Sometimes... I Just Forget

I can't remember when I first started to forget. I can't even remember whether it happened suddenly or whether it just happened gradually - you know: over a period of months or even years. Logically, I think that it must have happened over a period of time. Otherwise, I think that I would have noticed it a lot sooner.

I think that quite a few of us forget things as we get older. Little things mainly. 'Why did I come in here? Oh, yes. That's right; I was going to get something from the fridge, wasn't I?' And, hopefully, a scan of the contents of the fridge will put us back on track. But I'm not talking about that kind of forgetting. I'm talking about whole chunks of my life. I'm talking about months, years, and people; people who I apparently used to know quite well.

Liz came by the other day. I don't have any problem remembering Liz. Well, not yet anyway. She had been to the opening of an art exhibition of some sort. Or maybe it was a craft fair. I can't remember. 'Dougal was there,' she said. 'He wanted to know if I was still in touch with you.'

'Dougal?'

'Dougal McAteer.'

The name meant nothing to me. 'You might have to give me a clue,' I said.

'Dougal. You remember. He was at Harrison's with us.'

Harrison's was still quite small when Liz and I worked there. There couldn't have been more than about 20 people. 'No. Sorry,' I said.

'You'd know him if you saw him,' Liz said. 'Although maybe you wouldn't. He's put on quite a bit of weight. And he's as bald as a billiard ball. It's funny how different some men look without hair, isn't it?'

'Red haired fellow? Before he went bald, I mean. Drove an MG sports car?'

'No. That was Robin. Robin Hepworth. Or was it Hepplewhite? Now you've got me doing it.' And she laughed.

Apart from a year or so in Paris, when she was married to that banker chap (Roy? Roger? Something like that), Liz has spent pretty much her whole life in and around Hampstead. So I guess she stays in the loop more than I do.

'Oh, and I ran into your friend Marco the other day,' she said. 'In the tie department at Selfridge's.'

When she said 'friend' and 'Marco' in the same sentence, I assumed that she was being ironic. Marco and I had never been friends. In Marco's world, everyone has a use and a price. I think that he was genuinely surprised when he discovered that I wasn't for sale. I do remember that we were having lunch at a Michelin-starred place in Mayfair (I can't remember which one) when he made his pitch. He wanted me to re-write a screenplay that he had already paid too much for. And he wanted me to do it for free. I can't remember whether I told him no on the spot or whether I told him no a few days later. Either way, he was not pleased.

'Up to you,' I remember him saying. 'But you do realise that you have probably just blown your one chance at fame.'

And maybe I had.

'Are you coming to the book launch?' I asked Liz.

'Yes, I thought that I'd try to get along,' she said. 'Why?'

'I was just thinking that it would be nice to have someone there whose face I recognised.'

'I think you'll recognise most of them, won't you? Harold doesn't like too many strangers at his parties.' And she smiled.

'It's not the real strangers that worry me,' I said. 'It's the ones who come up to me and start chatting as if we were old friends.'

'And?'

'And I don't have a clue who they are.'

'Don't worry,' Liz said, patting my hand. 'I'll be there.'

Kick off was 6:30. Harold had suggested that I should try to get there by 6:15. For one reason and another, I didn't actually arrive until about 6:45.

'Ah. You're here,' Harold said. 'Good. Excellent. I was beginning to get a bit worried. Come and meet Mary Houston. She's taken over from Stig Orssen at The Recordian.'

I think that I may have met Mary Houston somewhere before. But, if I had, she didn't let on. We chatted for ten minutes or so (she did most of the talking) and then Liz arrived.

'Ah. Yes. Liz. Let me introduce ...' And then my mind just went blank.

'Mary Houston,' Liz said, without missing a beat. 'Yes. How do you do? I'm Liz Haversham. I think that we may have met briefly at Hay-on-Wye.'

'Oh, yes. I think you may be right,' Mary Houston said. It was interesting that they both said 'may'. No real commitment; but no chance of anyone looking silly either. Women are often quite good at that, aren't they?

And then it was time for Harold to make his little speech.

I'll say this for Harold: he certainly knows how to make the pitch on such occasions. A few brief - but well-crafted - words about how the author has done a great service to the book-reading public and, more importantly, to the book-buying public. And then a few further well-crafted words spelling out to the assembled booksellers and book reviewers how they can now do their customers a great service by putting their collective shoulders to the author's wheel (via Harold's publishing company, obviously). And then it's back to the wine and canapés.

'Nicely said, Harold,' Liz told him.

Harold nodded. 'Oh, well ... let's see if it has the desired effect.' And then he dragged me off to meet a woman from Yorkshire who ran an e-commerce site that sold nothing but short story collections.

The woman - Chrissie - looked ever so slightly familiar. I thought that had probably seen her on one of those late-night arts programmes on TV. She was probably about my age, and slightly chunky - in an attractive sort of way.

'How are you?' she said, smiling. 'You're looking well.'

Was I? I can only assume that it must have been Harold's champagne.

'I'm pleased that you've put out another collection,' Chrissie said. 'Your last collection was very popular with our customers. I'm looking forward to reading this volume.'

'Oh? Popular? Oh, good,' I said. 'I hope that your customers enjoy this new one then. Yes. Short stories can be a bit misunderstood, can't they? I took part in a panel discussion recently, and one of the first questions from the audience was: Had I ever considered writing a proper book?'

Chrissie laughed. Sympathetically.

'A bit depressing, really. There are definitely people out there who judge the merit of a book by its weight,' I said. 'If it doesn't run to six hundred pages, it can't be any good.'

She smiled and nodded.

'Well ... I suppose that I had better go and sign a few books,' I said. 'Nice to meet you. And ... who knows?'

'Indeed,' Chrissie said.

By 7:45 Harold had skilfully choked off the alcohol supply, and people were starting to collect their coats. 'I suppose you'll be wanting me to buy you supper,' Harold said.

We strolled around the corner to The Green Parrot. 'That Northern lass - the one with the short story website ...' Harold said.

'Debbie.'

'Debbie?' Harold frowned. 'No, Chrissie.'

Chrissie? Yes. Of course. (I had deliberately associated Chrissie the short story seller with Chrissie Hynde so that I wouldn't forget her name. But then I had gone and got her confused with Debbie Harry. Debbie Harry; Chrissie Hynde. Oh, well.) 'Yes. Chrissie,' I said. 'Of course.'

'She has suggested that we should let her customers have a little taster. A whole story that they could read online. Something to introduce them to your work. There wouldn't be any royalties in it for either of us. But you would still retain the copyright. I think that the idea has some merit - although I don't think that we should use one of the stories from the collection. What else do you have? I'm thinking something quite short. Say fifteen hundred words? Max?'

'Gosh. I don't know,' I said. 'I can't remember what's in the stack. These days, I often find that once I've finished a story, I've also forgotten it. In fact ... sometimes I find myself forgetting the story even before I've finished it.'

Harold smiled a kindly smile and took a sip of his wine. 'I think that we all know that feeling, Jamie,' he said.

Apparently, I told Harold that I would look through 'the stack' and see what I could find. I say 'apparently' because, when Harold phoned the following day, I had no such recollection. 'Just remind me what I'm looking for,' I said.

I sorted out three short short stories and emailed them over to Harold. One story (in particular) I thought was very good. I just wasn't sure who had written it. I certainly couldn't remember writing it.

Harold phoned again just after lunch. 'Well, you certainly seem to have made an impression on Chrissie,' he said.

'Chrissie?'

'Yes. The woman with the online bookshop.'

'I thought that she was Debbie.'

'No. Chrissie. Anyway ... she wants to know if she can meet up with you. Get a few thoughts for an author profile to go with the launch of your new book. She's hoping that you can meet her for a drink at her hotel.'

'When?'

'This evening. Say about six?'

'Umm ... yeah, I suppose so,' I said.

Chrissie was staying at The Mondo - over near London King's Cross. When I arrived, she was waiting in the small lounge-cum-bar just off the lobby.

'Sorry,' I said. 'I decided to walk. And it took me slightly longer than I expected.'

'Not a problem,' she said. And she kissed me and held my hand for rather longer than I was expecting. 'So ... what's your poison these days?'

'Oh ... umm ... I don't know ... gin and tonic?'

She nodded. 'Yes. That sounds like a good idea.' And she summoned the steward.

As I get older, I find myself less and less at ease with new people. And yet Chrissie and I got on like old friends. It may have been that we were both a bit thirsty (six o'clock can be a thirsty time), or it may have been that we were both talking so much, but our first G&Ts didn't really touch the sides, and we ordered a second. And then Chrissie asked me if I needed to be anywhere.

'Umm ... no, not really,' I said.

'Good. Then perhaps we could have a bite of supper. The breakfast here was first class, so I can't imagine that the dinner will be too bad.'

And it wasn't. In fact it was very good. And then Chrissie invited me up to her room for a nightcap and a quick tour of her website.

For just the tiniest part of a millisecond I knew that the sensible thing would be to thank her for supper, bid her goodnight, and head for home. But I didn't. The proceeds from the film rights for When the Devil Drives were beginning to evaporate, and my social life was beginning to revolve around a cheap bottle of wine and whatever my cat, Ernest, didn't feel like eating. Supper with Chrissie was definitely a step up. And a nightcap? Well ... that was several steps up. Besides which, after all of the chat, I thought that I really should have a proper look at her website.

When we got up to Chrissie's room, she flipped open her laptop and 'walked me through' her e-commerce site. It was very good. As well as recently-published collections, she had an extensive back catalogue, and a fine selection of pre-loved first editions going back to the early 20th century. We were still working our way through her treasure trove when the steward arrived with a pot of coffee and two glasses of Remy-Martin.

Chrissie poured each of us a coffee and then passed me a glass of Remy. 'Cheers,' she said. 'I shall have to persuade you to come and visit me in the frozen north.'

'Cheers,' I said. And then ...

I was sitting in front of the laptop. Chrissie was standing behind me, explaining, and elucidating. And then - to my complete surprise - somebody started dotting my neck with soft kisses. (It's OK. It wasn't the steward. He had well and truly left by that stage.)

'I think that I should go and make myself ... umm ... comfortable,' Chrissie said, softly. 'I feel that I may be a little overdressed.' And she disappeared into the bathroom.

When Chrissie returned - dressed in a full-length satiny-looking bathrobe (and, I suspected, not a lot else) - she looked at me and smiled. 'There. That's better,' she said. 'Now ... where were we?'

'You were showing me your website,' I said.

Chrissie reached past me and gently closed the lid of her laptop. 'Yes. Well, I think we've probably seen enough of that for one night, don't you?' She guided me to my feet and then picked up her Remy. 'Cin cin,' she said. She took a slow sip of the mellow rocket fuel, and smiled, and then she planted her cognac-kissed lips on mine. Was I surprised? Oh, yes. Did I resist? Well ... no. The truth was, it all felt rather nice. Surprising. Very surprising. But very nice.

There was a time, several years ago now, when I would have known exactly what to do next. At least I think that I would have known exactly what to do next. Although ... well ... maybe not. Maybe I had always been a little unsure in such situations. Maybe it had always been the other party who had 'made the running', so to speak. Maybe I had always just 'followed the leader'. And, except for a particularly disastrous occasion with an Irish woman whose name I can no longer remember, it had generally worked out pretty well.

So I just followed Chrissie's lead. And, in next to no time, I found myself without my trousers. I was also untying the tie of Chrissie's bathrobe. And, as I had suspected, beneath the layer of satiny fabric there was just pale skin. Oh ... and a sexy patch of bright coppery pubic hair artistically streaked with wisps of silver.

We were in the midst of exploring each other's bodies when, for a moment there, I thought that I had perhaps done something wrong. Chrissie backed away slightly. But no. It was just to make an announcement. 'As you may have noticed,' she said, 'I am no longer as young as I once was ...'

'Well ... who is?' I said.

Chrissie smiled. 'Nevertheless, I think that it might be easier if we used the bed. We don't want my knees giving way mid-way through ... well ... mid-way through anything.' And she smiled again.

She had a point. And even if her knees didn't give way, Sod's Law said that mine would.

Had Chrissie and I been a couple of 21-year-olds, I suspect that we would have been eager to get the foreplay out of the way and to get on to the main event. But we weren't 21-year-olds. Far from it. And so the foreplay was an event in itself. But, after perhaps 20 minutes, maybe more, we reached a point at which Chrissie was gloriously, squelchingly wet, and I was as hard as I had been in a long, long time, and so it was time to 'put the pieces together'. And, gosh, didn't they go together well?

'Oh, fuck, yes!' Chrissie said. 'That feels absolutely bloody brilliant.'

She was not wrong. Somehow, it just worked. It was as though my cock and her cunt had been made for each other. And the rest of our bodies also went together - a bit like the two 'magic pieces' one seeks out when trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle.

Chrissie came first - amid a flurry of little grunts and giggles and squeals. And I confess that, with a few more long strokes, I could have joined her. But I didn't. I gently coaxed her onto her side, and re-entered her from behind. 'Oh, fuck, yes,' she said.

In a rare moment of clarity, I realised that, while all women are essentially the same, each is exquisitely unique. At least that was my experience of more women than I should really own up to having 'known'. I seem to recall one woman whose breasts were almost boyish - and yet they were just so so sexy. And there were women whose breasts were - individually - as large as their heads - if not larger. And vulvas. Where shall I begin? Small, large; high, low; fat lips, thin lips - although never one that I didn't find attractive. No, never one that I didn't find attractive.

'Oh, yes! I like it,' Chrissie murmured.

I liked it too. But the more that I thought about it, the more that I realised that I had pretty much come to the end of my powers of control. And so ... boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom.

I've never had trouble falling asleep - particularly after sex. And yet I think that Chrissie may have beaten me to the arms of Morpheus. Somewhere about 4am, we both stirred, exchange kisses, and then retreated to the Land of Nod for a second time. And the next time that we were both awake, there was sunlight squeezing its way through the gap between the curtains.

'At least think about coming up to Yorkshire for a visit,' Chrissie said.

I assured her that I would.

I had only been home for perhaps ten minutes when George arrived. 'I thought that I should return these,' he said, holding out a small stack of books.

'Oh? Mine?' I said.

'Your name is in most of them,' George said. 'And this one even has a photograph.'

Someone - and I suppose it might have been me - had apparently used a black and white photograph as a bookmark. It was a photograph of six young people, hamming it up in front of what appeared to be a country pub.

'I remember that weekend,' George said.

'I don't think that I do,' I had to admit.

'What!? You must. That was the weekend that Jake set fire to the pub.'

'Jake?

'Jake Schmidt. You must remember.'

But I didn't. I didn't remember Jake setting fire to a pub. I didn't even remember Jake. 'Nope. Are you sure that I was there?' I said.

'Well, that's you in the photograph.'

And one of the figures in the photograph certainly did look very much like me - or at least it looked very much like I used to look when I was a bit younger. And then I noticed something else. 'Who is the woman?' I asked.

'With Jake?'

'No. With ... well ... me, I suppose.'

George looked at me with a very strange look. 'Chrissie,' he said. And the tone of his voice implied: 'How could you not know that?'

I nodded. 'Chrissie. Yes. Right.' And it was Chrissie. Younger. And skinnier. But definitely Chrissie. 'George, do you sometimes find that you've forgotten whole chunks of your life?' I asked.

'Hmm ... bits and pieces,' he said. 'Here and there. I think everyone does, don't they? Mind you ... I'm surprised that you don't remember Jake setting fire to the pub. How could you forget something like that?'

How indeed?