Part 2 (1/2)

The tube arrives within a remarkable three minutes and, more surprising still, there are empty seats. I fling myself into one and rummage in my bag for my novel. Someone sits next to me. This is not a good sign. Only nutters choose to huddle up when there's plenty of s.p.a.ce. I steadfastly refuse to look up.

'Thanks for your support,' says the nutter.

I take a sneaky glance around the carriage to see if he might be talking to anyone else. This frail hope disappears when I see that there isn't anyone else at this end of the carriage. Bad news on two counts. First, the nutter must be addressing me and, second, there's no one to help me if the situation turns nasty. I'm not a pessimist but if a complete stranger talks to you on the tube the chances are the situation is going to turn nasty. I didn't always understand this urban law. When I arrived from Oz I would innocently insist on commenting 'g'day' to complete strangers. I noticed that they always changed seats or got off at the next stop. It didn't take me long to realize that speaking to strangers on tubes wasn't so much considered a break in etiquette, more like a certifiable act.

'I feel I owe you a quid, though. You didn't really get chance to listen. Hardly what you'd call value for money.'

I look up and recognize the guitar case before I recognize the busker, to whom I hadn't given much more than a cursory grin.

'That's OK,' I reply cautiously. I'm not prepared to be overly friendly. Just because he's a busker doesn't exempt him from being mad. In fact, I'd have thought that anyone who was trying to make a living off the charity and generosity of Londoners probably does have a screw loose.

The busker grins and holds out his hand, 'Stevie Jones, pleased to meet you.'

I decide it would be rude not to shake his hand at exactly the same time that I decide Stevie Jones has the most beautiful smile I have ever seen. His eyes aren't bad either. The smile breaks across his face creating a similar sensation to that of cracking an egg in a frying pan. I love that moment. The moment when the frail sh.e.l.l snaps under the pressure of my fingers and the egg metamorphoses into something that promises imminent yumminess. It's a moment of change, expectancy and release. Stevie Jones's smile is the same.

'Laura Ingalls,' I reply. Fireworks explode in my knickers. Wey-hey, s.e.xual attraction. Undeniable. I am completely shocked by this. I am, after all, wearing prosaic grey/white cotton numbers that were not designed to entertain flutters of any description. More, I'd forgotten that my body was capable of entertaining flutters. I have come to think of it as a vessel for food and something for Eddie to cling to and climb on. How odd.

'Laura Ingalls? You're kidding,' he laughs.

'No, I'm not. My parents hadn't seen or heard of Little House on the Prairie when they named me. More's the pity,' I mumble.

Can people see s.e.xual attraction? Does this man know I'm imagining him naked? I hope not.

'I bet you hated it when the programme was a hit,' says Stevie.

'I did,' I agree.

Most people a.s.sume that Little House on the Prairie must have been my favourite programme as I shared my name with the precocious tomboy who was the lead character. It takes unusual insight to guess that I wouldn't have appreciated sharing my name with a freckly, goofy kid who had a penchant for big bonnets and bloomers.

'Still, it could have been worse. You could have been called Mary.'

Stevie and I shudder as we consider the full horror. Mary was the prettier character in the show but she was mawkish and irritating too.

'Back then I hankered after a zappier name. Zara, Zandar or Zuleika were my favourites.'

'Did this discontent with your ident.i.ty last long?'

Stevie is smiling his fried-egg smile and the fear that he is a fruitcake recedes at about the same rate as realization dawns that he's flirting with me.

'Throughout the seventies and a large proportion of the eighties until I started to accept that being called Zara, Zandar or Zuleika wouldn't guarantee that I was more popular or the captain of the netball team.'

He laughs. 'I think Laura is a really pretty name.'

All at once I love my name.

'Top Cat was my favourite cartoon as a kid.' The nonsequential comment makes perfect sense to me.

'I loved Wacky Races,' I enthuse.

And so we start to chatter about stuff, rather than things. And we just keep on chattering until the train flies through Barons Court. 'I get off at the next stop,' I tell him.

What am I saying? Kiss me: this is our brief encounter. Get a grip. His eyes are a bright, clean green that reminds me of jelly: sparkly and rich. I realize I'm describing him as though his face is a plate of food at teatime but it has been a while since I've looked at men with any real interest. By contrast, food is an enduring pa.s.sion.

'Mine too,' says Stevie.

'I change on to the Hammersmith and City line. I live near Ladbroke Road,' I blather, giving away more than is wise or cool.

'I'm going to Richmond. I have a sort of job interview.'

'Really?'

'The possibility of a regular gig. That's what I do. I'm an Elvis impersonator, or at least it's my night job.'

'Really?' I smile hoping to show my approval and interest, although I seem incapable of articulating it.

All too soon the tube pulls up in Hammersmith. We both alight and for a moment we hesitate. Clearly, we both want to say something, anything, but nothing groundbreaking comes to mind.

'Well, good luck with the interview er, the gig thing,' I say.

'Thanks, see you around,' offers Stevie.

We both know we won't see each other again. Not if he disappears into the throng getting the District line and I merge with the ma.s.ses pa.s.sing through the turnstiles for the Hammersmith and City line. I shouldn't care. But I do.

'Bye then,' I mumble.

Then he kisses me. Stevie Jones leans towards me and after an intimacy of approximately fifteen and a half minutes, he kisses me. Very gently on the cheek, a fraction away from my lips.

A number of possible responses spring to mind. I could slap his face unlikely as I'm not a star in a black and white, pre-Second World War movie. I could grab his scruffy, scrummy body and pull it close to mine and snog his face off. Also unlikely. Although I have now had chance to notice that he is scruffy and scrummy (longish hair, over six foot, broad shoulders, lean almost lanky with neat b.u.m). But it isn't a long enough acquaintance for me to be that forward.

The kiss had been soft and kind. Interested and promising. I am not used to being touched with such tenderness. It was a good kiss.

So good, in fact, that the only response that seems appropriate is for me to run. As fast as I can. Up the stairs and out of his life, not leaving behind so much as a gla.s.s slipper.

7. All Shook Up.

Friday 14th May 2004.

Bella.

I have made a special effort for the house to look lovely. Since Philip is paying such an enormous mortgage the least I can do is fill it with friends and buy a few fresh cut flowers now and again.

When we got married I moved out of the trendy Clerkenwell s.p.a.ce and Phil sold his flat in Putney. I would happily have moved in there with him but Philip wanted to start afresh. We bought a five-bedroom house in Wimbledon, Philip said it was the perfect home to fill with bonny la.s.ses and strapping lads. Who am I to object? It's not as though I have to keep it tidy. Gana, our Thai housekeeper, does that.

Despite Philip's plans for us to build a home together, he decorated the place on his own. It wasn't supposed to be like that but whenever I brought something home he would shake his head and say that it was lovely but not right for a Victorian family home. I sometimes disagreed but not enough to make an issue of it and he might have had a point when it came to the glitter ball and the jelly bean loo seat. We both got what we wanted; me, a ready-made, middle-cla.s.s ident.i.ty, him, the knowledge that he'd tried to do the right thing.

Philip surrounded us with antique bureaus, shelves, chests, chairs and tables that needed to be protected with mats or gla.s.s. It was the tiny things that told me that I'd grown up. We kept spare loo rolls in the bathroom cupboard and light bulbs in a box in the garage. I had Christmas decorations in the loft. We have a Poggenpohl kitchen that's packed with gadgets only a few of which have been taken out of their boxes.

This spring, we made the most of any mild weather and in the evenings Philip and I often sat in the garden to enjoy a drink. We watched as the trees slowly came back to life and as the tiny buds opened out into fleshy leaves. I'm planning on spending most of my summer in the garden. It is so peaceful.