Rather than post a comment back to Becca and Stephanie E, I thought I'd put them here, before the next chapter.

Your comments were really useful, as ever, but it leaves me in a quandary as to where to go after this chapter (which is essentially a run-on from the previous one, still at the same party). My initial idea was to leave the departed girlfriend out until the end, but there was obviously an interest in finding out more about her and the mystery of her disappearance. So, after posting this one chapter, I'll probably have to do some re-writing in the rest of the story. Not a big problem, but will take some time so this may be it for the awhile for this work. Having seen StephanieE's work in progress posted up to the site, I may try out something else next.

6. Decline

Crushed, I trooped off to the kitchen to fill-up with the Zinjolais and re-group (singular). I drank one glass more or less straight down, poured another and made my way back into the lounge, sidestepping O and P, to search for new, more amenable conversation. I soon realised that, eventually in the circling round of pretension, I should get an audience with Beeston Sinclair. He was deep in monologue with a blandly handsome man at least forty years his junior, but I was just drunk enough to overcome any residual Anglo reserve and join in. In fact, I was now entering the stage in the evening where I was forgetting nationality and moved through Mid-Atlantic English into Pacific-Rim Californian.

"Hi, there I'm Adam, Adam Ramage, and you are...?"

"Beeston Sinclair.”

“Nice to meet you. Good party isn't it?"

"Passable. But as I was just saying to my friend here”, he said, briefly flapping his right hand towards his unintroduced companion, “parties are rather like sex. At their best when occasional and with new people, at their worst when regular and with the familiar.”

“I see. So, you don’t know anyone here?”

“I know the hosts, but no-one else. Oh and, of course, Dack here. He’s a student of Professor McKimmie’s and a friend. And what about yourself? Weren’t you talking to those people over there just now?”

“Yes, but they’re more like acquaintances.”

“They’re British too, I assume.”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It takes one to know one. You only have to look at them. Besides I spoke to the male earlier. We have some things in common. His parents have a weekend retreat in Suffolk. Near Lavenham. I’m a Sudbury boy by background. He went to Radley. Like my grandfather.”

“Did you go too?”

“No, but I briefly boarded at another minor public school. Expelled, I’m afraid. I found the ruggery and buggery were not in a favourable proportion to my tastes.”

“Really?”

“I’ll leave that for you to decide.” He gave me a quizzical look, perhaps seeking out where I came in the great RnB divide. I shrugged. Neither really did it for me. Nor were they compulsory at my old school. Beeston look began shading into one of bemusement, as I remained silent. Finally, I seized the moment and changed the subject. The subject was the one so beloved of all creative people, one I could not go wrong with. I asked Beeston about himself.

“I hear you're a poet?” I asked. “What do you see as your main themes?"

"Themes? Well, I am a poet of love above all else. Yes, perhaps a little death, but mainly love", his lips tremmelling slightly on leaving the final word. "My recent collection is more of an aural collage, somewhat erotic but I leave it for the reader to interpret. I sub-titled the collection "A tableau of excretia and pain".

"That sounds great." I continued. "Love and death? Just about covers it all really, don’t you think?” Silence. A penetrative stare from the poet. More silence. “Hey, I really would absolutely love to hear something", I finally ventured.

"Well, as much as modesty permits, perhaps you would like to hear a fragment?"

"Gee" (a word I mainly use when slaughtered or stoned), "that would be cool" (a phrase of similar derivation).

"Very well", said Beeston as he struck the pose, his watery eyes cast upwards and affixed on the light fitting, chin firm, arms unconsciously flourishing beside his slight, elderly body. "This is called Over:Love. "Death, a pool of piss on an ethereal canvas, shit cravenly licked off the UberMensch. Firm of form, tanned of body, how soon decay comes, too soon..."

The words washed over me as my mind took an out of body experience without taking my senses with it. All I could muster at the end was something like "That's..er…original. Cool. Kind of scans, doesn’t it?"

"Oh I don't know,” he said, smiling with his self-perception of praise, and making a stiff swatting movement with his right hand. "I'm quite pleased with it, although Dack rather feels I'm just re-interpreting the legacy of Pound."
"Re-interpreting? Isn’t that like copying?"
"Absolutely not!" Beeston's eyelids stretched skywards and the corners of his mouth took a downward scowl towards his chin.

"A mere copyist would not be capable of the deep understanding of Pound’s poetry that allows one to create afresh. Re-in-ter-pre-ting the leg-a-cy." along with the facial contortions, I also seemed to have stung Beeston into pronouncing his syllables individually.

"I see". I didn't see, but there was venom in his denial. It took only a few more taut moments for his face to relax into it's more natural contortion whereupon he looked on me with more favour.

Picking up on my ignorance, the grand dame of West Coast poetics, ventured to remind me that I was actually in the presence of greatness, not some old flamboyant egoist. With my ear half-cocked and my peripheral vision scanning for potentially single women at the party, the Beest continued.

“Of course, you may have heard of some of my more well-received work. May be you recollect “Pensees”, which was published in ‘83?”

“Ponces?”

“No, no, it’s pronounced Ponsaais, as in the French for thoughts.” Beeston seemed rather hurt by my pronunciation of his masterwork and half-turned away from me to face the kitchen. In a hurt, but relatively dignified tone he pronounced: “well, it did win a moderately prestigious prize in Canada that year, the Palme de Montreal.”

It was well within my perceptive capacity to find Beeston more at home with ponces, than French thought. I nodded appreciatively for this item of information and, after a number of apologies and acts of contrition (including asking for another recital and instigating a lengthy resume of prizes and favourable critiques by allegedly famous contemporaries) I managed to re-ingratiate myself back into the conversation. So much so, in fact, that the Beest seemed to warm to me considerably, although Dack remained silent throughout.

"Well, Adam, what are you doing after? Dack and I are thinking of going clubbing afterwards.“

“Oh, I don’t know. Where?”

“Well, there a new club that’s been recommended to me recently. Penis Envy. Have you heard of it? No? It’s an interesting concept really. It’s housed in this enormous warehouse in the old industrial district but it only takes up half the floor space. The rest of the club is called VaVaVa-VaVaVa-Vulva.Yes, it is a bit of a mouthful. Anyway, I supposed you could describe it as a twinned, hetero:homo place. Strangely enough, I’m not sure which is which. Interested?”

“Doesn’t sound like me. I’m afraid.”

“Or we could go back to Karma-a-rama over on Sunset for some serious boogie - how about you come and shake with us?"

"I don't know. Dancing's not really my thing. I'm a stand-up, talking kinda guy myself".

"Nonsense. You have a fine, athletic body. Muscular, yet delicate. A born dancer! What do think Dack?"

Dack eyes swivelled slowly, but his body remained rigid, like a man with no fingers was operating him from behind. He nodded slowly a few times, then swivelled his eyes back to into viewing the party throng. He looked utterly stoned.

“So tell me, Adam, have you ever danced?” continued Beeston eyeing me saucily, “you know, really danced? Both myself and Dack are thoroughly, how shall I say, immersed in free, unfettered movement. It’s a pleasure, truly. And you know what Adam? It doesn’t have to be a singular pleasure, or even for two. Three, four, five, any number can dance together.”

Struck dumb by the interplay between obvious euphemism and good manners, I was unable to reply except by a grunt, neither of assent or decline. Perhaps sensing my steadfast refusal to give up on tightass English social etiquette, and disinclined to toy more with my playing (whether hard to get, or just plain dumb), the Beest started casually glancing round for someone who wouldn't. Both the Beest and Dack moved off without so much as a backward glance of social embarrassment and I moved back into the comfort-zone, a.k.a. the kitchen, my invitation to the dance withdrawn.

I poured another Zinjolais out of a handily placed bottle on the coffee table and leeched myself onto a conversation Lyall was having with a geeky-looking couple, spectacles, cheesecloth and earnest smiling. They were nodding gently as he expounded on the subject of Last Year at Marienbad, increasing to vigorous as Lyall made each of his well-rehearsed astute points (“an incredible miasma of the real and the unreal. What is the past? What is the present? I really can’t tell what is happening and how”). As so often, Lyall then seemed to lose his cultural references and launched into describing a completely different movie (“but what is the one-armed man’s reason for being there? What is the evil buried in the town?”) This was one truly enthralling conversation, sorry monologue Lyall was having. Unfortunately, it was about two completely different films. But was it Last Year at Black Rock? Or Bad Day at Marienbad? Whatever, it was surely the greatest French art house movie about a differently-abled person trapped in a western shantytown. Either they didn't know they were hopelessly wrong simultaneously, or the geeks were too polite or too timid to mention that Lyall was talking bollocks. There was the obvious outward appearance of everyone except Lyall gazing at their shoes and nodding at random moments, but no one could quite bring themselves to contradict this nonsense. Briefly, the notion crossed me that Lyall knew he was talking garbage and was, indeed, having the geeks on, but I dismissed it. Not that irony really is un-American. It's just not that Kansan.

"Well hello again Adam,” a distinctively-deep feminine voice enquired from behind my left ear, “still having fun?" Ophelia came alongside and laughed boozily, a raucous, throaty sound with no connection to what she had said. She lifted her broad bottom onto the back of the sofa and secured herself on top while slowly crossing her legs. I noticed she had heavily freckled calves.

“You look a bit grumpy,” she said threading a plump hand through her red mane, “isn’t this your kind of party after all?”

God, not another question please. Why the interrogation? What possibly could I give in this social context but superflip answers to these meaningful questions? After a couple of slow gulps of wine, I deigned to reply.

"Alcohol is all the fun I need, Ophelia. Tonight anyway."

"I know," she whined, "but if I have another glass of wine I'll go from squiffy to pukey in an instant."

"Yeah, sure. So, how are you feeling then?" This was not a question I would have ever expected to ask Ophelia Spearwright. It wasn’t that I disliked her much - leaving aside her nauseating use of upper class slang – I just didn’t have any feeling for her at all. I saw on campus now and again, maybe once a year at a party, never more than that. But I was on my own at a party for the first time in eight years and she was a woman and she was talking to me. I supposed she was could be taken to be attractive, school-marmish bob up top, moderately plump body, nice hands.

"Oh, I don’t know,” she replied as I silently looked her over. “I wouldn’t mind a dance really, rather than another drink.”

“I’m not sure if this is a dancing party actually.”

“If I don’t dance Adam, I don’t know what will happen. I may keel over any minute."

"Really? I reacted perkily. “Maybe you’d better get some fresh air?”

"Hmmm. I don't know”, she replied, glancing shyly from downcast eyes. “Maybe I should just go home after all. What do you think Adam?" There was a flirtatious lilt to this question, or so it seemed to me.

I said I’d get our jackets. As I was scooping these from the bed in the spare room I realised I needed to think fast. If she’s got a car, we’re both too drunk to drive. I could get Lyall, but a stretch of dull shoptalk from him would kill any chance, plus he would probably do the gentlemanly thing and drop us both home. A cab? Yes, cabbing was the only option, so long as she didn't live too far.

"Where do you have to get to Ophelia?"

"Oh, call me Ophie. Most of my friends do. Close ones, that is." The final sentence, an octave lower, falling just as she again raised her eyes to mine was meaningful. The meaning to me anyway was "get me home and let's get down to it". Obviously her lower brain, slower to start than mine, was now in full control.

“It’s not far,” she continued. “We could walk.”

“How far?”

“Only four blocks.”

“Oh.” I responded. Are you mad? Four blocks even this neighbourhood was inviting all kinds of trouble. We’d be lucky to make it to the end of the street without being hustled, mugged or worse. Ophelia looked at me quizzically, pressing for an answer but inside I was making a silent calculation. Walk, and the opportunity of sex was a maximum of ten minutes from becoming an actuality providing we struck lucky and the local hoodlums were on some kind of tea-break. Or we could wait anything up to an hour for a cab, running the distinct risk of her sobering up in time for me to get a guided tour of her home, a cup of cocoa and the sofa. Besides, if I stayed calm and welcomed the idea of walking it could make me look rather brave. As I was just about to declare for walking, I became aware of a camp voice interceding over my shoulder.

“Well, hello dear boy. Are we readying ourselves to leave?” It was the Beest, also aiming himself and friend Dack towards the door. “Awful, awful party. Dack and I thought we’d go to that club I mentioned earlier. We thought you and your companion would like to come with us to, er…” his voice tailed off as Ophelia turned round to show a boyish girl, rather than the girlish boy the Beest had hoped for.

“The club?” I said, helping with the final words of the invite.

“Yes, the club. Of course. And your charming guest too,” the Beest rallied in mid-sentence as he saw that, for a woman, Ophelia appeared harmless. I was about to decline the invite when Ophelia’s keenness to dance and lack of sexual awareness butted in.

“Yes please. I love dancing. Let’s go.” Ophelia was off before I could reason with her, out into the street, trailing Dack to the white Karmann Ghia opposite the house. As she bent down and started to squeeze herself into the back of the car, I darted in behind her determined to keep as close to her as possible. Beeston, however, had other ideas. He put the full weight of his one-twenty pound body into my path, blocking my cosying up to Ophelia in the duckie-seat. Instead he suggested that social etiquette required Ophelia riding up front with Dack and that we should take the harder option. I counter-suggested that, as Ophelia and I were English, we were both used to being put in cramped spaces unlike Americans who drove cars the size of continents. This was a fatal error.

“But my dear fellow,” he replied, “I’m English as well, so I appreciate confinement too. Now Ophelia be a good girl and get back out. Adam and I will travel a deux.”

It was a tight fit. The club was only a fifteen-minute ride away, but it seemed more like an hour as Beeston’s bony knees bore into my left thigh. As Dack handed over the keys for valet parking, I stood on my right leg hoping for signs of life in my left. Dragging my left behind, I followed on as the Beest led us all to the front of the queue and, with a flicker of an eye to the tuxedoed muscle, straight on into the club. As any nightclub should be, it was dark, noisy and suffused with the smell of body odour and spilt beer. We were led across pass the bar and into a booth, one of several cut out beneath a viewing gallery. Dack caught the attention of a be-chapped waiter, who came and took our order: a Peach Daiquiri for the Beest, a Virgin Mary for Dack, a Sam Adams for Ophelia and a Manhattan for me. The waiter turned away from the table to reveal, predictably, his arse. This seemed to be about the lightest thing in the club as far as `my eyes could tell, but I was gradually acclimatising to the gloom. I couldn’t make out the sub-genre of dance music which was making the room throb (some Hardcore Teutonic Techno-type beat) but I could just begin to make out the two cages at either side of the writhing, swirling dancefloor.

“What are those?” I asked Dack. Dack feinted to speak, but there was no detectable output. I asked again and Dack finally obliged with an answer.

“They’re slave pens”, he drawled. Then, waiting for this to sink in, added, “for slaves”.

I was none the wiser, although I was surprised to actually hear Dack say something. Then the Beest leaned over to fill in the detail. “Yes, Adam, there for anyone who wants to be subjected to a period of incarceration. They’re the slaves and, look, you might just be able to see what’s going to happen next.”

Over next to the cages, two well-built men, stripped to the waist, were moving into place behind each. From behind the cage, they both pulled on what looked like a piece of thick rope but which was soon revealed to be two lashes. The man on the right swept his back over his right shoulder and came down with a resounding whack on the side of the cage, catching the slight, pale young man inside with a glancing blow on the arm. The screech cut through the Teuton-techno like a gunshot. Then, the other man whipped his lash back and came down on the neck of the squat, hairy guy in the other cage. And so it went on, consecutive blows delivered slowly one after the other on the slaves, causing agonising screams and whimpers. I felt more than a little uneasy, but my companions were all deep in conversation as I watched this drama unfold. In fact, I was the only one watching. People sat at the bar talking, while most of the other clubbers got down to the serious business of dancing. It was all so normal, no-one cared, not even the people doing the unusual things to each other. To my mind, this kind of defeated the object but I was too cowed by the coolness all around me to say so.

“Anything take your fancy?” shouted Beeston above the cacophony. As ever, it was a leading question, suggestive of Lord knows what. I pondered it for a moment, casting my eye around the dancefloor and bar.

“I don’t know,” I said alighting of a group of Amazonians slouched casually at the end of the bar, decked out in fishnets tights and plastic bodices, “I rather like their fur g-strings.”

“I can assure you dear fellow, they are not g-strings,” replied Beeston lasciviously.

I was momentarily shocked.

“Won’t somebody stop this?” I asked to no-one in particular, “I mean like the police, or something.”

“Why ever should they?” replied the Beest.

Even Ophelia seemed rather cool about it.

“Didn’t you know Adam – it’s open beaver season!”

“So it’s not illegal to do that in public either,” I said, pointing at two men in cut-away chaps and little else, simulating anal sex on the dancefloor.

“No it’s not illegal,” said the Beest, “but judging by the aesthetically-challenged way those two boys are going about it, perhaps it should be.” I could see their dance rhythm was more hokey-cokey than Teutonic funkadelia. Putting your whole self in, your whole self out and shaking it all about was the deal after all. The Beest continued, in rueful mood.

“I do so agree with Oscar on this matter: buggery is wasted on the young.”

“Eh?”

“This is a club Adam, anything goes”, added Ophelia.

“I’m cool, I’m cool,” I replied, before taking a couple of large gulps from my Manhattan, “as long as the next track isn’t a gentleman’s excuse me.” Now it was there turn to scratch their heads and stare uncomfortably into the mid-distance. I felt a complete ingenue in the dark netherworld of clubbing so I set about trying to blend in (or blend in as best a man can in a plaid jacket, polo shirt and chinos). I imagined myself a facial mask of world-weariness and cynicism to cover my expression of shocked innocence and naivety. Inner calm was especially urgent as I wasn’t sure who in our party required studied coolness. I’d taken it as read that Beeston would try something on with somebody and his bony hand gripping my left arm augured badly, while Dack was simply the Beest’s plaything and could be left out of the equation. It was Ophelia who I was trying to impress, to resus the minor something I was grasping for back at the party. I was beginning to despair. Ophelia didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to have something for anybody, preferring asexual bonhomie. By that time I was on my third Manhattan she and Dack had been deep in conversation for at least a half-hour, talking about flower-arranging for all I knew. Meanwhile, the Beest was caught in a loop, patting my knee every few minutes and asking when I was going to go into one of the cages.

“Let’s dance,” shouted Ophelia to no one in particular, causing me to grab her arm and drag her off to the dancefloor before Dack could react. Because of the crush, I kept close hold on her as we jigged around, out of time to the music.

“What’s going on?”

“How do you mean?”

“You and Dack seem good friends.”

“Oh that. I don’t know, it’s nothing really.”

“Really? I thought you were getting quite matey.”

“Yes, he’s quite charming and very easy to get along with. We’re having a super conversation. He’s had such an interesting life.”

“But he is gay isn’t he?”

“Well, yes - but only professionally”.

Shit. My heart dropped out of my chest as I realised that Dack would wipe the floor with me if he decided to pursue his leisure interests this particular night. Having written Ophelia off as a sheltered woman who would be a total pushover, I know saw her in a different light: if Dack was up for it she’d get a perfectly professional seeing too while I went home to twiddle my failing knob.

Not being able to butt into their conversation, I was left with the Beest for companionship for the rest of the evening which, despite endlessly yawning and watch watching on my part, dragged on and on. If there was anything in my egotistic concern that the Beest was coming on to me, I’d definitely bored any desire out of him. I almost felt rejected in a peculiar way when he ceased all conversation and just stared morosely at the dancefloor. Ophelia and Dack continued whispering and giggling, increasing our sense of disappointment until, just after three a.m. the Beest finally caught the eye of Dack. He made a backward gesture with his right hand and rose to leave, trailing Dack, Ophelia and then myself in his wake.

Despite the Beest’s latter frostiness, he kindly offered us a lift home. As it turned out, those were the last words spoken, as Dack drove slowly back to Ophelia’s as the first stop. The Beest sat up front with him, alone with his thoughts. At Ophelia’s, Dack pulled up in front of her house, and courteously got out to open her door. “Here we go”, I thought to myself, a quick snog and exchange of phone numbers but to my surprise Dack said a few words out of my earshot. Ophelia kissed him primly on the cheek then came round to my side of the car.

“I know you live quite a way from here and Dack’s just said that Mr Sinclair is really quite tired now and it would be a bit of a detour to your place so – would you like to stay over here? Would that be okay?”

Okay? This seemed astonishingly okay by me. My chances of getting something out of the night hadn’t evaporated after all.

“So, what’s the story with Dack?” I nonchalantly asked as Ophelia opened the door to her white, clap-board bungalow.

“Yes, he was interesting. Did you know that he is something of a star out in the valley?”

“How?”

“As Dack Stack. Apparently, he’s well-renowned – and well-endowed – for his performances. Some of his films sound positively enticing – Charlie and the Chocolate Throbber. Others are a bit ridiculous – Plug Nuts stuck in the mind. He plays a maintenance man and well, you can guess the rest.”

“Oh. I’m not really in touch with his ouevre.”

“Neither am I, but you never know. Could be a dissertation topic or even a book in it. Still, it does sound interesting work.”

“So what’s he doing with the Beest?”

“I suppose you could say his main job was as a sort of sex healthcare worker. Like an escort and a nurse at the same time. Mr Sinclair has a number of quite debilitating conditions which require round the clock nursing, but he also has a healthy libido, so he needs that too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Dack has to take care of him, although I understand that it’s nothing too heavy. The Beest is a bit past it, really.”

“Oh, I see. That explains why he’s so attentive to good old Beeston. Does it pay well then, being a hired fuck?”

Ophelia arched her eyebrows and momentarily stared at the ceiling. Then she swooshed away, her voluminous dress flapping noisily. That was a stupid question. Of course whacking off old fruits paid well.

I followed Ophelia into the kitchen, where she offered me another beer. I took one and instantly regretted it as she poured milk into a saucepan and sprinkled choco malt on top. After a pause, I felt compelled to say something, anything as she stirred the chocolatey concoction methodically.

“Yes, they do make an interesting couple. I wasn’t sure about them because I thought the Beest was coming onto me a bit. What did you think?”

Ophelia laughed with a spontaneity indicating I’d said something really funny, rather than mildly amusing. Uneasy, I asked why she was laughing.

“Because Adam, Mr Sinclair has no interest in you. Dack told me, you were of no sexual interest to him. You and I were entourage. Mr Sinclair was looking for a few reasonably good looking young people to accompany him to the club and you obliged.”

“So we were just appendages?”

“Yes, of course. He’s not silly. He said to Dack that you were a bit of a hetero but you’d have to do: not quite in shape, but a reasonably gay haircut.”

“That’s what he said?”

“Yes.”

“You mean I have gay hair?”

“It’s short round the sides, quite neat on top, so yes. Gay enough.”

“Well, that’s really great. It’s nice to know I have one attractive feature. What does that say about me?”

“I think that’s for you to consider.”

“I’m not sure if I want to. I feel disorientated enough by this evening.”

“Disorientated Adam? How?”

“I don’t know,” I moved over to the kitchen stool and sat down. “It’s just…” I was now hunching over the breakfast bar as if to emphasise that I was looking to say something important. “It’s just that I feel I don’t belong anywhere.”

“Oh,” replied Ophelia, putting the Half-n-Half back in the fridge, “I wouldn’t take the club too seriously. Let’s face it Adam, you probably don’t belong there.”

“No, but…” I was going to say that I never felt like I belonged where I was born and brought up, or up north in Sheffield, or anywhere. I felt uncomfortable here in LA now, but it wasn’t any different to how I always felt, and I felt lonely despite knowing lots of people but with Jane it didn’t seem so bad. Then I stopped myself. I looked at Ophelia sipping from her Brasenose Old Girls mug and remembered, I don’t know you. Why tell something so personal, so desperate to a near-stranger? What possible reason was there to let Ophelia Spearwright into my confidence?

Our conversation resumed soon after, as we made our way back into the living room. We quickly skated over general observations of the club we’d just sampled and the likelihood of one, if not all three of her housemates, bursting through the door after an even better night out. Ophelia went into a long anecdote about trekking across the San Gabriels the previous summer, giving me the opportunity to cast another eye over her. “Maybe she wasn’t that bad after all,” I mused, swigging on my Negro Modelo. “Sure, she’s not my type, but… After so many hours in each other’s company, maybe the length of time she was according me counted for something, maybe some kind of breakthrough. Who knows, it doesn’t have to be forever. I just need a little pick-me-up, a fillip, get myself back on track, back in the game. Could this be the sudden opportunity? Think of the time, it’s very late. She’ll want to go to bed after this. The situation was now critical. But what to do?”

Three approaches flitted through my mind in quick succession:

Semi-Seductive: “Hey Ophelia, there’s just me and you here. We’re adults, alone in this big old city. Why not, you know give each other a little adult companionship?”

Totally Pathetic: “My girlfriend’s left me. I don’t know where she’s gone – she could be dead for all I know. I feel so alone and unhappy. Would you just hold me?”

Desperately Sensitive: “I don’t know where I’ll find love again you know. It’s such a big thing in your life, you know, that kind of special bond you have with someone. It’s what I need, the partnership, the empathy, the affection. I really, really miss it.”

My fuddled brain struggled to cope with these notions. What should I do? More to the point, when was the last time I’d been in this position? Taken home by a strange woman, or one I barely knew, the final stage of the evening teetering on the next thing that I said. The answer was never. Even hooking up with Jane hadn’t been this sudden. It took quite a few dates before Jane was smuggling me into her halls of residence. Before that: nothing. Either it was a sensible case of asking out, being accepted then dating or it was drunken schoolboy fumblings at cider-fuelled parties. This required limited persuasion and little sensitivity, the negotiation based on groping until your hand was slapped. It wasn’t going to work now.

“Ophie”, I began tentatively, recoiling inside from the use of her pet name. “I don’t know how you feel about this, but…”

“Yes?”

“You don’t think we should, you know? I’m mean, why not, I am adult, so are you.”

Ophelia let her fringe flop over one eye and looked up at me with the full power of the other. There was a wicked, playful look there, and her lips were pursed quizzically.

“Well, Adam,” she said finally, “would you be able to free me from my paralysing fear of intimacy?”

There was a moment to reply.

“No. I suppose not.” I said pathetically, the final two words catching in my throat and coming out in a different register, like an adolescent whose balls had just dropped. And that was just how I felt. I was like a fifteen-year-old cocooned in his ignorant, solipsistic world, plucking up all his courage to try persuade a twenty-plus woman to go to bed with him. Trying and failing was not the worst of it though. It was being aware even as the words came out that it would never happen, could never happen. There was nothing in it for her, and everything to gain for me. I had to say “no”, because it was “no” before I even started asking.

“So, will the sofa be okay then?” Ophelia asked, breaking the silence.

A beat. Inside I was cringing with embarrassment and inadequacy.

“Yeah, no problem.”