I am currently on chapter 45 of this. It is still going along nicely. Obviously this is the first draft so it will have to be tidied up a bit. I am writing at a fast rate and doing two books at the same time.
I would be grateful for any suggestions. I can address issues in the rewrite. It is hard when you are subjective. An objective eye can spot things more easily.
Chapter 5 – Diane and Bowie
It was very romantic. They met by the fridge they shared. He, all bleary eyed, hair all over the place, yawning and rubbing his belly, emerging from his door in crumpled T-shirt and underpants, her looking immaculate in an clinging black dress with long black hair tumbling over her shoulders.
They both froze, shocked at bumping into each other so unexpectedly.
Diane had been away in Birmingham, staying with friends and catching a Bowie concert. She was mad about Bowie.
As far as Danny was concerned Bowie was alright but nothing too special. He was too keen about becoming famous at all costs as far as Danny was concerned. But Diane idolised him.
Danny was immediately attracted. Perhaps it was the slim body and long dark hair, the tantalisingly red lips or beatnik black clinging dress that did it. Or it might have been that days had passed since he broke up with Cheryl and every female of a certain age was becoming more alluring by the minute.
It seemed that Diane was not adverse to Danny either, despite his dishevelled appearance. That was good because they were next-door neighbours and they shared a fridge.
She, gathering her wits first, invited him in for a coffee. Danny wondered if he ought to get dressed first. They laughed.
Danny went and quickly got himself as presentable as he could manage. It didn’t take long. He breathlessly rushed back to Diane’s and rapped on the door. Diane had set the table. She actually had a table, and chairs. Her flat looked interesting with lots of books, artwork on the walls, photographs, incense burners, Indian pattern cushions and throws, delicate Thai Buddhas and dancing girls. He looked round in wonder. It seemed to him like a cross between Aladdin’s Cave and an eastern bazaar.
Diane had been busy. She’d already made the coffee – real coffee in a cafeteria. The scent filled the room, along with a delicate hint of incense.
Coffee turned into breakfast with toast and marmalade. Then breakfast turned into lunch and they sat on the big cushions and talked. They talked about their lives and where they’d come from. Diane about her travelling through India, Morocco and Thailand. Danny about his student days, music and failed relationship.
Lunch turned into an evening meal and they were still talking and smiling.
That first night was great. They sat up all night drinking wine, smoking jays, playing Bowie and talking. There was a lot of laughter and giggling. Diane had a big mattress on the floor with an Indian print bedspread. She sat cross-legged in some tantric yoga position that looked excruciating. They fell about giggling a lot. Danny expounded on the nature of reality and infinity. Diane was profound when it came to Bowie’s use of costume and mime in his act.
As more wine and spliff were consumed Danny was beginning to concede that there might be more to Bowie than he had thought. The music sounded OK but then it couldn’t stand up to the likes of Beefheart and Harper. At one point he went and grabbed a few albums to demonstrate this to her. She listened politely but he could see that she was not convinced.
As dawn broke, the light streamed in through the window and they made sweetly on that mattress. It was intense, passionate and as natural as breathing.
Diane dropped off to sleep and carefully Danny extricated himself and dressed. He looked out the window out onto the patio and garden. Mr Rose was already out. He was touching up the paint on the patio. It was a big flat layer of concrete on storey up. He’d painted it in an intricate design of bright colours that was almost a mandala, a psychedelic pattern. There he was with a paintbrush tied on a stick so that he did not have to bend down. The tins of paint were lined up and he was carefully applying colours.
Danny watched him at work.
A man has got to have a purpose; he’s got to have a creative outlet. He could see that Mr Rose was pouring his into that garden. He would have to investigate more. He’d heard about the fabled garden but had not yet ventured into it.
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Very nice..Can I ask you what is it with men and Black hair on women, I always thought it was blonds they were after, as I was, but my late husband was fascinated with black hair (mother/ex wife/”friend”).
Personally I only like black, brown, blonde, blue, red, grey, white, purple, green, mauve or yellow hair on women. I also only like women with curly hair, wavy hair, straight hair or no hair. I only like women with long hair, short hair or something in between. Any other sort and I’m not interested – not interested a bit. But then that’s just me.
I don’t know why I asked a serious question I knew I would not get sense from you, but it’s true have found so many men only like black hair. My late husband in front of the “friend” down the road, one time asked me why didn’t I wear makeup like her do myself up like her – I found it so insulting and upsetting, I was me just washed face no muck on my face – obviously not good enough.
I hate make-up. Never use it myself.
On a serious note – hair colour isn’t important to me. I like all sorts. It’s the warmth of the personality that is most important.
Yes how right you are, looks are nice but not that important, you fall for someone for themselves. Anyway beauty as they say fades. My husband was annoyed when I cut my hair, maybe that’s what turned him off me.
Who knows. He sounds like a fool. He should have treated you better and stood up for you.
He never did stand up for me I used to tell him he took it out on me because of the ex Wife and he would always say “I suppose I do” I can hear him now say it. The David I knew in the Office so in charge, booming voice at times was a different David that I married and certainly withdrew from me (sorry wrong choice of word) when we came here. There was no marriage as I look back, I thought we were partners, what a fool. The night I felt a miscarriage coming on I told him and his immortal words were “well nothing I can do about it I am going to bed” and he did he left me in the Living room crying my eyes out, I miscarried the next day when he went to work, I wasn’t that long gone but it was not the point. He was cold, no emotion no show of love he did not need to he would say. What a “f” fool I was.
That sounds terrible. But some men are like that. They hide their emotions to the point where they don’t feel anything. Very sad. You deserved better than that.
David used to say his Mother had so many children she had no time to love him that was his excuse. It left me believing it was me all me, after all my mother hated me I was to find out when Daddy died, so Opher you convince yourself that you are worthless, I used to “cut” that was my way of coping and when the children came they were my life, I had nothing else apart from them and my dogs. You make your bed you have to lay on it.
There isn’t an excuse for behaviour like that.
But all that’s behind you now. Time to try to move on. Make the most of what is left. Writing a memoir would be cathartic.
God Opher, if I ever got it all written down, my childhood to marriage, my marriage beyond it would be as big as “War and Peace” actually that is what it was War all the time and now Peace. I would have to be totally honest I would no doubt be called a Liar, but I lived it and have the scars literally to prove it. I have two Sons whose childhoods were ruined and who now feel they have to be here for me, they don’t. I had counselling a few years ago now as I had so much bottled up, it helped alright.
OK – there’s your title – My life – Bigger than War and Peace.
Writing helps. Get it down on paper. Publish it for your boys.
I’ll keep this one, good title. Jonathan would not read it I know that, David would though.
I bet Jonathan would take a peek too!
I wonder, he always says he would not be interested
He says that but he doesn’t mean it.
I know a week or two ago when I dug out some old pics I have, he pointed to one of me I was around 16/17 and said “that’s not you” I told him it was and I got back rather pleased he said it “bloody hell no wonder all the men in the office were after you”, I reminded him I didn’t always look old, so you never know he may have a look.
I’m sure he will
You are working on two versions of your biography – this one is you then and the Sci-Fi one is you now …
Great insight Dave – I hadn’t thought of it that way. They are both fictionalised though!
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Next instalment.