Chapter 1 – Jojo

Not that long ago.

 

There are three things to remember when photographing naked women.

Firstly, naked doesn’t somehow equate to stupid.

Take, for instance, the lovely Jojo. She’s your typical glamour model: long blonde hair, silicon enhanced breasts, and a smile so wide it’s a wonder the top of her head stays on. She stands six foot in her chunky stripper heels, laughs in a way that makes you wonder whether you’re funnier than you realised, and has a degree in civil engineering.

She’s prompt, professional, and about to get into my shower in nothing but a pair of knickers, and a t-shirt that’s way too small for her.

For a lot of men this would come under the heading of ‘pure fantasy’ – something that, if they’re really, really lucky, might happen once in a lifetime. But to Jojo and me, this is the life of glamour photographer and model. This is how we spend our days – some of them, anyway – creating images of ridiculously sexy situations, which men and women alike will pay good money to see and, in their minds at least, become a part of.

Which brings me to the second important point.

It’s all make believe.

The truth is there’s little difference between a glamour photoshoot, and your modern day office. It’s still just a job, the girls still have boyfriends, and the lack of clothing doesn’t change anything.

So Jojo might say: “This is quite sexy, isn’t it.” But I know what she means.

“You look great,” I say, shuffling around on the floor. Shower sets are always a challenge. It’s hard to find interesting angles without getting splashed. “This is going to be great.”

“Maybe, Jason,” says Jojo, “you should put that camera down and join me.” Her smile widens another inch, and she crouches down to reach forward and grab my shirt.

“Stop messing about,” I say, batting away her hand. “We’ve got three more sets to shoot and we’re running out of light!”

And, just like that, the smile fades, and what was a great set becomes an ok set, and the sexy girl in front of me – who could have been so much more – becomes just another model. Beautiful, smart, and unobtainable.

Which brings me to the third, final, and possibly most important thing to remember when photographing naked women: If a model asks you to stop taking pictures and join her in the shower then, for the love of all that’s holy, put the camera down, take your clothes off, and get in the bloody shower!

This isn’t glib advice. Whether you earn your living taking photos, writing computer code or building kitchens, there’s always a ‘tomorrow’ – there’s always customers to satisfy, bills to be paid and work to be done. But when it comes to affairs of the heart, all journeys start with a single opportunity and for most guys – good guys anyway – those opportunities are like rare exotic butterflies. You can’t wait for them to appear. You need to hunt them down, find a way to coax them into the open and, perhaps hardest of all, you need to know when they’re right in front of you, staring you in the face.

I should know. It’s the very reason I’m lying on my bathroom floor, camera in hand, whilst Jojo steps over me and grabs a towel from the rail.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Jojo isn’t important here. She’s just a girl, one amongst many, who came into my life and shaped it into what you see today. For this to make any kind of sense we need to go back a little further, to the days before I owned a camera, let alone pointed it at anyone. Let me tell you about Liz.

 

Chapter 2 – Liz

Boxing Day. 1997.

 

Where do I start? I suppose the end is as good a place as any. After that dreadful first date – sitting in a near empty pub, trying to conjure sparks of conversation out of the void between us – I realised that Liz was not the girl I’d hoped she would be, and any fantasies I’d had of ‘romantic beginnings’ gave way to cast-iron certainty that I never ever wanted to see this girl ever again.

And five years later I’d finally got around to telling her.

On Christmas Day.

Yesterday.

Right after she’d proposed marriage.

I hung my head at the thought of it, and tried very hard to blend into the background. But The Tulip, with its garish Christmas decorations, its antler-wearing bar staff, and ‘Now That’s What I Call Christmas’ thumping out of the juke box, was only adequate cover if you were a high-spirited festive drinker. Right now I was struggling to look like a drinker, let alone high-spirited or festive. I hadn’t touched the pint in front of me. It was as lonely and dejected as I, which made it all the more annoying when a chubby hand appeared in front of me and swept it away.

“This mine?” asked Alex, bringing the pint to his lips. He drained two thirds, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, let out a satisfied belch, and sat down next to me. “Where’s yours?” he asked, after a moment or two. I stared at the fleck of melting snow caught in the stubble on his cheeks and the pathetic strands of damp blonde hair glued to a forehead that had once sported an impressive quiff.

“That was mine!” I said.

“You only bought your own?” asked Alex. “You selfish bastard.”

“I didn’t know how long you’d be, did I! Happy bloody Christmas.”

“Yeah,” said Alex, “you too.” He glanced in the direction of the barmaid and gave her a nod to indicate that one of us required another beer. “Look – can’t stay long. Mum’s serving lunch in half hour. I only sneaked out by volunteering to walk her dog. Poor sod’s tied up outside. Weren’t you supposed to be spending the day with Liz’s grandmother?”

I let out a long, tortured sigh.

Alex stared at the side of my head. “What? Did she die or something?”

“We broke up.”

“You and Liz’s grandmother?”

“Me and Liz!”

“Oh right,” said Alex, nodding sagely. “Yeah, that can happen. Christmas gets them all worked up. Brings out the bitch. Don’t worry about it,” he said. “By the time you’ve driven home she’ll be standing on your doorstep, dressed in nothing but a raincoat, holding a four-pack of beers …” He tailed off and stared into the distance, still holding the empty pint glass in front of him. I let out a single, humourless laugh as I massaged my eyes with my palms.

“Now you know that isn’t Liz,” I said. Alex frowned, then let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Ok,” he said. “I give in. What the hell happened?”

 

We’d just left my parents. The first few flakes of snow had started to fall. As I drove, eyes fixed ahead, Liz broke the silence.

“Jason,” she said. “I think we should get married.” Then, when I didn’t react in any way, she added: “Or break up.”

 

Alex’s frown deepened.

“So?” he asked. “What did you say?”

I blinked. “You know what I said.”

“No I don’t,” said Alex.

“Well, you can probably guess!”

“Let’s assume,” said Alex, “that I can’t.”

 

I said nothing. Not immediately. Not until I realised that this was it. This was the moment I’d been waiting for, the past five years.

“Then we should break up,” I said.

The rest of the journey felt like a bad dream. I stared forward, mesmerised by the way the flakes swarmed in huge silent clumps, right before they rushed at the windscreen. Rushed at me. Occasionally I’d steal a glance at Liz, sitting there with a hand to her mouth, her sleek jet black hair shielding the side of her face. Every now and then her body would jolt and shake as if someone in the waking world was using a defibrillator to bring her back from this nightmare.

And when we finally got to her place, I switched off the engine and we sat outside for what seemed like a lifetime.

“Want to come in?” she asked eventually. Just as she had done a million times before.

“No,” I said. “No, I think I ought to make a move.”

“Jason Smith!” said Liz, still facing forwards but raising a good inch and a half in her seat. “I believe you owe me an explanation!”

“Ok then,” I said

“Fine!” said Liz, getting out of the car and slamming the passenger door behind her. I watched as she marched up to the communal entrance of her flat and started attacking the door with her key. Then I put my hands back on the wheel and took a dozen deep breaths.

 

“You didn’t go in?” asked Alex. I waited for a moment or two whilst the barmaid put two fresh pints before us. Alex dug around in his pocket for some change, and whilst he did so I handed her a five pound note.

“Of course I went in,” I said, once the barmaid had wandered back to the till.

“Are you mad?”

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Drive home!”

“She’d have only phoned!”

“Unplug it.”

“Or come over!”

“Change the locks!”

“In the middle of the night? On Christmas Day?”

Alex raised a finger, but when no further words of wisdom were forthcoming, he lowered it, picked up his pint, and brought it to his lips.

 

By the time I’d removed my coat and hung it on my allocated hook, Liz was in the kitchen. And for the first time in months, possibly years, I took a good look at my now ex-girlfriend.

She was wearing one of my sweaters. And though it was gigantic on her petite frame, it looked good on her. Certainly better than it did on me, although any hint of a bosom was lost within its deep woollen folds. Still, I liked the way her hair fell long and straight to the centre of her back, and though I’d long since given up on seeing her in some sort of skirt or dress, those skinny jeans were very flattering. I could almost fancy her if she wasn’t – well, if she wasn’t Liz.

“So, that’s it then?” she asked, as I walked into the kitchen.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked. She stopped what she was doing and turned to face me, one hand perched high on her hip, the other gripping the edge of the kitchen worktop like she might break off a chunk and use it as a blunt instrument.

“I want to know why you want to break up!” It hadn’t occurred to me that this was something I still ‘wanted’ – I’d assumed the deal was done.

“You gave me a choice,” I said.

“But you didn’t even have to think about it,” said Liz. “It was like your mind was already made up.” I said nothing. “It was, wasn’t it!” continued Liz, but all I could do was shuffle. “How long?” she asked.

“A while,” I said.

“What – a week? A month? A year?” My mouth opened, but no words came out. Liz frowned. “Longer?” she asked. I took a deep breath, then blew it out through puffed out cheeks. “Jason! That doesn’t make any sense! You can’t have spent the whole of our relationship waiting to break up!”

“I wasn’t,” I said. “I was …”

“What?”

“Waiting. For things … to get … better.”

“Better? What does ‘better’ mean? How can our relationship get any better? I love you, you love me – at least I thought you did. We get on with each other. We like the same things, sort of. I cook. I put up with your mess. We don’t even argue that much! I don’t see what I could do to make it ‘better’! Other than magically transform into bloody Kylie, of course!”

“Don’t be silly,” I muttered, but the blood was already rushing to my cheeks. Liz stood there. Her jaw clamped shut, her lips thinned, her eyes flickering with rage. Then she pushed past me and marched out of the kitchen. A second or two later the bedroom door slammed with such force it shook the whole flat.

 

Alex shook his head.

“You should have dumped her years ago,” he said.

“Probably. But I didn’t want it to end that way. This way.” Alex’s face contorted into a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

“How did you expect it to end?” he asked.

“I dunno. I kinda hoped that she’d meet someone else.”

“That was never gonna happen.” said Alex, shaking his head again. “She’d pegged you for a keeper from the start.” I turned and gave Alex a long hard look.

“She didn’t even like me at the start,” I said.

“Probably not,” said Alex, working on his drink, “but she saw potential. Thought she could change you. Women think like that. It’s why we disappoint them when we stay as we are.”

“That’s just cynicism,” I said.

Alex shrugged. “It’s true,” he said, and drained his second pint. I looked at mine, still untouched. Then picked it up and put it in front of my friend. Alex took it without question. “So?” he asked. “Then what?”

 

I sat in the hallway with my back against the bedroom door. I’d given up trying to continue our conversation, and the various sounds of Liz punching pillows or sobbing into them had long since stopped. For all I knew, Liz had climbed out of her bedroom window and was slashing my car’s tyres whilst I sat holding the watch she had given me for Christmas, watching the seconds tick by.

“Are you still there?” she said eventually.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” I said.

“If it’s not me, just what is it that you do want, Jason Smith?”

I said nothing for a moment. “I don’t know,” I lied.

“I’ve been such a fool,” she said after a pause. “You never loved me. I see that now. I was waiting for a moment that was never going to come.”

I shivered. Partly at the coldness of her words, partly because someone I’d once knew had used a similar phrase, but mostly because she was right.

“Jason,” she said eventually, “just leave.”

 

I left the watch on the side as I left the flat, then crunched through the fresh snow to the car, somehow summoning the courage to glance up at her flat, just in time to see her step away from her window and draw the curtains.

And that was it. In typical Liz fashion, she’d decided on a course of action. The five years of her life, with me, were over. Why then did I feel so wretched?

 

“Stupid,” said Alex. I looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to someone else. He wasn’t.

“What’s stupid?” I asked. Alex stared back at me for a moment, then shook his head.

“Mate, I know I’m your best friend, but when it comes to women, you don’t have to be a genius to know what you want.”

“How can you say that?” I asked. “I’m not even sure I know what I want!” Alex said nothing. Just frowned slightly and stared into the space in front of his nose like he was attempting long division in his head.

“Fifteen years,” he said eventually.

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been hung up on the same girl for the past fifteen years.”

“What girl?!” I asked. But Alex said nothing. He just turned his head slowly until he was looking right at me.

He was right, of course.

 

Chapter 3 – Melanie

Boxing Day. 1982.

 

If you could have sat inside the portable television and peered out at the huge pale face of Jason Smith, you might have assumed that my slightly gaping mouth, my wide eyes and dilated pupils, the sheen on my forehead, and the blush in my otherwise gaunt cheeks was evidence that nothing that the world had to offer could possibly trump the images on the screen.

And yet, Alex was less interested.

He lay back against a pile of pillows at the other end of the bed, his shirt wide open to reveal his Empire Strikes Back t-shirt, his hands behind his head (though carefully avoiding the fragile construction of gel that passed as a hair style), oblivious to the high pitched wail of a siren and what sounded like a squeaky toy being repeatedly stamped on.

After a while he let out a long exaggerated yawn and watched as I clutched the chunky joystick in sweaty hands and jerked the controls up, down, left and right to manoeuvre a crudely animated slice of lemon round a maze of dots whilst being pursued by four multicoloured ghosts.

I was completely rubbish at this game – I’d already eaten all my power pills, and still had more than half the screen to complete, and now the ghosts had me cornered. It was only amatter of seconds before my lemon slice ran into one of them and would shrivel up to what sounded like an electronic penny whistle being deprived of puff.

Alex sniggered as I met my computerised demise, and bounced along the bed until he was sitting next to me. I thrust the control in his direction and, after he’d blown on his hands and pretended to push up the sleeves on a shirt that had never ever been unrolled past his forearms, he snatched the joystick from me.

I rested my bony elbows on my knees, cupped my chin in my hands, and watched the master at work. It was a stupid game. I could see the point of Asteroids, or Space Invaders, even some of the lame racing games, but Pacman was just ridiculous and when Mrs Cooke bellowed up the stairs to get the attention of her son, a small spiteful part of me delighted at what would happen next.

Alex continued to play. I gave him an enquiring sideways glance, which he met with an expression that said, “If she calls again, then I’ll see what she wants.”

She did.

“Bollocks,” said Alex, launching himself off the bed, hitting the reset button on the games console as he did so. He tossed the control into my lap and stomped out of the room. I listened until I could hear the muted sounds of my friend and his mother shouting at each other. And then slowly I turned my head and looked up at the glossy addition to Alex’s bedroom wall. Maybe there was time.

I took the calendar from its hook and sat on the edge of Alex’s bed. Several ‘stunners’ adorned its pages. At least that’s what the text on the cover promised. But by the time I’d got to August, ‘Samantha’ had made at least three appearances. There was nothing particularly unpleasant about Samantha; she had enormous breasts, and long blonde hair, and those things were very nice, but there wasn’t anything … else. It was as if she was missing something. Not a limb. Not anything important or disfiguring. Just, well … something. Whatever that was. And without the ‘something’, once you’d seen her breasts there wasn’t any need to see them again. Like Mickey Mouse’s ears, they looked pretty much the same from any angle.

I turned the page and, finally, there she was.

Linda.

Now she definitely had the ‘something’.

Wearing only a pair of skimpy bikini bottoms under a see-through black lace sarong, she stood with one hand perched provocatively on a hip, whilst the other rested against her exposed thigh, long fingers and painted nails brushing against smooth curves. Her tanned skin, speckled lightly with beads of water. Her wild back-combed hair, lit from behind to create a halo effect. Her exaggerated pout. The heavy make-up around the eyes. The way she looked at me, as if she could see the contents of my head. And as she did so I wished, not for the first time, and certainly not the last, that I could have been the man behind that camera, taking her picture, ignoring the beat of my heart, thumping louder and louder, like the rhythm of ancient drums -

“Oi,” said Alex, snatching the calendar off me, “stop perving.”

“I wasn’t!” I protested, but it was too late, the calendar was out of my hands, and back on the wall.

“Best of three?” he asked, without turning to look at me. Of course! Who would want to spend Boxing Day looking at Linda Lusardi when the alternative was ritual humiliation in the form of stupid bloody Pacman!

“Yeah. Sure,” I said. Alex’s large bottom hit the bed, and a moment later he had that glazed look on his face like he was wired directly into the console.

I glanced up at the calendar. She was probably ten years my senior. Which meant that by the time I was twenty five, Linda could very well be the kind of woman I was going out with on a regular basis, and probably about to marry.

“Tell you what,” said Alex, his eyes never leaving the television. “I’ll do half – you see if you can complete it. Deal?”

“Ok,” I said with a shrug.

Thing was though, none of the girls I knew at school seemed to have that Linda-potential. Even with ten years to go, it seemed like a transformation of evolutionary proportions if they were ever going to reach full Linda-ness.

Apart from Melanie Jackson, of course.

 

Even at fourteen, Melanie Jackson didn’t just have the ‘something’, she was practically made of the stuff. Which is why there’d been an emergency meeting of the governors when Mr Thomas allowed Melanie Jackson to play the music department’s one and only saxophone.

There are certain things in this world that, on the face of it, shouldn’t be any more sexy than the next thing, but really, really are. Girls in men’s shirts are one thing, and girls playing saxophones are another. Everybody knows this. Anybody who’s ever seen those Robert Palmer or Rod Stewart videos knows this. Even the girls know this. That’s why any girl who casually expressed an interest in learning the saxophone was given a stern look and promptly handed a clarinet. Or an oboe. Maybe a flute. But giving a girl a saxophone in a school full of raging adolescent male hormones, especially a girl like Melanie Jackson, would be a little like tossing a glowing cigarette end through the open window of a firework factory.

Practically overnight, membership to the school orchestra doubled and became almost fifty percent male. And whilst none of the newly formed brass section would admit to joining because of Melanie Jackson, it was most definitely the case. I should know. I was one of them. And Alex was another.

It also wasn’t a coincidence that from my place in the orchestra I had a better view of Melanie Jackson than anyone else. The musicians sat in two rows that radiated in large arcs facing Mr Thomas. The brass section was to his right and arranged in order of instrument size. So the small spotty kids with their trumpets came first, then Nigel with his French horn, then Derek on the euphonium, followed by me on the trombone, and finally Alex on the tuba. Except that Alex and I would, accidently on purpose, swap places, putting me on the end and giving me a clear view of the reed section in front of Old Thomas, and the object of my desire.

“Move up,” growled Alex. I ignored him. “I can’t see,” he said. Alex elbowed me in the ribs, but I stayed rooted to the spot. If anyone was going to be leering at Melanie I wanted it to be me and me alone. If we both started gawping that was only going to draw attention.

“If I move along any further, I’ll be sitting amongst the bloody audience,” I hissed.

“There isn’t an audience, bonehead,” said Alex, “It’s why we call this ‘a rehearsal’.”

“Shut up,” I said.

“Next time you’re sitting here,” grumbled Alex, “like you’re s’posed to.” But I was ignoring him.

She was a good inch or two taller than the other girls, with a mass of permed chestnut hair that bobbed and bounced and fell in front of her stunning green eyes so that when she looked at you – if you were ever that lucky – it was like she was playing peek-a-boo. That alone would get my insides in a tangle but if she smiled – revealing the whitest, most perfect set of teeth you were ever likely to see – well, suddenly I would feel like I was sitting there in nothing but my vest and pants, skinny arms and legs on show to the whole world. And whilst I might feel self-conscious at first, everyone else would just evaporate until the entire universe consisted only of Melanie and me.

Not that she looked in my direction that often. Most of the time, she just sat there, staring at Old Thomas, wide eyed and wonderful, waiting for her cue. Meanwhile I’d mentally catalogue every detail: the stud earrings she was wearing, the paleness of her lipstick, the thin gold chain round her neck, the number of buttons undone on her shirt, the V-neck of her school sweater, and the two small mounds just beneath it.

“Pervert!” said Alex, burying his outburst within a pretend cough. Mr Thomas glared in our direction for a second before turning his attention back to the violins. I put my right foot on Alex’s left and began to press down, until he thumped me in the arm.

 

None of the other girls had breasts. Nothing to talk of anyway. I mean ok, some of them did, but Melanie had had them for ages – which meant that any other girl who’d recently acquired a bust was just imitating the original. A point that Alex insisted on making, albeit in far cruder terms, each night on the way home from school.

Alex’s obsession with Melanie’s breasts was beginning to get on my nerves. I swear if she had a head transplant Alex wouldn’t notice – but the day she went from an A cup to a B he was telling anyone who cared to listen. One more reference to her bust as ‘Mount Jackson’ and I’d have stuffed my trombone in his great fat cake hole.

Truth was, Melanie could have been flat chested for all I cared, because like Linda, Melanie Jackson had grace. Though back then I wouldn’t have used that word. I wouldn’t have used any words. Around Melanie I was reduced to a mute idiot, and any attempt at conversation was nothing more than a collection of squeaks and whistles like I was trying to conceal a set of bagpipes about my person. All I could do was watch from my place in the orchestra and wait for the moment when she lifted her saxophone to her lips.

 

The slice of lemon devoured a pixelated bunch of cherries, rounded a corner, gobbled up a power pill, then turned and chased after the four ghosts that were now blue with squiggly mouths, indicating that they too could be eaten.

“You done any band practice?” I asked Alex, hoping the question would put him off his game.

“Nah,” he said.

“Aren’t you worried about the New Year’s concert?” Alex shrugged.

“Not really,” he said, completing half the screen. “I’ll just mime. No one will notice. It’s not like I’m the one with the big solo or anything!” He nudged me in the ribs, then handed me the control as promised. I took it and looked back at the screen.

“It’s not a ‘big solo’,” I muttered. “It’s just one note.”

“That’ll be why you cock it up every time then,” smirked Alex. Seconds later I ran into a ghost, and died.

 

“Ready when you are, Mr Smith,” said Mr Thomas, and as he did so the rest of the world rushed in to fill a space that had previously been occupied with just one person. The entire school orchestra was looking at me.

“Sorry,” I said weakly. “I … lost my place.”

“Really,” said Old Thomas, a bushy grey eyebrow climbing his wrinkled forehead. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked like you knew exactly where you were. Sadly though, it didn’t happen to be with the rest of us.” I felt my cheeks flush whilst the orchestra rippled with the smirks of my fellow students. Mr Thomas tapped his baton against the side of his lectern. “Settle down people, let’s take it from the top of the page. And one, and two, and …”

“You numbskull,” said Alex, elbowing me. I said nothing. I just put my trombone to my lips and waited for my cue. Then I glanced over at Melanie again – only this time she was looking back.

And then she smiled.

 

 

Chapter 4 – Sian

Saturday December 27th 1997.

 

I’d done it again.

At least, that’s what Kylie was telling me. Bossy Kylie. Along with – thanks to the magic of television trickery – three near-identical sisters: flirty, girly and slutty. And despite being in agreement that it was “all in my head” and I needed to “put that business to bed”, they were still having a scrap about it in their – her – latest music video, for the nation’s viewing pleasure. I turned the TV up a notch.

I like Kylie. Yes, for all the obvious male reasons – she’s cute, pretty, she occasionally doesn’t wear very much – but there’s more to her than that. Ok, I confess I’m not basing this on much – the odd interview, her cameo appearance in the Vicar of Dibley – but there’s only so much a person can fake. Sooner or later the façade slips, and when it does, if you’re paying attention, you get to glimpse the real person underneath. And from what I’ve seen, the real Kylie is an interesting, funny, caring, feeling, beautiful (on the inside) woman. She’s this ‘normal girl’ who settles down in front of Frasier on a Friday night with a glass of Chardonnay, and croons to soppy love songs when she thinks nobody’s listening. Who wouldn’t be attracted to someone like that? And if there’s any justice in the world then someday she’ll walk into my life.

I’m not a bad looking bloke. Probably a seven. Or a six. Out of ten, that is. I’m no Brad Pitt, I grant you that. I’m pretty average looking; a little on the tall side, some might say gangly. My jeans never seem to fit properly – they just hang on my hips. A bottom would probably help, but where most men have a posterior, I just have a place where my legs meet. Just as my arms are only there so that my hands have a way to reach my thighs. My hair too is a bit of a disaster. Bits tend to stick up, or flop this way and that, like a dozen or so rogue strands have declared independence from the rest of my head. Apparently I have nice eyes, but even if it’s true, Kylie isn’t going to come waltzing into my life just because she happens to glance in my direction. But neither is she going to run a mile. Given the right set of special circumstances I probably stand as much chance as the next man – so long as the next man isn’t Brad Pitt.

Plus, I’m a nice person. A ‘good guy’. In fact, if it wasn’t for the whole ‘dumping her on Christmas Day’ incident, even Liz would agree with that.

And we were both born on the twenty eighth of May, 1968 – Kylie and I are exactly the same age, which has to give me some sort of advantage, surely?

Of course, some might say my chances of meeting Kylie, let alone getting her into my life, are slim, non-existent even. But that’s just negative thinking. In my head I have it all worked out: I’d be at home one Saturday or Sunday afternoon, dressed in my very smartest togs due to a washing backlog, when, quite by chance, the doorbell would ring and a distressed Kylie would be stood in the porch.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she’d say. “I’ve just broken down and this piece of junk,” (holding the latest mobile phone for me to see) “has chosen this precise moment to run out of juice. Could I use your phone?”

And, being the perfect gentleman, I’d wave her in with a heady mixture of sympathy about shoddy phone batteries, and absolutely no hint that I recognise her at all.

Then, while she sits on my sofa recovering from the shock of being told by whatever car recovery company rock stars use these days that they “couldn’t possibly get anyone to her in under three hours”, I’d breeze in from the kitchen with a chamomile tea, and she’d tell me how the whole celeb thing has just become too much, how soothing the tea is, and please, call her ‘Minnie’ and … oh, could I just hold her for a while because she really needs a hug right now.

I mentioned this to Liz once.

Not all of it.

Just bits.

It didn’t go down well.

From that moment on, Kylie had a starring role in pretty much every argument we ever had. The average spat might start with a vigorous, but none the less sensible, exchange of views, but by the end we’d be going ten bells over whether or not this is the sort of behaviour Kylie would tolerate from her boyfriends – of which she probably has hundreds, several a night if the truth be known – and if I thought for one moment that someone like Kylie would even glance in my direction…

I shook the voice of my ex-girlfriend out of my head and turned my attention back to the TV, just as the four Kylies finished beating each other up and a grumpy Robbie Williams wandered onto my screen and started to drone on and on about an angel he was loving. If he was loving an angel, why did he look so darn miserable?

I picked up the remote, pointed it at Robbie’s head, and pressed the off button.

 

Despite being ten o’clock, only half the office appeared to be in. The missing contingent belonged to that strange group of people who routinely waste several days of valuable annual leave between Christmas and New Year. Sian was already engrossed in something. She supported her head on a bony arm that didn’t seem capable of taking the weight, and massaged her forehead with long thin fingers. I hung my jacket on the back of my chair and, as I did so, noticed a yellow post-it note on my screen, and under it a small silver envelope with my name on it. The post-it note read: “9:45. Alex rang. Big shock.”

“What’s this?” I said, picking up the envelope.

“New Year’s Eve party invite,” said Sian, her hazel eyes flicking from the document on her desk to the screen before her without ever settling on me.

“Really? Thanks.”

“You and Liz will come, right?” she asked.

“Erm, well … I, we, might have plans.” I placed the invite on my desk. Sian stopped what she was doing and looked at me for the first time that morning.

“What plans?” she asked. I swallowed hard.

Four days earlier I’d known exactly how I was going to spend New Year’s Eve; I’d be stood in a kitchen, along with other assorted boyfriends and husbands, listening to this guy called Cameron describe the highlights of his year to us – in real time – whilst his wife Rachel and Liz would huddle in a corner and cackle like witches. I’d make my one and only beer last until midnight, after which point I’d gently start persuading my girlfriend that we should make our excuses and leave. Eventually Liz would relent and I’d drive us back to her place, where I’d spend the night, and probably make Miss Grumpy Pants breakfast the following morning as an apology for ending her evening prematurely. And at some point on New Year’s Day I’d return home and breathe a huge sigh of relief. This was how I’d spent every New Year’s Eve for as long as I could remember. And whilst alternatives often presented themselves, they still involved standing in someone’s kitchen, talking to people I didn’t care for, and waiting for that magical midnight moment when the universe would shimmer slightly, and the dull old year would be replaced by an equally dull and totally identical new one.

But that was four days ago. And it hadn’t occurred to me until this precise moment – nine forty five on Monday morning, my first day back at work after the Christmas break – that not only would I never have to endure one more second of Cameron’s deathly monologues, but for the first time in … well, ever … I’d finally be able to choose how I saw in the New Year. I could, for instance, ignore it completely.

“Not the same people you spent last year with?” asked Sian.

“Er … yeah,” I said cautiously, and sat myself down. Confessions of how I dumped my girlfriend on Christmas Day might have to wait.

“But you hated that party!”

“It wasn’t that bad,” I said. Sian’s eyes met mine, then she pushed her keyboard to one side, put both arms on the desk and leaned as far forward as it would allow. A lock of brown hair came loose and dared to slip in front of her eyes. She jerked her head sideways to remove it.

“And aren’t these the people who live in Colchester or something?”

“Er, Witham I think.”

“But far enough away that you have to drive?”

“Yes.”

“So you can’t have a drink?”

“Well – I don’t mind really…”

“Jason – come on!” said Sian, leaning back in her chair and opening her arms. “I’m a ten minute cab ride from you! I guarantee there will be no boring people, everything Sainsbury’s has to offer in the way of alcohol and, best of all,” she lowered her voice for a moment, “it’s fancy dress!! Woohoo!!” Sian jigged around in her chair with as much energy as office etiquette would allow, her skinny arms going up and down like pistons, her head rolling from side to side to the sound of the music in her head, all in an effort to demonstrate what larks awaited me at her party.

Fancy dress? I hate fancy dress.

“Well, I’ll erm …”

“Charlotte will be there!” said Sian, still spinning in her chair.

“Really?” I said, trying not to convey too much interest.

“Apparently,” said Sian, feigning disinterest whilst she pulled herself back to her desk, “she has this ridiculously short, very revealing French maid’s outfit and she’s dying for an excuse to wear it.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me, wriggled her freckled nose, then picked up a pencil and chewed the end provocatively.

“Yeah?” I said, forcing a laugh. “Well that’s very … I mean … She probably won’t wear it – if it’s – you know, that, erm … And anyway, Liz wouldn’t … I mean, if Liz was there then – which she would be – obviously – then I wouldn’t – couldn’t .. could I?” Pathetic. I slumped back in my chair and let all the air escape from my lungs.

“So you’ll come then?” asked Sian after a moment.

“Sure,” I lied. “Sounds like fun.”

 

I hate parties. I shouldn’t do; parties usually consist of beer, music, people hell bent on enjoying themselves and girls in revealing clothing, and to a lesser or greater degree I enjoy all these elements – parties should be my kind of thing. But they’re not. Beer is better enjoyed in a pub or at home in front of the TV. Music, contrary to popular belief, sounds better when it’s played at a volume that your eardrums can cope with. ‘People hell bent on enjoying themselves’ are only enjoyed by other people of a similar disposition, and as for ‘girls in revealing clothing’ … well, in truth that’s the only half decent reason I can think of to go to any party. There’s something about a party that will make a high percentage of women consider wearing a scrap of fabric so flimsy it could easily be dislodged by a moderate breeze. And whilst a party that has been declared ‘fancy dress’ would strike terror into the hearts of most men, for some women it’s a welcome opportunity to put on a French maid’s outfit and show more leg and cleavage than would normally be considered decent.

Some women. But certainly not all women. And definitely not Liz.

To Liz, clothing was functional. Its primary purpose was to keep you warm. Its secondary role was to cover up anything that perverts might leer at. If it managed to carry out these tasks whilst simultaneously being ‘pretty’, in the sense that your mother or Queen Victoria might use the word, then that was a bonus. An acceptable alternative to pretty would be what Liz called ‘chic’ or ‘classy’. Anything that wasn’t chic, classy or pretty was usually ‘tarty’, and there was never an excuse for tartyness. Not even fancy dress.

The one and only time Liz and I had ever been to a fancy dress party it was of little surprise – to me – that she elected to hire a floor length, Cinderella-style ball gown, complete with shawl. And even then she complained that the plunging neckline was somehow lower than it had been when she’d tried it on in the shop, and proceeded to spend the entire evening glowering at anybody – including me – who dared glance at her chest. What a fun night that had been.

Ever since that evening I’ve always thought of parties as miserably lonely places. And the only thing that has the power to make you feel more alone than standing in a room full of people you don’t like, trying to give the impression that all is well with the world, is being stuck in a relationship with someone you don’t like, doing pretty much the same thing.

I shook my head at the memory. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sian’s party invite lying on my desk. If it could have winked, it probably would have.

I stared at it for a moment.

I’d had it with Ball Gown women. I never wanted to spend another New Year’s Eve wedged in the corner of someone’s kitchen watching my life trickle away. But what was the alternative, now that I was single? Stay at home? On my own? Waiting for Kylie to knock on my door? That wasn’t going to happen, was it? Once that door was closed there’d be bricks and mortar between me and every person on the planet for at least thirty six hours. Only the obligatory phone call from my mother at some ungodly hour on New Year’s Day, and my daily phone call from Alex in his garage, would break the silence. I’d spend New Year’s Eve as I spent most evenings, surfing the internet, working my way through four cans of cheap lager. Occasionally a noise from outside might draw me to the window, and I’d look down at party revellers in the street. All smiles and laughter and good spirits. United in their celebrations. Forming bonds that would see them into the New Year and beyond. Maybe one of them would look up at me and wave at the sad lonely person who hadn’t the courage to grab life by the balls.

The invite winked again.

I picked it up and stuffed it in my bag.

 

“What were you doing just then?” asked Alex.

“Me? Nothing,” I lied.

“Nothing?” asked Alex, suspicion in his voice. “You sound out of breath.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, walking back to the bedroom, “I had to do my usual three second dash before the answering machine kicked in. Anyway, never mind me – what have you been doing with your misspent holiday entitlement?”

Alex sighed. “Fixing …” he said, “the fuckin’ garage door.”

“What, really-fixing-the-garage-door,” I asked, picking up my mug of tea, “or pretend-fixing-the-garage-door-but-actually-drinking-beer?”

“What do you think?” asked Alex.

The door in question was one of those automated up-and-over types that should open and close, unassisted, at the touch of a button. Unfortunately, moments after the removal van left newly weds Alex and Tina to move into their end-terrace love nest in Bexleyheath, Alex decided to test the door. It did indeed close unassisted. It didn’t, however, open again. Assisted or otherwise.

There followed a huge row during which several salient points were raised: “Why did you close the door when the garage was still full of boxes and, more importantly, the lounge furniture?” “How was I supposed to know that it wouldn’t open again?” “You probably broke it – there must be instructions or something – why can’t you ever do anything properly?” and “If I’m so stupid, why did you tell the removal men to put the furniture in here anyway?!” Alex had then stormed off to find a pub that he could call his local, leaving Tina to carry what she could through the small door that led back into the house.

And every weekend since, for the past four years, Alex has been ‘fixing the garage door’.

Except, of course, he hasn’t.

There was a concerted effort for about half an hour back in 1994, after which he gave up and sat in the newly furnished garage with a four pack of lager.

A few weeks later, once Tina had purchased new lounge furniture, she no longer had a reason to venture inside the garage. Without even trying, Alex found himself with an unofficial hideout, and ‘fixing the garage door’ became the ruse both he and Tina used to avoid admitting the fact.

“And where’s Tina?” I asked.

“Fuck knows,” said Alex. “Probably in the lounge, eating chocolate, making lists of things for me to do. Don’t ever get married,” he suggested. I choked on my tea.

“Well that’s hardly likely, is it?!” I said.

“You might marry Liz,” said Alex.

“I broke up with Liz six days ago!”

“You did?” asked Alex.

“I drove over and told you the very next day!”

“Oh,” said Alex. “Yeah. Well – you might have got back together by now. You’re stupid like that.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem,” said Alex. “So, tell me again what you’re doing tonight?”

“Nothing much,” I lied. “You?”

“Tina’s mum and dad are coming over,” said Alex, with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man. “Say, you want to drive over? We could bunk off around elevenish and go down the pub.”

“Not really, no,” I said, with complete honesty.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” said Alex, his gloom hitting rock bottom. “Now what are you doing?”

“Oh for chrissakes – sorting through my wardrobe!”

“Oh. Right,” said Alex. “Why?”

I paused whilst I considered my answer. “Because I have nothing else to do?”

“Oh. Well. I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Ok,” I said.

“Right. Later,” said Alex, and he hung up.

I put the phone down, picked up my tea again and stepped back to look at the assembled items of clothing on my bed. One Hawaiian shirt. One pair of knee length shorts cut down from a pair of old jeans. A pair of old sandals that were once my dad’s. And a straw hat that Liz made me buy the time we went to Egypt. It wasn’t the best costume in the world, but at ten past eight on New Year’s Eve, it was the best I could do in the way of fancy dress.

 

Chapter 5 – Nicola

New Year’s Eve, 1997

 

Sian’s front door was bright red. A large gold number 6 hung at eye height, just above one of those spy holes. I leaned forward and peered into the hole. I couldn’t see anything. Behind me the taxi pulled away and drove up the street. I took a deep breath, put the straw hat on my head, and raised my hand to ring the bell.

Before my finger even made contact with the buzzer the door opened, and standing there was a man in a white tuxedo. He was about a foot taller than me and twice as wide. He didn’t say anything; he just stood there, like a particularly well dressed wardrobe.

He didn’t seem very happy.

“Hi,” I said, “does Sian live here?” It wasn’t a question – this was definitely the address on the invite. You could hear the muted sounds of Blur thumping through the walls from the other end of the street, and if that wasn’t enough, the multi-coloured light show coming from the front room window was enough to expel any doubts that a party was in full swing. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe there was another Boscombe Road in Southend-on-Sea, and this was the home of a grumpy person with a fondness for loud music and garish lights. And tuxedos.

There’s only so long you can stand and look at a menacing man in a white tux, but just as I was about to turn and head home, two very loud, very drunk people spilled into the hallway behind him, and one of them looked in our direction.

“Who’s that at the door, Clive?” said the familiar, albeit slurred voice.

“Another of your ‘friends’,” said Clive, as if ‘friends’ might be something you find on the bottom of your shoe. I peered round Clive’s shoulder and saw Sian. Her already pale skin seemed even paler due to the black lipstick, eye makeup, and a dress made entirely of black feathers. She looked a lot like the weird one from Shakespeare’s Sister.

“Jason!” she exclaimed. “You came!” She half fell, half stumbled towards me, bursting into giggles as she grabbed Clive’s arm for support. “Jason,” she slurred, “this is Clive.” I looked back at Clive and gave him a nod. Sian tipped her head back to look up his sleeve. “Oh what’s wrong with little Clivey-wivey?” she said, sliding down his arm until she was sitting on the floor and hanging onto his fingertips.

“You’re pissed!” said Clive.

“I am not pished!” said Sian, closing her eyes and shaking her head dramatically. I glanced at Clive, then at Sian, then back at Clive, but before I could mutter my agreement he’d shrugged Sian off, pushed past me, and stormed off down the path into the night.

“Don’t mind Clive,” said Sian, holding onto the door frame as she performed a complicated and inelegant manoeuvre back onto her feet, “he’s just a little …” She stopped for a brief fit of giggles, then continued: “… e-mo-tion-al” she said, pronouncing every syllable.

“Should we go after him?” I asked, genuinely afraid that the answer might be ‘yes’. But Sian lunged forward and started dragging me into the house by my sleeve.

“Come, come, come, come, come, come, come …” she said.

“But the door …” I protested, as I tried in vain to close it.

“It’s ok,” said Sian. “We’ve got plenty others.”

 

Sian didn’t release her talons until she’d dragged me into the kitchen. Once free, I scanned the room for a familiar face, preferably Charlotte in her much-talked-about French maid’s outfit, but anyone would do – just someone to rescue me from my feathered captor. To my left, by the fridge, was a tall man in an afro wig and bright pink shirt. He was in deep conversation with Danger Mouse, who occasionally tipped his head back to take a sip of his drink. Behind them, Count Dracula was fondling an androgynous blood stained surgeon who was standing between two characters from the Wizard of Oz: a slightly shocked looking Tin Man, and Dorothy, who at some point had acquired a beer belly and was in desperate need of a leg wax. Further into the kitchen a cave man and Sherlock Holmes were talking to a nun who kept glancing back at Dracula, whilst behind her Elvis was balancing twiglets on his forehead, much to the appreciation of a small group of 1920s gangsters. But my eyes stopped when they reached the naughty schoolgirl. And a moment later I realised I knew who she was.

Sarah’s a nice enough girl. A little serious. Sits on the same bank of desks as Sian and me, and certainly not the kind of girl I’d have expected to see in high heels, knee length white socks, and a skirt so short it barely qualified as clothing. Not that it didn’t suit her. Quite the reverse. And in the absence of Charlotte, I couldn’t have asked for anyone better to talk to.

Just as that thought entered my head, Sian started to flap her arms wildly and scream at everybody to pay her some attention. I covered my ears until Sian seemed satisfied that no one else was talking.

“Everyone,” bellowed Sian, “this is Jason. Smith. Jason, this is … everyone! Woo hoo!” I tried to dodge her flailing arms whilst Sian danced. And then she fell over.

“Hi,” I said to the silent kitchen. And for the second time in as many minutes I thought about going home.

 

“Hi Jason,” said Sarah, as I shuffled through the kitchen throng into her corner.

“Hi Sarah. You alright?”

“Yes – yes,” she replied.

“That’s a great costume,” I said airily.

“Er, thanks,” she said, and immediately turned her attention to the floor.

“Much better than mine,” I said. “I just threw mine together from bits and pieces I had. Still, that’s what you get for leaving things to the last minute, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Sarah, as she examined the kitchen lino.

“Did you have to hire it?” I asked. “Or was it, something you already had?” That didn’t seem right. “You know – the, er, uniformy bits. I mean – it’s not like you’d have a school uniform hanging in your cupboard, would you?” Sarah went a deep crimson. “Unless you go to a lot of – er, fancy dress – er, things,” I said, “which you might! I mean – how would I know? How much do we really… know, about…” I took a deep breath, “each other?”

I suddenly became aware that the American footballer standing next to us was looking at me intently. I smiled, hoping it might provoke a reciprocal action. It didn’t.

“Good Christmas?” I said, turning back to Sarah.

“Yes. Very nice. You?”

“Oh. Yes! Great!” I enthused. The footballer was still glaring at me. “Hi,” I said.

“Jason, this is Lee. My husband,” said Sarah, wringing her hands.

“Right!” I said, “Well … hi!”

“Hi,” he said. Lee was very tall. “You’re really tall,” I said.

“I know,” growled Lee.

“Do you …” I started, without knowing how I was going to end the sentence, “play American football?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh,” I replied. And then, after a second or two, “Right.”

“Lee, let’s go and dance,” said Sarah, grabbing him by the hand. “Jason, we’re going to go and dance.”

“Oh, great – well, have fun. I was, you know, going to find myself a beer, anyway.” Lee stared at me like I was an idiot. And then I glanced down at my hand, which was still holding the four pack of lager I’d arrived with. “Hey! How about that!” I said, turning up my smile a notch. “Well, I’d better get started on these babies, and then I’ll probably, you know, join you. Or something.” Sarah nodded and then proceeded to drag her hulk of a husband out of the kitchen. I gave them a little wave as they got to the living room door and watched as Sarah pushed her husband inside. Then I let out a sigh and felt my shoulders slump.

This was a bad idea. I looked at the beers. Wouldn’t they be better enjoyed in the privacy of my lounge? I straightened my posture, took a decisive lungful of smoke and cheap perfume, and headed for the front door.

 

I’d barely made it out of the kitchen when someone touched my arm.

“Hi Jason!” There, leaning amongst the coats under the stairs, was a fellow CFS employee, someone I knew only as ‘that guy from Debt Recovery’.

“Oh, er, hi, erm …” I said, my voice trailing off where I would have said his name.

“You weren’t leaving, were you?” he asked.

“No!” I exclaimed, as though that was the most preposterous suggestion I’d ever heard in my entire life. “I’ve only just got here!” I exclaimed again. “It’s not even New Year!” I was running out of exclamations. “Beer?” I said, breaking off one of the cans and handing it to him.

 

For a man, Debt Recovery Guy knew far more about the finer details of Sian’s party dynamics than was probably healthy. For starters, it turned out that Sian really was dressed as the weird one from Shakespeare’s Sister. The large unhappy gentleman in the tuxedo who’d greeted me at the door was her brother, Clive. And mere seconds before he opened the door to me he’d been involved in a short but lively debate with Lee about whether or not his hand had intentionally touched Sarah’s behind. No conclusions were drawn, but Clive’s closing remarks had included a suggestion that Sian’s friends were “all a bunch of tossers” and that there were better parties to be had elsewhere.

Whilst Clive had stormed off to find his exit blocked by me, Sarah and Lee had a frank and meaningful exchange of views over the length of her skirt and its appropriateness. Sarah’s basic opinion, according to Debt Recovery Guy, was that it was “just a bit of fun”. Lee, on the other hand, felt that every man in the room was fixated on his wife’s legs and whether they could see her underwear every time she moved.

“Didn’t you realise Lee was her husband?” asked Debt Recovery Guy.

“Well, no! Why would I?”

“Everybody knows Lee!” said Debt Recovery Guy.

“They do?”

“Sure. He used to work in Fraud. He left though. Shortly after those rumours about him and that French girl in your department.” This was all news to me. Including that I worked with anyone French. “You must have heard the rumours?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sure you have! Everyone knew. Lee and the French girl. The one who’s having the affair with Gary from the helpdesk.”

“There’s an Italian girl …” I offered.

“That’s her! What’s her name?”

“With Gary? Are you sure? She doesn’t seem the type.”

“Tch!” scoffed Debt Recovery Guy, throwing back his head slightly. “What woman hasn’t been with Gary? Don’t you just hate that bloke? I don’t understand what women see in him.”

“Are we talking about the same Gary?”

“I’m telling you – he’s like an Orion! Only male. And without the green skin.”

“Orion?” My head started to spin slightly.

“Star Trek humour,” said Debt Recovery Guy with a wink. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly; I had no idea what he was talking about. But I nodded, for want of something better to do – and then, as I dropped my eyes to the front of his T-shirt, his comment made much more sense.

“Ah,” I said, “you came as a Trekkie!”

“Oh, this,” said Debt Recovery Guy, looking down at the faded Star Trek emblem on his chest. “I got this at a convention three, no four, years ago. Not the UK convention, the one in San Francisco. It’s still one of my favourites.”

And only then did I realise that Debt Recovery Guy’s fancy dress costume wasn’t a costume at all. New Year’s Eve, and once again I was cornered by the most boring person on the planet.

 

No one ever meets the girl of their dreams at a party. They should do, of course they should. It’s a crowded environment, everyone’s having a good time, the drink is flowing, the lights are down low – and if it’s New Year’s Eve then there’s this delicious expectation that something magical should take place around midnight, and as that hour approaches every lonely person starts looking out of the corner of their eye for that special someone to grab as Big Ben strikes twelve. Parties should be a breeding ground for new relationships. But they’re not. And why is this? Because there’s always some boring idiot like Debt Recovery Guy ready to attach themselves to you like a giant leech and suck the party spirit right out of you.

As I stood talking, no, listening, no, just standing with Debt Recovery Guy I estimated the number of women in the rooms around me, what percentage of those might be single and, finally, the chances that one would walk up to me, push Debt Recovery Guy to one side, grab me by the shoulders and plant a big tongue-filled kiss on my face. They were – if I’d done the maths correctly – roughly, if not precisely, zero.

Which is when a miracle happened.

The door to the lounge burst open and a girl in a bubblewrap minidress, spray painted silver from head to toe and with a pair of antenna stuck on her head, fell into the hallway in a semi-drunken state of euphoria, closely followed by another girl in a matching costume and party-like demeanour. The second girl slammed the lounge door behind her, then for a split second they stood and stared at the two sad blokes before them: the bloke in the sandals, Hawaiian shirt and straw hat, and the Trekkie. They laughed in that way that you do when you’ve had a few drinks and everything is funny, before they staggered past us and into the kitchen.

My eyes followed them and when I looked back at Debt Recovery Guy he looked as if he’d just seen an angel. Or two angels. Two angels cunningly disguised as space aliens from the planet bubblewrap. Here was my opportunity to escape.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m, er, going into the lounge. To. Er. Dance.” I swallowed. Debt Recovery Guy stood and stared at me, his mouth still open. I handed him my empty beer can and he took it without question. “Right,” I said. I swallowed again and walked towards the lounge, pausing for a moment as I put my hand on the door handle. Then I opened the door, and went in.

 

Sian’s lounge ran the entire length of the house and, aside from a lava lamp, the odd tea light candle and assorted Christmas lights, the only illumination was an enormous bank of disco lights that could have been seen from space. As they pulsated in time to whatever it was being blasted out of the speakers at ten thousand decibels, giant silhouettes of grotesque and misshapen demons flickered against a wall of ever changing colours.

The last thing I wanted to do was join them but behind me, in the hallway, was the ghost of New Years Past, ready to beam me aboard his Starship of Nerd and chart a course for the Black Hole of Boredom. I had no choice. I had to take my chances with the demons.

There was, of course, a third option: leave. Now. Just slip out of the lounge, grab the remainder of my beers, and slit Debt Recovery Guy’s throat as I passed him in the hall. But as I couldn’t recall seeing any knives in Sian’s kitchen I dismissed this as a viable alternative, and forced myself to dance. Slowly at first. Then in time to the music. Then I added some head nods, a little shoulder action, and to my absolute amazement no one seemed to notice. The music too, whilst ear splitting, wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d listen to at home, but to dance to – well, it kind of made more sense. I added a little hip sway into the mix and still, no one looked at me, no one laughed, no one pointed or yelled anything. My God, I thought, this is what it feels like to be normal, and for a fleeting second I started to enjoy myself. I was at a New Year’s Eve party, and I was dancing.

I sashayed into the throng. Everyone looked very serious, and nobody was looking at anyone else. Most had their eyes closed, or were looking down. So I lowered my head slightly and closed my eyes, only opening them briefly a second or two later, just to check that I was still doing it right. I closed them again, and hoped to God that I wouldn’t crash into anyone. Not unless they were female. And gorgeous. And ten seconds later my prayers were answered.

As I manoeuvred further into the room I accidentally stepped on what turned out to be a tail. And when the owner of the tail tried to move, and she found she couldn’t, she was propelled backwards into me. It wasn’t much of a collision, but it was enough to make us turn round and face each other: her into the terrified eyes of a dancing buffoon, and me into the beautiful almond shaped eyes of Cat Woman.

“I’m sorry”, I said. She screwed up her face somewhat, then leant forward, cupping a hand around one ear. I leant forward and brought my hand to my mouth to create an ineffective megaphone.

“I said, I’m sorry.” She smiled, waved a hand to indicate there was no harm done, picked up her tail and tucked it into a loop on her sleeve. She was ridiculously slender. And tall – even without her high heeled boots she must have been six foot. Long dark hair cascaded from the back of her headpiece and down the back of a leather costume so fitted she must have been sewn into it. And oh God, how I wished I’d been the one with the needle and thread. She was perfect.

The word ‘perfect’ echoed inside my head, louder than the music and in time with the thumping of my heart. I had to say something – say something right now, or go through the rest of my life knowing that I’d met my perfect woman, once, at a party, and all I did was apologise for being an oaf.

I smiled slightly. But no words came out of my mouth.

Oh for the love of God! Say something – anything! Introduce yourself. Ask a question. Comment on her costume – actually, that might not be a good idea. Especially after the incident with Sarah. OK, don’t mention the costume – say anything you like, but don’t … mention … the … costume!

“Great costume,” I blurted, before snapping my mouth shut in case anything worse was to follow. She frowned. Again. And shook her head. She hadn’t heard me! The deafening roar of the music had saved me from myself! On the other hand, she was still looking at me – still waiting for me to tell her whatever it was that I needed to say. I swallowed.

“I’m Jason,” I yelled.

“What?” she mouthed. I leaned forward.

“I’m Jason!” She nodded her head slightly to indicate that she’d heard me this time, then leaned forward herself.

“Nicola,” she said.

I nodded back and then, for some stupid insane reason, gave her a ‘thumbs up’ – of all the stupid, idiotic, lame things to do – but she just smiled, and carried on dancing. And whilst she wasn’t gazing lovingly into my eyes, there were glances. Normally accompanied with a smile. It was only when she did a snake-like 360 degree turn in front of me, her arms unfurling into the space above her head, that I finally realised – oh my God – we were dancing – with each other, and aside from stepping on her tail, crashing into her, and telling her my name I hadn’t done anything to bring this about.

At that moment a gloved hand grabbed hold of my shoulder to steady its owner, but before I could turn to see who it belonged to Sian was already screeching something inaudible into my ear. Then she cackled to herself, and staggered off in the direction of the Christmas tree. I was still clutching my ringing ear when, moments later, the tree fell over, the music stopped, and all I could hear was Sian’s slightly muffled hysterical laughter from under the foliage. I looked at Nicola.

“That’s, er, Sian,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the laughter and felled tree.

“I know,” replied Nicola, still smiling.

“So, that’s the end of the dancing,” I said hopefully.

“I’m sure they’ll fix it in a moment.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Bollocks. “Nice, er, costume,” I said before I could stop myself. I squeezed my eyes closed for a moment and waited for her reaction.

“Thanks,” she said. “Nice hat.”

“Hat? Oh, my hat! It’s just, you know, a hat. Nothing special. Just something I had. Probably should have thrown it out years ago – but then I found it again. Tonight. And hey presto – key part of my costume! This is my costume, by the way. They’re not, you know, ‘real clothes’.” I swallowed.

“Right,” she said, her smile fading slightly. Inside my head I slapped myself around the face and shook myself by the shoulders.

“Get a grip!” I said.

“Sorry?” said Nicola.

“I said, can I get you a drink?”

“That would be nice, sure,” she said.

“Wine? Beer? Something else?”

“A Bacardi and coke if you can find one,” she said.

“Right you are!” I said, shooting at her with my fingers. “Back in a flash!” I fought my way through a line of Sian spectators and out of the living room, pausing only to beat my head against the door before I opened it. Gun fingers? ‘Back in a flash’? Really!

 

“You’re back,” said Debt Recovery Guy, as I edged my way into the kitchen.

“Oh, hi,” I said. “Look – can’t stop – I’m in a bit of a rush.”

“I got you another beer,” he said, offering up an unopened can.

“Oh, er, thanks,” I said, waving it away, “but I fancy something else.” Beer!? Beer was for losers. I was trading up to something more exotic. My eyes danced over the dizzying array of drinks on the kitchen worktop. The Bacardi was eluding me.

“So, I was wondering what your top five episodes were?” asked Debt Recovery Guy.

“Can you see any Bacardi?” I asked out of sheer exasperation.

“Bacardi? That’s a girl’s drink, isn’t it?” asked Debt Recovery Guy.

“Not any more,” I said, moving the dozen or so enormous bottles of cheap lemonade to one side “From now on it’s my drink of choice.”

“Oh, well. Here it is.” He opened the fridge, took out a half full bottle of Bacardi, and offered it to me. “One of those girls – you know, the aliens? She put it in here earlier. I think she might have been hiding it.” And then he winked at me. “You know – maybe I’ll have one of those,” he said, a big stupid smile breaking all over his face. “Can’t do any harm, eh?” And in that instant I remembered his name, or his nickname at least: Scud. As in the missile; you can see him coming, but there’s bugger all you can do about it. And it was true – short of a miracle, I was never going to get rid of this guy. Ever. And then, for the third time that evening, someone answered my prayers.

“Put the beer in the kitchen, lads,” said a familiar voice. Half a dozen pirates, laden with crates of Stella, were heading in our direction, followed by their ring leader.

“Shit,” said Scud, turning his back in the hope that he might blend into the surroundings, but it was no use. Though his Batman mask covered most of his face, and the padded costume came with false abs, you could still tell it was Gary from the sheer arrogance of his swagger.

Our eyes met.

“Nice costume,” said Gary with a sneer. My mind raced for something clever to say. Something cutting and sarcastic.

“Thanks,” I replied.

“We need to get to the fridge,” he said. I stood my ground for a moment, then stepped to one side and watched as Gary removed items and replaced them with cans of lager. Tomorrow, when Sian sobered up, if she wanted anything to eat she’d find most of her food options rotting on top of the fridge. “Bacardi!?” said Gary, eyeing the bottle in my hand. “Are you sure?”

“Nothing wrong with Bacardi,” said Scud, shooting me a look that said he was my pal and would stick by me. I shuddered.

“Scud,” said Gary. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here. Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Scud said nothing. “Oh I get it,” said Gary, “you’re here to make another attempt to steal Sian away from her husband. Hilarious!” Gary let out a snort, and the colour drained from Scud’s face as his bottom lip started to quiver.

“See you later, Jason,” said Scud. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, stopping to grab an old sailing jacket from under the stairs as he headed towards the front door.

“Oi!” yelled Gary, “you just nicked my anorak!” Gary’s minions roared with fake-laughter, as I watched Scud close the front door, and for a fleeting second I felt sorry for him. Then the familiar hiss of a beer can being opened brought me back to the room.

“Lads,” said Gary, moving amongst his troops and passing out cans of lager, “time to party!” His entourage cheered. “Follow your dick!” he declared, as he entered the lounge.

I put the bottle I was holding on the work surface.

A bottle of Bacardi.

I span round and started opening kitchen cupboards in a desperate bid to find two vaguely clean glasses.

 

As I re-entered the lounge two things struck me as odd. Firstly the hot, stale party air had been replaced with a fresh, cool breeze, and secondly, an awful lot of people seem to have vanished – including Nicola. It took me a moment to realise, as my eyes adjusted to the light, that the French doors at the far end of the room were now open, and half of Sian’s guests had spilled out into the garden.

I took a deep breath and -

“Jashon!” said Sian, appearing from nowhere and grabbing my arm, then my shoulder, then my face, anything within arms’ reach that offered support – “Jashon!”

“Oh, hi Sian, er, whoa! Careful of the drinks.”

“Don’t worry about it – we’ve got plenty more!” she said, waving her arms about wildly. I stepped backwards to avoid her epileptic limbs.

“Ok, but, you know …” She stepped forwards and put both hands on my shoulders.

“What, Jashon? What do I know?”

“Sian – I really need …”

Suddenly the music went off, and the lights came on. “New Year’s!” shouted a voice, “New Year’s!”

“New Year?” said Sian. “New Year!” She let go of my shoulders and started doing her on-the-spot arms-in-the-air fancy-dress dance. She’d managed to do a complete revolution before the wall got in the way and once again she fell over. I stood there, a drink in each hand.

“You ok? Sian?” I said, looking down. “Sian?” She wasn’t moving. “You ok?” Nothing. “You’re ok,” I reassured myself, stepping over her motionless body and starting towards the garden. By now people were flooding back into the lounge and I fought my way through human rapids, whilst trying to keep from spilling my drinks.

As I got to the French windows a group countdown from ten had started. I peered out into the garden. There were people out there … shadowy figures, mainly couples, in various corners. Was Nicola one of them? What if she wasn’t alone? What if she was with someone?

Don’t be daft.

Then why would she be in the garden? You wouldn’t go into the garden on your own, would you? Not when someone was getting you a drink.

Not unless you wanted to be alone with that someone.

Yes. Yes – that must be it – she was waiting in the garden for me! She wanted to be alone with me!

A chorus of Auld Lang Syne started up behind me. I stepped outside, then – stopped.

I couldn’t just start walking up to people!

I coughed – cleared my throat – and was about to call Nicola’s name when, from the other side of the garden, a familiar male voice said “Oi mate, fuck off, there are people out here trying to have a shag!” Somebody giggled. I took a step forward and felt something underfoot. I looked down. I was standing on a Batman mask. I squinted into the gloom, my face cool and clammy, and there, across the garden, in the shadows, were two people, one significantly taller than the other, locked in an awkward embrace. And as the taller one turned I saw it. A tail.

I was out of there in the time it took to empty two drinks on the ground, throw the plastic glasses into the bushes and walk from the garden to the front door with only the briefest of detours to grab the Bacardi bottle from the kitchen.

As I strode down the front path Scud was leaning against the garden wall, smoking a cigarette. I walked straight past him.

“Jason? Jason! Hey Jason – wait up,” he yelled, surprised and delighted to see me leaving the party so soon. I heard his footsteps shuffle quickly to catch up with mine.

“Fuck off, Scud!” I spat, without bothering to look over my shoulder. “Go steal Sian from her husband.” The footsteps stopped abruptly, and a wave of guilt washed over me as I imagined Scud in a crumpled, wounded heap on the pavement behind me. But I kept moving. Too afraid to let anyone see the tears that were beginning to form.

I walked all the way home, swigging from the Bacardi bottle, yelling at street lamps when the disappointment inside me could be contained no longer. I don’t remember how long the journey took. But I do have vague recollections of Southend sea front, of lurching across the sand, and of standing on the beach whilst I tossed my straw hat and an empty Bacardi bottle into the sea.

 

I hadn’t intended to answer the phone, I’d just wanted the ringing to stop, so it was a little disconcerting when I heard a small tinny voice somewhere outside the duvet.

“Jason?” said the voice. I pulled the cordless handset under the covers.

“Hello? Yes?”

“Jason – are you alright?” A moment passed whilst my ears and my brain conferred. Neither seemed in the mood for work.

“Oh, Mum. Yes, I’m fine. Hi.”

“You don’t sound alright, you sound dreadful.”

“No, really,” I lied, “I’m just great.”

“Are you drunk!?”

“Drunk?” I snorted. “No – no, definitely not drunk.”

“Hung over then. Were you drinking last night?”

“On New Year’s Eve? Of course not!”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Jason,” snapped my mother. “I just phoned up to wish you a Happy New Year!”

“Sorry,” I said. “Happy New Year to you too.”

“Thank you, Jason. A little late,” and then with genuine warmth, “but appreciated none the less. Did you and Liz see the New Year in together?”

Now I was awake. I yanked the covers back – surprised to find that I was still wearing my sand-covered clothes from the night before – and gripped the handset with more urgency.

“Erm, yes,” I lied. “Of course.”

“Is she still there?”

“No?” I said. It hadn’t meant to sound like a question, but I wasn’t entirely sure what the correct answer should be.

“Oh,” said my mother, a little disappointed. “Well, never mind, I’ll call her later.”

“What?! No – no, don’t do that!” I said, sitting bolt upright.

“Why on earth not?” asked my mother. My mind raced.

“She’s – ill.”

“Ill?”

“Yes! Yes – flu, I think. Very poorly. She’s probably sleeping.”

“Oh,” said my mother. “How awful.”

“I know – she can, er, barely stay awake.”

“Flu can be like that, Jason,” said my mother.

“Uh huh.”

“These days people call it flu when it’s nothing more than a bad cold, but real flu – that knocks you off your feet.”

“Well,” I said, letting out a long sigh, “there you are then.”

“I’m quite surprised you’re not looking after her. Fancy leaving the poor girl on her own!” I froze again, my eyes widening like I was caught in the headlights of an oncoming juggernaut.

“What? Oh, well … I just got back.”

“You didn’t make her go out last night, did you? Because if she’s got flu -”

“No! No, we just, you know, stayed in and – watched the TV. Jools Holland. On the TV. Did you see it?” I slapped my hand against my forehead and then ran it through my hair, digging the nails into my scalp.

“I’m a bit worried about her Jason,” continued my mother, ignoring the important question about Mr Holland. “Maybe I ought to pop over.” I jumped out of bed and hopped around on the spot, performing the dance of the desperate to the god of deception.

“She’s fine, Mum, honest. She’s – just sleeping off the dregs. Look – why don’t we -” I screwed my eyes shut and prayed that my deception god would prevent me from saying the words in my head, but he didn’t, “- come over, er … at the weekend. If she’s feeling better. How’s that?” There was a pause.

“The weekend,” said my mother. “Well, ok. That would be nice. How about Sunday lunch?”

“Terrific,” I said. “That would be – great.” My legs gave way. Fortunately the bed was there to catch me.

“Ok,” said my mother, “See you Sunday.” She sounded quite buoyant at the prospect. “Give my love to Liz.” And with that she was gone, leaving me feeling wretched, guilty, and very, very hung over. What a fabulous, fabulous start to the year.

 

I walked into my study, put the phone back on the base unit before I wandered downstairs in search of food. I got as far as the lounge before I needed to rest.

I hadn’t wanted to lie to my mother – I just wasn’t ready to tell her that her future daughter-in-law wouldn’t be the girl she’d always assumed it would be. In my mother’s eyes Liz had become an permanent feature of the family landscape. Any changes to that vista would involve several long discussions, all of which would require a clear head.

I shuffled past the enormous bloody Christmas Tree Liz had made me buy, and with one arm swept the pile of TV magazines and assorted sofa debris onto the floor so that I could lie down. Something square and glossy lay amongst the avalanche. I reached down and picked up the Kylie calendar – a stocking-filler from Liz, and another way for her to raise the whole you-and-your-unhealthy-interest-in-Kylie debate.

Kylie smiled back at me from the cover. Why couldn’t I have met someone like her five years ago? I wouldn’t be lying to my mother if I’d met Kylie. I probably wouldn’t be feeling quite so hung over either! We’d have taken a morning stroll along the sea front, enjoyed brunch at the arches, and right about now we’d be returning to the flat to have sex. Again. Why couldn’t Kylie have been at the New Year’s Eve party? She’d have seen Gary for what he was – an idiot behind false abs and a mask.

From nowhere a new resolve to sort out my life swept through me, blowing open the windows of my mind and letting the New Year in. I was going to find, if not Kylie, then someone just like her.

I ripped off the polythene packaging as I walked back up the stairs to my study. So the hangover was still there, and after this expenditure of energy I was probably going to have another lie down, but I wouldn’t let 1998 begin without taking at least one positive step.

I hunted around on my desk for a drawing pin and then, picking a part of the wall that had the thickest layer of woodchip paper, hung Kylie above my computer.

New Year? I thought. Bring it on.