Sunday Love Songs 01

Her face clouded, "But--"

"No buts, Nicola. Have you done it bareback with anyone?"

"Well, yes, always. I hate condoms; I'm on the pill, but I'm sure they were all clean."

"You want to have sex, I wear one of these. Otherwise it's good night."

She looked with a certain eagerness, but hesitated just too long. Then shook her head, full of regret.

"Good bye, Nicola," I said quietly. "I loved you so much, you know, before you became the class bike. At the very least, get yourself tested for Chlamydia if you want to have babies later on."

I left, and I could hear her sobbing as I closed the front door. It sounds as if I had a hard determination in our exchange, but in fact I was sorely tempted to risk it and fuck her brains out. The result was that I was angry, not at her so much, but because I desperately needed to have sex, and I dared not.

I did not see her again. She wrote to me a terse letter, telling me she was grateful I'd told her to get tested. She had the disease, but no others. It was caught early, and she was safe. She would never have bareback sex again until she married, she wrote. Was I telling the truth about loving her?

I wrote back telling her I did love her to distraction until she started sleeping around. Even though I was put off by her sluttish behaviour, I would always remember her fondly and treasure the memory of our early friendship. That was rank hypocrisy on my part: I had slept around as much as she had.

She wrote back a last time, telling me she was looking for someone who would really turn her on as I had done.

I wrote telling her that was utterly stupid. She did not write again.

------

Now here was a Sunday morning sloppy 'lurve' programme, telling me she wanted to contact me again. I was not in a relationship, though I had a couple of girlfriends who were friends-with-benefits. They felt it was too early for them to be committed long term to anyone. Beth and Julie were good friends and each knew the other was sleeping with me, and I was happy as I was, who wouldn't be?

I wondered what good it would do to see Nicola. Why did she suddenly want to meet me again? After ten years? There must be an underlying motive; that intrigued me. Why not meet her? What harm could it do?

Who was I kidding? All the feelings I'd had while at school returned. Who knew what might happen? That's curiosity for you!

Thus I managed to talk myself into it. I rang the BBC and jumped through all their hoops to prove I was who I said I was, then they took my address and phone number and told me to wait for her to contact me.

A month passed and there was nothing. Par for the course, I thought. Playing her games. I forgot about it, and I didn't listen to that stupid programme on Sundays any more!

The other reason I forgot about Nicola was the financial crash.

I should explain that after leaving university I was employed as a market trader -- finance, not vegetables. I was with one of the big fish companies (you know, the ones that have caused us all such grief), and in a few years I made a lot of money, and I mean an obscene amount!

Towards the end of the first year I noticed I was getting fat. It's possible to gloss over the issue and talk of 'well built' and 'bulky', but I was too much of a realist. I was fat, even bordering on obese. Too much sitting at a computer, pub lunches and too much alcohol. I got out of breath running for a bus. Not that I took buses very often, or ran after anything come to think about it.

So I joined a Gym, and acquired a personal trainer. She, yes, it was a woman, was a very pretty and a very, very fit young woman, but she was also a harridan! She was merciless, designing my exercise routine and ratcheting it up rather faster than I liked. She gave me a diet sheet and I had to fill it in daily; woe betide me if I missed a day! She recommended running to and from the Gym, a distance of one and a half miles.

I attended that place of torture three times a week and ran daily -- not jogged -- ran. Once she got me fit and slim, she began to build my musculature. So I now had a routine. Each day I would rise at six and run. I went to the gym three evenings a week for an hour's work out.

Many of my colleagues continued to live the high life on their immense salaries and bonuses; instead, I was now taking care of my health, living a simple life and investing my wealth privately using my expertise. In addition to feeling very virtuous, I trebled my own money in the following years, as well as raking in my immense salary and investing that. Ah! It was so easy to make money in those heady golden days.

So I retired! Imagine, retiring at twenty six!

I moved from London to Manchester, and found myself a very large house at a fraction of London prices, in a good area of a suburban town called Wilmslow, and furnished it -- the house, not Wilmslow. I had made a new home, and I liked where I had made it. Beth and Julie added the furnishing (and finishing) touches which helped to make the house a home. Having one of two nubile young women in bed on Sunday mornings after a strenuous night's coupling helped me settle in as well.

I found a gym two miles from the house and enlisted, following the routine I had had in London, though I was more flexible in timings, being at home all day. My (male) trainer was a pussycat compared with Dolores. She who had put me through hell, shed a tear when I told her I was leaving the smoke for the sticks, and how grateful I was to her. What a sweetie!

Strictly speaking I did not actually retire of course; I worked for myself from home working the markets, and made a packet more. Money flowed in during those extravagantly profligate financial times. With hindsight anyone could have seen it could not last, and leaving the firm was the saving of me.

Having escaped the heady bubble of the trading 'floor', which made many complacent, I noted the wailings of the prophets of doom, and as a result spotted the first signs of trouble with the banks and their risky self-certified mortgages, and set about making my fortune safe.

It was March and April 2007 and it was hard work finding companies round the world that would continue to grow, or at least only sink a little when the world finances would eventually crash. I kept at it, doing my research for long hours even over the Easter Holiday. Unusually I did not go home to my parents for that holiday. It was hot work, the weather being unusually warm as well. Having done that, I was able to continue to make some money even in the middle of the crisis, but that was later.

So I was in bed by ten on Thursday 19th April (I remember the date clearly) absolutely exhausted, and was asleep within minutes. I know that because ten minutes after I hit the pillow, the phone rang and woke me up again.

I regained consciousness in a bad temper. I felt drained and dazed. Still, it could be an emergency involving my parents or my brother or sister. I picked up the instrument.

"Yes?" I sighed, and gave my number. Silence, though I could hear breathing. Typical, I thought, exhausted and I get a practical joker!

"Hello?" I tried again, and then I heard a small sound.

"Who is this?" I grumbled.

"Kevin?"

I knew her immediately, and all sorts of emotions arose unbidden.

"Nicola!" I said. "Sorry for being so gruff, but you woke me. I've had a hard day."

"I'm sorry," she spoke quietly, and was that a sob? "It's not very late; I thought you'd be awake."

"No matter," I said.

There was another silence. I was not going to break it, after all, she had phoned me.

"If you're tired," she said more brightly, "I'll let you get back to sleep. Shall I phone tomorrow at a better time?"

By now I was fully awake again.

"No," I sighed, "I'm awake now. Did you want to talk?"

"D'you think we could meet? I don't like talking on the phone."

"Yes, if that's what you want. Where are you?"

"London. Where are you?"

"Manchester. Shall I come down to London?"

"Since I've called you, I should come to you. I have next weekend free."

I wondered afresh what her motives were, but remembering her, could not refuse. In any case I was now even more curious. We made arrangements for her to let me know when her train would arrive and I would meet her at Piccadilly Station.

So on the following Friday I went for my run early, and mid-afternoon I was waiting at the end of the platform for the London train to disgorge its passengers. I searched as the suitcase-toting crowd passed me by, until there she was.

I could not believe it, she was with a man! He was talking to her and she was smiling and replying. There was a flash of memory; I was used, she had arrived with another man! Was he her boyfriend, or her husband? What was going on?

She was still breathtakingly beautiful, dressed in designer jeans and a short tan coat. I had forgotten how beautiful she was when a teenager, but now she was in the full bloom of adult womanhood and I could not believe how much more beautiful it was possible for a woman to be.

Then she saw me, and I assume she also saw the expression on my face. She broke from her companion with a half wave and made a beeline for me. I realised it was just a fellow passenger hitting on her, and I smiled, feeling a bit of a fool.

She walked right up to me and dropped her case. I opened my arms and she fell into them, and we lost ourselves in a long hug. At length we pulled apart and then kissed hello. A short, soft kiss.

"Oh, Kev," she sighed, "I've--"

"Hello," I said softly, cutting in. "Come on, we have to catch another train."

As we changed platforms, she began to babble. She talked about everything and anything, and it was clear she was very nervous and unsure of me. After all, she had treated me badly and it I think she knew it and didn't know how I'd react once we were alone.

We emerged from the local train into the Wilmslow sunshine. She exclaimed at my car at the station, she really exclaimed at the house. I brewed some tea while she nattered on and on, and eventually we sat down in the living room with it.

"Nicola!" I interrupted her quite sharply. "Stop! You're making my head ache!"

She stopped, surprised and with a tinge of embarrassment and worry.

"Nicola," I said soothingly, "you don't need to do this. Just sit for a while. You came because you want something or you're looking for something, and eventually you'll tell me what it is.

"I'm so very happy to see you again after all this time, and over dinner at a restaurant I've booked, you can tell me all about your life and what you've been doing. Then, when the time is right, you'll tell me what's on your mind. Yes?"

She looked shamefaced. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes it is. Relax. You know me well enough that if I'd not wanted to see you, I would not have answered your request on the BBC."

She relaxed. "No, I suppose you wouldn't."

Then she smiled that smile, sending shivers down my spine.

"Now," I said. "Our booking is in two hours' time. Let me show you to your room and let you unpack and freshen up."

I took her upstairs and showed her to her room. It was en suite, and was, if I say so myself, nicely decorated in a feminine style. Not my work, in fact it was designed by Beth, one of my two friends-with-benefits. Nicola enthused about the view from the window, the décor, the bathroom, and the bed. I felt unaccountably very gratified.

"Dress casual," I said. "It's an ordinary restaurant in a hotel, with wonderful food."

An hour later she came down, and she was dressed casually in a knee length skirt and a silk blouse, set off with a silver necklace and earrings to match, but in reality she could have worn anything. I looked at her, and smiled.

"You always were stunning," I said, "but now you've matured you look superb."

She seemed embarrassed!

I had booked a taxi to the restaurant, and we spoke little on the way, and little during the meal. She agreed the food was special and devoted her full attention to it. We discussed food and wine. After dessert, we relaxed and moved to a lounge, and sat together on a huge sofa, while we were served coffee, mint chocolates and cognac.

"Well," she said, and I laughed.

"What?" she looked puzzled, disconcerted.

"You always used to begin conversations with 'well'. Go on!"

She laughed and began again, "Well--"

This time we both laughed and she shook her head at me.

"OK," she said, "I was going to say you seem to have done all right for yourself. Beautiful car, house, area. And you look great! So fit! Are you with anyone?"

"Very direct," I replied with a smile. "Did you actually see a woman back at home?"

She looked discomfited, but recovered.

"No, but my bedroom; you didn't design that!" she said with an air of triumph. "So I wondered."

"I have a number of women friends, and one of them, Beth, decorated your room."

She smiled with an air of smugness. "But not anyone serious?" she probed.

"No."

She looked relieved, and I began to feel uneasy. There was a silence as we sipped our drinks.

"You look good," she repeated. "Do you work out?"

I nodded. Now I knew I was being cross-examined.

"Fit body -- you were always handsome, you know. Nice car, nice house. But Manchester?"

"I worked for a bank in London until two years ago. It's cheaper and less stressful up here."

"Different job?" she asked. It was an offhand question, but I thought she was eager to know all about my life. Why?

"You could say that," I said, but no more. She would have to work harder to get whatever it was she wanted.

"Enough about me," I said, wanting to frustrate her aims whatever they were. "What about you? What have you been doing since school?"

"After my degree, I got a job doing translating for a publisher in London, and got some work fashion modelling. The modelling pays a lot better than the translating. I've got a place in a shared house in Putney; I'm sharing with three other girls. We get on well."

She paused. Looked uncertain, and then plunged on.

"I've been in a number of relationships over the years, but never really settled down. I still remember your scorn after the prom so vividly, and you saved me from disaster as far as having children is concerned. It taught me a sharp lesson. I had been a real slut in school -- I still feel embarrassed about my behaviour then -- but I was a lot more choosy at University. I lived with a guy for nearly a year in third year but in the end it just didn't feel right.

"After University I was alone in London and what with the day job and the modelling I didn't have much time for men. I got hit on by all sorts of characters in the modelling game. They think if you're a model you're an easy lay. Well, I wasn't. By the way, I don't do glamour modelling -- tits out stuff.

"I've got used to being hit on," she said with a shy smile. "That guy on the train tried really hard, in spite of me telling him I was visiting my boyfriend."

She looked horrified for a moment, "Kev, I don't mean--"

"It's OK," I hastened to tell her, "Any story will do to put the hounds off, but go on."

"Well," she smiled at her repeated use of the word, "I did date a few, but no one lasted beyond the first or second date, until Terry.

"I was with Terry for two years. You know after your harsh words after the prom, I never let anyone have me without a condom. After a year with Terry, we dispensed with them. I began to think he was the one for me to settle with, but when he asked me to marry him I couldn't say yes."

She stopped for a second or two as she remembered.

"He was upset, and we gradually began to grow apart. Eventually a friend told me she'd seen him with another woman while I was away on a photo shoot. I asked him and he admitted it. He was sorry, he said, but he wanted to settle down and I had turned him down. I left his flat and moved in with my three housemates.

She stopped now and relaxed against the cushions of the sofa. "That's it," she said after a pause, "the story of my life."

"What do you think stopped you saying yes, when he asked you?" I asked after a while.

"I've asked myself that question many times," she answered. "All I can say is that something did not feel right. It was as if something was missing that I needed in a man, and I don't know what that something is."

She shrugged.

"What about you?" she asked, as if telling her story gave her permission to pry. I did not mind.

"I enjoyed Oxford," I said. "After sowing my oats in that last year at school, like you I settled down. I had two girlfriends the whole time, and made a number of good girl friends who were only friends. I have some good mates from that time as well.

"Then after university I got a job in London in a merchant bank, trading in shares. It was boom time and I made a pile of money on commissions and bonuses. I was very busy working very long hours, just like you, and didn't have much time for a relationship. The women I did get with, were in banking or insurance like me. There were a few casual friendships 'with benefits'. It was recreational after working hard. No commitments. Fun.

"A couple of years ago, I decided to get out of London and work for myself. London was always too big for me, too expensive and the traffic is horrible. Since it doesn't really matter where you work if you have internet access, I decided on Manchester. It's central in Britain, good motorways to everywhere, in easy reach of the Lake District and Wales, and the Peak District is on the doorstep. I love hiking in the hills. Actually, two girl friends had already moved up here together and loved it. I've made some more good friends through them and some of my other university friends already live round here.

"So that's it really," I said in conclusion, "I'm relaxed, comfortable and enjoying life."

"Not looking for someone permanent?" she asked, with some intensity I thought.

"I've not come across anyone I'd remotely consider settling with," I replied. "All my friends are pretty flexible and no one wants to be tied down -- unless they're into S & M!"

I laughed at my own joke, and she obligingly smiled. That smile I remembered so clearly that made her pretty face devastatingly beautiful. There was a stirring in my trousers.

I called up a taxi and we went home. On the walk from the hotel to the taxi she took my arm, and kept her own tucked into mine during the taxi ride and on the walk to the front door. I felt her breast against my upper arm, and liked the feeling. After all, we were old friends weren't we?

When we got inside, I offered her a nightcap, and she asked for a whisky, which led to a survey of my array of malts, which she admired. She opted for a well aged Old Pultney from Wick in the north east Highlands. Good expensive taste! Then I sat her down and we planned the next day.

I asked if she liked walking and she said she used to walk with her father but had got out of the habit since moving to London. I said I'd show her a good walk, and she looked worried.

"Don't you trust me?" I asked.

"Of course," she said, though she did not look as if she believed her own words.

I then suggested that in the evening we should go to a dinner dance in one of the best hotels in Manchester. Of course she had nothing to wear for such an occasion. I would take her into Wilmslow, I said, and we would kit her out. Show me a woman who is tired of shopping and I'll show you one who is tired of life!

So that was arranged. Having finished her drink, she yawned and said she'd turn in. I suggested a mug of cocoa, and she looked surprised, thought about it, and then nodded.

"You go on up," I said, "and I'll bring it to you when I've made it. Shout when you're ready."

"You don't want to burst in and find me half dressed?" she said coquettishly.