hat a person has all the knowledge of the world within him although he is not awearof it. It can be brought forth from an amorphous sew of sensory impressions into an articulated knowledge. In our conversation now, we are doing what Plato had in mind. Now I think of it – we are having a Platonic dialogue. Wonderful! This is why I love you so much Stella; I feel that you are as much my teacher as you might perceive me to be. I have never conversed with anyone like you. In you I feel that I have found a soul mate.’

‘Yes I do understand David.’ said Stella as she took hold of my hand and gently squeezed it. I felt a warm thrill flow through my body and my heart welled up like a balloon invested with divinity. A Goddess and my whole being blossomed into a garden of flowers had touched me. Sweet perfume gently infused our skin and wrapped us in a parcel of Christmas delight. No food had ever tasted so delicious. From today I needed no sustenance, other than her sweet love. In that moment I experienced heaven. I thought that I had been in love before, but that was a pale reflection of what I now felt.

‘Would you like me to dance for you David?’ How could the delights of her body transport me to a higher cloud than that on which I now glided? Yet her offer I could not refuse.

‘Yes, I would Stella’.

‘You put of some music and pour the drinks while I change.’ She said and patting my hand went into the bedroom.

I put on the compilation of Madonna hits that we like. In a way Stella reminded me of Madonna, she had the same carefree confident independence that the star had. In fact I thought that I was actually going out with a film star so beautiful I thought Stella was. I could not believe that she was attracted to me. She was beyond my expectations and far away from my hopes as are movies stars from the desires of their ordinary admirers. I felt so lucky: a star had fallen into my lap.

As I past the bedroom I heard Stella singing along with the music. She seemed happy and I was happy that she was happy. It is in the delight of a loved ones happiness that we find joy, much like when we smile at children opening presents, our hearts glow and conjoin with their expectation and surprise. I felt that I had been given the best present in the world wrapped in golden silk. I wanted to laugh out loud, but suppressed the impulse for surely Stella would think me foolish.

As I poured the drinks I looked out of the window at the overcast sky and the pale wet street. The bare branches of the trees swayed in the cold wind and spots of rain hit the windowpanes and I was glad that I was inside with my love. I pulled down the blind to shut out the unpleasant world and cocoon we two in blissful retreat.

I knocked on the bedroom door, albeit ajar, I did not want to upset Stella by barging in on her,

‘Do you want your voddas now Stella?’ I called. She did no reply, but kept on singing so I thought it best not to disturb her and so took both drinks into the living room. I turned on the lights and pulled close the living room curtains. Then I lit a Silk Cut, took a long draw and allowed the smoke to drift out of my open mouth. It went up my nose. I sneezed and a glob of snot shot into Stella’s drink.

‘What are you doing David?’

I turned as Stella came into the room half dressed. I flushed with embarrassment and spluttered that my drink had gone down the wrong hole. She picked up her drink and said,

‘It looks like spunk doesn’t it.’ Then took a large gulp swallowing the glob. I stared open mouthed. I could not believe that she had drunk my snot. I ought to have been appalled, but I was not, instead I felt, of all things, flattered. That she would drink my mucus, a substance the thought of swallowing most people would recoil, I found gratifying. She had not balked, but had taken my waste as if it were a delicacy, a gift like a chocolate. Her act was at once repulsive and alluring. It was an act of love, but not if judged by societies standards, yet I felt that Stella had enacted a form of Pagan claim. She had asserted her petition, her title over me in that unwholesome yet robust deed of her will to do what it takes to possess me.

I was shocked, humoured and unnerved all at the same time, in one sudden rainbow of emotion. A blade of doubt cut across the certainty of my love for Stella. Was her claim too bold? It had shaken me. The underpinnings of my commitment felt a subtle tremble of – what? If in that moment I had been honest with myself, I might have shrunk away in fear, but so powerful was my desperate hope of winning Stella that I pushed down my fear and let it sink into the deepest part of my psyche.

She laughed and I thought, ‘She knows, she knows what is happing to me, but she cannot know. She is not a witch, nor does she have psychic powers, so she cannot know. Can she?’

“David, stop looking so mixable. I’ll be ready in a moment. I’ll cheer you up. You don’t need any one else. Get ready for the thrill of your life.’

I smiled and felt comforted by her words. Sure everything was okay. I sat down and concentrated on the music and the pleasure if the moment. ‘Each day it goes so fast, you turn around it’s past. You don’t get time to hang a sign on me.’

The words from George Harrison’s song sprang into my mind and I was not going to let a second fly past without enjoying every second. Oh, Stella protect me, let me crumble into your hands and become your slave. I give myself to you completely and utterly, for you are my Goddess, my heaven, and my life.

I sat up onto the back of the sofa with my back against the wall smoking and drinking and waiting for my soul mate to encompass me with her smouldering flesh. I wanted to abandon all guilt, all responsibility and all pretence. I had had enough of strict rules of relationships, the constricting lines that no one seemed to obey but myself. Had I not tried to be decent, kind and caring to my friends only to be treated in return with the operations of opportunists who had no concern for my welfare, but only for the exploitation of my ‘weakness’? Soft touch I have been called by those who belong to the jungle, who indeed understood the naked laws of eat or be eaten, tear or you will be torn, use not be used. Now I have found my protector against the greedy mob. Stella would shield me from their cloches, those who have borrowed money from me and without thought of repayment because they conceder me a lamb ripe for the slaughter. What men are these? Without concern for others, nor consideration for benevolence, those only with a wish to gain from the sensitive soul. What kind of men are these? I do not fit amongst them; a circle cut by squares who see the opportune and never the consequences. Stella is my saviour, my avenging angel, my Queen.

When she walked in the room I had to force myself to return from my far island of anger and return to the now. I could not burden her with my secret exasperations, my fury lest she think me a bitter devil plagued by worse demands. I looked at her and all despair fled.

She wore a red Basque, black panties pulled up over her hips, a pair of black elbow length gloves and a band of gold pulling back tightly her blonde hair painfully from her forehead with the rest of her hair dangling in flowing curls about her wide shoulders. Her arms reached up above her head as she swayed in rhythm to the pounding beat of Madonna’s seductive voice. Her red six-inch high heels carried her about the room tantalising my desire. I swooned.

I would have fainted to the floor at the sight of her had I not held on to the sofa. Let a king behold this and his kingdom he would bestow. Had any man before me felt such passion that I now felt for this devil? For only a devil could produce such sexual craving that drove through my body like an Ocean of boiling blood. Hades and its tar pits could not threaten me nor threat of eternal torment

　

　

　

　

　

　

　