is has, undoubtedly, the British Design Council seal of approval. The run of the floorboards, interrupted only occasionally by a piece of carefully chosen, intelligently placed furniture, leads the eye to the fireplace above which an Alexander Calder gouache explodes colour and shape on to the intensely white wall. The low coffee table is a sleek construction in burnished steel and tinted glass. It supports a matt black vase stuffed with emphatically upright tulips; white, waxy but not real. On a diagonal to the table’s edge is a copy of Warhol’s Diaries. Along one wall stands an ash and glass cabinet. Understated and stunning, the carpentry is exquisite. It is filled with books meticulously organized into a personal library system. Pride of place is given to the leather-bound volumes: Shakespeare, Donne, Fielding, the Complete Oxford Dictionary, the Dictionary of Quotations. On the shelf above are art books, epic tomes and sumptuous catalogues: Mantegna, Vermeer, Cézanne and Poussin. The shelves below carry novels, all hardback, all standing proud in alphabetical order: Bellow, Heller, Kafka, Marquez, Nabokov, Pasternak, Seth.
On one side of the fireplace, a fabulous Conran standard lamp stands to attention while on the other side is the CD system, a veritable piece of sculpture in itself; wafer-thin, subtle Scandinavian lines, matt black, obviously. On custom-built shelves (oak and chrome) are enough CDs to open a shop. They are categorized, of course; the concise rock section alphabetically, the comprehensive classical section chronologically: Monteverdi, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler, Schoenberg, Bartok, Tippett. And yet it is Mr Hendrix who somewhat anomalously fills this unnervingly chic room in Notting Hill with sound.
Can you guess where we are? It is still the day of the Big B. and, a few miles away, Sally has just arrived home, where she is presently dancing Giselle in the devoré skirt and nothing else. Physically, she may be some distance from Jimi and the Calder and the tulips; however, the memory of her is very much here, clear and current in the mind of this flat’s occupant, evoked by Mr Hendrix’s beast of chase. It is time for the Rodin to assume his true identity.
Would Richard Stonehill please stand up?
Look there! Against the long sash window, framed movie-like by imperceptibly breezing muslin drapes. That’s him, resting his brow against his outstretched arm against the window. Turn around – oh, just look! Six foot two and-a-bit, perfectly carved and gorgeously chiselled. Now this is the stuff of Levi jeans commercials. Hair the colour of the sand at Rosilli Bay where his childhood was spent, Richard’s skin boasts the health, vitality and natural tan of someone who lived long in the care and goodness of Welsh sea air. His eyes are the most extraordinary dark violet, his teeth are very good, his hands could be those of a concert pianist, he is fiendishly good-looking and he smells delicious – a fine mixture of freshly laundered clothes, scrubbed skin and Calvin Klein scent.
Eyes closed, long and lithe legs stretched out, arms relaxed, Richard Stonehill slithers into his black leather recliner, and converses with Jimi.
‘I’m too exhausted to get up and scream, Mr Hendrix,’ he apologises, but finds ample energy to sing that he too has wasted precious time; that he has therefore made up his mind to make this foxy lady his, all his.
Bay-beh!
Jimi, it appears is singing about Sally. Or someone just like her. But Richard has never met anyone who comes remotely near her. He sincerely hopes that this vixen will have her sport with him a while longer.
A wry smile creeps from one side of his mouth to the other. He opens his eyes and shakes his head. What does he shake in it? Disbelief? But it did happen, his pleasantly tired body is proof, and so are the images which constantly assault his memory. Does he shake it in amusement? But the night with Sally was more than just fun. His gaze rests upon Julius Caesar, third volume into the run of Shakespeare. Richard sees its title and suddenly Sally, in her naked glory, appears before him too. Caesar. Seize her.
Seize who? Who on earth is this woman? This Sally Lomax? The classic friend of a friend of a friend whom he met less than twenty-four hours ago at the party of a friend of a friend. How come he had not met, even heard of her before? Fate. It must have been. At 11 o’clock the previous evening, Fate had pushed them both on to the balcony at that dull party in Barnes. Fate had allowed conversation to flow, flattery and flirtations to be accepted, and Sally to be without a ride back into London. Fate took them past an all-night bagel bakery and Fate uncovered a shared passion for the smoked salmon-cream cheese variety. Fate filled Richard’s car with laughter and sexual chemistry. If Fate took him to Highgate, where he’d never even thought of going before, where was it to take him from here?
As quickly as the vision came, Sally now disappeared from the cabinet and the complete works of Shakespeare stared back at Richard in their leather-bound splendour. Hendrix was now proclaiming that an angel had come down from heaven yesterday, staying just long enough to rescue him.
Richard, who did not feel rescued so much as released, rose and sauntered to the bathroom, a tiler’s delight in damson, citron and bleu di bleu majolica ceramic. His bladder was full and he stood expectant for the blissful moment of release. Nothing happened. Puzzled, he glanced down. It looked like it always did and felt like it should. Eyes slightly closed, he tried again. Nothing. Slight pain but nothing.
Come on, mate, syphon the python, have a slash, take a leak.
Nothing. He fiddled a bit, gave a little squeeze, a little pull, a slight twist, a gentle shake. Nothing. He turned the tap on to a drizzle.
But I’m bursting.
Bursting. Immediately his mind flashed up an image of the night before, a clear picture and a vivid sensation at the same time. There is Sally’s nipple brushing the corner of his mouth; he sees himself thrusting into her, pump, spurt, release.
Stop it, I’ve got to piss.
Richard looked down and his penis, as erect and straining as his perfect tulips, leered up at him lasciviously. No peeing for the time being. He ached in his lower back and his groin and decided to sit awhile instead. Chin resting on a fist, elbow balanced on a knee; he is Rodin’s Thinker to a ‘t’. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he took a long, hard stare.
I am thirty-five and have had a mind-blowing sexual encounter. I do not know the girl, though carnally I know her inside out. And today I cannot pee. Look at me, blond, handsome – very – virile, manly, hunky, horny. Suave, debonair, sophisticated. In control – of my life, of my mind, of my work.
But not of my dick.
Who is this woman? This Sally Lomax? She is a teacher, she is twenty-five, she lives by herself in urban cottagey style amongst pine dressers, floral table cloths, Lloyd-Loom chairs and a patchwork eiderdown. Shabby chic, everything fresh, clean and bright. Objectively, she is not even that beautiful, not really my type. So what has she done to me? My tackle has never ached before, nor my gut felt so hollow, my mind so distracted. What have I done? What has been done to me? Why can’t I pee? When will I see her again? Jeez, will I see her again?
The horror and accompanying adrenalin at the thought of never seeing Sally again opened the sluice gates of the Stonehill bladder. Richard had just enough time to release the Thinker’s pose so that the torrent hit the bowl and not the double weave, thick-pile carpet.
FOUR
‘Did you see Miss Lomax in assembly? Did you see what she was wearing? You can see her knees! And she has make-up on. Definitely mascara and lipstick.’
‘My mum says that a woman should never go out
