Inconceivable

“So, Brenda,” said Charlie. “What do you say to people who call you a sexist stereotype?”

Brenda drew herself up to her full height, which was about five feet nothing, and answered the charge.

“Well, I think they’re the sexists because they don’t understand that me being proud of my body and getting my kit off is actually all about being strong, and female empowerment and the me I want me to be.”

“Well, it certainly gives me the horn,” Charlie said, getting to the point, so to speak. Brenda smiled a gorgeous smile as if her point had been proved and honour satisfied.

Next I found myself in Joe London’s dressing room. Woody Monk was there, of course, and Wally, the drug- addled lead guitarist of The Muvvers and Joe’s sidekick for nearly thirty years. Wally looked quite extraordinary, like a mummified corpse. He reminded me of that Stone Age hunter they found after he’d been frozen for twenty thousand years in the Alps, except Wally had a feathered haircut with a spiky top which had only been preserved for about thirty years. They were rehearsing one of The Muvvers’ early hits and Joe and Wally seemed to be having a little trouble remembering exactly how the song went. Joe said, “Nah, man, you go fahkin’ da da da dum after the second line when I sing, ‘Youngest gun, dream won’t stop’ awight?”

This threw Wally completely. “Is that the lyric?” he mumbled with apparent surprise.

“Of course it’s the fahkin’ lyric. I mean we’ve only done it eight trillion fahkin’ times, geezer!”

“Well, that’s amazing, man,” said Wally. “I always thought you were singing ‘Currant bun, cream on top’. In’t that amazing?”

Then Joe saw me. It took a moment for him to focus, but he recognized me, which was nice and he seemed genuinely pleased to see me. I told him how proud and happy the BBC were that he and the band had graced us with their presence and he couldn’t have been sweeter about it.

“I larve a big gig, me. A nice big charity gig. ’Ere, Wally, you remember that one we done for RockAid with Mark Knopfler and the Straits?”

“Nah,” said Wally. Silly question really because it was quite obvious that Wally did not really remember anything at all.

“Mark done this guitar solo,” Joe continued, “you know, the one in the middle of ‘Sultans of Swing’… dabadaba dabadab dabad-aba daaaa daaa, he would not stop, daaaa dabadaba dabadab dabadaba daaaa, people was nodding off, going out for fags, getting married, ’aving kids, dying. Mark’s still giving it dabadaba dabadab dabadaba daaaa. ‘Pack it in, you ponce!’ we was all shouting, but old Mark was off in Dabadabaland. In the end we just left ’im to it. I think it’s still going on somewhere as it ’appens.”

Just then Rod Stewart puts his head around the door to say hello. I must admit it was all pretty exciting.

“Rod! ’Ow’s it going, you old bastard? Orlright?” Joe said. “Nice one. ’Ow’s Britt? Sorry Alana. ’Ow’s Alana?”

This was of course something of a faux pas.

“Not Alana, you pillock,” said Monk. “He moved on.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. ’Ow’s Rachel?” Joe corrected himself.

“I don’t fink it’s ’er any more eiver,” said Monk.

“Well, whatever, ven, the new one, ’ow is she?” Joe seemed impervious to social embarrassment. “I saw that calendar she done. Lovely girl, beautiful.”

“Very tasteful,” Monk added.

“Yeah, that’s right, it was tasty, very tasty, that one with the sand stuck to her bum that was well flipping artistic, that was… Yeah, see ya, Rod, keep rocking, mate.”

Rod having gone on his way, Joe turned back to me.

“Lovely bloke, top geezer. Diamond. ’Asn’t changed at all. Still loves his soccer. That’s what I like abaht gigs like this. They bring out the best in all of us. We’re here to support starvation abroad and drug abuse at home. Just a bunch of top geezers and stunning birds coming together to help uvver people. No ego. No attitude. Just cats wot care.”

At this point, Toni, Joe’s supermodel wife, entered. All seven and a half feet of her. She had to stoop to get through the door. I recognized her from the pages of Hello! She seemed angry.

“Here, Joe,” she said. “I’ve just been having a natter with Iman Bowie…”

“Lovely girl,” Joe interjected, “stunning bird. She ’as been so good for David.”

“Yeah well, they’ve got champagne in their dressing room and what have we got, bleeding Australian Chardonnay, what if Iman or Yasmin or any of the girls come in and I offer them that? I’ll be shamed…”

Seeing as how it was the BBC who were in effect hosting the event and hence responsible for the catering, I made my excuses and left. The show was about to start anyway. I really wanted to ring Lucy to tell her about meeting Joe and Rod and Mirage and Brenda and about the whole fantastic show, but I knew she wanted a quiet night and was probably already in bed.

Three bottles of wine between us, a quick “Perhaps we should have coffee somewhere quieter,” and suddenly I’m in a taxi heading for his place. Yes, we were snogging and, yes, now there were definitely tongues involved and, yes, he was using his hands, upstairs and outside only but when all you’re wearing is a silk blouse, quite frankly it might as well have been inside.

Before I knew it we were in his flat. I know it sounds ridiculous to say “Before I knew it” but it really was. I mean I have never done anything like this before and it felt as if I wasn’t really there, as if some other more wicked self had escaped for the night. Carl was being wonderfully provocative. I mean he didn’t just leap or anything. He was, well, “sensitive” is the best way of putting it. After the initial pash in the taxi he really held back and I didn’t feel at all pressurized. So how did I end up on the couch with him? With George Michael’s Older on the CD and six-year-old brandy being ignored on the coffee table while we writhed together? Because I wanted to, that’s why. The booze had knocked out my inhibitions and I wanted to be there, with Carl breathing sensual nothings into my ear and expertly removing my shoes as if he’d been doing it all his life.

And then suddenly I’m floating through the air as he swept me up into his arms with hardly a jolt or a shudder and carried me through to his bedroom, beautifully neat with a vast king-sized bed covered in crisp fresh white linen. This is a man who has a woman who does, no doubt about that. He laid me on the bed and we kissed a little more and then he began to unbutton my blouse.

That was when I stopped it. I don’t know how I did because I don’t think I’ve ever felt so turned on, but I stopped it. His other hand was beginning to work its way up under my skirt, beautifully and gently but under my skirt nonetheless. It was the absolute final point of no return. Somehow I managed to find a voice and against every desire and hormone in my body I asked him to stop.

He did so, immediately. I mean he was still half on top of me but he suspended his exploratory hand actions, even going to the effort of doing up the button he had just undone. On the other hand, he did not remove his lips from my ear into which he whispered, “Lucy, please. I want to make love to you all night, tenderly and gently and completely. I want to massage your body and touch every inch of your beautiful skin. I want to be a part of you, as one, until the morning.”

Oh God, I wanted it. How many years is it since Sam wanted to touch every inch of my skin? And massage! Christ, it takes me all evening to get Sam to give me even the most perfunctory shoulder rub and here was this gorgeous man… Except all that has nothing to do with anything. I’m married and I love my husband.

“And in the morning? What happens then?” I asked. After all, a night of passion is a lovely thought, but I had a lot more to lose than he did.

“Then we’ll make love again, and again in the afternoon and then I’ll ask you to stay another night, and another and always. I love you, Lucy. I think I want you in my life.”

It’s what he said. He’s a man of strong and volatile passion, that’s for sure. He really has got a thing for me. I swear he meant it too. He wants me to go and live in his flat with him. He thinks life should be lived on the impulse. Did I mention that he’d taken his shirt off? He did that after he’d laid me on the bed. He looked absolutely superb, more muscular than I’d expected but not too much. I think saying no was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

“Carl. I can’t. You’re wonderful, beautiful, and I could fall in love with you in an instant, perhaps I already have. But I’m married. I love my husband, it’s not exciting like this, but then nothing is exciting for ever, is it?”