Flying through the air

Remembering an unexpected romantic afternoon in December 1997

Lunchtime in London, early December 1997.

I’m heading away from a job interview somewhere by the Southbank, wondering what to do with the rest of my day before my National Express departs at 5pm.

I do not know it yet, but I have been successful and in less than four weeks, I will fly out to Amsterdam to start work in an international school.

A twitching mackerel sky is threatening to tail-flick beads of rain on to my plum suede trouser suit - my ‘interview outfit’. It’s from ‘New Look’, smart but not stuffy. My friend picked out the shirt - gold. I’m revelling in the Christmas bauble-ness of the ensemble - flock wallpaper flamboyant. I’ve never been a conservative interview dresser. Why hide your personality? They either take me as I am - or not at all, cards on the table from the off, I reckon. I’m wearing wine-berry lipstick and my long dark hair is pinned up in a loose bun.

The chunky heels of my ankle boots are click-clacking like fat knitting needles as they navigate gloops of gum and shrivelled cigarette butts that curl as urban grubs. I catch my reflection in puddles the colour of manilla envelopes and find myself merging; iridescent feather buried in the city’s brooding pigeon.

I walk under a subway and as I do, my eyes link with those of a handsome skateboarder, of similar age to myself. He is wearing clothing more suited to summer - baggy faded denim shorts, reversed baseball cap, trainers.

His skin is olive, hair shoulder length, tousled and lightly sunkissed. They are the type of tresses that shroud another shade secretly beneath, semi locking layers like voile curtains that beg parting. His almond shaped hazel eyes dart as minnows toward and away from me. He completes his skateboard move, stacks his board against a grimey wall, smooths down his vest top, straightens his tanned body and approaches.

What happens next is like a moment from a movie as we both edge closer.

“Hey, where are you going?”

He quizzes. His English is gently broken. It surfaces as cracks in scorched red earth. Where is he from, Spain? Italy?

“I’ve just been for a job interview”

I explain, enjoying the feeling of validation this statement affords me -  the idea that I, Julie from Rochdale am important enough to travel to an interview in London. I wonder if it makes me sound intelligent, head-hunted…..

He listens, head at an angle, the way both foreigners and pets often do. It’s a look of concentration, at odds with his laid back demeanour.

“What will you do now? For the rest of the day? Do you have plans?”

I shrug.

“S’pose I’ll have a look around. Make the most of my day in London.”

I’ve started to walk again but notice he is strolling, board in hand beside me.

“Can I join you?…….Is that okay?”

He asks.

I’m a little taken aback by the randomness of this but……why the hell not?

My coach doesn’t leave til evening. I’m already taking pleasure in his company. His natural sunshine evokes my old life back in Cyprus, the one I shed like a snake skin only weeks earlier. I’m already pining for that turquoise sky and nuzzling warmth that seemed to so nurture my wellbeing.

I could make a suggestion of where to go, what to do but am rather enjoying the spontaneous possibility of it all.

So instead I say….

“Yeah……Let’s! Shall we go this way?”

In this brief few minutes, the script of a blank afternoon has flipped on its head from time to fill to burgeoning adventure.

His name is Luis. He is Portuguese, 22 to my 23. He’s been in London for a few months now, since summer, studying part time and waiting on tables. Despite his confident introduction, he has a curious innocence that draws me. When he cannot find words, he looks shyly to his feet and then back up. I do as I always do in such situations - talk ten to the dozen, ramble at the poor guy, keen to fill pauses with chatter and animated expressions.

We head for the water’s edge, the banks of the Thames, taking in the sights, but time and time again we find ourselves drawn back to each other’s eyes. I’ve been to London quite a few times but never before experienced it through romantic filter.  The skyline stretches for clean cloud the way a musician keys piano - each building striking a crisp note of major or minor. The hustle-bustle parts, Red Sea-like, allowing glimpses of colleagues long lunching. Faceless commuters seem to grow personalities whilst couples laugh their mist of fine diamonds into steam of hot coffee.

Effortlessly, we join this effervescent procession, finding ourselves in some leafy café avenue that sprang up like a fated toadstool ring. We enter an establishment of oxblood leather, treacle beams and microdot twinkles. There are elegant glass bottles that house dark devilish liqueurs luring as gingerbread. We immerse our ears in metallic taps and generous glugs as staff stencil hearts and froth promise. All this as sky digs last gold and final sunbeams strobe and freckle our table.

I talk of how I really hope I get the job in Amsterdam, but that if not, I plan to do a ski season in Courchevel with Caroline, my German friend I made in Cyprus. I ask if he can ski. No, but he can surf and would love to snowboard some day. His words race with passion as he tells me of ‘back home’. Luis lives by the beach and misses the good weather. He’s having fun, studying art and absorbing British culture - museums, galleries, gigs, cinema. He has swapped his first love - surfing- for skateboarding and this has enabled him to make new friends without the need for so much language. He appreciates the money he can make in tips in London, but when he is out of cash, he spends time people watching, musing over mundane interactions.

As we chat, I can tell he wants to kiss me but he holds back. Shyness? I don’t know. We do *that thing* when you both devour each other with held gaze - let eyes say everything your voice daren’t or can’t. Pupils dilate and every strand of colour in his lit iris is a wildflower stamen hot-wiring my soul. I notice he has a lip ring. I’ve never kissed anyone with a lip ring before. I’m channeling the old song “Kissing with Confidence”. Does Carly Simon offer any advice about navigating body piercings? Apparently not. Will it be weird? Awkward? It’s not a ‘would’ but ‘will’, as by now, I am certain it’s coming.

We leave and he switches between walking alongside me and occasionally mounting his skateboard.  It feels like being serenaded in an odd way - the smooth roll of wheels intermittently interrupted by the smash of the sharply defined stops.

I feel like I’m in ‘Before Sunrise’ one of my favourite films in which two strangers meet and have only a few hours together before they must go their separate ways.

I’m bracing myself for the leaving scene……

As red London buses weave and black cabs toot, we continue to stride. Anywhere. The streets are a jubilant jewel flood of Christmas trees, hemming lights and dressed windows. Sage sashes, clockwork animals, stacks of rose and violet cremes, fur trimmed red satin……

We pass a busy ice rink and my mind tweaks it to become the frozen lake in “The light of the Silvery Moon” and I, Doris Day.

Beside it, is a grand carousel and we climb aboard the painted horses. I, being on the seat behind, drape my arms around his waist. Round and round, the colours of mid afternoon streak and whizz, blending with the hypnotic dazzle of the ride.

Do it……kiss me, I will him as we dismount. I know I could initiate but want so much for it to be him, the guy….

He doesn’t.

More smiles, walking, talking. We lean in a little, huddle….

“What are you thinking?”

He asks, his accent cutting through my slick of silence with the jag of oranges.

Do my eyes not say it?

“Im just thinking ……I need to head back….”

I’m looking out at Big Ben and have noticed it’s nearly time for my coach. We take the tube together and as we approach Victoria coach station, we have made it to holding hands. Some kind of first base. Words dry up and gentle palm squeezes replace sentences.

Finally, the moment comes that we must say goodbye.

I step forward to board the coach and instantly the courage arrives for both of us.

Like a newly opened bottle, the fizz can no longer be contained. In unexplained synchronicity, we both move in and share the most delicious, intense kiss. It says everything we both wanted to the entire afternoon. I don’t think about the lip ring. I’m lost in his square jaw gravel, masculine scent, strong arms….

I taste him as the bridge between summer and winter, sweet and salt, England….. and somewhere I’ve never been.

And then like the end of a dance, after holding pose, we part and back away….

“I hope you get the job. Good luck!”

He calls out as I board my coach to Manchester.

He watches, waves, blows a kiss as the spluttering white vehicle pulls away.

All the way home, my heart is swift - skimming, dipping and looping on the husk of his voice, leap of his eyes and caramel of that one kiss….

I will never, ever see him again and even at 23 I have learned that sometimes, it’s better that way - to walk away with one glittering memory. A singular piece of wonder to remain enchanted by because it never got chance to become drab or faded. You never allowed yourself to tire of it.

There it will sit in my mind, forever- a boxed gem afternoon of ‘what if…’.

And somehow, I know that he will be back in that subway, on his skateboard mastering that one move that always eluded him.

Flying through the air.

.