Stamford Bridge (final part)

Alison pulled Yvan to his feet and dragged him towards the stairs. She could hear the men getting closer and their shouts getting louder.

Alison ran down the stairs with Yvan holding on to her hand tightly. They ran along the corridor and towards the nearest gate when one of the Heavies stepped out onto the corridor and stood still, waiting for them to run straight into his path. The Heavy smiled; his job couldn’t be any easier. But Yvan pulled Alison in the opposite direction and dragged her through another open gate. All around them the Heavies were encroaching yet all they had to do was reach the front of the stadium where there were hotel guests and the stadium's staff lingering around.

Alison and Yvan pulled each other along but they weren’t fast enough. One of the Heavies stopped still and aimed his gun carefully, pulling the trigger. And in an instant, Yvan flew forward and across the ground.

Alison screamed. She couldn’t lose Yvan now; not after everything they’d been through. Alison dropped to Yvan's side and tried desperately to pull him up but he wasn’t moving. Alison knew she was risking her life by not running away but she didn’t want to leave Yvan lying there.

Alison bent down to Yvan and whispered, “Please, I love you.” Suddenly, Yvan’s eyes opened as he quietly asked, “Are they gone?” Stunned and trying to maintain her compsure, Alison carefully looked around to discover that the Heavies had disappeared. Alison nodded as she watched Yvan miraculously sit up. Yvan opened up his jacket. He had been wearing a bullet proof vest all this time.

Alison didn't know what to say when suddenly Yvan grabbed hold of her and apologised, “I promise, I will never put you through anything like that again.” But all Alison could think about was that she and Yvan now had a future together; and that she wasn't going to let anything get in their way.

Stamford Bridge (part two)

The first time Alison had crossed death's path was on an Israeli mountain. She was on the back of Yvan's off-road motorbike and Yvan was taking her to a place where he would regularly go to escape the paranoia that defined his war-torn world. But as Yvan took a corner, the brakes malfunctioned and the bike skidded across the gravel. Alison and Yvan flew off and hit the ground, sliding along it. They were both lucky. They both survived but just about.

Crouching down behind the seats of Stamford Bridge, Yvan knew that the same people who had sabotaged his bike were the same ones looking for him right now. 

Yvan needed to protect Alison. He couldn’t let them know that she meant everything to him. But just as he tried to stand up, she pulled him back down.

“What are you doing?” she pleaded. “You can’t.” Yvan shrugged her off. He looked at her. He couldn’t lie. Then again, he had never told anyone why these men were after him. He had never explained to anyone why he had to escape in the middle of the night and flee to South America. He had never told his family where in the world he was and he'd been gone for almost ten years now. But finally, he could share his secret with someone. He knew he could trust her. He owed her that, at least.

Yvan leant towards Alison and whispered, “l killed someone - when I was in the army.”

Alison looked at him strangely. ‘But isn't that the point of the army?’ she thought. She didn’t understand.

Yvan continued, “He was a friend and that's why they're after me.”

Yvan didn’t have to say anymore. The guilt was written all over his face and Alison knew there was another side to this man; a darker side, that she hadn't met yet. But she didn't care. She wasn’t going to lose him. Not again. Alison took Yvan’s hand and told him, “You’re getting out of here and I’m coming with you.”

To be continued ...  

Stamford Bridge (part one)

‘Shit, what do we do?' These men had guns. Who were they? What did they want? And why had this romantic surprise turned into a night from hell?

It all happened so quickly and Alison was scared. Yvan squeezed her hand tightly.  He would give himself up before he’d let anything happen to her and she knew it.

As they crouched down behind the seats of Stamford Bridge in the very early hours of Christmas Day, a dozen men in heavy leather jackets were checking the stadium row by row. Their shouts were getting closer. Time was running out and Alison was relying on Yvan to decide on an escape plan for them.

She had always trusted Yvan to know what to do, ever since they met on a Kibbutz ten years ago.

Alison had only known about the Kibbutz because her mother had wanted to teach her the value of hard work, just as their neighbour's son had done so. Alison didn’t really follow worldwide politics and she didn’t really care for free labour even if its purpose was utopia. The only reason Alison agreed to become a volunteer was because she was bored.

She was bored of the same old clubs and bars in London; she was bored of visiting the hairdressers every six weeks for another trim and if she was feeling daring, something experimental like a fringe; and she was bored of dating a bad boy from Surrey just to annoy her parents.

No, life at the age of 19 had become predictable and Alison needed a new challenge that would make her feel alive again. Little did she know, 10 years later, that she would be staring death in the face - and for the second time round.

To be continued ...

Dinner Party (part three)

She didn’t give her audience a straight answer. “I just. You know? It’s really lovely.” She cringed. ‘What was she saying?’ She needed to get out of there quickly. Pronto. She didn’t feel like dessert. She just wanted to escape the painful memories.

But she couldn’t make a scene. She had to grin and bear eating the pavlova that had just arrived on the dining table. The chatter continued and for the rest of the evening, she felt guilty for Charlie's ignorance: he trusted her and she was the selfish one.

As they walked down the King’s Road, looking to hail a taxi, she looked at the teenagers drunkenly heading to their next party and remembered that she used to be one of them.

Suddenly, Charlie stopped. “What?” she asked. “You were different in there,” he told her.

Then she looked up at him; his face softened. He really did care. He really did love her. And instead of saying anything, she leant over and kissed him. “I’m fine.”

Then he looked at his watch. It was midnight. “Do you know what day it is?” he asked.

She smiled. She knew this was the only day in the year he remembered. “Three years,” she replied. He nodded. They were married at St. Luke's on Sydney Street three years ago today and it was the most frightening day of her life.

Then Charlie said, “The past is the past.” ‘Shit’, she thought. 'He knew.' He knew about her American lover and she couldn’t bear it anymore; she had to tell him everything. She had to relieve herself of the guilt she had been carrying around all this time. But as she was about to say something, Charlie leant over and kissed her. He didn't let her say anything.

Charlie then took her by the hand and as he saw a taxi approaching, he hailed it. The taxi pulled up and as they got in, she realised she had to move on. She wouldn't let the past imprison her anymore. 

Instead, she took one last look at the King’s Road and said goodbye. She then stepped into the taxi with the man she loved and who loved her back for everything that she was.

Dinner Party (part two)

It was a delightful evening and even though she had met the hosts many times, she could never separate them from their public selves. He was the bumbling romantic hero who had won a million hearts and she was the glamour puss who all the women envied. But there were no airs and graces in this house; not once the front door was closed and the paps were left on the kerbside. Tonight, these celebrities had cooked a roast dinner for their guests and it was delicious.

As everyone sat back after the main course, to savour the rest of the wine, she excused herself from the table. Stepping into the corridor and seeing the stairs which led into the basement brought everything back: those long nights she would spend with her American lover, listening to Crosby Stills Nash and lost in their cocoon of emotional bliss.

She had met him in the Billiards room upstairs of the Cadogan Arms on the King’s Road. It was a Friday night three years ago. At the time, she had been going out with Charlie for six months but was already feeling stifled by the controlled way he lived his life.

Her American lover was everything Charlie wasn’t. He was tall, dark and a modern day hippy. He played the guitar but he wasn’t perfect. He loved games of every kind and he started messing with her mind.

Suddenly, she snapped out of her reverie. She was grateful that Charlie had decided to love her again and she knew she needed to forget about the past. But as she stepped back into the dining room, sat down and composed herself, one of her kind hosts asked, “how did you know where to go?”

To be continued ...

Dinner Party (part one)

She was anxious. She didn’t want to go tonight. It was a dinner party at the house of her husband’s best friend. Her husband, Charlie, had gone to drama school with this guy who by now was a famous actor along with his girlfriend. She didn’t mind that they were going to talk shop all evening; that any conversation directed at her would be merely out of politeness. She had a much bigger concern on her mind. She didn’t want to go back to that house again. 
 

Charlie wasn’t perfect but he loved her unconditionally. Or maybe it was because she was the only person who could tolerate him. Some described him as selfish whilst she would explain that he was a writer. She understood that writers always found themselves on a more exciting adventure than reality could ever provide and she admired him for this.


That evening, they took the tube to Sloane Square and walked along the King’s Road: her old stamping ground. This was where she grew up, on the housing estate behind Peter Jones. Now, she was returning to the area in a completely different league to the friends she left behind.


As she followed Charlie off the main road, memories started flooding back. She’d walked down this road a hundred times. She'd walked up the steps to that house as many times. But never with Charlie and never him knowing that she had ever done so.

To be continued ...

Number 19 (part 2)

The next minute I knew, we were in The Builder's Arms, knocking back tequila shots. This was a random evening on my home turf and I couldn’t help but think that this kinda stuff doesn’t happen unless I’m on holiday, when the risks I take are a million miles away from my own reality. 

But then I asked him a question. I can’t remember what it was, just the answer. He had a girlfriend. I didn’t react. Instead, I worked hard to keep my cool. How could this man of perfect everything be such a slime? So I continued to dig for more and he started to complain that none of his friends liked her. But all I could do was wonder how did I get from romantic bliss to agony aunt? Because you can bet I had already written him off upon the mention of the dreaded g-word. My illusions were shattered and I was quickly out of there.



This tall suited stranger asked if he could walk me home. I declined. But I had to ask him his name. Gilbert, he replied: just like my childhood romantic hero from Anne of Green Gables.

Our next move was to give each other a hug on Sydney Street. Gilbert told me I was awesome. I smiled as we set off in opposite directions. But before he was completely gone, I turned around and shouted his name, Gilbert! I wanted to imagine that Anne of Green Gables had finally arrived in Chelsea. He turned around. He smiled and then we continued on our separate ways. 

This was my favourite part of the evening. As we continued to step back into our own lives, my romantic delusion remained in tact. To an extent we were still both strangers and it was up to our imaginations to do the rest of the work and carry the story on.

Number 19 (part 1)

I had been walking for a while since leaving Soho, following another random after work drinks. By the time I had reached Hyde Park, the novelty of walking home on a summer’s evening had worn off, so I jumped onto a bus and headed back towards the King’s Road.

I stayed standing with my back to the passengers seated in the back half of the bus and gazed out to continue my train of thought. Suddenly, I recognised in the window the reflection of a man looking back at me.

I looked away in shame. I had been staring at a random stranger all this time and didn’t even know it. He was a King’s Road suit. Twenties. This guy was going places. He was smooth looking; a perfectly chiseled face. He was clearly out of my league; the type you admire from afar.

Not sure where to put my eyes or whether to sit down, I caught his eyes a few times. And then he smiled. I smiled back, to be polite. He then motioned to me and back to him and then to the doors. I smiled, shook my head but saw that we were already on the King’s Road. I had to get off soon. Again, he motioned for us to get off the bus. This time I laughed and said "no". Already I could see a few people noticing what was going on. A random man was trying to pick up a random woman on public transport: romantic if you believe in spontaneity, sleazy if you don’t.

And so the bus pulled up at the next stop. He gave me one more chance and I wished him well on his journey. The doors closed.

The bus drove away and I was left thinking, what? What happened to seizing the moment and letting go of the past? Perhaps Milan Kundera was right when he wrote about the value of the fleeting glance but I wasn’t going to let life pass me by.

When the bus reached the next stop, I jumped off and walked back up the King’s Road, as quickly as I could. I was hoping to see him, bump into him and seize the moment. But he was gone.

So I crossed at the next zebra crossing and continued on my journey home. Then with a glance across the road, I saw him stepping out of The Chelsea Potter and smiling. Magical.

To be continued ...