again into the light. It’s like being moved and dragged by giant, friendly waves under a smiling moon and not once wondering why – or how you’ll get back to the shore, or if you’ll be all alone when you get there. Alone like on Desert Island Discs.
‘I’d like “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor because it reminds me of this man I met.’
It’s not like that here. He’s not going to go and neither am I. We’re meant to be together and know it. Even if I were old and grey with wrinkles he’d still love me. He won’t have an affair. I prepare salads in a big earthenware bowl and I love to watch him eat them. I love his appetite for me – for life.
The nice thing about the life I have somewhere in the Mediterranean with this gorgeous man is that after we’ve made love we get up without dread. We get up and do the things we need to do, and they don’t drag us down. We know life’s not always cherry pie and cream. I get on with my things and he gets on with his. We have our own space, and we have our own enthusiasms. There are friends too – good friends. They come round for big meals which we both prepare. I’m a good cook when I’m in the Mediterranean. I can even make cheese soufflé and hold a conversation about water irrigation.
They’re much better than my fantasies about Mell Nichols – these hours I spend in the Mediterranean. Quite a bit of the time I’m on my own, wandering through my scented garden, s wimming in the sea, weaving, sun-bathing. I don’t have to slurp Factor 18 all over myself here either. The ozone layer is just fine. I use natural dyes in my weaving – I make lovely big woven pictures that sell well in the big city, which I have not named. I haven’t named my gorgeous man either. I haven’t even really seen his face. I know it’s a nice face, but the image is never clear.
It’s all a dream anyway. A dream, that’s all it is. People don’t live like that. People don’t love like that. Love…we only have a few paltry linguistic labels for that thing; the thing that hurls us like a bob-sleigh into the depths of our own hearts.
Susan thinks my Mediterranean man sounds great. I think she may snitch bits of him for her novel. When she isn’t going on about every man on earth being married, she’s very romantic. Deep down she’s sure she’s going to meet Mr Right, rather than Mr Right Now. I myself am beginning to doubt this because Susan is very fussy. But how can I tell this to a woman who still believes that ‘Things Happen’ after a Badedas bath?
Susan’s just phoned. Hilda, the hunt ball woman from the home, has just escaped. She says I must help find her before the police are called. If the police are called Hilda’s movements will be even more restricted, but if we find her fast maybe no one will notice her bid for freedom. The home is only down the road from Charlie’s house. She must be somewhere in the vicinity.
We spend over an hour in Susan’s car checking the roads and the local pubs and hairdressers. ‘She can’t have gone far,’ Susan keeps saying. ‘I hope she’s all right.’ We’re just about to give up and call the boys in blue when Susan spots Hilda sitting in a large Mercedes talking to an extremely handsome man. He seems to be enjoying the conversation i mmensely. Every so often they both throw their heads back and laugh.
‘Hilda! What on earth are you doing?’ Susan shouts at the car window. It turns out the man, who’s called Liam, spotted Hilda staggering along on her walking frame and offered her a lift into Bray. They were just about to go into a pub for a quick gin and tonic and wonder if we’d like to join them. Susan fumes and fusses for a while and then, since her nursing shift is over, she says okay. She’ll have to ring the home first though and explain that Hilda has been taken out by ‘a friend’.
Two hours later we’re taking Hilda back to the home in Liam’s posh car. Susan and he are talking away like
‘I’d like “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor because it reminds me of this man I met.’
It’s not like that here. He’s not going to go and neither am I. We’re meant to be together and know it. Even if I were old and grey with wrinkles he’d still love me. He won’t have an affair. I prepare salads in a big earthenware bowl and I love to watch him eat them. I love his appetite for me – for life.
The nice thing about the life I have somewhere in the Mediterranean with this gorgeous man is that after we’ve made love we get up without dread. We get up and do the things we need to do, and they don’t drag us down. We know life’s not always cherry pie and cream. I get on with my things and he gets on with his. We have our own space, and we have our own enthusiasms. There are friends too – good friends. They come round for big meals which we both prepare. I’m a good cook when I’m in the Mediterranean. I can even make cheese soufflé and hold a conversation about water irrigation.
They’re much better than my fantasies about Mell Nichols – these hours I spend in the Mediterranean. Quite a bit of the time I’m on my own, wandering through my scented garden, s wimming in the sea, weaving, sun-bathing. I don’t have to slurp Factor 18 all over myself here either. The ozone layer is just fine. I use natural dyes in my weaving – I make lovely big woven pictures that sell well in the big city, which I have not named. I haven’t named my gorgeous man either. I haven’t even really seen his face. I know it’s a nice face, but the image is never clear.
It’s all a dream anyway. A dream, that’s all it is. People don’t live like that. People don’t love like that. Love…we only have a few paltry linguistic labels for that thing; the thing that hurls us like a bob-sleigh into the depths of our own hearts.
Susan thinks my Mediterranean man sounds great. I think she may snitch bits of him for her novel. When she isn’t going on about every man on earth being married, she’s very romantic. Deep down she’s sure she’s going to meet Mr Right, rather than Mr Right Now. I myself am beginning to doubt this because Susan is very fussy. But how can I tell this to a woman who still believes that ‘Things Happen’ after a Badedas bath?
Susan’s just phoned. Hilda, the hunt ball woman from the home, has just escaped. She says I must help find her before the police are called. If the police are called Hilda’s movements will be even more restricted, but if we find her fast maybe no one will notice her bid for freedom. The home is only down the road from Charlie’s house. She must be somewhere in the vicinity.
We spend over an hour in Susan’s car checking the roads and the local pubs and hairdressers. ‘She can’t have gone far,’ Susan keeps saying. ‘I hope she’s all right.’ We’re just about to give up and call the boys in blue when Susan spots Hilda sitting in a large Mercedes talking to an extremely handsome man. He seems to be enjoying the conversation i mmensely. Every so often they both throw their heads back and laugh.
‘Hilda! What on earth are you doing?’ Susan shouts at the car window. It turns out the man, who’s called Liam, spotted Hilda staggering along on her walking frame and offered her a lift into Bray. They were just about to go into a pub for a quick gin and tonic and wonder if we’d like to join them. Susan fumes and fusses for a while and then, since her nursing shift is over, she says okay. She’ll have to ring the home first though and explain that Hilda has been taken out by ‘a friend’.
Two hours later we’re taking Hilda back to the home in Liam’s posh car. Susan and he are talking away like
Similar Books
