loud, confronted by Neil’s prejudices.
‘You just don’t understand. If the attraction is mutual, age is neither here nor there.’
‘But …’ he spluttered.
‘Anyway, it’s over now and I can see you’re clearly not willing to provide me with a shoulder to cry on.’ I slipped off the barstool.
‘Lily!’
‘Fuck you, Neil.’
He’d changed. He wasn’t the Neil that I knew any longer, so it was easy to walk away. Nowadays he spent more and more time at work and each time we saw each other he looked more like an advertising executive and less like my old friend. Tonight he’d arrived in a sharp new suit with his tie half loosened and I’d briefly imagined tearing it off himand tethering him to the chair with it to show him that he wasn’t all that just because he worked in the West End.
Neil had been no help. It was just me and my memories, good old Lily and her sadness. I knew I would manage. Time would pass by and the image of Leonard’s face would become more and more unclear as his features faded. Hopefully the feelings he had evoked would also grow fainter and life would continue. Just a blip, I thought. I was determined to make a go of things, and if Leonard had encouraged me to see others, like Liana’s man Alyss had, to extravagantly sample life and its box of delights and what it had to offer while I was still young, I would. Not that I felt young; right now I felt like a million years old.
I’d seen a Holy Criminals gig advertised in
Time Out
and, on a whim, tried to get a ticket but it was sold out. When I mentioned it to Jonno at the shop, he told me he knew someone in their management’s office and volunteered to give her a call to try to get me on the guest list, although he joked that I’d never expressed any interest in the band until their drummer had come into the shop with his Icelandic buddies.
I arrived at the venue with my warpaint on – dark-purple lipstick, thick black eyeliner and short hair gelled – and wearing leather from top to bottom alongside my Doc Marten boots that Leonard had never liked. My name was on the list at the door as promised, and I was even allowed a plus one, although I had come alone. Jonno was not a fan of the controversial Viggo Franck and his band either.
I was even given an all-access badge, which allowed me to visit backstage.
I noticed Viggo immediately, all wild hair and tighttrousers. He was in a corner, surrounded by women lapping up every one of his dubious witticisms. I moved to the other end of the Green Room, where the drinks were generously laid out on a long table, with fruit, meats and cheese in abundance. I was clumsily balancing my plastic glass of red wine and a plate in which I had piled up crisps, nuts and an egg-and-cress sandwich, when someone brushed against me. I turned round.
‘I like your hair short.’
‘I didn’t think you’d recognise me.’
‘I never forget a teardrop,’ Dagur said.
I was allowed to watch the whole gig from the stage wings with some of the other hangers-on. The set was powerful and theatrical, even if the music still wasn’t on my precise wavelength.
Afterwards, Viggo retreated to his dressing room with a couple of tall short-skirted blondes in his wake. Dagur, still dripping with sweat, shirtless and exhibiting a splendid tattoo of a horse carved dark and deep into the taut skin of his back, approached me and winked. There was nothing sleazy about the way he did so, it was just a complicit way of smiling at me.
Nevertheless, I moved closer to him and, with slow deliberation, ran my hand over his brow. He kissed me. His lips were firm and demanding and when I leaned into his arms, he responded by placing just one hand lightly on each of my hips and holding me still so that he could continue to concentrate on pleasuring my mouth. He didn’t try to grope me or take advantage of his position too soon, and his way of keeping me simultaneously aroused but also at arm’s length attracted me
‘You just don’t understand. If the attraction is mutual, age is neither here nor there.’
‘But …’ he spluttered.
‘Anyway, it’s over now and I can see you’re clearly not willing to provide me with a shoulder to cry on.’ I slipped off the barstool.
‘Lily!’
‘Fuck you, Neil.’
He’d changed. He wasn’t the Neil that I knew any longer, so it was easy to walk away. Nowadays he spent more and more time at work and each time we saw each other he looked more like an advertising executive and less like my old friend. Tonight he’d arrived in a sharp new suit with his tie half loosened and I’d briefly imagined tearing it off himand tethering him to the chair with it to show him that he wasn’t all that just because he worked in the West End.
Neil had been no help. It was just me and my memories, good old Lily and her sadness. I knew I would manage. Time would pass by and the image of Leonard’s face would become more and more unclear as his features faded. Hopefully the feelings he had evoked would also grow fainter and life would continue. Just a blip, I thought. I was determined to make a go of things, and if Leonard had encouraged me to see others, like Liana’s man Alyss had, to extravagantly sample life and its box of delights and what it had to offer while I was still young, I would. Not that I felt young; right now I felt like a million years old.
I’d seen a Holy Criminals gig advertised in
Time Out
and, on a whim, tried to get a ticket but it was sold out. When I mentioned it to Jonno at the shop, he told me he knew someone in their management’s office and volunteered to give her a call to try to get me on the guest list, although he joked that I’d never expressed any interest in the band until their drummer had come into the shop with his Icelandic buddies.
I arrived at the venue with my warpaint on – dark-purple lipstick, thick black eyeliner and short hair gelled – and wearing leather from top to bottom alongside my Doc Marten boots that Leonard had never liked. My name was on the list at the door as promised, and I was even allowed a plus one, although I had come alone. Jonno was not a fan of the controversial Viggo Franck and his band either.
I was even given an all-access badge, which allowed me to visit backstage.
I noticed Viggo immediately, all wild hair and tighttrousers. He was in a corner, surrounded by women lapping up every one of his dubious witticisms. I moved to the other end of the Green Room, where the drinks were generously laid out on a long table, with fruit, meats and cheese in abundance. I was clumsily balancing my plastic glass of red wine and a plate in which I had piled up crisps, nuts and an egg-and-cress sandwich, when someone brushed against me. I turned round.
‘I like your hair short.’
‘I didn’t think you’d recognise me.’
‘I never forget a teardrop,’ Dagur said.
I was allowed to watch the whole gig from the stage wings with some of the other hangers-on. The set was powerful and theatrical, even if the music still wasn’t on my precise wavelength.
Afterwards, Viggo retreated to his dressing room with a couple of tall short-skirted blondes in his wake. Dagur, still dripping with sweat, shirtless and exhibiting a splendid tattoo of a horse carved dark and deep into the taut skin of his back, approached me and winked. There was nothing sleazy about the way he did so, it was just a complicit way of smiling at me.
Nevertheless, I moved closer to him and, with slow deliberation, ran my hand over his brow. He kissed me. His lips were firm and demanding and when I leaned into his arms, he responded by placing just one hand lightly on each of my hips and holding me still so that he could continue to concentrate on pleasuring my mouth. He didn’t try to grope me or take advantage of his position too soon, and his way of keeping me simultaneously aroused but also at arm’s length attracted me
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