One Year At A Time - Year 1

 

CATS, HUSBANDS, HOLIDAYS, MYSTERY and MORE!

January to March

With hindsight, things didn’t get off to a great start at Chez Nocturne, my lovely home. The traditional New Year’s Day lunch with neighbours to celebrate a new beginning was endangered when my cat jumped on to the table as we were eating the starters, and then tragically ruined when he had an epileptic fit.

I watched in horror as convulsions, spasms and contractions threw Algernon (the cat) into the delightful, if slightly spicy, salsa I had lovingly spent almost an hour preparing especially for the occasion. With his paws now totally uncoordinated, the cat proceeded to spray my creation over guests and carpet alike, like a young child feeding bread to ducks for the first time. A strange silence enveloped the room. Guests were open-mouthed in astonishment as they watched the ghastly scene unfold. Then, the cat stopped twitching and collapsed.

Sadly, Algernon had miaowed his last. The rest of the lunch was cancelled as a mark of respect. Such a sad end for a lovely, furry friend, but what a way to go! It cost £1000 to get the stains out of the carpet, but I don’t begrudge a penny of it. I’ve no idea how much it cost the neighbours in dry-cleaning bills. I haven’t asked and none of them have spoken to me about it. Just goes to show what a respectable neighbourhood I live in. The next lunch will be much better.

It wasn’t all bad news in January. My son Justin has phoned to confirm he’s coming home to visit in March after six months in Los Angeles. I can’t wait to see him! My husband, on the other hand, is making plans to be out as much as he can during this period. They don’t get on.

February saw the arrival of Algernon’s replacement - a lovely Persian Blue kitten, which I have christened Reggie in honour of my late father because their eyes look very similar. And they both have two. My father had less legs and no fur of course, but there is just something in the kitten’s expression that reminds me of him. Perhaps they both suffer from flatulence?

My husband seems very tired. It may be due to the amount of time he has spent chasing Reggie out of his office recently. The poor man is positively red in the face after all that effort. Still, he needs to shed a few pounds so I have made no comment. I laugh behind his back as he shouts about Reggie needing to be house-trained, whilst carrying kitchen-roll and disinfectant into his den.

I decided to honour the life of Algernon by having him stuffed, with the intention of displaying him on the mantelpiece. Sadly, the taxidermist I consulted inspected the corpse, which I’d been keeping in my deep freezer for precisely this purpose, and pronounced it impossible for the salsa stains to be removed from the fur.

He said there was no way he could prepare and present Algernon without the cat looking as though he’d been peppered by a sawn-off shotgun. Several times. At close quarters. Additionally, removing the rictus grimace on the poor creature’s face was also impossible, primarily due to the effects of rigor mortis. I didn’t obtain an alternative quotation.

Algernon has now been cremated. His ashes are in an urn by the carriage clock in the main lounge. If you sniff around the top of the urn, you can still smell salsa. It’s very tasteful.

March was a good and bad month. Justin came back from LA on the 7^th. He’s staying for a while. It was delightful to see him again after such a long time, but my joy was tempered with the news he had ‘come out’ as a gay man, and could he introduce his boyfriend? Appearing from the shadows was Todd. He seemed very personable, although somewhat older than Justin. The tattoos, jewellery and multiple piercings were difficult to come to terms with at first meeting, although with time I’m sure their impact will reduce.

Justin and Todd are living together in LA apparently. They met on-line. Todd is currently looking for bar work but without success. Justin bought the airline ticket for him as ‘he didn’t want to be separated from this lovely man for even a day’. My husband has had some difficulty accepting Justin’s news. At breakfast a few days after Justin returned, he muttered to me that he’d harboured suspicions about his son for many years, especially after Justin told him point blank that rugby was legalised violence for posh in-breds.

I don’t think Reggie is too fond of Todd. The rattling of the chains attached to his earrings unnerves him.

April to June

Justin and Todd have been sleeping together in Justin’s old room. The noises coming from there late at night would make your hair curl. And the incessant, loud, music too! Fortunately, my husband is normally away during the week in the city, and at weekends generally blotto from too much whisky at the golf club, so he hasn’t fully appreciated the situation. I use noise elimination earphones when it gets too much. Or cognac. Or, on occasion, both.

The Pettigrews invited my husband and I to what turned out to be a lukewarm production of Madame Butterfly on the 27^th. Upon returning to Chez Nocturne at around midnight, we were confronted by four males dressed in tutus, laughing uproariously as they attempted a drunken version of something that might have once been from Swan Lake on the front lawn.

Making our way inside, a party was in full swing. All the guests were male and many of them, including Justin and Todd, were semi-naked. There was an unusual odour in the air which I couldn’t identify. One guest was juggling the urn containing Algernon’s ashes in his hands.

Justin acknowledged our presence by saying if we wanted a drink then we could help ourselves from either the kitchen or one of the cabinets in which my husband kept some of his more expensive whiskies. He seemed to have forgotten who we were.

The red face my husband had exhibited after chasing Reggie around was as nothing compared to the one he now wore. Locating the source of the music, he tried to turn it off. When this failed, he threw the unit to the ground. The music continued until my husband jumped on to the unit and smashed it.  Being overweight has its uses. He then announced that the party was over. Justin protested, but Todd understood and managed to placate everyone. He seemed more embarrassed than I was.  But what a beautiful body he has!

Justin and Todd disappeared from sight after the party. They completely broke off communication, but the noises from their room continued so I knew they were still in residence. At the start of May they reappeared and acted as if nothing had happened. It was therefore unfortunate that on the day of their re-appearance my husband was working from home.

A full and frank exchange of views ensued, the outcome being that Justin and Todd left Chez Nocturne the same day. Justin said tearfully that his parents didn’t understand and he was going back to LA with Todd as soon as he could. My husband insisted on buying their tickets. There and then.

Todd seemed to understand. I caught him looking at me during the argument and I thought I detected a certain fragility in his persona. He mouthed ‘I’m so sorry’ to me. I felt quite upset for him. Remembering how he looked on the night of the illicit party still gives me goose-bumps. Justin and I haven’t spoken since and I am very worried about him.  Reggie made no comment at the time, but shows no outward signs of agitation.

I had lunch with Margery Pettigrew on the 20^th. The subject of Justin and Todd’s party arose. She said the worst thing wasn’t the grown men in tutus but that awful noise. If that’s music nowadays, she exclaimed, thank God for Cliff Richard.

Tuscany in June was splendid, but I can’t help feeling the place is beginning to go down-market. As per, we rented the usual villa with the Pettigrews near Florence. It sleeps twelve, so getting away from my husband’s dreadful whisky-induced snoring was simple enough. It is bad enough having to sleep in the same bed as him at home and continually rebuff his clumsy attempts at unwanted intimacy!

Even my husband likes the location, but for him the proximity to a top-class golf course is the most important aspect. He and Clive (Margery’s other half) would disappear there every day to bat balls, or whatever it is they do there.

Being a golf-widow is not so bad, particularly when your husband has provided an unlimited credit card for you to use. As I said to Margery over cocktails in the Bitter Bar one delightful afternoon, ‘we deserve this for putting up with them the rest of the year’. We are trying to arrange something similar in St Tropez later in the year, preferably without husbands.

It’s no secret that my relationship with Clive is poor. The recent party incident hardly made things better. Catching him urinating onto the roses in our garden during a soiree several years ago had not exactly made me appreciate his finer points (other than possibly the one in his hand at that moment), and his attempt to chat me up later that night hadn’t helped. He could have washed his hands first!

We witnessed a fracas in Arnolfo on the last night of our break. Margery and I were well into the third bottle of Barolo when an argument started at the next table. It seemed the bill had been presented but the amount of 675 Euros was ‘outrageous’ and ‘unacceptable’ for four diners drinking just one bottle of wine between them with their meals. Language became more and more industrial and only the threat of bringing in the local police persuaded the group to reluctantly pay up.

More shouting and pointing occurred as the guests departed. I asked our waiter what was the problem? He said there was no problem, just stupid English people who think 100 Euros is a lot of money. Thank God the English have left the EU! I agreed with him about the first bit, but not the second.

July to September

My husband continues to look unwell. At the start of the July, I attributed it to lifestyle and chasing naughty Reggie around, but by the end of the month a series of events brought his awful pallor into sharper focus for me.

Firstly, I was advised by my accountant that the monthly allowance I have received from my husband for the last 27 years had not been paid into my account for the last three months. He assumed I was aware of it (not at all, but I wasn’t prepared to admit it to him), and that there was no doubt (1), an explanation and (2), a plan to put things right.

Secondly, I received an anonymous letter on the 19^th which contained a short note and several photographs of two men partying with what I can only describe as ladies of the night in a bedroom situation. Using a magnifying glass, I was able to identify my husband by his underwear. I suspect the other man is Clive. I may seek guidance on this from Margery. The view from the bedroom balcony reminded me of Tuscany. There were just four words in the note – ‘time is running out.’

Thirdly, my husband has been spending much more time at home recently. He says staying in the city has become ‘boring’ and realises he has been neglecting me. That comment alone immediately made me think something fishy was going on.

If my husband is seeing other women, it really doesn’t bother me. Let him tire himself out with as many fluffy-brained bimbos as he wants – rather them than me. However, the allowance issue is much more worrying. I shall seek advice from my mother. She is an expert on this type of thing.

As July drew to a close I ‘accidentally’ dropped one of the photographs on to the desk in my husband’s office. Presuming Reggie is by now trained well enough so that he won’t do his business on the desk– the major complaint made by my husband when chasing Reggie out of his office - my husband’s face should look quite interesting when he next exits the room.

August beckoned and nothing out of the ordinary from my husband yet. I may leave out another photograph. Margery has confirmed St Tropez in September works for her. Husbands are definitely excluded.

I had lunch with my mother on the 5^th. The problem with my allowance was all I proposed to discuss. I had decided on the way to the restaurant not to mention the photographs or the note. After exchanging pleasantries, I explained my dilemma. My mother listened carefully and burst out laughing when I’d finished. ‘At least he’s not shagging tarts and making enemies’, she commented.

My mother is more than familiar with the provision of an allowance as she had enjoyed exactly the same arrangement with my late father. As my husband was originally employed by him in a ‘personal assistant’ capacity, he knew about it too. Indeed, his marriage proposal at a late dinner following a dreadful performance of the Barber of Seville included a promise to create the same arrangement for me. The confirmation that I need not find a job filled me with so much joy I forgave him dropping the engagement ring in the consommé.

In truth, I have no idea how the arrangement works. Nor do I want to know. However, its non-existence now is unacceptable. It’s the principle more than anything else. Noting my obvious discomfort, my mother re-assured me that everything would work out fine. My husband still works in my late father’s firm and my mother knows people there she trusts, who can sort things out quietly and confidentially, without my husband finding out. I just had to leave it to her.

I wish my husband would revert to his city life. This new desire to avoid it is playing havoc with my social life. Poor Reggie doesn’t know which way to turn. My husband’s office is out of bounds almost all of the time for him now. As for the photograph, my husband simply hasn’t mentioned it. I know he’s seen it because I slip into his office regularly and it isn’t where I left it. I can wait. The truth will come out eventually.

I reminded my husband about my forthcoming trip to the south of France. For the first time in ages, he smiled. I hope he is still smiling when he sees the credit card bill I intend to create.

St Tropez in September with Margery Pettigrew! Bliss. The hotel is called Chateau de la Messardiere. It was everything we wanted it to be, and possibly more. Over the years we have both travelled extensively in this region, so we are familiar with the area. It was therefore like returning to visit an old friend with the bonuses of nice weather, permanent waiter service and people speaking English. The only downside was we could only spend a week there.

I like Margery. She is easy company. Her life is very similar to mine. I said this to her as we sipped aperitifs one evening before dinner. She agreed – stupid husbands; allowances; grown-up children; dinner parties; lunches with girlfriends; lots of free time; personal accountants who tell the truth – and then unexpectedly added ‘but it wasn’t always like this’.

Intrigued, I asked her to explain. It seems her background is more council house than four bedroomed detached. She came from a small, provincial town. Her parents divorced when she was a child and she hasn’t seen or heard from her father since she was ten years old.

She was bright enough to go to university, but dropped out after two terms as the social life she had discovered in the big city was much more exciting than lectures. Her mother wasn’t too bothered, especially as Margery announced she had no intention of returning home anytime soon.

Finding somewhere to stay was easy at first, but how to earn money? Her love of nightlife proved to be both a curse and a blessing. She met many interesting people but most were either terminally married or put off by her nocturnal lifestyle. The number of friends with spare rooms or couches diminished.

When she met Clive, she was working as a hostess in a sleazy club. The freewheeling times were changing and ‘respectable’ work for women in the hospitality business was limited. Clive was clearly a way out for her, despite the awful surname. The rest is history.

Over the course of the break I also bared my soul. I told Margery about the anonymous letter and showed her one of the photographs. She agreed that the other man in the bedroom looked like Clive and showed little in the way of interest at his apparent philandering. Having not received anonymous correspondence herself, she decided her husband was unlikely to be subject to blackmail and her own allowance payments were therefore safe. Good to know. I decided not to mention Clive’s attempt to chat me up.

On the last night, we dined in the hotel. As the flight home was early the next day, the table had been booked for 6.30pm., so by 9.00pm we had finished a delightful meal. Margery suggested a nightcap in the terrace bar. It was a balmy evening, still and warm. We drank and talked and talked and drank.

I looked at my watch – 11.45pm! Time had flown but I didn’t feel at all tired or emotional. The number of people in the bar had diminished and, as it was getting late, I suggested we took a bottle of champagne back to one of our rooms to give the break the send-off it deserved. Margery agreed.

When I next looked at my watch it was 4.30am. I was in Margery’s room. The champagne was finished. I was naked and in bed with Margery, who was also naked and fast asleep. She looked radiant. Memories of what had happened in the previous few hours were fleeting but not unpleasant. I dressed quietly, without waking her, and exited to return to my room to pack.

What had happened in the early hours wasn’t discussed over an early breakfast, but I’m certain Margery remembers everything. Neither of us was exhibiting embarrassment. Perhaps it will happen again in the future – who knows? If it does, I look forward to it. In the meantime, we have both filed the experience and it will remain our little secret.

Back home, my husband has still not provided an explanation for the incriminating photographs. He seemed displeased I have returned. Reggie, on the other hand, was very affectionate. Back to normality then.

October to December

October brought news from a variety of sources, most of it good! My mother phoned on the 8^th to say she had spoken to her ‘friends’ at my late father’s firm about the suspension of my allowance. It seems the account in question had been suspended as a direct consequence of an investigation by financial regulators, which was itself triggered by accusations from ‘unnamed sources’ of suspicious activity involving the purchase of drugs and firearms using this account.

At my mother’s insistence, a separate account will be used to pay my allowance going forwards, and the missing amounts will be repaid. Her contact promised to keep this information out of the public domain (i.e. my husband won’t know). What happens later depends on the results of the investigation.

It seems my husband has been suspended on full pay whilst the investigation is ongoing. He denies any wrongdoing, of course, but his employer is taking a dim view of what has happened as it drags their good name through the mud. This explains why he’s always around. I can’t seem to persuade him to leave Chez Nocturne for any length of time.

Whilst I have absolutely no sympathy for my husband (primarily because he would seem to have got caught), I continue to be annoyed that he hasn’t told me what is going on and how it is affecting me. As for the future? Well, the allowance is now protected, so what will be will be. I must check if it will continue should I divorce my husband, or if he is jailed for whatever he’s apparently done.

My accountant has been briefed with the basic information. He suggested it might be time to consider separating assets from my husband ‘just in case what has happened has unexpected consequences’. I have an appointment to see him next month.

On the 26^th October, I noticed there were four missed calls on my mobile phone, all from America. These were received whilst I was asleep the previous night and the phone turned off. I checked the number carefully. Whilst it wasn’t Justin’s cell-phone number, the area code was the same. I suppose it was possible he’d changed his number, but despite my ringing back on a couple of occasions the phone was never answered and there was no facility to leave a message. He will no doubt try again!

As November dawns, I am surprised at how eager I am to speak to Justin, and how frustrated I feel at the difficulties being experienced in actually getting in touch. A fortnight has elapsed since the messages were left and I haven’t had a reply. I have rung the number used for the missed calls on a couple of occasions.

I said as much to Margery when we met up for lunch. She took my hand and told me not to worry as everything would work itself out. I felt reassured. Our friendship since St Tropez seems closer than before, but neither of us has talked about what occurred on the last night there. I suppose what happened in St Tropez stays in St Tropez, as they say.

Margery enquired about the situation concerning my husband and the anonymous letter. I didn’t raise the issue of his suspension from work as I wanted to restrict the number of people who knew about it, but I am becoming severely frustrated about my husband’s lack of honesty here. She suggested confronting him with the issue to see what he says. I am thinking about it. In the meantime, he continues to spend his days in Chez Nocturne avoiding me. Thankfully, it’s a very large house so our paths cross only infrequently.

In other matters, I asked Margery if she would be happy to help me with the annual New Year’s Day lunch. The events associated with Algernon’s dramatic demise this year still send a shiver down my spine, but I feel Reggie is unlikely to attempt to emulate Algernon so I am confident the next lunch will prove less spectacular. She said yes.

The meeting with my accountant went well. Although he didn’t say as much, I got the distinct impression he knew precisely what was going on with my husband’s financial affairs. I hadn’t realised how many properties were jointly owned by my husband and I, and how many joint accounts there are.

He asked if I had considered transferring my share of this wealth to an offshore trust ‘to eliminate the possibility of the effects of bad news’. I told him I didn’t realise this was possible. He said that in the murky world of finance anything was possible provided one knew the right people and which palms to grease. I told him to go ahead.

I was happy to let him buy me lunch and try to ‘accidentally’ put his hand up my skirt, as per. He is so important to me.

December - what a month! I really don’t know where to start. Reggie brought in a present for me on the 4^th. It was a robin he’d presumably killed in the garden. Half of me was disgusted; the other half said he’s a cat – what do you expect? The fact the deceased was a robin reminded me that Christmas was just around the corner. Good will to all men possibly, but not my husband unless he starts to explain a few things.

On the 7^th my mobile phone rang as I was getting ready for bed. I noticed it was the same American number as before. As I answered, the line went dead. Excited and frustrated in equal measure, I called back immediately and awaited the sound of Justin’s voice on the line. Todd was the person who answered.

Whilst it was lovely to hear from him, I asked if I could speak to Justin. Todd explained that he and Justin had split up a few months ago and he had no idea where Justin was at present. It was Todd himself who had made the phone calls a few weeks ago, admittedly whilst under the influence of alcohol.

It turns out Todd is ‘bi’, not 100% gay, whatever that means and, apparently, he had developed something of a crush on me when he and Justin came over in March. Would it be possible to meet up when he was in London soon? I didn’t ask how he could afford to do this, given what I knew about his world, but I agreed as it fitted in with some last-minute Christmas shopping plans I had made with Margery. We arranged to meet in the Dorchester at 4pm. on the 21^st.  

When I put the phone down, I realised I was flushed. And quite excited. To say I was flattered by the attention was something of an understatement.

Later that day, I decided it was time to confront my husband and have it out with him once and for all. He was skulking in his office as usual when I walked in, photographs and note in hand. Before he could say anything, I placed the items on his desk. I turned to him and said ‘well?’

He walked out without speaking. I found him in his bedroom an hour later; face down on his bed, dead. I suspected a heart attack and this was confirmed by the emergency ambulance crew who attended after my 999 call.

I spoke to all the important people – mother; accountant; funeral director; friends; work etc. – and the next few days passed in a blur. The death was unexpected, so a post-mortem was required, and I miserably expected that because of this the funeral was unlikely to take place until the 21^st at least, the date I was supposed to meet up with Todd.

As it happened, things moved slightly more quickly with the result that the funeral date was set for the 20^th. Whilst it was nice that so many people popped in to offer condolences and ask if they could provide help, I was becoming suffocated by kindness and desperate to escape Chez Nocturne. Meeting Todd therefore became more important.

I was also upset that Justin, our only child, wasn’t aware that his father was dead. At Margery’s suggestion, I contacted Todd to see if he could help. His first response was to ask if our forthcoming rendezvous was going to be cancelled. I reassured him that wasn’t the case. He then said how sorry he was at the news, and he’d see what he could do.

At 11pm on the 14^th I spoke to Justin. I’m pleased to report I cried during the conversation, more because I had managed to make contact with him than anything else though. This was strange. I haven’t changed my number. He was naturally upset but determined to attend the funeral on the 20^th.

I busied myself with organising a post-funeral ‘wake’ I had decided to hold at Chez Nocturne. As the 20^th approached, more information came to light about the causes of my husband’s demise. It seems a combination of lifestyle excesses, too much alcohol, stress, being overweight and lack of exercise had led to a massive coronary. The GP suggested all my husband’s ducks were in a row. He was an accident waiting to happen. It seems my husband had ignored all requests made by the surgery to attend for check-ups and assessments. Idiot! I wasn’t upset at this news though.

Death was apparently instantaneous, but I’ve never been sure how someone who wasn’t present at the time can be so certain. The Coroner’s report suggested there may well have been warning signs in the months before the heart attack, such as acute redness in the face during unexpected exercise, but that wasn’t always the case. I didn’t comment.

Reggie seems to have had a new lease of life. Having realised an overweight, red in the face person no longer chases after him whenever he ventures into certain areas of the house, he bounces around like Tigger. It’s nice that something good can come out of something horrible.

Mother’s ‘friends’ have confirmed that the allowance arrangement will continue despite my husband’s death. I haven’t asked why and don’t want to know. My accountant told me that if ever a death could be organised to occur at a perfect time, then my husband’s demise was a textbook example. The necessity to separate assets etc. disappeared with his passing as the will left everything to me. Not to Justin.

Justin arrived here on the 19^th.  He looked somehow more grown-up and less immature. The first thing he did after saying hello was to apologise for his ‘awful behaviour’ when he visited with Todd in March. I asked if he knew what Todd was up to these days. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he’d heard on the ‘gay-dar’ (ho ho ho) that he’d been left a ridiculous amount of money following the death of a relative. Other than that, he knew nothing. It was a surprise to him that a mutual acquaintance had been able to track him down to give him the bad news.

The day of the funeral arrived. I am pleased to report it was a very well-attended affair. I didn’t have to do any readings or say anything about my husband and for that I am eternally grateful. Others did though and I must admit to a certain degree of surprise at how popular he seems to have been. I managed to have a look at the people in the congregation. There were several individuals I neither knew nor recognised, including four young blondes who appeared to be sitting together with their mother. Two of them were crying.

When everyone had left Chez Nocturne after the ‘wake’, I sat down with Justin and we talked seriously for probably the first time in perhaps ten years. I told him the truth about my relationship with his father, most of which he admitted he suspected and had contributed to his decision to move to LA.

I mentioned the Will too. Whilst my husband’s estate had been left to me in its entirety, I said I had no intention of keeping everything for myself. I told him I had a pit-bull accountant who would be able to sort everything out to the satisfaction of both of us.

We promised to keep in touch much better than before. He gave me his home and email addresses. I must learn about how computers work next year so I can keep in touch.

Justin and I bade farewell to each other in the morning, just as Margery arrived in the taxi she had organised. Over lunch later I asked her what she proposed to do whilst I saw Todd. She told me she’d got no plans, but given she trusted Todd about as far as she could throw him (based partially on what she had seen on the night of the unexpected party and what I had said about him subsequently), she intended to come with me to the Dorchester and make a graceful exit once she was satisfied everything was fine. That was OK by me as I still felt a degree of doubt things would go to plan.

We were ensconced in the Vesper Bar at the Dorchester by 3.45pm, drinking a bottle of champagne. I don’t recall having ever been so nervous. I realised I wasn’t sure what would happen (or what I wanted to happen) after Margery left. By 4.15pm my nervousness was being replaced by anger borne of my own stupidity in believing that a bisexual, middle-aged, pierced and tattooed American was prepared to fly across continents to meet someone who was the mother of his former boyfriend, and whose husband had died only a fortnight before.

Margery and I ordered our second bottle of champagne at 4.30pm. Todd had not yet arrived and we were both starting to write him off. My anger was now dissipating. It had been a long time since lunch, and the drink was beginning to affect both of us. We reminisced about St Tropez. Margery suggested it was impossible to trust men as they were all bastards.

At 5.30pm we ordered a third bottle plus sandwiches and nibbles to attempt to soak up the alcohol. A valiant effort, I thought, but by that time the horse had most definitely bolted. I suspect we were getting a bit loud and very giggly. Todd still hadn’t arrived and I came to the conclusion more than one competitor in my race had been disqualified.

I’d given Todd long enough. Now it was time to leave before something disgraceful occurred. Not being sure I was capable of walking to the front desk, I decided to phone for a taxi myself. As I grabbed my mobile, I realised it was turned off and had been for most of the day. When I turned it on there were three messages – two from Todd apologising for being late and one from a company offering to assist my claim for being mis-sold something or other. I had no interest and deleted it immediately.

Todd’s messages re-invigorated both of us. Two and a half bottles of champagne had seemingly left no mark. The evening was redolent with promise. We drank slowly and carefully to avoid the possibility of smearing lipstick. My nerves had returned, but they were mixed with the fear of possible rejection again, just two hours after I’d experienced the same feeling the first time.

Todd arrived at 6.15pm, apologising profusely. The piercings, earrings and chains had gone and any tattoos he had were hidden under the very stylish clothes he was wearing. He looked delighted to see me, kissing my hand and making a great deal of fuss. I introduced him to Margery, explaining about her acting as my protector in the event he didn’t turn up. I apologised about the phone being switched off. 

With his newly-found wealth, Todd had booked a suite in the Dorchester for two nights. He didn’t elaborate on the reasons he was in London, but they seemed to require meetings that had overrun considerably. Anyway, he was here now. Did we want to eat here or go on somewhere? Margery and I said we were very comfortable where we were, so Todd miraculously sorted out a table in Alaine Ducasse.

If Margery intended to leave Todd and me alone, once she was satisfied I was not in any danger, she didn’t exactly hurry to make her exit. This may have been due to the possibility she could dine for free in a Michelin three-star quality restaurant. Not that her presence seemed to affect Todd at all anyway. The remains of the third bottle of champagne were quickly polished off, and Todd ordered a fourth for the table he had secured for the three of us.

The food and drink proved exquisite. Todd regaled Margery and me with stories of his life in LA. The legacy was a complete surprise, and he had felt that because it was the first time he’d experienced good luck (as opposed to bad), he was going to try to make people proud of him. The internet dating stopped immediately. So did sleeping around. He rented a small apartment in a better part of town and disappeared from view, getting himself cleaned up physically, mentally and spiritually (whatever that means).

Out went everything associated with the Todd I had met in March. In came new Todd, with designer clothing; a certified clean bill of health; regular workouts; healthy eating; single status; a work ethic; and an idea how to use his windfall to good effect.

He had started his working life in a graphic design studio as he had a certain artistic ability. It hadn’t come to much, primarily as Todd had also discovered the rapidly expanding gay scene in LA at the same time. He left before being sacked through poor timekeeping, but always felt it was an environment he could thrive in.

The start of the computer games revolution (his expression) created opportunities for kids to use their own artistic abilities to make their mark. He had watched with more than a passing interest as the burgeoning industry expanded to become more and more relevant to younger people world-wide. He played all kinds of these games himself, and was full of ideas about the best way forward and how to harness the technological improvements happening regularly.

He was in London because he had approached a British company specialising in the creation of cutting-edge, top-quality games with a view to providing a substantial investment. He wasn’t interested in any form of directorial control but he wanted to offer financial assistance as he was basically a fan of their output and wanted to help them to develop.

Margery and I listened as attentively as anyone having drunk quite a lot of champagne would but, for me at least, the subject matter was a world I knew very little about and cared for even less. I glanced at Margery. Her eyes seemed to be glazing over slightly but she continued to sip her drink whilst Todd entertained us with outrageous stories about his life.

I grabbed the bull by the horns, as it were. ‘I’ve stayed in this hotel a few times, but never in a suite. Can we have a look at it?’ Todd said ‘of course’ rather more quickly than I expected. I glanced again at Margery. She had a look in her eyes that I couldn’t quite comprehend, but it wasn’t one of disgust. Todd quickly charged the bill to his suite and rose to escort us from the restaurant. ‘There’s more champagne on ice in the suite’, he winked as he led us to the lift.

It proved to be one of the most enjoyable nights I’ve experienced in my life. I haven’t as yet spoken to Margery about it, but I expect that over the course of preparing the New Year’s Day lunch the subject will arise. Todd is definitely bisexual, as both Margery and I can attest. He still has the tattoos. All over the place! And phenomenal stamina.

Would all of this have occurred if Margery and I hadn’t drunk so much alcohol due to Todd’s late arrival? Was it always Margery’s intention to stay with me in the Dorchester? Did the fact there was champagne on ice in his suite mean that Todd knew what was going to happen? Who knows and who cares? What a spectacular end to the year.