It’s never too late to live your dreams…

Divorcee Lydia is clearing out her attic when she finds an old, dust-strewn notebook, containing a list of her teenage hopes and dreams:

- Overcome fear of flying

- Learn to ice skate like Jayne Torvill

- Sing in front of an audience

- Get a date with a rockstar!

Still petrified of planes and with no celebrity notch on her bedpost in sight, there’s no denying that her younger self would be disappointed. So Lydia elects to tackle her teenage bucket list: one dream at a time!

From falling flat on her bum on an ice rink to a hilarious encounter with a hypnotist, Lydia’s journey throws up more chaos than she ever imagined. Thank goodness her gorgeous friend Des is there to literally hold her hand every step of the way!

But Lydia soon realises that there’s something missing from her list: love. And it could just be that the man who’s helping her achieve the dreams of the past will do much, much more…and unlock the key to her future!

Always Something There to Remind Me

Lilian Kendrick

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Lilian Kendrick 2014

Lilian Kendrick asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781474009102

Version date: 2018-07-23

LILIAN KENDRICK

A semi-retired teacher, Lilian started writing as soon as she realised that the pointed end of the pencil made marks appear on the paper.

She writes poetry and short stories of all kinds, but is most at home with comic verse and flash fiction.

An avid reader of horror and crime stories, Lilian was surprised to find that her preferred genre for novel writing is women’s fiction for readers of ‘a certain age’, with the emphasis on romance.

Her first novel “Sister, Daughter, Mother Wife” was published in 2009. She has also published a collection of flash fiction, “A Flash in the Pan” and a poetry collection “Poems, Prayers and Parodies”.

Some of her poetry was included in an international collaborative anthology, “Poeticising Chat – Rambling Poets at Café Cyber” in 2011.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

I would like to express my gratitude to those who read and reviewed the early drafts of my work, especially my dear friend Trudi Morrissey and my niece, Ronnie Deery.

I should particularly like to mention authors Diane Dickson, Kirk Haggerty and Tonia Marlowe whose critiques helped me to improve the story.

To my beta readers who never fail me.

Chapter 1: Action Plan

We called them rough books or jotters, those thick, grey-covered exercise books we were given for taking notes in at school. The ones we used for ‘real work’ were coloured according to the subject: blue for Maths, yellow for English, green for Geography and so on. Anyway, none of that really matters. What was important was that I’d found a rough book after all those years … well, to be precise I’d found my rough book from year 10. I’d been fifteen and full of it! The battered grey cover was smothered in graffiti: ‘I luv J.G.’, ‘Luvsik Kitten Rules!’ and other similar sentiments declaring my undying love for the band of the moment. Almost thirty years on, I smiled at the memories brought back by my teenage scribblings.

Clearing out the attic had been Trudi’s idea. She thought it was high time I got over the whole divorce thing and put Bob out of my mind for ever. Not that I was thinking about him much by then. The hurt was healing at last. Hearts don’t really break, do they? They just get squeezed out of shape by life, and I was better off without him anyway – everyone said so. Anyway, it was a wet Friday evening in October and, having nothing better to do, I’d decided to tackle the boxes that I’d dragged around unopened for most of my adult life. It was kind of fun – until I opened the rough book and flicked through it. That was when I discovered the list. If I hadn’t found the bloody thing I’d have been fine. ‘My Plans for Life’ – written when I was fifteen – my hopes and dreams summed up in a few bullet points, and here I was, well past my sell-by date, and I’d achieved hardly any of them. Where did I go wrong? How did those dreams escape so easily? Unable to come up with the answers, I did what any woman would do in the circumstances: I sat on the floor and cried my heart out.

* * * * *

The next day, Des called round for breakfast. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and he was just what I needed. He always knew the right thing to say. Over bacon sandwiches, I revealed the cause of my distress.

‘Why don’t you just go for it?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The list – why not do all the things on your list? How hard can it be?’

I loved his optimism. I’d known Des for eight months. We’d met at a Creative Writing group I joined just after my divorce and had been great mates ever since. He was a dreamer too, but he had this really positive outlook and once he made up his mind to do something it usually got done. If anyone could make dreams come true it was Des. He asked me to give him the list.

‘I’ll help you. We can do this.’ Then he looked at it and laughed out loud. ‘Lydia, honey, you are one crazy lady.’

‘It’s impossible, right? I’m just one big, fat failure destined to live a life of disappointment!’ I was close to tears again, but Des put his arm around my shoulders and stroked my hair.

‘Not at all; you’re just unhappy and lacking in confidence.’ He hugged me. ‘But, you’re also a bit of a drama queen.’ He released me and sat at my desk. ‘Now let’s look at your list again and get this show on the road.’

So Des drew up an action plan. Seriously, he tackled my list as if it were a business proposition.

‘We need targets,’ he said, ‘SMART targets.’

‘As opposed to dumb ones?’

‘It’s an acronym … S.M.A.R.T. Your targets should be Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic and Time-scaled. That’s how it’s done in the business world.’

‘We may have a problem with achievable and realistic,’ I said, looking over his shoulder at the table he was creating on my laptop.

‘Don’t hit me with them negative waves so early in the morning.’ Des’s impression of Donald Sutherland in Kelly’s Heroes always cracked me up.

So we set about our plan of action, because now it somehow belonged to Des too. I wasn’t alone any more and he was determined not to let me fail. I printed the action plan and stuck it on the fridge.

Chapter 2: Facing My Fear

‘So you’ve never been on a plane?’ Des was amazed. ‘How does that work? Haven’t you been abroad?’

‘Of course I have. I just don’t fly. It scares me.’

‘How do you know if you’ve never done it? I mean, you wrote this when you were fifteen, right? Most kids of that age are dying to travel the world. They don’t know what fear is.’

‘Well, maybe I do … er … did. Anyway, I had my reasons and I’m still scared, OK?’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No, thanks. Shall I make more coffee?’

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Des, or that I thought he wouldn’t understand; it was just too difficult for me to open up to anyone about … well, anything really, but especially about that. I still wake up at night sometimes, remembering Mum crying when she told me Dad had suffered a fatal heart attack, flying home from his cousin’s funeral in Ireland. I was nine at the time and he was my world. I blamed the plane, of course. At nine, I didn’t know any better, but the idea stuck with me.

Des squeezed my shoulder gently. ‘I’ll make the coffee. You get onto Mr Google and see if you can find out how to get over this.’

* * * * *

There are lots of ways to overcome your fears, I’ve discovered. There are also lots of companies advertising on the Internet who can’t actually deliver the goods.

I googled ‘fear of flying’ and soon found a number of likely looking courses that claimed they could help me. I’d probably have done better to go to one of the major airlines who all offer courses, but the cost was prohibitive. I was struggling to keep up with the mortgage payments, so I certainly didn’t have £250 to spend on a day at the airport. So I searched for a cheaper alternative and came across the telephone number of Max Mesmero, stage hypnotist turned therapist, who assured me, in a rather sexy dark brown voice, that he could cure my problem in one session for the modest sum of £30. My appointment was for 6.30 p.m. which meant a mad dash home from the office to change into something more comfortable than the business suit and court shoes I was obliged to wear for work. Being a natural slob, I’m much more at home in jogging bottoms and a baggy sweater. I found the house with ease. It was only a ten-minute walk from mine, but the street was poorly lit and as I stepped onto the driveway I could hardly see a thing. I wondered if I was doing the right thing. I should have asked Trudi or Des to come with me. My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Des.

‘Lyd, I just had a thought. What if this guy’s a maniac? You shouldn’t be going there alone.’

‘I was just thinking the same thing. I’m outside his house now.’

‘Give me the address. I’ll drive round and wait outside for you. Keep your phone in your hand with my number on speed dial, then if there’s any problem I’ll be there to help.’

My hero! I relaxed and managed a laugh.

‘OK, Superman, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ I gave him the address and we agreed to go to the pub after my session.

Max’s appearance was theatrical, to say the least. He answered the door wearing a dark green, velvet smoking jacket with a white silk cravat. His long, jet-black hair (obviously dyed) fell in loose curls around his collar and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee beard and moustache, speckled with grey. He scrutinised me with his piercing brown eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose as if deep in thought before greeting me.

‘Welcome, Lydia, to my humble abode. Step inside and together we will conquer your fears.’

I heard a car pull up in the street behind me and knew that my backup was in position, so I took a deep breath and followed Max Mesmero through the dimly lit hallway and into a room festooned with brightly coloured posters of his former life in the theatre.

I sat in a reclining armchair, and Max positioned himself on a stool facing me. An anglepoise lamp stood on a coffee table and he adjusted its position until it was pointing straight at me. I turned my face away from the glare.

‘Try not to close your eyes,’ he said. ‘At least, not yet.’ He reached across and turned my head back towards him and the light. The physical contact made me nervous and I clutched my phone even tighter. Des was outside and he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

Max produced the obligatory watch and chain from his jacket pocket and held it in front of my face. Its highly polished surface sparkled as it swung gently, catching the light.

‘What is it that you fear?’

‘Flying,’ I replied. ‘Everyone I know can just get on a plane and go somewhere, but I can’t bear the thought of it. I get sick at the very idea.’

‘Look into my eyes, Lydia, and relax.’ Max’s voice was … well … hypnotic, I suppose, and despite my nerves, I soon found myself drifting off as he spoke. ‘I want you to imagine you are in a peaceful place. Think about the most relaxing and happy location you know …’

I closed my eyes and I was there … a warm sea breeze caressed my face as I lay on the sunlounger. My happy place was Diano Marina, on Italy’s Riviera of Flowers. I was on the roof terrace of the hotel, alone; the others were at the beach.

‘Are you there, in your happy place?’ He had such a soothing voice, it was impossible not to relax. I nodded slowly and snuggled deeper into the chair. ‘Can you describe it for me? What do you see?’

‘Acres of blue sky and golden sunlight.’

‘And what are you doing?’

‘Sunbathing and daydreaming.’

‘That’s great, Lydia. Look at the sky for me. What do you see there?’

‘A few seagulls, circling overhead.’ I smiled as a thought struck me. ‘It’s almost lunchtime and they know it. It’s Italy – there’ll be pizza somewhere soon.’

‘Indeed there will. What will the birds do then?’

‘They’ll swoop down and try to steal it, like they always do.’ I yawned. I could feel the heat of the sun and wondered if I should be applying more lotion.

‘Focus your attention on one of the gulls. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, it’s circling above you and coming down. It’s perching on the guard rail. Can you see it there?’

I nodded as I looked at the huge bird. It was eyeing me curiously, but it made no attempt to move. Max droned on, giving me instructions.

‘Walk over to the guard rail and make friends with the bird. There’s a cracker on the table; feed it to him.’

I rose from the sunbed and picked up the cracker. I walked slowly towards the gull, anxious not to spook him. I offered the cracker to the bird at arm’s length. He cocked his head to one side and then reached out and took it, oh so gently, and hopped down to eat it at my feet.

‘Think yourself small, Lydia. You are shrinking, down, down, down in size.’

I was tiny, standing eye-to-eye with the gull; it had now finished eating and was looking at me intently. For a minute I thought it was going to have me for dessert!

‘Don’t be afraid, Lydia. He’s not going to hurt you. See – he’s waiting for you to climb onto his back.’

The gull sat down! I don’t know if that’s the right term to use for when a bird’s legs disappear underneath it and it sort of rests, but that’s what it looked like. I did as I was instructed and hauled myself onto his back. It was surprisingly comfortable. I could hear Max telling me not to be afraid; to relax and tell him what was happening. It was hard to speak at first as my feathered friend took off gracefully and soared into the sky with me on board! We dipped a little and turned right, heading towards the mountains.

‘I’m flying!’ I managed to get the words out at last. ‘I’m sitting on the back of a seagull and flying towards the mountains. Oh my God! I’m actually flying!’

‘You’re not afraid are you, Lydia?’

‘Not at all!’ I surprised myself with that statement. ‘It’s wonderful; I could stay up here for ever.’

I reached forward and patted the head of my seagull. ‘Thank you, sweetheart! Thank you!’ For several minutes we swooped and glided, then the gull turned back towards the town. I could see the beach on the right, far below us, and we started a gentle descent as the hotel came into view up ahead on the left. That was when it all went horribly wrong! The sky was darkening rapidly as we neared the rooftop and then …

The explosion shattered the trance and I sat bolt upright in the chair and shrieked.

‘We’re going to crash! We’re going to crash!’ Max jumped up from his stool and came to calm me down. He sat on the arm of the chair and took my hand.

My thumb, acting independently, pushed the speed-dial button on my phone and through my sobs I could hear Des shouting, ‘I’m coming in!’

Max stroked my hand. ‘It’s a thunderstorm, that’s all. Nothing to be afraid of.’

I felt like an idiot as I came fully to my senses and realised that the rain was lashing against the window and periodic flashes of lightning were illuminating the rather overgrown garden.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Mesmero …’ I began, taking a deep breath to control myself. The door burst open at that moment. Max leapt to his feet and turned to face the intruder just in time for his nose to collide with Des’s fist. He lost his balance and fell to his knees, howling in agony and holding his cravat over his nose which was bleeding profusely. Des stepped around him and came to my side.

‘Are you OK, Lyd? What happened? Should we call the police?’

Fortunately for all of us, Max Mesmero’s nose wasn’t broken and he decided not to press charges, as long as I agreed to pay for the damage done to his front door when Des broke in.

So I left his house fifty quid poorer and still terrified of flying.

Chapter 3: Stars on Ice

I hate Wednesdays. I used to think it was because Wednesday is as far from last weekend as it is from the next one. That may well have been true once upon a time, but nowadays the weekends aren’t that great either. Whatever the reason, I was having an attack of the usual Wednesday blues when Trudi called round after work.

Trudi and I go way back. We were at school together a hundred years ago, or so it seems. The boxes I was rummaging through were full of shared memories and proved to be a fine source of entertainment.

‘I can’t believe you’ve still got all this stuff!’ She flicked through the rough book that was on the coffee table, stopping at the list. ‘Ah, there it is! I threw mine out years ago.’

‘I’d forgotten you had one too.’

‘Oh yes! We wrote them together, one wet lunchtime when we had to sit in the library.’

It was coming back to me now. ‘Yours was much more sensible than mine, though. All about passing exams and earning loads of money.’ I laughed. ‘Actually, you did pretty well on both of those, didn’t you?’

‘Your exam results were better than mine, and the money never seemed to matter to you.’

‘No, I don’t suppose it did much. I just wanted to be happy …’

‘It’s never too late, Lyd. Now you’ve found your list again, you can make it all happen.’

‘That’s what Des said.’

She squealed with amusement then, as she picked up a copy of Go Girl!, the magazine I’d been addicted to thirty years ago.

‘Josh Greenwood!’ she shrieked. ‘You still have all the pictures of him! You were totally obsessed.’ She leafed through the pile of battered posters on the coffee table. ‘So what are you going to do with them? eBay?’

I stared at her in amazement. ‘How can you even think it? I could never part with them. He’s still on my “most wanted” list.’ I smoothed the creases out of an ancient picture, cut from a magazine so long ago. It had always been my favourite and for years it had occupied the place of honour on my bedroom wall, right where it would catch my eye as soon as I woke up in the morning, fresh from dreaming about him! Glossy, black hair framed a perfect face with brown eyes to die for, dramatically outlined with black eyeliner. His dark shirt was open to the waist revealing the band’s name, ‘Luvsik Kitten’, tattooed above his heart. How my teenage hormones used to race! Trudi studied the picture with me.

‘Hmm! He was pretty, I suppose, but he was never my type,’ she said.

‘I seem to remember you always liked older men.’

‘Cary Grant and Frank Sinatra, that’s right. Real men.’

‘You sound like my mother sometimes!’ I laughed.

‘So how’s it going with your list? Are you ready to fly around the world yet?’

‘Not quite. The hypnosis thing didn’t work out. I don’t want to talk about it.’

But of course, an hour later, after we’d shared a bottle of wine, I told her all about it.

‘I’d love to have been there,’ she said, hardly able to contain her giggles. ‘I can just imagine it!’

‘I bet you can’t. I felt such an idiot. Scared of a thunderstorm, and then Des rushing in like some kind of superhero and punching the guy …’

‘That’s rather sweet really, having your own personal bodyguard. Anyway, when am I going to meet your Des?’

I felt a blush rising from the base of my neck, but I didn’t really know why. ‘He’s not my Des; he’s just … Des, and I suppose you can meet him any time you like.’

‘OK, so he’s not your Des, but I’d still like to meet him. Bring him over tomorrow night.’

‘We can’t come tomorrow. It’s our writing group on Thursdays.’

‘OK, the pub a week on Saturday?’

‘Maybe. I’ll ask him. Anyway, I’ve given up on the flying for now.’

‘So what’s next?’ She was looking at the list. ‘Skating?’

‘I suppose so, but that’s even scarier than flying.’

‘It’s easy. I’ll teach you. We can start on Monday after work if you like.’

Oh dear, I’d be lucky to get out of this without a few broken bones.

* * * * *

Trudi was waiting for me in the car park at the Ice Cube, her skates slung around her shoulders. She looked me up and down as I got out of the car.

‘I’m glad you took my advice about the leggings.’

‘I hate the things. They make me look huge. I wish I’d worn jeans.’

‘Jeans get damp when you fall and then they’re too heavy to move about in.’

‘You’re not exactly inspiring me here.’

‘Everyone falls over sometimes, especially beginners.’

Standing up in skates was a nightmare. For the first time in my life I realised why it takes babies so long to learn to walk. I don’t think I’d ever considered it before. My ankles didn’t want to co-operate at all and kept trying to bend at angles they weren’t designed for, and that was before I got onto the ice.

‘This is never going to work,’ I moaned as I lurched towards the barrier and leaned against it. I don’t think I can even make it to the ice.’

‘Of course you can. It gets easier.’

Clinging onto the barrier for dear life I followed Trudi towards the opening that led onto the rink, aware that the place was full of future Olympic stars practising their routines. Well, it seemed that way to me, anyway. Loud music blared out all around, and I watched in awe as people glided effortlessly across the ice. Trudi was halfway around and I hadn’t even stepped out.

How hard can it be? I thought, as a little girl of about seven years old flew past me. I put one foot forward, then the other, but somehow my hand was still welded to the rail. I was sure everyone was watching me, and I was on the verge of retreating when Trudi completed her circuit and stopped in front of me.

‘Take my hand,’ she yelled, above the noise of the music. I reached out for her and hesitantly let go of my support. All was well, for precisely five seconds, until my brain realised what was happening, then my feet took off in opposite directions and my backside made contact with the ice for the first of many scheduled encounters. As I struggled to my feet, aided by Trudi and some passing teenagers, the music changed and I tottered over to the barrier again to the unmistakable strains of Ravel’s Bolero.

Eat your heart out, Jayne Torvill. Given another ten years I might just give you a little competition. I laughed at the idea and straightened up. The dream would have to be modified a little – instead of dancing on ice, I’d have to settle for walking on ice. After all, it was my dream so I could do what I liked with it!

‘If at first you don’t succeed …’ I muttered, scrutinising the movements of the other skaters. Trudi was chatting to a man nearby; flirting, I thought, and leaving me to struggle alone, but then they came over to me.

‘Lyd, this is Richard. He works here,’ she said.

‘Uh?’ I grunted as I hauled myself upright again. My feet just couldn’t get a grip. Richard and Trudi stood either side of me and took a hand each. Richard smiled and I looked at him for the first time. He was a mere boy of about thirty, with floppy, blond hair and wire-framed glasses.

‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘you’re going to do this. Now, place your feet further apart to distribute the weight more evenly and bend your knees slightly, then let your thighs take the strain. Lean forward a bit.’

I did as I was told and felt a little more balanced and at ease, despite the embarrassment of hearing a young man talk about weight and thighs.

‘Feel better?’ Trudi asked.

I nodded and forced a smile. Richard squeezed my hand lightly as a new tune started to play – the theme from Love Story.

‘OK, we’re going to do all the work to begin with. Just relax and don’t move your feet.’

That seemed strange, but they were the experts. We started to move, or rather they were moving and I was being pulled along between them. It felt good to be gliding with everyone else and I even found myself leaning in the right direction when we took the curves.

We made it all the way back to our starting point and Richard took me around again, without Trudi this time. His right arm was around my waist and he held my left hand in his.

‘Push forward with your right foot, take the weight on your thigh, and then bring the left foot forward the same way. It’s just like being on a scooter.’ He guided me, telling me when to make my moves and we almost managed another circuit before I lost my footing again and brought us both crashing down in a heap. His glasses flew off and, as he helped me to get up, I felt them crunch beneath the blade of my skate.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

‘Please, don’t worry about it.’ The reply came through gritted teeth.

The expression on his face spoke volumes as he accepted my apology, made his excuses and left me to my own devices. I decided enough was enough and stumbled off the ice to the seating area to wait out the rest of the session while Trudi carried on skating.

On the way out, Richard asked for my phone number.

‘I’ll call you when I know how much the new glasses will cost,’ he said.

As soon as we hit the car park, Trudi and I capsized with laughter.

‘For a moment there I thought you’d pulled.’ Trudi shook her head.

‘Instead of which, I’ll have another bill coming in. This bucket list is getting expensive!’

Chapter 4: Writing Group

I’d been going to the writing group for about eight months. To tell the truth, I almost threw in the towel after the first two weeks, because I felt so far out of my comfort zone. Everyone seemed to think I was a bit of an oddball because I laugh when I get nervous and sometimes that’s not the reaction people expect. I’d been writing for years, but I’d never let anyone else read my stuff. Bob wasn’t interested and … well, there’d never really been anyone else to talk to about it. Sharing my stories didn’t come easily and everyone else seemed so full of confidence. I’d only joined as an alternative to vegetating at home alone. Anyway, I showed up for the third session, convinced it would be my last, and it all changed. That was the week Des spoke to me for the first time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed him before, of course. Everyone noticed Des, especially Tess, the group leader. At first I thought they were ‘together’, but it soon became clear that wasn’t the case. Well, that night, I arrived just as the session was about to start. I glanced around, deciding where to sit so I wouldn’t be noticed; then Des arrived and ushered me to a seat.

‘Latecomers have to sit at the “naughty” table,’ he said with a smile that would have melted an iceberg. ‘I’m Des and I’m a … lousy writer.’ He feigned embarrassment and I laughed as I shook the hand he offered.

‘I’m Lydia and I’m probably worse,’ I replied. That was the start, and now, months down the line, we had a comfortable, easy-going friendship based on laughter and shared tastes in books and music.

* * * * *

We sat together in the back room of the pub where the meetings were held. There were twelve of us in the group most weeks. Three of them were really pretentious gits who thought everything should be ‘literary’ and ‘worthy’. A couple of the others could spin a good yarn, and then there were some who never said anything, but took copious notes. I often wondered what they found to write. Some weeks we read and critiqued each other’s work, but this time we had a guest speaker, Eve something-or-other. She wrote romance and she was talking about how to write sex scenes

‘First, you need to get over your own feelings,’ she said. ‘If the scene embarrasses you, the odds are it will embarrass your reader. Be comfortable with the terminology you use. It’s often better to use the proper names for body parts, for example, especially if you’re writing in the third person …’

Des whispered, ‘Who’s this third person? The first two haven’t “done it” yet, and now it’s a ménage à trois?’

I stifled a giggle and took a gulp of my Diet Coke. ‘Shut up! You’re embarrassing me,’ I hissed, but there was no stopping him.

‘You have to get over these feelings of embarrassment.’ He mimicked Eve Thingybob perfectly and I could barely control the laughter.

‘Behave yourself, Desmond.’ I thumped his thigh with my fist. He wriggled in his seat.

‘Ooh, that hurt,’ he muttered, and then, ‘do it again, please …’ He continued to tease throughout the rest of the talk and I did my best not to laugh out loud. The man was incorrigible at times, but such good fun. I couldn’t help but respond to the twinkle in his green eyes and the warmth of his smile.

‘What got into you tonight?’ I asked, on the way home in my car. ‘I’ve never seen you like that before.’

‘The truth? I was a bit … er … embarrassed by all that stuff. You know … the sex talk. I couldn’t write a sex scene if my life depended on it. I’m not even sure I want to.’

I almost laughed, but a sideways glance at Des revealed that he was deadly serious.

‘So, what happens next week when we have to share our own efforts with the rest of them? Are you going to chicken out?’

He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I guess so. I can’t do it, Lyd.’

‘Nonsense! You just need a little help, that’s all.’

‘Talking of help, I was thinking about your list.’ He was changing the subject with no subtlety whatsoever. ‘If you’re going to go on a talent show, you should get some practice in first. You know, they have a karaoke night at the pub every Saturday?’

‘Really? I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea. I haven’t sung in public since I was twelve, and that was only a school concert. Let me think about it.’

‘Well, you don’t have long before the auditions for Stargazing start. In fact, I downloaded a backing track for you today… just to try out. We can have a run-through now, if you like. That’s if you want to come in for a cuppa.’

I’d just pulled to a halt outside the rather swish-looking building where Des lived.

‘Which song did you get? Nothing too difficult I hope.’

‘Hopelessly Devoted – I think it’s perfect for you.’

In his study, we put it to the test. He was right; the song was OK for me. I could reach all the notes and I didn’t sound too squeaky. I went through it twice and Des applauded; bless his heart.

‘Do you think I sound OK?’ I unplugged the microphone and handed it back to him. He’s very careful with all his gadgets.

‘It’s a good start. We’ll practise again before Saturday and you’ll knock ‘em for six.’ Of course, he was just being nice, but sometimes that’s all you need, isn’t it?

‘Hey, I haven’t said I’ll do it yet!’

‘No, but you will, won’t you?’ There was that smile again …

‘Well, we’ll see. Now it’s your turn.’

‘I’m not the one who wants to be a singer.’

‘I don’t mean singing, you daft sod. You’ve helped me, now let me help you. You want to be a writer, so let me help you write your scene for next week. It’s easy once you get started.’

‘Are you going to write it for me? That’s the only way this could work.’

‘I won’t write it for you; you’re more than capable of doing that for yourself. But I’ll help you. Now, tell me, why is it so difficult? You can write about all your other life experiences, so why not sex? I mean, you have experienced it, haven’t you?’

He laughed. ‘Not for a long time, Lyd. Since Alice left I’ve been a born-again virgin.’

This was a surprising confession. I’d always assumed that Des was pretty active in that area. I don’t know why; we’d never really talked about it before, but he was an attractive bloke with a great sense of humour and he seemed to ooze self-confidence. In fact, throughout the time I’d known him, I’d often wondered why someone with such an amazing personality was friends with a boring old frump like me.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I finally persuaded him to let me help with his writing demon. I left him with strict instructions to be at my place the following evening with the first draft of his sex scene.

Chapter 5: The Accident

‘That’s not possible, Lyd. I’m sorry, but you’re just making excuses now.’

I had the distinct impression that Trudi was cross with me. Well, probably disappointed would be a better word. I couldn’t respond, to tell you the truth, as I was more than a little disappointed myself. I knew it shouldn’t have happened, but it had; I couldn’t explain it to myself, let alone to anyone else. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her, but I needed to … confess, I suppose; to rationalise it somehow. In an ideal world I would have talked it over with Des, but things were far from ideal and I couldn’t quite bring myself to call him. Besides, he hadn’t called me today, either.

‘I didn’t plan it or anything.’ That sounded lame even to my ears. ‘It was accidental.’

‘I’m dying to know how something like that could happen by accident!’ I could hear the laughter in her voice now. Confession wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. ‘You’d better start at the beginning; just give me time to get a drink.’ The phone went silent for a few minutes and I used the time to snuggle more comfortably on the sofa. ‘Go on, then – tell me everything.’

‘Well, you know it was writing group on Thursday …’ I began.

* * * * *

‘This is going to be embarrassing.’ Des inserted his memory stick into the USB port of my laptop. ‘You have to promise you won’t laugh, or I’m not going to show you.’

‘What are you like? I offered to help you, Des; I’m hardly going to make fun of your efforts, am I? Just load up the file and let’s see how you got on.’

I perched the laptop on the arm of the sofa and spent the next ten minutes reading Des’s story while he popped out to the off-licence to get some wine. It wasn’t as bad as I’d been led to expect – certainly nothing that couldn’t be ‘fixed’ with a bit of editing – but there was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that made me feel uncomfortable, if that’s the right word. I could sense the difficulty he’d had with the piece.

He returned with the wine and plonked himself beside me.

‘Well? What’s the verdict? Total crap, or what?’

‘Not at all. I kinda liked it.’

‘Now I’m truly damned with faint praise.’ He raised his hand to his forehead in a gesture of theatrical distress. ‘I told you I was no good at this. Tell me where I’m going wrong.’

This was an improvement. Suddenly, he wanted to try to get it right, so we drank wine and worked on it together, changing a few words here and there, and reading aloud to test the sense of it. Finally we reached the stumbling point. I stopped reading.

‘This is where it doesn’t quite work for me,’ I said. ‘You’ve built up this great atmosphere of sexual tension, but when you get down to describing the act itself the mechanics don’t work.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘No, and you wouldn’t “get it” in the position you’ve described.’ I felt a little warm and tipsy from the wine, and I couldn’t help giggling as I continued. ‘It’s impossible, unless you’re a contortionist.’

Confused and also slightly tipsy, Des reread the paragraph, murmuring, ‘Impossible? Are you sure about that? Seems OK to me.’ It was the first time all evening he’d disagreed with me and I was a bit put out.

‘Trust me, Desmond. It just wouldn’t work. If they made a blue movie with that scene, they’d have to call it Position Impossible.’

‘Position Impossible – I love it,’ Des chuckled. ‘But I still don’t believe you. I think it’s quite … erotic.’

‘More like erratic.’ I laughed and stood up to stretch my back. We’d been leaning over the laptop for an hour and a half. Des stood up too and flexed his shoulders.

‘I’m so stiff,’ he said, and we both giggled like teenagers at the unintended innuendo.

‘Do you want me to give you a massage?’ I offered, only vaguely aware that I was flirting with him … and then … somehow … he was kissing me. Don’t ask me how; I’ve no idea. His lips were firm and warm and his tongue gently teased the roof of my mouth. I found myself responding as he put his arms around my waist and pulled me closer.

How did this happen? What are we doing?

My brain asked the questions, but was too befuddled to wait for the answers. I was powerless to resist; who the heck am I kidding? I didn’t even try to resist. I just sort of melted and thought ‘Oh, this is nice …’ then threw my arms around his neck and caution to the wind as we sank back onto the sofa. His hands moved gently across my back as we kissed and my spine tingled with excitement. I had almost forgotten how it felt to have someone hold me this way. The need to breathe normally forced me to pull back a little and meet his gaze. He was flushed and smiling, but he didn’t release me from the embrace and I rested my head on his shoulder as he laid a trail of tiny kisses down the side of my face and neck. His hands were underneath my sweater now and I could feel their warmth spreading across my bare skin as he slid them up to my shoulders and eased my arms free of the loose-fitting sleeves. I raised my head and he pulled the garment all the way off. For a brief moment I wished I’d chosen a sexier bra, but Des didn’t seem bothered by my choice of underwear as his hands and mouth continued their exploration and the bra soon joined the sweater on the floor.

‘Oh my God,’ I gasped. ‘Where are we going with this?’

Des raised his head and looked at me, his green eyes sparkling. ‘The bedroom?’

I’m not going to go into detail about the rest of the evening, but amongst other things we put Des’s theory to the test and it turned out he was right. It wasn’t Position Impossible after all. Who’d have thought it?

At some point during the night, I woke up and realised he’d gone. I cried a little, convinced I’d just lost my best friend.

Chapter 6: A Star is Born

Despite my protests, Trudi insisted that I should go ahead with the karaoke plan, even though it was now four o’clock and Des still hadn’t been in touch. She came over and I practised a few times, but my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t get over feeling like an idiot about the night before.

‘Put it out of your mind, Lyd. The guy’s a bastard, obviously.’

‘No he isn’t,’ I said. ‘It takes two to tango. He probably feels as stupid as I do and that’s why he hasn’t called.’

‘Did you try calling him?’

‘I’ve had other things on my mind …’

‘No you haven’t. You’ve thought of nothing else all day. Call him now. Put your mind at rest. If he’s gone to ground because the two of you got pissed and lost your marbles last night, then he isn’t the man you thought he was, is he?’ She handed me the phone and left the room.

I stared at the keypad for a couple of minutes before I could summon up the courage to place the call. I heard his voice at the other end of the line.

‘You’re through to the voicemail of Desmond Ryan. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, go ahead after the tone.’

I’ve always been hopeless with voicemail. I never know what to say and after I’ve left a message I always feel really dumb. I wanted to hang up, but he’d know I’d called, so I had to say something.

‘Hi there. It’s only me. Call me back if you get time. Trudi and I will be in the pub at eight-ish. The karaoke starts at nine.’ I ended the call. The ball was now firmly in his court.

By seven-thirty, I’d decided he wasn’t going to call back. Trudi insisted that I put on a little black dress and some make-up for a change. I felt like an advert for Barbie goes to Weight Watchers – the ‘before’ picture! – as we made our way through the bar to the little stage where the DJ was setting up the karaoke equipment. Two large ring binders, containing lists of the available tracks, lay open beside the monitor that would later display the lyrics and there was a pile of cards for would-be performers to write their names and song choices. We took a handful of cards and one of the ring binders and sat down at a table nearby. Leafing through, we soon found the song and filled in one of the cards.

‘Are you going to have a stage name?’ Trudi asked. I thought about it for a minute.

‘No – just Lydia. Let’s wait until I’m discovered before I get delusions of grandeur.’ My stomach was churning as the room began to fill up and more people, mostly young and glamorous, handed their cards over to the DJ and he sorted his running order out on a laptop that was wired into everything else. I checked my mobile for the umpteenth time – still no word from Des. Oh well, what did I expect? If you really want to screw things up with someone, sex will do the trick every time. My failed marriage had taught me that much, if nothing else. Reluctantly, I switched the phone to vibrate.

‘Put that thing away – they’re starting.’ Trudi had come back from the bar and placed two glasses of wine on the table.

‘I’m never drinking alcohol again,’ I said, pushing the glass away from me. ‘From now on, I’m staying in complete control.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

The music started and we turned to watch the first act. A stunning creature who couldn’t have been more than eighteen was belting out I Will Survive, a real karaoke classic, with such confidence I wanted to die.

‘I can’t do this!’ I whispered to Trudi. ‘I’m too old and too nervous.’

‘It’s too late to pull out now. I won’t let you.’

‘You’re as bad as Des!’

‘Not quite,’ she muttered. ‘At least I’m here for you tonight.’

The girl finished her number to rapturous applause and stepped down from the stage into the arms of an equally stunning young man who hugged her enthusiastically. The DJ introduced someone called Patrick, who clearly fancied himself as Rod Stewart and gave an embarrassing rendition of Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? The simple answer to that was … no way.

The DJ nodded at me to indicate that I was up next. There are no words to describe the panic I felt as I rose from my seat and stepped onto the stage, almost bumping into Rod Stewart’s evil twin as he stepped down. Nothing seemed quite real at that point as I stood in a small spotlight, unable to see the audience, and heard the voice over the speakers.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, our next performer is Lydia, and although this is slightly unusual, I have to give her a message before she sings.’

What’s going on here? Just let me get through this, please. I stared at him.

‘A message?’

‘Yes – Janet from behind the bar just gave me this. The caller said you had to get the message before you performed. It must be something very important.’ He was milking the situation for all it was worth; even the audience wanted to know what the message said.

‘What is it?’ I pleaded. The DJ was grinning, so I figured it couldn’t be anything too serious – probably a practical joke of some kind. Eventually he took pity on me and picked up a sheet of paper from his table.

‘OK, love, I’ll put you out of your misery …’ He paused, for dramatic effect. ‘Someone called Des says “See ya tomorrow. Keep Calm and Karaoke!”’

Everybody laughed, including me. The relief was enormous. The music started up, the lyrics appeared on the screen, and I forgot I was nervous. Three minutes and six seconds later, I got down from the stage to an encouraging round of applause. Trudi hugged me and I downed the glass of wine I’d refused earlier, in one gulp. As I sat down to watch the rest of the show, Janet came from the bar and placed a bottle of wine on the table.

‘It’s all right, love. Des has already paid for it,’ she said observing my confusion.

‘He’s here?’ I stood up.

‘Not now. He bought the wine and left as soon as you’d finished your number.’

Chapter 7: Waking Up

It was almost ten o’clock when the doorbell woke me on Sunday morning. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, still dressed in my finery from the night before. I stumbled towards the door in a daze, trying to force my eyes to open fully. Des smiled as he looked me up and down.

‘Hi there, Panda, looks like I missed a good night.’

‘What …?’

Placing his hands on my shoulders, he turned me gently to face the mirror on the wall. I was mortified. My hair was sticking out in all possible directions and last night’s make-up had run, leaving me with huge black circles around my eyes and streaks down both cheeks.

‘I thought you wanted to be Olivia Newton-John, not Alice Cooper,’ he teased, and as I delivered a gentle punch to his arm, I realised things were as normal as they’d ever been.

‘I was so tired I didn’t get as far as the bedroom.’

‘Why don’t you go and sort yourself out – shower, whatever – while I make you some breakfast? I can cook anything you like, as long as it’s toast.’

‘Toast is fine.’ I laughed as I headed for the bathroom to repair the damage.

Over breakfast, Des apologised for not calling on Saturday.

‘I had such a hangover I didn’t get out of bed all day. I’d left my mobile in the kitchen so I didn’t even know you’d called until it was too late.’

‘But you weren’t that drunk on Friday night,’ I ventured, ‘just a bit tipsy.’

‘Not while I was here, but I polished off half a bottle of vodka when I got home.’

‘Drinking to forget?’ I knew I was pushing my luck with this, but we couldn’t go on avoiding the subject for ever. ‘Was it that bad?’

He hesitated just long enough for me to get the message, so I saved him the trouble of replying.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.’

Was that a look of relief on his face, or something else?

‘So have you got a date for your audition yet?’ The subject was successfully changed.

‘They’re supposed to email within the next week.’

‘Right. Well, we’d better push on with the next thing.’ He glanced at the list on the fridge. ‘Josh Greenwood. Let’s ask Mr Google where Josh is these days.’

We sat at the desk with the laptop. We had both developed an aversion to the sofa. I typed ‘Josh Greenwood’ into the search bar, and there seemed to be millions of references. I narrowed the search by adding ‘Luvsik Kitten’ and we soon found my teenage idol.

‘Oh my God! He’s still performing.’ I clicked on the link and a website appeared for a band called ‘Alley Kat’. Apparently, Josh was now leading a group of ageing rockers and they were starting a Christmas tour in two weeks. The ‘gallery’ link led to hundreds of photos of the band in action. He still looked amazing. I gazed at the photos for a few minutes until Des snapped me out of it.

‘Stop perving over the pics and go to the gig guide. If you’re going to get a date with him, we have to get the two of you in the same place first.’

‘I suppose that would help,’ I said, ‘but I’m still not sure how we’ll manage it.’

‘Leave that to me. Hey – they’re going to be in town on Christmas Eve. See if you can get tickets.’

The gig was sold out, but Des was convinced he could get us in, so I put my trust in him.

He sat deep in thought for a few minutes and then his eyes lit up and he leapt to his feet.

‘Gotta go, Lyd. I’ve got an idea, but I need my own computer to get it rolling.’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ll tell you later, if I can pull it off.’

‘When later?’ I knew I sounded desperate.

‘Dunno. As long as it takes, I suppose. I’ll call you.’ He was on his way out of the door already but he turned back and looked at me. ‘About the other night …’ He took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I … er … forgot to say thanks for helping me … with the story.’

Then he was gone before I could even say, ‘You’re welcome.’

* * * * *

Dear Diary,

Sunday afternoon looks set to go on for ever! Since Des left on his secret mission I’ve done the laundry, changed the bed linen, painted my toenails and watched ‘My Fair Lady’ for the millionth time, singing along with everything. There are some advantages to living alone, after all. When Bob and I were together he hated me singing. He used to glare at me and say, ‘Who the hell do you think you are – the Karaoke Queen? Don’t give up the day job.’

After a while, I stopped singing altogether. He’d have died if he’d been there last night. No, on second thoughts, he’d probably have killed me before I could even get up on the stage. I wonder what he’ll think if I do pass an audition for ‘Stargazing’? Will he see me on TV and thank God he ditched me before I could embarrass him? I can almost hear him. ‘I thought this was a talent show? Why have they got that useless cow on? Comic relief?’ Then he’ll laugh and think he’s been really clever.

I put the picture of Josh on the wall above my desk so that I can look at him when I’m writing, and I found some of Luvsik Kitten’s greatest hits on YouTube for inspiration.

So this is who I am – I write, I sing and I dream of my youth – alone.

* * * * *

It was 7 p.m. when I rang his doorbell.

‘What took you so long?’ Des ushered me into the living room.

‘It’s only been half an hour since you called. I’ve been hanging around the house all day waiting.’ I shivered as I took my coat off. ‘Don’t you ever put the bloody heating on?’

‘Sorry, I was busy. I’ll do it now. Go on into the study.’

I sat in the big swivel chair at the desk. Des is a bit of a computer geek and I knew better than to touch anything. He came in and switched on the monitor. I gasped in amazement. There was a website dedicated to the past glories of Luvsik Kitten, with links to the Alley Kat site we’d viewed earlier. LuvsikMemories.co.uk seemed to be a fanzine with all the usual features: photos, reviews, and articles about the band from long ago. There was a place for fans to leave comments and reminiscences. Several women had posted comments about gigs they’d attended and so forth. There was even a forum where fans discussed their musical tastes, favourite band members and anything else they fancied. I was entranced.

‘So, what do you think?’ Des was clearly very pleased with himself.

‘I love it!’ I said. ‘How come we didn’t find it this morning, I wonder?’

Des laughed. ‘Because I didn’t build the site until this afternoon. Is it convincing?’

‘You mean it’s not real?’ I was astounded.

‘That depends what you mean by “real”. Once I publish the site it’ll be a real working website that people can view and join. It has to be, if it’s going to serve our plan.’

‘I’m not sure I see where you’re going with this. Is it legal?’

‘Well, all of the links I’ve used are in the public domain. We need permission to use the photos, but that’s probably not going to be a problem because we’re offering free publicity and not planning to make any money out of it. I’ve emailed the various agents involved and we’ll get answers soon.’

‘So how’s this going to get me a date with Josh?’

‘That really depends on you now, and on what you consider a “date”. Are we talking lunch at the pizzeria so you can tell him you’re his biggest fan? Or do you want the full works – champagne, moonlight and roses, followed by a trip to the moon and stars?’

I had to think about that. ‘I guess I’ll take whatever I can get,’ I answered eventually.

‘Good. That makes it easier all round. Let’s aim for lunch first then.’

‘How are we going to do that?’

Des clicked a tab that we hadn’t yet explored. It gave details of the site’s administrators. Des was listed as editor, and I was listed as assistant editor.

‘This is a new fanzine, so we need the support of the band’s most prominent member. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to make contact with Mr Greenwood and get him to agree to an interview for the website. I propose that you arrange to meet him for lunch to conduct the interview; the rest is in the hands of the gods. If you play your cards right over lunch – who knows? Maybe the rest will follow.’

The rest? Champagne, moonlight and roses – followed by a trip to the moon and stars? Yeah, right - like that was going to happen!

Chapter 8: Seeing Stars

The email from the BBC arrived on Thursday. I stared at the details in my inbox for a few minutes, scared to click and read the contents. If I didn’t get in it would be so disappointing, but if I did … well, that would be terrifying. I looked around me; the office was fairly empty with half of my colleagues on their lunch break.

I’ll leave it until I get home; a few hours won’t make any difference and I’ll have time to put on a brave face before I have to tell anyone.

But that was easier said than done. Throughout the afternoon I could think of nothing else. I was almost grateful when the phone rang at three-fifteen and my supervisor, Liz, called me into her office. My personnel file lay open on her desk.

‘Ah, Lydia,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’

This couldn’t be good. I prepared for the worst and forced a smile. The truth is, she terrified me at the best of times and this was not one of those.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘There are, er, shall we say … issues? I think we should schedule your PM review shortly so we can sort things out.’ She was flicking through her large desk diary. ‘How about Monday at eleven?’ It sounded like a question, but I knew it was an instruction. I nodded.

‘Of course. That’s fine.’ I went back to my desk and rooted through the drawer to find the guidelines on preparing for performance management reviews. I’d have to make sure everything was in order or the Superbitch was sure to find a reason to sack me.

I was clock-watching, still resisting the temptation to open that email, when Des sent me a text at four-thirty.

‘Do you want a lift 2nite?’

I’d forgotten all about the writing group! I sent a quick reply.

‘Yes, please. But come early. I’ve got mail and I don’t want to open it alone.’

I knew it would be easier if Des was with me, whatever the outcome.

Of course, I couldn’t eat anything when I got home, so I had a soak in the bath and almost dozed off. The doorbell snapped me out of it. Wrapping myself in a bath towel I went downstairs.

‘Des, I know I said come early, but this is ridiculous. I’m not dressed.’

‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’ He had thrown his leather jacket on the sofa and was powering up the laptop. ‘Where’s this email?’

‘It’ll come up in Outlook automatically.’

‘That’s not very secure, you know.’ He was looking down the list of messages in my inbox. ‘You should at least password protect it.’

‘Why? I’m the only one who uses the computer.’

‘Well, I’m using it now. I could be snooping around when you’re not looking.’

I laughed. ‘I have no secrets from you. Come to think of it, I have no secrets at all. What you see is what you get.’

‘That’s not a bad deal,’ he muttered as he scrolled to the email from Stargazing. ‘There it is! Now, sit down and let’s see what it says.’

I perched nervously on the edge of the sofa and looked up at the ceiling as I clicked to open the message. Forcing myself to read the words at last, I was overwhelmed by emotion and couldn’t speak for a minute. I turned to Des who was beaming at me. ‘I made it! I got an audition!’

There was an awkward moment when we didn’t quite know what to do, but eventually he broke the tension. ‘Well done, babe. You’re halfway there.’ He hugged me and I really wanted to respond, but I was acutely aware of the fact that I was still wearing nothing but a bath towel, so I pulled away and turned back to the computer.

‘There’s an attachment with all the details,’ I said, ‘but I can’t take it in right now. Why don’t you read it while I go and get dressed? You can fill me in on the way to the pub.’ I shot upstairs before I could change my mind.

The audition was set for a Saturday in two weeks’ time, so we decided to discuss it later and concentrate on the task in hand – sharing our erotic writing with the rest of the scribes. This would be interesting. I hadn’t seen Des’s final draft and he hadn’t even seen a first draft of my story. The subject had been shelved since what I now thought of as our moment of madness.

We’d all been asked to bring six anonymous copies of our work to distribute to the other members and the first half-hour or so was spent passing the stories around so that we could each read a few samples and the note-takers could make notes. I hadn’t got around to reading all of them when Tess called us to order.

‘Good evening everyone. Welcome to our “erotica showcase”.’

There was polite applause as she shuffled through the papers in front of her. ‘I was going to thank you all for coming …’ The group erupted into a fit of self-conscious giggles. ‘But enough of the double entendre; let’s get down to it.’ More giggles followed. ‘Now, behave yourselves for a change and let’s talk about our stories. I must say, I was a little disappointed that a few of you didn’t submit.’

Beside me, Des was on the point of collapsing from laughter. ‘I don’t know how much of this I can stand!’ he whispered. ‘It’s excruciating.’

Tess explained that there were eight stories and she would read them out for us to share our comments and criticisms. The first two stories were pretty good and met with general approval and some constructive criticism. The authors were given the opportunity to ‘own up’, which they did. The next story was mine and it too was well received. In fact, one of the guys said it was ‘hot’, which I took to be a compliment. I raised my hand shyly to claim ownership and Des squeezed my arm and said, ‘Well done.’

Tess read out the title of the fourth story. ‘In Vino Veritas – ooh, a Latin title; we have an intellectual in our midst,’ she joked, before continuing to read. The story was an exquisitely written account of two friends being swept away on the tides of passion after drinking a couple of bottles of wine. It was all too familiar, and I squirmed in my seat. I tried to catch Des’s eye to gauge his reaction, but he was looking at Tess as she read. I guessed he also recognised the situation and was trying not to meet my eyes. As the story finished, everyone applauded. It was clearly the favourite of the night and rightly so. It seemed to have more depth and realism somehow. Everyone loved it.

‘Well, that was a real turn-on and beautifully handled, if I may say so.’ Tess was looking a little flushed. ‘I bet the author enjoyed researching that one.’ Laughter filled the room. ‘So, come on, ‘fess up. To whom do we owe the pleasure?’

There was a long pause before Des raised his hand and acknowledged the story as his. As he accepted the congratulations of the other members, I picked up my coat and bag and slipped out of the room. I’d have to walk home, but I needed to cool off.

Research! So that’s what it was – bloody research! Well, at least now it had a name.

I switched off my phone and walked to Trudi’s instead of going home. There was no way I was going to talk to Des tonight, or ever again, if I could help it.

* * * * *

‘I can’t really understand why you’re so upset, Lyd. You said the episode with Des was a mistake and didn’t mean anything. So why shouldn’t he use it as inspiration for a story?’ Trudi handed me a cup of coffee. ‘Do you need chocolate as well? I have emergency supplies for friends in distress.’

‘He used me for bloody research! I reckon he planned the whole thing. I feel so cheap.’

‘You don’t know that. The way I see it, the two of you got all hot and bothered writing steamy stories and got carried away. You both regretted it and swept it under the carpet, then Des decided to turn the lesson he’d learned into something positive and enhanced his writing. You should be flattered. You offered to help him and you have.’

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want to be his research project.’

‘So what do you want to be? His girlfriend? The love of his life? His dark and dirty secret? Grow up, Lyd. This is the twenty-first century; people have sex without emotional involvement all the time.’

‘They don’t all tell the world about it!’

‘Your writing group hardly constitutes the world and as far as they’re concerned it’s fiction. He didn’t mention your name I take it?’

‘No … but …’

‘But nothing! Does he know you’ve told me about it?’

‘That’s different …’

‘You’re right there. I know you and I feel as if I know Des. Those other people have no idea the story wasn’t entirely fiction.’

‘I only told you because I needed someone to talk to.’

‘Maybe he felt the same, but had no one he could confide in, so he made it into a story; who knows?’

This was something I hadn’t expected. She was supposed to be on my side, not making excuses for that … that ratbag! I needed sympathy, not common sense, so I went home.

Chapter 9: Explanations

Sleep evaded me for a long time and when it eventually arrived it brought the weirdest of dreams. The screech of the alarm clock dragged me kicking and screaming into Friday, accompanied by a raging headache. From the bathroom mirror an old woman glared at me – pale and drawn, with red-rimmed eyes.

I can’t face work today! Superbitch will have a field day if I screw up.

I called in sick, knowing that Liz wouldn’t be in the office yet. I left a message on her voicemail, trying to sound as feeble as possible, and crawled back to bed. I didn’t wake up again until noon. The headache had gone and I felt a little stronger. The message light on the answering machine was blinking, but I decided I couldn’t check my messages without a gallon of coffee. There were seven unread text messages on my mobile, four missed calls and two voicemails – all from Des. My first instinct was to delete them all but something stopped me.

Is Trudi right? Am I overreacting here? Should I at least give him a hearing?

Eventually, I picked up the phone and listened to the voice messages; both had been left last night.

‘Lyd, where are you? I looked around and you were gone. Call me.’ This was ten minutes after I’d left the pub. The second message was timed an hour later.

‘OK, so I’m outside your house and you’re not at home. Call me, please?’ He sounded concerned. The text messages were all the same, sent every few hours.

‘Lyd, call me!’ He was nothing if not persistent.

Should I call him? Can we sort this out and go back to the way we were?

I was surprised to realise just how much I wanted that, especially when I checked the landline and found he’d left two more messages there. I was almost ready to swallow my pride and pick up the phone when the doorbell rang.

Des was holding an enormous potted plant and I couldn’t quite see his face when I opened the door.

‘It’s a Peace Lily,’ he said, thrusting it into my arms. ‘I have a feeling we need to make peace.’

Without a word I led him into the kitchen and placed the plant on the window sill, before turning to face him.

‘You shouldn’t have done it, Des,’ I said.

‘You’re not talking about the plant, are you? This is all about the story and what happened last week.’

‘Yes. You should have told me you wanted practical research for your writing. We could have found you a prostitute. You didn’t have to use me that way.’

‘Ouch! That’s not how it was, Lyd. I didn’t set out to do it deliberately. What we did wasn’t “research”, as you put it, but it did become inspiration. Writers use experience to inform their fiction. I had no idea it was going to upset you or I wouldn’t have done it.’ He was looking into my eyes and I knew he meant it. I felt my anger and hurt slipping away.

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