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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