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 ...
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