‘Lyd, this is Richard. He works here,’ she said.
‘Uh?’ I grunted as I hauled myself upright again. My feet just couldn’t get a grip. Richard and Trudi stood either side of me and took a hand each. Richard smiled and I looked at him for the first time. He was a mere boy of about thirty, with floppy, blond hair and wire-framed glasses.
‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘you’re going to do this. Now, place your feet further apart to distribute the weight more evenly and bend your knees slightly, then let your thighs take the strain. Lean forward a bit.’
I did as I was told and felt a little more balanced and at ease, despite the embarrassment of hearing a young man talk about weight and thighs.
‘Feel better?’ Trudi asked.
I nodded and forced a smile. Richard squeezed my hand lightly as a new tune started to play – the theme from Love Story.
‘OK, we’re going to do all the work to begin with. Just relax and don’t move your feet.’
That seemed strange, but they were the experts. We started to move, or rather they were moving and I was being pulled along between them. It felt good to be gliding with everyone else and I even found myself leaning in the right direction when we took the curves.
We made it all the way back to our starting point and Richard took me around again, without Trudi this time. His right arm was around my waist and he held my left hand in his.
‘Push forward with your right foot, take the weight on your thigh, and then bring the left foot forward the same way. It’s just like being on a scooter.’ He guided me, telling me when to make my moves and we almost managed another circuit before I lost my footing again and brought us both crashing down in a heap. His glasses flew off and, as he helped me to get up, I felt them crunch beneath the blade of my skate.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘Please, don’t worry about it.’ The reply came through gritted teeth.
The expression on his face spoke volumes as he accepted my apology, made his excuses and left me to my own devices. I decided enough was enough and stumbled off the ice to the seating area to wait out the rest of the session while Trudi carried on skating.
On the way out, Richard asked for my phone number.
‘I’ll call you when I know how much the new glasses will cost,’ he said.
As soon as we hit the car park, Trudi and I capsized with laughter.
‘For a moment there I thought you’d pulled.’ Trudi shook her head.
‘Instead of which, I’ll have another bill coming in. This bucket list is getting expensive!’
I’d been going to the writing group for about eight months. To tell the truth, I almost threw in the towel after the first two weeks, because I felt so far out of my comfort zone. Everyone seemed to think I was a bit of an oddball because I laugh when I get nervous and sometimes that’s not the reaction people expect. I’d been writing for years, but I’d never let anyone else read my stuff. Bob wasn’t interested and … well, there’d never really been anyone else to talk to about it. Sharing my stories didn’t come easily and everyone else seemed so full of confidence. I’d only joined as an alternative to vegetating at home alone. Anyway, I showed up for the third session, convinced it would be my last, and it all changed. That was the week Des spoke to me for the first time. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed him before, of course. Everyone noticed Des, especially Tess, the group leader. At first I thought they were ‘together’, but it soon became clear that wasn’t the case. Well, that night, I arrived just as the session was about to start. I glanced around, deciding where to sit so I wouldn’t be noticed; then Des arrived and ushered me to a seat.
‘Latecomers have to sit at the “naughty” table,’ he said with a smile that would have melted an iceberg. ‘I’m Des and I’m a … lousy writer.’ He feigned embarrassment and I laughed as I shook the hand he offered.
‘I’m Lydia and I’m probably worse,’ I replied. That was the start, and now, months down the line, we had a comfortable, easy-going friendship based on laughter and shared tastes in books and music.
* * * * *
We sat together in the back room of the pub where the meetings were held. There were twelve of us in the group most weeks. Three of them were really pretentious gits who thought everything should be ‘literary’ and ‘worthy’. A couple of the others could spin a good yarn, and then there were some who never said anything, but took copious notes. I often wondered what they found to write. Some weeks we read and critiqued each other’s work, but this time we had a guest speaker, Eve something-or-other. She wrote romance and she was talking about how to write sex scenes
‘First, you need to get over your own feelings,’ she said. ‘If the scene embarrasses you, the odds are it will embarrass your reader. Be comfortable with the terminology you use. It’s often better to use the proper names for body parts, for example, especially if you’re writing in the third person …’
Des whispered, ‘Who’s this third person? The first two haven’t “done it” yet, and now it’s a ménage à trois?’
I stifled a giggle and took a gulp of my Diet Coke. ‘Shut up! You’re embarrassing me,’ I hissed, but there was no stopping him.
‘You have to get over these feelings of embarrassment.’ He mimicked Eve Thingybob perfectly and I could barely control the laughter.
‘Behave yourself, Desmond.’ I thumped his thigh with my fist. He wriggled in his seat.
‘Ooh, that hurt,’ he muttered, and then, ‘do it again, please …’ He continued to tease throughout the rest of the talk and I did my best not to laugh out loud. The man was incorrigible at times, but such good fun. I couldn’t help but respond to the twinkle in his green eyes and the warmth of his smile.
‘What got into you tonight?’ I asked, on the way home in my car. ‘I’ve never seen you like that before.’
‘The truth? I was a bit … er … embarrassed by all that stuff. You know … the sex talk. I couldn’t write a sex scene if my life depended on it. I’m not even sure I want to.’
I almost laughed, but a sideways glance at Des revealed that he was deadly serious.
‘So, what happens next week when we have to share our own efforts with the rest of them? Are you going to chicken out?’
He shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I guess so. I can’t do it, Lyd.’
‘Nonsense! You just need a little help, that’s all.’
‘Talking of help, I was thinking about your list.’ He was changing the subject with no subtlety whatsoever. ‘If you’re going to go on a talent show, you should get some practice in first. You know, they have a karaoke night at the pub every Saturday?’
‘Really? I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea. I haven’t sung in public since I was twelve, and that was only a school concert. Let me think about it.’
‘Well, you don’t have long before the auditions for Stargazing start. In fact, I downloaded a backing track for you today… just to try out. We can have a run-through now, if you like. That’s if you want to come in for a cuppa.’
I’d just pulled to a halt outside the rather swish-looking building where Des lived.
‘Which song did you get? Nothing too difficult I hope.’
‘Hopelessly Devoted – I think it’s perfect for you.’
In his study, we