Chasing The Last Road To Stockholm

She looked a little puzzled until I winked at her.

"Okay," she said, and kissed my cheek, which made that part of my face surprisingly happy.

I watched her butt as she followed the baggage trolley to the lift, then turned back to the clerk once more, who was holding out a brochure.

"There's a guest appearance by an Eastern European youth orchestra playing tonight sir, if you enjoy the classics. They've had very good reviews."

"I do," I said, reading the name on her badge. "What's your opinion, Miss Arthern?"

"That's Annie-May, sir. And I really enjoyed them -- they were very good."

"Can you book me two tickets?"

"Of course, sir. I'll put it on your account and send the tickets to your room as soon as they arrive."

I wasn't actually planning on going, but it had distracted Annie-May from asking about Summer -- even if it was an expensive ploy.

"What's the dress code?" I asked.

She pursed her lips. "Whatever you're comfortable with, I guess. A lot of ladies go in cocktail dresses."

"Is there a fashion boutique nearby? I think my girlfriend might want a new dress for that." I'd deliberately gone out to emphasize that we were a couple

She glanced at her watch. "I think most stores will be closed by now."

She bit her lip, considering. "I have a friend who owns a dress store that she might open up again if I ask. Or she might bring some dresses here. What size is your partner?"

"English sizes and American sizes are different, aren't they?" I asked, and she nodded. "And you're a woman, Annie-May, so you probably know better than me. Tell you what. If you wouldn't mind, would you ask your friend to bring some examples of her wares, evening and daywear -- if she would be okay with that, of course?"

"I'll do so, Mr Lake. Oh, and if I might say so, I really enjoy your music. I especially loved the one you wrote for Sam Smith."

I was gratified that at least someone knew my work. Songwriters are on the whole very much like scriptwriters at the Oscars -- more likely to draw a 'who the fuck is that' than cheers, approbation and the throwing on stage of panties by screaming groupies. Writing is perforce a dark and lonely existence -- no matter the medium.

"Thank you. That's very kind of you to say so."

She smiled as I confirmed her guess as to who I was, and got on the phone. While I was waiting for the lift, I overheard the words, "... and such a cute accent!" which made me smile.

On the way up to my room on the top floor, I thought of something and couldn't help smiling again. Perhaps we could actually go to the concert, if Summer wanted to. God knows, she needed something to distract her from her troubles.

When I entered the room, I tipped the bellboy and looked around. It was large, airy and well-appointed, with two big king-sized beds -- probably enough sleeping room for six adults or seventeen kids by British standards. They were completely covered in a gay profusion of colours -- courtesy of Summer's new clothes

I grinned and shook my head. It had taken just two minutes for Summer to turn a luxury suite into an unreasonable facsimile of my sister's room back at home. Hearing a shower running at full tilt from behind a door, which I presumed led to the bathroom, I sat at the desk and called down to reception.

"Yes, Mr Lake?"

"How did your friend respond, Annie-May?" I asked.

"She was very happy to help, sir. She'll be here within an hour with a selection of her ranges."

"Could I ask a favour? Would you call her and ask her to bring along any mantillas she might have in stock?"

There was a pause, then, "I've texted her your request, sir. Oh, and I'll send your tickets for the concert up as soon as they arrive. It was fifty-two dollars and will appear on your bill with us."

"Thank you. That's excellent service."

She sounded pleased when she thanked me in return. Good service -- I'd been told to expect that in America. Thank god that was one thing that Britain had imported from the States. Remembering some of the tales I'd heard of service at home back in the eighties, I could only cringe at how tourists must have seen us in those days. Hopefully, they had put it down to England being too busy swinging to the latest hits to care about that. Music -- now that was something where Britain could stand up and hold its own in any company.

All of which drew me back to thinking of Chasing The Fast Road -- the song I'd composed in my head earlier. I quickly wrote down the lyrics on some hotel stationary, and above the words made little symbols I'd invented for myself which would remind me of how the tune went when I'd heard it in my mind.

As I finished, the noise of the shower stopped and the sound of a hair drier took its place. I took some bottled water from the mini bar and sipped at it while looking down over the river that ran through this part of the city. The sun was setting, the view was peaceful and pretty, and as the evening rush hour tailed off, the noise from the streets was muted. All was apparently well in my world.

Except, of course, it wasn't. My common sense and white knight were still at war; one side claiming that Summer's presence was a disaster waiting to happen on just so many levels -- anything from jail time to permanent residence beneath American soil; while the other side claimed that she was lost and alone and needed my help, and besides which, she was just so perky!

The debate raged on and on within me and in an effort to turn down the volume on that internal argument, I eventually perched on the end of one of the beds and switched on the television. I flicked through channel after channel of talking heads discussing a variety of subjects which included the latest political scandals from Washington that were dragging on day after day under the banner of breaking news; the latest trends; the latest medications for various diseases and illnesses that seemed mostly to focus on weight, limp penises and burst arseholes; and a massive variety of things that I needed to buy now, Now, NOW! -- Before they ran out of stock! I thumbed the remote and turned it off again, feeling restless and wishing Summer would come out of the bathroom.

Finally, she did and part of me wished she would go back in again -- as she was pressing a whole different raft of buttons. She was dressed in a simple, sleeveless frock in swirls of primary colours, that finished halfway up her thighs and immediately reminded me of my washing her legs. The dress had been inexpensive, but she still somehow made it look like haute couture.

Her face was clean, her eyes bright and shining, and her confidence seemingly restored to a natural default as she bent slightly forward to brush her hair; still using my brush, I noticed. I guessed I wasn't going to get that back anytime soon.

I'd stood when she entered the room, and promptly had to sit down again before Mr Happy's antics embarrassed both of us.

"Hungry?" I asked.

"I could eat," was the simple reply. I could only marvel at the storage capacity of her small body, no matter how shapely it was.

I got onto room service and in a short time, we were both munching on hot beef sandwiches with a sauce that constantly threatened to leak over everything in sight; my shirt and trousers, her dress, the bed covers, the carpet and probably the walls and ceiling. The porter delivered the tickets at the same time. I offered them to Summer.

She looked at them curiously, looked interested, and then her face dropped. "I can't. My hair draws too much attention."

She looked pensive. "I suppose I should cut it off."

My face must have shown my horror at that suggestion, as Summer sniggered. I hastened to dispel that idea. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. There might be a way for us to hit the concert unnoticed -- even with your mane."

"What way?"

"I'm waiting for a delivery. We can decide then."

Summer shrugged and settled back, tucking one foot under the other thigh and swinging the dangling leg off the side of the bed. The towel never looked in danger of slipping for a moment, although my eyes were ready to do their sworn duty and swivel towards her at the slightest provocation.

Dammit! Get yourself under control, man!

"What happened after that first date with Phoebe," she asked after a few moments of silence. Her tone said boredom, but her eyes flashed with curiosity.

"Ah..." I said, after swallowing the final remnant of my sandwich. "That..."

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Mini skirt

Open shirt

Wild flirt

Dirt Alert

We're on the prowl tonight

We're on the prowl tonight

Girls' night (B. Lake) 2014

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ZERO HOUR +4

I took a moment to gather my thoughts about Phoebe.

"On that first date I treated her to a pizza in return for her singing on a sampler I was putting together. We had a good time, and I surprised myself by being able to speak without stuttering and stammering every time she looked at me. When I mentioned I had two tickets to a Take That concert the following week and offered to take her, she agreed to go with me. I must admit I was lying to her right then -- as I didn't actually have any tickets and up until that moment, no plans to go to the concert. However, I consoled myself with the knowledge that it would be true in a few hours, as I knew a couple of scalpers and could get tickets with a phone call, although at eye-watering prices. She was worth every penny, and more.

"The next date was to the movies, and the one after that, we went to the Victoria and Albert and then the Tate, catching the train into London. We kissed in front of Rodin's sculpture of The Kiss until moved on by security, although Phoebe wanted to stay and argue the point with the guard.

"You see, the thing about Phoebe was her temper. Most people, when they get cross, sort of build up to it. But Phoebe could go from calm to all-out rage in an instant. So I dragged her out of there before she exploded, and let her rant at me, instead."

Summer cocked her head. "Was she always like that? You said you knew her at school."

"I think so, although I didn't realise it at the time. How could I? I never spoke two words to her, or anyone else."

She looked at me and an expression of sympathy drifted across her face. I hurried on, not wanting to get into my past. Even Phoebe was a safer topic than that.

"I did notice something weird; I must admit. When we were on lunch or break time, she would always either be in a group or on her own. I didn't know why, and I certainly didn't ask, but she never seemed to have any one-on-one time with anybody. She had lots of friends, but none of them were really a best friend type thing. Everybody else had a friend that they always hung out with, and the two would join a group or drift away, and sometimes they would be with a boyfriend or girlfriend, but you always knew who their school buddy was -- their real friend. Phoebe didn't have that, which was pretty sad."

"What was your buddy like?" she asked.

The question took me by surprise and I admitted more than I'd wanted to. "I didn't have one."

The earlier look of sympathy returned, now as one of real concern. I hated that look and stared at my feet, forcing a laugh.

"Hah, yeah, I was that kid. There's always one in every school."

"How," she asked quietly. "I mean, why?"

Bitterly regretting starting this line of conversation, I stumbled through the story of my weight difficulty -- although calling it a difficulty was a bit like calling the collapse of the Twin Towers a slight design defect.

Luckily, I was interrupted by a knock on the door. Summer squeaked and promptly hid in the bathroom. When I opened it, I discovered an attractive blond woman in her mid-forties, flanked by three rails of hanging garments, all carefully covered in plastic.

"Mr. Lake," she said with a pleasant breathiness to her voice. "I'm Debbie Wanamaker. Annie-May called to say you needed some clothes."

I shook her hand and waved her in.

"Summer, the lady from the boutique is here for you."

The little redhead exited the bathroom in a flash and soon the two women were going through every dress, blouse and pant-suit with appropriate noises of approval and admiration.

Debbie pulled me aside, speaking quietly. "The way Annie-May spoke, I'm guessing that you're footing the bill. What's the budget here?"

I checked a few tags, the prices clearly but discreetly marked. "Whatever she wants," I said.

"She's a lucky girl," Debbie whispered.

I'd thought about the situation while waiting for Summer to leave the bathroom earlier, and had come up with an idea for a cover story. It wouldn't hold up against any real investigation, but might pass casual interest. I raised my voice slightly so that my little goblin could hear me.

"Summer and I grew up near each other in England. Her family emigrated to California when we were teenagers, and we only recently found each other again. Now we're a couple, and I want her to know how much I still love her, which is why I requested your assistance. However, I am trying to train her out of that awful accent she picked up while she was over here."

Summer didn't seem to notice, but I noted how still she became while I was establishing our faintly ridiculous cover story.

Debbie was delighted. "Oh, that's so romantic! So how did you find each other again?"

"Facebook," Summer piped up, before I could say anything. "My mother divorced my dad, remarried and I took my step-father's name, which meant that Bryn couldn't find me. But I kept an eye on him, and when I discovered that he'd been divorced, I messaged him. He came over here to meet me, we clicked again, and now we're touring a little so he can see America."

Wow, she was such a good little liar!

"Yeah, things just developed from there," I mumbled.

She gave Summer a hug. "Right, let's get started."

It turned out that Annie-May had a good eye for sizes, which made things easier. Summer would go into the bathroom and change, and then give Debbie and me a little fashion show. Mr. Happy really enjoyed it, as she chose outfits that revealed a modestly exciting amount of cleavage, a very pleasant amount of thigh, or both. Finally, she came out in a long black evening dress which covered only one shoulder and was slit almost all the way up to her hip on one side.

"Beautiful!" exclaimed Debbie. "You look wonderful!"

She turned to me for agreement and all I could do was nod very enthusiastically.

"Oh, he likes it," Debbie smiled. Then she drew a long white shawl from a hanging bag.

"Ah, that's lovely," I said quickly. "You will be the most beautiful woman at the concert tonight, even if the other members of the audience won't get to appreciate that wonderful hair."

As the couturier wound the red locks into a bun and then settled the mantilla over her head, turning the LBD into a Spanish noblewoman's court dress, Summer's eyes grew bigger as she realised what I was saying, and let out a whisper. "A real date."

Debbie looked confused for a moment, so I pulled out my wallet to distract her.

"Would you prefer cash or plastic," I asked her. Avarice took the place of curiosity as I settled the bill. Debbie offered a ten percent discount on the volume of items we'd chosen, which I returned as a thank you for her after-hours service. I was getting the hang of this tipping thing.

Finally, with thanks echoing from both sides of the transaction, Debbie left -- her rails a lot emptier than they were when she arrived. Summer stared at the cupboard where they hung.

"Jesus, Bryn. This is a lot of stuff. You can't keep doing this. How much do I owe you now?"

I laughed and shook my head. "It's a gift. Now, what do you think? Do we go to the concert or not? It's up to you. If you don't feel safe, then we stay here."

"Don't change the subject. This is a lot of clothes. I'm in your debt."

I walked over and took her hand. "No. You're not. When you leave, you simply pack it in the cases I got you and walk away. No debt, no ties. Nothing owed."

She seemed a little put out.

"The concert?" I prompted.

"Well, I am dressed for it," she said. "It would be a shame to waste the tickets..."

Summer broke off, considering. She stepped to one side and looked at herself in the mirror, fussing with the mantilla, the shawl's folds of pale, delicate lace patterns drifting down over her shoulders -- reminiscent of a nun's wimple -- and hiding her hair very effectively. Her bun even made it look as if she had a comb in her hair, which is how it is normally worn.

"... And nobody can see my hair." She bit her lip. "Let's do it!"

It was a delightful evening, Summer seeming to relax into her role as my English girlfriend transplanted to America, trying out various things she'd heard me say as we sat in the auditorium waiting for the music to start.

"So taking the piss is one thing, and taking the mickey is another?" she whispered, her breath sweet and warm on my ear.

"No, they both mean the same thing - teasing or mocking someone. Taking the mickey comes from taking the Mickey Bliss -- rhyming slang."

"I'm never going to get used to this."

"There are a lot of expressions about piss," I said. "Getting pissed is different from being pissed off, which is different to pissing it down or pissing around."

She stared at me, and I could tell she was wondering whether I was indeed taking the piss.

"You guys are weird. Why are there so many sayings about piss? This is not the conversation I ever imagined at an evening of classical music," she said finally.

"So let's talk about you," I suggested.

"Let's not," she countered. "You seem to know music, talk to me about that."

I started to tell her about aspects of my musical life, but of course that brought Phoebe into it and I ended up telling her how we had married instead.

At the time it had made sense. We were in love, and she loved me as much as I loved her -- at least I'd thought so. We'd been hitting the mattresses and making love at every possible opportunity, so when she told me she was pregnant towards the end of my master's degree year, probably due to taking antibiotics for a bout of thrush, it never crossed my mind to question it and she accepted my immediate offer of marriage with a charming display of loving me up at the restaurant where I popped the question and offered a ring. I'd bought it a month earlier, waiting for the right moment.

Her kissing me as frantically as she did might have caused a problem -- as her short dress rose up almost to her waist due to her straddling my lap -- but it was a family-owned Italian restaurant and, true to the romantic soul of that nation, we were serenaded instead of sent packing.

We were married within a month.

Now in the know about my secret career and income, she chose a house for us to buy. I chose a much smaller one, and we compromised on the one she chose. Then we compromised once again on something between the two, and after the echoes of Phoebe's screaming outburst died away, I put up with a week of frosty silence.

Three months later she told me she'd miscarried.

I cried.

"That's so sad," whispered Summer. Remembering my grief, I could only nod at her, glad that the orchestra chose that moment to start tuning up, following the traditional lead of the oboe.

The concert was superb, opening with Smetana's The Moldau, and closing with Saint-Seans' Dans Macabre. The percussionists playing the xylophone, vibraphone and marimba on the latter piece brought ducks swimming to mind -- the music smooth and even on the surface, but them working like mad underneath it to propel the music along as they bent, sweating over their instruments. I made a mental note to add those instruments to my music program.