Always Something There To Remind Me

Chapter 4: Writing Group

I’d been going to the writing group for about eight months. To tell the truth, I almost threw in the towel after the first two weeks, because I felt so far out of my comfort zone. Everyone seemed to think I was a bit of an oddball because I laugh when I get nervous and sometimes that’s not the reaction people expect. I’d been writing for years, but I’d never let anyone else read my stuff. Bob wasn’t interested and … well, there’d never really been anyone else to talk to about it. Sharing my stories didn’t come easily and everyone else seemed so full of confidence. I’d only joined as an alternative to vegetating at home alone. Anyway, I showed up for the third session, convinced it would be my last, and it all changed. That was the week Des spoke to me for the first time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed him before, of course. Everyone noticed Des, especially Tess, the group leader. At first I thought they were ‘together’, but it soon became clear that wasn’t the case. Well, that night, I arrived just as the session was about to start. I glanced around, deciding where to sit so I wouldn’t be noticed; then Des arrived and ushered me to a seat.

‘Latecomers have to sit at the “naughty” table,’ he said with a smile that would have melted an iceberg. ‘I’m Des and I’m a … lousy writer.’ He feigned embarrassment and I laughed as I shook the hand he offered.

‘I’m Lydia and I’m probably worse,’ I replied. That was the start, and now, months down the line, we had a comfortable, easy-going friendship based on laughter and shared tastes in books and music.

* * * * *

We sat together in the back room of the pub where the meetings were held. There were twelve of us in the group most weeks. Three of them were really pretentious gits who thought everything should be ‘literary’ and ‘worthy’. A couple of the others could spin a good yarn, and then there were some who never said anything, but took copious notes. I often wondered what they found to write. Some weeks we read and critiqued each other’s work, but this time we had a guest speaker, Eve something-or-other. She wrote romance and she was talking about how to write sex scenes

‘First, you need to get over your own feelings,’ she said. ‘If the scene embarrasses you, the odds are it will embarrass your reader. Be comfortable with the terminology you use. It’s often better to use the proper names for body parts, for example, especially if you’re writing in the third person …’

Des whispered, ‘Who’s this third person? The first two haven’t “done it” yet, and now it’s a ménage à trois?’

I stifled a giggle and took a gulp of my Diet Coke. ‘Shut up! You’re embarrassing me,’ I hissed, but there was no stopping him.

‘You have to get over these feelings of embarrassment.’ He mimicked Eve Thingybob perfectly and I could barely control the laughter.

‘Behave yourself, Desmond.’ I thumped his thigh with my fist. He wriggled in his seat.

‘Ooh, that hurt,’ he muttered, and then, ‘do it again, please …’ He continued to tease throughout the rest of the talk and I did my best not to laugh out loud. The man was incorrigible at times, but such good fun. I couldn’t help but respond to the twinkle in his green eyes and the warmth of his smile.

‘What got into you tonight?’ I asked, on the way home in my car. ‘I’ve never seen you like that before.’

‘The truth? I was a bit … er … embarrassed by all that stuff. You know … the sex talk. I couldn’t write a sex scene if my life depended on it. I’m not even sure I want to.’

I almost laughed, but a sideways glance at Des revealed that he was deadly serious.

‘So, what happens next week when we have to share our own efforts with the rest of them? Are you going to chicken out?’

He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I guess so. I can’t do it, Lyd.’

‘Nonsense! You just need a little help, that’s all.’

‘Talking of help, I was thinking about your list.’ He was changing the subject with no subtlety whatsoever. ‘If you’re going to go on a talent show, you should get some practice in first. You know, they have a karaoke night at the pub every Saturday?’

‘Really? I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea. I haven’t sung in public since I was twelve, and that was only a school concert. Let me think about it.’

‘Well, you don’t have long before the auditions for Stargazing start. In fact, I downloaded a backing track for you today… just to try out. We can have a run-through now, if you like. That’s if you want to come in for a cuppa.’

I’d just pulled to a halt outside the rather swish-looking building where Des lived.

‘Which song did you get? Nothing too difficult I hope.’

‘Hopelessly Devoted – I think it’s perfect for you.’

In his study, we put it to the test. He was right; the song was OK for me. I could reach all the notes and I didn’t sound too squeaky. I went through it twice and Des applauded; bless his heart.

‘Do you think I sound OK?’ I unplugged the microphone and handed it back to him. He’s very careful with all his gadgets.

‘It’s a good start. We’ll practise again before Saturday and you’ll knock ‘em for six.’ Of course, he was just being nice, but sometimes that’s all you need, isn’t it?

‘Hey, I haven’t said I’ll do it yet!’

‘No, but you will, won’t you?’ There was that smile again …

‘Well, we’ll see. Now it’s your turn.’

‘I’m not the one who wants to be a singer.’

‘I don’t mean singing, you daft sod. You’ve helped me, now let me help you. You want to be a writer, so let me help you write your scene for next week. It’s easy once you get started.’

‘Are you going to write it for me? That’s the only way this could work.’

‘I won’t write it for you; you’re more than capable of doing that for yourself. But I’ll help you. Now, tell me, why is it so difficult? You can write about all your other life experiences, so why not sex? I mean, you have experienced it, haven’t you?’

He laughed. ‘Not for a long time, Lyd. Since Alice left I’ve been a born-again virgin.’

This was a surprising confession. I’d always assumed that Des was pretty active in that area. I don’t know why; we’d never really talked about it before, but he was an attractive bloke with a great sense of humour and he seemed to ooze self-confidence. In fact, throughout the time I’d known him, I’d often wondered why someone with such an amazing personality was friends with a boring old frump like me.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, I finally persuaded him to let me help with his writing demon. I left him with strict instructions to be at my place the following evening with the first draft of his sex scene.

Chapter 5: The Accident

‘That’s not possible, Lyd. I’m sorry, but you’re just making excuses now.’

I had the distinct impression that Trudi was cross with me. Well, probably disappointed would be a better word. I couldn’t respond, to tell you the truth, as I was more than a little disappointed myself. I knew it shouldn’t have happened, but it had; I couldn’t explain it to myself, let alone to anyone else. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told her, but I needed to … confess, I suppose; to rationalise it somehow. In an ideal world I would have talked it over with Des, but things were far from ideal and I couldn’t quite bring myself to call him. Besides, he hadn’t called me today, either.

‘I didn’t plan it or anything.’ That sounded lame even to my ears. ‘It was accidental.’

‘I’m dying to know how something like that could happen by accident!’ I could hear the laughter in her voice now. Confession wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. ‘You’d better start at the beginning; just give me time to get a drink.’ The phone went silent for a few minutes and I used the time to snuggle more comfortably on the sofa. ‘Go on, then – tell me everything.’

‘Well, you know it was writing group on Thursday …’ I began.

* * * * *

‘This is going to be embarrassing.’ Des inserted his memory stick into the USB port of my laptop. ‘You have to promise you won’t laugh, or I’m not going to show you.’

‘What are you like? I offered to help you, Des; I’m hardly going to make fun of your efforts, am I? Just load up the file and let’s see how you got on.’

I perched the laptop on the arm of the sofa and spent the next ten minutes reading Des’s story while he popped out to the off-licence to get some wine. It wasn’t as bad as I’d been led to expect – certainly nothing that couldn’t be ‘fixed’ with a bit of editing – but there was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that made me feel uncomfortable, if that’s the right word. I could sense the difficulty he’d had with the piece.

He returned with the wine and plonked himself beside me.

‘Well? What’s the verdict? Total crap, or what?’

‘Not at all. I kinda liked it.’

‘Now I’m truly damned with faint praise.’ He raised his hand to his forehead in a gesture of theatrical distress. ‘I told you I was no good at this. Tell me where I’m going wrong.’

This was an improvement. Suddenly, he wanted to try to get it right, so we drank wine and worked on it together, changing a few words here and there, and reading aloud to test the sense of it. Finally we reached the stumbling point. I stopped reading.

‘This is where it doesn’t quite work for me,’ I said. ‘You’ve built up this great atmosphere of sexual tension, but when you get down to describing the act itself the mechanics don’t work.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘No, and you wouldn’t “get it” in the position you’ve described.’ I felt a little warm and tipsy from the wine, and I couldn’t help giggling as I continued. ‘It’s impossible, unless you’re a contortionist.’

Confused and also slightly tipsy, Des reread the paragraph, murmuring, ‘Impossible? Are you sure about that? Seems OK to me.’ It was the first time all evening he’d disagreed with me and I was a bit put out.

‘Trust me, Desmond. It just wouldn’t work. If they made a blue movie with that scene, they’d have to call it Position Impossible.’

‘Position Impossible – I love it,’ Des chuckled. ‘But I still don’t believe you. I think it’s quite … erotic.’

‘More like erratic.’ I laughed and stood up to stretch my back. We’d been leaning over the laptop for an hour and a half. Des stood up too and flexed his shoulders.

‘I’m so stiff,’ he said, and we both giggled like teenagers at the unintended innuendo.

‘Do you want me to give you a massage?’ I offered, only vaguely aware that I was flirting with him … and then … somehow … he was kissing me. Don’t ask me how; I’ve no idea. His lips were firm and warm and his tongue gently teased the roof of my mouth. I found myself responding as he put his arms around my waist and pulled me closer.

How did this happen? What are we doing?

My brain asked the questions, but was too befuddled to wait for the answers. I was powerless to resist; who the heck am I kidding? I didn’t even try to resist. I just sort of melted and thought ‘Oh, this is nice …’ then threw my arms around his neck and caution to the wind as we sank back onto the sofa. His hands moved gently across my back as we kissed and my spine tingled with excitement. I had almost forgotten how it felt to have someone hold me this way. The need to breathe normally forced me to pull back a little and meet his gaze. He was flushed and smiling, but he didn’t release me from the embrace and I rested my head on his shoulder as he laid a trail of tiny kisses down the side of my face and neck. His hands were underneath my sweater now and I could feel their warmth spreading across my bare skin as he slid them up to my shoulders and eased my arms free of the loose-fitting sleeves. I raised my head and he pulled the garment all the way off. For a brief moment I wished I’d chosen a sexier bra, but Des didn’t seem bothered by my choice of underwear as his hands and mouth continued their exploration and the bra soon joined the sweater on the floor.

‘Oh my God,’ I gasped. ‘Where are we going with this?’

Des raised his head and looked at me, his green eyes sparkling. ‘The bedroom?’

I’m not going to go into detail about the rest of the evening, but amongst other things we put Des’s theory to the test and it turned out he was right. It wasn’t Position Impossible after all. Who’d have thought it?

At some point during the night, I woke up and realised he’d gone. I cried a little, convinced I’d just lost my best friend.

Chapter 6: A Star is Born

Despite my protests, Trudi insisted that I should go ahead with the karaoke plan, even though it was now four o’clock and Des still hadn’t been in touch. She came over and I practised a few times, but my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t get over feeling like an idiot about the night before.

‘Put it out of your mind, Lyd. The guy’s a bastard, obviously.’

‘No he isn’t,’ I said. ‘It takes two to tango. He probably feels as stupid as I do and that’s why he hasn’t called.’

‘Did you try calling him?’

‘I’ve had other things on my mind …’

‘No you haven’t. You’ve thought of nothing else all day. Call him now. Put your mind at rest. If he’s gone to ground because the two of you got pissed and lost your marbles last night, then he isn’t the man you thought he was, is he?’ She handed me the phone and left the room.

I stared at the keypad for a couple of minutes before I could summon up the courage to place the call. I heard his voice at the other end of the line.

‘You’re through to the voicemail of Desmond Ryan. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, go ahead after the tone.’

I’ve always been hopeless with voicemail. I never know what to say and after I’ve left a message I always feel really dumb. I wanted to hang up, but he’d know I’d called, so I had to say something.

‘Hi there. It’s only me. Call me back if you get time. Trudi and I will be in the pub at eight-ish. The karaoke starts at nine.’ I ended the call. The ball was now firmly in his court.

By seven-thirty, I’d decided he wasn’t going to call back. Trudi insisted that I put on a little black dress and some make-up for a change. I felt like an advert for Barbie goes to Weight Watchers – the ‘before’ picture! – as we made our way through the bar to the little stage where the DJ was setting up the karaoke equipment. Two large ring binders, containing lists of the available tracks, lay open beside the monitor that would later display the lyrics and there was a pile of cards for would-be performers to write their names and song choices. We took a handful of cards and one of the ring binders and sat down at a table nearby. Leafing through, we soon found the song and filled in one of the cards.

‘Are you going to have a stage name?’ Trudi asked. I thought about it for a minute.

‘No – just Lydia. Let’s wait until I’m discovered before I get delusions of grandeur.’ My stomach was churning as the room began to fill up and more people, mostly young and glamorous, handed their cards over to the DJ and he sorted his running order out on a laptop that was wired into everything else. I checked my mobile for the umpteenth time – still no word from Des. Oh well, what did I expect? If you really want to screw things up with someone, sex will do the trick every time. My failed marriage had taught me that much, if nothing else. Reluctantly, I switched the phone to vibrate.

‘Put that thing away – they’re starting.’ Trudi had come back from the bar and placed two glasses of wine on the table.

‘I’m never drinking alcohol again,’ I said, pushing the glass away from me. ‘From now on, I’m staying in complete control.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

The music started and we turned to watch the first act. A stunning creature who couldn’t have been more than eighteen was belting out I Will Survive, a real karaoke classic, with such confidence I wanted to die.

‘I can’t do this!’ I whispered to Trudi. ‘I’m too old and too nervous.’

‘It’s too late to pull out now. I won’t let you.’

‘You’re as bad as Des!’

‘Not quite,’ she muttered. ‘At least I’m here for you tonight.’

The girl finished her number to rapturous applause and stepped down from the stage into the arms of an equally stunning young man who hugged her enthusiastically. The DJ introduced someone called Patrick, who clearly fancied himself as Rod Stewart and gave an embarrassing rendition of Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? The simple answer to that was … no way.

The DJ nodded at me to indicate that I was up next. There are no words to describe the panic I felt as I rose from my seat and stepped onto the stage, almost bumping into Rod Stewart’s evil twin as he stepped down. Nothing seemed quite real at that point as I stood in a small spotlight, unable to see the audience, and heard the voice over the speakers.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, our next performer is Lydia, and although this is slightly unusual, I have to give her a message before she sings.’

What’s going on here? Just let me get through this, please. I stared at him.

‘A message?’

‘Yes – Janet from behind the bar just gave me this. The caller said you had to get the message before you performed. It must be something very important.’ He was milking the situation for all it was worth; even the audience wanted to know what the message said.

‘What is it?’ I pleaded. The DJ was grinning, so I figured it couldn’t be anything too serious – probably a practical joke of some kind. Eventually he took pity on me and picked up a sheet of paper from his table.

‘OK, love, I’ll put you out of your misery …’ He paused, for dramatic effect. ‘Someone called Des says “See ya tomorrow. Keep Calm and Karaoke!”’

Everybody laughed, including me. The relief was enormous. The music started up, the lyrics appeared on the screen, and I forgot I was nervous. Three minutes and six seconds later, I got down from the stage to an encouraging round of applause. Trudi hugged me and I downed the glass of wine I’d refused earlier, in one gulp. As I sat down to watch the rest of the show, Janet came from the bar and placed a bottle of wine on the table.

‘It’s all right, love. Des has already paid for it,’ she said observing my confusion.

‘He’s here?’ I stood up.

‘Not now. He bought the wine and left as soon as you’d finished your number.’

Chapter 7: Waking Up

It was almost ten o’clock when the doorbell woke me on Sunday morning. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, still dressed in my finery from the night before. I stumbled towards the door in a daze, trying to force my eyes to open fully. Des smiled as he looked me up and down.

‘Hi there, Panda, looks like I missed a good night.’

‘What …?’

Placing his hands on my shoulders, he turned me gently to face the mirror on the wall. I was mortified. My hair was sticking out in all possible directions and last night’s make-up had run, leaving me with huge black circles around my eyes and streaks down both cheeks.

‘I thought you wanted to be Olivia Newton-John, not Alice Cooper,’ he teased, and as I delivered a gentle punch to his arm, I realised things were as normal as they’d ever been.

‘I was so tired I didn’t get as far as the bedroom.’

‘Why don’t you go and sort yourself out – shower, whatever – while I make you some breakfast? I can cook anything you like, as long as it’s toast.’