White Boots & Miniskirts by Jacky Hyams

Author:Jacky Hyams
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781782193685
Publisher: John Blake
Published: 2013-04-14T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE ’60S ARE OVER

A large house on Islington’s Liverpool Road where a New Year’s Eve party is in full swing. People drift from room to room, voices increasingly louder, the sound of The Archies singing ‘Sugar Sugar’ almost drowned out by the burble of chatter, the intermittent outbreaks of loud, raucous laughter, the anticipation of Big Ben’s chime half an hour away. No one dances. Not yet.

A faint odour of hashish mingles with the more powerful scent of patchouli oil, the exotic, musky late ’60s hippie smell. The hosts, a married couple – he an ad agency boss, she something in fashion – are an effusive, outgoing, late 20-something pair. Rumour has it he’s having it off with his secretary. And that she too has flirtatious, messy liaisons. Welcome to the dawn of the 1970s…

I’m perched on a low, extremely uncomfortable orange chair from a shop called Habitat, wondering where Michael has suddenly vanished to. These are his friends, his advertising crowd from work. Big pine table in the kitchen, shag pile rugs, chrome and glass furniture in the living area. Even a sofa made out of dark leather. I have never seen furniture like this before, other than in photos in the posh Sunday supplements. I feel a bit out of my depth, mainly because I know no one here. Where is he?

Michael is the love of my life. We’ve been together for several months, the first few living a deux in Highgate, wrapped up in each other to the exclusion of most of the world. He’s gentle, soulful and sensitive, a talented art director with an unhappy, long-term relationship behind him. Curly, unruly brown hair, piercing blue eyes. Michael often insists he’d be happier as a dreamy, itinerant hippie on Ibiza if he didn’t have to earn a living, pay his way in the world. He’s a guitarist, sings beautifully and serenades me with songs like ‘Lay Lady Lay’, the sexy Bob Dylan hit. He’s gently humorous – he teases me endearingly about my fixations, my onion-style upswept hairdos and see-through lacy outfits. He’s knowledgeable about art and classical music, in an unpretentious way.

Michael is a new world for me. This is no frenetic, sexually charged headlong dive into pleasure with an experienced seducer. Love with this man means just that, a softly melting fusion, two people fitting together perfectly, lovingly, completely in synch. So familiar is he to my senses, it’s almost as if we’ve known each other before – in another life. Michael, for me, is a place of total harmony, blissful contentment. The rest of the world can go hang. Snuggling up to his long, lean shape each night, waking with his arms wrapped tightly round me, finding myself adrift in endless warmth and affection for the first time ever, I’m blissfully in love and it’s a two-way street. He tells me how he cares and shows me he adores me in a thousand ways. Not by lavishing me with expensive gifts or taking me to flash places.

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