6 comments/ 8603 views/ 5 favorites Four Funerals By: Gunnlaug (This story isn't true, but it's based on some real events. I just put them together.) Tottenham Court Road on a busy Friday lunchtime is not the tine to start playing Frogger for real but the young woman in front of me obviously didn't realise that. I was moving before my conscious brain kicked into gear, my hand shooting out and yanking her back by her shoulder as the taxi swerved to avoid a bike courier weaving in and out of traffic. It happened in slow motion; the taxi screeching into the space she would have occupied a millisecond later, her foot flying up and banging into the bodywork, the taxi speeding off as I pulled her back onto the pavement, her shocked 'ow!' as the pain registered. I sat her down on the bench at the bus stop outside Goodge Street Station and had a quick look at her foot. Bruised and not broken. I asked her if there was anyone she wanted to call. Distracted, she shook her head. I told her to sit still for a moment as I dispersed the concerned onlookers. I asked if she thought she needed an ambulance. She checked her watch, clearly late for something. And then she was gone. I hardly saw her go it happened so fast, disjointed, and a moment later she was swallowed in the crowd. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong. To my knowledge I have never seen that woman again. I never got her phone number. We never went out to dinner. I never charmed her pants off then went down on one knee. We never walked down the aisle together. But in its own little way that brief snapshot of London life determined my future, because someone was watching. Later that day I met up with the gang at a cellar bar near London Bridge. Don't ask me the name of the bar because I've forgotten it, but I haven't forgotten how we used to take advantage of the happy hour; Dominic chatting up the barmaids, Jo giggling at one of Richard's terrible jokes, Swanney piling up the drinks on our table, me being all too serious as I set the world to rights. Every Friday night for nearly two years. Steve and Tara walked in after we were settled but we'd saved them seats. Tara was lovely, tousled auburn/ginger hair, long shapely legs, big (bloody huge) baby blue eyes. She was an eyeful, but also my mate's girlfriend, so that's where my appreciation stopped: Never crap on a mate. They sat down and Tara looked directly at me, amusement in her eyes. "Well, Mr Samaritan, you didn't get her number, did you?" she asked me, enjoying my confusion. "My office is on the first floor overlooking Goodge Street Station," she explained, "I happened to be looking out of the window and saw it all. I think it was rather unfair of her just to dash off like that." So I had to explain what had happened to the rest of them, the lads groaning at my missed opportunity, Jo looking at me as if this really should be the beginning of something big; perhaps if I put a personal ad in Private Eye, hoping to track her down. I rolled my eyes, embarrassed. It was nothing really, I acted without thinking, and it's just what you do, isn't it? "Well, I thought you were sweet," said Tara, leaning across the table and kissing my cheek. Aw, shucks! "Careful, babes, he might explode," joked Steve, "he hasn't had a girlfriend in months. Or is it years?" So the discussion turned to my tragic lack of a love life. Full disclosure; I am absolutely hopeless with women. I never pick up if there are signals, and if I try to talk to a woman I blow it. My romantic dalliances always took me by surprise, fuelled by beer, and I never knew what I had done to result in a girl lying in my arms. What's worse, I was a romantic, never able to distinguish between a one night stand and the possibility of a real relationship. I was intense and that scared a lot of girls once they had actually got me to realise that they were right there in front of me. Like I say; a tragic case. "We'll have to set you up with someone," said Steve, and I knew he meant it. "Fuck, no! Please! Not a blind date. She'll hate me or I'll hate her and we'll be stuck somewhere wishing we were somewhere else." "Your loss, sunshine! Anyway, want to meet up in the week?" "Sure, bell me and we'll sort it." The conversation shifted away from me and the night got much, much drunker. We all went home (me alone, of course). I never met up with Steve. On the following Monday evening he dropped dead from an undiagnosed heart defect as he was training with his local amateur football team. The funeral was bad, but not the worst I've been to. Steve was young when he died, just twenty-three. We had a wake and sent him off, sad for his family and angry that life had been stolen from him. I barely spoke to Tara at the funeral. She'd only been seeing him for a couple of months, and I guess that she'd been having fun rather than tumbling into the arms of love's young dream. Tara drifted away from the gang once Steve had died. She was Jo's friend, really, though I'd always got on with her, making her laugh when I wasn't being too serious for my own good. I occasionally heard about things she was up to, boyfriends she was seeing. I wished her well, and thought nothing more of it. Years passed and the gang spread out a bit. We were pushing towards thirty and in a lot of ways we were different people from the young idiots who drank themselves almost insensible every Friday. Richard and Jo got married and settled down to grumbling but happy domesticity. Dominic kept chasing the ladies, a different one on his arm every time I saw him. Swanney? Well, sadly we lost touch with him. I'd love to know what he's doing these days, and whether he ever slowed down on the booze. I stupidly got married as well. The whole thing was a case study in what I do wrong. Again, I have no idea how she ended up kissing me in the street outside the pub (alcohol strikes again!), and I have no idea why I overlooked our serious differences and decided to try and make it permanent. After three years she made the perfectly reasonable point that she didn't really love me any more, and that was that. Of course, I called her every name under the sun. I had gone back to University to actually get some kind of education and she had felt the pressure of supporting us both financially (although I had sworn I would return the favour), but I was suddenly facing my final year, homeless and hopeless. I basically broke down. There were moments when I was close to begging on the street, days when I didn't eat because I couldn't afford to. Mentally I was fucked up. I alienated a lot of my friends, and finally I found myself sitting in Victoria Park one Tuesday evening eating a load of pills and shuffling back into some bushes so that it was less likely that some kids would find my body. Fortunately I was so screwed up at that point that I'd got hold of the wrong kind of pills. After three hours I still hadn't fallen asleep and I called myself an ambulance. They took me to the Royal London Hospital and the staff there were brilliant, the doctor even holding my hair out of the way as I hurled up the charcoal and pills into the basin. I was there for three days and came out to a new world. I'd hit bottom and the only way was up. One of the first contacts I had was a seriously pissed off Jo, yelling at me down the phone. "Don't you ever fucking try that shit again," she ranted, "I hate funerals and there's no way I want to go to yours." I mumbled some apologies. "Anyway, someone else wants to talk to you," and she grumpily passed the phone over. "I'm really sorry you felt that way, honey," it was Tara, and her voice made me smile for the first time in... I've no idea, "you should've said something. Asked someone for help. It isn't a crime, you know?" I mumbled again. I was being told off and I deserved it. It began to dawn on me that there were people who would actually miss me. It sounds pathetic but when you've been really, really down hearing that kind of message is incredibly important. If you have a friend on the skids, tell them you love them. At the right moment it works wonders. We didn't meet up then. From nowhere I got two offers I didn't want to refuse. A university friend who knew I was down on my luck got me writing freelance articles and reviews for the portal he was running. And I found that I was good at it. I had some money again, a real foundation for regaining self-respect. Then a Czech friend offered me the long term use of his apartment in Prague. It didn't matter where I worked out of: the office was just an email away. And I hated London now, couldn't wait to leave. Time ticked on again and I settled in Prague, moving a couple of times but seeing, feeling it as home. My mind cleared and the clouds drifted away. I was still crap with women, but these were Czech women and therefore 'exotic'. I made a couple of mistakes but I wasn't so worried; nothing was as bad as my divorce and suicide attempt. I began to think of life as a single man and I started pushing forty, content enough even though I knew I could have more, making a little circle of local and expat friends and starting to frequent a Friday night hangout near the castle. Reverting to type. In the long intervals between short flings with Czech women I masturbated furiously. In the right kind of romantic tale this is where I tell you that I could only think of Tara when I wanked, thinking of her hot, wet kisses as she climbed on to me, her nipples brushing my chest as she lowered her tight, willing pussy on to my raging erection. Well, sorry, but I'm a bloke, so I fantasised about threesomes with nubile young nurses, or French maids, or stuff I'd seen in porn. The usual stuff really, and before any women complain, well, you fantasise about firemen, don't you? Tara was married now to some guy I'd never met. I sometimes thought of her, but only as a special friend from almost a previous life. Tick-tock. My dad's funeral was a bit of a hoot, in my mind anyway as I did a very good job of not laughing out loud. The pall-bearers had tripped on the way into the chapel and in my minds eye I saw them drop the coffin, the lid flying off and my dad's body slithering across the floor, all pale and hair nicely combed. You may well guess that we had zero relationship and regarded each other as strangers. The rest of the funeral was similar. Me, and my mother were given all the condolences, which was a chuckle; she'd left him thirty years before and I was the only son who he never talked to. "So, what are we going to with the house," my mum asked after we had finally shaken off the well-wishers and settled down in the corner of a pub. "It's in a shit state," I replied, "we'll only get half what it should be worth. I'm not keen on losing out on one hundred thousand if we don't have to." My mum thinks like me (or the other way around!) and we quickly agreed that I'd come back to London and stay in the house, keeping an eye on the repairs as they were done. When all was ready the house would be sold and I'd go back to Prague. I figured on a year and reckoned I could just about stomach it. Tick-tock. I'd not even known Tara was pregnant. I only really hung around with Dominic out of the old gang and he was never much on social gossip. But I heard snippets here and there and one of them was that Tara had an eight month old son. Good for you, I thought, and there it rested for a month. Jo was already crying when I answered her call; she'd probably been crying before she even dialled the number. Tara's son had died of SIDS in the night. I've no idea why she called me, particularly, and I suspect that she was calling people at random. I happened to still be in her phone book. When she asked me if I would go to the funeral I accepted without a second thought. It was terrible. I don't really want to describe it in detail. Tara was absolutely broken. I'd murmured the usual condolences and she hadn't said a word, staring over my shoulder into the middle distance, her lip trembling. I'm not sure she even saw me, really. Outside the chapel I pulled Jo to one side. "Where's Giovanni?" I asked (Giovanni being Tara's husband). "No one knows. Some of his clothes and his passport have gone." "Oh shit. Just when she needs him most." "I don't think she's even really noticed he's gone." I made a momentous decision on the spur of the moment. "I'll look in on her for a few days. The house is almost sold and work's light at the moment. It's the least I could do." "I knew you would. Shame you can't be a bit of a bastard sometimes," Jo smiled and pecked me on the cheek then went to talk to Richard. Tara lived on the other side of London to me but at least I didn't need to go through the centre to get to hers. For the next week I'd leave after the rush hour and get to hers around midday. I always brought some food; Jo had warned me that Tara wasn't cooking for herself and barely eating. She was barely talking either, and she spent her time looking at nothing, breaking down. It hurt me desperately to see her like this; she was the fun one, the one with life and energy, and it had been ripped from her. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to help take that pain away. It's not nice being helpless, but I was. I would make some food and bring it to her. Sometimes she picked at it, other times she just left it. I fixed a few simple things around her house and garden, made sure the place was spotless and generally kept out of her way. She needed to grieve but I wasn't going to make her talk. To be honest I was scared at how strong her grief might be, and I was conscious that I wasn't strong enough to bear it. On the Friday of that week I arrived at her house and let myself in (Jo had given me a spare key). Tara was sitting in her living room with an album of baby photos spread out on the coffee table in front of her. Tears were flooding down her cheeks but she made no sound. I stopped, heart in my mouth, then told myself not to be such an arse. I forced myself over to her, sitting next to her on the sofa and putting my arm around her. She sank into my chest and began to wail. She wept for what felt like hours, sometimes bellowing or screeching as I held her. I've never seen such heartfelt loss and I pray that I never feel it myself. When she'd calmed a little I began to stroke her hair, letting her use me as a pillow for as long as she needed. She put her hands around me and held me, and we stayed that way for an age, until finally she pushed herself up, wiping the remains of her tears away with a little empty laugh. Then she got up and went into the kitchen as I stared at her wall and blinked back one of my own tears. She came back with a mug of tea for me and leant over to me. Just like a few years before her lips brushed my cheek and this time she murmured a sincere thank you. She disappeared upstairs after that and I didn't follow. Upstairs was somewhere I hadn't been invited, and really, what kind of sick fuck do you think I am to try to take advantage of a woman at that point in her life? We will get to the sex, ok? The next day I left for Prague and I soon slipped back into my old routine, satisfied that the glass was half-full. After a couple of days I got a really nice email from Jo, saying that I was a knight in shining armour and some other such guff, but a real thank you, nonetheless. It's nice to be appreciated. And a few months later I got an email from Tara, though I didn't expect or require one. She was still lost but she wanted me to know that I'd really helped her let the first of it out. She wouldn't forget that. I was really touched and we started to email each other quite often. I regaled her with stories of disastrous dates, and she told me how her life was moving on, now divorced, little by little. And within her emails, of course, she dispensed little words of wisdom, telling me that I should appreciate myself more for who I was. I packed up the drinking for a while. Tick-tock "Dominic's in hospital and it looks desperate," Jo told me over the phone, trying to keep her voice level." "Tell me." "His organs are giving out, the next twenty-four hours are critical, but there's a good chance he's going." I didn't know what to say. I was truly stunned. We were roughly the same age and there was Dominic dying. Not of some crazy accident or misbehaviour, but just because his body didn't want to work any more. His funeral later that month was very well attended. Most of the old gang were there, along with a lot people who'd been won over by his easy charm and basic decency. I was even asked to speak during the service, and I hope I did him justice, focussing on his energy and his inspiration. I held it together almost to the end but I knew what was coming, and when it hit, it hit like a hammer. One of the most well known features of Dominic was his constant driving with his stereo blasting. And I knew which song it would be. And then, as the curtains opened to reveal the empty plinth the first bars of 'Don't Fear the Reaper' kicked in. I was gone. Strings of snot tumbled out of my nose as I sobbed, wanting to fight it back but desperate to let it out. After a minute or two I felt an arm around me, comforting me. I accepted it and let myself cry for my best friend, the man who had (metaphorically) done his utmost to slap me out of the bad times and push me forward. He'd been the first one to tell me to go to Prague, telling me it would be the making of me. He was right, too. After a couple of minutes I started to pull myself together. "It's alright, honey, if you need to cry some more, go ahead," it was Tara's arm around me. I hadn't even seen her in the chapel and was surprised to see her now. She'd never been a particular friend of Dominic's and I don't think they'd seen each other for ten years. "I'm fine now, but thanks." I said, feeling that I'd gone through the wall; things would be better although I would always miss him. "I'm in Jo and Richard's car and there's space for one more if you want a lift to the wake," she said, and I nodded. We walked out of the empty chapel and you won't believe this, but I never noticed for one step that she was holding my hand the whole way. The wake was a riot as it always should be when a larger than life character is laid to rest. Having the wake in a hotel just outside London with an open pool was a stroke of genius, and I laughed like I hadn't in years as people started bombing each other and the hotel staff fidgeted. Whenever I caught Tara's eye I would smile and nod, and now I think about it, I was catching her eye a lot. But at that moment it was 'lads' o'clock' as we told tales of the improbable things Dominic got away with. Someone lit a *ahem* 'herbal' cigarette and that went round, along with the beer, the whisky, the vodka, the tequila... You get the picture. Personally, I lost the picture big time after a while. I woke up and turned, heaving, almost choking as the puke flowed out of me into a bucket someone had thoughtfully placed on the floor next to the sofa I found myself on. It hurt, and it had every right to. I had no memory of the end of the evening and I had no idea where I was. And at that moment I didn't care, praying for death, or at the least to be wrapped in cotton wool and carried to a comfortable nirvana. I lay still and controlled my breathing, cold sweats and trembles all over me, seriously hoping that the room wouldn't begin to spin. I heard bare feet behind me and Tara appeared, wrapped in a dressing gown. She gave me that feminine look which said 'men are twats when they're drunk' and disappeared. She was soon back with a glass of water, a couple of aspirin and two slices of dry toast. The toast looked evilly at me so I contented myself with the water and the aspirin. She stroked my forehead and went back upstairs, leaving me to sleep it off a bit more. Four Funerals It was early afternoon when she came downstairs again, and this time she was going to give me some tough love. "Sit up," she said, for all the world like a strict primary school teacher. I sat up, painfully and automatically. I found I was wearing my pants and nothing else. It occurred to me to look for my clothes but it was too much effort so I just wrapped the duvet around me. Tara looked at me and laughed. I looked dolefully back at her. "So ok, what happened?" I asked, fearing the worst. "Nothing much. You started gurgling and I could hardly let you try and get back across London on your own in that state." "I didn't try anything on, did I?" "No. You wouldn't," she said with a very strange look, "anyway, you could hardly raise a smile, let alone anything else." I rubbed my head and looked around, "I'd better get out of your way, I'm sure you've got better things to do than nurse a stinking hangover." "Well, something's stinking. The shower's at the top of the stairs on the right. You'll feel better for it. Your clothes are in the kitchen where you threw them." I did as I was told. It was just like taking medicine. I knew it would hurt and I knew it would work. That didn't make it any more pleasant, until I was toweling myself down and I could begin to think of moving without it hurting. I went downstairs to find the smell of cooking, and my stomach gave a lurch; I hadn't eaten all day the day before as I was too keyed up, and then too drunk. I walked into the kitchen and saw Tara. I mean, really saw her. For the first time in a long time I really looked at her. She was wearing an old summer dress and a pair of trainers, and her hair was tied back. It occurred to me that she'd kept her figure; her body was thirty-six going on twenty-five and I felt a little twitch. I didn't mind, either, or try to mask my expression as she looked up from the pasta she was flopping onto two plates. And I looked straight into those big baby blue eyes and realised that I hadn't seen them since we sat in a cellar bar at London Bridge; what had I done with my life when those eyes were just a phone call away? I relaxed as much as my pounding head would allow and bless her, she didn't insist on eating at the table. We flopped down on the sofa and I ate like a crazy man, making appreciative comments as I slurped (it must have been a charming sight, but I was beyond caring). She flicked on the TV and we spent the afternoon watching fluff, not really speaking and not needing to. She stretched out her legs across my lap as she played with her phone and I shuffled, making her comfortable. We stayed like that for half an hour then my phone beeped. I had to struggle to get it out of my trousers, and I tried not to disturb her while I did it. R u a twat?: It was Jo. Then another beep. No. I kno u r a twat: Jo again. My reply was succinct: ? I had to wait a little longer for the next beep. U r on a sofa with a hot chick who really likes u and u watch the TV. My reply was a little longer: ?! This time the reply was much quicker: Pathetic! Thank me later ;) I was still puzzled when I heard Tara's phone beep, and a moment later she pulled her feet off my lap and I felt her weight shift on the sofa. I turned to look at her only to find that she was just centimetres from me. I held her gaze for a second, and then she leant in and kissed me ever so softly. I was stunned. Happily stunned, and, of course, stupidly useless. She pulled back a little and looked at me seriously. "Oh for fuck's sake, just kiss me!" she said in a low voice as she leant in again. This time I did. At first it was only lips but that was only for seconds. Then I flicked my tongue against hers, enjoying her instant response. She shifted again and now she straddled me, sitting on me as she took my face in her hands, our mouths locked. My arms were around her waist and I explored her back with my hands. It felt like the most natural thing in the world and I stopped as the thought struck me, looking into her eyes again, this time with a question on my face. "For ages, now," Tara answered my unspoken question, "since you were the rock I could lean on. All those emails, and you really didn't get it, did you?" "But..." was all I could manage. Tara laughed and sighed all in the same moment, "you really need help. It's not a crime, you know?" And she bent towards me again, enveloping me in her kiss as the neurons worked at the speed of electricity in my head, handing me the answer in a gift-wrapped package tied up with a bow. Here was Tara, a women I had always found attractive, who had been the best female company I had ever had, who genuinely liked me and who I cared for deeply; wake up and smell the coffee. I thought it much faster than I can write it, and I acted for once, pulling her tight into me and letting my hands slip down to her butt. I grabbed a cheek in each hand and her breathing got heavier as I pulled at them. She moved against me and I felt my cock growing rapidly. Like a mug I was going to ask her if it was ok, but happily she pinned me back, continuing to kiss me as she rubbed her crotch against my bulge. Even a fool like me knew that this was the green light. I reached up to the straps of her summer dress and pulled them down, revealing her smallish breasts. As I kissed them she gasped and her fingers were in my hair now, massaging me in her passion. I ran my hands up her bare back, loving the feeling of her silky skin. I moved my hands around from her arse to her hips and started pushing her dress upwards. She breathed even more heavily, duskily, and then we were kissing again. A rogue thought made me wonder if I was her first since Giovanni but I shut that out right away. That kind of thought can be poison. I moved my hands back around to her cheeks, massaging them now as Tara rode my bulge. Fuck, it felt good! And then my cock almost ripped open my trousers it jerked so hard; my hands discovered she waasn't wearing panties.I'm pretty sure I growled, and I used my surge of adrenalin to lift her off me and put her down on her back on the sofa in one swift movement. I was on my feet and my shirt was off as fast as I could pull the buttons open. I struggled out of my trousers and pants (and was pleased I wasn't wearing socks). All the while I was looking at her, her body, of course, but her eyes as well and they were on fire. Matching me, really. I stood naked over her, my cock looking bigger than I ever remembered. And then a fraction of a second of doubt assailed me. Not stupid doubt, but greedy doubt. There were so many things I wanted to do to that gorgeous body that I seriously didn't know where to start. Tara solved the problem by letting her legs fall open a little and before I knew it I was with her, lying entwined with her on sofa. We kissed deeply as we moved against each other, no words now, just gasps and our breathing. I let my hand trail down between her breasts and across her stomach, then brushed against her pussy, enjoying her deep exhalation of breath. Then I touched her again, circling my finger at her wet entrance. She bit my shoulder. I rubbed my finger along her lips, loving the feel of them parting for me as Tara moaned. She got wetter as I touched her, feeling her flood, her moans insistent now. I didn't want to stop but I wanted to be inside her so much. Once again Tara solved my dilemma, grabbing my hair and part of my ear, staring at me like a mad woman. "Fuck. Me. Now," not an order but an expression of need, and I wasn't about to deny her. I moved gently on to her, suddenly slower, more careful, The nagging little thought about Giovanni reappeared but this time I used it to my advantage, deciding to be patient for a little, to go at her speed. She gasped loudly as I pushed my head into her, waiting and feeling her around me. She looked me directly in the eyes, then kissed me savagely. I pushed myself deeper into her and her lips broke away from mine as she let out a gutteral moan. I pushed hard, one last time, and I was there, encased, hot breath in my ear as I pulled back and pushed again. Her head fell back and she moaned again. Kissing her neck I began to fuck her properly, building my speed as those glorious feelings radiated down my cock. I was going to come hard in this beautiful woman who was bucking her hips into me, starting to moan very loudly and shake against my body. That was too much for me and I was groaning, spasming, jerking my come into her. We held each other tightly as we came down, then I rolled to let her lie on my chest. We were silent but our hands moved, caressing and holding, marvelling that we were together, here, in this place. "Oh shit, condom!" I said, breaking the silence and breaking the mood. "When was your last time unprotected?" I looked a little shy. "Look, I don't you're not the Don Juan of the Czech Republic, ok? I read the emails you send me. How long?" "Never there. Not since my ex." "My poor honey. Well, it's two years and two months for me. I guess we'll be fine." "Yeah, but it's not just that, What if....?" "I get pregnant? I wouldn't mind too much," "Whoah! Let's walk before we're running," I was shocked. She looked at me and laughed, stroking my chest. "Tell you what, then, we'll run upstairs and I'll give you a blow job. No need for condoms then" I think I beat her up the stairs. Tick... The next day I took her to my favourite London place if I have a girl with me: Alexandra Palace. The view over the city is unparalled and it took her breath away even though I knew she'd seen it plenty of times before. Maybe she was looking at it anew. We talked about every inconsequential thing we could, laughing, kissing, hugging. But we never talked about the thing that was bursting across the forefront of our minds, until finally Tara had to. "Are you going to bring over some clothes tomorrow? Those are getting a bit lived in." "Well, yeah, I need to get back. I have to pack," there it was. A parting of the ways. "Pack?" "The house has to be empty by Wednesday morning. That's when we exchange." "What then?" "Back to Prague, I guess." She was suddenly cold, pulling away from me, bewildering me; we'd been wrapped in each others' arms until then. I tried to see what was wrong, but she wouldn't look at me, and after a second she was stomping away, down the hill. I took a step to run after her and she heard me. "FUCK OFF!" she screamed in my face, her expression contorted and tears tumbled down her cheeks. She turned and ran, leaving me standing with my jaw hitting the floor. It got dark as I stayed up there, sitting on a bench with my head in my hands. I'd no idea what I'd done, but I'd blown it, as usual. Finally my phone rang, Jo again. "What the fuck have you done?" not even a 'hello'. "No idea," miserable. "Didn't think you'd know. You realise she thinks she's just a one night stand. You'll jet off and forget her now you've got what you want. It isn't a one night stand, is it?" "No... no, well, I don't know," I'd learnt to be wary of saying it. "Do you want it to be more?" Jo asked with well worn exasperation, as if talking to the hard of thinking. I didn't answer, and Jo sighed. "Ok. We've all put up with this long enough. As far as she's concerned you're about the finest bloke out there. You really don't have a clue how much you mean to her so I'll have to make it clear; provided you don't fuck up she is absolutely, one hundred percent yours. You don't need to think, you just need to do.She's been talking about you for ages, and she hasn't talked about any man for a long time. Giovanni really hurt her, disappearing like that, and then you come along, all Sir Galahad, and she can believe that a man is worth trusting. Not to mention that she's always fancied you a bit, anyway. She's just spent a day doing everything she can to show you what she feels about you.And then, because you are a hopeless fuck-head, you tell her you're disappearing off just like..." I hung up because I was running, down the hill to the station where I hoped there'd be a taxi. I might have been crying. She melted into me when she opened the door and saw me, her anger vanished but tear lines still apparent. "I didn't mean..." I managed before she kissed me, pulling me into her house. I pulled away for a second. "Ok, but tomorrow you've got to help me sort my house out," and I slammed her front door shut with my heel. ...tock. We're taking it slow, fending off Jo's insistent hints about weddings. Both of us are divorced and we still carry the scars, though she's lost far more than me. We split our time between London and Prague, and I'm hopeful that I'll persuade her to move. But if she decides against it I'll move to London in a shot. Jo finally told me what she wrote in the text she sent to Tara that afternoon. Three simple words: Go for it! She got a big bunch of flowers for that one.