That I’ve Found You’. The music, whether Motown or Stevie Winwood, would become legend, but unlike my go-go flatmate, I was never a very enthusiastic dancer. The cool way to do it was to make the appropriate hip-shaking gestures, copying the better dancers’ moves, managing to keep in time – and looking as if you couldn’t really be bothered.
I wasn’t a great beauty, but I had smooth-skinned youth on my side. And I was quite slim, dressed to look even thinner, usually in a tight sheath dress, heels as highas I could manage, though I was never able to walk confidently in them. Perched on those four-inch heels, about as non-athletic as you could get, I was a wobbler, a totterer. Yet high heels are part of your essential armoury when you’re permanently on the pull (that’s why you see so many 50-something women and beyond hanging onto them). They elevate. They push out your best bits, to go with the teased hair, the lavish all-over spray of Diorama, my favourite of all the Dior fragrances, no longer around now.
I had my triumphs at the De Vere. At one point, I’d run into a fascinating blond out-of-work actor, Derek, with whom I spent a steamy 48 hours in his flat off Shepherds Market in Mayfair – and never saw again. Another time at the De Vere I acquired what is now called a fuck buddy, Nick, a dark-haired hunk of Greek origin, who lived with a model in a mansion block in Elgin Avenue, Maida Vale. Nick would often call on weekends to pick me up to join him in their flat – while she was away on modelling trips. Nice guy, eh? Nick was memorable for his tiny red TR4 sports car – and was incredibly well hung. He had a kind of saturnine, sardonic allure. I had a distinct penchant for moody, surly men – a hangover, maybe from the early days of my Elvis lust. The Nick thing went on for about a year or so, though I never had a clue what he did for a crust. But if they didn’t tell you, who cared? I was in it for the excitement, the kicks, the moment itself. There was no goal, just a theme – girlmeets different men, dives in, enjoys what she likes the look of, discards or ignores the rest. The men, of course, were just being opportunistic, simply because more women were now up for it. Everything you heard or read about new sexual freedoms seemed to conspire to give people more latitude.
But not everyone at the De Vere has a good time. One Thursday night, I am on the tiny dance floor, shrugging, moving carefully, ignoring my partner and contemplating an early night, when I spot a familiar figure on the edge of the dance floor. A tubby man, going to seed. Glaring at me. He’s got a bloody cheek, I think to myself. He was the one that ran off. Bryan. It is, by now, well over 18 months since my Central line trip and Bryan has totally ignored my existence in that time. Of course I’ve been hurt by this, Bryan had, after all, been a pivotal person in my life, the first big affair. Yet the deception with the two men had been a messy situation I’d mostly succeeded in shaking off. Now I’m occasionally seeing Jeff, sleeping with anyone I like the look of, working out of my shoe company cubby hole, pretending to be a man with a double-barrelled name.
‘Tart!’ Bryan hisses at me as I leave the dance floor to go down to the ladies loo. ‘You’re a bloody tart !’
What’s going on in his mind? I have no idea. Am I a tart because of what I’d done, used my wits to get out of what, for me, was an impossible, intolerable situation andnow he’s guessed that I lied? Or am I a tart because I’m out and about on the pull?
Now, as I make my way back up the stairs, he’s standing there, blocking the entrance to the bar, glass of double scotch in hand, looking distinctly dishevelled. He’s even more overweight, really slobby now. His clothes are creased. There are food stains on his expensive silk tie. This, I tell myself, is a frustrated man who can’t get anyone into bed. That’s why he’s so angry. He had
I wasn’t a great beauty, but I had smooth-skinned youth on my side. And I was quite slim, dressed to look even thinner, usually in a tight sheath dress, heels as highas I could manage, though I was never able to walk confidently in them. Perched on those four-inch heels, about as non-athletic as you could get, I was a wobbler, a totterer. Yet high heels are part of your essential armoury when you’re permanently on the pull (that’s why you see so many 50-something women and beyond hanging onto them). They elevate. They push out your best bits, to go with the teased hair, the lavish all-over spray of Diorama, my favourite of all the Dior fragrances, no longer around now.
I had my triumphs at the De Vere. At one point, I’d run into a fascinating blond out-of-work actor, Derek, with whom I spent a steamy 48 hours in his flat off Shepherds Market in Mayfair – and never saw again. Another time at the De Vere I acquired what is now called a fuck buddy, Nick, a dark-haired hunk of Greek origin, who lived with a model in a mansion block in Elgin Avenue, Maida Vale. Nick would often call on weekends to pick me up to join him in their flat – while she was away on modelling trips. Nice guy, eh? Nick was memorable for his tiny red TR4 sports car – and was incredibly well hung. He had a kind of saturnine, sardonic allure. I had a distinct penchant for moody, surly men – a hangover, maybe from the early days of my Elvis lust. The Nick thing went on for about a year or so, though I never had a clue what he did for a crust. But if they didn’t tell you, who cared? I was in it for the excitement, the kicks, the moment itself. There was no goal, just a theme – girlmeets different men, dives in, enjoys what she likes the look of, discards or ignores the rest. The men, of course, were just being opportunistic, simply because more women were now up for it. Everything you heard or read about new sexual freedoms seemed to conspire to give people more latitude.
But not everyone at the De Vere has a good time. One Thursday night, I am on the tiny dance floor, shrugging, moving carefully, ignoring my partner and contemplating an early night, when I spot a familiar figure on the edge of the dance floor. A tubby man, going to seed. Glaring at me. He’s got a bloody cheek, I think to myself. He was the one that ran off. Bryan. It is, by now, well over 18 months since my Central line trip and Bryan has totally ignored my existence in that time. Of course I’ve been hurt by this, Bryan had, after all, been a pivotal person in my life, the first big affair. Yet the deception with the two men had been a messy situation I’d mostly succeeded in shaking off. Now I’m occasionally seeing Jeff, sleeping with anyone I like the look of, working out of my shoe company cubby hole, pretending to be a man with a double-barrelled name.
‘Tart!’ Bryan hisses at me as I leave the dance floor to go down to the ladies loo. ‘You’re a bloody tart !’
What’s going on in his mind? I have no idea. Am I a tart because of what I’d done, used my wits to get out of what, for me, was an impossible, intolerable situation andnow he’s guessed that I lied? Or am I a tart because I’m out and about on the pull?
Now, as I make my way back up the stairs, he’s standing there, blocking the entrance to the bar, glass of double scotch in hand, looking distinctly dishevelled. He’s even more overweight, really slobby now. His clothes are creased. There are food stains on his expensive silk tie. This, I tell myself, is a frustrated man who can’t get anyone into bed. That’s why he’s so angry. He had
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