We face a monster far more sinister
than that of any fictitious creation
Autumn Leaves
There is a place in my heart for Camilla. A place where a white castle shades a rustic orchid. She is my medieval princess, and I her gallant knight, passionately coming to her under a romantic cover of heavenly stars ...
By day, and in stark contrast of modern-day reality, Camilla was a librarian, an English rose, effortlessly rising above the modern jargon of mass literary destruction.
I savoured the hour for lunch, escaping the bland tang of the city office for Camilla's index of palatable contents. But tomorrow I wasn’t going to Manderley as one-third of Dumas’ dashing Musketeers. I would be here taking refuge in my local library, tie and suited, phone and vocals muted. For the silent aisles of sagas, tyrannies and celebrity yarns were not the place to serve my anthology of classic chat-up lines upon the beautiful mind of this all woman.
My father had won the affections of my mother by dedicated persistence, sending roses by the dozen, and bumping into her accidentally-on-purpose. Today, he would be arrested for stalking. I wanted my face on her pillow, not the front page of the local newspaper!
I had spoken to Camilla only as a bookworm. Oh, and once as I passed her in the Street: I turned the corner and there she was:
“Fancy seeing you here,” I said.
She smiled.
The hours dragged their feet through many a damp weekend. Monday lunchtimes in the presence of Camilla seemed an eternity away. My resilient mind had surrendered to the power called love and there was nothing I could do about it. Everything beautiful had become an effigy of her beautiful everything.
I paced the room, ditching Hendrix for Streisand, then took a stroll in the park.
It was late Autumn; breathtakingly fresh and charmingly warm, and just like Camilla, rejuvenatingly pure. It was her.
No! It really was her! There she was, sitting pretty in the park, dazing into a space which I dearly wished I could fill.
I walked towards her, still unnoticed. The stage was set. The Council had taken away the romantic touch of fallen leaves but the backdrop was otherwise perfect. All was perfect, but for my thoughts of opening lines fleeing the scene with every nearing step.
She looked towards me and smiled: a picture my wallet would have gave its leather skin for. I took a deep breath and struck a deal with God.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ I said. My voice was suddenly a higher pitch, but at least I didn't stumble over my words.
‘I live across the road,’ she replied. ‘I have a perfect view of here from my apartment window.’
‘Ah, a modern day Rapunzal, no less.’
‘Please,’ she laughed. ‘Would you sit with me?’
She didn’t besot me with her long dark curls, bedazzling brown eyes, feminine poise and perfect form. No ... Okay, I may have taken my books back late to be purposely fined, enjoying every moment in the presence of her divine beauty, but yes, I was besotted.
I sat down beside her.
The pigeons broke a silence in which I pictured us: Male, thirty-two. Female, mid-twenties. Cosy nights in, fun nights out, and definitely more.
‘Do you read much,’ I asked, a librarian?
‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘I’m a soft touch for a Medieval Romance.’
She crossed her legs in a fine show of flirtatious dignity, aware as I that the hem of her dress had risen to the dizzy heights of her firm, lilly-white thigh.
‘You’re not quite the impression one would have of a librarian, if you don’t mind me saying so ... I mean, don’t get me wrong, librarians are attractive people, like traffic wardens and policewomen ... or is it the uniform that does it for them?’
I had blown it! Here was I talking to the woman of my dreams about women in uniforms.
‘Carry on,’ she chuckled. ‘You make me laugh.’
Good news unless she had a thing for a woman in uniform. Mind you, I could live with that.
Our nerves had left us as everything I had dreamt we could be: Stimulating conversation and shared laughter, only brought to end by the opening of swiftly gathering clouds.
We stood there for a moment. Both with a smile. Eyes not parting. The rain soaking us to the skin.
‘We must meet again,’ she said, taking the words straight from my mouth. We exchanged telephone numbers, instantly promoting my detestable mobile phone to best friend and the promise of a fifty quid top-up.
I had great expectations but none greater than to claim this woman’s heart. 'I'll call you sometime,' I said with confidence.
'No.'
I froze.
'Call me Camilla!'
Call me impatient but I called her that evening, unable to endure another moment without, at least, hearing her refined vocal:
‘Hello?’
It was her. This was it. ‘Oh, um. Hello. Uh...’
‘Sorry,’ she spoke. ‘If it’s a policewoman you want, you’ll have to call 999. Or if it’s just the uniform that interests you then perhaps a traffic warden on an 0898 number might be more ... satisfying.’
‘No, no. A librarian will be just fine, thank you ... I was wondering if you and I could...’
‘I have to wash my hair,’ she replied ... Had the mention of Rapunzel gone to her head? Or was it plain old rejection. ‘Hello? Are you still there?
I was gutted. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around, then,’ I uttered.
‘No,’ she chuckled. ‘I’ve got to wash my hair for you. You were going to ask me out, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Yes. How does an Italian sound?’
‘E compressa la colazione?’
I loved a woman with a sense of humour, but one hour to make myself presentable and meet her outside?
Thankfully, the thought of her sitting opposite me, sucking long lengths of spaghetti to the sound of a Sicilian guitar sent me into overdrive, as well as inciting a riot of butterflies in my rumbling stomach.
I waited outside the restaurant, hoping my shirt was not too clubby; my trousers not too casual, and my shoes? My shoes were unpolished! Using the back of my trousers I rubbed like mad, hopping on one foot.
‘You never told me you could Riverdance?’
I turned around and there she was, a vision of sensual passion. Her flowing ringlets repaid the smouldering touch of her darkened lashes. Her curvaceous slender braved the cold evening in just a little black dress.
‘Good evening, madam.’ I bowed. ‘Shall we?’
Unperturbed by the tall, dark, Italian waiters, and Adonis who offered her a table for one, I ordered a Spanish wine and a quiet table for deux!
It was how I had imagined it – the spaghetti thing? Although, I was quite taken back by her suggestion that we each take an end and meet in the middle. It was quite the thing, except I couldn’t help but carry-on sucking when we did meet in the middle.
I asked her back for coffee and a little Classical:
‘A good choice,’ she smiled as I moved towards her. My intentions enticed by her suggestive glance towards the open door of my bedroom: The four-poster bed, draped in muslin, a welcome distraction.
‘What was that Italian thing you said on the phone?’ I asked.
She peeled off her dress and entered my lair. ‘I asked if breakfast was included,’ she translated.
I tore off my clothes, hot on the trail of her white lace smalls. Our bodies finally met to the enchanting sound of the Butterfly Suite.
‘Thank you for the evening,’ I whispered, sensitive to her every persuasive caress.
‘Thank you, my prince,’ she purred as our nocturnal activity intensified to a sensuous night of deep-felt lust.
And compressa? (breakfast) ... Traditionally English, fried bread an
d all.
We began to meet for lunch. The once intolerable frenzy of chic bistros had become a window to proudly show-off my new-found love.
Christmas was upon us before we knew it. We cooked together, washed-up together, even slipped upstairs before the Queen’s speech together. And I thank the moving second verse of Auld Lang Syne and the bottle of house red for bringing me to my knees:
Camilla returned a book entitled Preparing for the Big Day, along with mine: Coping with an Interfering Old Bat of a Mother-in-law (Camilla aside, nothing was perfect).
Our wedding day was a day I’ll always remember. Her father, proud as I, walked her down the aisle.
We were man and wife. I could hardly believe it.
Our second Christmas brought us a joint present, to each other: Eight pounds and four perfect ounces of miniature Camilla ... from the same exquisite nose to the elegant fingers of her delicate hands ... and with an extra good start in life: absent of my oversized demijohn ears and ski-jump nose. Mind you, my most oversized characteristic did play a large part in our baby Emile’s existence, I must add.
Our third Christmas was …
… was …
… only our third, for Christ’s sake!
... and our last together.
Snow had fallen for the first time in years. Emile chuckled as I threw snowballs at her adorable mother ... Her adorable mum ... who had been slightly vacant since her recent visit to the family doctor.
She held out her arms and began to cry, unable to hide the truth for another day. I knew then that Santa had brought our family an offering from the depths of Hell ... whose capital C had taken so many lives and affected even more.
I embraced her with devout love, looking to the heavens with bitter anger and total disbelief.
My dearest Camilla, loving wife and doting mother. You fought the boundaries of pain to lift your weary head and kiss us goodbye.
Wait for me, for I will find you again, under the cover of heavenly stars, where a white castle shades a rustic orchid.
For now, I break from this world of limbo, to spend many happy years with our daughter, Emile.
*