I have to confess in terms of the boys all getting to know each other it was a bit of a flop. But for me, on the other hand, I did a lot of getting to know Fred 2. Not that anyone seemed that bothered.
We did our usual circuit of the pubs, ending up inevitably in the old student nightclub. More of a village hall than a state-of-the-art club. But they played good music, the drinks were cheap and they had well-lit rooms where you could chat, away from the thump of the music and dancing.
I felt something was going to happen with Fred 2, there was this electricity flowing and sparking between us. Neither of us could stop smiling, our friends had long since stopped trying to engage us in conversation, their nudges and winks had ebbed and now they were just indifferent.
As the night drew to a close I sensed the opportunity might pass us by. Fred 2 lived too far away to be part of our weekly outings, which meant I didn’t know how often, if ever, he would be out with us again.
Fred 2 leant in and whispered in my ear, “Fancy a dance?”
“Yes,” I agreed and we made our way through the crowds to the dance floor. I was not going to make the first move. I had made the first move before and got that very wrong, and somehow Fred 2 seemed quite shy at this point, his earlier confidence and bravado escaping him now.
The lights came up. Home time.
We found the rest of the crew and made our way outside to join the hubbub of drunken young people looking for one of two things: a taxi or food. It took a while but eventually we managed to flag one down – a taxi obviously, not food.
Sensing the disappointment in us, one of the boys, Mark, suggested I went back to theirs for a nightcap rather than dropping me off en route as they usually did. I leapt at the chance. Maybe tonight was not going to be a washout after all.
We talked for hours, and one by one my friends disappeared upstairs to their beds. Eventually it was just Fred 2 and I left on the sofa. We were both exhausted and had little left to say, but that dizzy scent of anticipation, the tingles of desire were still present, dulled by the booze and the hour, but still present. He leant in close, I didn’t move, he moved in closer, so did I and then there was pure, unadulterated animal passion. It was the kiss to end all kisses. It held such promise and such knowing.
Nothing happened more than a kiss. I do, after all, have some morals. We awoke late the next morning, curled up on the sofa, fully dressed.
“Morning,” he whispered in my ear. I snuggled back into his chest and his arms wrapped around me.
“Morning,” I replied.
Back to the present
That was how it started all those years ago, a whirlwind romance. The trouble was, here now with Ed, it re-awoke all those old feelings and I was petrified.
Yes, yes, I know, you don’t know unless you try, but having had my heart broken before and having only barely survived that, those old fears began to resurface. Luckily, given the option of me metaphorically sinking or swimming, I had chosen to survive and grew strong. I chose a life with men who couldn’t break my heart rather than experience that again.
But here I was with those intense, addictive feelings surging through me. Was I really going to do this, was I really going to risk this again? Of course I was, who wouldn’t? I couldn’t help myself.
We arrived at the cafe in the corner of the market square. It was a cafe during the day and a delightful Turkish restaurant at night. The family owners always made a fuss of regular customers, ensuring they felt valued and therefore ensuring they would return time and time again. Occasionally the cafe was frequented by one of the local famous clientele enjoying a meal with friends or family.
Today one of the owners was standing in the door and smiling at his new guests.
“Is it alright if we sit outside?” I asked.
“Of course, of course,” he replied.
We ordered a couple of coffees and then pulled out the chairs, the metal legs scraping across the stone paving. We sat down at a small round table, sitting with our backs to the large cafe window, facing the sunshine as we looked over the town square, which was bathed in spring sunshine.
I took a deep breath, drew in the atmosphere. There was nothing better than whiling away the hours people-watching. It was a Sunday morning and the square was busy: some people were rushing around trying to grab last-minute items before heading home; others were taking life at a much slower pace, ambling in and out of the high street names and local independent stores laden down with shopping. I watched a couple whom I imagined had been married for many years, as they both looked relaxed in each other’s company and yet sat in silence. I noticed through the slats of the bench that they were holding hands – pale, veiny, wrinkled hands but united in love. I smiled. I hope I have someone to hold hands with at that stage of my life, I mused.
Ed saw the smile and followed my line of sight.
“How romantic,” he said softly. “Oh, to be in love at eighty.” He turned to me with that knowing look that he had reflected exactly what was going through my mind again.
“Oh, indeed,” I replied, turning to face him.
“Where do we start after all this time? There seems almost too much to catch up on,” I said, trying very hard to come across as relaxed and chatty but feeling anything but.
“Well, I guess we start at the beginning and work our way forward. But before we do, I think that maybe we should cover one very important topic first.”
I felt my heart leap to my throat. I felt dizzy, my eyes lost focus. He must have, yet again, picked my thoughts, and smiled reassuringly, no doubt guessing that I was worried he was about to tell me he was married. Well, ‘is’ married at the time.
As he opened his mouth to speak our waiter arrived in front of us carrying a small tray with our drinks. We both looked up and smiled at him as he placed the drinks on the table, and then thanked him as he turned and discreetly made his way back into the cafe.
We sat in silence for a moment, the momentum lost. We stared at our drinks and aimlessly stirred them for no reason – neither of us took sugar. Ed was the first to speak.
“Where were we?” he teased. We both knew full well where we were. We were on the cusp of discovering the one thing we were both desperate to know. The one thing that was going to make or break the day.
He looked me in the eye. One of those smouldering, hold-your-breath looks. My heart pounded. At this rate I will be having a heart attack before lunch, I thought.
“Look, it was amazing bumping into you yesterday.” My heart sank, sank so low I could feel the pain. He didn’t pause for breath, but rushed on, “I don’t know what your situation is, I can’t imagine you are single, and I don’t know where this might go or what it might be, but I’m single and…” It had all come out in a rush and suddenly his voice trailed off, looking at me, almost pleading with me to help him out of the hole he now found himself in.
“Me too,” I said softly. Smiling at him, I reached across the table and touched his hand.
“Me too,” I repeated.
He turned his hand over and took hold of my palm. As he stroked the back of my hand with his thumb he said, “Good.” The confidence returning to his voice, “Now that’s out of the way, let’s catch up.”
The hours flew past. Once the conversation floodgates were opened it was impossible to push against the weight of the flow and shut them again. As we sat in the sunshine outside the cafe, chatting, eating, drinking, at some point during the afternoon, coffee was replaced by ice-cold white wine that slipped down our throats, cooling our warm bodies but warming up our effervescent conversation and feelings.
He had been married for a number of years, had one child, and he and his ex-wife were still friends. He was open about the relationship, admitting that in the end they just grew apart. She had since remarried and had two more children, one of whom, the eldest, Ed was godfather to.
“It just makes it so much easier to be friends,” he explained. “At birthdays and Christmas we can all get together and it makes the kids happy to have us all around.”
“If only all relationships could end so well,” I acknowledged. Certainly mine hadn’t always been so amicable. In fact on one occasion I had to take the drastic step of getting a job on the other side of the country just to escape from an ex.
That was a toxic relationship on reflection, and hindsight is a wonderful thing. He never really wanted to be with me in the first place. It had taken me some months to realise that, and years more before I finally ended it. For months he kept trying to wheedle his way back in and so I made the decision to move to get as far away as possible, and it worked – he was out of my life permanently.
Ed was lucky to have been spared such baggage from his relationship.
By late afternoon, as the waiters started clearing tables and moving them inside as they prepared to close on that Sunday afternoon, we realised it was probably time to leave. Neither of us was ready for the day, or date, to be over so we made our way to the Common that had stood for time immemorial behind the square. The Common is a large open grassy area, and on a beautiful sunny afternoon it was crowded. There were couples getting to know each other, leaning in close so no one could hear the sweet nothings they were whispering in each other’s ears – not that anyone was close enough to hear, it was more the intimacy it permitted the courting couple in this crowded theatre of townsfolk.
Further down the Common a group of friends were playing football. There were no marked edges to their ‘pitch’ but balled-up coats and jumpers marked where the goals stood, their shouts and laughter as the game proceeded distracting as well as entertaining.
There were families playing games of frisbee and catch, whilst friends sat on benches or on the grass chatting animatedly about goodness knew what.
We found a relatively quiet spot out of earshot of our fellow ‘Commoners’ and sat down on the warm grass to continue our conversation. At some point Ed must have made a decision about his planned return home, as rather than preparing to leave he became more and more settled in.
It was far too soon to end the ‘date’, and the pubs and bars were not open yet, which would be the logical place to continue it. So the Common is where we were and where our chatting edged slowly towards becoming a relationship. As the conversation continued we grew closer, not just metaphorically but also physically, edging closer and closer as we talked about every detail of our lives between our two chance meetings.
Ed had obviously been a policeman ever since we first met. He had slowly progressed through the ranks, trying his hand at different specialisms. Now I reflect on it he was rather sketchy on the details of what he actually did day to day. He talked about the team, about the opportunities and the admittedly risky but at times exhilarating job, but he never quite touched on any details or any specifics.
I, on the other hand, was effervescent about my jobs. I had worked either as a PA or as a communications and marketing manager. I loved to look after people and I loved to write, so both jobs were ideal for me.
I had worked across a number of industries and I gave Ed a brief insight into each one – why I did or didn’t enjoy them. From the happiness and creativity of working for a British toy manufacturer to the boring, rule-restrictive insurance industry, which was the kiss of death to creativity. From an events-based job at a shopping centre which involved recruiting Father Christmas each year and tens of thousands of pounds spent on Christmas decorations to draw in the crowds. A year spent on the south coast working for a small group of hotels – the stories from that may be the subject of another book, What the Communications Manager Saw! And on and on the jobs rolled – international marketing and research agency, and finally two education charity jobs. And that was where I was now, at a charity, working long hours, not just because the job demanded it but also because I had nothing, or more importantly no one, to come home for.
By the time I finished telling Ed the tale the sun was getting low in the sky and a cool breeze was picking up. I kept lifting my hand to pin my hair back as it tickled my nose. As I did so, Ed caught another strand of hair that had flicked across my face. As he leant forward to restrain it by pushing it behind my ear our faces were so close we were almost touching. It was an electrifying feeling. We paused. Looking each other in the eye we inched closer, closer, closer still. I shut my eyes in hopeful anticipation. And then it happened. The most glorious of kisses, passionate, warm. It went on and on, it offered hope and promise. It filled my entire being with life-giving endorphins. I never wanted it to end. But eventually, slowly, we pulled apart, then leant back in to give a reaffirming peck on the lips. We lay back on the cooling grass, enjoying the last few rays of sunshine. Listening to the birds singing in the trees along the edge of the Common, we watched as other sun worshippers packed up and started to make their way home. We lay there, smiling, holding hands and dreaming.
It’s strange, I thought, how different kisses can be and how different their meaning can be. Thank goodness Ed was a good… no scrub that, a great kisser. I should have remembered that from the night we first met, but I had not. As we lay there I mused how strange it is that we have all sorts of subject and life lessons in school, but we are never taught how to kiss. We study maths to understand how to survive in our capitalist market. We study history to learn from the mistakes of our forefathers. We learn languages to communicate with, and understand, other cultures. We study science to make the world a better, healthier place. We even learn about reproduction in biology and sex education. And yet we never learn how to kiss, thereby leaving it to nature to determine where on the scale we are. From downright disgusting, like those who use their tongue to replicate the actions of a toothbrush, running their tongue over your teeth – not only wrong but also very awkward – to the other end of the scale: the ecstasy kiss, tongues clashing, lips locked, a pressure, an urgency, a rising of the blood in the loins, the desire. Ed’s kiss.
Ed rolled onto his side, facing me, and I mirrored his actions.
“Can I be honest?” he asked, smiling sheepishly at me. “I’m not ready to call it a night yet. It’s still early, do you fancy finding somewhere to get something to eat and making a night of it?”
Wow, I thought, two meals on one date, or should that be two dates? I couldn’t think of anything, anything at all, that I would rather do than spend the evening with this amazing man. I didn’t say this of course, I tried to sound relaxed and simply went with, “Yes, I’d love to.”
We rose from the grass and as we made our way back into the town, Ed leant down and picked up my hand, a small, but significant romantic gesture. As we headed back to the square to find somewhere to get some food we chatted about everything and about nothing.
It sounded like the simplest of ideas, to find somewhere to eat, but in this small town, most places had shut after the Sunday lunch service and, save the illuminated menus on their exterior walls, the buildings were shrouded in darkness.
Luckily one of the quieter pubs, tucked away on a side street, was still open and had empty tables, so we made our way in. There were enough people enjoying an evening meal to give the place a bit of atmosphere, but not so many that it made conversation impossible, either due to the noise or the proximity of the diners at the next table.
We talked and talked, until eventually, and for the second time that day, we were conscious of being the only ones left in the pub. We paid the bill, actually Ed insisted on paying and I accepted graciously. We walked out into the cold night air. I now regretted not bringing a coat, but then when I had left home that morning I had no expectation that we would still be out so late, and on a school night.
We stood outside the pub in awkward silence, neither of us knowing where to go next. Every part of my being longed to be in his arms, to be engulfed in another passionate kiss, but this was not the ri
ght place for that, far too public. Even though the street outside was deserted, the staff in the pub were no doubt watching this uncomfortable situation unfurl.
“Shall I walk you home?” Ed asked tentatively.
“I would love that,” I replied, possibly a little too eagerly, displaying my relief, excitement and happiness all at the same time.
“Which way?” he asked, laughing at me. We had been talking so long and being together felt so natural and so comfortable that I had forgotten he didn’t know where I lived.
We set off but at a slow pace, neither one of us wanting to bring the night to an end, but both eagerly and nervously awaiting the time to part.
It was only a short stroll back to my cottage. I can remember every step as if it was yesterday. Strolling, hand in hand, occasionally making furtive glances at each other. At my front door, we turned to face each other.
“Thank you,” I blurted out. “Thank you for an amazing day. It’s been so great to catch up and…” I trailed off, not wanting to say too much or too little, not wanting to appear too keen or not keen enough. It had been a long time since I was last in the early heady days of a relationship and was hazy on the etiquette at this stage.
Ed leant down to me and whispered in my ear. His warm breath, his proximity made me shudder.
“Thank you too,” he whispered.
I turned my face to him. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Time slowed. A millennium of time passed as we stared at each other. I could hardly breathe. Short, gasping breath. Expectant, oh so expectant. I could feel the long-suppressed desire rising hot and urgent inside me. All-consuming desire. And finally we released our pent-up need for each other. We kissed, a fury of tongues entwined, the sweetness of the taste of him, the passion of the embrace, his solid, strong body pressed against mine. I could feel my knees begin to tremble.
Finally, reluctantly, we dragged our unwilling, heaving bodies apart.
He took a step back, making it clear this ended on the doorstep. But he looked me in the eyes, holding both of my hands, and asked, “Can we do this again, soon?”
Loves Lost and Found Page 4