“Room for one more?” Katherine, tying the belt of a black wrap dress, squeezes past the coats. Peter and I shift to make room for her between us.
“I enjoyed your singing.” Peter passes her the bottle.
“More than I can say for the poor old lady.” She rolls her eyes.
“I couldn’t even see her,” Peter says. “She was behind that huge flower arrangement.”
The image of that confused, bewildered, slightly frightened face still bothers me. “She was in wheelchair. Do you think she was disabled?”
“No.” Katherine shakes her head sadly. “I’d say advanced dementia. It’s safest to put her in a wheelchair at an event like this so she doesn’t wander away.”
Suddenly, the confused expression, the two nurses, all of it makes sense.
“I’ve seen Alzheimer’s patients like her before, they can’t even relate to people around them.” Katherine says. “This kind of huge concert is the worst thing you could do to them.”
“I caught sight of the nurses wheeling her down the corridor to a private wing.” Peter points towards our dressing room door. “But I was stopped by some man who asked me to play for his daughter’s wedding. I’m hiding here in case he wants an answer.”
“Oh, him? Yes, he asked me, too.” I admit.
“And did you agree?”
I shrug.
“So, what areyouhiding from?” Peter asks Katherine Bell.
“All the middle-aged men who asked me to save a dance for them.”
“Good to know. We won’t ask you to dance.”
“I don’t mind dancing with the two of you.” She looks up into my face and smiles. “Are you any good?” She shifts to get comfortable and somehow ends up much closer to me.
The move isn’t lost on Peter who hands me the half-empty bottle and gets to his feet. “I’ll find a waiter and send him over with some more wine and maybe food?”
“Here?” I stare at him.
“Why not? I’ve been to more of these events than I care to count, you can have anything you want.”
“No food for me. Have to watch my calorie intake.” Katherine unfolds the skirt of her dress to show a smooth leg. “But maybe something softer than floor tiles to sit on.”
Peter finds a couple of large cushions and throws them at me with a wink then leaves us alone.
Strictly speaking, my year of abstinence ended a few weeks ago.
And Katherine Bell, as Peter pointed out, is gorgeous. We are alone in a cosy, secret hideaway. I meet her eyes and the message there is unmistakable.
She leans in and I meet her halfway. Her lips are soft and warm, and she smells of expensive perfume. Her hands reach beneath my t-shirt, so I do the same, reaching into the opening of her dress. I am good at this, or at least I used to be, so why do my moves feel rusty and rough like an old, disused machine that hasn’t been oiled in ten years?
Our noses keep clashing the wrong way and our hands get in each other’s way. My shirt gets caught around my neck.
“Sorry.” She laughs, helping me pull it over my head to free my arms.
When I try to undo the tie that holds her dress together, I somehow manage to pull the wrong end and end up knotting it worse and we have to stop while she fiddles with it.
Well done, Brandon, very smooth.
Eventually, we roll back on the floor, but my leg is bent the wrong way and my knee hurts.
“Sorry,” I say this time. “Let me just…” I move away so I can take my shoes off. It all feels like changing at the doctors or the gym.
