Tag Archives: Togetherness

A Serenade – Part V of VI

Four days later he was back in his own bed. I hadn’t left the hospital at all since he was admitted, mainly because I wanted to be around him “in case” but also because I wasn’t ready to go back to the house by myself. When he’d got the all clear, I helped him up the stairs and into bed.

‘Don’t you think I’ve spent enough time in bed this week?’

‘You need to rest. What would you like for dinner?’

‘Please, let me at least help,’ he pleaded. ‘Bed is boring unless you’re in it,’ he added, grabbed hold of me and pulled me down to him. I knelt down on either side of his hip and leaned down to kiss him, without putting pressure on his chest. He cupped my arse with his hands before letting his hands run down my back.

‘You literally died this week, don’t you think you should allow yourself some time to recover?’ He unbuttoned my jeans and forced them over my hips. ‘No?’


I sat up and unbuttoned my shirt. I knew that I probably shouldn’t give in – but considering he’d last stopped breathing when he was sleeping, I figured it wasn’t possible to calculate when it would happen next. Besides, he had been cleared for physical activity and even been recommended a certain amount of it. “Less than 1% of heart attacks happen during sex”, his doctor had said while looking at me.

The look on Alfredo’s face had been priceless as he just smiled heartily.

He flipped me onto my back and put his mouth on my naked skin. I pulled his t-shirt over his head and observed his physique; his tanned skin, his broad shoulders, his barrel chest, his curls… We took a moment to get rid of the rest of our clothes and I shifted him onto his back.

‘You don’t want to overdo it,’ I explained. ‘So just lie back, relax and let me do all the work.’

An hour later I was preparing fish and rice while Alfredo sat in a chair and kept me company. It was a compromise. He wanted to do all the cooking, I said he should learn to accept my help, he agreed as long as he could cut onions and herbs – I said “OK” as long as he sat down while doing it. I was about to finish up the sauce when the phone rang. Alfredo reached behind him and picked it up off the wall.

‘Cocozza residence, to whom am I speaking? Hold on a moment.’ He put the receiver against his chest and waved me over. ‘It’s Michael asking if this is where Maria Johnson lives. Is it?’

I was expecting to feel anxious or nervous, but instead I just nodded, pressed the loud speaker button on the base of the phone and rolled my eyes. ‘Hello?’

‘Was that him? Was that the senior citizen you’re shacking up with?’ His voice was high-pitched, confronting and slurring. ‘Yes, that’s right, Nadine told me she’d met this charmer  in Hyde Park. I can’t believe you’ve moved on so fucking quickly!’

‘How is any of this your concern?’

‘You were my girlfriend for six years! That’s why it’s my concern!’

Were being the operative word. You engaged in a game of horizontal tandem yoga with my best friend and I moved on. I think we’re even. How did you find me?’

‘Nadine said you lived in Lennox Gardens so I’ve called around. I didn’t know you had daddy issues! How does it feel to fuck a geriatric?’

Alfredo snorted his water through his nose in amusement at the question.

‘I don’t and it feels outstanding. Was there anything else you wanted?’ Michael had nothing to add, just grunted, huffed and puffed. He had never been good with confrontations unless it contained screaming, shouting and swearing. ‘Goodbye, Mike.’

I hung up and went back to stirring the sauce. ‘What a prat.’

‘I’d say you handled that with dignity, but he does sound like a bit of a…’

‘Dickhead?’ I helped.

‘I was going to say “immature child” but I like yours better.’

‘Can you believe he’s called all of Lennox Gardens to find me? How sad is that?’

‘I can’t believe he asked what it’s like to, and I quote, “fuck a geriatric”,’ Alfredo chuckled. ‘Besides, I’m not officially geriatric until I’m 65. In another year.’

I laughed out loud at the bizarreness of it. ‘I love you. Geriatric or not.’

‘I love you, too. Even though you’re young,’ he winked.

I served up the food and moved us into the dining room. He looked like he wanted to say something, but that he changed his mind every time he was about to confess.

‘By the way, I’ve got an appointment in the morning that you don’t have to come to. It’s just ten minutes away so I’ll be fine.’

By “don’t have to” he meant “I don’t want you to come to” so I just confirmed – but that I expected him to have someone call me if something did happen. This was long before everyone had mobile phones in their pockets so it wasn’t a case of sending a message if something went wrong. He looked mildly excited, so I just figured I’d leave him to it and hope for the best.

The morning after he’d somehow managed to get out of bed and out of the house before I’d even woken up. He left a note on the mirror saying: “Don’t worry, I’ll be back by 11.” I looked at my watch and was even more surprised that it was 10:15. Then again, I hadn’t slept much in the past few days, so I probably needed to catch up. I got ready and found another note in the kitchen: “Open the oven.” Inside the oven was a frying pan with scrambled eggs and bacon that I could just put on the stove and reheat. It was still lukewarm, as was the water in the kettle, so he couldn’t have been gone too long. I was beginning to get curious about what he was doing out by himself that I couldn’t possibly go along to.

Five past eleven I heard him coming through the front door. I came to greet him and he had his winter coat and trilby hat on, looking handsome as usual.

‘Would you mind going into the drawing room and I’ll join you in a mere moment?’

I went in and stood by the window, where we’d finally given in to our desires for the first time, and just waited. It took him a few minutes, but when he came through the door I turned around and found him holding a red rose in his hand. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit and had dyed his hair back to its original black, his face was clean shaven, a combination that made him look like he was in his 40s. He came over and handed me the rose, and I could feel myself tearing up, even before he spoke. He planted a soft kiss on my mouth before taking both my hands in his.

‘I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life without you. I’m so grateful that we met, even under these circumstances. You’ve changed my whole existence and I wish I could give you the world, but I this ring was all I could afford,’ he said with a smile before kneeling down before me. ‘Maria Johnson… will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

I sobbed a reply that sounded something like “yes” and he put a beautiful ring on my finger. It was in white gold with half a dozen small diamonds in it. Tasteful and classic. It was perfect.


A Serenade – Part IV of VI

After the first night we gave in to our desires, I had pretty much moved into his bedroom. As we got more and more comfortable with one another, the more it intensified and the more I worried about accidentally killing him. I started seeing headlines like, “Older gentleman shagged to death by woman half his age” and when I shared my concerns with him he laughed and said, “There are worse ways to die.” He seemed to do well, better even, suffering fewer blackouts – and couldn’t get enough of me. I, too, found myself in a state of constantly being turned on for as long as he was near me.

‘Don’t you think we act a bit like teenagers?’ I asked as I slid off the dining room table.

‘Completely. Isn’t it great? I haven’t had this much fun since…’ he paused. ‘I don’t even know. I feel like I’ve been in a coma for twenty years.’

“Older gentleman shagged back to life” did sound a lot less depressing than my initial headline.

I had been living under his roof for about three months when the inevitable happened: We ran into someone I knew. We had just exited Hyde Park when Nadine, one of my childhood friends, suddenly stood in front of us – literally gawking as she was clearly trying to recover from the view of me kissing him.

‘Maria?’ she squeaked and hugged me. ‘Who’s your… friend?’

‘This is Alfredo. Alfredo, this is Nadine.’

‘Pleasure,’ he smiled and met her hand with his. She looked at him in disbelief at first, then I could literally see the change in her face as soon as he made eye-contact with her and held her gaze as he briefly planted a kiss on her hand.

‘No, really, it’s all mine,’ she giggled. Her giggling was as surprising as John Wayne dancing. She was one of the most cerebral people I knew, and handled every situation with absolute control. Was she actually blushing?

‘It’s about time we met,’ he added, even though I’d never mentioned her to him.

‘It is,’ she beamed. ‘Where are you heading?’

‘Home,’ I said, even though she didn’t take her eyes off him.

‘Where is home?’

‘Over in Lennox Gardens.’

‘We should meet, soon, for coffee. We need to… catch up. Clearly.’

‘Clearly… I’ll call you.’

She continued into the park and we made our way across the road and towards Knightsbridge high street. I was still amused at her reaction and pleasantly surprised at his ability to take charge of the situation.

‘Are you close?’ he eventually asked.

‘She’s my childhood friend and close with my ex boyfriend’s sister. And my ex… kind of.’

‘Ooooh, I see. So this is obviously going to get back to him. Does that bother you?’

‘She’s the reason why we broke up, given that she had been sleeping with him for four months by the time I caught them in my bed. Such a boring, classic tale.’

‘You never told me this. What a douche.’

‘Have you ever cheated?’

‘I have. When I was married, thirty years ago.’

‘When did you get married?’

‘In 1945, when I was 24,’ he said and immediately chuckled. ‘My God, that makes me sound ancient. So… how do you really feel about your ex finding out you’re shacking up with a dinosaur?’

‘I really don’t care,’ I laughed. ‘Seriously. He was an immature child and couldn’t fuck worth of damn. If you’ll excuse my French.’

‘No problem,’ he chuckled. ‘It sounds like she did you a favour.’

‘True. If she hadn’t betrayed me, then I would never have been homeless and desperate and probably wouldn’t have applied to be a live-in PA.’

‘We should send her a bottle of wine, really.’

We looked at each other in amusement as we walked along in silence. How did I feel about Nadine telling Michael? Considering how she had reacted to him, I guessed that he would be getting good reviews – in addition to “oh, and he’s kind of old”. I also knew that Nadine’s mother spoke to my mother on a regular basis, so how fast the news travelled would become apparent as soon as I heard from her. She and I weren’t close, so she didn’t really know what I was up to, but I was almost certain she’d heard that Michael and I had broken up. We just had the kind of relationship where we didn’t speak more than we had to. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, birthdays and Christmas seemed to cover both our needs sufficiently.

Outside the brownstone he suddenly bent over, clutched his chest and grunted.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked as calmly as I could bring myself to be, as I touched his back and managed to sit him down.

‘Angina,’ he wheezed. ‘It’s going to be OK, I just need my…’ He pointed to his pocket and I fished out his beta blockers. He took two and tried to catch his breath.

‘Are you sure this will be OK? Should I call an ambulance?’

‘Don’t worry, just give me five minutes.’

Fifteen minutes later we were still sitting there, but he had stopped sweating and was finally breathing normally. I was trying hard not to show that I was scared out of my mind every time he had an episode, but I realised that I’d failed when he looked at me and said “sorry”.

‘What for?’

‘For putting you through this. It’s not fair on you that I’m being selfish.’

‘How are you being selfish, exactly?’

‘I’m indulging in feelings of love, passion and lust, when I should be telling you to find a healthy man your own age.’

‘But you’re not really that patronising… are you?’ I snapped.

He touched my cheek and took a deep breath. ‘No, I’m not. But I love you. For what it’s worth.’

‘I love you, too. For what that’s worth.’

I wrapped both my arms around him and rested my chin on his shoulder. He leaned in and planted a kiss on my mouth before embracing me fully and letting the aforementioned passion take over. We didn’t stop until we heard someone demonstrably clearing their throat. We must have looked guilty as charged when we looked up, because Mrs Connelly – his housekeeper – went from looking stern to offering a beaming smile.

‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘I did suspect.’

We sheepishly followed her up the stairs to the 4th floor and went through to his bedroom, where she usually cleaned last. Both to not be in her way and to give him a chance to rest. We left the door wide open so that she wouldn’t think we were up to anything, and lay down on top of the covers – him on his back and me on my side, resting my head on his shoulder.

‘What do you think your parents would say to this?’

‘Oh, I’m not sure they’d care a whole lot, to be honest. They never got involved in any of my other relationships, so why should they get involved in this one?’

‘What would you like them to think?’

‘I’d like them to acknowledge my right to choose whomever I want to be happy with.’

‘Good answer. Good answer…’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Tired. But nothing a little rest won’t take care of.’

I put my hand on his chest and felt his heart. It was beating calmly as he drifted off to sleep. I closed my eyes and listened to his breath as I almost drifted off to the land of dreams. Suddenly I noticed that my hand was no longer moving along with his chest and his breath was silent. I immediately removed the pillow from underneath his head, knelt next to him and started performing CPR as I screamed for Mrs Connolly. She came running and as soon as she saw what I was doing, she dialled 999. I bent his head backwards and gave him mouth to mouth, then started counting out loud.

‘One-two-three-four-five-breathe… one-two-three-four-five-breathe…’

‘They got in touch with an ambulance that’s right around the corner,’ she informed me calmly, even though her voice was shaking. ‘They were in Holland Park when I called.’

‘One-two-three-four-five-breathe… one-two-three-four-five-breathe…’

I knew what to do because I’d had a one-on-one with a doctor in the hall when I was waiting for him to get his lip fixed. “Pump hard down on his chest, two fingers up from his breast bone, five times, then breathe once into his mouth. Make sure his neck is bent backwards so the airways are clear and straight” was the message. I felt surprisingly calm and collected, until the sound of him gasping for air filled the room. As he took the first breath, his torso elevated from the mattress before he collapsed back once he’d been able to take a second breath. This was the point when my eyes filled with tears and I started sobbing audibly. He opened his eyes and looked at me, mouthing a “sorry” as the ambulance crew burst through the door and gently removed me.

‘You did good work here,’ said the most senior of the three as he put an oxygen mask on him and shone a flashlight into his eyes, which was met with some dissatisfied grunting. ‘We need to take him in for further testing, but I don’t think there’s brain damage here. I understand you started CPR straight away?’

‘Yes,’ I said as I was trying to compose myself. ‘I noticed that he stopped breathing.’

‘You should come with us,’ he said as he stepped aside to allow the other two to put Alfredo on a stretcher and take him out of the room. ‘You did well,’ he repeated as he touched my shoulder. ‘You saved his life. OK? You did well.’

I told Mrs Connelly that I’d call her from the hospital as soon as I knew what was going on. She cried controlled and dignified, as a lady her age would. I ran down the stairs and into the back of the ambulance with the same crew member that had attempted to calm me down. Alfredo was awake, but still being given oxygen. He held my hand with a firm grip and didn’t stop looking into my eyes for as long as the car was moving. Once we arrived at the hospital I was told to wait until they came to get me after he’d seen a doctor that was already waiting.

It was a long half an hour where I had a million thoughts going through my head. I found myself by the coffee machine, clearly looking distraught because a man my age came over and put his hand on my shoulder.

‘Are you OK?’

‘No… Yes… I’m OK, but he’s… he… his heart….’ I sobbed and was embraced by the stranger in front of me. He stroked my back and just held me. I let every possible scenario run through my head, every dark thought that I’d kept at bay for months was in free flow and seemed never ending. I played the scene of me pumping away at his chest over and over again. Then I thought of his eyes as he clutched my hand in the ambulance and took a step away. My mascara was running down my face, making my eyes sting. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Here,’ he said and gave me a handkerchief. ‘Take it.’

I dried my face, completely ruining the piece of cloth with make-up. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise.’

‘I guess that’ll be the last time you’ll ever ask a woman how she, huh?’

He smiled. ‘Are you Maria?’


‘I’m Marcus, Laura’s son. Laura Connelly. She called me when you went to the hospital and asked me to come over. She was worried about you. Him, too, of course, but at least he’s being looked after.’

‘Mrs Cocozza?’ I heard behind me and turned around to see an elderly doctor smiling at me. ‘Your husband is doing well, under the circumstances. You saved his life.’ Once more I broke down and had to be comforted by Marcus. They both stood patiently while I cried it out once more and just nodded. ‘You can see him now.’

He took me to Alfredo’s room and let me go in by myself. Marcus had clearly decided to stay in the waiting room, giving me a chance to be alone with him. He was hooked up to various machines and a drip. He looked spent but smiled heartily when he saw me.

‘My husband?’ I chuckled as I dried a tear.

‘I’m on morphine, I don’t know what I’m saying,’ he said and winked.

‘I thought you’d been brain damaged there for a minute,’ I joked.

‘I’m laughing on the inside,’ he smiled and reached out his hand. I took it and sat down on the edge of his bed. ‘I love you. You’ve saved my life in more ways than one. Will you marry me?’

‘Of course I will,’ I confirmed and leaned in to kiss him. ‘But make sure you ask me again when you’re off the morphine.’

‘Of course I will. Come lie on my arm.’ He moved over slightly and I climbed onto the bed, resuming the position we’d had before his heart stopped.

‘Do they know what happened?’

‘I have blood poisoning so they’ve put me on antibiotics intravenously, as well as morphine, but I should be home in a few days. You impressed the ambulance crew and the doctor.’

‘I had to try,’ I said as I felt a fresh flood of tears running down my face for the third time in ten minutes. ‘I can’t lose you.’ I heard my voice cracking as I said it.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated and he kissed my forehead, tightening the grip around my back and shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry.’


A Serenade – Part III of VI

After we got back from Rome, he was lost in thought for quite a while. He retired to his room more, didn’t talk a whole lot during our walks… He was pleasant, as always, just distant. He didn’t seem down or depressed, just that going to Rome had clearly made him think. It was about three weeks later, as we were walking along in Hyde Park, when he had a sudden loss of consciousness and fell flat on his face. He came to again within a few moments, bleeding rather excessively from his face. At first I thought he’d broken his nose but when I’d taken my shirt off to prevent his suit from getting stained, it turned out to be his lip. It had split about an inch up towards his nose on the left side of his face.

One taxi ride later, I stood in the hospital’s waiting room, gnawing at what was left of my thumb nail. Needless to say, I felt incredibly guilty. Had I paid better attention, then I would have noticed him tripping and falling, possibly being able to prevent him having to go through surgery that had absolutely nothing to do with his heart condition. Finally, a doctor came out to see me.

‘He says you don’t have to wait around, that he’ll take a taxi home when he’s done.’

‘So he’s OK?’

‘He’s perfectly fine, we’re just waiting for our plastic surgeon to come in. His shift starts in an  hour.’

‘Plastic surgeon? Is it really that bad?’

‘We just want to make sure it heals as nicely as possible, considering it’s his face. It won’t be more than five stitches or so. He should be good as new by this evening. Don’t worry,’ he added as he touched my shoulder. ‘He insists that you go home and change your clothes so the blood doesn’t stain them permanently. No buts. Those were his words.’

I chuckled. ‘Tell him that I’m touched by his concern for my clothes, but that I’m not going anywhere.’

The doctor just nodded and walked back to where he came from. I got myself a magazine and a cup of coffee and made myself comfortable. I had to occupy myself with something, otherwise I would keep having images in my head about blood gushing from his upper lip and hideous scarring – accompanied by a blinking neon sign saying “MARIA’S FAULT”. I read about Charles and Diana’s trip to the US and their gala dinner hosted by President Reagan that included guests like Clint Eastwood, John Travolta, Tom Selleck and Neil Diamond; about Reagan and Gorbachev holding their first summit meeting and somewhere in the middle of reading about a coach crash on the M6 motorway near Birmingham that killed two people and injured 51, I must have fallen asleep. I only came to when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

When I opened my eyes, Alfredo was standing next to me.

‘Hello there, Sleeping Beauty,’ he said smoothly. I looked up to see what the surgeon had been able to do, but my attention was immediately drawn to the fact that he was completely clean shaven. My jaw must have visibly dropped because he reacted immediately.

‘I know, I was surprised too. I haven’t shaved for nearly thirty years.’

‘You look… you look so…’


‘So handsome!’ I heard myself blurt out. When he smiled vaguely at my reaction, my statement was even more true. He had a chin cleft, a slightly pointy chin, visible dimples and surprisingly smooth skin. When I finally got to his lip, I stood up and counted seven stitches. ‘The doctor only said you needed five.’

‘The surgeon wanted to do smaller stitches so the scarring will be minimal.’

‘It looks neat. Swollen, but… you look twenty years younger.’

‘Thank you, my dear. You’re being too sweet.’

We made our way out of the hospital and into a waiting taxi. I couldn’t stop looking at him. He had a much stronger jawline than I’d thought and his battle scar made him look rugged. I’d always guessed that he’d been a looker as a young man, but I was still blown away. He looked like he could have been a star in those classic movies from the 40s and 50s.

We arrived back at the house and he vanished into his room to change his blood stained clothes. He handed me his shirt when he came back out and I said I was going out for twenty minutes to drop it all off at the local drycleaner. As soon as I’d reached street level, I realised that I’d forgotten my purse, so I had to go back up to fetch it. I locked myself back in and was about to go to my room when I heard singing coming from the drawing room. At first I thought it was a recording but then I heard Alfredo clear his throat, which paused the singing, only to resume moments later. I put my ear against the door and just listened.

The voice was surprisingly rich, like a merging of chocolate and velvet, as well as full of emotion. He was crooning like Sinatra but with the strength of an opera singer. When the song was over, I heard his footsteps against the hard, wooden surface approaching the door. I was so stunned that I couldn’t seem to move fast enough, but somehow managed to slide across the hall, onto the stairs in an attempt to make it look like I was descending the stairs. Our eyes met as he exited the room and saw me. At first he looked like he’d been caught shoplifting, but then just looked at me – probably wondering if I’d heard what I had, in fact, heard.

‘I…’ I started. ‘I forgot my pur…’ I paused as I realised I was seemingly coming down from fetching the purse I’d forgotten – that was, in fact, still upstairs.

‘OK,’ he said, his eyes smiling with amusement. I wasn’t sure if he’d been trying to hide his obvious talent, considering I’d never even heard hints of it until he thought I was out of the house. I didn’t say anything else, just ran up the stairs and back out with the clothes under my arm.

Upon my return he was nowhere to be seen, so I went into the drawing room. As I was lingering by the window I could still hear his voice in my head, the melody, the emotion…

‘It’s a serenade,’ I heard him say behind me.

‘Sing it again,’ I pleaded, still with my back against him. ‘Please.’

Then I heard his voice again. The song was in English, performed almost like a lullaby. As before there was no accompaniment, just his voice surrounded by the silence of the room. I got chills as I realised he was walking slowly towards me, ending the last note alongside my cheek as he wrapped his arms about my waist, just under my bust line. I was waiting for him to walk away, or to apologise for the intrusion – but this time he didn’t. Instead he brushed his smooth skin up against my neck and slowly turned me around to face him. Before I had a chance to react, he slid both arms tightly around me and brushed his full lips against mine. I put my arms around him and leaned my chest against his as we melted together in a sensuous yet passionate kiss. I was momentarily worried about the stitches in his lip, but let my worries go when the energy between us intensified and he pushed me up against the window sill. My head was spinning and my senses heightened, leaving me with chills going down my spine every time his hands travelled up and down my back. Eventually he moved his mouth to my neck, embraced me tighter and sighed.

‘I’m done apologising,’ he whispered as he leaned back, looking directly at me. ‘I’m not sorry.’

‘Neither am I,’ I sighed as I felt my lips pulsating.

‘I haven’t felt like this in a really long time… I don’t want to be presumptuous, but I worry that it’s too much to ask of you to get involved with someone in my situation.’

‘What situation would that be?’

‘I’m not exactly in the prime of youth and in amazing health. I could…’

‘Don’t…’ I said and put my hand over his mouth. I didn’t want him to say the word we both knew was a possibility. To make sure the conversation didn’t continue down the same path, I once more met his eager mouth. When I took a step back he looked at his watch.

‘I’ll make dinner,’ he said and offered me his elbow.

‘How is your lip?’ I inquired as we made our way through to the kitchen.

‘Hurts like a mother… but it was worth it,’ he smiled. ‘How do you feel about chicken?’

I sat on the kitchen bench and watched him prepare the chicken with herbs. We talked loosely about nothing in particular, like we always had, but the difference was that every few minutes we exchanged flirtatious glances. When the food was ready, we kept exchanging looks and by the time we were done eating you could have cut the tension with a knife. We tidied up in silence and walked out to the hall, where we usually parted and went our separate ways. He held onto my hands and met my eyes.

‘Would you care to come in and sleep next to me?’

‘Just sleep?’

‘At the very least,’ he chuckled and lead me through to his bedroom. It was large, minimalist and tidy – and actually had pictures on the walls. I took a quick glance and was immediately drawn to one that was of him as a young man. He was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt, leaning on his elbows and resting his chin on his folded hands. He was significantly younger but it was definitely him. I’d been right: he had been a stunningly handsome man in his youth – and still was.

As soon as we’d crawled under the covers, I could hear his erratic breath in the darkened room and was pretty much dying to feel his hands on me. I closed my eyes and let him explore my body in any way he wanted, and immediately came to the conclusion that he knew exactly where to touch to achieve the desired reaction. At first he teased me, circling the areas that I most wanted him to focus on. I pulled him closer, halfway onto me, guiding his mouth onto my neck, down my chest and further down my torso. He seemed only too willing to take my directions and when he put his tongue to work I locked my thighs around his head and sighed audibly as his left arm leaned across my lower abdomen and the other caressed my thigh.

Just as I got to the point where I wasn’t sure if I could handle any more, he made his way up my body again and didn’t stop until his mouth had found mine. Once more I wrapped my legs around him, this time directly above his hip, welcoming him with ease. I clutched onto his broad back and enjoyed the substantial weight of him. His breathing came in raspy tones as his climax began to wind him up. As he increased intensity, every forward thrust finally sent bursts of electricity that surged through me, making me yelp with pleasure as we orchestrated our sexual duet’s final movement.

A Serenade – Part II of VI

Alfredo was a little reserved at first. Not so much shy as just… sussing me out. He asked no invasive questions, normally picked topics of discussion for our walks that involved what he’d read in the Guardian or seen on the news – so I learned that in order to not come off as a complete idiot I had to at least listen to the morning news on the radio and read the paper with my breakfast. Other than our daily walks and at meal times, I didn’t see that much of him. He was usually in the drawing room reading, but was always up for a conversation if I wanted one. He opened doors, stood up if I came into a room, sat down last, pulled up a chair… a classic, old-fashioned gentleman.

A week or so later I opened my bedroom door at quarter to nine, only to find a breakfast tray with another note:


Would you mind joining me to Rome tomorrow for a few days? There’s a place I’d like to revisit.



I realised quickly that this was a man that enjoyed travelling as comfortably as possible. We took a taxi to Heathrow, got on a direct flight to Rome that he slept on and a man took us to a waiting car as soon as we arrived. Alfredo, unsurprisingly, spoke fluent Italian and exchanged what I presumed were pleasantries in the half an hour drive to the centre of Rome. I noticed that he only got one room and wondered if I was expected to crawl into a double bed with him, but I needn’t have worried. As soon as he opened the door it became apparent that we indeed had separate sleeping quarters as well as a living room and kitchen.

‘I’m going to take a nap, if you don’t mind,’ he sighed and headed for one of the bedrooms. I noticed that he was walking like he was dizzy, so I followed him and held onto his arm. He stopped for a moment and smiled at me. ‘This is nothing to worry about,’ he said smoothly. ‘I just need to lie down.’

‘Make a stop here,’ I said firmly and steered him in the direction of the sofa that was only six feet away. He didn’t object, just collapsed onto the brown leather and closed his eyes. I fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, a cold wet cloth from the bathroom and knelt beside him as I put it on his forehead. I slid my hand underneath his neck and he was soaking wet with sweat, so I got a bigger wet towel and put his head on it. In an instant he looked pale and fragile. I put my hand in his and gently patted his forehead with one of the towels. A few minutes later he opened his eyes and looked at me.

‘Thank you very much,’ he whispered. ‘It would have been OK, but thank you.’

‘Here, have some water,’ I suggested and slid my arm underneath his neck so he could put his head on my shoulder and elevate himself enough to take a sip of water without spilling. His beard brushed the side of my neck and for a few minutes he rested his head there, his breath tickling my skin.

‘Thank you,’ he muttered again and didn’t object when I retracted my arm and replaced it with a sofa pillow. It was thirty degrees outside so I only covered him up with a light sheet and picked up a proper pillow from his room. I didn’t want to leave him, so I made myself comfortable on the other side of the sofa with a book so that I could keep an eye.

He seemed comfortable and slept for just over two hours before opening his eyes and looking at me. Without a word he sat up, touched his forehead and winced.

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Perhaps a couple of Paracetamols.’

I got up, sat down next to him and put my hand on his forehead. ‘Your temperature is down.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’ He looked directly at me and held my gaze. I wanted to look away but it felt like time stood still and I’d been hypnotised. He slowly slid both his hands up my arms and took a deep breath before looking down. ‘I apologise.’

‘What for?’ I asked, my voice barely audible. He didn’t respond, just stood up and went for the bathroom. I leaned backwards rested my neck against the leather cushion. It made no sense why I would feel like this with a man who was significantly older than I – but there was something about him that was… different. He was highly sensitive and intense, clearly very intelligent and just mysterious enough to intrigue me beyond what it should do. Was I seriously attracted to a man who was probably closer to my parents’ age than mine? Sure, I’d said for a while that my next man was going to be “more mature” but I wasn’t sure that this was what I’d had in mind.

‘Should we go out for dinner?’ he asked as he exited the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel.

‘As long as you’re feeling better?’

‘Much, thank you. Should we meet back here in twenty minutes?’

I nodded and we vanished into our respective bedrooms. I unpacked my dress and shoes, and was about to change when there was a light knock on my door. I opened up and there he was, buttoning the sleeves in his shirt. When I appeared in the doorway he cocked his head and looked like he’d done something wrong and wanted to confess.

‘I just want to say something. I don’t want you to think of me as a dirty, old man who thinks it’s OK to take liberties with young ladies such as yourself. Believe me, if I was twenty years younger I wouldn’t be apologising for anything… but I’m not. I think you’re absolutely stunning. Forgive me.’

I had two choices. I could accept his apology and leave it at that, or… not. Before I had a chance to decide, he had turned around and headed back to his own room. I watched his back in the white shirt and couldn’t help but notice his broad shoulders and upper back. He was stocky but well-built, even for someone his age. I shook my head and closed the door. I had to drop it – but I had to admit that I didn’t hate what he’d called me.

After dinner he wanted to go for a walk to clear his head. I didn’t think he had a destination in mind, but when he stopped outside a yellow building that looked like a clinic about twenty minutes north of Villa Borghese I realised I’d been wrong.

‘This was where I died the first time.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘This is a pretty long story, but I was at this clinic getting treatment for, among other things, my heart. I’d had three quite serious angina attacks in the previous year and in addition to this I was a stroke waiting to happen. My legs were aching to the point where I could hardly walk, so I admitted myself to this place. A couple of days before I’d had a run-in with someone you would be better off staying on the good side of. We got in a fist fight and I knocked him over so that he tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. He threatened to “call on me for a favour” and I said I’d rather be dead than owe him anything. The next night I woke up from a man standing by my bed at the clinic, wearing a doctor’s uniform, but recognised him as one of Salvatore’s men. He’d accidentally knocked something over and looked terribly guilty when I sat up and looked at him. I immediately knew what he was there for so I asked him, relatively calmly, how he had been instructed to take care of me. He showed me an empty needle and said he would have made it look like a final heart attack by a administering a direct injection of 60 ml of air into a vein. This would cause the chambers of the heart to fill with air, which in turn would cause a heart attack.’

‘You have got to be kidding me?’

‘I wish,’ he chuckled. ‘I had met this man on various occasions before, and knew he liked me. This wasn’t the first time I’d pissed off his employer, so I’d negotiated with him once before when he’d been instructed to roughen me up a bit to give me a scare. I said I would be willing to disappear for good, never to appear again in Salvatore’s lifetime. He was sixty at the time, so worst case scenario I was looking at twenty plus years of hiding. He left my room but said he’d be back, which he was the following night.’

‘And you just stuck around to find out what the outcome would be?’

‘He would have found me eventually, these people always do. So what I did was that I called my wife and said she should expect me home. I knew I couldn’t tell her the truth, not then, but that I’d be in touch as soon as it had all blown over.’

‘So what happened then?’

‘He came back and said Salvatore had agreed, but that I was to disappear from the public eye. That if he ever saw me again, he’d kill me himself – and I quote – “with my own bare hands”. I don’t know all the details of this whole operation, I was just told to go with the flow and “play dead”. The doctor on call was made an offer he couldn’t refuse and later taken care of, even though he had sworn secrecy. He insisted there was no reason to perform an autopsy, as it was a clear-cut case of a heart attack. Then shoved me in a box and immediately removed me from the premises. I was taken to one of Salvatore’s secret houses outside of Torino before the news broke, and stayed there.’

‘So it was news.’

‘Most definitely. I wrote my wife a letter that I asked one of Salvatore’s minions to give to her, which explained everything, but when I was told five months later that she had died “of a broken heart” I knew it had never got to her. You want to know the biggest irony? Salvatore himself died of a heart attack, four years later.’

‘Jesus. What about your health?’

‘I’d already been under treatment for a while, so I was slowly getting better. I grew my beard and my hair, and eventually I could move around the small village unnoticed if I wore a hat and glasses. I moved out of the house as soon as soon as I heard that Salvatore had died. That’s when I came to London.’

‘So w… who were… are you?’

He waved his hand like he was trying to get rid of a bug. ‘It’s not important. I’m a different person now and that’s what matters. Who I was then… I’d been pulled, unwillingly, in the wrong direction for years, opposite to where I actually wanted to go. There were some benefits, sure, but when you don’t do what you feel you’re meant to do… well, then you won’t be fully happy. Not really. Believe it or not, in some ways I was happy to disappear off the face of the earth. The only thing I’m sad about is that my family suffered.’

‘How do you feel seeing this place again?’

‘It’s interesting how I expected to have all these feelings rushing back, but I stand here looking at it and it’s simply a building. I remember everything in detail and I can recall how it made me feel at the time, but now…’

‘…it’s just a piece of history.’

He turned and looked at me with a vague smile. ‘Exactly.’

‘Had you known then what you know now, would you have done the same again?’

‘Good question. As I say, I regret the pain it brought upon others, but for purely selfish reasons I probably would have. When other people run your life, you end up being a spectator where you should be a decision maker. I was drinking, I was… sleeping around, I got into fights, I fell out with people and it was all a result of feeling trapped with only one way to go. When that one way street isn’t the one you want to go down, then you’re willing to do things that make you unpopular in the hopes that it’ll change the things that you’ve been told is set in stone.’

I didn’t know what to say. Even though he was being incredibly cryptic, I understood where he was coming from. I wanted to ask further, but I sensed that he really just wanted to say some things out loud and keep a lid on the details. It had been nearly three decades, after all, but how had someone like him managed to piss off members of La Cosa Nostra?

The next morning we were on a plane back to London – my mind absolutely blown.

A Serenade – Part I of VI

“PA wanted for live-in position. Call for details.”

I was 35, bored with doing temporary office jobs, newly single and two days away from being homeless, so when I saw this ad in the Evening Standard I picked up the phone immediately. After all, I had nothing to lose. I was met with the voice of an elderly woman, who asked if I could come by that same evening to meet “Mr Cocozza.”

The address I was given took me to Lennox Gardens, within short proximity to Harrods. I misjudged the distance and arrived a little too late, ended up running to the right of the confined gardens in the middle of the square and up the stone stairs to the main door. I’d been told to ring the bell that said “Cocozza” and to go to the 4th floor. I came panting up the stairs as soon as I’d been buzzed in, only to find the door open. I knocked, waited, peaked through the door and saw a male with salt and pepper, wavy hair and a full beard – that was grey around the mouth and darker along his cheeks – standing in the hallway.

‘Mr Cocozza, I’m sorry, I was told to come here at seven and I know I’m late but…’

‘Hello. You’re right on time. Do come in,’ he said calmly in an American accent with a slight British twang. ‘And please, call me Alfredo.’

I closed the door behind me and walked up to him. He was a few inches taller than I, at about 5’10 inches, and of slightly stocky build. He was immaculately dressed in a tailor made blue suit, a white shirt and red tie. He cocked his head slightly and smiled vaguely. There was something about in his eyes that intrigued me. They were dark brown, velvety – and playful. Like they belonged to a much younger man.


‘My mother was called Maria,’ he said as he shook my hand. ‘Would you like some tea, Maria? I put the kettle on in anticipation of your arrival.’


‘Follow me. You spoke with my housekeeper, Mrs Connelly, earlier on this afternoon. She only comes in once a week, every Friday. Is green tea with lemon OK?’ I just nodded as he turned to look at me. ‘Why do you want this position?’

‘What is the position?’

‘In short, I have a weak heart. Most of the time I don’t notice, I just have episodes where I get out of breath and sometimes pass out as a result. I’m on a donor list for a transplant, which could happen in a week or in a year. I’m on medication, which should sustain me until a suitable heart comes up. What I ask is that you’re within reach and if you go out, that you bring the mobile phone in case. I’m afraid that it’s rather large, and weighs nearly two pounds, but hopefully it won’t be too much of a bother. How does this sound?’

Now you’re probably thinking, “Wait… a two pound mobile phone? Surely this must have been a few years ago?” – and you’d be right. It was a while ago. September 1985 to be exact.

‘But I don’t have any medical training or anything…?’

‘You don’t need medical training. You may need to use a phone on occasion, though.’

‘I think I can manage that. So do you want the truth why I want this position?’

He smiled, leaned against the kitchen top and folded his arms in front of him. ‘Please.’

‘I’m bored at work and I’m homeless in two days.’


On Sunday evening I moved into one of Alfredo’s spare bedrooms in Lennox Gardens. I still couldn’t believe that I’d been offered free food and lodging in addition to a staggering £500 a week. I’d been an au-pair in my youth and had got £50 a week for four children. The idea that he could collapse and die in front of my eyes made me feel ever so slightly uncomfortable, but there was something about him that I liked. An hour or so after I’d settled in, there was a careful knock on my door.

‘Would you care to join me for dinner downstairs?’

‘Of course. I’d be delighted.’

‘It will be ready in about ten minutes.’

He was wearing trousers and a woollen sweater. Not quite as dressed up as when we first met, but he still looked pretty immaculate. I wondered if I was required to dress up in order to go to dinner, so I dug out a dress and a pair of two inch heels before I made my way down to the dining room. When I saw him I was glad I had, as he had exchanged his sweater for a shirt and tie. When I walked into the room he smiled approvingly.

‘You look lovely,’ he stated and pulled up a chair for me. He had set the table, that could comfortably seat six, so that we sat on opposite sides with three-armed candlestick between us. ‘I hope you like Italian, as that’s going to be a big part of what I serve.’

‘I love it. You’re the cook, I presume?’

‘I am. It relaxes me. If you have any particular wishes or dietary requirements, just let me know. I have a list in the kitchen that you can add items to, should you wish.’

‘Thank you. I feel like I should be doing something…’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if I need anything. Meanwhile, may I offer you some wine?’

We spent the next ten minutes ingesting a fabulous pasta carbonara with a splendid red that complimented it perfectly.

‘Were you ever married, Mr Cocoz… sorry, Alfredo?’ I corrected myself as he shot me an amused “what did I tell you?” glance across the table.

‘Certainly. I was married from I was 24 until she passed away from an accidental overdose 14 years later. But that’s a story for another time. Cheers,’ he said and lifted his glass. ‘I’m very happy that you’ve accepted my offer to stay here.’

‘I’m very happy that you made the offer, based on the fact that I have no previous experience other than using a phone,’ I chuckled. He smiled heartily – and in the dim light from the candle, as he made eye contact with me, I could see glimpses of what an attractive man he must have been in his youth. He had impossibly high cheekbones and even under his beard I could tell that he had dimples. The eyes were not just playful, they were almost a little devilish. His smile was childish and yet seductive, his teeth slightly imperfect but well kept and white.

‘Allow me to walk you to your room?’ he asked as we put the empty plates in the kitchen. We ascended the stairs, side by side, his hand resting on the small of my back. It was warm and steady, never moving beyond anything that would be considered appropriate. By my door I turned around and faced him, leaving us lingering for a few seconds until he leaned in and placed one soft kiss on each of my cheeks – Italian style. As he took a step back, but still held his hands on the top of my arms, he offered one of his half-smiles and a “goodnight” before descending the stairs to his own room.

I had to admit that I was feeling intoxicated by him.

I was woken up the next morning by a gentle knock on my door. I sat up and looked at the clock hanging on the opposite wall. It was 8am on the dot. I realised then that we hadn’t agreed on when I was required to start, but that this was clearly it. I put on a pair of trousers and opened the door. On the floor was a tray with a tea pot and cup, a small milk jar, sugar, lemon, two pieces of toast, butter, ham and a daisy in a vase. Between the tea pot and the vase there was a handwritten note.


Would you mind joining me for a walk in about an hour? Meanwhile, please enjoy your breakfast and feel free to take a relaxing bath.



How very civilised, I smiled to myself and brought the tray back inside the room. As I sat down at the little desk in front of the window and consumed my breakfast, watching the sun set over London, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was just a one-time welcome gesture.

I grew more and more intrigued by my employer, and was genuinely excited to find out more about him. If I was to guess I’d have said that he was somewhere in the region between 55 and 70, but it was difficult to tell. He had lines but smooth ones, he was silver grey in places but not so much that I couldn’t see that he used to have dark brown, perhaps even black, hair. He had a tan, but if he was Italian that would be natural. He was walking upright and with ease, so I was leaning towards closer to 50 than 70 – yet there was something old-fashioned about him that might mean that he was older than he looked.

As I walked down the stairs, I couldn’t help but notice that there were no pictures of people on his walls. He had large paintings by famous artists, but no family or friends. Or of himself. I was dying to see what he had looked like when he was my age, as I suspected he had been quite a stunner. He was still charming, so I could only imagine that he had been able to pick and choose. There were literally no clues anywhere as to what kind of life he had lead. Not anywhere.

‘Good morning,’ he said as I entered what I presumed was the drawing room. It had a fireplace, three large windows, two chairs and a table.

‘Good morning. Thank you for breakfast, that was really thoughtful.’

‘Don’t mention it. I realised that we had not agreed on a time to meet, so I thought I would wake you gently. Perhaps we can agree to meet here at 9am for the rest of this week? I like to start my day with a walk, and I’m told I shouldn’t go great distances by myself. Unless you think nine is too early?’

‘Not at all. I’ve been used to getting up at 7am in order to be at work for 9am. Being ready for nine is pretty much a holiday.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way. Shall we?’

The first defining meeting

I remember the first time I picked up a novella called “Unhappiness” by the still unknown author Frank Keane. I had envisioned an 80-year-old, at the end of his life, writing about his regrets and inner turmoil, and yet I was surprised to find that the man behind the words was only 33 years old at the time of writing it and 35 by the time I found it. It was only about 10.000 words or so but the language haunting, poetic and beautiful, sometimes erratic and difficult to grasp, but moved me in a way I had not yet experienced.

This, ironically, is pretty much how I’d describe who he was.

After a fair amount of research I found his address and sent him a brief letter, stating that I found his novella and would very much like to translate it for a German audience. That I hoped I would somehow do the piece justice by mirroring his use of words. It didn’t take long before I had an answer back where he asked for a meeting to discuss the matter further.

I showed up early, but he was even earlier. The café he had chosen was virtually empty at 2pm on a Wednesday, so it wasn’t difficult for me to find him. He was of slender build, about 6 ft tall with handsome features and thick, dark hair combed back, holding a cup of tea between his hands, staring into it like he was looking for the meaning of life.

As soon he became aware of my presence and looked up, I couldn’t help but notice his his large, luminous, intense, steely blue eyes with a hint of grey. He stood up and offered a handshake and a vague smile before asking if I wanted something to drink. When I confirmed that a hot tea would be nice, he merely looked over to the elderly man behind the bar and this alone seemed to be enough to get his attention. A minute or so later, a cup of hot water and a selection of teas arrived in front of me.

‘I come here relatively often,’ he offered before I had a chance to ask, and leaned back in his chair, cocking his head somewhat, in a very obvious attempt to give me the once over. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice. I wasn’t sure if my request would arrive in time,’ he added, referring to the letter I had received the same morning that requested a meeting that afternoon. It was pure luck that it got to me in time.

‘Thank you for getting back to me.’

‘You’re much younger than I had envisioned, taking your profession and command of language into consideration. What’s your story?’

‘I’m more interested in hearing about you,’ I said, trying to diverge attention from me to him who was, in my mind, a much more intriguing character.

‘You are clearly a journalist through and through, taught to focus on anyone but yourself, but I’m passing the ball back to you once more. I can play this game all day, but I can tell you now that I will refuse to talk about me until I learn about you. Who are you, Marlena Jacobs?’

Being 23 years old at the time, I had no idea how to answer that question. When I started giving a, clearly, dissatisfying answer about my likes and dislikes, he stopped me.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said mildly. ‘I mean, who are you… inside?’

I started getting uncomfortable, for I wasn’t used to being taken apart within five minutes of meeting someone. Growing up in England with an English mother and a German father meant that “how you feel” wasn’t exactly among the daily topics of conversation. My mother died when I was sixteen and my father moved back to Germany as soon as I got married to Earnest, to work in his brother’s dental surgery – that had been passed down by their father.

‘I feel like an orphan,’ I started and he leaned forward, suddenly interested. ‘My father is alive, but we are estranged. I’ve made decisions based on his disapproval, both to feed it and prevent it. I’m not alone in the world but spend a significant amount of time feeling like I am.’

‘I can relate,’ he said with a sight. ‘My relationship with my father is the most prominent reason for most of my decisions in life. I have written him yards upon yards of letters, trying to make him understand me, to no avail. Sometimes I think he keeps up his disdain just to spite me, even when he may actually not feel that way.’

It had only been about ten minutes since we met.

‘I make you feel uncomfortable,’ he stated and looked me dead in the eyes, the colour had seemingly changed from the aforementioned blue-grey to a darker, velvety brown. If it was the light, I couldn’t be sure, but there was definitely a change. ‘I apologise,’ he added after a relatively long silence.

‘About the novella,’ I said to change the subject. ‘It really resonates with me.’

‘How so?’

‘After I’d read it a second time it became clear to me that the three characters represent the three parts of the human psyche; The uncontrollable urges of the unconscious, the social façade of the ego and the observant gaze of the superego. It’s basically a tale of psychological self-destruction.’

He sat back in his chair, his facial expression showed he was slightly stunned, like he hadn’t expected me to get it. Then his features softened, the hints of a smile appeared in the corner of his mouth and he nodded in approval.

‘It should be read,’ I said. ‘The depth of emotion and despair, coupled with the profound symbolism of both, should appeal to the highly educated and thinking part of the German population. This is why I would like to translate it, if you would let me.’

‘I would very much like that,’ he said and offered up another handshake to seal the deal. ‘You intrigue me, Marlena Jacobs. I have a feeling this partnership will be most fruitful.’

Within half an hour we parted ways and I gave him my card with my phone number and e-mail address. He took it without a word, kept his distance and only touched my shoulder before turning on his heel and walking off without turning back, thus marking the end of our first and defining meeting.

Make the most of it

I’ve been thinking about this a lot and I feel comfortable saying it to you,’ he said as he held my hands in his. ‘I love you. I’ve fallen in love with you…’

I looked into his velvety brown eyes, through the slightly tinted lenses of his glasses. He held my gaze and didn’t show any signs of wavering. I thought about what I’d considered telling him on my flight to his home town, a few months after I’d learned what a part of me already knew; that he was facing the final curtain.

It was some time during the previous summer that I started noticing a difference in the way he said certain things. I didn’t want to ask, because I figured he would tell me in his own time. So when I eventually got a message from him that started with “I wasn’t sure when I should tell you this…” included the words “I probably have six months to live” and ended with “Don’t feel sorry for me”, I somehow wasn’t surprised.

We continued talking as before, like what he’d just told me hadn’t happened, because that’s what he wanted. He said he was tired of talking about it, that he just wanted to enjoy the rest of his life and not focus on the illness.

He and I connected online sometime in 2012. We started off talking about music and from then on we talked about everything under the sun. Every. Single. Thing. He told me about his eventful life and I was delighted with the way he seemed to have enjoyed every moment of everything he’d done. How he admitted there had been a lot of women in the past, but that he had treated each and every one of them like they were the only one.

To say that I was fascinated by this man is an understatement of the same magnitude as calling the Pacific Ocean wet. He let whatever was in his head come out through his fingers without any filter. Even when he told me that he found me attractive, and didn’t spare any details as to what about me he fancied, it never felt like he overstepped the mark. Because it was genuine. As someone who believed in living in the moment and sharing positive vibes, I expected nothing less of him.

Then, nearly four years later, after exchanging countless messages on a nearly daily basis, we were to meet. I sat on the plane and thought, “I have to find a way to tell this man that I love him.” I, who’d always had problems saying these words to those I hold dearest, was planning to say it to a man I’d never even met. Yet it felt important that I did. Little did I know then that he’d beat me to it.

‘I love you, too.’

I heard the words coming out of my mouth, like I had no control over them, and planted a brief kiss on his mouth before embracing him.

‘I’ve been wanting to tell you for so long,’ he said into the crook of my neck.

‘I was thinking of how to tell you on the way over here,’ I responded.

He leaned backwards slightly, so he could look into my eyes.

‘Are you serious?’

I nodded and he offered a vague smile, his eyes showing me he was moved.

‘I honestly didn’t think I’d feel this way again, about anyone, at my age. I thought this was it, especially given my…’ he paused and hugged me again. ‘…condition.’

I held my arms tightly around his slender frame and had to fight back the tears. This was more than “just love”, this was a deeper connection that went beyond a simple crush. At that moment I just felt complete. Standing there in his arms, I felt strangely calm. Like everything had fallen into place, somehow – even though I knew it was more complicated than that. I knew he hadn’t told me because he wanted us to be together. He had told me because it was the only right thing to do.

He eventually sat down on the couch and I knelt down before him.

‘I have a feeling that this is connection with you is what will make me survive this,’ he said. ‘I feel like I’ve been given a final chance to live life to the fullest.’

‘You’ve had such a life…’

‘And I’m still having one. More than anyone else knows.’

‘I wish I could stay here… I don’t want to leave you,’ I sighed as tears drenched the fabric of his trousers. He made me look at him, held his hands on my cheeks and smiled.

‘Perhaps it’s for the best, this way. So you’ll only have good memories of me.’

I nodded, although every cell in my body was objecting.

‘Promise me you’ll come back here, after I’m gone. Come swim in the waters here where I will eternally be,’ he said, referring to the fact that his ashes would be scattered at sea when the time came. Then he quietly started singing “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face”, whispering it almost, as I put my cheek back onto his knee.

My breath started calming down as I sat there, listening to his soothing voice. I found peace in knowing that no matter what happened from then on, that I would always have this moment, that I would always remember his honesty and his willingness to share what was in his heart. I’d always know that no matter how brief, I’d felt a deep connection to someone so amazing that I still can’t put into words exactly how much meeting him changed me to the core.

‘You have a prism of gifts and talents that are just starting to hold your hand and lead you on the path of a magnificent life-to-be,’ he later said as I hugged him at the door. ‘Make the most of it.’

When I was out of his sight, rivers of tears ran down my face. And yet I was smiling.