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Relax And Swing. By Daniel Gothard.

Relax And Swing

By Daniel Gothard

Prologue:

1996. Johnny Frinker waits for his wife and children to return from shopping in Central London. He made a lot of money from his last exhibition – the viewing public still seem to enjoy his voyeurism. He feels a deep happiness with the silence in his mind – no more worrying about the literal worth of his art.

He tries to read, but that doesn't cut it. Television and the radio would be a waste of time. He decides to have a look at his record collection, tucked away behind piles of multi-coloured board games and shelves of children's books. Having dragged a couple of handfuls of sleeved vinyl out, he gazes at the artwork –the varied quality of the photography impresses and depresses him. He puts an LP on the turntable above his head. Music begins slowly, far away – helicopters and then a synthesiser opens the song out like Heaven through cumulus clouds: "It's all behind me now..."

Johnny closes his eyes and remembers the parties, laughter, complications and the way he lost his youth. He remembers the other side of life.

1983. Johnny cupped Kate's right breast and considered the erect nipple, he'd seen it so many times – it was a simple diversion to take his mind off her conversation.

Sal Solo, bald and meaningless, the front man of the band Classix Nouveaux – singing/pleading his question from the turntable: "...is it a dream?"

'How can you say you don't like the new Human League song?' Kate said, for the second time, her repetition sometimes wore him down to pained agreement – a way to stop her talking. She sat up and stared like an Inquisitor, testing his faith and patience. How could he say he liked the song? Love Action? He didn't like anything that much – his wedge haircut, films and David Sylvian excepted. But a song about the Do-It-Yourself angle on love was beyond liking. It would only ever exist as a tune, never retaining enough gravity to rate song-status.

Johnny squeezed the nipple and wanted to leave. He had two or three rolls of film to shoot and an article to finish. He knew she loved him, but it meant nothing, it was something to do, to be done, a habit ingrained (like a tick on a dog) into their lives – passing time in love was everything to a girl like Kate – that was her dream. She seemed to plan her life around Johnny and his whims and moods, and feel happy or sad (exclusively) because of him – reality could wait another day.

He lived with her, but not in a domestic bliss sense – four bedrooms in an extended Thirties house – old student digs, affordable by the use of leftover university grants, occasional jobs (Kate worked part-time at HMV) and parental handouts.

Kate loved him for the easy (tainted) love and convenience. She was a living Torch Song to Johnny – the endless running mascara and the desperate need to be saved. All she needed to complete the picture was a drink, a cigarette and a plunge into a river – floating away like Ophelia, flowers in her hair, fixed stare and a vanished heartbeat.

Johnny let go of the breast and got out of Kate's bed. He could see her shaking her head from the reflection in the dressing table mirror and reaching for The Sun Also Rises – her room was a good deal bigger than his, but then she had more of everything and nothing to find a home for – folksy Indian bed throws, posters advertising Forties films and rack after drawer of clothing.

For Kate, New Romantic and Futurist (a more intellectual form of New Romanticism) music were forces of all the right and meaningful things about life and the universe. Johnny understood her passion, but considered the bands she mooned after worthless – poetasters. The bands were usually fronted by a tall, posing fool who shouted inconsequential lyrics about imaginary lands and the fight for freedom. Pathos and Bathos, limp and soggy.

He knew, if music was worth caring a damn about, it had to have meaning and be about and for something other than the sake of fashion and the promotion of a new haircut/t-shirt/legging, etc. The imbecilic notion of the three-chord, three-minute pop song for disposal was beyond him. He had lost faith in humanity when Thatcher walked through the black door and regained some hope when he first heard Quiet Life. What was so bad about the three-day week and bread shortages anyway? The winter of discontent was nothing compared with the endured austerity of the Second World War or the average day of someone in the Third World and yet a whole way of life was being eroded by the admittance of Conservatism – with a large C of course, like Catholicism or Cancer.

Kate was all about the plastic sounds, the synthetic beat and pulse of the modern. She actually believed in Burchill and York and studied Smash Hits as hard as The NME. Johnny understood part of her attraction for him was the lighter side of day-time living; the knowledge that one happy, shallow mind will always be waiting for your opinions, and her easy way after a bottle of cider and a spliff. She just wanted him, his body, his unique way of putting her down, mocking her choices and kissing her into submission – the softest pain she would know.

'I've got to leave. On a job later,' Johnny said. He pulled on his baggy trousers and rolled down his Breton top. A quick lend of Kate's eyeliner and hairspray and he was out of the door before she could ask questions without an end and require him to return.

Johnny got back to his room in twelve steps and locked the door behind him. He didn't need lights on before lunchtime on most days, the sun filled every corner. He made espresso like it mattered – slow dripping, hovering darkness and the oleaginous catch. He sipped the thick taste and daydreamed while looking at the mist on the front garden outside his window. Kate was already filed away for later and he would soon seek out Maria and enjoy her arms of open hope. She let him think straight, without the verbal bombardment of a Kate, and sang him to sleep, never asked questions and liked Harold Budd's ambient elegant sounds. They had met at a house party two weeks before. He had noticed her sitting alone, eyes closed and gently rocking to Taking Islands In Africa – his choice of vinyl for that given moment. She hated Monet, Philip Larkin and believed in never making plans for love and the future of happiness. A true free spirit; to the point where he felt unnerved and as if he was on shifting slabs of involvement and ambivalence. A possessive paradox.

'Maria,' Johnny said to his reflection in a cracked shaving mirror, just because saying her name reminded him she was real.

Johnny cooked eggs and bacon and smoked a Gauloises while he waited. He listened to Avalon and imagined himself singing More Than This in place of Bryan Ferry. Ferry had good looks, so did Johnny, and cool, ditto again and oh, what a voice. Johnny's wailing imitation though – a Sylvian meets Bowie meets Ferry mix of tone deafness.

Johnny stubbed out the last of the cigarette and wondered whether or not Ferry had ever considered hurt feelings as he sauntered off a yacht in a light blue suit with his pink tie dancing on the wind. He didn't need to. The party was never over in that world.

The food tasted bland and Johnny wanted to touch Maria soon. He never knew when he would see her next. She posted him notes and left phone messages to keep him waiting and ready. Kate was aware of her, but thought she was a work colleague – someone from the newspaper. Only Maria and his mother had such a hold on his devotion. But he was to meet her later that day. She had invited him to a party and that was like a transfusion to him. Parties were what kept him sane. His circle of friends, and he had soon found the same of Maria's, were one of us types – into the same music, books and films. He could choose the right shirt, shoes and trousers; wear more make-up and feel something other than worried about a nuclear holocaust. From the first synthesiser note to the last guitar squeal he would be lost in the foam of ecstasy. He had a job to do in the coming hours – a new hospital wing opening next door to a host of department redundancies. He would photograph and print the exposures by five and be ready to meet Maria by eight. And then he would become something other than the daytime version of himself.

Johnny didn't believe photography was an art form. Sure, sure, Henri Cartier-Bresson was an artist who chose to use a camera, but that didn't play the whole idea into any shape. Barthes and Sontag could talk as long as they wanted about composition, lighting and capturing a moment, etc. But to Johnny the reason for photography was documentation only. He used the camera like a typewriter or a pen – to describe. There was no art to be had in that which was already there. Keats and his nightingale, Van Gogh and his sunflowers, Mozart and Don Giovanni, that was art – true talent made flesh. In films, actors could provide enough suspension of disbelief for a viewer to believe in the image of the moment, but that was fluid and true and enough for art.

Johnny travelled everywhere in his Mini. His mother and father had given it to him as an eighteenth birthday present. It broke down two days later. His father hadn't checked the oil and the engine seized as he was on his way to meet a girl. The Mini had temporarily been owned by Johnny's older brother, Patrick. But Pat was a fool with little fear or social grace and he had had two near fatal crashes resulting in massive bodywork repairs and hefty parental pay-outs as backhander anti-insurance claims. Pat got a new racing bike instead.

The hospital staff waited in a huddled group, listening to a speech given by the mayor. Johnny stood to one side and kept the autowind going. He caught a young nurse smiling at him and shot her five times. She winked and blew him a kiss. He wondered about her healing skills and lust and then moved on. He would read all the faces in the print lab and send them to the newspaper along with the required unveiling shots and a few lines of grey reporting. All part of the human interest story cycle – news to read and forget instantly, something to do when all else is failed.

He didn't feel like a journalist and the extent of his obligation to find out the probing facts would never win him any prizes. He was a chronicler – a void into which images and words passed through and into print and on into the ink stained hands of the public, who read and switched off or turned to the television pages.

'... and thank you for being a part of such a great hospital,' said the Lord Mayor, turning to cut a long red sash.

Johnny heard a soundtrack in his head – the rush of wind and a low drum beat, violins and piano. He waited for a dispersal, the return to work; took some shots of the new building and faded away, into the red haze of the print room – his time to create the story.

He spent his time with the images. Watching photographs finally burst into life on contact sheets was like magic to him. Hey presto, there's a bored clinician! Abracadabra, there's an underpaid nurse!

He would never, could never, sentimentalise the process, but there had to be some passion in the work or he wouldn't be able to function. He thought of Kraftwerk, and imagined himself as the fifth robot in the band. He looked at his watch and smiled.

'Do you think Steve Strange is good looking? I think he looks like he's really arrogant and stupid,' Maria said, as she stroked Johnny's bare chest. Johnny drew hard on the spliff he had been handed and thought. The question was close to something Kate might say, but Maria meant what she was asking. She hated outlandish gesture and poseurs. She wanted to decry all the dilettantes of the world and now she was asking Johnny for meaningful input. He was flattered.

'I think... I think he's got enough about him to land some cash and clothes and get it together with a band. But I also think Rusty Egan and Midge Ure are the brains behind him and as a bloke he's most likely a fake and a wanker.'

Maria thought for a moment and nodded. She took in a lung-full of hash and lay down next to Johnny. They touched each other and stared up at the ceiling poster of Taxi Driver. In the back ground Nightporter played on repeat mode – the twelve-inch edition – and the two beautiful bodies drifted on the bed as if they were at sea.

Johnny felt dizzy with the perfection of his life. There, that moment. He was free with Maria. He stared at her, she had her eyes closed. She looked like Gene Tierney. She looked like Rita Hayworth. She looked like a gift from God.

"...I'll sit in my room and wait until night-time begins. And catching my breath, we'll both brave the weather again... Nightporter's gone. Nightporter slips away."

'What are you wearing tonight, Johnny?' Maria called from the bathroom.

'Not certain yet. A light and dark combo perhaps,' he replied.

Johnny was re-dressing and fixing his hair. He would wash it later – always did before a big night out. Same routine as far as it went: red lips, blotted with tissue, eyeliner, pink or purple shading around his eyes, mascara and the cheekbones demanded definition. He always wore white jazz shoes for the evening wear, usually with black cotton baggies trimmed on the leg with a military-style black stripe. But the shirt had to be different every time. That was his trademark. Tonight it was either light blue linen collarless or Thirties dress-shirt. For his in-crowd the right look could make or break your standing.

Johnny arrived home stealthily. He knew Kate would be waiting. And there she was – always reliably available. She sat drinking screw-top white wine in the large kitchen. She wore conventional ex-student clothing. Regulation loose denim jeans, turned-up at the bottom. Doctor Marten shoes scuffed fashionably. An olive green cardigan wrapped around her, and a Smiths t-shirt showing through the middle – the lead singer, Morrissey, disliked Sylvian and that fact made him an automatic enemy to Johnny. She was chatting to another housemate, Sponge. Her real name was Sheena, but everyone called her Sponge because she remembered everything, good and bad. Johnny had always thought she fancied him. The two young women listened to TalkTalk singing Living In Another World, which was okay with Johnny – an injection of intellect, probably happenstance, into the musical choice of the other housemates. It was a nice change to hear sounds in the old building which seemed to have earned the cultural right to be there, and not the usual combustible party themes that deadened the walls and made every day seem pointless and superficial.

Johnny stood waiting for a good moment to move – when he could get upstairs without being seen. He had stopped inside the front door in the long shadows of dusk; just watching Kate and Sponge and realising, much as he felt a hollowness in the recognition, that it was such a pure relief that he could and would end up in a better place than them. And that it wasn't because he was a man, but because he could see through the question marks and the complexities of life and love. He didn't need to understand the meaning of life, just being and trying to live inside the width of your intellectual potential was enough for him. All that and having lots of sex with beautiful women.

'Are you eating dinner here tonight?' Kate said, turning to stare at Johnny, as if she was fully aware of his presence; waiting for an answer and looking despondent. The wine perhaps or the sudden white light of honesty in her feelings towards him and herself.

'No, I'm meeting some friends and going to see a gig.' Johnny wanted to avoid anymore idle chat. He barely had enough time to get ready for the evening ahead and Maria's last kiss lingered in his memory like the most totally consuming crave.

'Can I come to the gig, too?' Kate stood up and walked towards him. She held out her hands to take his – her bangles jingled and it sent a malevolent shiver down his spine – responsibility. She clutched at him.

Kate hugged Johnny tightly and planted a wet kiss on his neck. Instinctively, his right hand shot up to wipe her residual saliva away. She looked crestfallen and pulled away. Sponge had disappeared and soon the latest (awful) single from Modern Romance began to crash through from the lounge: "...makes me wanna dance. Oh, oh, oh, it's a new romance..." Execrable lyrics, cliché-ridden good-times-around-the-corner rhythm and lashings of unnecessary instrumentation. Almost as lamentable as Tears For Fears, who took their garbled efforts so seriously – all that limb flailing and meaningful staring from a harbourside.

'Can I come?' Kate said, sounding more and more like a small child. She gave Johnny a doe-eyed plead.

'Sorry, sweetie, it's me and the lads tonight.' He smiled his best one and kissed her forehead, then walked away to change.

Johnny heard screaming and shouting on the street outside, night-time revving of emotion – football, families, lack of money – the weekend life. He turned his stack-system on and placed the stylus carefully on the outskirts of his Tin Drum LP. Sons Of Pioneers kicked in with Steve Jansen's funereal drum thuds. Johnny was transported back to the Hammersmith Odeon – the last ever Japan gig. Skinheads tried to sabotage the evening with pre-show violence and shouts of: "Poofs" from the back row. Thankfully, security guards dealt with the bald morons and from then on in the whole show was like an act of worship and a witnessing of something beautiful dying – but gracefully and without hysteria. It was the last time Johnny had cried.

A knock on his bedroom door broke into Johnny's memory feed.

'Yep,' he said, sounding almost as annoyed as he felt.

'Can I come in, please?' Kate said.

'Okay.'

Johnny opened the door and flashed a grin to smooth his mood.

'What's up?' he said. 'You all right?'

'I just want to know if you're coming back here tonight?'

'Honestly, I don't know.'

'Which friends are you going out with anyway?'

'Marco, Merrick, Terry Lee, Gary Tibbs and yours truly,' Johnny sang his reply. Kate smiled and said, 'Funny ha, ha. Thanks, Adam Ant.'

Johnny grabbed at her waist, lifted her up and dropped her on to his bed. They fucked with barely restrained anger and Kate left without any further questions. Johnny re-styled his hair and re-played side two of Tin Drum.

Johnny made all cautious efforts to exit the house without Kate noticing. She had gone back to her room and was playing a Wham! single, surely a joke... Johnny imagined her basking in the phoney afterglow of their sex. The thought appalled him, it was a connection between them which he knew he would break in time. He had to.

He crept past her door, half expecting her to hear him and bounce out of the room, Tigger-like, and insist on joining him at the fictitious gig. The way out was agitated by many creaking floorboards and downstairs kitchen sounds – Alan, another housemate, and Sponge laughing and cooking what smelled like beef. Johnny imagined a landing confrontation and the burden of secrecy about Maria's existence being lifted. Joy, but heartbreaking and he would have to find a new place to live – still too early to expect Maria to take him in. Johnny tried to find the guilt within and failed. He slid down the bannister slowly, dangerous but quiet. Rain smashed at the frosted window by the front door and Johnny wasted no time in gathering his grandfather's old great-coat and leaving – a gentle click of the front door catch was all that remained.

8.

Johnny had snorted cocaine before he left, a gift from Maria, and felt the tingle of additional confidence flow. He smiled and rode a taxi north to the party. Maria would arrive with two of her friends from work. She hadn't told him what she did for a living and it didn't matter. Nothing but the night mattered. They might all be dead soon. The Greenham Common women were splashed across the national press – Johnny's mother had made two broadsheet covers already – and Trident was the unilateral choice of destruction. The Soviets and the Americans faced off and Johnny needed the love and music to forget all of that.

Johnny was immediately wrapped up in wondrous sounds inside the front door; he was greeted by a Louise Brooks look-a-like called Dev. Depeche Mode sang Everything Counts as he walked into a huge lounge – in darkness but for five coloured lights and dry ice. Many heavily made-up faces watched him blend in. He was all right; he was one of them. He thought about Dave Gahan's little face and mighty voice and the truth of money perverting everything, but more of it in his own pocket would be nice. Maria walked in and he took her hand. Her friends leered at each other like jackals and wandered off. Weird, but who cares, thought Johnny and he kissed Maria as if it were a last kiss. There were quick moments and movements in part-conversations; clouds of cigarette smoke – a mixture of hash, tobacco and others – cloaked the many spacious rooms which wound and rose, truncated by winding staircases and hidden other rooms behind bookshelves. Johnny held Maria by the waist and touched her as far as his arm length would allow. They drove each other around in time to the music which had glided into Siouxsie singing Dear Prudence.

The host who nobody seemed to have seen had great taste and had devised a running order to define the playlist as instinctive – each lyric and beat connected; created and maintained the atmosphere. Johnny found a bottle of Jack Daniels and then two glasses, he poured for the both of them and they exchanged liquid in more and more deep kisses. Maria had never looked more beautiful. I love you, Johnny thought, as he pulled away from her lips and swallowed. He felt dazed and invincible by the binding pace of it all – the clear evening and the unity of faces around him.

The Space Between began and Johnny had a vision of Bryan Ferry saluting him from that yacht. Maria started to dance against his body and soon the two of them were engaged in a trance-like state of sexual rhythm.

Johnny felt his heartbeat treble and his eyes walked all over Maria. He felt the bulge of his Polaroid: instant memories and enough to remind him of Maria, and not become too heartbroken, until they met again.

'Come upstairs,' he said to her.

She nodded and they were away.

They walked slowly through three rooms to the stairs. On the way they saw lovemaking, heard earnest discussion under the music regarding the Socialist Workers Party; all manner of secrecy undisturbed, and were followed by eyes hidden under fringes, high cheekbones and all around their heads was glitter strips and mirrorballs. Strobe-lighting and pale shelters where bodies moved to the sounds. Johnny's Polaroid flashed again and again – he was stealing the night – and he pocketed the shots. He remembered his parents' parties – summer school graduation, his father, the professor, the host, the architect of adulterous deception and his mother lost in the background. He and his brother stole alcohol remnants and grinned like nutters at the students massed in the kitchen talking about their futures in sociology or politics.

Johnny clicked back to the now. Warhol soupcans, Kandinsky strokes, Rupert Brooke and Bertolt Brecht guided the lovers up the stairs.

9.

The evening became steeped in surprises. Maria gave herself to Johnny completely, she would usually want to control him at some point. They had found a small room – where piles of long, thinly-lined coats sat by a single bed. Johnny was gentle and tried to avoid smudging Maria's eyes and cheeks. He was aroused by the perfect symmetry of her make-up and to skew the effect would detract from the pleasure for him. When they had finished; returning to the party, they passed by the back door and before Maria could ask why, Johnny had run into the garden and fished a girl's drooping, drowning, head out of a frozen pond. He carried her inside and laid her on a leather sofa, carefully placing a throw across her midriff.

'Do you know her?' Johnny asked Maria.

'No. I'll ask around.'

Maria walked off and Johnny felt morose with the comedown of such a forced reality – saving a life, but wanting such an act to belong to another.

The girl was small and white with cold. She was clearly breathing and every few seconds she coughed as if to convince anyone watching that she would be okay.

Maria returned shaking her head and looking disinterested.

'Maybe she came alone or the people she was with have left,' Maria said and shrugged like it was nothing of concern.

'We'd better make certain she doesn't croak. Perhaps we should call an ambulance,' Johnny said. 'What do you think?'

As Johnny raised the question of continued care he watched Maria blanch. He looked at the girl and noticed her t-shirt had an image of Sylvian, wearing tortoise-shell glasses and looking purposefully into the middle distance. The Art Of Parties for sure, thought Johnny. He half-smiled and looked back to Maria, who was biting her fingernails and looking bored.

'She doesn't need a doctor, just time to warm up a bit,' Maria said, bursting into an authoritative pose and pouring her diagnosis at Johnny. She tookay hold of Johnny's right hand and began guiding him away. 'Come on lover-man, let's dance. Bowie beckons,' she whispered in his ear.

Johnny breathed in heavily and looked back at the girl.

'You go and be with your friends for a while. I'll join you soon. Okay?'

Maria forced a compliant smile and said, 'Well, at least get her name.'

Johnny grabbed at her backside as she left and revelled in the atmosphere of jealousy she had left behind. A smell and taste of victory.

She needs me. She wants me, he thought.

He kneeled down next to the girl and watched her chest rise and fall for a few seconds, then he looked into her face; she was awake. And she was beautiful.

10.

'Who are you?' she said, sitting up suddenly and looking afraid.

Johnny moved back and gave her more than enough energy space. He never wanted to be thought of as a creep. She had a soft Scottish accent.

'The guy who just gave you a second chance to live.' The girl looked puzzled. 'The fish pond, you had your head in it. How did you get into that shit? You don't seem that drunk. Are you on something?' Bowie again coming from the next room – this time Ashes To Ashes. So close to apt.

'I remember going out there to breathe some clean air. I'm asthmatic. And I remember tripping over, but that's all.' The girl looked over Johnny's head and rubbed her eyebrows.

'Are you here with someone?' Johnny said, he turned to see what she saw. He was the face of altruism, but he wanted her body and soul. Lust was so inappropriate for that moment, but as involuntary as the recognition of it.

'My boyfriend. He dumped me earlier and left.'

'He's a fool. I'm Johnny.'

'Sara.'

They shook hands and smiled at each other. Life was beginning to flow with the usual strength through Sara; Johnny felt a sudden (renewed) rush in his abilities to charm. But there was the matter of Maria.

'Are you here alone?' Sara asked. It was so obvious she was interested in him. Even if it was only gratitude he could still have her. The music grew louder. Johnny wondered if Maria had increased the volume to wake Sara, or make him remember where he should be. After all, the song was Fall In Love With Me.

'No. I'm with a friend,' he lied. A straight face, eye contact and a smile to follow would make anything he said to this stranger wholly believable. They looked at each other and Johnny felt suddenly overwhelmed by her. Her eyes were the most striking shape and, even in the half-light, he could see they were a sharp ocean blue. He wanted to kiss her, hold her and be with her for good. Surely that was his right? He had saved her after all...

'I'm going to leave, I think,' Sara said.

She began to stand. Johnny moved forward to help her up.

'Can I call you a taxi or walk you home?' he said.

'No thanks. I've got my car. I'll be fine.'

They walked to the front door.

'Do you have a coat?' Johnny asked. He looked around to see Maria craning and smiling.

'It's in the car,' Sara replied. She shivered and reached for the door knob.

'Can I see you... check on you, buy you a cup of coffee or something?' Johnny blurted the question out and felt his face bloom.

Sara smiled and looked at her feet.

'A cup of coffee sounds nice, yeah. I'm buying.' She opened the door and made her way down four steps. 'It's the least I can do for my saviour.' She went to her car and got a paper and pen and wrote her name and number down.

'Call anytime you like, I work from home,' she said, handing him the paper and retreating quickly. Maria was standing behind Johnny's left shoulder.

'She seems nice. Speedy recovery,' she said. Her voice was cool.

Johnny turned, pulled out his Polaroid took her photograph and as Planet Earth began he grabbed Maria with both hands and kissed her until she gave in. He realised there and then, with Maria, as magical and mysterious as she wanted to be, it would only ever be about sex and keeping him waiting.

11.

Johnny took Maria out for breakfast the following morning. They had left the party shortly after three when the low of drug aftermath was still a way to go. They undressed each other in the taxi just as they arrived back at Maria's flat. The mysterious Maria and her lovely flat in Chelsea. Who was she? Johnny had lost a reason to discover the truth. He had a new focus – Sara. Sara Smile by Hall and Oates ploughed through his head like a meme gone insane with an obsessive desire to be released.

The café Johnny had selected was distinctive and tastefully right for the Futurist – throwback romantic, but cool enough not to enter the carnival-geek territory of the New Romantic. They didn't play Duran or Spandau in this neck of the woods. Erik Satie was playing on the PA as they walked in and sat down; each had a mirror to observe themselves and everyone else. Man Ray would have loved it. The café was a renovated art deco construct – shiny green pot plants, chandeliers tinkling as the front door opened, multi-coloured mirrors behind the bar and each dark wood table had a lamp with a period glass shade. An old Pernod bottle sat on top of the bar waiting to be loaded with tips.

Maria read a second-hand edition of Robert Frost's collected poems and ate croissant. She drank black coffee slowly and occasionally glanced up at Johnny who looked back at her smiling. He read the NME – an interview with Julian Cope – and made silent plans to see The Teardrop Explodes the following week at the Hammersmith Odeon. Cope had indicated the band might split soon. Johnny deliberately avoided attempts at conversation. He knew the subject of Sara would rise to the surface in some way, and he was happy to wait.

'Would you like some orange juice,' Johnny said. He stroked Maria's hand, she put Robert Frost down.

'No. I'm just fine. Thanks. By the way, are you doing anything later tonight?'

'Not now. What did you have in mind?' He got up and moved his chair next to her.

'There's another party, a dinner party actually. It might be a bit boring. Some pretty square friends of mine from university. Do you fancy coming?' Maria looked shy and that surprised Johnny, who would have previously imagined her incapable of such a feeling.

'Yeah, sounds good. A bit of domestic bliss, eh?'

Maria shrugged and picked her book up.

'I wasn't trying to be flippant. Sorry,' Johnny said.

'You should think about the power of words more, y'know.' Maria held her book out towards Johnny as if to re-inforce the truth of what she had said. Frosty, indeed, Johnny thought. And then Bowie came through the speakers: "Let's Dance, under the moonlight, the serious moonlight..." Johnny thought about Sara and how the Thin White Duke might handle the Maria and Kate situation. Probably a huge dose of cocaine and a wallowing soundtrack, followed by a desertion to Berlin again.

12.

Johnny looked at Maria and bit his bottom lip in recognition of the way she had turned upon him – reasonably subtle, but still plenty of venom. And all because he had helped another human being the previous night. There is no society, eh, Margaret?

He could find a way to sympathise with the darkness of jealousy and the way its cloak could envelope you and blind objectivity. And let's face it, he did want to begin an affair with Sara. But still, innocent before proven otherwise...

Johnny was also perplexed and annoyed by the rule changing aspect. Maria had made herself emotionally unavailable except at her own say so, and created the game they both played – an idea of a relationship hidden behind her insistence of shadows and fog. Be mean, keep keen, etc.

He remembered, with total distaste, his parents and the way they slept with each other one night and the neighbours the next, and so on. But that was the Seventies – sexual identities twisting like a torn flag in the wind. The baby-boomers thought it was all right to continue the cause of gender equality and liberation in the bedroom through experimentation, and that it would never affect the children. They would be asleep or playing in the garden. But the Sixties ruined everything. Something had to give – but why the morality of innocence?

Johnny felt as if he could read Maria's exact thoughts. Blasé – she was thinking – the best way to behave if she wanted to confound her little Johnny and make him want her even more than usual. Oh yes, that jiggedy bounce of the Frost collection would allow her to pose as intellectual and intrigued by the imagery and the social relevance of the poems – historically distanced, of course. She would think of later that day, the evening, the dinner party and how she would perfectly recall a line or two of the Frost and tell an anecdote about him, taken from the foreword. And Johnny would burn in the light of her brilliance – the substance, the depth. But she would never think it possible, let alone probable, that he was thinking ahead too – to the next conversation piece with Sara.

Johnny sipped sweet orange juice and smiled to himself as he turned a page of his NME and came across tour dates for the band Orange Juice. He had enjoyed the single Rip It Up and wanted to see them play live; the gigs were soon – a day or two He would have to increase his journalistic output to get the requisite cash. He might be able to blag a ticket as a photo-journalist and get some portfolio shots.

13.

The afternoon passed away quickly, like an accident – instantaneous, without a plan. They walked aimlessly along the South Bank, holding hands – although that felt forced to Johnny – and watched pigeons and skateboarders. Maria talked a mile a minute about the friends they would be sharing the evening with. As if she were attempting an impossible task: convincing the eternal misanthrope Johnny there was a meaning in breaking bread with strangers he had no interest in and would probably never see again, and never want to.

'I'm sure you'll like Miles. I know he's got a silly posh name, but he's a cool guy and he's in a great band. I think they've just been signed by Rough Trade,' Maria said, manically; turning frequently to gauge Johnny's expression.

'Nice. Sounds good,' Johnny replied, trying to hit the right note.

And so the evening arrived. Johnny and Maria had made little effort to rise above mellow indifference with each other – Johnny detected annoyance at his aloofness – throughout the afternoon. Maria had talked about the enjoyment of comfortable silences and the Japanese ideal relating to the celestial gaps between words and music. But Johnny wasn't fooled. He had read Mishima and knew there was always violent longing for truth and identity. They were not a couple yet and the silence was framed by suspicion.

'What are you planning on wearing tonight?' Maria called out her question from the bathroom; they had just had sex – forced and boring. There was a hint of concern in her voice, and she had placed the word planning into her question like a psychological tripwire. Johnny sat, topless and sleepy, on the edge of her bed and raised his right eyebrow, just like Sylvian.

'The same clothes I've been wearing. Why, do I need to find a tie or something?' he shouted back to her.

'Of course not.' Maria walked in, putting a second ear-stud in the same lobe. 'I was just thinking... maybe you could leave your make-up off... just a suggestion.' She looked at him briefly; flashed a quick, insincere smile and walked out to the kitchen. 'Do you want a drink?' she called out, glasses tinkled and the fridge door heavily clicked shut.

'No,' Johnny shouted grumpily. Just a suggestion. A goddamn order, Johnny thought. He gave the middle finger to the bedroom door and lay back on the bed. He knew she would soon return with a drink for both of them. She would use everything in her charm arsenal to win him over. Sex was her usual weapon of choice and she knew how and when to deploy or withhold it.

Maria walked in seconds later with two drinks. In the dusk light, even through his anger, she looked like a vision of beauty and sex to Johnny. He jumped to his feet and shot to her. The drinks were abandoned and they fucked like crazy. Usually that would be enough for Johnny – a bit for her, a lot for me – and with Kate sex was the bare minimum fall-back position to keep them in the same room, the thing they did to each other to prove they should be together, or that was Kate's version of reality. It was all just a hangover from student days, like an overdraft, when they ducked out of seminars and fucked wildly in any faculty cupboard or unused room they could find. Those days were gone, they hadn't lasted that long. But Maria had been the new wave of adult sex. A delight. She had become a reason to feel and believe. In the course of one evening and one day all that had changed and she had begun to create enmity in her Johnny. And sex alone would never keep him.

'What would you like me to wear?' Johnny asked when they had finished. He lightly kissed Maria's shoulder and began to rise from the bed. She held him down.

'What ever you like,' she whispered. Johnny felt his heart beat faster and his face grow red with angry warmth. She was trying to manipulate him in such an obvious fashion. He despised that way in people. His father was a liar and twisted any advantage to be had in his direction. Johnny pictured his mother waiting for a phone call that never came.

'That's not what you mean, is it?' Johnny said and removed Maria's right hand from his chest. He jumped out of the bed and started to dress in fractured movements – beginning to fasten his shirt buttons, then pulling one sock out from under the bed and reaching for his trousers. Maria sat up, holding the duvet above her chest.

'Johnny, what's the matter? I don't care about what you wear. Really, I don't. I'm just glad you're coming tonight.'

'What about the make-up comment?'

'I... I was just thinking you might feel a bit uncomfortable sitting down with men who don't dress like you. They can be so stuck-up...'

'So why do you still see them?'

'Because...'

'Yeah?'

'Because they've been my friends for years and I guess they represent a familiarity with my past.' Maria moved towards Johnny. He moved away.

'Oh right, the past. The past I'm not supposed to ask about.'

'Please, can we just forget this? I'm trying to let you into my life,' Maria pleaded. Johnny stood up and went to the bathroom. Behind the door he stared at his reflection in the full length mirror opposite. His expression was full of hatred. He walked towards himself and stopped with his nose touching the glass and his breath distorting the view.

'Sara. I think it's going to be you,' he whispered and smiled at the pleasure of new conquests. The feeling made him relax and think of Maria, her friends and their time together as a meaningless indulgence, a fancy he could use and discard. He would wear make-up and be offensive if he felt the urge.

'Johnny, are you okay?' Maria's voice sounded small and worried.

'I'm fine. The dandy highwayman in fact. Out in a moment.' He heard Maria laugh. And that was that until later.

14.

'So, you're going out with the same friends againtonight?' Kate said. The coldness in her voice down the telephone line bored Johnny.

'Yep. We got invited backstage and the band want to talk about a photo session. I'll be back tomorrow. See you.'

Johnny put the receiver down before Kate could get herself worked up into a frenzy and plough guilt into the conversation. He had, tacitly, agreed to take her out for a meal and he understood fully how hurtful his actions were. Kate was a natural victim and loved to have painful transactions. She discussed them at length with Sponge and read more Russian tragedy novels after the fact. Johnny couldn't raise any sympathy for such existential angst and drew satisfaction from his own thoughts of youth, truth to oneself and carpe diem.

As Johnny and Maria travelled to north London by black cab, Johnny watched the night – the whizz-by faces, mouths agape in conversation, smiles, shop lighting and the lone walkers. They passed a queue forming outside a glossy club and it made Johnny sad to think of Blitz then – the club run by Steve Strange – him again! – with the best of everything a man of Johnny's type could imagine or need – requisite drugs when you wanted them; music that seemed as essential as oxygen and drove home a message that it did matter and all else could lose its grip, but the music must keep on. It was the cutting edge, along with Taboo, of style. Where Futurism and the New Romantic sat together; all they cared about was music and make-up and sex and the night-time and the right clothes and the right hair and they all burned with youth and that couldn't be taken away or asked questions for qualification. It was just there. If the world was to end in a nuclear holocaust and his mother, out there chained to a fence at Greenham, was to be one of the first to rise up in the plume of a mushroom cloud, she could die with the knowledge her second son had lived well, the way he wanted.

'Are you all right?' Maria asked him, cracking his reverie like an egg.

'Sure. I was thinking about Blitz. Shall we go later?'

Maria pulled a thoughtful expression. 'Yeah. Why not.'

The taxi turned a corner and as Johnny saw the many facades he thought of the Georgian period. He had visited the Costume Museum in Bath with his parents as a child and the lavish white circle of houses which greeted his eyes threw him back in time. Darkness drowned the small communal garden in the centre of the square and a tall, spiky wall announced how unwelcome you would be if you didn't earn enough to live there. A voice of groaning misfortune grew in volume inside Johnny and he wanted to push Maria out and scream: 'Drive, you fool, drive!' at the driver. Like the worst kind of blind date, he felt trapped for an unspecified duration.

'Don't be fooled by the architecture,' Maria said, seeming to perfectly read his thoughts. 'It's all mortgage and artifice.'

Johnny was impressed by her observation and power of description, but then remembered she was one of them, and as F Scott Fitzgerald said, "The rich are different." And that could just as well mean in their sense of moderation, and explanation.

'You look great,' Maria said, squeezing Johnny's arm as he was paying the taxi driver. The fare was huge and drained ninety per cent of the spare cash from Johnny's wallet. He inwardly cursed, but turning towards Maria he managed a smile and thought how ironic and feeble her attempt was to reassure him about his appearance. He knew he looked good.

'Hello! The gorgeous Maria!' a voice shot from a doorway behind them. They turned and saw a young, large woman in a sparkly silver dress.

'Hi, sweetie!' Maria shouted back. She took Johnny's arm again and they walked four steps to meet the sparkle queen.

'My god, you look delicious,' said the queen.

'This is Johnny, Sue. This is Sue, Johnny.' Maria grinned like a drunk as she made the introductions. Johnny shook Sue's hand and noticed other people beginning to approach the front door.

'Maria. Christ alive. How are you?'

'Miles. You old bastard,' Maria bellowed and jumped into Miles' arms. Two other men and women congregated around them. Sue smiled at Johnny and turned towards them. Johnny noticed one of the men smile at him in an arrogant way that spoke of money, a country seat and endless days punting on the Cherwell or the Cam. An ease with the world because everyday was Christmas Day.

'Johnny, I would like to introduce Mark and Cressida. Hands shaken; smiles and nods. 'And this is Roger and Liza. Roger's going to be the next Prime Minister.' Sue laughed. They all laughed. Johnny tried to laugh, but dry smiled instead.

Maria was still talking to Miles, whispering in his ear and laughing. They acted like lovers and seeing the behaviour resurrected lust and anger and desire within Johnny and he wanted to kill Miles and fuck Maria there on the front stones, make her scream and then sacrifice her like a Mayan offering. He would be redeemed.

After a few moments of polite remarks about the weather that evening the party moved inside the house and Johnny immediately regretted his clothes and make-up. Damn Maria for being so acutely right. The other men, including Miles were dressed in dinner jackets and black tie, and actually yes, Miles did look particularly good, like Bryan Ferry. That only made Johnny feel worse. He asked Sue for directions to the toilet and made his way there quickly. Stark lighting and the gilded edge of the long mirror over the wash-hand basin made Johnny feel something he hadn't felt for years; not since his father had finally left and the financial burden of the house had, temporarily, fallen on his shoulders. He felt out of place, somewhat ugly, as if he didn't fit in anywhere. He looked himself in the eyes and realised after a few seconds of washing his hands there was only one way out. He would get ragingly drunk. Come what may. Even if he disgraced himself; flirted with the women and insulted the men, he would level things with alcohol.

15.

'Would you like some Champagne, Johnny?' Sue guided Johnny's eyes towards a bottle in a silver bucket and a tray of flutes.

'That'd be great. Yes, please, Sue.' He made a point of politeness to an uncomfortable degree. Then he checked his flies. Sue walked away. Her presumption was he would pour the drink himself. How goddamn rude, you rich bitch, Johnny thought.

He filled a glass and drank it straight down, then another and then one for the room, something to hold when he walked and talked. He wiped his mouth and looked over his shoulder to locate Maria, who, surprise, surprise, was still talking and laughing with Miles.

Why don't you take him out the back and blow him, Johnny thought as he walked towards them.

'The name's Johnny. Johnny Frinker.' Miles looked shocked.

'Erm... Miles Blanchley. Pleased to meet you.' The two men shook hands. Johnny maintained eye contact, as did Miles.

'I wondered where you were,' Maria said and sipped Champagne.

'You mean you missed me, darling?' Johnny said. He pulled Maria close and kissed the top of her head.

Maria smiled as if she realised she had left her gas cooker on. Miles shuffled and looked across the room towards Sue and Roger.

'Would either of you like another drink?' Miles said.

'Certainly would, old bean. Terribly good of you,' Johnny replied, sounding like a pale imitation of Berite Wooster. Maria shook her head and moved a few inches away from Johnny's grasp. Miles took Johnny's glass and walked away.

'What the hell was that about?' Maria said through her teeth.

'What do you mean, darling?' Johnny kept the Wooster cadence alive.

'That shit with Miles. He's a good guy and you're being an arsehole. And why are you putting on the posh voice? These people are my friends, if you want to leave, then leave.'

'I'm sorry, sweetie pie. I'll behave. I'm just enjoying myself.' Johnny kissed Maria's left cheek and smiled winningly. She regarded him for a moment, seemed to believe him and then smiled at a returning Miles.

Johnny spent a long time attempting to relate to Sue's record collection. She had put some Vivaldi on before they arrived, it seemed to be on repeat mode. He perused the album sleeves with forensic care, hoping to find a gem, something to tell him his hostess was okay, and not a complete cultural pedestrian – Gloria Gaynor, Marilyn, Culture Club and oh, Christ, no!... Rick Springfield, Dollar, Clapton.

She did have a China Crisis twelve-inch, Christian, but it still had the cellophane wrap on. He looked over his left shoulder and noticed Sue watching him. She looked ready to slap him, but instead managed a winning smile. A fakery to fulfill her role. Johnny smiled back, suppressing the urge to throw in a gurn – but only just.

Roger and Liza joined Johnny as he arrived back at the drinks counter in such a friendly way that Johnny knew they had been sent as booze monitors by Sue.

'Marie tells us you're a film director. Would we have seen anything you've done?' Liza said. She looked vacant to Johnny – her head on one side; her eyes wide open with bored enquiry.

'I'm a photographer actually. I wonder why Marie would tell you a lie, bit odd isn't it? What do you think, Roger?' Johnny said, smiling slyly and turning on his mad stare eye-contact.

'I suppose she must have said a part about film and we took her to mean... something else, other than...' Roger mumbled the last part of the sentence and then let any purchase in his statement trail away.

'Well it could be that. But don't you think it's more likely she's a bit ashamed of who I am and what I do, and she wanted to impress her rich friends?' Johnny launched the question at the couple and watched with explosive glee as their faces drained of colour.

'That's a bit bloody rude. Roger, don't you think that's just rude?' Liza whined. She jutted her chin in defiance and watched her partner for his reply. Johnny looked at Liza's body and imagined fucking her from behind on the sofa near Marie and Miles.

Roger drew breath and exhaled as if he had been in similar situations many times before. Party fatigue – social compliance – his life was full of self-imposed justice.

'I think you're being a bit judgmental there, James. We're only trying to be friendly.'

'Okay, that's very nice of you. But my name is Johnny and I'm only here to make up the numbers, get drunk on good Champagne and get a good shagging for making Marie happy.'

Roger glared at Johnny. Liza put her glass down and walked out, and Sue announced supper was ready.

Johnny drank two more glasses of Moet before they sat down for supper. The first course was a soup of some kind; Johnny couldn't decide which – mushroom, minestrone?

He made Maria wince when he asked for a bread roll. The party was served by a maid and a man in a white shirt and black trousers. Johnny assumed he was some kind of butler.

'How much do they pay you?' Johnny asked him as the remainder of the starter was removed.

'Enough, thank you, sir.'

Johnny laughed falsely – he was becoming so fed up with the ache in his cheeks from the fake-happiness – sipped more wine – he had moved on to red – and looked across the table to Miles and Maria. They were locked in intimate conversation again. The group had been sitting for around half an hour and all they had spoken of was the genius of Margaret Thatcher and the way she had defeated the Argentinians in The Falklands War. Johnny felt nauseous. The whole conflict had become a mess of incompetent jingoism and blatant electioneering. Real men and women had died and he was expected to listen to the silver-spoon gang talk about it as if it was a wheez. Oh, what a lovely war...

'So, what's the name of your band, Miles?' Johnny was more than aware his voice was too loud for the occasion and had a hint of hysteria in it. The hum of conversation began to die and all eyes were suddenly turned on Johnny.

'The Falling,' Miles answered the question as if he were being interrogated.

'Nice, although it sounds a little... how can I put it... pretentious.'

'I'm sorry you think that. I think you should get some air,' Miles said, he dropped his head to one side and squinted at Johnny as if he were an exhibit or something oozy in a laboratory.

'I'm fine, smiley Miley. Thanks for the suggestion.' Johnny winked and sipped more wine.

Miles stood quickly and made his way towards Johnny. Maria began to stand but Sue placed a hand on her shoulder and Johnny watched his lover give in lightly.

'I'll be damned if I'm going to let some pansy like you fuck with me,' Miles said, standing over Johnny and clenching his hands.

Johnny continued to drink his wine, then, after a few painfully tense and silent seconds, put the glass down carefully and looked up at Miles.

'What do you want to happen here, Miles? Do you want to fight me?'

'I want you to apologise for your despicable behaviour here and then leave.'

'I'm sorry you're too thin skinned to take a joke. And fine, I'll leave. But don't think it's because you're telling me to go. I wouldn't want to spend a moment longer with you boring twats.'

Miles grabbed Johnny's collar and tried to pull him to his feet. Johnny erupted upwards and threw a punch at Miles' face. The connection of fist to skin was sweet and although agony arrived in Johnny's fingers, he felt elated by the reaction of his enemy. Miles fell to one side and toppled over a chair. He clambered to his knees and Johnny could see tears in his eyes.

'You fucking thug,' Liza screamed. Roger came at Johnny. Johnny picked up his place knife.

'You want some, Roger Dodger?' he said.

Roger froze and slowly leaned down to help Miles to his feet. Johnny looked across the table to see how Maria was coping. She had both of her hands covering her face and her body rose and dropped with sobbing

'Shall we go to Blitz or Taboo, Maria?... Maria?'

'Just go. Get out, Johnny. I'll call you sometime. Go now,' Maria said, without moving her hands, although Johnny caught sight of an eye – bloodshot with tears and drenched make-up. He felt complete contempt for all of them. He left the room, took his jacket from the coat-stand by the front door and then zipped back into the front lounge to retrieve the last of the Moet. Sue was close behind him. She held the front door open.

'Maria always did like a bit of rough,' she said and smiled like a villain.

'Fuck you, fatty fat fat,' Johnny said as he spilled into the night.

16.

As Johnny ran through towards the end of the road he could still hear Sue shouting obscenities at his trail. He became breathless and stopped to recover himself. The cold night air had combined with the alcohol in his blood to make him woozy and the car in front of him came at him and flew away again a few times before he dropped to his knees and vomited the soup and Champagne over the pavement. God, what a sight. He had his Instamatic camera inside his jacket and a flash too. He brought them out, loaded the flash, checked the focus and shot himself and the puke twice. Something to remember the evening with.

Johnny stood and brushed some stinky chunks off his jazz shoes. He washed his mouth out with some Moet and corrected his fringe in the wing mirror of the flying car. He half expected a contrite Maria to catch him up and apologise for exposing him to the debris of polite society. But that was expecting too much. She would doubtless be consoled by her new knight, Miles, recover her decorum and chomp down some fillet steak, then recall the Frost anecdote and pretend that Johnny was a phase and what a fool she felt. And when the party was over, she would share a taxi with Miles. They would stop at her flat first and, of course, such a cliché, she would invite him up for coffee. But the only coffee they would drink would be at breakfast after a night filled with animal fucking. Catching up on the mingling of upper class juices and rekindling the fires of Public school fondles.

Johnny half considered creeping back to the house and waiting for them to begin their sexual journey. Perhaps he could claim Miles' head as some long forgotten part of the statute book – some medieval rite.

'Fuck that shit,' Johnny said. He spat and wiped his mouth. He had noticed a tube station around the corner. Why didn't they take a tube getting there? Why did he have to spend an afternoon's pay on some poncey taxi?

Blitz would make it right. He had to get there asap. The beat in his head began. And the song was... The Damned Don't Cry. Steve Strange again! That fat faced poseur was stuck in his consciousness like a pick-axe. Not such a shock, it was his club.

The tube station was packed with skinheads chanting football hate songs. What the fuck are they doing here? thought Johnny. There were no football grounds or music venues near. Maybe it was a change of lines. Either way he felt exposed to the point of imminent violence. He stayed at the top of a deep escalator and watched the suede-heads below. Thankfully none of them saw him and after a few minutes – seeming like hours – they boarded a train and silence dropped like a final curtain. It seemed as if Johnny wasn't the only passenger to keep the bomber jacketed thugs at bay. As he turned on to the platform, many others – tweed coats, boys with lipstick and eyeshadow, girls in Ra-Ra skirts, baggies and Flock Of Seagulls partings joined him. He smiled and felt pure happiness. The vomiting seemed to have cleared his skull of anger and confusion. His breath tasted awful, but he could buy some Polos later. He had Sara's phone number in his pocket and remembered what she'd said: "... phone anytime..."

A train soon arrived and Johnny jumped aboard. He would have to change trains in three stops, but then he would be on his way and five stops on he would be at Blitz.

Johnny hated the newest form of skinhead culture. The idea of Neo-Nazism was just like Hell on Earth to him. He had visited Germany with his parents and brother and taken a 'tour' of Dachau Concentration Camp. The German guide talked about the birds not flying over the site, the soil around the camp being dead and the meaning of Arbeit Macht Frei over the gateway, and he had claimed no Jews were ever gassed on the camp. Johnny had looked into the man's eyes as he spoke of decent living conditions and exercise – and seen denial and sadness. Johnny guessed the national guilt over the Holocaust must be almost too much to bear.

'Hi, may I speak to Sara, please?' Johnny knew he sounded croaky.

'This is Sara. Who's speaking?'

'Johnny. From last night. The party. The Pond.'

There was a two second silence.

'Oh, right. Hi, Johnny. Wow, I didn't think I'd hear from you.'

'Why not?' Johnny relaxed. She sounded completely happy.

'Your girlfriend gave me a really dirty look and I imagined she was going to forbid you to get intouch.'

'Nah, she's just a friend. She was drunk. I'm totally single. But anyway, I was wondering if you're free tonight?'

'Tonight. Erm, I guess so. I was thinking of an early night...'

'Ah well, never mind then.' Johnny took a gamble on her curiosity.

'No, no. Come on tell me what you have in mind.'

'I was wondering if you'd like to join me at Blitz? Do you know it, have you been before?'

'Yes... I mean, I do, I have. That sounds... that sounds nice, sounds great actually. Yeah, cool. Shall I meet you there?' Sara asked, with excitement breaking through the quietness of her voice. Such a gentle, sweet voice.

'Okay. When?' Johnny was determined to be cool.

'About three quarters of an hour?'

'Excellent. Bye then.'

'Bye, Johnny.'

Johnny hung the receiver back up. The way she had used his name as they said goodbye gripped him like a face-hugger from Alien. He walked away from the telephone box singing, 'Maybe you want to give me kisses sweet. But only for one night and no repeat...' From Smokey's mouth to Sylvian's and upon his mind over and over. The sentiment was desperate, but the abandon to lust was perfect.

Johnny thought about Kate and Maria. Kate was the one he held in sympathetic regard there and then. Maria could go hang with her bourgeois clan of fools. He put both of them into the coldest recess of his mind, locked them away for later, or not. He began to consider the benefits of becoming a one-woman man. After an entire, concentrated twenty seconds he realised it was still early days and that kind of contemplation could and should wait.

The night was in full exhibition. Johnny walked into and through Leicester Square, and a whoosh of food smells, urine and beer almost overwhelmed him. He lit a cigarette for something to do and as a sensory diversion. He looked at faces and bodies all round him. Coming and going, singing, screaming. The night. Everyone seemed destined for some sweaty interior of indulgence – just like him. There was always a reassurance to be taken in the community of pleasure. Xanadu times.

17.

They met almost exactly forty-five minutes later at the door to Blitz. Sara looked stunning in stages and Johnny felt, only for a moment, ragged in her presence. Usually he felt as if he held the upper hand with the women he dated – especially when it came to music and fashion. But as Sara walked towards him and he saw the sway and layering of her hair, the cut of her skirt and the way her smile built slowly as she got nearer to him he thought he would faint – just as Stendhal had keeled over in Florence – oh, the beauty of it all! Johnny wondered whether he shared more than just similar looks with Rupert Brooke. The true romantics.

He tried to compare Sara to a film star. He did the same with every woman he slept with, and although they hadn't gotten that far yet, he wanted to think of an actress wonderful enough to match her. The comparison device was usually employed to convince Johnny he was a star too, or to soften the blow of lacking in sexual compatibility. Either way it worked for him.

Sara could have been a Grace Kelly or maybe a Liv Ullmann. There was an ethereal quality to her face. A face that seemed full of wisdom and pragmatism. All the searching in his mind added up to nothing for Johnny as Sara clutched his hand in the queue. He didn't need it.

Johnny could hear Marc Almond sing of bedsit land; he smiled and thought of the past, the things of life and how amazing it was that as his sobriety returned he was holding such an angel.

Johnny and Sara entered the club and immediately began to dance. Johnny felt completely at ease with the relative stranger in front of him. She reminded him of a woman he had seen on a train, some years before, only for a few minutes and then gone. They had spent some time watching each other and it was obvious there was a strong attraction. It was the only time Johnny hadn't taken a chance and spoken up – hence the reason the memory was so strong, it still bothered him. She seemed to have, on the surface, so much of what Johnny was looking for – elegance, beauty, a Japan badge (essential) and an aura of intelligence. And for all he had wanted to try to speak to her, to rise up and walk to her across the carriage, he couldn't break the feeling that if she turned him down he would never ever get over it.

But there was Sara and she was with him. He had taken a chance and it seemed to be all right. Even if they only had one night together, it would sustain him and he could move on, knowing he had made a true connection.

'Oh, Jesus. Don't you just hate this one?' Sara shouted in Johnny's ear. The song she so hated was To Cut A Long Story Short by Spandau Ballet. Johnny nodded slowly for emphasis.

'Basically they're just brickies and thickies with instruments. And I really can't stand the way Steve Norman tries to steal Sylvian's look. All the art pop shit doesn't fool anyone. Apart from the sad gits who buy their records.' Johnny's lips touched her cheek and he felt a pulse of lust. God, she's perfect, he thought, moving back and noticing how she was smiling – she felt the same as him, he could see it, he was sure.

18.

The song finished and Johnny mimed fingers down the throat – accidentally touching the back of his tongue and gagging. He regained his composure and played it all for laughs – Sara played along, holding her nose as if the song had left a stench.

Johnny took Sara by the hand. A simple act of intimacy and something to solidify what was becoming more apparent between them. Johnny bought them some drinks – he chose a confidence building whiskey sour and Sara a gin and tonic. They sat in a dark corner and looked out at the width of the club.

Sara giggled and pointed at the dance floor. Johnny turned around and saw the objects of her amusement. Three men and two women, who looked like rejects from Heaven 17 and The Human League, danced around a pair of handbags to Fascination – obviously ecstatic their hero, Phil Oakey, was belting out another illogical lyric about nothing and nowhere – although the song did have a redeeming synth rhythm.

'Those guys need to lighten up and put their faith in someone else, someone like Sylvian, don't you think?' Johnny said, trying to read Sara's mind. Sara nodded and sipped her drink. She took out two Silk Cut cigarettes and lit them. Johnny drew hard on the tobacco and watched the smoke pour out of his mouth – it floated up like a snake from a basket. Then there was silence between them and the realisation of where he was and who he was with, and where the evening had started from began to creep up on Johnny. He thought of Marie – would she already be in bed with Miles? And Kate, where was she going to be – in bed with her favourite Muppet character, dreaming or drinking herself to sleep? Cheers, Kermit!

Johnny moved closer to Sara. 'I'm having a really good time,' he said, inwardly cringing at the cheesiness of his statement. Was that the best he could come up with?

'Me too. I'm so glad you called. I was feeling crappy today, after last night, the pond, my boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, and then thinking you already had a girlfriend.'

Sara looked at Johnny purposefully. He guessed she had wanted to talk in this way since they met that evening.

Europe After The Rain began, and with its beauteous sweep across rain drenched lovers in continental locations Johnny found his heart in his mouth. John Foxx was a genius at simple allusions between and beneath the beat.

Sara held on to Johnny's hand and closed her eyes. She smiled and Johnny knew she was thinking about the two of them. Projected images appeared on the wall behind the DJ's stage – a montage of Nouvelle Vague inspired characters in situations of peril, journey and victory. Johnny thought of the pomposity in the video for Vienna and Midge Ure's ugly choice of fetish gear when the band performed on Top Of The Pops. But Ultravox had become mainstream pop stars attempting to re-enter the art scene with a false flourish of panstick, pencil-thin moustaches and violin solos. And the band was better when John Foxx was the lead singer – he was proving that right there and then, just as he had done with Underpass – violin solos should have been banned after ELO used them... Fuck you, Violinski!

'I'm just going to the loo,' Johnny spoke into Sara's ear at close quarters. She nodded and smiled.

He turned to look back at her a couple of times; smiling at his paranoia that she would run away given the chance.

As he returned to the bar, the first thing Johnny noticed was a tall New Romantic talking to Sara – he assumed they were friends. As he got closer to them, Johnny saw Sara's face and it was obvious they were never going to be friends.

Sara saw Johnny and her eyes widened – a universal Help Me!

Johnny walked around the gangly Le Bon rip-off; leaned down and kissed Sara on the lips.

'Who the fuck are you?' the interloper said.

'What's it to you, buddy boy?' Johnny said. He knew his question/answer was fairly lame, but he wanted his confidence made clear by any means necessary.

'Look, mate, fuck off, okay. I was just about to dance with her,' said the tall git. He was all height, no meat on the bone, Johnny noticed this and his courage grew exponentially.

Johnny smiled with dead eyes. He knew he had to finish things before testosterone took over. He moved closer to his rival and picked up a beer glass.

'I'll be only too happy to push this glass into your face and grind it in. Now, unless you're willing to kill me to get to my girlfriend, which is what you're going to have to do, just fuck off.'

The weedy giant looked at Johnny, then at Sara, and sneered. He looked as if humiliation was filling his lungs. He turned and walked away towards the dancefloor.

'God, you were great. Thank you. I was so scared. What a wanker. Do you want another drink?' Sara said quickly, as if she had been holding the words back and drowning in their intensity. She was close enough to kiss. Johnny considered her face for a second and then leaned in. Their lips joined and Johnny's head was filled with fate and harmony. Sweet sounds in his ears, not the sound-system drone, but something like Sylvian whispering the lyrics to Forbidden Colours just for him – a hand reaching down and taking his heart out of the darkness.

The kiss lasted a couple of minutes – standard first kiss length, but not long enough for Johnny. He could have stayed like that for hours, and taken it all much further.

'I'm not really thirsty. Can we go back to your flat?' Johnny said the words and half expected Sara to look shocked and let down by his libidinous attitude. But she only looked happy.

'Let's go,' she shouted, as if Heaven itself had opened its doors and offered Paradise.

19.

Sara put a record on within seconds of them tumbling into her flat. They had been kissing as if there was a countdown – deep tongues and pressed lips, hands tangled and bodies pushed together. Johnny didn't mind her diversion to the music. It was just right. Assemblage, Johnny recognised the collection immediately. A cynical cash-in by Ariola-Hansa after Japan had left that record label and scored big with Polaroids and Tin Drum, but the songs were still Japan and still magnificent.

'What do you think of this album?' Sara asked. She poured them red wine, lit candles; turned off the lights and joined Johnny on the red sofa. He looked around the large lounge – framed cinema posters, Dietrich in Destry Rides Again, Garbo in Flesh And The Devil – and tried to be cool – he made an arduous task of crossing his legs, left over right, right over left, clipping his heels and trying to make it seem natural. Then he noticed a selection of photographs on top of her television. The young guy in each of them must have been her ex-boyfriend, and the sight of his reality was like a heart attack to Johnny. Jesus, good looking, Johnny thought. The ex wore sports clothing in nearly every shot – wide white smile declaring confidence and worth, a bozo to be hated.

'It's good. A bit of an oddity really. Some of the songs sound like they're from another band with Sylvian doing guest vocals. I'm just glad Dave and the boys didn't stand still with that sound.'

Sara seemed happy with his answer and Johnny watched her close her eyes and mouth the first few lines of European Son.

He didn't want to ruin the mood by leaping on her, even though it was exactly what he wanted to do, so instead he displayed his vocal range with his best Sylvian impersonation.

'... sometimes the passenger, European Son...,' he sang along and then looked at Sara, who was smiling even wider, but it was amusement rather than contentment.

'That's... erm, impressive. Do you do any others?'

A laugh broke free and then she couldn't hold anymore in. She laughed so hard that she fell forward, looking back at Johnny. He began to laugh too; for once enjoying self-deprecation.

'I'm sorry. I'm being very rude,' Sara said, straightening up and stroking Johnny's right arm.

'That's okay. I can't sing and shouldn't try in public. It's just that singing along with Sylvian makes me feel closer to the band and what they are. What I mean is... is that Japan are like a perfect pop band; intelligent, good looking, stylish and full, chock full of meaning. The songs rise up and up above every other band and their efforts. Does that sound insane?'

Johnny looked at Sara with his eyes slightly squinting – a deliberate ploy to enforce solemnity and depth and potentially draw out a similar analysis from her, or just plain agreement.

She looked thoughtful, nodding along with his words, listening as if he were a prophet. When he had finished, she sipped her wine and smiled.

'I love them too. The Visions Of China video stayed in my mind for days. You're right, they make every other pop act look like amateurs. I mean, Duran Duran and their pastel suits, just ridiculous. Nick Rhodes trying to rip-off Sylvian.'

'Yeah, that short arse winds me up. And talking of videos, I hate the video to Rio, don't you?'

Sara didn't think or begin to answer this time. The Duran slagging-off seemed to have acted like some kind of key to her feelings. She put her glass down and moved towards Johnny. He matched her and they began to kiss, slowly and carefully and after a few moments Johnny began to undress her. Her skin was as soft and warm as he would have imagined, but there was the huge emotional bonus in touching it, when just hours ago he wouldn't have thought it possible to go so far, so fast. They were still strangers and yet every movement and touch felt grounded in a mutual understanding.

Stasis was the word zooming around Johnny's mind – that they had always been a couple, through history and perhaps a parallel universe. They would meet time and again, fall in love and let go of all the pain. He loved her there and then; his heart burst open and embraced her. At last, he could love!

He would never let go of the feelings. She was his for ever, until death and beyond.

20.

Johnny and Sara had breakfast in bed the next morning – Johnny ad got up early and gone out to buy croissants. They made love again and lay wrapped in each other.

'What are you doing today?' Sara said, nibbling Johnny's left earlobe.

'I've got a job on, shots of Marble Arch. It's just had a facelift. Then... hopefully seeing you?'

Sara bit her bottom lip and cleared some loose strands of hair from her face. She looked worried.

'That's a tough one, tonight. I've arranged to see some people. They're mutual friends of my ex-boyfriend and me. I think it's a bit early to be introducing you, even though he broke up with me. I'm sorry, sweetie. Is that okay?'

Johnny did the right nod. Quick and unconcerned. Of course it's okay! Of course it's not, he thought, I want you every second. I can't let you go anywhere without me. You might forget me. He abhored the neediness appearing. It was something new within, like a dormant virus – illogical and trivial, but consuming and obsessive. His heart beat faster imagining the scenario where she told him it had been lovely but there wasn't a future for them. But she was being so nice, so comforting and intimate. Surely she felt the same. All cool resolve was gone in Johnny, and he knew it, and, with Sara, he knew he would never care about that superficiality again.

'I should get up now,' Johnny said, yawning, stretching and then falling back againto hold Sara tight. He kissed her all over, sighed and breathed in slowly as he looked at her body and then got up and into the bathroom. Sara joined him a few minutes later, wearing a silk dressing gown which clung to her buttocks and made Johnny almost breathless with lust. She seemed business-like in putting in her make-up and brushing her teeth, and so, although Johnny wanted to ravish her again, he left her to get on.

'What are you doing today? I just realised how rude I've been, I haven't asked you what you do for a living yet?' Johnny said, styling his hair and smiling. He ignored the urge to borrow Sara's make-up. Even though she knew he wore it, he guessed she might think it a bit un-manly. He looked at his face for a second, pale and too ordinary for his liking; and worried that perhaps the make-up was part of what drew her to him?

'I cut clothes for designers, mainly costume stuff, films and telly, that sort of thing. I really want to design full-time, but at least this way I'm working in the right business and making some cash.'

Johnny nodded his endorsement; he would have done the same which ever job she had – bus driver, wrestler.

He walked back to the bedroom and got dressed. He looked out of the bedroom window and watched two cars and a motorbike speed by – morning and a new reality on his mind. And then the deathly truth he had to return to. The house and Kate, probably stewing after the broken promise and not being around him again. Why should he have to pretend he wanted her? Sex was never enough. She was a young woman, not a child; she could leave him any time. She loved him too much and it suffocated him, even when he had loved her too. Would she be waiting by the front door, like an obedient dog? Or perhaps she had been following him all the time and would gut him like a fish as he walked out of Sara's flat?

Johnny grimaced and turned to look at Sylvian – a poster from the cover shot of Gentlemen Take Polaroids one of Johnny's favourites and where Sylvian looked beyond any definition of beauty or human. He looked as if he were a compound portrait of every good and great image and feeling known. He looked perfect and indestructible.

Johnny despised thinking about the hours ahead without Sara, what had he done without her in his life until then – been sleepwalking through every day?

Maria and Kate would doubtless be expecting him to arrive imminently – both women would require explanations, he felt lethargic imagining elaborately constructed excuses and heartfelt pleas for emotional clemency, followed by fake words of love and devotion, and inevitably going-through-the-motions sex. But why? Why could he not just ditch them both right now? Was it so hard? He had met Sara and they fitted – soul mates, although he hated the term. And if that was so obvious, why couldn't he get rid of the baggage? He was so vacuous when it came to sex. It was all about his ego. He was a desire addict. When women wanted him he had to have them, even when all passion was spent, he would always oblige.

'Would you like some more coffee?' Sara said, joining him in the lounge. He had wandered around the flat absent mindedly, looking at book covers and leafing through a copy of The Face.

'No, thanks. I'd better be going soon. I haven't been home for a couple of days.' As soon as he'd made the statement he knew it was a mistake. It was as good as admitting he was a scum-bag. Sara smiled, but it was a brave face, bad-news-received smile – one Johnny had seen many times on the faces of other women and one he had hoped to never see on her.

Sara put a record on – OMD's Architecture And Morality – and pulled some fabric out of a large bag. She arranged herself behind a large wooden work-top and put on a pair of glasses – large tortoise-shell rims, just like Sylvian. She smiled another fake one for Johnny and he felt discomfort smash into his head. Leave now! he thought.

'Okay. I'll see you late... I mean soon. Shall I call you tomorrow?'

'If you like, yeah,' Sara said, only half looking up.

Johnny kissed the top of her head and the smell of her shampoo nearly floored him.

'Bye then,' he said, watching her work.

'Bye, Johnny,' she said, as Joan Of Arc rose into a crescendo of sorrow.

21.

As Johnny arrived home he felt pure malevolence flowing through his body, as if he would kill anyone who committed even the slightest infraction against him. Had he fucked things up with Sara so quickly? Goddamnit, fuck, shit, bugger, fuck, he shouted in his head. Turning his front door key slowly he could see Kate and Sponge moving around in the kitchen. Alan walked down the stairs and joined them. They were all laughing, and what was that music playing, making them all so dance-happy?

'Oh, for the love of Jehovah's jackknife, fucking Leee John and fucking Imagination,' Johnny whispered angrily. Could things get worse than all the trauma of probable heartbreak, having to face a soul-sucker girlfriend and listen to Body Talk? Three 'e' Leee was a poncing joke and his music sounded like rubber bands on a ruler with cats for a chorus. Imagination were in Johnny's hate list of popular bands – along with Modern Romance, Agadoo, Captain Sensible and the why-won't-they-just-fuck-off types like Meatloaf and The Damned. He opened the door and walked in; head down, straight for the stairs.

'Johnny! Hello, stranger,' Kate said, rushing at him. 'I thought you might have been kidnapped.'

Johnny hugged her stiffly and looked over her shoulder at Alan and Sponge, both of who were looking at him as if he had murdered their entire families. Johnny nodded at them. They just stared.

'Do you want to go upstairs?' Kate breathed the words into his ear. He felt nauseous, her touch was cold and made him think of poison.

'Okay,' he said, without really thinking. The music faded, at least that was a blessing.

Kate hugged Johnny's side as they walked up the stairs. She stroked his cheeks and played the returning hero game in oblivion.

'How was the music?' she said, as they turned into Johnny's bedroom.

'Music?'

'Yeah, the gig, the band, your friends,' Kate sang the words as if they were a spell for eternal happiness. Johnny knew she was desperate and wanting him to show his love and the many ways he had missed her. Perhaps a session of self-flagellation? Or he could buy a bag of coal and set up a burning path of white hot love?

He only wanted one thing – for Kate to leave, be gone and never, ever talk to him, or touch him, or drain him again.

'It was cool. Actually, I'm going to try and get a ticket to see Orange Juice...'

Damn, why had he mentioned that? She, of course, would want to come too. And sure enough, 'Can I come too?' Kate spun around, all wide eyed excitement, little girl on Christmas morning-did I get what I asked for?

'Er, I don't really know. I'm going as a photographer, the paper's probably going to pick up the tab. I'm just not sure.' Johnny knew he sounded whiney. Kate didn't seem to lose an ounce of enthusiasm.

'I don't mind paying. I love Orange Juice.'

And to prove her fidelity to the band she began to sing, 'It may be my imagination, I, of course, am prone to exaggeration...' she peeled layers of quality away from the song with her pedestrian vocals and added insult to fatal musical injury by dancing around – her hands criss-crossing in front of her face, legs swaying like cold spaghetti being buffeted by high winds. Oh God, please, please make her stop, Johnny thought, as he nodded along, grinning inanely. Eventually, after a full parade of swinging limbs and high screeches in the chorus, she stopped herself by falling towards Johnny, into his arms and kissing him on the lips like it mattered, and deepening her voice into a monotonous Ian Curtis-a-like: 'and... love, love will tear us apart again.'

Kate drew back from a last kiss and studied Johnny's face slowly.

'So, can I come, have I earned that much?'

'Yeah, okay,' Johnny replied as if were in pain. That much was true.

22.

Johnny had performed well enough, at least he thought so, as he pulled himself out of Kate. She licked her lips and made a groan of happiness. The experience had been brief and Johnny knew she was putting it on, yearning for more and hoping artificial ecstasy would glue them back together.

He looked at the moles on her back and imagined plucking the brown topping from one of the large ones, and watching blood pour down her spine. Maybe then she would get the message? But that was just plain nasty and he didn't want to inflict that kind of pain on anyone – with the exception of his father perhaps. Was he the same as his dad after all? He had always, always made plans to be the exact opposite of the old man. Pat, the gimp brother, was pure lad, man amongst men, just like their dad; ladies were just for sex, there was no art worth that much, no culture, Punk had never happened for people like dad and Pat. Rebellion was out and Conservative compliance was in. Bash the Argies and reclaim the Empire. Pat had even called himself a fan of the National Front once, but his mother's anger had made him re-think that stance, plus he liked some Two-Tone – The Selector and The Beat mainly - and even a donkey-brain like Pat could see the two interests weren't compatible.

Johnny's first gig had been The Specials in Brighton, Pat took him as a birthday treat. Energy, anger against the establishment, charges at the stage, everything a truly great gig should be about, or so he thought back then, art had become the most important component later on. The Specials' night had come to a premature end when a huge gang of racist Skins had ploughed into the crowd – to get to the black backing singers. Pat had shown a surprisingly caring nature in the moments of violence and Johnny remembered arms and smokey light, fists and shouting, and then Pat guiding him through a fire exit and back to the railway station. But that was a one off. His brother was a buffoon into Pringle sweaters, jazz-funk (or jazz-fuck, as Johnny called it) music, skin tight corduroy trousers and maroon leather slip-on shoes. And the cherry on the cake was the white socks. Nice touch, fatty Patty.

Johnny hadn't seen his parents much in the last year. His mother spent her time campaigning for an end to Nuclear weapons and his father complained about 'social security spongers', did his job (an estate agent) and watched football – the couple were essentially separated, although neither one of them had actually said the words. Pat still lived in the family home and Johnny imagined father and son swilling beer, laughing at Jim Davidson's racist humour and sharing The Daily Mail.

Kate put her clothes on and kissed Johnny's neck. He yawned, rubbed his face and then, secretively, wiped the skin where her lips had been. She didn't seem to notice or care. She was happy to have her man back and that was all that mattered.

'You know what, Johnny. You only need to touch me and I melt. I love you, Johnny.' Kate sat up on the bed. She looked so small, Johnny thought she might cry. He took pity on her.

'I love you too, Kate.' He smiled and ruffled her hair, and then he knew he had to move out asap.

'Can we spend a bit more time together, please?' Kate said. She was making bacon and eggs for the two of them. Alan and Sponge had left the house. Johnny was relieved. He was cowardly when it came to confrontation and Alan was a terribly earnest Northerner who seemed to have taken an instant dislike to Johnny, but Kate and Sponge loved him. He was sensitive to their needs, Kate had told Johnny. Johnny had laughed himself stupid.

'We do spend time together. That's what we're doing right now, isn't it?' Johnny wasn't really taking any notice. He was reading the NME and answering automatically.

'Well, yes, but...'

'And, we're going to see Orange Juice together, aren't we?' Now he chose his words with care. This was a chance to verbally lay into Kate.

'Yeah, it's just...'

'Just what?'

'You don't seem that interested in me, in what I'm doing.'

'What are you doing? Apart from burning the bacon.'

Startled, Kate turned back to the hob and scooped the crispy meat out of the frying pan, placing the twisted rashers on to two large white plates and then poured scrambled eggs next to the bacon.

'Would you like a cup of tea?'

'Yeah, cheers, darling,' Johnny said, giving Kate a warm smile to ameliorate any hurt he'd just administered. She was back under his influence. He had made her seem unreasonable and that was enough to keep her happy and quiet about her lot in life for as long as he needed to find another place to live.

23.

Johnny read house and flat small-ads as he made his way to the newspaper offices. He wanted to move further into central London, but the prices were out of his league. A house share again? Or maybe, perhaps, possibly he could re-double his charm offensive with Sara, make up for his faux pas and eventually, soon, move in with her. She had a cool flat, perfect for two. There was even a large cupboard where he could organise a dark room. Should he call her when he got to the office? Too needy, he thought. And anyway, she didn't seem too sad to see him walk out of the door. Oh why had he said he hadn't been home? He felt hot in the face. He had to see her soon and lie he'd been staying with his mum or a friend, just something to regain her. But he knew he would have to wait or riskk blowing it even more.

Johnny spoke to the entertainment editor and got a press-pass for the gig. He phoned The Marquee and they promised two comp-tickets on the door. The best way into any gig was through the guest-list. The prestige of passing-by the crowds and dropping your name on the doorman; flashing the newspaper credentials and walking into the light. But the downer was Kate's company. She always went wild at gigs – screaming like a Beatles fan, clutching her head and bringing on derisive smiles from the nearby ubiquitous Futurists. Johnny ended up feeling both humiliated and protective. It was all such hard work being around her.

Johnny took two hours to arrange his hair and make-up. Kate kept barging into his room with questions about what she should wear, whether she looked good, should her hair be up or down, which colour of lipstick? And then, could she borrow his make-up? Johnny tried to be nice, but anger sprang up when she hugged him and ran her hand through his hair.

'Christ almighty, Kate,' he said, pushing her away gently. 'I've worked on my fucking hair for an hour, please give me some room.' Kate's bottom lip began to protrude, so Johnny forced a face of forgiveness and stroked her arm.

'Sorry. You know what I'm like before an evening out,' he said.

'I'd almost forgotten. It's been a while since we went out.'

Kate brightened and seemed to enjoy her own barbed reply. Johnny shrugged, gave a sad clown smile and turned back to the mirror. He saw Kate blow him a kiss from the door and flash her stockinged legs before she left.

The band came on stage after two supports. Johnny hadn't bothered listening to their names or lyrics and even tried to cut out the music. He focused and re-focused his camera – not wasting any exposures on the support bands' antics. Kate did her best hysterical performance and whooped for England as Edwyn Collins opened his mouth. Johnny kept his mind on the photography and slowly ebbed away from Kate. He stood to the side of the stage and fired off one shot, then the next and so on. The music was playful and fast. The crowd jumped and shouted – Johnny looked back at Kate who seemed lost in a whirl of amazement. Orange Juice were good, but they were no ABC. At least Martin Fry kept his tongue wedged in his cheek. Kate waved furiously, beckoning him back to her side. Johnny gestured he would be moving forward to the front of the stage, further away from her and closer to the cream – the best view of the band, the fodder for rock-god moments and when singers would play the front man to the fore.

Johnny lined his shot range and drew the scene into focus. The band finished a song and bounced around while Edwyn Collins chatted at the crowd.

'This is one you might know...' the singer said, as the opening bars of Rip It Up began. The noise of appreciation was immense and it brought a smile to Johnny's face. He was back in his own world – the people, the music, the night. He held his finger on the autowind and moved the lens side to side, close up on Collins' face, smiling between the lyrics and turning to nod to his band. The song was played to perfection and the rest of the evening followed suit. As they left the venue, Johnny saw another couple across the street, they too had pushed and swayed their way out, the woman looked familiar, but there were too many people filing past to be sure. She was smiling and holding tight to the also familiar man. Johnny craned his neck and moved Kate in their direction. Hang on a second, he thought, oh right, okay, so I was right. It was Maria with Miles.

Johnny and Kate travelled home by taxi. Johnny began to silently fume about Maria, although he had expected it and was partially glad to be rid of her. She was still holding on to some of his things and he would go to see her soon, play dumb about Miles and take things from there.

The music still rang in his ears and Johnny knew he would never want to see Orange Juice again. When a gig was perfect, he didn't want to chance spoiling the memory by seeing the band attempt duplication. Although he made two exceptions, didn't everyone? – Bowie, and of course, Sylvian.

24.

Johnny's first impression of the small flat was: smart street, bit of a hovel, but it had potential and was a nice part of south London – Balham. Not the central location he had been after, but independent of Kate and all the debris in his life since university days. It was time to move on, put away childish things...

He was shown around by the landlord, a middle aged woman called Sarah. She was attractive and elegant and, as he was shown around and talked through renting details, Johnny spent as much time comparing her name to Sara and wondering about her level of sexual experience and what she would do for him. She reminded him of the actress, Patricia Hodge.

'So, what do you think, you like it?' Sarah said. She ran a hand through her hair as if it was something she did for show – a slow touch to coax the side length of her blonde bob back into place.

'I think, yes, please. When can I move in?' Johnny replied like a Pools winner collecting the big cheque and looked at the ring finger on Sarah's left hand – nothing. Ah ha!

'As soon as you like. I'll need a reference and a months' rent and deposit. That okay?'

'Sure. I'll have it all for you within the week.' Johnny would ask the entertainment editor for the reference. They had got drunk together a few times and shared a love of Jean Cocteau's La Belle et le bete.

Sarah smiled and nodded approval. They left the flat and shook hands. Sarah travelled off in her Daimler and Johnny took out his Polaroid and shot the façade of the flat twice. At the exact moment the second Polaroid slid out a car thundered past with Girls On Film blasting out. Johnny smiled and thought of Sara, and then the need to see Maria. She wasn't going to just get away with screwing him over like that.

25.

'What the fuck?' was Kate's first, screamed, response at Johnny as he told her of his plan to move out within the following few days. He had dropped into the newspaper on the way back from viewing the flat and received an immediate reference from his Cocteau-loving friend, and also a job for The Melody Maker. Which was a major cause for excitement. Johnny had longed for a job with one of the big two music papers in Britain – yippee! It was a job to shoot The Teardrop Explodes at the Hammersmith Odeon. A new flat and, maybe, a new job. A good day.

Johnny had saved enough cash, only just, to make the rent/deposit and all that was left was the physical act of packing and moving. And that was never going to be a hardship. He had long felt awkward in the household, Sponge had quietly loved him from afar, but had begun to hate him with her eyes as things worsened with Kate – as if somehow she would be happy to take Johnny's moods and ignorance if only she could have him for a while. Frustration had begun to turn Sponge into Johnny's very worst idea of an obsessive woman. He couldn't face her anymore. And as for Alan, he was always friendly to Johnny, in a only-other-bloke-in-the-house way. They had been for a few drinks last Christmas and Alan shared a few of the same interests – books, some music and reading The Guardian. But even the slightest bond between them was showing signs of dissolving and Johnny wasn't prepared to watch everything go to hell.

'I've decided I need more space. I feel hemmed in here. I know it's a bit shit for you...'

'A bit shit? We're supposed to be in love. Why do you want to leave me?'

'Like I said, I need some space for a bit, maybe...'

'Maybe what? Come on, Johnny, be a man for once. Tell me the fucking truth.' Kate looked as Johnny had never seen her before. Her eyes were wide with mad anxiety and rage. She seemed to sneer her words at him like missiles and tears were only a moment or misplaced comment away. But he knew it was time to tell her the absolute truth; the moment of destruction.

'I... don't... I don't love you. I've met someone else and I want to get away. I'm sorry Kate, I know I've been a git. Well, a bastard, a complete bastard. I'm truly sorry.' Johnny watched her eyes.

She stood and looked at him, then at his bed, as if she were remembering (fake) better days.

'How long have you felt this way and been seeing this cunt?'

'Please don't call her names. It's only just happened. I...'

'Just fuck off, you piece of shit. Fuck off,' Kate shouted at the top of her voice and threw a lava lamp at Johnny. It was a weak throw and the lamp bounced off the wall to the left of him and landed on his bed. Well at least I don't have to replace that, was Johnny's only thought. Kate waited a beat, then slammed out of his bedroom.

Johnny felt a few minutes of obscene guilt choking him; then nothing but calm resolve. Pack and leave. Pack and leave. He would deliver the money and reference to Sophisticated Sarah tomorrow, get the keys and move his things in the same day.

26.

Johnny was all moved into his new flat. Japan posters up. Cameras unpacked and record collection under his stack-system. He had left the house quickly, making sure he had put his bags in the dustbin storage cupboard in the middle of the night; then collecting them with a taxi waiting the following afternoon. It was an unceremonious departure, a bit tawdry in fact, but the other housemates could use his deposit to cover the rent for another month while they looked for someone else. And as for Kate, she would have Alan and Sponge to cry on and eat lardy foods with. They would get drunk and listen to more factory-line bollocks like Imagination. Maybe they might sink low enough to break out the Mari Wilson? Beware boyfriend, indeed...

Johnny was still thinking through his plan of attack on Maria. She hadn't attempted to contact him after the dinner party debacle and, Johnny thought, must have been laughing all over face with Miles pounding her from behind. Johnny had loaned her at least four albums – including a Canadian import of five Japan tracks! That was the killing joke. He had the Teardrop gig that evening and then her time was up.

As Johnny flicked through his records he noticed a John Foxx twelve-inch and thought of Sara. Should he call her now? It had been a few days and no word from her, although he hadn't had a chance to give her his new number and he doubted that Kate or the others would pass any message on to him.

She worked from home, so he would forget the phone call and go straight to her.

A job had come in that morning – a few shots at the Royal Courts Of Justice. A big fraud case. Boring, but a bill payer. Johnny cleaned a Kodak and made his way to the nearby tube station. He looked through the viewfinder as he walked and felt quite alone. He had surrounded himself in love and lust, been overwhelmed, so recently, by the attention of three women – although Kate's attention was negatively overwhelming – and as he walked to catch his train he realised he was very potentially single. Glass half-full or half-empty?

The court case could run for hours, so as Johnny approached his shooting spot he went into a pub and began to drink. Usually he stayed reasonably sober, in charge of his faculties and able to judge any moments when being drunk might make a fool of him. But as he downed his second lager and listened to Party Fears Two, he thought, fuck it all, I don't owe anyone anything.

Later, outside the Royal Courts he knew every exposure would be a duff. His hands shook and sweat made him blink. He took to holding the camera in the air and letting the autowind click away – chance would obtain a good shot if possible. The police guard moved away as the last fraud case defendant skulked off. Job done, another drink perhaps? Johnny wondered as he looked at his sleepy reflection in the pub toilets, the same place as before. No, he would deliver the rolls of film to the office and go home to sober up before the gig.

27.

Johnny felt almost completely re-animated by the power of the gig. Julian Cope held on to the microphone stand like a leather-clad god, watching over his creation. Trumpets, drums, guitars, bass – every subtle nuance of every song played out in style. They were a tight outfit who knew what the crowd wanted. There was no comparison between this gig and the Orange Juice night. Musically different, regional influences apart and the sheer assault of the Teardrop experience gave them the edge.

Then came the big hit: Reward. Trumpet volley and Cope's hysterical dancing. Leather jacket torn off and launched into the front rows, just out of Johnny's reach and any way he was busy documenting the wonder.

Johnny moved away from the edge of the stage, caught Cope's glare and decided to go to the back and use the zoom.

As he was positioning himself he felt a hand on his shoulder and a familiar voice say, 'All right, Johnny.'

Christ, it was Alan!

'Al, Alan. Hi. How are you?' Johnny waited for an angry reply or perhaps a simple punch in the face.

'I'm okay, mate. How are you? How's the new place? Where is it?'

Johnny thought about the truth, so easy, so quick, but potentially difficult if Kate decided to pay him a visit or Alan was thinking of domestic violence...

'Camden Town, house share.' Johnny guessed his photo shoot was over. Alan nodded and looked at the band. He swigged some beer from a plastic glass; then finished what was left in quick succession.

'Do you fancy a drink after the show? I think they've almost finished,' Alan said, wiping a foam moustache away.

'Sure. I'll meet you outside?'

'Nah, that's okay, mate. We can go together.' Alan smiled and turned to watch the music.

Johnny half-smiled back and imagined the worst, soon.

The two men walked in a straight line out of an auditorium exit and, unimpeded, out into the night.

'I saw a pub near the tube station, that okay with you?' Johnny said, thinking of quick getaways.

'Actually, I'm starving. I think there's an Italian around the corner, fancy that?'

Johnny shrugged. He was only peckish, but would have agreed to most ideas. Alan was a tough-looking guy and Johnny had seen him punch another man in a pub a couple of years before.

They a few hundred yards in silence. Alan hummed Reward. And Johnny kept side-glancing to see what Alan's hands were doing.

'What do you fancy?' Alan said looking at a menu in the window of the Italian restaurant, which looked virtually empty – bored waiters re-arranging cutlery and wiping plastic table cloths.

'Probably something boring like ravioli.' Johnny began to loosen up and enjoy the thought of the pasta.

'I think I'll have the carbonara.' They walked in and were offered a choice of tables.

'That's a smoking area, I guess,' Alan said, looking at an angry looking couple, both of whom puffed away vigourously as if that was their reason for being there. 'We'll take the one over there, mate, all right John-boy?' Alan grinned at Johnny like a friend gone looney – Nicholson in The Shining?

They sat and ordered immediately.

'And a wine?' the waiter said. He looked about ready to yawn to Johnny.

'Red or white, John?' Alan said, making a study of the list.

'Don't mind, get drunk either way, eh?' Johnny tried to sound more macho, he knew he sounded ridiculous, but was working under the presumption the more he mimicked Alan's way, the less likely he would be to end up in danger.

'Valpolicella, please, garcon,' Alan said, winking at Johnny. The waiter smiled tightly and walked away. 'Little wanker was full of shit, wasn't he? I thought he'd appreciate the garcon bit.'

'Good one, yeah.' Johnny sipped some water which had been placed there as they sat down.

The food arrived within half an hour and before he tasted a mouthful, Johnny had visions of the waiter passing on Alan's xenophobic derision to the chef and something awful being added to the tomato sauce. He looked at the colour of his food and sniffed the steam rising from the pasta folds. It seemed okay. So he began, watching Alan wolf his meal down like a man who had been on basic rations for a year. They did not talk for at least ten minutes and Johnny assumed Alan was using an obvious psychological ploy to drive him into a torrent of apology, and throw himself on Alan's mercy; agreeing to go back to the house, apologise to Kate and Sponge, maybe let Alan hold him down while the two scorned women beat the shit out of his testicles? Or perhaps Alan just wanted to do the beating himself – load Johnny up on wine and pasta; then punch his guts so hard he throws up all over himself and has to take a tube home in complete puke-stained-smell shame? What a lovely image, he thought, as he nibbled garlic bread.

'So, Johnny. Bit of a fuck up, eh?' Alan sipped some wine and swallowed some pasta.

'What's that then?' Johnny played a wise monkey hand.

'You and Kate, the house. What the hell were you thinking?'

'Look, I'm sorry about the rent and everything. It's just I...'

'I don't mean about the rent, mate. I mean about Kate. She's such a lovely girl, beautiful, lovely. What's the problem?'

'Well, if it's that you're talking about, it's a bit personal.'

'Look, mate. She told us you'd met someone else, and fair enough. But I'm pretty sure you've been banging other women for a while. Why leave now?' Johnny wanted to stand up, tell Alan to shove it up his arse and take his chances at a tipsy sprint to the tube station. Would he have to wait for the train? Alan might catch up, and then what?

'Because this time I met someone... special. Really special.'

'I think Kate's pretty special,' Alan said, with a softness in his voice.

'Well, the field's clear now.'

'What the fuck does that mean, mate?'

Alan had turned nasty. The moment had arrived. Think, Johnny, think.

'I just mean, if you wanted to ask her out, I wouldn't think it was weird or anything, you know?' Johnny pushed the words out with all the friendly sincerity he could muster.

Alan seemed to accept the reasoning.

'That's not really what I'm talking about, mate. Anyhow, it's all early days. Kate's really distraught at the moment. I'm going to leave in a minute and I want to say this, stay away from her, Kate, that is. Just stay away, okay?'

Johnny said nothing. He just exhaled and raised his eyebrows – all sham agreement.

'Right then. Here's my half of the bill. Good luck, mate,' Alan said, standing, placing two ten pound notes on the table and putting out his right hand. Johnny shook the hand breathed out deeply as his dinner partner left.

'Fuck you, Nanook of the North,' Johnny whispered, putting another spoonful of ravioli in his mouth and looking across the restaurant at the waiter who had taken their orders. He was smiling like a man in the know.

28.

Usually, in the moments before, during and after (conventional) despair, where most of the people around him collapsed with shock and disbelief, Johnny had a clear idea of how things had come to pass. He had never suffered a hammer blow to his emotions and his heart was hardened to virtually every display of sorrow in his family, the women in his life and the world at large. But he knew, as he walked the last bit of distance back to Sara, that she already had the power to reduce him to nothing with a word. He didn't expect to be hurt, but who ever did?

He walked the two flights of stairs to her front door and stood, pensively, looking at the peephole and wondering whether she had heard him coming and was standing on the other side breathing heavily, either smiling or biting her lip in anxiety. He pressed her buzzy bell and waited. Sweat was building under his arms.

She opened the door slowly. Not a good sign, he thought.

'Johnny, hi. How are you?'

'Fine. How are you?' Johnny brought the daffodils from behind his back and gave them to her.

'I'm okay. Would you like to come in?' Sara moved to her right and Johnny walked in. He kissed her on the cheek and it felt strange, like kissing a passer-by in the street. She stroked his arm, it felt like a gesture of contrition.

'Coffee, tea or something stronger?' Sara said from the kitchen.

'Coffee's cool, thanks. No sugar.' She didn't know how he liked his drinks yet and probably never would, such a small, meaningless part of life; yet it felt like a loss in itself.

Johnny sat on the sofa, looked around and remembered their night together in that very place, just days ago and so much had happened since and he knew what ever else occurred between them he was back to square one with Sara and the level of effort required to win her over would be the same as if they had never made love.

Sara took her time with the drinks and didn't shout through any small talk or ask what he'd been doing.

'There you go,' she said, returning with two large mugs.

'Thanks.' Johnny watched her face as she sat and sipped.

After a few painfully tense seconds Sara stood quickly and walked to her worktop; leafed through a notebook.

'Sorry about this, I've got to call a client,' she said, pulling a fake-worried face.

Johnny smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. His heart was sinking and screaming for help. He could see the future clearer than any fairground psychic and knew she was stalling to find the right words, to find a nice way of saying goodbye. He drank his coffee, too strong and bitter – yet appropriate, and waited. Sara made lots of jokes and promises of deadlines and good prices; then said, 'Okay, Paul. Ta, ta.' Johnny wondered if he would get a Ta, ta too.

'Sorry, Johnny. These people won't wait. If you don't call them back exactly when you say you will, they'll ditch you.' Sara sat back down opposite him and picked her drink up. Johnny looked at Sylvian's face in the framed poster above her head and began to think he should strike first – tell her to go to hell and that his comment wasn't that bad, go ahead with the lie he was with a friend or relative and if she couldn't and wouldn't believe that it was her problem. But he couldn't even begin to say any of that. She was so beautiful sitting there. Her hair was up at the back and her make up made her face seem like a Renaissance painting – all perfect features and part of an artistic illusion to draw you in and never let you move, always inches away from the goal and never able to connect. He just wanted time with her, and that made him want to cry, and he never, ever cried.

'I'm quite glad you came, Johnny.' Quite glad, the word became the first cut. 'I sort of wish you'd called first. I'm mega-busy, but it's probably best for us to see each other now.'

Sara stopped and looked above his head; then at her feet. She put her mug down and looked into his eyes. He wanted to die.

'I've decided to get back together with my boyfriend, my ex-boyfriend. We were talking about moving back to Edinburgh and, to be honest, I love him too much not to forgive him. He just got nervous about the commitment. I'm really sorry, Johnny. I hope you can forgive me.' She came and sat down next to him, held his hands and said sorry again.

He felt numb and angry – didn't she owe him her life? He wanted to leap to his feet and bury his fist in a wall, smash the photos of her grinning boyfriend. Did he know they had been together? Perhaps he would get nervous all over again if he did. This just wasn't goddamn fair. And yeah, yeah, life wasn't fair, but they were perfect and he would never get nervous, so why would she want grinning-guy? Johnny would move to Scotland with her at a moment's notice. Choose me, he wanted to yell, take me, please. But instead, he stood slowly, turned towards her and kissed her head. The same shampoo smell and its scent made his eyes begin to fill – a perfume that would haunt him until he died.

'Johnny, are you going to be okay,' Sara said, standing with him and walking him to the door. He nodded, but didn't face her. He would never let her or any other woman see him like that.

He nearly threw himself down the last flight of stairs, but Sara insisted on following him. Her presence facillitated the opportunity to begin hating her. Leading him to the front door was akin to making certain he was gone and forgotten and rubbing his raw emotions in salt.

As he walked across her threshold and out, back into the world of mundanity, loneliness and self-loathing he turned towards her, making certain his eyes were dry first. He pulled his Polaroid out and pointed it at her, wishing it was a gun.

'May I?' he said, pointing at the camera.

'Sure, why not.' She smiled weakly, he fired and she kissed his cheek and closed the door on him.

Johnny went back to his new flat, locked the front door, rolled three spliffs and opened a bottle of red wine. He smoked until his lungs ached and drank until he could barely keep his eyes open. Quiet Life played on repeat mode next to him – the LP that brought Japan to his attention; the song Despair in French sending him to his knees every time, tears pouring off his cheeks and dripping on to the Polaroid of Sara – her smile so sweet, pitiful and, he was sure, contemptuous. "Doucement, ne les derange pas..."

Johnny clutched his stomach and tried to focus on not vomiting. He smashed a glass against the front of his television and punched the wall until his hand burned with pain and shook uncontrollably.

29.

The next morning Johnny was woken by the telephone. He ran to it, regardless of feeling as if his head would fall off any minute. His legs were stiff and his stomach still uncertain whether or not to hurl back last night's consumption, and ouch, was his hand broken? He prayed it would be Sara, begging him to let her change her mind and get him back, telling him, come what may, he was the one and the boyfriend could go hang. Bonjour to the land of the Loch Ness monster?!

It was his mother on the other end of the receiver.

'Jonathan? Are you all right? You don't sound well.'

'I'm fine, ma. How are you? How's CND?'

'Oh, well, just fine at the moment. Although that bloody woman is still glowing after the Falklands shambles and the election win, so not everything's rosy really. Jonathan, I'm coming to London today and I'd like to see you. Would that be possible?'

'Just you?' Johnny wanted to know what kind of answer and excuse he would have to give if he knew his father and/or brother were coming too.

'Just me.'

'Okay, ma. Where and when?' He looked at his reflection in the mirror by the front door – bloated cheeks, sunken, baggy eyes and his hair looked like a lightning strike victim.

'The National Gallery has a Rembrandt exhibition on which I'd like to see. Is that okay with a young person like you?'

Johnny liked Rembrandt's use of light and shade, but thought he had been self-obsessed and one dimensional at times.

'That's cool. What sort of time?'

'Is twelve-thirty too early?'

'Nope. See you there. Bye, ma.'

'Bye, son.'

Johnny looked in the mirror again. This time he pulled a deliberately manic face and ran his hands through his hair fast so it stuck up and finished off the effect of Dorian Gray's portrait made flesh. If he had to make his way through life in an emotional vacuum, then so be it, he thought; making his way to the kitchen for espresso and a banana – his hangover cure.

Johnny decided to visit the National Portrait Gallery first. He preferred the intimate Gothic feel of the building and the variety of (real) facial images – room after room of expression and iconic poses. He hoped, one day when he was that good, one of his pieces of work would grace the walls of the gallery – perhaps next to Auden, his favourite poet. Johnny felt the cold air across his chest and fastened his top button. He had brought Kate to the NPG once and attempted to drive photo culture and an interest in aperture and chiaroscuro into her perspective – and in doing so increase the width and depth of their (forced) mutual existence. But she had spent the whole time talking about what an amazing book L'Etranger was – she had read it in the original French; it took her a year– and that Camus, De Beauvoir and Sartre were amazing; everything was always amazing to Kate, even if she merely liked it. But on this day the entire gallery disappointed him, somehow hollowed his already battered spirit and made him long to leave – he assumed it was Sara's fault. She had taken away his energy. Perhaps she was the same as all the others and he was better off keeping things simple and never caring about his sexual partners.

Music was his real love, it would never leave him or let him down. There was a song for every living moment – and there was always Sylvian. His solo album was being talked about for release the following year. A long time to wait, but it would doubtless be worth it. More than worth it. And there was the live Japan album due out near to Christmas.

'Hello! My beautiful beamish boy,' Johnny's mother said. She ran towards him and Johnny thought of her crying, everytime, as she watched the Jenny Agutter character running towards her just-released father in The Railway Children. Johnny had clear memories of watching that film many times with his family, and Oliver! Two favourites which had become psychological triggers for rose-tints around the truth of his life as a child. All damn lies.

'Ma, how are you?' Johnny hugged his mother. What else could he do? She had tried to do, mostly, the right things with him as a child – playing at the beach, holidays at home and abroad and making sure he was asleep, or so she thought, before she went into her bedroom with another lover.

'Good. Great to see you. How's the job? How's the new flat? And how's the lovely Kate?'

The last question made him wince slightly. 'Okay, all right. I'm not seeing Kate anymore, though. We broke up... I mean, I broke up with her recently.'

Johnny's mother gave him a hug of consolation and hooked her left arm through his right and they began around the exhibition rooms. The detail of the paintings could not fail to impress Johnny and, especially having just visited the NPG, he was surprised how expertly Rembrandt had achieved a near photographic likeness and standard with his self-portraits.

Johnny watched the awe and reverence pour out of his mother and wished, only for a moment, he could reach that level of understanding and devotion. Although he did wonder how much of it was the truth and he did, in fact, have a complete, religious zeal, level of faith in Sylvian and Japan.

'Such a master, such a talent,' Johnny's mother said, with her eyes closed, smiling as if the hand of Jesus was on her forehead, as the two of them sat in the gallery café and drank coffee, ate sandwiches and danced around the real visit for his her sudden visit. To Johnny, his mother had been more interested in the future of mankind than that of her sons. Johnny hadn't seen her for months and yet they hadn't really spoken about themselves since the initial meeting earlier, merely using art blather to mask the social discomfort of not knowing someone so closely related to you – creator and progeny.

'Ma, what's this all about?' Johnny was done with waiting for the drop. That methodology hadn't paid off with Sara (oh, Sara!) and he just wanted to get on with knowing the worst. He guessed she was finally going to tell him she and his father were getting divorced – about time too.

'What's what about?' she said, sipping coffee and drumming her right thumb on the wooden table. A sure sign of agitation, prevalent since the earliest flashbacks.

'The reason for you being here with me. I thought you'd live and die at Greenham.' Johnny took his mother's hand to stop the drumming. She looked scared.

'It's... something serious, Jonathan. I don't know where to start.'

'Well, it's a sad cliché, but the beginning is traditional,' he said and smiled to win her trust.

'Okay. That's good, right. I got a message via CND Greenham to phone home last week. It was your brother. He sounded upset, and, let's be honest, it takes a lot to upset Patrick. He told me your dad was in hospital and I had to come home. When I got to the hospital the doctor told me your dad had been taken in with breathing problems and had coughed up quite a lot of blood.' Johnny's body seemed to drop, his heart slowed and he looked for happiness in other people's faces. 'So, I asked what was wrong, you know, bronchitis, pneumonia, that sort of thing. And the doctor told me... told me your dad's... got lung cancer.' Johnny's mother sat back as if she had finished giving a speech – half relieved, half empty of feeling.

Johnny drank the last of his coffee and as the liquid hit his guts he knew he had to find a toilet. He ran from the table towards the Gents and plunged through the main door and into a cubicle; vomiting until he screamed into the bowl. He cleaned his face quickly, washed out his mouth and tidied his hair; then went back to the table and his mother, who looked desperate.

'Are you okay?' she said, standing and putting her hand on his shoulder.

Johnny felt a pulse of mega-hate under his skin and pulled his arm back watching his mother's crestfallen face with a degree of longed-for payback.

'Am I okay?' he said, aware of the venomous strain in his voice. 'No, I'm not fucking okay. You, you, not dad, come to tell me this. What am I supposed to do with the information? Go to Lourdes for a miracle? Pray for his soul? He's been a wanker his whole life and now, now, he's got his comeuppance.'

Johnny's mother looked as if she had just been shot with thousands of volts. She sat upright, rigid with the force of Johnny's onslaught. Could it really be such a shock to her – the strength of feeling and depth of resentment?

'Nothing to say, ma?' Johnny wiped his mouth and drank coffee dregs, anything was better than the aftermath taste of vomit and the bile in his guts. 'Right then, thanks for the exhibition and lunch. Give my best to Pat and tell dad to have a good life. Au revoir, ma.' Johnny kissed his mother's cheek and walked off, looking back at the exit to see her head in her hands, sobbing. Tears really are not enough, are they Martin Fry?

30.

Johnny slept seventeen hours without waking to eat, urinate or hear his telephone ringing. His mother tried and tried to reach him, she didn't have his new address yet. When he did wake, Johnny put on his favourite record: Ghosts and sang along – solemn and quiet. He stared into space then made some coffee and poached eggs on toast. He smoked a Gauloises then a spliff and began to re-read The Great Gatsby. He finished the novel in three hours and, after making himself some pasta with tomato and mushroom sauce; opening a cheap red wine and after drinking two swift glasses, sat down to start in on The End Of The Affair. The story moved him into a new phase of melancholy. Sarah and Bendrix, religion and loyalties, war and loss and in the end the resolution that life just goes on regardless and nothing in a single human life counts for very much – unless you're some huge historical personality like Hitler or Stalin.

Johnny poured a fourth glass of wine and lit another cigarette. He rummaged through a box under his bed and pulled out two photo albums. Childhood scenes seeping into his teens and the times when he was the one with the camera and the foundation of his vocation. Pat always mocked his 'arty-farty' nature and sought comfort in real male pastimes like Friday night fights and football on Sunday mornings. Pat got a job in insurance selling at sixteen and was still at the same level eight years later. Pat liked The Thompson Twins and Ian Gillan and couldn't believe Johnny couldn't see the obvious genius in the songs Love On Your Side and It's A Nightmare.

Then Johnny came across a batch of shots from when he was very young and they made him stop and study the faded exposures very closely. Johnny didn't want to believe it was so true, but it was undeniable – he looked exactly as his father had done when he was a young man. The hair was different and his father's eyebrows were more bushy, but the smile and the way he tilted his head was precisely the same. Johnny looked at his mother, in the same photograph, being held around the waist by his father. Pat and Johnny were at their feet and the background reminded him of Welsh holidays. The family scene looked idyllic, as if nothing could touch or change them. But everything had and all the goodness had been replaced by fragmentation and separation. And now his father was dying. The photograph would soon fade into nothingness, a meaningless piece of familial history, of interest to no one. How was Johnny supposed to feel? How was he supposed to deal with cancer and the man who had all but ignored him for years; silently objectifying his every move and choice in life?

Johnny finished the wine and went to bed. He was woken by the telephone the next morning and it wasn't his mother.

'Johnny?' the voice of Simon, the entertainment editor friend.

'Simon? Hello, mate. What's up?' Johnny flopped on to the floor and unwound the telephone lead from the top of his head. He felt awful, the wine effect had driven nails into his skull.

'Hello, mate. I wasn't sure this was your new number. The Melody Maker want to get intouch with you again. They loved those Teardrop Explodes shots and want to talk to you about a regular position. Sounds good, eh?'

Johnny almost let go of the receiver. A job he had always wanted. The job. He sat up straight and his senses came back into line.

'Where and when?' he said, standing and looking in the mirror.

'Ten-thirty today at their offices. Do you know where they are?'

'Yeah, yeah. I delivered the film the other day. Wow, this is so unbelievable. Thanks, Si. Cheers for your help, mate.'

'No problem. Let me know how it goes. See ya.'

'Bye.'

Johnny looked at his watch – nearly nine-fifteen! He ran to the shower and rushed through the wash and style. He left his make-up off and dressed with old-fashioned emphasis – his late grandfather's tweed suit and a blue shirt from Top Man. Stylish and sober, he thought, pushing his fringe back and smiling for effect. A quick coffee and banana; brush of the teeth and he was off. He jogged to the tube and at the end of the short journey he was sweating all over. He could feel his face burning and as he felt a whoosh of tunnel air and the saw the tube train arrive he thought he would faint.

The journey into London seemed to drag on. Johnny sang Japan songs in his head and looked at as many beautiful women as he could. Three skinheads got on four stops before his destination and Johnny was certain they would make trouble. They talked loudly and swore as if they were in competition with each other, but thankfully he was ignored.

It was ten-twenty when Johnny finally walked into the offices of The Melody Maker. He gave his name to the receptionist and she was expecting him. He was taken to the editor's office, who wasn't there, and offered coffee – which he accepted, the stimulation always helped him fire-up.

'Johnny Frinker?' a man's voice behind his head. Johnny stood up, put his coffee down and turned to see a young man with short, side-parted brown hair. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Very Haircut 100.

'I'm the editor of this rag,' he said. 'I prefer ed to editor, but I don't want any staff using my name, it makes things too casual. Have a seat, Johnny.'

The two men sat. Johnny drank his coffee quickly and the editor made a meal of looking at the Teardrop Explodes collection.

'I love these. Fucking great,' he said. Johnny tried not to look too smug. 'Cope is such a great performer, bit of a weirdo as a guy, but great on stage. And you caught that.'

'Thanks, I guess he was having a good night.'

'So I was thinking. Do you fancy a staff job? You'd be one of our regular guys covering gigs, press conferences, interviews and photo sessions. Sound good?'

Johnny wanted to fall to his knees and shout, 'YES!' but he kept calm and nodded, smiled and said,' Sounds very good. What would you like me to work on next?'

'OMD are playing the Hammy Odeon tomorrow. I want you to do your thing with that. You'll get a back stage pass, get some post-show shots. Okay?'

'No problem.'

'There's a staff party tonight, Café Royale, eight o'clock, want to come and meet people?' the editor flicked through some copy and looked in a drawer.

'Yeah, great. I'll be there. Thanks again.'

'Bye then, Johnny.'

As Johnny walked out of the office The Jam was booming out: "Stop dreaming of the quiet life... town called Malice..."

31.

Johnny had the job now, so he felt completely justified in reaching for his make-up before the big night – his baggy trousers were pressed and his collarless shirt was over a chair in his bedroom. Just a light application of eyebrow pencil and mascara, no lipstick or eyeliner.

He imagined a sit down dinner, the owner of the paper giving a motivational speech about circulation and quality journalism. Surely The Melody Maker wasn't run by those emerging social parasites – the yuppies? It had to be something less formal, an orgy perhaps? Or was that too much to hope for. He had started to believe mindless fucking could be a way back into normality after the recent relationship problems.

Before he left his flat he took a last look at the tear-stained Polaroid of Sara and some shots of Kate from university and two nude poses of Maria; then tore them all up and threw them to the winds outside his front door.

The party looked as if it had been started much earlier to Johnny as he made his way to the free bar and ordered a vodka and tonic. The place was packed with happy, drunken faces, smoke from cigarettes and spliffs and a band which played songs that filled the dancefloor – Johnny soon realised the band was Simple Minds. Jim Kerr span around and dropped every few minutes, his enormous voice filling the building. Promised You A Miracle sent a shiver down Johnny's spine and gave him goose bumps. A crowd pleaser and a great song, a rare thing.

Johnny took out his camera and caught some shots of Kerr in full Dervish spin. The editor shouted 'hello' as he wandered past with a young woman. Johnny barely had time to answer and waved feebly instead.

'Hi, you must be the new guy.'

Johnny turned to his left and saw a very pretty woman, a bit younger than him he guessed, smiling and holding out her hand. She wore a Clash t-shirt and a short skirt.

'Yeah, new guy, started today. I'm Johnny Frinker.' Johnny shook her hand; her touch was light and smooth.

'Frinker? That's an unusual name.'

'It's eastern European, I think.'

'I'm Estella, like the Dickens character, only less cold hearted.'

'Glad to hear it, she was a mean little sod.'

Johnny felt an instant attraction to Estella. She reminded him of Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby – all cheekbones and wide eyes and short cut blonde hair. He tried to hold his romantic urges at bay, certain a hulking boyfriend would join them any moment and blow his fantasy to smithereens.

'What do you do?' Estella asked, moving closer to him. Johnny looked at the way the Clash t-shirt clung to her breasts and he wanted her right there and then.

'Photo journalist usually, but just good ol' photographer now. What about you?' He was aware of his hands shaking – all or nothing, Johnny, he told himself, just ask the question, do it fool, do it...

'Journalist. Most of us are freelance, but I'm on staff, interviews mainly.'

Then there was a short spell of silence when the two of them looked at the stage. Jim Kerr still gyrating and writhing.

'Bit over-the-top isn't he?' Johnny said, for something to say.

'A bit. A diamond of a bloke, though. I've interviewed him twice, once before they made it and once after. He hasn't changed at all,' Estella said with a serious, appreciative look on her face and Johnny wondered if perhaps he had made another comment to destroy any hope.

'Great songs too,' Johnny shouted the bland statement to paper any invisible cracks, but it sounded hollow to him, and probably to her. He was about to wish her well and walk off.

'Do you want another drink?' Estella turned to him, smiling; looking as if she had just been given a pay rise. 'There's a new band on soon, everyone's raving about them; called The Blue Nile, I think. They're Scottish and minimalist. Shall we get more drinks and find a seat?'

'Sounds nice, Estella.' Johnny enjoyed using her name and could feel himself relaxing. He wasn't going to make any leaps of faith or commit to her in his mind or heart. It would be an evening of drinks and words. If they kissed or more he would be happy for the sake of it. But he refused to think further than the moments between them that night.

Estella brought back the same again for the two of them, they applauded Simple Minds as they left the stage; then they sat together near the microphone and looked at each other.

'You look a bit like...' Estella said, stopping to fill out her thought. 'David Sylvian. Has anyone ever told you that?'

'No, not really.'

'Do you like him and Japan?'

'Yeah, they're my favourite band.' Johnny had to think himself down from the emotional high he was beginning to feel.

'Who do I look like to you? And do not say Sam fucking Fox.' Estella took a swig of her lager and grinned at him. 'Guys always say her because I've got big tits too.'

'Well, thankfully, you don't look anything like her. You're taller, got short hair and... you're much prettier. I'd have to say you look like... Mia Farrow in Rosemary's Baby or maybe Jean Seberg in Breathless.'

'Jesus, Johnny. That's so nice of you. That's the nicest comparison anyone's ever made of me. God, Rosemary's Baby, great film, but scary stuff and Breathless is genius, but very sad. Seberg looked divine in that. She had a very sad death, didn't she?' Johnny thought of his cancer-ridden father.

'Yeah, suicide in her car. They didn't find her for days. I guess all death is sad though.'

'Not all death, what about murderers and child molesters or dictators?'

'True. Very true,' Johnny replied. Did his father fit any lower category of deserved death?

'Are you here with anyone?' Estella asked, looking into Johnny's eyes.

'No, are you?'

'Nope.'

And then the band arrived on stage. There were three of them – all young with short, dark hair and looking shy. The lead singer mumbled something and the first song began – a distant sound from the synthesiser, "... I go from rags to riches..."

Both Johnny and Estella watched in reverent silence, Johnny watched Estella too, from the corner of his eye. The band brought the many voices of the party to a halt, as if a great historical figure, the like of Martin Luther King, was speaking.

A short break between songs gave Estella the opportunity to order more drinks and Johnny the time to think. He wanted to holdfast and try not to fall in love with her. He always fell too easily and even though he had only devoted himself to the notion of real love once, it was recently and his heart would not take another battering so soon. Estella walked back as the band returned.

'This one is the first single. It's called Tinseltown In The Rain,' the singer said; he spoke more clearly this time. Maybe his band members have told him to cheer up, Johnny thought.

The song began and Estella was on her feet in seconds. She pulled Johnny up and they joined some others on the dancefloor. Johnny swayed in time with the song and looked at Estella enjoying the whole construction of verse-chorus-verse and the rhythm of emotions flowing from the singer. She was consumed and the sight of her giving herself to a song that way almost drove Johnny out of the party. What was he afraid of? Another wave of sadness? – Maria (who had only left him feeling angry), Sara (who had meant everything, and yet in the company of Estella, she felt like nothing to him) and his father (who was dying, but had left Johnny years before).

The song finished and Estella leapt at him, clapping and shouting her satisfaction.

Another song began immediately, a convulsive tumble of drums followed by the lead singer crooning for mercy, "... stay... stay..." Estella was elated. She grooved (the only word Johnny could think of that was adequate, boogied would have sounded too frenetic) and held on to Johnny's hands. He felt no fear, no way he could lose and the smile which grew in stages – though still acutely aware of the 'no teeth' rule – was sincere in only feeling the way he wanted to and not being in debt to some image or idea of himself. The existential boundaries he had created collapsed in those free moments and he was released like a child; able to enjoy everything.

As the song ended Estella moved into him tightly. She hugged him and he could feel a slow sigh drain from her, relaxing her weight and turning him on.

'Would you like to come home with me, Johnny?' she said, looking up at him. Would he? The question was how he could answer without unravelling and nodding so hard, as he burbled 'yes' a million times, his head fell off?

'That would be lovely, yes. Shall we go now?'

'Okay. I'll get my coat.' Estella walked off, kissing the cheeks of colleagues, whispering in one or two ears and, intermittently, turning back to wave at him.

Johnny looked around. The editor was looking his way. Johnny smiled and saluted him. The editor raised his head and half-smiled back.

'Is he an okay boss,' Johnny said to Estella as she returned wearing a raincoat.

'Who, ed? Yeah, why?'

'He was just giving me a strange look.'

'Probably pissed or drugged up, or both. Either that or he's jealous.' Estella put her arm around Johnny's waist and guided him out.

'Why would he be jealous?'

'Because I broke up with him a few weeks ago and he didn't take it well.' She smiled as if none of the past mattered and Johnny was too far gone into the idea of Estella and going to her flat to care about break-up's and jealousy.

32.

Estella's flat was like a museum of the last three or four big movements in pop and rock. She was a true muso. A woman for whom the idea of pop(ular) culture had no end in sight. Punk, new wave and new romanticism/futurism was here, there and everywhere – posters, LP's, concert programmes, books. There was a cine-poster with the legend: A Bout De Souffle headlining it, 'I prefer the French title, don't you?' Estella said, catching Johnny at study on Belmondo and Seberg. 'I'm a bigger fan of hers than I let on.'

Johnny didn' t wait to be asked. He was a bit drunk and had just experienced a quick-fire vision of his father and Jean Seberg together, dead, in her car, lost in a Parisian alleyway. Life was too short to be asked. Johnny took Estella's hands and brought her into his kiss. They slid, still kissing to her bed – the flat was more of a bedsit: bed, kitchenette, television, etc, in the same area – and Johnny began to unbutton his shirt. He stopped and winced.

'What's the matter?' Estella said, looking worried.

'Oh, sorry. I just realised, I don't have any condoms with me.' He blushed and felt like a virgin. He often remembered his first time – a nervous fourteen--year-old, with an eighteen-year-old girlfriend (wasn't that rape?), who kept his socks on and lasted about ten seconds, twice!

'That's okay, I've got some. I bought them at the party.'

This woman is phenomenal, Johnny thought. He kissed her again and, with one eye open, looked up at the A Bout De Souffle poster and felt as if he were a movie star. Then he stopped himself – he always did the goddamn movie star projection thing – and tried to re-capture the abandon he had at the party, or maybe, just maybe, enjoy without thought?

Johnny made sure he took his socks off and sat on the bed, facing away from Estella, to put his condom on.

Estella lay back and took her clothes off. Johnny entered her and watched her mouth open, her eyes close and a sexy smile build. He began to thrust slowly and then quickened his movements. Estella ran her hands all over his back, digging her fingernails in; then one hand was placed on his backside and the other on his balls. He was desperate to let rip and the fourteen-year-old in him suddenly reappeared.

33.

Johnny hardly slept that night. He always found sleeping in new environments tough for a while, and on this night he was too nervous to rest his eyes. What had he done? It was so obvious – new flat, The Melody Maker (every time he thought of the new career he also thought of the Japan song of the same name) and now Estella too, all so quickly – every piece of his life was adapting and growing into something new and potentially wonderful; yet as he stared at the Sex Pistols poster on the ceiling above the bed and turned to look at the sleeping Estella he could not, would not allow himself even a big toe into happiness.

His father was dying, soon to be dead. How could he relax with a weight like that on his back, a thought loop which wouldn't stop? Johnny wanted to immerse himself in his own life and ignore (and continue to blame) those around him who had always told him he wasn't good enough. Yes, damn it all, his father did deserve to die. And with that, Johnny fell asleep.

The next morning Johnny woke up feeling a warmth in his stomach. He looked down the bed and there was Estella with her head between his legs. I am in love, he thought, no! I am not, this is just sex. He smiled and felt her lips work him up. She pulled away before he came and sat on top of him.

'Good morning,' she said, smiling down.

'Hello, that was really nice. The only way to wake up,' Johnny said and smiled back at her. He wondered, only for a moment – the lust was eating him up – what she saw as she looked at him, under her and rumpled from lack of sleep, no make-up and morning breath drifting up.

Johnny held on until Estella had come; then he finished too. They cuddled up and looked at the ceiling.

'Do you like the Pistols?' Estella whispered. Johnny wondered why she wouldn't speak openly. Was it so controversial to like Lydon and the boys? - perhaps a nosey landlord, like Risgby from Rising Damp might eject her for dubious taste.

'Sure. I don't know much of their stuff, but I think they were better than most people think.'

'Exactly, that's what I always say and my ex-boyfriend hates them. He... ' Estella stopped and nuzzled Johnny's neck.

Johnny thought of the editor having been where he was, the same bed, sheets, smile, chit-chat, yuck, yuck. He began to feel warm with annoyance.

'Malcolm McClaren's a bit of a wanker really or that's what I hear,' Johnny yawned as he spoke and hugged Estella as if she would jump out of the bed at any moment and run back to the editor, realising what a terrible error she'd made.

'I've met him a few times actually. He's a bit... false really. Just art for arts sake about everything he does, you know?'

Johnny nodded but wasn't interested in Malcolm sodding McClaren. He wanted to hear Estella tell him he was better in bed than the editor. Better than the editor in every way. Fuck the Great Rock n' Roll Swindle, that was dead too.

Johnny had been trying to place Estella's accent and it suddenly came to him – Mancunian. He thought of Alan and the thinly veiled threat about seeing Kate again. The North Strikes Back. Maybe he should go and see Kate, test himself and her resolve. Les liaisons dangereuses, one last shag for old times.

'Are you all right?' Estella was leaning across Johnny's chest, her face almost on top of his.

'Yeah, fine. What are you doing today?' Johnny was covering the OMD gig later and not doing much else, but wasn't certain he should push the idea of spending time together too soon. Keep this simple, he thought.

He stretched his arms and as he brought them down he turned quickly and flipped Estella on to her back.

'I know what I'm doing right now,' she said, biting her top lip and winking.

34.

Hunger was the only thing that got Johnny and Estella up that day. They had made love three times since Johnny had woken up, and he was beginning to think of the future. Something about the lapse in his own past – the way his family had walked away from togetherness – in a sort of unintentional slow motion made Johnny habitually paranoid about depending on a love lasting or sustaining a lifetime – even with Sara, he had never got to the point of thinking she would be around for ever – things just didn't work like that. One in three marriages came to an end – his mother had mentioned the statistic a few months before, like some maternal prelude to the end of her marriage too. As a seven-year-old Johnny had – after hearing his aunt and uncle were getting divorced – imagined the system of marital detachment was something like, the couple in question standing on a cliff and fighting to see who would fall first. He quite liked the idea.

'I could eat a horse,' Maria said, and yawned. 'Or you.' She sat up and looked back at the lazy Johnny. He had given up worrying about his hair and face. She didn't seem to mind. 'Shall we go and get breakfast? There's a café around the corner.' Johnny looked at her bedside clock – eleven-thirty-five.

'More like brunch,' Johnny said, pulling his tired body up and out of the bed.

'Brunch, eh? La-di-da, mate.' Johnny didn't mind her making fun of his words. Did that mean anything? If Kate or Maria had made fun of him, even innocuously like that, he would have been fuming.

They dressed quickly and left the flat/bedsit. Johnny shut the front door and tried to remember the complete picture of the room, it might be the last time he got to see it, just like with Sara. He didn't expect not to see Estella again, they would be working together, maybe on the same jobs sometimes – in fact, he assumed he would, she had seemed very satisfied – but he was still thinking about the editor. Did he want to ruin his chances in the new job? Would the editor drop him when he found out about the night with his ex-girlfriend? Maybe Johnny should call it a day before things did get too heavy? She was a lovely woman and he did like her a lot already, but not enough to screw all his hopes up and flush them away. He'd met Estella at the right time and his confidence was back, but surely he could meet lots of other women just like her? He would have to tell her over breakfast. Although, she might tell the editor , as revenge, and get Johnny sacked. The best way was avoidance. It was one great night and morning and he would promise to call her; then let things fade away. She'd probably meet some other handsome, intelligent and talented guy soon and forget all about Johnny. He had to concentrate on his new life. The OMD gig would solidify his position in the paper and make the editor forget what he thought he knew.

'I'll have egg on toast, and tea for two, I think. Johnny, is tea okay? Johnny?' Estella looked at the middle-aged and tired woman behind the café counter and raised her eyebrows in mock frustration.

Johnny was day-dreaming about his conundrum and suddenly came into focus as Estella stroked his cheek. The counter woman looked at him as if memories of her youth were flooding back and most of them were broken promises.

'Erm, sausage, bacon and scrambled, no, fried eggs, please. And coffee, thanks' he said.

'Tea for one then. Appetite, eh?' said Estella with laughter in her voice. She held his hand tightly and he began to have second thoughts about the importance of his new job.

They sat down and Estella offered him a cigarette. He took out his lighter and lit both of them. The café was busy and Johnny was happy to think of nothing for a few minutes; just to watch the flow of food and listen to broken conversations. But Estella wanted his attention.

'So, Johnny, where do we go from here?' she said, puffing smoke from the side of her mouth and tapping ash into a foil tray.

Johnny thought of Love Plus One and the editor with his Haircut 100 image – should they go down to the lake, too? What a ridiculous lyric, he thought.

'In what way?' he replied, drawing heavily on the cigarette and playing the dumbo.

'Have you got another girlfriend somewhere?' Estella smiled, but it wasn't any kind of moment for levity.

'No, I'm fancy free.' Another cock-up comment. Why not just say, it was a nothing-fuck-one-night-only, Johnny? he thought, and what's with the another girlfriend?

'Good, cos I want to keep it simple. Is that okay?' She was serious now. The smile was gone and the mood felt like a Velvet Undergound song.

'In what way?' He was keeping the questions simple. No need to put his head on the dialogue block again – for all his looks and charm, his brain often missed its chance to influence his tongue.

'I want to fuck you again, but I don't want a big commitment yet. I want to... explore things.' She sat back and let the middle-aged counter woman put her plate down. Johnny did the same. The food looked awful, but Estella pounced on hers like a leopard on a gazelle.

Johnny cut his bacon and chewed silently. His coffee arrived and was tepid. Estella ate quickly and swigged tea between mouthfuls.

Johnny reviewed the situation: she wanted his body – that was good, always good. But she wasn't that bothered very much about seeing him socially, or talking. He should have been feeling elation; that she was the ideal woman – only in it for one thing. And, at first impressions, they didn't have huge amounts in common, so what was the problem?

For a start there was her comment about exploring things that obviously meant fucking other men, maybe other women too? It certainly didn't mean wandering through the jungles of the world, Indiana Jones-style, trying to find great treasures. Was he willing to lose himself again for such a small amount and basically become reduced to Kate-status? No, no, no.

'Estella.' Johnny finished a piece of bacon and washed coffee around his mouth. 'I'm not sure I want the same as you.'

She looked shocked and furrowed her eyebrows. He knew he had started that which would inevitably end badly – he eyed-up her teacup, not much liquid left. Not much to throw at him.

'What are you on about? I'm giving you loads of room to do what you want. Isn't that what guys want?'

'Yeah, it does sound good when...'

'When what?'

'When it's with someone you only want one thing with'

'And you were hoping for more with me?'

Johnny's heart sank and he felt pathetic again. The food looked even worse and he wanted to vomit.

'No, well, yes. I just don't think you can say right now that's all you want, sex, just sex.' The self-destruction button had been hit.

'All right, but we don't know each other yet. I was just thinking it would be safer, especially with working together, to keep it simple.'

'Okay. Well, thanks for last night and breakfast. I'll see you next week maybe,' Johnny said. He stood up and put his coat on, it had fallen to the ground behind his chair and he nearly tripped on its bulk.

'Johnny, don't just bugger off. Come on, please, let's carry on talking,' Estella said. But he was at the door already and knew he would agree to anything if he went back to the table and looked at her again. She really did look just like Jean Seberg in A Bout De Souffle.

35.

Johnny had three glasses of whiskey before he left for the OMD gig. He had gone straight home and was trying to forget about Estella and the acid feedback from his egg burps. He hadn't given Estella his telephone number and the flat was quiet and cool in the afternoon light – sunshine giving way to a dusky pink, a perfect sky. He looked in his camera bag and checked his equipment. A time-wasting exercise – he always kept the bag topped up.

He watched some television, The Tube was on and he smiled at Jools Holland and Paula Yates – their rapport made the programme. They acted like amateurs and it was the essential glue to set the show apart – it was the music show, Top Of The Pops was a joke in comparison.

Johnny finished another glass of whiskey, switched the television off and put a record on – Christian by China Crisis. The song reminded him of Maria and the aborted dinner party. "I could lose myself in dishonesty..." The song hadn't touched Johnny on any emotional level when he bought it. He had seen the two-piece band perform it twice and liked the sound – they were obviously Japan fans and the best imitators yet. As opposed to Duran Duran who were a pop cartoon – no lyrics, no songs, just gusto and poses. But this time Johnny turned the volume up and listened to the words, "I can't sleep, this kind of thing makes me nervous..." The resonance and meaning made him sit and stare at the floor, a reverence he was aware of and after a few seconds it felt manufactured. The song was good, maybe even great, but it wasn't what he needed to hear right then. He reached for Adolescent Sex – Japan's first album, produced when they were teenagers and sounding about as different from the last ever album (Tin Drum) as was possible. Where Tin Drum was elegant, minimalist and thought provoking for years, Adolescent Sex was a thrash of guitars, a search for depth and reason from behind garish artifice – it sounded like an exorcism of hate and childhood fears. But that was the sound of dissolution in Johnny's head and he sang along, strutting like Jagger and using the whiskey bottle as a mike, "... well I'm trying to find all the love we discovered, but that is the way it goes..."

He listened to four songs, then couldn't take anymore. The album was an oddity, a starting point and nothing else. Even Sylvian and the other ex-members of Japan dismissed it.

He left his flat an hour before showtime, dressed in his tweed suit, white shirt and braces, camera bag, lots of make-up (even lipstick, usually a no-no) and a cigarette in his mouth; the tobacco mingling nicely with the whiskey breath. He caught a tube train quickly and changed twice before he arrived at Hammersmith. As he walked to the Odeon he stopped by the Italian restaurant he and Alan had used. The same stroppy waiter was there, still wiping down the tables and looking like he wanted to scream until his throat exploded. Johnny thought about Alan's proclamations and the inherent threat about contacting Kate. Fuck that, he thought (the whiskey shoring up his courage) I'll see her if I want to.

'I'm fucking sick of twats like Alan,' he said, turning away from the restaurant window as the waiter looked directly at him. He made a silent plan to see Kate soon and walked towards the bright white of the headline fascia.

Johnny stayed in the bar during the support act. He drank neat vodka and chain-smoked. Eventually an announcement told him to shift himself into position and check his cameras. He felt drunk, but still sober enough to walk without stumbling and as he made his way downstairs he smiled at pretty face after pretty face until his mouth ached. What a soulless mood he was in, but ready for anything – sex, fighting or both.

The lower auditorium was packed. The audience, well behaved and sitting patiently, looked at the empty stage. Johnny worked his way around the perimeter, flashed his press pass and ducked down in front of the stage. About ten minutes past, it felt like longer to the drunken Johnny – his knees wobbled slightly as he crouched and focused his lens – then the band came on, led by Andy McCluskey and Paul Humphreys. Two synthesisers were set up at the front of the stage; McCluskey and Humphreys stood behind them like custodian-types of something sacred.

Enola Gay began slowly then reached full speed with McCluskey swaying violently before he began to sing, then letting the words and history behind the song do the hard work. Humphreys, always the retiring one, smiled coyly and did his job. Johnny fired and tried to co-ordinate his shots with the light show.

The gig was easy to shoot – the band were static throughout with the exception of McCluskey, who seemed incapable of keeping still. His thin woollen tie flicked left and right as he swung his head in front of the microphone and moved his fingers across the synth keyboard. Johnny thought he looked a bit inane, but he understood the need for some kind of motivation when performing. He had sometimes invoked erotic images of other women when making love to Kate. He wondered how often she had guessed he was some place else thinking of the depth of feeling he could reach – touching other legs and breasts, other moans; cries and whispers; then Johnny felt a sense of guilt about how Kate had suffered. But, no, it was her decision to stay with him and deal with the more unpleasant side of his nature. She had revelled in the sexual torment.

Joan Of Arc began and Johnny almost crumbled, dropping his aching camera arm to his waist and hearing the song with Sara in the role of the Maid Of Orleans – would he feel better if she too were burned at the stake? Where was she now? She obviously liked the band. Was she in the Odeon too? Would Johnny have the ordeal of bumping into she and the grinning boyfriend?

Johnny ground his teeth and watched McCluskey jig about in the synthesised bagpipe finish of the song. Actually, he thought, the guy's got guts. He knows how to let go and allow himself to be swallowed whole by something like a song and its melody. And that was something to be respected, admired and sought after.

36.

Johnny stayed in front of the stage as the last note of Electricity rang out –the final encore, the house lights came up and the audience's shouts and claps began to die. He shot the empty stage, the instruments exactly where they'd been since the start and the tingle in his ears put a smile on his face. He wandered over to a security guard and asked how he could get backstage.

'You got a pass, mate?' the guard said. His eyes scanning Johnny's make-up and hair. Dickhead, Johnny thought, dickhead who could snap your neck.

'Yeah, I'm with The Melody Maker.'

Johnny flashed his press pass which was also imprinted with BACKSTAGE

'Oh, right, yeah. One of your lot is back there already. Just down there.' The guard pointed to a narrow doorway next to the stage.

Who else was supposed to be covering this? Johnny imagined the editor waiting for him, chatting with OMD and firing him as he walked through the dressing room door – humiliation in front of one of the UK's biggest bands. Oh, Jesus, just great. Yet again his libido had stitched him up. He pushed through two doors and reached the backstage area – aluminium crates were piled up waiting for the instruments and a long table of drinks and food, as yet untouched by Orchestral hands.

Johnny flashed his ID to another security guard outside the main dressing room and watched the man turn the handle to let him in. Johnny managed a smile, a nervous grin, and walked in. The band were relaxing on sofas and armchairs. Wine was being poured by two young women, other photographers fired flashes around the outside of the room and it was obvious several reporters were asking questions. McCluskey chatted to someone Johnny couldn't see properly at first. He took his Polaroid out and took two shots for his personal collection, he put them in his pocket, then brought out a wide angle lens for a run of group shots – the entire scene. As he looked through the viewfinder; zooming in and out, he noticed who McCluskey was talking to, and it wasn't the editor. Estella was smiling and nodding and seemed to be having a great time with the singer. Was that the device she used with male musicians – flirtation and the promise of sex? Johnny felt a coldness run into his body and gravity took a hike for a second. He assumed she had seen him, probably even knew he was going to be there. Was that one of the other things she was going to mention at breakfast?

He stayed on his spot to the right of the door and got what he needed quickly. He was good at his job and worked fast even when he wasn't in desperate need.

He was about to leave, packing his camera away and wondering when his hands would stop shaking.

'Johnny. Are you all right? I guess you weren't going to say hello or goodbye.' Estella held two glasses of wine and looked like she was feeling as nervous as he was.

'Oh, hi, hello. I didn't know you were here,' Johnny lied.

'How could you miss me? This isn't Wembley Stadium.' Estella held out one of the glasses to Johnny. He took it, put it on the arm of a chair and took out his cigarettes.

'Would you like one?' he said, holding the packet up.

'Sure. Thanks.'

Johnny put two in his mouth and lit, worrying for a moment Estella would wipe his saliva off the butt before she placed it between her lips, or was that kind of thing only applicable to an emotional germophobe like him? After all, she had seemed happy to put him in her mouth earlier.
She didn't even register the so-called issue and was puffing away before he could finish his thought.

'What have you been up to today? Walking out on me was a bit rude, don't you think?' Estella said, sipping her wine and nodding a smile at Paul Humphreys as he walked by.

'I had to leave. I had work to do.' Johnny knew he sounded strained and robotic.

'What kind of work? Isn't this your day job?' Estella swept her hand around the dressing room as if she was mocking him and drawing attention to what a liar and fool he was. 'It's not nice to lie, Johnny. I thought you and I were going somewhere.'

'Going where? And I was busy. I had to finish sorting some exposures in my portfolio.' Johnny had lost his nerves and replaced them with Kate-levels of anger and frustration.

'Going somewhere together, a relationship, a thing. I don't know. You're being a bit horrible, Johnny. I don't think I've been horrible to you. Have I?'

'No. Well, look, I've got to go. I want to get some exterior shots and get to bed early. So, I'll see you... soon.'

'Johnny, are you really going to run out on me again? Come on, let's get a drink somewhere and talk.' Estella reached out and touched his arm. She looked more beautiful than Jean Seberg. Johnny wanted to go with her. The magic of the previous night was weaving a spell around him and he was about to give in.

'No, I can't, Estella. I do want to see you again. But I need to go now. I'm sorry, my head's about to combust.' He leaned into her and kissed her cheek. She smiled gamely and took her hand away from his arm. A small gesture, but a resignation nonetheless.

Johnny left the Odeon quickly, as though he was being chased by demons. His head was pounding with early signs of a hangover and the tension of seeing Estella. What had she meant? – "going somewhere together..." She had said earlier that same day she wanted to explore things – did she mean with him? Why couldn't she be more explicit with him. They had shared each other's bodies already, wasn't that the hardest part? Perhaps that was just naïve of him. The psychology of emotions was his bete noire, why should it be different for her? Maybe she was worried he would turn her down if she said she wanted him for ever. That wasn't so odd. He was having a hard enough time finding a way to deal with his feelings about his father's illness and imminent death.

Johnny dodged traffic, reached the tube station and walked on to the platform. There were still a few OMD fans waiting for trains; clutching programmes and talking loudly about the gig – their ears temporarily deadened by the amps.

Johnny began to wish he had stayed with Estella, at least he wouldn't have been alone. He had run towards Maria and Sara and lost them in a heartbeat; then he had been offered a good thing with Estella and run away. He kept telling himself it was all his father's fault – if he wasn't dying and raising so many questions in Johnny it would be much easier (simple, in fact) to resolve other issues, like Estella.

His train arrived after about fifteen minutes of glazed-eye navel gazing, he trudged on board and sat down. Two stops later he regretted his seating choice. Four skinheads got on – he still had five stops to wait until he changed – and he was regretting not going out with Estella even more than his seat. The skinheads were all wild eyes, insane smiles – indicating something like the detachment of their cerebral cortexes – bald heads; dressed in bovver boots, rolled-up jeans and green bomber jackets: the uniform from ska roots, appropriated by the far right and now an outfit of fear, racism, anger and violence. Johnny looked at his reflection in the dark window opposite, clocked his make-up, suddenly looking like a target all over his face and prayed for a radical image transformation or, more likely, the skinheads to get off the tube soon. He just hoped, what ever else happened, they would ignore him. Surely he was beyond their interest? It didn't take long for his fears to be confirmed.

'You all right, sweet heart?'

Johnny heard the question come from the direction of the skinheads, but it took a moment for him to realise it was meant for him. There were lots of other people on-board the train, but as far as he could remember he was the only one wearing make-up. He didn't answer or look at them.

'Oi, cutie pie, you all right, I said,' the voice grew impatient.

The train arrived at Paddington.

Johnny stood up on tired and haphazard feet and moved to an exit door. His face was hot. He willed the doors to open. He planned to run, break free as soon as his body could fit through.

'Oi, matey. Tranny-boy. Are you fucking ignoring me?'

'I think he is. I think he's calling you a cunt,' another voice said. They were driving each other on, daring themselves to push the situation further.

'Where you goin', pretty boy?'

'He's going to suck a cock, ain't he. Fucking ponce.'

Oh, fuck. Oh, Christ. Help me, God. Help me, dad. Johnny thought of his father's face – stern, uncomplicated, squaring up to the skinheads, going down fighting.

The train doors swished open. Johnny's legs were heavy with fear, but he pushed forward and went from quick walk to run to sprint in seconds. He heard shouting behind him – the skinheads were following. His camera bag bumped his stomach and hip and he thought of dropping it, but it was his job to deliver the shots. He had to keep hold of it, and anyway they were bound to get bored with the chase soon.

'Oi poofter, you little wanker. Come here,' a new voice shouted. Did they expect him to stop?

Johnny looked at the faces of passers-by. Would no one help him? Where were the police? His legs began to feel even more heavy and tired with the sudden burst of energy (he never exercised) but adrenalin kept him going. He scrambled over the turnstiles, hoping the station staff would chase him too and cancel out the skinheads – but the ticket-check booth was empty!

Johnny ran as fast as he could up the escalators. The endless, mechanised rolling of the grilled steps actually hindered his progress. He eventually reached the top and quickly looked back to see where his predators were – at the bottom of the escalator, closer than he thought.

On through the station concourse, in and out of passengers waiting for arrivals and departures.

'Help me, someone, help,' Johnny shouted at anyone, everyone. He was ignored. They think I'm a nutter, he thought, selfish fuckers, fucking Thatcher's to blame.

Johnny was barely out of the station – freedom! – when he felt a hand grab the collar of his jacket. He tried to pull away, to run on and into a shop or a taxi, but he was pulled against his will – into a dark side street; then thrown against a wall.

'All right, fucker. I fucking hate running,' a bald head said close to Johnny's sweaty face. He felt a pain in his stomach, a burning which rose to his head. Then another pain in his cheek, a metallic taste in his mouth. The pain shifted around his body, but it was all the same feeling – agony. His camera bag was ripped away from his shoulder and he heard the crunch of glass.

Johnny kept his eyes closed and fell to the ground.

'Poofter, fucking faggot,' one of the voices said, the original voice on the train.

'I fucking hate these fucking gay boys,' another one growled.

A kick to the side of Johnny's head made him feel sleepy and dizzy. He lay his head down and felt something wet dribble out of the corner of his mouth. The hard ground felt good – cool and moist and after a while he realised the beating had stopped. He lay still for a bit, in case they were still there; then managed enough coherence to open his eyes and look up. A man with similar hair to the editor was looking down at him, frowning and holding his mouth.

'Jesus, mate. I'm really sorry for you. Wait here, I'll go and call an ambulance.'

Johnny was about to argue and insist he was okay when he felt an ache begin to form in and over his whole body. His head throbbed; he closed his eyes and vomited. He opened one eye to see the helpful stranger return and noticed his camera bag lying a few feet away. Film, his Polaroid, one other camera and his wide angle lens were strewn around – glass lay near each item. Johnny winced with another wave of pain and from the realisation his work from the gig was all gone.

'Mother fuckers,' he said and hardly recognised his own voice.

'The ambulance will be here soon. Do you know who did this, and why?' the stranger said.

'No idea. That's life isn't it.' Johnny tried to smile, to be friendly, but couldn't stand the pain of stretching his lips. The taste of blood trickled down the back of his throat and he began to gag.

'I'm going to turn you slowly on to your side, mate. I don't want you to choke.'

Johnny moaned agreement and braced himself.

The stranger tried his best not to move Johnny too quickly, but even the slightest movement made him feel as if he would pass out or scream.

'Sorry, buddy, necessary evil,' the stranger said. 'It's all over now. I can hear the ambulance, I think.'

'You all right?' said a different voice a few seconds later.

Johnny thought it was the skinheads again. He looked up in terror, expecting to see a boot coming at his head. It was an ambulance driver.

'No,' Johnny replied. His face felt tight –his cheeks seemed to be expanding.

'Sorry to hear that. We're going to take you to hospital now. Is there anyone we can contact for you?'

Johnny thought of Estella, Maria and Kate – he doubted Kate and Maria would care, they might even say he deserved it. And he didn't know Estella's telephone number yet – and she might be with a member of OMD by now, dancing in some club or taking them home to explore things.

'My mother. The number's in my wallet. Did they take it?' The ambulance driver looked inside Johnny's jacket.

'It's still there. Okay. What if she isn't there, will your dad do?'

Even with concussion and the shooting pains all over his body Johnny knew he would never want his father to see him like that.

'No, my mother or no one.'

The last thing Johnny felt was a slow lifting of his body – heaven bound, he wondered? And then the darkness fell on him.

37.

'How are you feeling, Jonathan?' Johnny heard the soft voice and recognised it immediately, although it took him a few seconds to put a name to it. He opened his eyes slowly to the daylight, stopping at a squint against the sunburst.

'Could you draw the curtain, mum,' he said. He found it hard to move his lips. His mother stood quickly – obviously pleased she had something to do – and pulled the flowery fabric around the rail hanging over his bed.

'Patrick's here too. He's gone to have a cigarette, filthy habit really; should be back in a minute.' His mother sat down. She reached down and collected a plastic bag which she placed next to Johnny's leg.

'I bought you some music and camera magazines. I hope that's what you'd like?'

'That's great, mum. Look, mum, I'm sorry about...'

'That's okay, Jonathan. It's all right. Just concentrate on getting better. The doctor reckons you could be out of here in a day or two.'

'How long have I been in here?' Johnny dragged himself upright very slowly. His ribs ached like murder.

'Ten days.'

'Ten, ten days! I've got a job to do. I've only just got...'

'Don't worry, I spoke to your friend, Simon, and he told me about The Melody Maker. He phoned the editor and explained what had happened. It's all okay, they understand and send best wishes.'

Johnny lay back and thought he would cry. What the hell was he going to cry about? He had taken a beating before – at secondary school he had his jaw broken and was stabbed in the arm – but this was different, a culmination of all the shit he had been dealt recently. But he would not allow himself the indulgence of tears. And anyway, if his mother saw any sign of depression she would move into his flat before he could say, 'What about the nukes, ma?'

'Why is Pat here, morbid curiosity?' Johnny's pain was beginning to mutate into hatred.

'Your brother's worried about you, about the way you live your life.'

Johnny's mother looked over her shoulder, in case Pat was returning – he hated any one talking about his business behind his back.

'Worried about my life? He should worry about his own miserable existence.' Johnny knew he had gone too far. Now his mother looked as if she was going to cry. 'I'm sorry, mum. I'm in pain and it's bringing out the worst in me. I just hate being judged by anyone, y'know?'

'I know, sweetie.' She put her hand on his arm and stroked it.

'How's dad?' It took all Johnny's remaining energy to ask the question he knew she had been waiting for.

'He's not that well. I think, when you're feeling better, you should go and see him. Will you do that?

'I can't really guarantee when I can do anything, mum.'

'Jonathan, he's your dad and he's not... he's not going to last for ever.'

'How's it going, John-boy? Fucking skins got you, eh?' Patrick said, pushing through the curtain with a grin on his chubby face.

Johnny hated the name John-boy, too much like The Waltons, a programme he never liked – he was a Little House On The Prarie fan.

' Yeah, it's fucking crap, Pat. How are you?'

'All right, okay, can't complain.' Pat was a walking, talking cliché.

'We should be going soon,' said Johnny's mother.

'Yeah, dad can't cope for too long. Did mum tell you about dad?' Pat looked at Johnny with obvious sarcasm in his quizzical expression.

'Yes, she did, but I got the shit kicked out of me and haven't really had much time to think straight,' Johnny replied, looking deep into his brother's face. Pat sneered and looked away.

'I'm just going to the toilet and then we should go.' Johnny's mother looked as if she was in pain – the discomfort of knowing she could no longer control her children with anger or a wooden spoon to the back of the legs.

She walked off and Johnny watched the curtain flap back into place and closed his eyes. Perhaps if I pretend to have drifted off, Pat will walk away, Johnny thought.

'Oi, John-boy,' Pat's voice was closer; the cadence reminded Johnny of the skinheads.

He opened his eyes, his brother had moved his chair up to the side of Johnny's bed, just below his chest.

'Listen to me, we haven't got much time and I mean exactly what I'm about to say. You will go and see dad, and you will be nice to him, because he's fucking dying. And if you don't, I'll put you back in here for a lot longer than this. Okay?'

Johnny knew his brother was stronger and more violent than him, but he had had enough of threats and violence – Alan, the skinheads. Fuck you all, he thought. But he felt too vulnerable at that moment to argue.

'Fine, what ever you say, Pat,' he said and turned away.

'Just make sure you do, you selfish fuck.'

Johnny heard Pat's chair scrape away from the bed and the sound of the curtain being drawn back quickly. Minutes passed and Johnny waited for an attack from Pat – pain on pain, at least he was already in hospital.

'All right, Jonathan, I'll say goodbye now. Give me a call if you need anything and I'll try to come and see you at your new flat soon, okay? Get well, my lovely boy and do think about coming to see your dad.' His mother leaned over the bed and kissed his cheek. Johnny waited until she'd gone before he wiped his cheek dry. What was it about death that made every bad deed and memory disappear in some people? His dad had made all their lives difficult, hell at times. Pat had developed an image of his father as a hero, a friend and an icon. And Johnny's mother, who had smiled through all his adulteries, eventually giving in and committing plenty herself, and hours of domestic violence – was she beginning to see her husband as a reincarnation of Christ too? Johnny was the one who had spent ten days in a comatose state, left on a street bleeding and battered, and his father was the one who everyone seemed to be slavishly devoted to. Did Johnny have to die too?

38.

Johnny slept sporadically through the night. Pat and his mother's visit had only deepened his desire to avoid his father. And what about his new job? Would the editor really hold the position open? Johnny had lost the film, been unavailable for work, having only just got the job and there was still a chance his relationship with Estella might be exposed, or might already have been exposed. Most people send best wishes when something like his beating happens, it didn't mean anything.

Johnny summoned every particle of his willpower to get out of bed. He had used a bed pan earlier, but wanted a change of scenery and the beginning of normality to return. Plus, he wanted to see what he looked like – narcissism was never very far away.

His head ached and his legs felt numb and cumbersome as he fell to one side and on to the cold linoleum floor. Why were the beds so fucking high?

The ward was quiet, except for the occasional cough and the drone of synchronised snoring. Johnny shuffled forward and looked for a sign of a toilet. There was a crack of light at the end of the ward, the opposite end to the nurses station. He moved slowly, a combination of bladder control and ten days of muscular atrophy.

The bathroom was small but private. Johnny shut the door and saw a mirror, above a small wash hand basin. He urinated quickly – pushing the last of the dark yellow liquid out felt like a piece of heaven had been granted to him. And then he looked in the mirror. His first reaction was unparalleled panic – blue and purple bruising made his face look like a painters palette; small patches of dark yellow framed the tips of his cheekbones. Those sons-of-fuck-witches really worked me over, Johnny thought. He elongated his face; then widened it to see how the colours mingled. He was happy there wasn't any swelling and guessed the bruising had been a lot worse when he was taken into the hospital. How bad he must have looked...

There was stitching above his right eye and on his chin – he thought of Frankenstein's monster and smiled, which resurrected the pain. Mustn't smile, he thought, shouldn't be a big problem. Dried blood clung to the small black stitches. Johnny touched them, the blood felt crusty; little bits crumbled and fell away in a vapour. Johnny looked into the mirror again and thought of his father – dust to dust.

As Johnny got back into bed he looked at his hands. They were recovering too. There were small bruises and scabs on the backs of both. He wondered where his camera equipment was and how much of it had survived the attack.

He closed his eyes and tried to relive the moment when the skinheads caught him. He wanted to contact the police and give a statement, but he knew he would need accurate descriptions of the faces. He remembered the hand on his jacket collar –where was his tweed suit now? And he remembered lips and teeth, bald heads and white knuckles connecting with his cheeks – his eyes sprung open against his will each time his face was punched. But he couldn't think of a single face in total, because of the inherent uniformity in being a skinhead – clothes and hair creating a collective vision, they did all look the same. He would never be able to give enough information to catch them. Maybe I should find any old gang of hairless knob-ends and tell the cops it was them, he smiled at the thought. Must not smile!

He fell asleep thinking of his brother's threat. Would he really beat me to a pulp?

39.

Johnny spent two more days in the hospital. He mooched about during the day, avoiding the boring conversations of other patients, reading the magazines his mother had bought him and looking at the damage to his cameras – the bag and his suit had been returned to him.

The doctor had told him his skull had been fractured, but the damage wasn't too bad. Johnny had wanted to ask what that really meant, but the doctor had a perfunctory manner and obviously wanted to move along asap. He concluded by telling Johnny they needed the bed for really sick people and he should be discharged later that day (he said it was a joke, but Johnny knew he was serious).

A beautfiul nurse removed his stitches an hour after the doctor had been; Johnny got a hard-on watching her uniform tighten against her breasts as she leaned over him – he wanted to have her right there. Draw the curtain and: ooh, matron...

An hour after the stitches had come out Johnny was wearing his suit, holding his camera bag and catching a taxi back to his flat. When he walked in the first thing that hit him was the smell of dying flowers. He walked into the lounge and saw wilting daisies on top of his television. His mother must have thought he would be home earlier.

He took the flowers to the kitchen to bin them and was struck by how clean and tidy everything looked. The whiskey bottle he had left on the table by his armchair was on top of the wall-mounted cabinets and the glass he had been using was bone dry on the draining board by the sink. He collected the bottle and glass and went back to the lounge.

His books and cameras were neatly stacked on shelves; even the two cushions his mother had given him were symmetrically arranged on the sofa.

Usually Johnny would have been annoyed at the seeming interference, but on this occasion he was touched by the concern and effort.

He picked up the telephone receiver and was about to dial his parents' number.

'Fuck that, don't want to get Pat or dad,' he said to himself.

Instead, he dialled a new number, only recently given to him – he hadn't had time to memorise it yet. Two rings, three, four...

'Hello, The Melody Maker,' a woman's voice.

'Hi, this is Johnny Frinker. I'm one of your photographers, may I speak to the editor, please?'

'I'll see if he's available.' The woman showed no sign of recognition, and why should she?

Johnny waited for a few seconds before he opened the bottle and poured a large glass. He sipped slowly at first, his lips were still a bit sore; then tipped back a large mouthful, washed it around and swallowed when he heard the click of someone joining him on the other end of the phone.

'Hello, Johnny?' the editor's voice sounded concerned.

'Hi.'

'How are you? I didn't expect to hear from you for a while yet.'

'I'm okay, much better, desperate to get back to work. Do you have anything for me?'

Silence for a few seconds made Johnny certain he was going to be fired.

'Actually I do. Would you like to do a studio shoot?'

Now it was Johnny who took a moment. His eyes widened and it was good not to feel the grinding-skin pain above his brow – the stitches had worked their wonders. Johnny took another hasty swig of whiskey, to steady his nerves.

'Which band?'

'It's not a band. It's David Sylvian, next Tuesday.'

Johnny would like to have taken many, many moments to think before he continued speaking – SYLVIAN! Only another six days. Would the remainder of his bruising be gone by then? Should he wear make-up or leave it off and do his best not to look like his idol?

'Johnny? You okay?' the editor spoke quickly.

'Yeah, fine. Sorry, my ribs still ache a bit.' The whiskey was coursing through his veins and making his body feel warm and light.

'If you're not up to it yet I can get...'

'No, that's not a problem, I've always wanted to shoot the world's most beautiful man.' Johnny hoped the editor had heard about the ridiculous poll Sylvian had recently won.

'He's supposed to be a moody sod,' the editor said, his more relaxed tone made Johnny feel as if he had nothing more to worry about.

'I reckon that's just a media invention,' Johnny said before he could catch himself and remember he was talking to the editor of a major music paper. The whiskey influence always had a downside.

'Cheers for the vote of confidence.' The editor was obviously amused. Thank God, thought Johnny as he turned to look into the shiny glass of a picture frame – the outline of his head looked like Sylvian's; he found pride in similarities like that and the fact he too could raise his right eyebrow while the left stayed put – something of a Sylvian leitmotif.

'So where is the shoot?' Johnny wanted to know all the basic details. He knew he would be dealing with too many nerves to run the risk of losing his way, arriving late and finding Sylvian gone.

'West London, we'll send you all the info. Estella's going with you to interview him, so contact her about meeting up. Okay? Anything else?'

'No, that's great. Thanks again.'

'By the by, I know it might, literally, be a sore subject, but did you manage to keep any OMD shots? It's a bit late to use them now, but we can keep them for a rainy day. Plus, it's a bit difficult to pay you for something we never got. Sorry.'

Johnny was about to reply his cameras had been smashed and the film crushed and exposed – which was all true – when he remembered the dressing room post-show and began to fumble inside his jacket. He pulled out the two Polaroids.

'I've got a couple of dressing room scenes on Polaroids,' he said.

'That's good enough for me. Bring them in with the Sylvian stuff and we'll rustle you up a payment for everything. We'll replace your cameras too.'

'That's really kind, thanks, ed. See you soon.'

'Cheers, Johnny.' The editor hung up.

Johnny topped up his glass and flopped into his armchair. He got up again to put the television on – his ribs really did ache this time – and sat down carefully, to watch Casablanca.

'Play it again, Sam,' he said, aware that Rick never says it in the film; he smiled at Bogart and Bergman and closed his eyes to sleep.

40.

Johnny woke with a start. His pleasant pre-REM sleeping had consisted of black and white Casablanca flashbacks, but that had shifted into clarified memories of the skinhead assault. The faces were whited out – just blood red smiles and long teeth. He was being chased and punched, one long arm with four fists kept pounding his skull. When he woke he realised it was a storming headache. He stood up and went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and immediately regretted not using the hot tap. His skin felt raw and tight. He looked in the medicine cabinet mirror and squinted to create a better impression – it did little good. He looked ravaged, like an old drunk who's been kicked around too long. He went back to bed. It'll all be better in the morning, that's what his mother always said.

41.

'The thing is, Johnny, you've got to keep away from the sex stuff,' Simon said, sipping his lager. Johnny had called his friend the morning after returning to the flat. He was feeling anxious about the Estella situation and was looking for advice on how to proceed. Simon was a well-known womaniser and Johnny had always respected that. It was another reason the two journalists had become friends, that and Cocteau. 'She might well be the foxiest lady you've ever met, but this editor is a vicious bastard. He won't hesitate to sack you. You've got to to think about your future. I'm sure the mugging taught you that.'

Johnny looked at his friend and swallowed the last of his cider. Was he right, was there only ever going to be a future in the work? Women did come and go – the recent past had informed him of that.

'I just don't know. She's so lovely. Maybe you're right,' Johnny said. 'Another round?'

'Of course. Yours, I think,' Simon said and smiled like Machiavelli.

The two of them drank themselves into a stupor and talked about the best sex they had ever had.

'What you need is to find someone else, a hair-of-the-dog shag. Why don't we go and find ourselves some nightlife?' Simon finished his vodka and tonic.

Johnny looked over his shoulder and realised it was night-time. How long had they been there?

'Let's go to Blitz,' Johnny said, standing up and brushing his trousers. He had worn a dark blue suit and white shirt and only applied some mascara and a quick touch of eyebrow pencil. He didn't want to draw anymore unwanted attention, or violence. He was drunk and he felt it, usually it took hours of pouring and drinking before he realised he was gone, but on this night, when the cold air smothered him outside the pub, his head began to spin.

'Is Blitz funny about clothes?' Simon said, looking at Johnny close up – he was smashed too.

'Just take off that tie.' Johnny grinned and they ambled off.

The club was packed. Hot, loud and sweaty and Johnny loved it. He was back in his element, no skinhead zombies could touch him there, they'd be evaporated at the front door – hair was part of the dress code.

Simon went off to the bar and Johnny got on the dancefloor. He had never suffered inhibitions about dancing and in that state he imagined himself as John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever – only with looser clothing and a better hairstyle.

Within five minutes Johnny had found himself a partner – a pretty young woman who reminded him of Joanne Catherall from The Human League and full of smiles. It was easy to dance without devotion, just to be in the same space as another person and not commit to any intention. Johnny was happy thinking he could smile one last time at the young woman and walk away without offence or feeling like he had cheated on Estella. But wasn't that just weird? He wasn't even dating Estella, there was one night of sex between them; yet he felt like he owed her his fidelity, even as drunk as he was – just weird.

The young woman moved in closer – Be Bop Deluxe was thundering out, Bill Nelson putting his heart into the song. Johnny saw her face illuminated properly. She was quite stunning – emerald eyes sparkling – and he should have been foaming at the mouth to get her into bed, but he kept thinking of Estella at the OMD gig and the way she had touched his arm. She had tried to reach him and he had insisted on doing his Clint Eastwood impersonation, walking out and into the fists of the skinheads. He couldn't stop thinking about her. What was she doing at that moment? Had she abandoned any hope of seeing him again and found someone else? Or gone back to the editor?

'Hi, what's your name?' the young woman said. She shouted close to Johnny's ear, as she stepped back Johnny noticed she had bright red lips. They demand to be kissed, he thought. Then the OMD image of Estella was replaced by a vision of her on top of the editor.

'Johnny. What's yours?'

'Lucy. Do you want to but me a drink, Johnny?'

Johnny wanted to do more than that. He smiled and took her hand. They walked over to the bar. Simon was talking to another woman nearby, he winked at Johnny. Johnny did the same back.

'What can I get you, Lucy?'

'Gin and tonic, please.' She put a hand on Johnny's backside. He felt the guilt about Estella again, but suppressed it, forcing the fake thought about her and the editor back into his head on continuous playback.

'What do you do, Johnny?' Lucy was kissing his cheek and neck now.

'I'm a photographer with The Melody Maker.'

'Really? That's very cool,' she said, looking at him as if he were famous.

'What about you?' Johnny asked to be polite. He didn't care what she did, where she was from, what her dreams were. He knew, what ever else happened between them, he would never see her after that night.

'I'm doing my A-levels.' She began kissing his neck again.

Johnny held his breath. A-levels? She must be seventeen, eighteen, younger?

'How old are you, Lucy?'

'Nineteen, why?'

'No reason. You look very grown up, that's all.'

The drinks arrived and suddenly Johnny felt like a dirty old man. Was she really nineteen? Would he be arrested for intoxicating a minor? And what if they had sex?

They took their drinks and sat down. Lucy looked at the dancefloor. Johnny knew she would dance until she dropped – she was young and careless. He was only a few years older but felt ancient.

'Do you want to dance again? I love this one,' she said. Her short, layered hair made her face elfin like Audrey Hepburn.

Johnny nodded agreement and stood to take her back. He knew the song, Lullabies, and was slowly becoming a fan of the Cocteau Twins too. Simon had pointed them out to him – and loaned him their album, Garlands. The lead singer's voice was unlike anything Johnny had heard before, lyrics you could never decipher, and he hoped he could shoot the band one day and ask them what it all meant.

Lucy held Johnny tight and he wondered whether she was on some kind of drug – to be so clingy so soon? Perhaps it was the inexperience of youth to reach out and clutch the first nice(ish) person you meet and give away your trust. But that was her choice. She was old enough to know better, if only just.

The song whirled and skipped around the club; there was a slowing down of movement, a pace shift which united the gathering. Johnny knew the fashion, the music and the youth wouldn't last, they weren't supposed to. And he knew he would miss the era all through the rest of his life, because it would be the only time when it was right to be that way and the only time it was all new. He thought of his parents and how they must have believed love would last and the Sixties would liberate everything – peace and love, flowers in your hair and the end of hate. But the Sixties was about violence – Vietnam, student uprising, assassination... How could it all have gone so wrong?

He had every right to live any way he pleased, fuck fat Pat's judgmental attitude. He wasn't married and didn't have any responsibilities. Everyone dies eventually, he thought, and then nothing matters.

'Lucy, do you want to come home with me?' he said, leaning right into her body. His lips deliberately tickling her ear. She nodded eagerly. He knew it was wrong, but he just couldn't care then. It would only be about sex. That was what she wanted him for and he would do his best to make her happy.

'Go for it, matey,' Simon said, hugging Johnny as they said their goodbyes. 'She looks very tasty, just what you need. Call me and let me know how she was.'

42.

They caught a taxi near Leicester Square. Johnny looked out of the window on his side and craved a cigarette. Lucy put her hand between his legs. He looked at her and forced a satisfied smile. Surely he would be able to get hard for a beauty like this?

The drive back to his flat went by quickly. The pair of passengers soon became entangled in kisses and gropes – Johnny's heart was beating faster into the night now. He had begun to see Estella in his head again, this time on top of him. The memory spurred him on. He kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the nasty stickyness of Lucy's lipstick. The red looked good, but tasted awful. He didn't plan to pass on any make-up tips.

Johnny paid the taxi driver, who looked as if he had seen everything in the back of his cab before.

'After you,' Johnny said, waving his arm towards his front door. Lucy ran up the three concrete steps. She looked about ready to explode with excitement. Johnny wondered how far he would have to go to meet her demands. He couldn't be bothered to run – a slow sobering-up had set in on the journey home and he was feeling exhausted.

'Nice place,' Lucy said.

'Thanks, I built it myself,' Johnny attempted a joke, but it was obvious she didn't get it. Or did she think he was serious?

'Want a drink?' Johnny called from the kitchen. He had reached for his old friend, Johnnie Walker.

'Got any Bacardi?' Lucy's voice sounded higher than before.

'Nope, whiskey or beer.'

'Whiskey then, please. No ice.'

This girl likes her hard stuff, Johnny thought. He looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the kitchen window and felt nothing.

Lucy joined him, putting her arms around his waist and pushing herself into him.

'What happened to your face?' she said.

'I got beaten to shit by four skins.' Johnny downed his first glass and turned around to give Lucy hers. He poured himself another and began to feel some fire in his gut – a lustrous yearning for intimacy. He sipped his drink, put the glass down and waited for Lucy to do the same. They looked at each other; then Johnny led her by the hand, stopping by the stack-system to put Tin Drum on the turntable.

'That's such a good record,' Lucy said. Johnny began to want her completely. 'My boyfriend loves Japan.'

Johnny's senses were suddenly alive – as if ice cold water had been thrown on them.

'Your boyfriend? If you've got a boyfriend, what are you doing here?'

'He told me he'd cheated on me when he was on holiday with his mates. He said he still wanted to be with me and I said I wanted to do the same thing he had.' Lucy looked at the back cover photo of Tin Drum – the four members of Japan on separate chairs, a distance from each other and looking to the future. Unsurprisingly the last original LP...

'And he said it was okay by him?' Johnny thought of Estella's statement about sex and exploring. Why couldn't he get past that? Other men seemed to find enough reasons to love and stay a part of something without questions and hubris. But that smacked of his parents' lives together – compromised, defiled by sexual experiments and ultimately doomed by indifference.

'Yeah. I don't think he thinks I'm going to do anything about it. He's wrong though, isn't he. You know what, Johnny, you look a bit like that bloke.' Lucy pointed to the LP cover shot of Sylvian – bushy blonde hair, Mao-collar jacket – peeling poster of Mao on the wall behind him, chopsticks and a bowl in his hands and wearing glasses. One of Fin Costello's best Sylvian images. Johnny felt a surge of ego-boosted lust and a renewed ecstasy about his own Sylvian session to come. He thought about mentioning the photo shoot to Lucy, but decided to keep truly personal details to himself. Would the boyfriend get Johnny's address? Did he know any skinheads?

Johnny kissed Lucy on the neck. He picked her up and was surprised how light she was. He carried her into his bedroom and laid her on his bed. She began to unzip the back of her blue silky cocktail dress and Johnny moved in to help her. He kissed her neck while removing her shoulder straps and pulled the dress off quickly like a magician with a table cloth. Lucy giggled and lay back. Johnny put a condom on with his back to her – who wants to actually see a johnny on Johnny? he thought and smiled. When he turned back to face Lucy she was beginning to unfasten her stockings.

'Leave them on will you?' he said.

'Okay. Come here, Mr Sylvian.'

Johnny climbed on to the bed and ran through his usual foreplay routine – kiss breasts, stroke inner thighs and backside, kiss neck – maybe, just maybe, some oral sex; then the right stuff.

Lucy seemed to be enjoying the sex. Johnny came quickly the first time; made an effort to finish her off with his hand and decided he should turn the LP over, chat for a bit with a drink and try again in a few minutes. How futile sex was – over before you could think and always an aftermath of dissatisfaction on one side or the other. He hoped Lucy was too young to have had that many sexual partners and wouldn't fully realise how bad the first time had been. She seemed happy enough.

The conversation began to revolve around her boyfriend cheating on her and Johnny initiated a scond time around just to shut her up. He took his time with her body and worked for at least half an hour to raise her to an erotic level where his selfishness might seem like a gift – a bit for you, a bit for me...

Johnny finished off and Lucy was letting out a deep groan of fulfilment. Johnny thought she was faking, but it really didn't matter to him. He had done his best and there was obviously something wrong with her libido. Those moves always work, he thought, looking at her as she lit two cigarettes.

As they filled his bedroom with smoke and he listened to another diatribe about her errant boyfriend the telephone rang out from the lounge. Johnny climbed out of bed full of sympathy for the boyfriend's plight.

'Hi, it's me... Estella. How are you?'

'Hello. Hi. I'm okay. How are you?' Questions with questions. All the blood in Johnny's body felt as if it were draining to his feet.

'I'm okay, are you recovering all right? I did visit you in hospital, but you were unconscious. I'm so sorry about...'

'Actually, I'm not feeling that great right now. Can I call you tomorrow?'

'Oh, sure.' Estella sounded put out at first, but gave him her telephone number and said goodbye. As Johnny put the receiver down Lucy came into the lounge wearing his dressing gown.

'More whiskey?' she said. He nodded and pointed to the kitchen. She picked up his glass and went off.

She does care. She visited me in the hospital. What the hell am I doing? He looked at the kitchen door and imagined Estella's reaction if she knew what he doing.

Lucy stayed the night. Johnny didn't sleep. He couldn't stop himself from studying every nuance of each interaction with Estella – the meaning of this and that.

The next morning, tired and hungover, Johnny saw Lucy off from his front door – he wore the dressing gown this time. They promised to say hello to each other at Blitz in the future and agreed it had been a good night.

'Hope you sort things out with your boyfriend,' Johnny said, kissing her on the cheek. She rolled her eyes and shrugged.

His chivalry had only gone so far as ordering a taxi for her and giving her some money for the fare. Was that prostitution? he wondered, closing his door and thinking about Estella again.

43.

'Hi. I'm sorry about yesterday, just a bad attack of aches and pains,' Johnny lied to Estella. He had called her within an hour of Lucy leaving. He could hear the hum of the washing machine in the kitchen. Paranoia had gripped him and he was washing his bedsheets and shirt. Estella might want to come and see him, and smell is a powerful sense.

'That's okay. Are you all right now?' She sounded tired.

'Yeah, fine thanks. It's cool about the Sylvian session, eh?'

'Just work really,' she sounded like she couldn't have given a damn who she was interviewing, even Sylvian. Johnny could hear Echo And The Bunnymen playing in her background.

'Is everything okay?' Johnny was worried now. They had been talking for long enough to re-establish some rhythm.

'I'm just feeling a bit low.'

'Is it anything you want to talk about?' Johnny really wanted to know what was on her mind. Was she thinking of going back to the editor? Had he waited too long?

'Not to you, no.'

'Oh, okay.'

'It's not like that. It's because... it's to do with you and me. I may as well say something now. I want to know once and for all... are you interested in me, being... with me? I didn't want to say anything before, because you weren't well. And when I wanted to speak to you last night you seemed a bit off hand with me. A bit brusque.'

Johnny was stunned. He hadn't expected her to be so direct and certainly hadn't expected her to ask him to make a choice. He thought decisions were her territory. He had to act, diffidence would cost him everything.

'Yes. Yes, I do want us to be together. I've got to sort myself out a bit. You see, my dad is dying of cancer and I'm still getting better after the attack. Can we sort us out in a short while? Is that okay?'

'Jesus, Johnny. Your father is dying? I'm so sorry. Of course we can wait a while. Is there anything I can do to help?'

Johnny felt happiness creep in. He smiled and thought of himself as a hero of old, about to battle an overwhelming force – going it alone.

'It's all right. Thanks, though. Are you free today?'

'No, sorry. I've got to cover a gig in Manchester. New Order are playing The Hacienda. My train leaves in an hour and a bit. Maybe we can meet in a day or two?'

'Sounds good. I hope the gig's good. See you when you get back. Bye.'

'Bye. Take care.'

Johnny was contemplating whether or not to say he loved her, but she put the receiver down before he had a chance. And thank goodness, he thought, she didn't say it, I would have looked ridiculous. He lit a spliff and made espresso.

44.

Johnny had Estella back in his life. He could happily avoid any thought or mention of Lucy – Simon would doubtless want a blow by blow, but he had enough discretion to forget about her the second after Johnny had finished his sexual postmortem.

He still had two nagging desires. The first was Maria and his Japan EP, the second Kate and her sadness, caused by him. The fact Maria hadn't made any effort to contact him was igniting his moral outrage – the indecency of keeping his vinyl, ignoring his welfare and generally tossing him on the scrapheap – regardless of his cheating, the same night as the dinner party fiasco, with Sara. He thought he, at the very least, had the absolute right to get the record back and an apology from her. And he wanted to see Kate one last time and try to apologise for some of the things he had put her through. She deserved better than just walking away from; then total silence.

Johnny decided to go to Maria's flat and play the contrite lover. Tell her what had happened with the skinheads – back-date the one-way fight to the night of the dinner party – and ask if there was a chance of them getting back together. What if she said yes? Then he would laugh in her face, get the EP, and march out – the victor. And when she said no, he would just get his possession and leave with a sneer.

He got dressed in his best linen jacket and plaid shirt – black baggy trousers and white jazz shoes finished the clothing. He wore pink eyeshadow, eyebrow pencil and mascara. His hair looked good – although a bit too much gel had caused the back to lift a little. Water would shift that.

He chose a Pentax camera and put it in his bag with a few rolls of film and a spare lens – pretending to drop by on a job for The Melody Maker might even convince her he was good enough for her and her stuck-up clan.

He travelled to her flat by bus. He was still avoiding Tubes after the assault. At least on a bus, he reasoned, you can always jump off. He shot some views of central London from the top front window of the bus, the usual sights – Big Ben, the Houses Of Parliament – they would be for his personal collection. And maybe, in the future when he was on the same level of idolatry as Ansel Adams, the views would be salivated over by critics desperate to build a mythology around his work – an exclusive art circle which would never admit Joe Public. The critics would be the only ones to truly understand him and his work. No one would ever realise some photographs, paintings, stories, etc, are created because the creator was bored.

His stomach flip-flopped as he got off the bus near her flat. He walked to a flower shop and thought about mixed selections or one flower bouquets. He settled on white roses – as boring and spikey as Maria had turned out to be. Would she get the irony too? At least he wasn't giving her lilies.

He walked towards her door and began to ask himself what he had ever seen in her. She was a spoiled rich girl who did virtually nothing, except the occasional bit of interior design for friends of her parents, and had so much bullshit to say about the lives and loves of others. He had been taken in by her beauty and body and there was some part of him which enjoyed dominating an upper class girl – holding her down and pretending he was the gardener and she was Lady Chatterley. But the thrill was gone and she was back with her own – in the (doubtless) old Etonian arms of Miles. He simply must know about the important things in life, like how to saddle a horse before the hunt, the best way to wear a tie and the diplomatic avenues to find some comfort in a pyrrhic victory.

Johnny rang Maria's bell once; waited, again – twice for the sake of annoyance and fake ardour; then heard a door close. Moments later the door was opened, but only so far. She had kept the security chain on. Fucking drama queen, he thought.

'Johnny?' Maria looked at him as if she hadn't seen him in years, and in those months apart he must have been through plastic surgery; she had to squint to make sure he really was the same man. 'What are you doing here? How did you get those bruises?'

'I'm sorry for barging in on you like this, Maria. I meant to call you or something. I've been in hospital.' Her eyes widened, could he be contagious? 'I got beaten to hell and back by some skinheads and I was in a coma.'

'Christ, poor you. When did it happen?'

'The night of the dinner party... when I made such a fool of myself. Well, I suppose I paid the price for that. I really need to talk to you. May I come in, please?'

Maria bit her lips and thought.

'Give me a minute to get a jacket. Let's go for lunch. Is that okay?'

'Sure. Sounds nice,' Johnny said. He gave her his very best smile of charm and oh, it's such a delight to see you fakery. She bought into the deception, smiled back and shut the door; returning quickly.

They walked towards a café they had been to before – a snobs café where even a coffee would cost you a limb.

'It's nice to see you and know you're all right. I have been worried about you, but I wasn't sure how to get in touch and whether or not you'd want me to,' she said. Johnny noticed her clothing. It all looked cheap. Loose cotton three-quarter-length trousers and a man's dress shirt, with wing collars, tied around her waist. She was wearing a denim jacket too – denim! She must have lost her way without me around, he thought, and a rush of superiority nearly made him burst into song.

They reached the café and sat by the front window. Johnny offered Maria a cigarette, but she declined.

'Trying to give up, but you go ahead,' she said as if she was doing him a favour. He enjoyed that cigarette as much as sex.

Johnny ordered quiche lorraine and salad with thousand island dressing and Maria ordered leek and potato soup and French bread.

'Would you like wine?' the waitress asked. She looked at Maria. It was obvious to Johnny she knew where the money came from.

'Erm.' Maria studied the wine list like a decoder at Bletchley Park working to crack the Enigma. 'A bottle of Chardonnay, please,' she said. Johnny hated white wine, Maria knew that.

The food arrived quickly and Johnny did his best to pretend it tasted fantastic. Maria made noises of satisfaction as she sipped her soup and dipped her bread. The two of them were treading water. They made small talk. Maria was about to go to New York to help design the interior of a penthouse on Fifth Avenue. She was sooo excited. Johnny told her about The Melody Maker and she gave him an appreciative nod and said, 'Well done you.' Damned by the faintest of praise, he thought, you're as light and meaningless as this quiche. He thanked her and said she had given him confidence in his work. She seemed to believe it too.

'So,' Johnny began. He was dying to begin his jilted lover/hurt party act. 'I was just thinking, well, I've actually been thinking about things a lot, y'know, flat out in a hospital bed gives you the time to review your life. Anyway, the thing I wanted to say is that I love you and want to be with you. I know I fucked up that night with the dinner party and made a drunken fool of myself. But I want to make amends and try again. Can we, I mean, try again?' He sipped some of the icy wine. He wondered if chilled urine tasted like that. Maria stopped eating and stared at him as if he was about to strike her dead.

'Blimey, Johnny, I didn't see this coming. I'm not sure how to... where to start.'

'You can tell me anything, Maria,' he said and felt as if he was putting on the agony a tad too much.

'After that night, after the dinner party, Miles got back in touch with me. He wanted to make sure I was okay. We met for lunch and got talking about old times. Then he invited me to a gig, his band actually, and we sort of...'

'Sort of...?' Johnny had a scene in his head – of him collecting the Oscar for best hammed-up performance.

'We've been seeing each other loads. He's coming to New York with me.'

Johnny wanted to fly into a rage and shove the rest of his quiche in her face, like James Cagney and his grapefruit, but he just sat very still and breathed out a long, deep sigh. 'I'm so sorry, Johnny. I know we had something special for a while, but I think it ran its course, don't you?'

'I guess so. Fair enough. I let you down. Okay. Well, there we go. I hope you're very happy. Good luck.' He stood up, leaned across the table and kissed her on the cheek. As he sat back down he lifted his wine glass and gave her a silent salut!

They paid the bill – halves of course, even though Maria's food cost more than his and she drank the lionshare of the wine – then walked back to her flat. Outside the front door, as Maria was putting her key in, Johnny decided to end things, he was sick of the effort involved in appearing interested.

'I was wondering if you wouldn't mind just getting that Japan EP I loaned you?' he said.

'Japan EP?' she said, staring at the door, thinking.

'Yeah, you remember, the one from Canada with the black and white cover, red lettering, Life In Tokyo, Stateline. I said you should tape it.' Johnny was looking at the side of her head; his hands tensing.

'Oh, that one. I think I let a friend borrow it.'

Johnny wasn't sure what to think first, which emotion to attend to – anger, hatred, violence, sadness.

'Which friend, when?'

'You know, I can't remember. Can I give you the money for it and you can get another copy, is that okay?' Maria opened her purse – like the lady of the manor helping the poor serfs.

'It was a special import, a limited edition. It was signed by the band too.' Johnny began to grind his teeth. Maria turned her key.

'I'll take a quick look to check,' she said. Johnny was so consumed with rage he just stood and watched her go inside and shut the door – he heard a metallic click twice. Minutes later she leaned out of a window about fifteen feet above his head.

'I know you're angry, Johnny. I am sorry.'

'You stupid fucking twat,' he shouted up. 'You fucking cow. That was a special record and you...' Maria slammed the window shut.

Johnny threw a heavy stone towards the window and missed. He stormed off and found the nearest pub.

'Whiskey,' he said to the barman.

'Water or ice?' the barman asked on autopilot.

'Neither, just the whiskey.'

Johnny stared at a Toby jug and thought of many forms of torture for Maria. How could she just give his EP away? He had been so careful fanning out the gatefold sleeve and drawn the vinyl out with the care of a neuro-surgeon. Couldn't she have guessed it was a treasured thing? They had talked, at some length, about Sylvian's clothes in the cover photograph. Maria had listened to the songs and joined in with each chorus. But apparently the whole thing had been a sham. She hadn't cared enough about him to even look after a record!

Johnny drank another three whiskies and walked out of the pub – the alcohol had acted as an accelerant on his mood. She would have to pay for the EP with more than cash. He would only accept her body as payment.

He felt steady and in control and ran all the way back to Maria's front door. He hammered on the white wood frame and shouted her name. The window above him, as before, opened, but this time it was Miles who leaned out.

'What do you want?' he said.

'Oh, right, got your posh boyfriend to help you?' Johnny shouted as loudly as he could.

'Just fuck off, Johnny,' Maria shouted back. She had joined Miles.

'You selfish shit. That was a valuable record and you're so fucking self-absorbed. You make me sick. And you, Miles poshy, you can fucking have her. The ugly bitch.'

Miles disappeared from the window and appeared moments later, opening the front door.

'Right, you bastard,' he said, coming towards Johnny. He threw a punch, but Johnny managed to move to one side and Miles fell into a dustbin.

Johnny thought about the skinheads and decided it was time someone else got a good kicking. He trod on Miles' toes and punched his ear. Miles fell on to his side and Johnny realised he was being a fool.

'Okay, okay, that's enough. I'm sorry for hitting you, Miles. Let's just forget the stupid record. I'm sorry for being rude,' he said looking at Maria, who had come down to help her new lover.

Miles held his ear and groaned. Maria hugged him.

'Just leave, Johnny, go now,' she bellowed.

'I'm sorry,' Johnny shouted as he walked off. 'I'm really sorry.' But Johnny wasn't talking to Miles and Maria. He was thinking about his father and Kate.

45.

Johnny saw Kate sitting watching television through the lounge window. He had decided – he couldn't stop himself – to just go and see her. The Maria-situation had already taught him to be honest and upfront. He wanted rid of the feelings of guilt and anguish eating away at his possible happiness with Estella.

He was virtually certain she would be alone. Alan was studying a post-graduate course to become a primary school teacher and Sponge worked very regular hours in the Civil Service. Johnny felt like a pervert as he looked around the unruly hedge he had always promised to trim back. Kate sat with her arms folded like a stroppy teenager. She was eating something and looked unwell.

'Come on, Johnny, you fucking chicken' he whispered to himself.

He stood up straight, flattened the back of his hair – a double crown was a serious follicular problem for Johnny's choice of hairstyle. Pensively breathing out and looking at the ground, Johnny marched to the front door and knocked three times. Kate looked out of the window, Johnny glanced around and caught her eye. She mouthed something with incredulity on her face and walked away.

'What do you want?' Kate said, opening the front door and sounding even more like a stroppy teenager.

'Hi. How are you?' Johnny really was contrite this time. All the egomanical double-dealing with Maria had gone and he felt naked looking at Kate – seeing what he had caused, written in the expression on her face.

'Not that great. Thanks so much for asking.' Kate's attempts at sarcasm had always made Johnny smile. She just couldn't manage it. She was too nice a person. 'Now, like I asked, what do you want?' she said.

'I'd like to talk to you. No strings attached, no lies or funny stuff. Maybe we could go for a walk. I won't keep you long,' Johnny said the words slowly and carefully. He meant them with total sincerity and hoped Kate would grasp that sentiment and take pity on him.

'I'm busy,' she replied. She was swaying her right leg – it was the nearest thing to angry Johnny had ever seen in her – apart from the day he broke up with her, but that was exceptional.

'Please, Kate, I'm begging you. I owe you so much and I want to have a chance to talk to you, to make things better.'

'To make things better for you, you mean? Very noble, Johnny. Just go away.' Kate shut the door.

Johnny stood and waited for a few moments; then knelt in front of the letter box.

'I'm sorry, Kate. I did love you. I never lied about that. I was a moron, an arrogant idiot. I hope you can forgive me sometime.' He stood and brushed some grit off his trousers.

He was walking up the path, away from the house when he heard the front door creak open again.

'Okay, let's go for a walk. I want to hear you say sorry a lot more,' Kate said, pulling on her coat. She gave him a half-smile and even such a small act of kindness almost brought him to tears.

There was a large park nearby – donated by a local businessman a hundred years before, when, regardless of all the social and medical disadvantages of the age, the idea of parochial altruism was evident – a vast patch of rolling land; hill after hill, and masses of trees; so inviting during the day and terrifying at night. Johnny and Kate had made love many times in the thicket of bushes near the children's playground.

'How are you, Kate?' Johnny asked again, hoping for some positivity to give him a quick-fix on his guilt.

'Pretty crap really,' she said, hugging herself as they wandered across the grass.

'I'm sorry to hear that. I know it's all my fault. I'm so sorry.'

'Actually, I think you're saying sorry a bit too much.' Kate looked at him and her smile was whole again.

'Sorry,' Johnny said, smiling too. And he was taken right back in a moment to when they first met. Punk was becoming New Wave. Kate was on the events committee of the student union and Johnny wanted to ask if he could have permission to shoot the Buzzcocks for the university magazine. She had given him the same smile as he walked into the union office and agreed to the photography and a first date within half an hour.

They sat on a bench which overlooked fields and hills for miles. A gust of wind lifted Johnny's hair and made him shake with a chill. He looked at Kate, she was shivering too. He wanted to cuddle her, make her happy and warm again – but those moments had been squandered by his inability to see he wasn't a superhero – just an average man in danger of losing everything.

The silence between them felt like a prelude to the future to Johnny and he didn't want to waste anymore time.

'I've met someone else, Kate,' he said.

'I know. Isn't that why you left? And you didn't need to be so sneaky about moving out. We all knew you would be going. Did you think we'd beat you up?'

'Someone else has already done that,' Johnny said, turning to look at Kate. He wanted to take her face into his memory again and again.

'I did wonder where you got those bruises from,' she said.

'Skinheads.'

'Bad luck.'

Johnny lit a cigarette and offered one to Kate.

'No, thanks, I can't really,' she said.

'Are you trying to give up?'

'Something like that.'

'I've been so thoughtless, Kate, so messed up. I should have been nicer to you, treated you better and probably broken things off between us sooner. My dad's dying and I feel fucked up.'

'Johnny, I'm sorry about your dad, but I've got things to worry about too. I'm with Alan now. I don't think he'd like us talking this way.' Kate looked at Johnny with a sad pity in her eyes and he felt empty. So, Alan did work his Northern charm on you. No wonder he wanted me out of the way, the fucker, Johnny thought.

'I'm not with the same person anymore. I mean, I met someone else, at my new job. I think it could be really serious.'

'You've got a new job?Where are you working now?'

'For The Melody Maker. I'm on staff as a photographer, no more boring copy to write.'

'What does she do, the newest girlfriend?' Newest? Fair enough, Johnny thought, one or two snide remarks are definitely due.

'She's a reporter. Her name's Estella.' Johnny knew immediately he shouldn't have bothered giving Kate a name to think about – although she must have enjoyed rubbing Alan in his face.

'Like in Great Expectations?'

'Yep, just like that.'

'And is she nice, does she take the same shit from you I always did?'

'She's very nice. She reminds me how nice you were always trying to be, and how much I shut you out, which is another reason why I'm sorry, Kate.'

Kate began to cry. She bowed her head and sobbed. Johnny watched her. He wanted to console her, touch her back – something, anything to stop her sorrow and say goodbye.

'Why couldn't you realise all of this when we were together and still in love?' Kate said, raising her head and wiping her eyes.

'I don't know. Look, Kate, I think Alan's probably a better choice for you. I guess I need to grow up.'

'I didn't want Alan. I wanted you.'

'So why have you got involved with him so quickly?' Johnny took a moment's satisfaction at the thought of Alan on top of Kate, pumping away, huffing and groaning and imagining Kate seeing him as a love god, when all the time she was thinking about Johnny.

'Because he says he'll look after me,' Kate spoke quietly. She hugged herself again, but it was obviously not the weather making her feel cold.

'What's going on, Kate?'

'Nothing... nothing for you to worry about, Johnny,' she said, with mock defiance.

'Well, okay, so why can't you tell me? Is someone threatening you? Is Alan pushing you around?' Johnny re-sized Alan in his mind and concluded he could take him down with a weapon, perhaps a cricket bat?

'No, nothing like that. I'm just feeling a bit vulnerable, that's all.'

'Kate, please. Come on, I might be able to do something. I owe you,' Johnny was almost shouting.

Kate stood up quickly, 'I'm going home, goodbye, Johnny.'

Johnny chased after her. Taking her right arm and slowly turning her around. He kissed her, she pulled away.

'Don't do that! Don't try to manipulate me ever again. I'm fucking pregnant, okay! Are you happy now? And yes, you are the father.' Kate carried on walking away.

Johnny felt most of the breath drain from his body. He couldn't move. Then he was moving, running towards Kate. He took her arm again.

'Goddamn it, Johnny, what?' she said, screaming at him.

'Please, Kate, I've got to do something, something to help you. We can sort it out. If you want to keep it, I can...'

'Of course I'm keeping it. Listen, Johnny.' Her voice was suddenly calm. 'Alan and I are going to raise this baby. We're going to move up north when he graduates. I don't want a penny from you.' Johnny began to move forward to talk again. 'No, don't say another word, Johnny, it's over. I don't want to see you again, and if anyone asks me, I'll say the baby is Alan's. Goodbye, Johnny. And I do mean, goodbye.' She trudged off, looking back twice to make certain he wasn't going to stop her again.

Johnny walked back to the bench they had been sitting on and stared at the land in front of him. He could only think of birth and death, nothing in-between. He knew he could never, would never mention the baby to Estella. She might understand, even sympathise with him. But, most likely she would see it as a threat which might appear at any time and ruin their lives, and that was too high a risk to take at the outset of a relationship. No, if he wanted a truly new life, he had to say goodbye to his child for ever. And that made him cry.

46.

David Sylvian arrived twenty minutes late for the photo shoot and Johnny was about ready to implode with anxiety. If it wasn't bad enough his idol being late and maybe never showing up, there was the not-so-small matter of finally delivering a finished job to the editor.

Sylvian smiled and said hello to Johnny, Estella, who had arrived seconds after Sylvian, and the hair and make-up staff – two of them. He had brought Yuka Fujii – his girlfriend – with him and a very business-like man, who, Johnny later discovered, was his manager. Johnny pretended to do some last minute light checking (he had arrived at the studio two hours before anyone else and had everything organised an hour after that) and took occasional glances at Sylvian and Fujii. He wondered if Fujii's break-up with Japan's bassist, Mick Karn, had been the real reason the band split up. If it was, he would love to tell her to take a hike – instead of joining Yoko Ono as a pop/rock disaster catalyst.

'Hi, how are you?' Estella broke into his machinations.

'Okay. Bit nervous, but okay. How are you? You look great,' Johnny said, he kissed her on both cheeks; suppressing the urge to jump on her.

'I'm fine. It's good to see you. Do you feel better?'

Johnny had to think for a moment. Better? Did she mean about the skinhead attack and the injuries, about his father dying, or about becoming the father of a child he would never know? Or maybe she meant about the Japan EP Maria had given away? He wondered if Sylvian might have a spare copy.

'Yeah, lots better.'

'Do you want to do the interview first or the shoot?' Sylvian's manager asked Johnny and Estella. A break in the lover's enchantment.

The two of them looked at each other. Estella read Johnny's mind.

'The shoot, I think. May as well, after the work the make-up people have done.' The manager nodded in agreement and walked off.

Johnny could see Sylvian in a small room a few feet from his camera – a Hasselblad – sitting in a chair, in front of a brightly lit mirror, with a make-up artist working on his eyeshadow and the hairdresser applying a cloud of hairspray. Johnny looked at Sylvian's profile and wondered whether plastic surgery might help him to look that good? How nice to have a group of people at your command helping you to become the best you can be – although that sounded like an army recruitment advert to Johnny. He was an image-maker. He was an artist – his theory on photography being about documentary only still had elements of truth, but when it was applied to certain subjects the art was available for the taking.

Sylvian stood up, took a last look in the full length mirror and walked out towards Johnny.

'Hi,' he said. 'I'm David.' He put out his right hand.

'Hello, I'm Johnny. Good to meet you.' Johnny shook his hand and didn't want to let go, then took a quick look at Estella, who gave him a lovely smile of confidence.

Johnny wanted to ask Sylvian so many questions and was momentarily jealous of Estella. Lyrics, LP's, photographs, relationships...

He forced his mind to jump back into professionalism and get on with the shoot. His job wasn't about one day, one singer and one set of photographs. He had a chance to be a part of Sylvian's life – vicariously – through the beauty of his technique. The photographs he took would live on – news-agents, archives, collections and in his portfolio. His history would include time spent with his idol and a reason for years of hopes, fears, sadness and struggles. He was finally able to believe he could let the happiness in.

Sylvian's years of experience in front of the camera made Johnny's job easy. There was no need to offer guidance or try to give instruction about which way to turn or whether to smile or frown. Johnny fired at will and only stopped to move the lights, and Sylvian was happy to keep going, until Estella gave Johnny a sign – eyebrows raised, small grimace – to say it was time to move on to the interview.

'Thanks for your time. You were great,' Johnny said, looking above the camera. Sylvian nodded and smiled, 'I hope you make me look good,' he said and laughed. He was guided away by his manager towards Estella. Johnny wanted to call out, 'I couldn't think of a way to ever make you look bad!' But instead, he stood and watched the only person her completely admired move on and knew he had to do the same himself. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the photograph of his childhood holiday in Wales and looked at his father's face – it was his face too.

47.

'What did you talk about?' Johnny asked Estella with the awe of a child.

'Johnny, it wasn't a date. I asked him the usual stuff about new projects, collaborations and the Japan split. Just a run-of-the-mill interview format.' Estella laughed and drank her orange juice; looking around the pub they had wandered to after the shoot.

'So what did he say about the split? I guess he must have been a bit uncomfortable with Yuka Fujii sitting there.'

'Actually no, they both seemed very relaxed. I don't think the split was because of their relationship. I think it was a natural divide. Sorry I can't give you any gossip.'

Johnny left the Sylvian subject there. He could sense Estella didn't want to talk at any length about a work assignment – regardless of its significance to him.

'What have you been up to while I've been gone?' Estella said.

Johnny thought about Maria and Miles, Kate and Alan, and about the baby. How was he supposed to dance around those subjects?

'Not that much, a bit of reading and I went to see a new film called Local Hero, which was brilliant. But mainly, I've been missing you.' Johnny reached out and took Estella's hands. Maybe this was the time to strike and begin things between them again? She looked edgy and didn't seem happy with the intimacy. Johnny rubbed the backs of her hands and gave them back.

'Is everything okay with you?' he said, expecting the worst.

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Perhaps that's why she wanted me to let go of them, he thought.

'Things are a bit weird at the moment, Johnny.'

'Weird in what way?' He looked at the bar - two men on stools and a young, blonde woman serving. They were all laughing and Johnny was jealous.

'I'm not sure what to do. I like you a lot, you know that.' He nodded. 'The things is, I had a drink with ed last night and he was so nice, so different. We talked about old times and it was just... nice.' Nice, fucking nice, fuck nice...

Johnny wanted to let go of all the anger towards his father, the skinheads, Maria, Miles, Alan and, partially, Kate. He had nowhere left to go. Estella was the last hope of happiness. The one redeeming feature in his life to date and she was beginning to swing away from him. He could not, would not try to compete for her if she went back to the editor. He would only end up without a career and a girlfriend. He looked at Estella blankly and was gripped by the desire to destroy everything.

'What are you saying?' was all he could mange to say without losing control.

'I don't know yet. I didn't do anything with him. We didn't even kiss goodnight. I want to think about things and make some choices. Is that okay?'

It wasn't okay at all. Johnny wanted to smash his beer glass into his own face to prove it. If only he had started things going between them when she called him. But no, he had to have time to think. Well, that time had buried his chances. He wondered if love might help her make up her mind.

'Estella, I love you. I know that now. I'm sorry I didn't have the guts to say it before. I've loved you since I first saw you. I thought you were keeping me at a distance, so I backed off. But I want you.' And there it was, Johnny's heart served up on the greasy pub table between them.

It was Estella's turn to take hands now. She leaned over the table and held his palms. He thought of Jesus and his father.

'Ed said those kinds of things too, Johnny. I'm so flattered. I do want you in my life. I'm just not sure how I want anything at the moment. I'd better go. I'll call you soon.' What did all that mean?

Johnny thought about leaping to his feet and playing the aggrieved lover, but knew that would be useless – more harm than good. Estella gently kissed his lips, smiled and walked out of the pub.

Johnny bought himself another pint of Guinness and watched the white fizz rise above the blackness in his glass to form a perfect foamy canopy. If only life was so simple.

He wondered if some cosmic balance had begun and he was being treated to a large dose of his own medicine – deception and breaking hearts. He should try to focus on the good things – the Sylvian shoot, the future with The Melody Maker and rebuilding his life. Maybe he would see more of his mother after his father died.

Gary Numan sang Are Friends Electric? on the jukebox; Johnny sat and drank the bitter darkness.

48.

'How was that bird from the club?' Simon said. They were sitting at his desk after a boozy lunch. Johnny was drumming his fingers on his knees and playing Methods Of Dance in is head. It was two days since the Sylvian shoot and the initial tingle of meeting his hero had stayed with him, as had the melancholy of the drink with Estella. He had thought about calling her, even picked up the phone and begun to dial. But he didn't want to hear any bad news. She asked for space and he was going to give it to her.

'She was very nice,' Johnny replied. He was trying to forget about the Lucys, Marias, Saras and Kates in the world. They were all bad news.

'Come on, Johnny. How was she?' Simon fired an elastic band at Johnny's shoulder.

'She was hot, wanted it all night. Very sweet taste.' Johnny always gave the same level of description to Simon – the raunchy cliché; it made him feel like Benny Hill. Simon had laid out a detailed breakdown of his most recent conquest, over lunch – the previous night, a single mother.

'Nice. Good man, ' Simon said and grinned. Another elastic band was launched. Johnny caught it as it bounced off his chest and fired it back. Simon ducked down as it flew away.

'So, if she was that good, why are you so fucking sad?'

'I'm still having problems. You know, the problem we talked about on the night we ended up in Blitz.'

Simon thought for a moment and looked blank. 'You're going to have to refresh my memory, old chap,' he said.

'Estella, reporter at The Melody Maker, used to be with the editor.'

'Oh yeah, right. I thought I said you should drop that one?'

'You did, but I can't. I love her.'

'Jeez, Johnny. Do you really want to self-destruct over a bird?

'This isn't about giving anything up. I want her and my career. And to be honest, I'd pack the job in today if I could be with her.'

'So what's the big deal?'

'The editor's thrown himself at her again,with promises of a beautiful future.'

'Shit. You really are fucked.'

'Thanks, mate. I do know that.'

'What are you going to do?' Simon was becoming bored. He was looking over some copy editing.

'Give her time and space. I don't know what else to do.'

'That won't work. She'll be shagging the editor within a week if you do that.' Simon's interest had been re-kindled. He could sense the need for his advice was imminent. He pushed the copy to one side and pulled his chair closer to Johnny's.

'A gesture is needed. I don't know what, flowers every day, a poem, what ever you want. But don't, do not think waiting around is the best thing to do. She wants the knight in shining armour to come, and you can bet the editor already knows that.'

Johnny nodded along, but doubted the veracity of what Simon was saying. He was inclined to keep his silence, that was the best way. What was the point of blundering in? He'd done that with Maria and the result had been horrendous.

'Have you ever thought of entering your work into a competition?' Simon asked, changing the subject. Johnny couldn't blame him. Who wanted to hear about another broken love life? 'Kind of trying to be more artistic about it? I was looking at some of Lee Miller's stuff in a book and thinking about you. People love looking at pictures of other people and I reckon you should give it a go.'

Johnny loved the work of Miller, Man Ray, Capa and Cecil Beaton. He had often imagined himself pursuing a life's work with his camera; documenting history, art, science and various societies – always searching for the ultimate truth in the finished print. But he wondered whether anyone could do that in the Cold War era. Reagan, Thatcher and Andropov owned the developed world and didn't want to know about the rest. Who would be able to capture the look of the age – the single person's tale and the universal ideal?

Johnny thanked Simon for lunch and tried to seem as enthusiastic about his advice as he could.

'I'll definitely look into the grand gesture thing,' he said, walking away and beginning to wonder what the hell he could do with the rest of his life.

49.

'Jonathan?' his mother always began phone calls with his name in question. Did she have to remember him anew each time? Oh, that's right, I do have another child...

It annoyed him, but he kept quiet, knowing he would sound like a pedant bringing it up.

'Ma, how's everything going?'

'Not well, your dad collapsed last night. I'm calling from the hospital. I think you should get on a train and come down.' She sounded exactly the same as when he was a child – all commanding, stressed out and ready to launch at him with the nearest kitchen implement to hand – though she did draw the line at cutlery.

Johnny rubbed his face and sighed. What could he do to stop the inevitable? It would be indecent not to go and see his father – say his goodbyes and leave him smiling as he passed away.

'Christ, mum, I'm so busy. I've just done a big shoot and there's more work around the corner. You don't know he's not going to get a bit better and...'

'Jonathan, there is no getting better from this. He is dying. It won't be long now. You have to seize your chance. My father died suddenly of a heart attack, I never got to say goodbye to him. This is your opportunity. Did we really hurt you that much? Do you hate us?'

'I don't want to open old wounds right here and now, mum. I'll see what I can do.'

'Please try and forgive him, Jonathan. Please try. He is the only father you'll ever have. I hope we'll see you soon. Bye.'

'Bye, mum.' Johnny waited to hear the dial tone; then slammed his receiver down so hard the plastic around the mouthpiece shattered. He stormed into the lounge and punched the wall by the kitchen until his knuckles were numb and bleeding. Then he went into the kitchen and opened a new bottle of whiskey.

'Here's to you, you old bastard, dad,' Johnny shouted, ignoring the glass on the draining board (always there for his afternoon shot) and swigging from the bottle top. He felt liquid pour over his cheeks and begin to soak his shirt. He drank until his guts ached; then threw the bottle at the floor and ran to the bathroom.

He put his fingers down his throat and vomited heavily and loudly. Tears mingled with the puke and he wanted to die. But how best to do it? Pills? Razor blade and a cold bath? Or perhaps he could throttle himself with the belt from his trousers tied around the bathroom door knob? He stood up and looked at his reflection. What a sight! His eyes were blood red, his chin was yellow and his hair was flat and damp. He looked at himself, without blinking, for a long while. Eventually he brushed his teeth.

'You're not going to take me with you, dad,' he said to himself.

He splashed his face with cold water many times and re-checked his reflection – little by little his face returned to some level of normality.

He walked back to the kitchen and cleaned up the broken glass and whiskey flood. As he washed blood off his hand and tightened a tea towel around it he began to think about what he should live for. He should go and see his father, if for nothing else, to make him realise what a crap parent he'd been. Plus, he could wear the exact clothes and make-up (any make-up) to push his father over the edge. That was worth living for.

There was the finished product from the Sylvian shoot due soon and Estella hadn't told him a definite no. It would be foolhardy to disappear before those events. He could end his life anytime.

Johnny made himself coffee and ate a banana. His mother's parting shot still bothered him. She loved her home truths and stating the obvious. Who would want another father with such a bad example the first time around? Had she really wanted him to open up and let her have it with both emotional barrels? Did she want to know how he had feared his parents – their anger, arguments, infidelities? She didn't want to know anything about it, why would she? He was supposed to do what she and his father had – keep quiet, don't rock the boat, be socially conventional, smile and wait your turn.

Johnny was done with the lies. If his brother wanted a fight he would get one. They weren't children anymore. Pat couldn't act like a patriarch, swing the golf club (Johnny had always feared the putter the most) at him and expect silence now. Pat was a bully and he needed bringing down. Johnny would go and see his father and leave him in more pain than when he arrived. Should he leave at once or in the morning? The morning would be better. He would have more time to think about the precision of his hurtful comments. If he felt like it, he might give his mother the verbal once over too.

Johnny picked up his new Polaroid (The Melody Maker had made good on their promise to replace his equipment) and took three shots of himself growling and giving the finger – one each for his family. A fond farewell – memento mori.

Johnny went to bed early – energy was needed for the next day. He lay under his duvet and listened to a bootleg tape of Japan at the Budokan stadium. Sylvian singing In Vogue – a warbly reproduction which must have sounded stunning on the day itself. Johnny smiled at the lyrics "... did nobody tell you boy? Love's in vogue, again..."

He thought about earlier; thoughts of suicide and how bad the whiskey had tasted on its way back up. He decided to try a break from alcohol.

Keep a clear head and think of something good, he thought.

Estella, Estella, Estella.

50.

Johnny woke in state of high excitement – as if it were Christmas Day and he was getting everything on his list.

He took his time applying mascara, eyeshadow and more than usual amounts of pencil to his eyebrows. His hair was a breeze – still retaining most of the shape from the previous day (he'd washed it before bed).

He drank three espressos, smoked two Gauloises and a spliff and stopped at a local cafe on the way to the tube station to buy a bacon sandwich. He was ready to face anything.

It took an hour to reach Paddington station – maintenance delays meant frustrated minutes of sitting in tunnels, staring at feet, hands and, surreptitiously, other people. He didn't see any skinheads, but didn't want to take any chances. He had brought a copy of To Have And Have Not with him and took the hold-up as an opportunity to begin reading it.

Paddington was excessively busy. He looked at the departure board and saw a train about to leave. A dash to the relevant platform left him breathless but smiling. It was only when the train had left its buffers and was slowly swaying out that he began to feel more scared than he had ever felt before. The early bravado had mutated into a feeling of abject distress. He was going to see his father – whether dying or not, it was a horrible thought. And Pat would doubtless be there at his side – grinning; imagining it was his threat which had mobilised his ponce of a brother into action. Johnny wondered about taking a tip from Hemingway and, at the end of the visit, punching Pat in the face as a last stand, before leaving his dysfunctional mess of a family for good.

Johnny bought sandwiches from the train buffet and looked, like a parent at a newborn, at the beer, whiskey, vodka and gin behind the counter. His mouth was dry and he wanted a drink badly enough to beg. But alcohol would only make things worse and he had to try to keep his head clear. He ate his sandwiches quickly – soggy white bread and congealed grated cheese; the tomato tasted odd. The smoking carriage was packed and smelly, but he needed cigarettes if he couldn't have booze. A young woman – Titian-like beauty, bobbed red hair, long black overcoat and what looked like ballet shoes, sat opposite Johnny. She was reading To The Lighthouse and Johnny felt an irrational need to impress her. He pulled his Hemingway out and lit up another Gauloise – he was certain an intelligent woman would see he was invoking the spirit of The Lost Generation in Nineteen-Twenties Paris, and that he too was part of the same breed. In his mind he saw a perfect scenario where the red-head would put her Woolf down and admire his poise and choice of novel. She would ask him where he was going and then say she was heading in the same direction. All would be well as they left the train and became lovers within a day. And Estella's procrastination would be her downfall as she cried out for him to take her back. He would be somewhere sublime. Away from himself.

But life wasn't like that and the young woman got off at the first stop. She did give Johnny a lovely smile, but the dream was over. He took her picture as the train left – she was waiting on the platform next to the carriage as if she was thinking it might not be her stop.

He fell asleep wondering where she might be going, how his life and hers could have conjoined from nowhere and gone on. He knew it was ridiculous but he still believed in chance and hope.

He was jolted awake by a suitcase. He woke up slowly, watching a stream of passengers leaving the train. He looked at the platform signs – it was his stop. He jumped up as if his trousers were on fire and joined the stream.

The station was busy and he decided to buy a cup of coffee and have another cigarette. He needed to reawaken his senses.

Johnny bought The Guardian; tried and failed to focus on individual story items – most of the coverage was to do with the IRA, Thatcher and her oh-so sickening relationship with the USA. He turned to the back and read the football scores. Boredom drove him on. Being back in his childhood home town was like getting a virus again. He finished his coffee and cigarette and went to catch a taxi. He started to read his book as the taxi made its way around the town to the hospital, but stopped when nausea kicked in.

'Is this okay, mate?' the taxi driver said, his local accent reminding Johnny of his father.

Johnny looked at the building outside his window – four columns at the front made it look more like a country house than a hospital.

'Yeah, here's fine.' He got out and paid the fare; cheaper than London.

Johnny suddenly panicked and began to walk away. What had he been thinking? He didn't want to see his father. Just die and be done with it, he thought. No one knew he was there. He could still get back to the station without being seen. He'd brought his sunglasses too as a back-up for disguise. Then he saw his mother and she saw him. It was over. He had to go in.

'Jonathan? Why didn't you call me? I'd have picked you up from the station,' she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. It was such a formal greeting, he knew she was shocked at his appearance – couldn't he have left the make-up off for one day? – and, perhaps, worried he would make a big scene.

'How's dad doing?' he said. He followed his mother through overheated corridors which all smelled of antiseptic.

'Not well at all. He's asleep a lot of the time, so it's not easy to tell how he feels. But the doctors aren't hopeful.'

'Aren't hopeful of what?'

Johnny's mother stopped. Her head dropped for a moment and she rubbed her eyes.

'Jonathan. Your dad is dying. Do you understand that? The doctor's aren't hopeful about his chances of surviving another day.'

Johnny felt as scolded as a toddler and hated his mother for a few seconds; wishing her dead too.

'I do understand that, mum. Nothing but imminent death would have brought me here, trust me.'

'I don't know why you're being so cruel about all of this. Your father and I have always loved you and tried to look after you.' Johnny's mother stared at him – her face was tight with emotion.

'That's crap, mum. You and dad spent years doing what ever you wanted. You dragged Pat and me into every hole of sexual deviance and outlandish behaviour and left us to make our own way. Pat's probably in denial and thinks you two are the best parents ever. Dad was the worst, but you had your moments. So don't lay your sentimental bollocks on me. Now, where is dad?' Johnny's voice was shrill.

They walked on in silence. Johnny was fairly sure his mother was crying, but he didn't look at her. He couldn't. He felt some minutes of exhilaration after his tirade, followed by anguish and regret. It hadn't be worth the trouble – things were worse than ever. Would she tell Pat what he'd said? Perhaps he kept a golf club handy, just in case Johnny did show up?

Johnny's mother suddenly walked faster and turned left sharply. Johnny followed her. She was talking to a nurse. He wondered if she was warning the staff he would make trouble and they would need to restrain him. And then his mother would sign the relevant paperwork to have him sectioned – wheeled away to the local asylum. She would still have one good son.

Johnny stood in the doorway to the ward. He looked to his left; then right to find his father's bed. Curtains were drawn and he couldn't see any obvious sign of his whereabouts. Maybe his mother had forgotten the way or his father had been taken to intensive care?

'John-boy.' Pat's familiar greeting made Johnny feel quickly hot with anger. His brother pushed through a curtain close to Johnny – seeing his bully-boy sibling appear made Johnny think of his own time in a hospital bed and the threat Pat had made before leaving him.

'Pat. How are you?' Johnny managed a smile.

'Jesus, have you still got bruising? No, wait a minute, is that make-up? What the fuck are you trying to do? Did you have to wear that shit in here?'

Johnny was about to rise to Pat's questions and indulge his brother's prejudice, but instead he breathed in and smiled again.

'Where's dad, Pat?'

'You are not going to see him like that,' Pat said. He folded his arms and stood in front of the curtain like a bouncer. 'Wash that stuff off and we'll see.'

'Are you kidding me?' Johnny said, and wondered if this was his chance to back out of the visit.

'He's sleeping at the moment, so you can just...'

'No, I'm not, Patrick.' Johnny's stomach dropped. His father's voice sounded the same as ever.

Johnny's mother walked through the curtain and came straight out again holding an empty water jug.

'Let's leave Jonathan and your dad alone for a bit, Patrick,' she said.

'Forget that, mum. Look at him,' Pat said.

That was as far as Johnny was willing to go with his brother's attitudes.

'Okay, fat boy, if you want to take this crap outside, then let's go,' he said. His brother's face changed from indignation to surprise; then white hot anger.

'You fucking prick, I'll fucking smash...'

'Patrick! Go with your mum right now. Get out.' Johnny's father's voice still had authority and Pat backed down immediately.

Pat and his mother walked away talking quietly. Pat looked back at Johnny and shook his head. Johnny grinned at him.

'John?'

'Hi, dad.' Johnny pushed through the curtain and felt his heart shatter. His father looked like an old man. His hair was thinner. His cheekbones made his face look as if it had collapsed. He looked small; as if he were dissolving.

'How are you?' his father said.

'I'm okay, dad. How about...'

'Me? I'm okay, John.'

They sat in silence for a short while.

Johnny wondered how long he could stand the tension and mixed emotions.

'How's work, John?'

'I've got a new job actually.'

'Where's that then?'

'At a music paper called The Melody Maker.'

'Taking Photographs?'

'Yeah.'

More silence. What could Johnny say? All thoughts of heady confrontation had gone when he saw his father in the bed.

'John.'

'Yes, dad.'

Johnny's father pulled himself up. He only winced once, but Johnny guessed he must be in a lot of pain. The tightening of his jaw gave him away. He took a few seconds to compose himself then looked at Johnny with something resembling happiness.

'I love you, John. I want to say that right now, because I don't know whether I'll be alive later... or when ever. I know you feel as if I let you down sometimes and didn't support the things you wanted to do, but I've always been proud of you. I don't know what...' His father's face became an image of extreme agony. Johnny looked around; then stood up and ran out. A nurse was walking towards him carrying a metal tray.

'Could you help my dad, please? He's in a lot of pain, his name's Frinker.'

The nurse nodded and ducked through the curtain; then back again.

'He's asleep now,' she said.

Johnny thanked her and went to see his father. He stood and waited, hoping for a sign or the end of the sentence. His father breathed slowly; his eyes wrinkled up every once in a while to remind Johnny of the pain.

'How is he?' Johnny's mother asked. She put the water jug back next to the bed and used her sleeve to mop up some spilled drops.

'Not good. He fell asleep about five minutes ago.' Johnny was glad to have something to say.

'He does that a lot,' she said. They both looked at the sleeping man.

'Where's Pat?' Johnny didn't really care, but, again, it was a way through the discomfort of angry silence.

'Your brother has decided to go home and come back later.'

'After I've gone, I suppose.'

'Yes.'

'I'm going to go, mum. Dad and I talked... about things and I think...' Johnny couldn't finish the sentence. He had nothing to say. His mother was stroking her husband's hair – perhaps remembering him when they met, Johnny thought. She was lost in his care. Her angry son would be alive, God willing, tomorrow and the day after. She would deal with him some other time.

'I'll go back to London now and try to come back in a couple of days, mum,' Johnny said, moving around the bed towards her.

He kissed the top of her head. She looked old.

'Fine. Bye,' she said.

Johnny walked out of the cubicle and held the curtain open to look back at his father. He made a silent promise to return; to allow his father time to rest; then say goodbye properly. He didn't want to stay around too long. His brother's anger wasn't a joke and he didn't want to miss a call from Estella or The Melody Maker. The train journey didn't take that long. And anyway, his mother hadn't offered him a bed.

Johnny walked the few miles back to the railway station. Everything seemed so normal. Cars, people, dogs, birds and the sun and wind. Life moved on all around him. He looked at himself in a shop window and remembered when his mother's father died – in a supermarket car park, over the wheel of his Ford Capri. There and then gone.

The train journey home took longer than the one out. Johnny tried to sleep; failed and decided to buy more sandwiches. He took another look at the displays behind the buffet counter and eventually gave in.

'Just the sandwiches... and a can... two cans of lager, please,' he said.

'It's only beer,' he said to himself, later, in one of the small on-board toilets. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembling. He lit up a spliff, took three fast drags and put it out on the damp corner of the soap dish.

At Paddington he spotted two skinheads with their girlfriends – who sported the most ridiculous hairstyle he had ever seen on a woman. A shaved head with long tails of hair around the sides and back. They were walking down towards the tube station; so Johnny decided to take the bus.

The sky was darkening and Johnny's thoughts returned to Estella. What was she doing? Why couldn't she make up her mind? The editor had treated her like shit and that was why they broke up. Did she really believe he would or could change next time around? Surely she would realise that. Johnny became more confident about her decision. She would choose him. He would be Belmondo to her Seberg. A Bout De Souffle – Game over!

Johnny arrived home, had a small glass of whiskey – to settle his nervous anxiety about Estella and the hospital visit – and went to bed to read some more of the Hemingway. He fell asleep with the book on his face and was woken up at three the next morning by the telephone. It was his mother.

'Jonathan? Your dad's just died.'

51.

Johnny got back to his flat at midnight on the day he buried his father. Estella must have got his address and the news about his dad from the paper, because she had tucked a card under his front door. It read: "I'm so sorry to hear about your loss, Johnny. Call me when you're up to it and we can talk. Love Estella xx"

What exactly did she mean by talk? Was that another way of saying: I know you're in the dumps, so I'll use your depression to mitigate the impact of my rejection!?

He read the card three times, even highlighting certain key words – love, loss, talk, sorry – but was too tired to make any decisions.

He slept until lunchtime the next day. Sunlight behind his bedroom window made him feel guilty about losing time. His father must have had days like that, when he thought he had all the time in the world to mess around, lie in bed and ignore his future. Everything would last for ever.

Johnny had watched his father's coffin lowered into the ground and thought about time running out and the eternity of burial – a cemetery near his mother's house. His mother's house. No longer a parental home. He had often wanted one or both of his parents dead – mainly when he was a teenager and the realisation of their affairs and lies hit him in full detail. But as he sat in his kitchen drinking a fourth espresso – the caffeine barely registering – and smoking a cigarette, he knew he would have done anything, including killing someone else (maybe Pat?) just to have had more time with his dad. Why had his father only begun to act like a parent at the end?

Johnny was determined not to allow himself any further indulgence in sorrow. He needed to work. Estella could wait. She would have to. Although, actually he was the one still waiting. Wasting time.

He dragged hard on the Gauloise and held the smoke in his throat for as long as he could. His heart beat faster and he let the smoke out. Imagine being buried alive and slowly suffocating. The tight space around you intensifying the agonising death. Should he have checked his father's breath?

Johnny poured himself a large glass of whiskey and drank the whole thing down in two gulps. He filled the glass again and looked at it.

'You will be full for ever. I will never touch you or your evil kind again,' he said, and walked to the sink to empty the rest of the bottle.

He showered and masturbated. He hadn't had sex since Lucy and decided a release was needed – the little death indeed.

'Hi, could I speak to ed, please?' he said, running a hand through his damp hair and crossing his dressing gown over his chest to hide his genitals.

'Who is it?' the receptionist said.

'Johnny Frinker.'

'Oh, hi, Johnny. Sorry to hear about your dad,' the unknown voice said.

'Thanks.'

A familiar on hold click quickly gave way to breathing.

'Johnny, hi. Really sorry about your old man.'

'Cheers, ed. Have you got any work for me by any chance? I'm shit bored.'

'Yeah, should do. Hang on a minute.' The click again.

'Hi, Johnny, still there?'

'Yep.'

'Okay, would you like to shoot The Associates? Well, just Billy MacKenzie actually. It's tomorrow. Sorry it's short notice.'

'Absolutely, yeah. Where and when?'

'Trafalgar Square. Nine in the morning. Okay?'

'Sounds cool. Thanks, ed.'

'No problem. By the by, the Sylvian pictures look amazing. Good job, John. See you soon.'

'Bye, ed.' The editor had been so nice about everything. Johnny was beginning to feel guilty about taking Estella away from him. If that happened. Perhaps he should just let her go. His father's death had made his emotions feel blunt and he had (almost) reached a point of not caring. But Estella was worth caring about. She was someone he could see himself with for years to come.

He spent three hours checking, re-checking, cleaning, packing, unpacking and re-packing his cameras and their bag. The Associates were a mystery to Johnny. He loved their single Party Fears Two, but didn't know many of the other songs. Billy MacKenzie was a cool guy to look at. A stylish front man and Johnny was looking forward to shooting him almost as much as Sylvian.

Johnny ate well that day, lots of pasta with tomato sauce and a sirloin steak for his supper – he had lost weight recently. His appetite seemed to have diminished after being told his father was dying; then the skinhead attack – as if his body was making its mind up whether to live or shut down.

He went to bed early – smoking a spliff and listening to Forbidden Colours on repeat play relaxed him enough to bring sleep quickly. He didn't dream, or at least he didn't need to and when he woke up the next morning he felt something he realised he hadn't felt in a long time – glad to be alive.

52.

Billy MacKenzie was waiting for Johnny by Nelson's Column. He was wearing a trilby, dark blue baggy trousers, a beige overcoat, RayBans and white shoes. He looked like a pop star trying not to look like a pop star. Johnny liked him immediately.

'Hi, I'm Johnny.'

'Billy. Good to meet you, Johnny.' They shook hands. MacKenzie's handshake was surprisingly light. Johnny wondered if he'd squeezed a bit too hard. 'How do you want to do this, mean and moody or not a care in the world mode?' MacKenzie said.

'Which ever you prefer. Both perhaps?' Johnny said and smiled. He fell deeper in love with his job at that moment.

The two men worked quickly. MacKenzie did what Johnny asked – close-ups frowning, looking up, down, smiles, laughter, jumping...

After about an hour Johnny had run out of film.

'Thanks, Billy. I've got it all down.'

'Okay, mate. Good to meet you. Take care.' Johnny watched MacKenzie doff his hat and run off to hail a taxi. Johnny had saved one shot and fired it off when the hat went up – unexpected, natural and probably the best one.

Johnny felt high after the shoot. He hadn't had a drink or smoked any weed, it was a result of feeling again – retaining the energy of the photo shoot; being a part of popular culture and making a contribution to art. He had finally got past his stubborn attitude towards photography as documentary only and was looking for deeper meaning in the images, the way he assumed meaning in the songs of David Sylvian and others.

He dropped his film at The Melody Maker and avoided going into the main office. He didn't want to chance seeing Estella and ed discussing some matters of grammar, copy edits or which sexual position they most enjoyed with each other.

He got back to Balham in the late afternoon and finished his Hemingway book with an espresso and spliff on his bed. It was only when he was about to make himself some supper – more pasta – he noticed a letter to the left of the front door. He must have kicked it to one side as he walked in. He was gripped by Hemingway all the way through the door. It was from Kate. He read it slowly, stuck to the spot.

Dear Johnny,

I phoned The Melody Maker to find out your new address – I need to forward your post. They told me about your dad. I'm so very sorry, Johnny. Family is so important and I always hoped you would have more time to sort things out with your dad. If you need someone to talk to, call me. I know things were weird before, in the park, but that was shock and anger. I've calmed down a lot and it would be nice to hear from you. Of course I'll understand if you just want me to go away! I do still care about you a lot. I always did.

Love, Kate xx

Johnny felt complete happiness. He was smiling with his entire face and his heart was pounding. She still wanted to hear from him and still cared about him. She was carrying his baby.

But what about Estella? He had to call her and finally find out what was going on. Tomorrow, it would be tomorrow, he decided.

53.

'Hi, Johnny. It's lovely to hear from you. How are you?' Estella sounded ecstatic.

'I'm okay. Pretty bloody great actually. Can we meet and talk?' Johnny felt in control; an overwhelming bounce from deep inside him had caught hold of his nerves and made him believe he was invincible.

'Er, yeah. I didn't think you'd be up for talking for a while, although ed told me you were back at work.'

Ed told you, eh? In bed perhaps, Johnny thought.

'So, shall I come to your place?' Johnny said.

'Yeah, cool. Would you like to come now or later?'

'Now is good,' he said, keeping a deliberately staccato delivery going.

'See you soon, bye,' she said.

'Bye.'

His coat was on and he was out of the door in seconds.

54.

'So have you decided anything yet?' Johnny asked Estella within five minutes of arriving. They had kissed each other on the mouth when she opened the door – she had stepped forward and taken his face in her hands. He wasn't sure if it was a sympathy kiss or the decision, but kissed her back as if it was the last time he would be able to.

'Yes, I have. It's you, Johnny, if you still want me?' Estella looked into his eyes and he smiled. They kissed again and moved to the bed.

'You know I want you,' he said, as he unfastened her bra and kissed her neck.

They made love slowly and after it was over sat up and smoked Johnny's Gauloises.

'What took you so long and how did you finally decide?' Johnny said. He had suddenly begun to feel angry with Estella – she looked too happy; a bit smug. He was beginning to feel like a sucker.

'I think I always knew it was you. I was worried it might be a bit quick, and I did still have some feelings for ed.'

'And now?'

'We talked and I told him I didn't want to risk spoiling the good memories and I'd moved on.'

'Did you tell him about me, about us?' Johnny wanted to know the answer to this question more than any other – it could mean the end of his new found hope.

'I didn't tell him anything. There wasn't anything to say. And anyhow, it isn't any of his business what I do.' Estella took a last drag of her cigarette and put it out on a foil ashtray next to the bed. She began to seduce Johnny. He played along, but the sinking feeling about their new relationship was taking hold. He thought it was just anxious nerves about the editor finding out and the way she had made him wait for an answer. He stayed the night and left before she woke up; he wrote a note telling her he would be in contact again soon. He told her he loved her. And as he walked away from her flat he wondered whether that was true.

55.

Johnny was looking at copies of the Sylvian photos when his brother called him. The event was unprecedented – Pat never called him, usually their mother acted as a go-between.

'Hello, John. It's Pat,' he said. At last, Johnny thought, dad's death has rendered the John-boy nickname redundant.

'What can I do for you, Pat?' Johnny said. He felt very calm and was holding up a shot of Sylvian smiling. He had seen the smile hundreds of times, but this one was for him, his camera at least, and it was the shot he would treasure the most.

'We need to talk.'

'About what specifically?' Johnny had had enough of his brother. At the funeral Pat had ignored him.

'About dad, his will and some other things. I'm in London now, can I come over, please?' Johnny almost dropped the phone. Had Pat really used the word please?

'Okay. Fine, let's just do this, what ever it is,' Johnny said. He gave Pat directions and began to feel worried. Was Pat coming over to make good on his threat? He had mentioned his father's will, was Johnny due a bequest, if so, what or/and how much?

Johnny walked in and out of the kitchen, eyeing up the whiskey bottle and puffing furiously on one Gauloises after the other. He waited and watched the street outside his lounge window. Just over an hour after his brother had called, Johnny saw him walking towards the flat. He was holding a copy of the London A-Z and looking at house numbers.

Johnny breathed in deeply a few times, finished off his fifth cigarette in quick succession and walked to the front door. He closed his eyes and visualised his father's smiling face.

'Hi, Pat,' Johnny said, opening the door as his brother put his foot on the first step.

'Bit of a nightmare journey,' Pat said. He didn't look Johnny in the eye, but did put out a hand which Johnny took and shook. He couldn't remember the last time they had had any physical contact – always plenty of threats, though.

'Would you like a drink?' Johnny said, walking into the kitchen. Pat had slumped on to the sofa in mock exhaustion.

'Coffee, please. Two sugars,' he said.

Johnny made them both espresso and lit another Gauloises. He used the reflective surface of his toaster to keep an eye on the kitchen door, just in case Pat was planning a surprise attack. Johnny allowed himself a smile, thinking of the Pink Panther films - Clouseau on-guard against the kung-fu crazy Cato.

Johnny took the coffee through to the lounge and offered Pat a cigarette. He sat opposite his brother. Pat shook his head.

'Trying to give up, John. I met a girl and she hates the smell of fags.'

They made small talk for a few minutes. Pat said their mother was going back to Greenham Common soon; she wanted to feel useful again. He was worried about her health and the house felt too big all of a sudden.

'But the advantage is I can have people to stay all the time,' he said and winked. Johnny thought how sad it was that a man of Pat's age should feel so liberated by the use of his empty parental home.

'What's this news about dad's will?' Johnny had been desperate to know since they had spoken earlier on the phone.

Pat pulled a notebook from inside his jacket and flipped through a few pages.

'Dad spent a lot of time and money sorting things out... for the future, after he died, that stuff, y'know? Anyway, he left mum the house and a huge lump sum. So she's okay. The shock news is he also left you and I a lot of money. A lot of money.' Pat smiled.

'How much is a lot?' Johnny sat forward.

'Fifty grand each.'

Johnny nodded slowly and sipped his coffee.

'That's pretty fucking great, eh?' Pat said.

'Yeah, pretty fucking great,' Johnny replied slowly. The reality began to set in. He had a cushion of cash. He could pursue things now – travel, photography for the sake of it, a new life – independence. His father had finally saved his life.

'There's another thing.' Pat stood up and walked towards his brother. Johnny began to tense up. This is it, this is punching time, Johnny thought. 'Dad told me to stop hating you. He told me his last wish was for me to be a better brother and stop being jealous of you. So I want to say sorry for being a shit to you so many times. I do love you, Johnny. I'm sorry.' Johnny stood up and the brother's hugged. Pat began to cry and Johnny fought back his tears; eventually giving in.

'I miss dad so much,' Pat said.

'Me too,' Johnny said. He meant it.

After a while they wiped their eyes and Pat told Johnny how the inheritance would be paid to him soon – after taxation and probate. Johnny made more coffee and they smoked a cigarette each.

'I'll buy some mints at the station. She'll never know,' Pat said, laughing and holding his Gauloises up appreciatively.

Johnny offered Pat some food. He wanted his brother's company. But Pat said he had to get home and see his new girlfriend. They hugged again by the front door.

'Keep in touch, Johnny. I'm proud of you,' Pat said.

'I will.' Johnny wondered how he would face his mother again.

As he watched his brother walk away he began to think about Estella and Kate, and the money. Suddenly he had options. Suddenly he knew what he wanted. That was his father's greatest gift.

56.

'Hi. I really need to see you,' Johnny said.

'Johnny. Are you okay?' Kate sounded happy and surprised to hear his voice. Johnny had taken a chance calling the house. Alan or Sponge could so easily have answered.

'Can we meet?' Johnny felt as if he needed to see her that moment. His face was red with nervous energy.

'When?'

'Now. Right now, Kate.'

'All right. Where?'

'What about the National Portrait Gallery?'

'In about an hour, is that okay?'

'Sounds good. Shall I meet you inside?'

'Okay. Bye.'

'Bye, Kate.'

Johnny ran to the tube station as though he were being chased by an angry crowd. He sighed and tutted in the queue for a ticket and rushed to the platform. Thankfully the journey seemed to pass quickly – no skinheads and no beautiful women to distract him. Just bored Londoners.

Kate was waiting when he arrived. She looked stunning. He was reminded of their student days. She had had her hair cut short and was dressed in black and white.

'Hi,' he said, feeling scruffy next to her.

'Hello you,' she said, smiling and kissing him on the cheek.

It was so like old times. He could have cheered and broken into song; danced up the steps like Fred Astaire.

They walked out of the gallery and found a coffee shop off the Charing Cross Road.

'Kate, I've got to tell you something,' Johnny said, as the coffee arrived. 'I have to tell you this now. I've let things go on and on and I haven't stopped to think.'

'What's wrong?' she said, looking worried and sitting back.

Johnny looked at her face. How could he have failed to see her beauty? Not just her facial features, but her goodness, the way she looked at him. No one else had that look in their eyes for him. She had a beautiful heart.

'Nothing's wrong, Kate. I love you and I want to be with you,' he said and waited for her rejection.

Kate looked at her coffee. Her hands were shaking.

'What do you mean, love? And do you mean you want to be with me completely, or you want me for sex and fun?' she said. She spoke slowly.

'I want.' He stopped and stood up. He walked around the table and got down on his knees. 'I want to give you the best I can. I want to be there for you every time you need me. I want to be a good partner to you. I want to show you all the happiness you deserve. I love you with all my heart and I want to marry you.'

Kate began to cry.

'Please don't say anything you don't mean, Johnny,' she said. 'It's not fair. What about that other girl you met?'

'I'm going to tell her it's over.' Johnny sat back down and sipped his coffee.

They sat in silence for a while.

Eventually Kate stood up. Johnny stood too. She hugged him tightly and kissed his neck.

'I love you too, Johnny. Give me time some time to think, okay?'

He nodded and hugged her again.

57.

Johnny phoned Estella when he got home and ended things between them. She cried and he said sorry. He didn't feel sad or particularly sorry. She had had the best of him and caused him the pain of waiting when he least needed it. He knew she would find happiness, maybe with ed, maybe not. She slammed the phone down on him. Then he wrote a resignation letter to The Melody Maker. There wasn't any future for him at the paper and he did have the memory of the Sylvian shoot.

Johnny was making himself a bowl of pasta when Kate called later that evening. He thought it would be her, although he wondered if Estella might be calling back to scream in his ear. He felt calm as he lifted the receiver. He would be able to cope what ever happened.

'Hi, Johnny.' It was Kate. She was whispering.

'Hi. Are you okay?'

'Yeah, I'm fine. I just broke up with Alan. He took it badly and I want to keep my voice down.'

'Okay.'

'Johnny, I've thought about what you said... and I love you too. And yes, I'd like to marry you. But are you really sure?'

'I'm really sure, Kate.'

'Then come and get me, Johnny.'

1996. The LP ends and Johnny can hear his wife, Kate, and the children return. His twelve-year-old son, David, rushes in to see him. They hug and kiss. Johnny knows his son will soon feel too old for such strong affection. Kate and their daughter, Sarah, come into the room and begin to talk about what they have bought. Sarah is excited about having seen a poster advertising her father's exhibition. She asks her father where the original photograph from the poster is. He stands up and opens a leather folder. Before he gives the photograph to his daughter he looks at the image again – a young woman with red hair, on a railway station platform.

His daughter grows impatient, so Johnny hands the shot over and looks at Kate. She smiles at him. He smiles back and puts another LP on the turntable. This time he chooses Dare.

