Zebra Crossing Chapter two.
Chapter one
‘Jan is dead!’
The formidable headline leapt out at me contiguously - like a tiger would suddenly, without warning, pounce on its prey - causing me to shudder.
‘She died this morning following a tragic motor accident in which both the driver and her boyfriend also died. Her body was burnt beyond recognition. It was her will that her corpse be cremated.’
As I read the article, over and over, strange feelings overwhelmed me.
The story had followed the headline, and they had entered my body. They had crept in stealthily, through my eyes, and had began to swell up inside me, rotating inside my head, my fingers, my stomach, until they grew into miscellaneous feelings of grief, depression and nostalgia, as I realised that Jan really was dead.
It was hard to absorb.
“I thought you’d be happy.” Jean Paul said, as he watched my reaction. “You’re free, we’re free, to get married, to live the normal lives we’d both been craving. Remember how it used to be, how you wanted to get away - the paparazzi, the constant flashing lights, the gossips, the lies, remember and tell me its not been worth it.”
“I’ll never be able to go back. I’m really dead, we both are.”
“It’s for the best, it’s what we wanted.” Jean Paul said, cuddling up to me, but I wasn’t so sure. The lamentable weeks of reflection, loneliness and pain that followed, convinced me that I had betrayed the world. Millions all over the world paid tribute to me, sent flowers to my former residence, left gifts and messages of condolence for Nicole and Mother, wept openly on the streets. The Press blamed itself, and there was public outcry for a ban of the paparazzi. My good deeds were praised, exceedingly so, and there were calls to make me a
saint. Statues of me were erected at several public places, a charity line opened in my name and donations of money were made in their millions. The entire world mourned me. My funeral was a state one. Producers could not resist but make films about me.
I could not go on living like this, living a lie, knowing the entire world mourned me. I blamed James, of course. The entire thing was his fault.
I came to the conclusion that there’s only one way out, to put pen to paper and relate to the world about the evils I had seen and experienced, so that it will be my judge, and perhaps forgive me for my betrayal. I shall not write in the fashion of Wole Soyinka, for I am not a literary genius, but I will endeavour to write elegantly, for though, as you will see as the story unfolds, I am not particularly well educated, I am, to a large extent, what one might call an autodidact. I feel it is more important, however, to tell my story and let it unfold as it will.
I shall begin at the point when I discovered that James had won the election...
I was sitting in my living room, the day’s paper in my hand, I could not believe my eyes. As I snailed through the invisible headline on the front page of `The Sun`, Cabinet Budgets £38,657 million for 1993, flashes of my baby, then, James Gallagher, interchanged - pure die-for innocence and unadulterated evil. A tight knot formed in my stomach, strangling my intestines, sadistically creeping up, angrily threatening to empty the food that dared invade its abode. I could feel the vomit-taste of half digested food take refuge in my mouth, and placed a lazy hand on my stomach as though to appease the knot. Sinisterely covering half the evil-bearing page was a picture of James Gallagher, the devil, the holy terror, the crafty anarchist - As a reader, I’m sure you’re curious to know exactly what it was James Gallagher did to make me hate him so. Your curiosity will be satisfied, again as the story unfolds, but I shall mention here that, though he, at one point, became my lover, he was not the greatest love of my life, nor was he my first love, and you will be shocked to discover that he is in fact my brother. Our incestuous affair is one of the most shameful things I have ever done. The writing of this book, for me, has a therapeutic effect, for as the world reads my story, it will be convinced of my innocence in the brief affair, which it will clearly see has done me more harm than good, for it did, in a way, cause my daughter’s death.
It had been two solitary weeks since my daughter died. Sly tears hovered around my eyes, then shyly began to glide down my face, pretentiously, as though they had not, not just long ago, trodden the same path.
"You must try to forgive him, my dear" came a middle aged woman's consoling voice from behind, her comforting hands were pillow-soft on each of my shoulder.
"But will I ever forget, Mother? Will I ever forget?"
"Perhaps not, my dear, but you must try."
"I will, Mother, but right now I need some time alone."
I rose from the flowered couch and slurred my way into the sea-blue coloured bedroom. The blue room could only be this colour, for here my daughter rested, not in the physical sense, but her spirit would always be here, for I had carefully preserved all her belongings since she was a toddler. The blue cot, on which my baby used to lay, was still there, still looking new. The baby jelly smell of her hit my nose to a frenzied nostalgia, as my mind reacted, and I raced down memory lane.
"I shall always keep this cot for my baby, when I'm a woman and a mother" I heard my little girl say. All the toys with which she had played were still there, so strong had been her resolution. All still in the little cot that she out-grew some several years before her death
"What have you done to me, James?” I cried “Culpable encephalitis from Tartarus."
Ripples and torrents of collosal energy cohere
Monstrous forms appear
Malefactor Bedzebub, culumunator, saboteur
Yes Bedzebub there operates
Crafty anarchist, works at Styx
Bedzebub, culpable encephalitis from tartarus.
I feel I must, at this point, clarify on one or two points I’m sure will be going through your mind as a reader. Zhanny, that’s my late daughter, was not the product of my incestuous relationship with James, though her death may serve as a befitting punishment, I suppose, for having engaged in such an affair. I should, once again, stress that the affair came about quite innocently and several years after Zhanny was born, so that there can be no doubt as to her paternity. I wish I could say my relationship with her father had been one of a romantic nature, but certainly it was far from that. It was a relationship that left me convinced that all men were monsters, that is, until my brief affair with James, after which I am still left convinced that all men are monsters, if they weren’t my Zhanny would still be here
Idly I pressured slightly on the cot, and it began to rock. With tear-filled eyes, my head rotated, slowly, as though I was in a trance. On top of my wardrobe was a big brown suitcase, on which my eyes finally rested. Grabbing a ladder from the corner of the room, I clambered onto the top and lifted the suitcase down. Slowly, I opened it, then searched frantically, burrowing through neatly folded clothes. The tears had by now ceased to flow. Gently, I lifted out the culpable contraption - the pregnancy testing kit. - No doubt you’ll be wondering at my sanity for preserving the kit, but I can assure you I’m quite sane. I preserve things partly for their sentimental value and partly because I believe someday they will increase in historic and, thus, monetary value.
I’ve never really had much money, though there is a certain element of wealth, even fame, in my family, by this I include my extended family. You will find, as you read on, that I had led an impoverished life where I had had to raise my baby on my own, living on hand outs from social security and scratching on a living. My fault, you might say, but it is a difficult life as a single parent. Yes I was not married, never married; Knocked up at an early age, left on the shelf, and all because I loved the wrong man - Zhanny’s father. I may sound bitter, even regretful, but I’m not. Zhanny was the best thing that ever happened to me, the one good thing that emerged from my relationship with Chris - I shall not at this point tell you about Chris, for it will only result in confusion. It is best for the story to unfold sequentially, which brings me back to the pregnancy testing kit. - I held it in my hand, feeling its shape as my eyes began again to blur fresh tears, and, as though through psychometry, I began to relive the nightmare.
"Which college will you apply to, Jan?"
"I don't know yet, I'm looking through the Yellow Pages."
My torch-finger guided, gliding down the pages, my eyes following the search rapidly. Bedford wasn't a bad place, I thought . "What do you think of Bedford, Mum?" I finally asked.
"Bedford?"
"Yes, Bedford Tutorial College"
"Well you'd better phone them first to find out which courses are available."
The interminable train journey to Bedford was tedious, as though each colander bump on the joined tracks drained energy from my body. The college had mercifully accepted my application to study law, government and economics at advanced level. Soon I would join the group of aspiring, awe invoking learneds.
A vacuum. Sweet sixteen, I was just ripe for college and hoped that by eighteen I would be eligible to make Cambridge University my alma mater in law. The thought of one day becoming a lawyer overboiled my normal cool.
Arrangements were made. I would stay with a couple at 28 Skirne Passage, a quaint, white cottage at Tyne Crescent, Bedford. The age-worn couple, Mr and Mrs Phoenix, were pleasant, and I relaxed feeling confident I would enjoy my stay at Bedford.
Schooling, presented one major problem. Every morning I had to wait for the bus, which often arrived late, to school. After a few nerve-racking telephone calls and tedious letter exchanges with Mother, we decided that I would start having driving lessons - An irrelevant and boring point, you might think, but it is significant in the sense that it was through the driving lessons that I actually got to meet the monster who was Zhanny’s father, although I had not at the time thought he was a monster.
Just why I chose Christie`s School of Motoring I can not say, it was not the biggest, neither was it reputed the best. Perhaps it was because of the paltry fee they charged, which was of course very attractive.
I time-watch waited, excitedly, in anticipation of my first lesson. It had been arranged that I would have lessons twice a week, Saturdays and Sundays, so that they would not compete with my studies.
The man had said 4pm. It was now ten minutes to four, and the impatient door bell began to demand my attention. Could it be him? I rushed through a glass of five alive and scurried to the door.
"Jan Simmons?" The man asked knowingly, as I opened the door. I nodded. He did not look like one’s average driving instructor; big feet, big round face, stumpy fingers stuck to massive hands. A sturdy six footer.
"Hello" he said, stretching out his hand, "I'm Alan from Christie`s. We had scheduled an appointment for four O'clock?"
"Yes" I replied shaking his hand. "Won't you come in for a while, maybe I could make you some tea, or coffee if you prefer. It really is very cold out. I'm sure you could do with a cuppa, you look frozen."
"Thanks, love" the man replied, "I wish I could, but we really have to get going. I have to drop someone off first, his lesson was just before yours. That's why I came a bit early, so we could drop him off and go from there."
"Fine, well just give me five seconds to get my coat and gloves".
"Chris Hansen" the man introduced as we stooped into the car. "Jan Simmons". We communicated acknowledgement glances with slight nods of our heads, greeting each other with our eyes and smiles.
The young man to whom I had just been introduced was originally Porto Rican, but after his parents` death, was adopted into an upper middle class English family, with whom he was now not on very good terms. His dark eyes were slanted and mischievous, there was something about them, they were what one might call winter-cold eyes. Moustaches, I ordinarily did not like, but his, together with his dark features, became him. I estimated he was in his mid to late twenties, perhaps twenty-six or seven, there about. Though he had been mouse-quiet, I was sorry when we reached his destination and he had to go.
I could see the car was designed for tutoring. The set of three pedals on my side were also on the side my tutor occupied. First he showed me how to master the whole thing, fixed the learner's plate onto the car, and off I jolted at my snail pace. The car felt balloon-light at my feet and seemed to be flying. The whole thing was mind-blowing, I had actually driven a car.
Three more driving lessons and I was going out on a date with Chris. It was hard to believe that this incredibly good looking guy, with an oriental look, was interested in me. I pinch-told myself, over and over, that it was not a dream.
We went for a wimpey, it was magic.
"How do you photograph?" he asked curiously, peeping through pen-lined eyes.
"I'm very photogenic, as a matter of fact" I replied.
"I thought so. You know, you look like a model - the big eyes, the button nose and the lips...well, they're generally full anyway. Don't tell me no one's ever told you you look like a model."
"Well actually, would you believe they have? I've had a number of offers too, the artist at the underground station, the man at Heathrow Airport,...ah many, but I don't know though I'm not beautiful like other models, I think I'd feel stupid telling people I'm a model. I think they'd probably laugh their heads off at me."
"Take it from me" Chris said encouragingly, "You're as beautiful as any model, you have model qualities, potentials, and most importantly, you’re photogenic. If I were you I'd go in for pictographic modelling. You'd make much more money doing that than you would in the legal practice. I really suggest you think about it."
"OK." I said "I'll think about it."
The conversations on that date knocked Chris off his pedestal - he was a drop-out. He had enrolled at the Bedford Tutorial College, but it was out of sheer laziness that he dropped out. Having lost the good terms on which he had been with his parents - perhaps because he had dropped out of college - he began to sign on, and rented an £80 a week flat at Bedford, where he now resided alone - the rent was paid for by tax-payers.
A week into our relationship I moved in with him. I was infatuated by him, always at his beck and call.
Energy from mine colander body drained
Bellicose fight mine heart is won
Victorious love and falcony conceeded.
I began to use foundation because he complained of my oily skin. I even quit college because he thought the idea of becoming a lawyer was not a good one. I was potty in his hand, he could squeeze and press, and mould me into any form he wished. My heart was in his hand, he could turn his hand over and break my heart. I was an ornament for his viewing pleasure, his television, he could stand from afar and control me by the press of a button. One look in his hypnotic eyes and I was gone. Gradually, he brain-washed me into pictographic modelling. I was at an impressionable age, I believed he was sincere. I was convinced he was the right man for me, I was convinced I was in love. There was very little competition. My future career versus what the new love of my life wanted Of course now I know the option I should have taken, and I might have gone on to become a great lawyer, and perhaps my Zhanny would still be alive, for I would have had enough money to treat her, sustain her, give her all the things she missed out in in life, but I had had the mind of a child, how could I have foreseen that my modelling career would be so short lived I should have known that a little bit of weight, or a little bit of wrinkle, would end the whole thing, and that the alternative option, education, was for life, and would have been the key to new and exiting opportunities. It would have given me independence and respect, but I was convinced I was in love, I thought with my heart and not my head. I allowed this person, who was himself little more than a child, and about whom I knew little, to influence my life, my future.
I sent portfolios to several modelling agencies. Some replied, requesting my presence in London, where they were all based. Faz Modelling Agency at Kensington, eventually signed me up. I felt elated, I was going to be a model, Chris would be proud of me.
The job was demanding and unglamorous. I had to plague-avoid certain food types, retire to bed early, and stringently abide by many other demanding restrictions, all in the name of looking good, fresh and young, but I didn't mind, the pay was good. I modelled for Vogue magazine, the perfume Zing and a musical video, among others.
It was not until three months elapsed that I began to wonder at the revocation of my witches curse.
In my brown suitcase was a pregnancy testing kit I had bought earlier. I extracted the contents from its box and administered the test. The result made me consult a doctor.
"I don't know doctor this sounds silly, I know, but you see, I'm on the pill, and it's probably why the home pregnancy test I took is showing positive."
"Do you like your pills straight, or sweetened?" the doctor asked, playing on the word pill. For a moment I didn’t know what he meant, but the look on his face told me.
"I can't be pregnant" I said
"If the test is showing positive, then you must be pregnant, " he said without mincing words. "In most cases it's good news, but in your case,...well", he gestured, indicating how helpless he was "I'm sorry to see you in this situation." His words hit me like a thunder-bolt. My feelings ran riot. I began, to the doctor's bewilderment, to laugh.
"But I'm only a baby myself, how can I be pregnant?"
"The pill isn't a hundred percent safe" he explained.
"Yeah, it's my kind of luck,” I said “of all the girls who go on the pill, I have to be the one to get knocked up." Tears welled up in my eyes as I left the clinic. My life was taking a different turn, a turn for the worst, but I would hold on to the good things, Chris, my job, everything, at least for as long as I could.
"I can't tell him, I can't, I just can't." I was almost in tears, sitting with two friends whom I was visiting at the college. We were sitting at the canteen.
"You ought really to have an abortion then" Camila suggested.
"I support that" Shakaraya took her stance.
"Ughh" I grimaced "I couldn't go through that, I just couldn't bring myself to do it." I grimaced again, and gave a deliberate shudder to show how grotesque I thought the idea was. - The subject of abortion is a delicate one, a topic I feel it best to stay well clear of, as it has religious connotations, but I must, at this point, defend my view, for though I am anti-abortionist, I should add that I condone abortion under certain circumstances, when the woman has been raped for instance, or when the pregnancy is life threatening to the mother, otherwise I strongly believe that a child is a gift from God
"Then you have to tell him" Camilla said,
"Ughh" I exclaimed, with a light laugh "You know, that's even more frightful than the abortion." my tone dropped to a more serious note. "I don't know, he once told me he didn’t ever want to have children. I can’t tell him.”
I kept my counsel and did not tell Chris, nor did I have the abortion. My stomach was growing rapidly and I could no longer hide it. Anything as important as a new human life had to make an ostentatious entrance. I had to do something quickly. Tell him? No, I was too much of a coward for that, I could not stand to watch him look at me with hatred in his eyes. Panic-stricken, I began to pack my belongings, it was better to just disappear. I would do it, soon I would do it. I found comfort in the thought and relaxed.
It was on a Saturday afternoon. It was on a Summer's day. I knew his daily schedule well. It was 3pm, he would be at the sports centre. It had to be now, or never. Quickly I flanked my remaining belongings into my brown suitcase, and left. In my haste I collided with Liam.
"Going somewhere, Jan?" he asked curiously, helping me open the car door. Liam was Chris` best buddy and was bound to tell him I had packed away, in other words, he would find out sooner than I had anticipated, and would probably find me loitering about, undecided as to where to go. I felt compelled to explain everything, and made him promise not to tell Chris, for I told him of the likeliest place I would go. He crossed his heart as he gave his promise.
What does all this have to do with James Gallagher, you might wonder, but before I relate what it was about James Gallagher that makes me want to bring about his downfall, I must first tell you of his background, for despite his heartlessness, he is quite a remarkable fellow, and as you read on, you will discover the qualities that got him the highest office in Britain.
It is debatable whether James would have gotten so far without his best friend Philip. The two had been inseparable since they were teenagers and, curiously, it was their mutual interest in politics that brought them together.
Phil Travoli, son of Anthony Travoli, Shadow Minister for Health, was developing an interest in politics, and in an attempt to help his father's party, made a few posters and stuck them on walls and shop windows in the neighbourhood. He was calling a meeting of Sympathisers of the Social Democratic Party. The venue was his father's residence, the time, 5pm, the following day.
Five teenagers attended the meeting. Among them was James Gallagher, who found his vacations boring and thought it would be a good way to make friends
Philip Travoli read the minutes of the meeting, gave a brief talk on the Social Democratic Party and their policies, and invited reactions from his audience. James proved to be more than a pretty face, he had certainly done his homework and knew more about the S.D.P. than any other person present, Philip Travoli included.
The party met three times a week, they didn't do anything major, just distributed S.D.P. magazines and, occasionally, published articles or poems in support of the S.D.P.
Soon all members of the party had to return to school. Philip Travoli and James Gallagher attended separate schools, but had become such good friends that not only did they exchange letters, but also agreed to attend the same college and university.
As I had earlier mentioned, James was a brilliant fellow, academically. It is, however, my opinion that people of academic brilliance often lack the common sense that should go with it. This is not, as you might understandably think, a begrudge against James, but a general observation of the academically astute with whom I have been fortunate enough to come into contact in the past, or even known personally. I believe James’ story will later illustrate my point - Margaret, James’ sister will appear as a very flat character in my story, for she makes no significant contribution to its development. I shall in fact only mention her here to show that James did indeed have another sister.
"Straight A`s James,” Margaret said as she reviewed his O’level results.
“ how did you do it? I thought you said you were sure you’d failed your maths."
"Nine straight A`s.” James elaborated. “The answer to your question is study"
"Alright, pighead, nine straight A`s, so what next?"
"Naturally he's going to University." Barrister Gallagher said, his head buried in his newspaper.
"Alright, smart, what will you study?" Margaret asked, staring at her elder brother.
"Political science." he replied
"Politics huh? But of course you're going to have to do your A`levels first." Barrister Gallagher again said, now putting his papers down. It was hard to read and follow his children's conversation at the same time. He had had to raise them by himself after his wife died, soon after Meg's birth, of cervical cancer. It was no wonder he was attached to them.
"That's right, Dad."
"And I guess you're going to make three A`s" said Meg.
"Of course".
You will note that I do not write of my family with a tone of closeness or fondness, that is because I didn’t, at this stage, know them. I had been adopted.
Margaret was right, James procured three A`s, and an admission into Cambridge
University. He found a bedsit through a local newspaper. His landlady was an attractive woman whose writer husband had travelled to research a book he was writing.
The lonely lady sought two or three undergraduates from the University for company. James occupied one of the rooms and the others were occupied by two girls. Jackie was Asian and Suzanne was English, both girls were tall and beautiful. They were also students at the University.
James did his best to erase Shenna`s loneliness,
she made sure she got the best of him. He had not made a pass at her, she had made the first move. It was whilst they were watching television, Jackie and Suzanne had gone to the pub with some friends. The film was Love Story. It was casual at first. She had left her seat, gone down to the kitchen and made them both some coffee. She had handed him his, then, without warning, dropped her cuppa on the table, joined him on the sofa and covered his mouth with hers. One thing led to another, but it was not until the night of Suzanne's party that he felt the guilt of their conduct, fornication on his part, adultery on her part. Whichever way one looked at it, it was wrong, morally wrong. Perhaps it was that feeling of guilt that finally made him leave the place and look for one of his own, though his undergraduate days had at the time nearly come to an end. When he eventually took his finals, he made first class honours.
His undergraduate days had however been very eventful, not just academically, but politically too. Not only was he at one stage the students’ Union leader, he was also the president of the University branch of the Social Democratic Youth Organisation which usually co-operated with the group at the national level and was often involved in international exchanges designed to tackle social problems. The organisation also published and distributed magazines outlining social, educational, and political problems. It also often co-ordinated demonstrations for various reasons; in support of a teachers’ strike; in protest of a cut in students` benefits; in protest of a cut in government subsidy for education.
With his first class honours from Cambridge University, though it had nothing to do with what he had studied, it had not been difficult for James to get a job as a Public Relations Officer for an oil company called Vesilex. After a suicidal row with the director of the company having played with his job, as a child would play with the furniture, he received a reprimand, then a sweet sounding letter enlisting his good qualities, then his bad. He had been dismissed from office.
That year he joined the department staff of Political Science at Cambridge University as an assistant lecturer.
His major problem at the University was women. Even in his undergraduate days that had been his sole weakness and at a point it made him slack in his studies. He could still vividly remember his affair with Charlotte. Charlotte was petite in a way that became her. She had a kind of charisma which attracted every man whose eyes beheld her. She was not beautiful, rather plain really, but there was something about her, something which one could not place, perhaps it was the fact that she was different, neither an introvert nor unsociable. Though unconservative, she was never-the-less reserved. She was mysterious, and having met her one yearned to know more about her, but she would never give, just enough to keep you curious, still insatiable, still wanting, that which was Charlotte. A familiar excitement grew in him as he remembered her, a strange kind of excitement, not extreme but moderate, the kind that only Charlotte could arouse. A strange feeling of nostalgia flowed through his veins manifesting in a slight body shudder.
"Charlotte, lovely Charlotte" That was the first he had heard of her. The speaker was Travoli. Travoli was his closest friend. Perhaps not really a friend, in the strictest sense of the word, for he was a distractive person who disapproved of James’ book-wormness. It seemed he had an aversion to studying and James could not fathom just how his friend had managed to gain admission into Cambridge University to study Medicine. He was all play and no work and certainly no dull fellow in any sense of the word, yet all his exams were cleared with A’s
"What you need is Charlotte."
"Who the hell is Charlotte?" James had asked
"My cousin, my first cousin, you'll like her."
"What's she like? Pretty? Beautiful? Mind blowing?"
"None"
"If she's none of these, why do you reckon I'll like her?"
"Oh, she's pleasant enough, rather plain really, but you'll like her, you'll see what I mean when you meet her."
"If I meet her, you mean."
"When you meet her. Tonight. Nine. She's expecting you at The Mailstream for dinner"
"You fixed me on a bloody blind date!" A mischievous smile spread across his face in answer.
A solitary table stood in a solitary corner at The Mailstream restaurant. A solitary girl sat in a chair at the table, obviously waiting for someone, perhaps it was her solitary existence that made her as conspicuous as a standing elephant, or a fallen star. Her hair was very full, mousey and very curly. She was in funeral black except the blue leg warmers tucked into black suede boots which broke the black scheme, yet she did not look mournful, but rather fashionable. Her facial features were generally small except her nose which was perhaps a trifle too large. It looked out of place from the rest of her features, like a jet black wig on a fair skinned blue eyed white woman. She could definitely benefit from a nose-job. She was not pretty, let alone beautiful, just plain. Perhaps too plain. Though her face was made up, one had to strain one's eyes to actually notice that she wore lipstick.
Without looking at him, instinctually she knew he was staring at her. She could feel it. She now decided to look up for confirmation.
As their eyes met a surge of blood rushed through James and he became visibly red. He must have appeared awfully rude, he had to at least ask her.
She could now feel him approaching, and began observing her hands shyly. She had seen the red colouring on his face and knew he was clearly embarrassed because she had caught him staring. She could feel him standing next to her table. She looked up at his face; The big brown eyes, the thick black hair, the snobby nose, the pencil lined lips, they moved.
Charlotte? Charlotte Bringsden?"
The warmest smile acknowledged the name.
"I'm James Gallagher...."
"Won't you sit down?" She intercepted, indicating the seat near her. "I thought perhaps you'd look like Clint Eastwood"
"Sorry to disappoint you." James replied.
"...instead" She continued "I got Roger Moore."
his face lit up in a smile.
"I wouldn't say I look like Roger Moore, but I think I'm at least pleasant looking, though not near as good looking as Clint Eastwood."
He didn't return the compliment, but as the night grew he found her a likeable character. He could now certainly see what Travoli meant. What she lacked in looks, she more than made up for in character, in fact her character brought out a certain kind of physical beauty in her.
They spent three hours at The Mailstream that night, yet she left him wanting more of her company. He began to see her often. The more he saw of her, the less he studied, and this began to reflect in his work. He nearly lost his head over her, and probably would have done had she not graduated and left Cambridge a year before his finals.
A smile lit up on his face as he remembered.
"Charlotte" He muttered to himself "Lovely Charlotte." How different she was to Fiona, super bitch, super beautiful Fiona, physically Fiona was every man's desire, but she was coquettish, a real kitten, a real dumb blonde, super busty, super dumb, but super exciting. Fiona, who would have every man fight over her and walk away unscathed, while the men suffered physical and emotional bruises. Fiona was a secretarial student whom James had met at a dance. Again Travoli had had a part in this meeting. It was the usual 'May ball' at Rennelles James had not seen Travoli in some months since his graduation from the University. The day after his return to Cambridge, he had telephoned Travoli and told him they were going to the ball that night and that he was not to worry, he had a girl for him.
"She's mind blowing" he said. "Fiona" he said, "Lovely Fiona."
"Who's she?" James asked curiously. "Where did you meet her?"
"She's my cousin" Travoli replied with a mischievous smile.
"Every woman in the world's your cousin, huh?" The smile broadened. He had to hand it to Travoli. He knew how to mix the ingredients well, even on blind dates. He had immediately fallen in lust with Fiona and was presently having a hard time concentrating on the lecture he was giving.
*