Always Something There to Remind Me

by Lilian Kendrick

  ‘I’d forgotten you had one too.’

  ‘Oh yes! We wrote them together, one wet lunchtime when we had to sit in the library.’

  It was coming back to me now. ‘Yours was much more sensible than mine, though. All about passing exams and earning loads of money.’ I laughed. ‘Actually, you did pretty well on both of those, didn’t you?’

  ‘Your exam results were better than mine, and the money never seemed to matter to you.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it did much. I just wanted to be happy …’

  ‘It’s never too late, Lyd. Now you’ve found your list again, you can make it all happen.’

  ‘That’s what Des said.’

  She squealed with amusement then, as she picked up a copy of Go Girl!, the magazine I’d been addicted to thirty years ago.

  ‘Josh Greenwood!’ she shrieked. ‘You still have all the pictures of him! You were totally obsessed.’ She leafed through the pile of battered posters on the coffee table. ‘So what are you going to do with them? eBay?’

  I stared at her in amazement. ‘How can you even think it? I could never part with them. He’s still on my “most wanted” list.’ I smoothed the creases out of an ancient picture, cut from a magazine so long ago. It had always been my favourite and for years it had occupied the place of honour on my bedroom wall, right where it would catch my eye as soon as I woke up in the morning, fresh from dreaming about him! Glossy, black hair framed a perfect face with brown eyes to die for, dramatically outlined with black eyeliner. His dark shirt was open to the waist revealing the band’s name, ‘Luvsik Kitten’, tattooed above his heart. How my teenage hormones used to race! Trudi studied the picture with me.

  ‘Hmm! He was pretty, I suppose, but he was never my type,’ she said.

  ‘I seem to remember you always liked older men.’

  ‘Cary Grant and Frank Sinatra, that’s right. Real men.’

  ‘You sound like my mother sometimes!’ I laughed.

  ‘So how’s it going with your list? Are you ready to fly around the world yet?’

  ‘Not quite. The hypnosis thing didn’t work out. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  But of course, an hour later, after we’d shared a bottle of wine, I told her all about it.

  ‘I’d love to have been there,’ she said, hardly able to contain her giggles. ‘I can just imagine it!’

  ‘I bet you can’t. I felt such an idiot. Scared of a thunderstorm, and then Des rushing in like some kind of superhero and punching the guy …’

  ‘That’s rather sweet really, having your own personal bodyguard. Anyway, when am I going to meet your Des?’

  I felt a blush rising from the base of my neck, but I didn’t really know why. ‘He’s not my Des; he’s just … Des, and I suppose you can meet him any time you like.’

  ‘OK, so he’s not your Des, but I’d still like to meet him. Bring him over tomorrow night.’

  ‘We can’t come tomorrow. It’s our writing group on Thursdays.’

  ‘OK, the pub a week on Saturday?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll ask him. Anyway, I’ve given up on the flying for now.’

  ‘So what’s next?’ She was looking at the list. ‘Skating?’

  ‘I suppose so, but that’s even scarier than flying.’

  ‘It’s easy. I’ll teach you. We can start on Monday after work if you like.’

  Oh dear, I’d be lucky to get out of this without a few broken bones.

  * * * * *

  Trudi was waiting for me in the car park at the Ice Cube, her skates slung around her shoulders. She looked me up and down as I got out of the car.

  ‘I’m glad you took my advice about the leggings.’

  ‘I hate the things. They make me look huge. I wish I’d worn jeans.’

  ‘Jeans get damp when you fall and then they’re too heavy to move about in.’

  ‘You’re not exactly inspiring me here.’

  ‘Everyone falls over sometimes, especially beginners.’

  Standing up in skates was a nightmare. For the first time in my life I realised why it takes babies so long to learn to walk. I don’t think I’d ever considered it before. My ankles didn’t want to co-operate at all and kept trying to bend at angles they weren’t designed for, and that was before I got onto the ice.

  ‘This is never going to work,’ I moaned as I lurched towards the barrier and leaned against it. I don’t think I can even make it to the ice.’

  ‘Of course you can. It gets easier.’

  Clinging onto the barrier for dear life I followed Trudi towards the opening that led onto the rink, aware that the place was full of future Olympic stars practising their routines. Well, it seemed that way to me, anyway. Loud music blared out all around, and I watched in awe as people glided effortlessly across the ice. Trudi was halfway around and I hadn’t even stepped out.

  How hard can it be? I thought, as a little girl of about seven years old flew past me. I put one foot forward, then the other, but somehow my hand was still welded to the rail. I was sure everyone was watching me, and I was on the verge of retreating when Trudi completed her circuit and stopped in front of me.

  ‘Take my hand,’ she yelled, above the noise of the music. I reached out for her and hesitantly let go of my support. All was well, for precisely five seconds, until my brain realised what was happening, then my feet took off in opposite directions and my backside made contact with the ice for the first of many scheduled encounters. As I struggled to my feet, aided by Trudi and some passing teenagers, the music changed and I tottered over to the barrier again to the unmistakable strains of Ravel’s Bolero.

  Eat your heart out, Jayne Torvill. Given another ten years I might just give you a little competition. I laughed at the idea and straightened up. The dream would have to be modified a little – instead of dancing on ice, I’d have to settle for walking on ice. After all, it was my dream so I could do what I liked with it!

  ‘If at first you don’t succeed …’ I muttered, scrutinising the movements of the other skaters. Trudi was chatting to a man nearby; flirting, I thought, and leaving me to struggle alone, but then they came over to me.

  ‘Lyd, this is Richard. He works here,’ she said.

  ‘Uh?’ I grunted as I hauled myself upright again. My feet just couldn’t get a grip. Richard and Trudi stood either side of me and took a hand each. Richard smiled and I looked at him for the first time. He was a mere boy of about thirty, with floppy, blond hair and wire-framed glasses.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘you’re going to do this. Now, place your feet further apart to distribute the weight more evenly and bend your knees slightly, then let your thighs take the strain. Lean forward a bit.’

  I did as I was told and felt a little more balanced and at ease, despite the embarrassment of hearing a young man talk about weight and thighs.

  ‘Feel better?’ Trudi asked.

  I nodded and forced a smile. Richard squeezed my hand lightly as a new tune started to play – the theme from Love Story.

  ‘OK, we’re going to do all the work to begin with. Just relax and don’t move your feet.’

  That seemed strange, but they were the experts. We started to move, or rather they were moving and I was being pulled along between them. It felt good to be gliding with everyone else and I even found myself leaning in the right direction when we took the curves.

  We made it all the way back to our starting point and Richard took me around again, without Trudi this time. His right arm was around my waist and he held my left hand in his.

  ‘Push forward with your right foot, take the weight on your thigh, and then bring the left foot forward the same way. It’s just like being on a scooter.’ He guided me, telling me when to make my moves and we almost managed another circuit before I lost my footing again and brought us both crashing down in a heap. His glasses flew off and, as he helped me to get up, I felt them crunch beneath the blade of my skate.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

 
‘Please, don’t worry about it.’ The reply came through gritted teeth.

  The expression on his face spoke volumes as he accepted my apology, made his excuses and left me to my own devices. I decided enough was enough and stumbled off the ice to the seating area to wait out the rest of the session while Trudi carried on skating.

  On the way out, Richard asked for my phone number.

  ‘I’ll call you when I know how much the new glasses will cost,’ he said.

  As soon as we hit the car park, Trudi and I capsized with laughter.

  ‘For a moment there I thought you’d pulled.’ Trudi shook her head.

  ‘Instead of which, I’ll have another bill coming in. This bucket list is getting expensive!’

  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.