The present

Nicola

The more I think about William, the more Intrigued I am. I have no memory of him at all. It’s a bit like waking up to find yourself in bed with a stranger but have no knowledge of how or when you got there.

   I must have known him. No, that won’t do. You don’t jet off on a romantic holiday to some exotic love nest with someone you just know, not someone of the opposite sex anyway, so it follows thatI must have been having a relationship with him. Really? I can’t imagine sensible me doing anything so daring, so audacious, so erotic. Me, having a lover and cheating on Alex. I have difficulty taking that in. Why would I do that?

   Does it mean I was tempted to gaze into a stranger’s eyes one moonlit night after a few large vodkas and then allowed myself to be slowly undressed and seduced, my heart beating wildly at the prospect.

   I have never been one for one-night stands really – not really – considering them rather grubby and meaningless. Having said that, that was exactly how I lost my virginity at 17 in a garden shed at my boyfriend’s house. I had to move a couple of hammers and a hacksaw out of the way before I sat on a workbench covered in sawdust with my knickers off so that he could do his stuff. Romantic it was not, and I was picking bits off my bum for days afterwards.

   So, I have always been a bit fussy who I have sex with. It has always been men I have a connection with – emotionally, intellectually, or even academically. Looks don’t necessarily come into it, although I am not immune to a good-looking guy, any more than any other woman is. I guess the ideal would be a good-looking guy with brains.

   It is one of the ways Evie and I differ. She is more interested in what they have between their legs and yes, of course good looks come into it as well. But the prospect of a long-term relationship has no interest for her. In fact, any guy who begins to exhibit nest-making traits would be unceremoniously dumped. I know why she is like that. If she could be persuaded to talk about it, she would tell you that it is because she was crazy about a guy when she was 19; she would literally have done anything for him or with him. I think he was something of a cold-hearted bastard who treated her with contempt.

He at one time teased her in front of a crowd, taunting her about what she would do for him, like swim with millions of jellyfish, or do a skydive, bungee jump or even go free climbing. Poor Evie tolerated his jibes for ages until one day she snapped, and all her pent-up anger and resentment exploded with her grabbing a knife in the kitchen and going for him. He ran for it and never returned. Ever. Sensibly.

After that, she shunned anyone who looked like he was going to get serious. I did try to tell her on a few occasions that not all men are like that, but she would have none of it and now the subject is quite simply closed and is never mentioned.

Anyway, the riddle of who William is will remain a riddle for the moment. I am hoping that my abilities will gradually increase until I am able to leave Terminal Three and finally solve the mystery of what happened to me and why I am here. Hopefully, that will tell me what I was up to with William and why I cheated on Alex, if indeed that is what I did.

So, I periodically wander around the terminal listening to what people are saying and doing and hoping that I might one day see someone I know. I watch as people stand stoically in the check-in queue, shuffling forward slowly as people like Sarah at BA process them with a ready smile and a comforting word for the nervous.

Apart from Sarah who, as I said previously, has a dark home life, there is also Jonathan at the American Airlines desk who I also like and have sympathy for. He is looking after an ageing and demanding father who suffers from Alzheimer’s and who sometimes complains when he gets home after work that he wants to see his son and not some strange man. I can’t imagine how soul-destroying that must be. And yet, he carries on day after day, cheerfully dealing with everything that turns up to test his patience.

When you think about it, an airport really is a weird place. It is totally ruled by time. It’s not somewhere you go if you’re looking for fun or a nice day out, is it? Not if you have all your marbles anyway? What sane person would willingly subject themselves to being shunted like cattle, ruled by the clock, prodded into going where you are told, when you are told. It really is another world, a parallel universe where reality is suspended.

I leave the check-in area and go to departures. I like this place. It’s slightly less frenetic because people know they are on their way, and it is just a matter of time before they jet off. The only challenge they face is finding the right gate which is not as simple as it sounds because they are spread in totally different directions. And a gate is not announced until shortly before it opens so there is a swarm like demented bees once the number is revealed.

I leave the area full of eateries and head for one of the holiday check-ins. I stop and stare as I pass one and recognise a man sitting at a gate with his arm around a blonde who is almost sitting in his lap. I realise I know him! He is Tom Clarke, a bosom friend of Alex’s who did his best to try and seduce me not so long ago, I suspect with conniving Alex’s help. I thought it was despicable behaviour at the time and I haven’t changed my mind since. He is a man I have never liked or trusted.

I first met him at a party that Alex and I had been invited to by people he obviously knew but whom I had never heard of before. I’m hardly the shy sort, you understand, who is afraid of meeting new people; I’m a researcher for the Beeb for chrisssake, and meeting people all the time is what I do. And I’m good at it as well. Anyway, party invites are usually from people I or we know, and I thought it a bit odd that we should be invited by people only he knew. How come I had never heard of these people before.

When we arrived, Clarke greeted us effusively, giving me a hug and kissing me on both cheeks which I thought was a bit OTT quite honestly. I also did not like the way his eyes wandered speculatively over my body, pausing for longer than was polite on my breasts.

He then rather offhandedly introduced us to his wife Margaret, a demure woman with all the looks of a downtrodden lady who was also rather older than him at a guess. She said little as Clarke and Alex began exchanging jocular remarks, mostly about other women in the room. I didn’t like that either.

I decided to take Margaret to one side, leaving the two men behaving like pigs rolling in shit with their sexual innuendos and asked Margaret if she knew anyone else in the room. She said she had met one or two people before and added that she was only there because he had insisted. She glanced nervously in his direction obviously afraid he would overhear.

As I scanned the room, I could not help feeling there was something a bit strange about it all. I didn’t like it. There was an atmosphere of suppressed expectation tinged with excitement. It felt really odd. I felt uneasy. Margaret looked uneasy too. I could not figure out what was going on. They all appeared to know each other and took virtually no notice of either Margaret or me, although I did notice one or two men nudging each other and glancing in my direction. What was that all about?

‘What is going on here,’ I whispered to Margaret. ‘I feel as if I’ve gate-crashed a private party.’

‘You don’t know,’ she said wonderingly staring at me. I shook my head.

‘Tell me please,’ I said to her.

‘I think you should ask Alex,’ she said, and we moved back to join Alex and Clarke. As we did, a man turned up full of bonhomie and broad smiles, revealing rows of perfect teeth reminding me slightly of a an alligator. He was holding two large bowls with strips of paper neatly folded in each. He offered the first bowl to Margaret and then me and then turned to the two men. I opened mine and it had the number 12 on it.

‘Good luck, enjoy,’ he said making his way to the next couple.

‘Is this some sort of lottery,’ I said mystified. The two men thought that was hilarious and clapped each other on the back, hooting with laughter.

‘What’s the prize?’ I ask.

‘Well, in a way you are,’ says Clarke, grinning at me lasciviously. Before I could ask him what he was talking about the man with the bowl asked for silence and announced that the draw would take place.

The first number he called out was six. He looked around and a woman at the front held up her hand. He dipped into the second bowl and called out eight. A man at the back held up his hand and the two headed for each other.

I was beginning to get an uneasy feeling about all this. I must have been seriously stupid not to realise what was going on. The man dips into the first bowl again and calls out 12.

‘That’s you,’ said Clarke snatching the paper from my hand. I scowl at him. The man then read out the second number which was 5. Clarke held up his hand. It was then I realised the bastards had fixed it. He and Alex had got it all planned, or so they thought. Did they really think I would tamely go along with it?

‘Looks like you’re mine,’ said Clarke, sidling up to me with a satisfied leer. I glared at him. ‘If that’s what you think you can go fuck yourself,’ I said heading for the door, shoving Alex roughly and spilling his drink over his shirt. Heads stared at me as I exited. I could hear giggles and muttering.

Alex, the bastard, had obviously invited me to a sex party without telling me, no doubt because he knew I would never go along with anything so seedy.

 The memory fades as I stare at Clarke and his girlfriend in the Terminal Three lounge as they wait for their flight to be called. He is obviously cheating on poor Margaret who I daresay he is treating contemptibly. If she is forced to go to sex parties, what other humiliations does he heap upon her? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

I remember being beyond furious with Alex. Maybe that was why he didn’t come that night which was just as well because I bolted all the doors on the inside.

That really was the beginning of the end to our relationship, I think.

11 months ago

Nicola is sitting in the Café Nero near her office waiting for Alicia to turn up. Alex’s visit to Evie’s flat and his announcement that he wanted to move in had resulted in her having a restless night. Was Evie right in her condemnation of him? Is he really just using her, or could it all be just sour grapes on her part? He is, after all, an attractive man despite her sneering opinion of him. Perhaps she is jealous. Could that be it?

   She spent a disturbed night with all these thoughts chasing each other around her mind. Indeed, her tossing and turning led to her almost falling out of bed when she awoke with her head almost touching the carpet. She was in a cold sweat and dragged herself back under the duvet and was most immediately asleep again.

   But the nightmare continued with a surreal dream straight out of Wonderland or Alice Through the Looking Glass where Alex had become a menacing Mad Hatter trying to imprison her in a teapot. She then became a piece on a giant chess board where Evie was the White Queen using a flamingo as a club to attack him, but he had morphed into a Red Knight with a ragged, evil-looking sword. That scene had melted into a shop with empty shelves where her sister Pam was a white rabbit which became bigger and bigger and more and more menacing. That was when she finally awoke again. This time she had flung the duvet aside in disgust and went to make a mug of tea.

   It had felt dark and menacing at the time, and despite the obvious allegory to her life and the people in it, like many nightmares the images had become almost laughable in the daylight, but shadows of the terror she had felt remained in her subconscious.

   Nicola’s reverie is broken by Alicia who arrives breathlessly, asking if Nicola would like a refill. She would. Alicia is also a researcher with the BBC and joined about the same time. She is known to be scatty in her private life, once arriving at the office with her cat in her bag which she had forgotten to remove before setting out. It was one of the cat’s favourite places to snooze apparently. She does, however, have a remarkable talent for detail and organisation, invaluable in a researcher.

   She slumps in a seat opposite Nicola. ‘Why do people have to dawdle,’ she snaps. ‘This time of day, they should have places to go, things to do, not just wander around aimlessly, getting in the way of those of us who do. The trams are a sodding pain as well, and the pavements are full of people going nowhere.’ She drums the table impatiently. ‘You know, there are times when I hate the human race.’

   ‘So, you are not a happy bunny then’ Nicola murmurs, smiling. ‘Is there any special reason why you wanted to meet here, rather than in the office?’

   ‘Walls have ears,’ she replies rather arcanely. ‘I wanted to talk to you in private, rather than in a corner of the office where people would speculate why we have formed a huddle.’

   ‘Would they?’

   ‘Yes, of course they would. People in huddles always generate suspicion. You know what it’s like. It only takes two people to start a rumour in that place. And then speculation grows, even if it has nothing to do with work.’

   Nicola knows she might have a point at that. Office gossip can be destructive, especially in a rumour mill like the Beeb where there is constant talk of cutbacks and redundancies.

   Alicia stops and smiles mischievously. ‘And in your case, there is speculation about your mysterious boyfriend who nobody has seen. There are one or two people who think you have got it together with that PR asshole at the book launch.’ She laughs heartily and then stares at Nicola. ‘You haven’t, have you.’

   Nicola clears her throat noisily and can feel herself blushing from the throat upwards. Her face is on fire.

   ‘Oh yes, you have, haven’t you?’ exclaims Alicia with a triumphant smile. ‘You sly dog, you. So, they were right, you did go on a date.’ She laughs delightedly. ‘Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.’

   Nicola grimaces. She seriously doubts that. ‘What was it you thought I should know?’ she asks without confirming or denying it.

   Alicia leans forward confidentially. ‘Well, I was out at a smart pub at Canal Street the other day when a couple walked in holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes, the way you do when a good shag is in the offing. You know what it’s like.’ Nicola isn’t sure she does but says nothing.

   ‘Anyway, I took a second look, and I was sure it was you. Same build, same elegant pose, good looking’ She pauses, smiling. ‘I don’t charge for the complements.’ Nicola responds with a smile of her own.

   ‘Anyway, the guy was also good looking. There was something about him I recognised and then it came to me. He was the PR at the book launch, the bloke you have been having a secret liaison with, as it now turns out.’

   Nicola is staring at her, frowning. ‘I haven’t been to Canal Street for a while so it can’t have been me.’

   ‘I realised that quite quickly,’ says Alicia breathlessly. ‘I walked past them on my way to the bar and got a good look at her and while superficially she does look a bit like you, her hair is different in both style and colour. Your hair is a darkish brown, hers was much lighter.’

    ‘Anyway, they were into each other in a big way, I would say, and I thought if the rumours were true and you really were going out with the bastard, you really should be told.’

   ‘Sorry,’ she says a little belatedly, studying Nicola’s face, and realising she might have just delivered a bombshell.

   ‘Thanks,’ is all Nicola can find to say. She is surprised she doesn’t feel more hurt, or even devastated. Surely, she should. Surely, she should be welling up by being told of his infidelity by an office friend. But she isn’t. The only emotion is one of growing anger. She can feel her face going red again.

   ‘Are you OK,’ says Alicia, studying her carefully. ‘You weren’t really into him, were you? Guys like him are OK for a night out but not much more than that.’ She looks around the room frowning and then turns back to Nicola, giving her hand a sympathetic squeeze and saying quietly: ‘The trouble with a good-looking tosser like him is that looks so often conceal the bastard underneath.

   ‘Give me an ugly brute every time. I don’t care if he frightens the fairies in the dark, so long as he is kind and caring; that’s all that really matters.’

   Nicola smiles at that. ‘I guess you’re right,’ she says, hastily wiping away a tear that has somehow escaped. She is determined not to burst into tears and is annoyed that one has betrayed her. Deep down she admits to herself that she is not surprised. She has always realised Alex is a flirt because of the way he behaves when other women are around, almost ignoring her, treating stray women to winning smiles as well as surreptitiously and ‘accidentally’ touching whoever he fancies.

   ‘What are you going to do?’ asks Alicia a little anxiously.

   Nicola is silent. What is she going to do? She is not sure. There may be a perfectly innocent explanation. The woman he was with may be an important client. She could be a relative. There could be a dozen perfectly reasonable explanations. To accuse him of cheating on her without listening to what he has to say would be grossly unfair, surely?

   ‘I’m not sure,’ she says. ‘He wants to move in with me.’

   Alicia stares at her incredulously. ‘You aren’t serious. This guy is obviously a two-timing shit. You would have to be barking to willingly live with someone like that.’

   Nicola is silent. In her heart she knows Alicia, and for that matter Evie, are right. She hasn’t seen her sister Pam for a few weeks but has no doubt that if she knew what was afoot, would be even more forthright. The last time she mentioned Alex, Pam had studied her impatiently. ‘For God’s sake get real Nicola. Are you really so hard-up that you have to demean yourself with that halfwit. Just tell him to piss off.’

   Nicola just can imagine what Pam would say if she knew he was about to move in with her and unless he comes up with the right answers when she confronts him later about the ‘other’ woman, she knows it is something she has to do. For better or worse, she has to give it a try. If it goes sour that will be too bad. But she must find out and that is the only way.

   She decides not to reveal that to Alicia, so instead she says: ‘Thanks for listening and for letting me know too.  ‘You have given me a lot to think about.’

   ‘Let me know what happens,’ says Alicia as they head for the door.

   ‘I would appreciate it not becoming office gossip,’ Nicola says quietly as they had for the BBC.’

   ‘No problem,’ says Alicia.

   Despite that it will be common knowledge by the end of the day.

11 months ago

‘He said what?’ yelps Evie incredulously, staring at Nicola. ‘You can’t be serious. Please tell me you didn’t agree to sell your home.’ They are in her flat and are about to tuck into a takeaway which has just been delivered. Evie was in the process of unwrapping it when Nicola quietly told her about Alex’s proposition. She immediately stopped, her hands in the air.

   Nicola’s elbows are slumped on the other side of the kitchen divider, her chin glumly resting on her hands. ‘No of course I didn’t,’ she says irritably. I couldn’t quite believe that he would even think I would. And get rid of Sonny too.’ She shakes her head sadly.

   ‘And the bastard wanted to use your money to buy a nice convenient flat for him to live in. Was he really serious? You would have been fucking mental to go along with that. ‘She pours them both another generous vodka and passes over a bottle of cranberry juice. ‘Do you want ice?’ she asks. Nicola shakes her head. Edie continues to unwrap the Chinese, decanting it onto plates.

   ‘So, what happened when you told him to go fuck himself?’ She studies Nicola closely. ‘You did tell him that didn’t you?’

   Nicola doesn’t answer but takes a long gulp of vodka. Evie stares at her sternly and then sighs dramatically. ‘You didn’t, did you? So, what did you tell him Nicola?’

   Nicola clears her throat noisily and says almost in a whisper: ‘I said he might like to move in with me instead.’

   ‘Whaaat! You are not serious.’ Evie bursts out laughing. ‘Are you for real? Can’t you see what a manipulating fucker this guy is. First, he tries to stop you seeing anyone except him, then he tries to con you into selling your house so that you can buy a flat, FOR HIM!

   ‘And all because he’s a half decent shag and he says nice – and completely insincere – things about you in public while tearing you to bits in private.’ She shakes her head and takes a long gulp of vodka followed by a large forkful of chicken fried rice.’

   She sighs dramatically. ‘Go on, tell me what he said, why don’t you?’

   ‘He said he would think about it. I haven’t seen him since.’

   Evie bursts out laughing again. ‘He no doubt thinks you will come running, your tail between your legs, begging him not to leave you and that you will sell everything you own and send Sonny to the glue works if that’s what he would like.’

   She eyes Nicola up carefully. ‘You aren’t going to do that are you? If you even think it, I will tie you to that chair and feed you bananas anally until you come to your senses.’

   It’s Nicola’s turn to snigger. ‘No Evie, despite what you may think I am not completely stupid. I really have no intention of selling my lovely house and for Sonny. . .’ She shakes her head and begins to tuck in to her sweet and sour chicken.

   She finally looks up. ‘If he does come back saying he would like to move in, it will be on my terms, not his and as for buying a flat, that’s never, ever, going to be on the agenda. . .’ She pauses and grins at Evie mischievously. . . ‘No matter how good a shag he is.’

   The intercom buzzes and they both stare at it. ‘You expecting a visitor?’ asks Nicola. Evie shakes her head. ‘Probably a delivery.’ She walks over and asks who it is.

   ‘It’s Alex,’ says a voice. ‘Is Nicola with you? I need to speak to her. Could you let me in please.’ She turns and stares at Nicola who makes a face and then just shrugs. Evie presses the button and a minute or so later there is a rap at the door.

   Evie opens it and without saying anything walks over to the divider staring at him with an intimidating glare.

   ‘What’s so important that you have to come here,’ asks Nicola taking a long gulp of vodka and glancing at Evie, who does the same. ‘Has somebody died? Or perhaps you have decided to become an astronaut and are heading for one of Saturn’s moons.’

   ‘He would be gone for a very, very, long time if he is,’ says Evie conversationally, to Nicola, ignoring Alex, who is standing at the end of the divider staring at them both.

   ‘They say your toenails grow enormously in space,’ says Nicola. ‘You can’t trim them either because they would float all over the cabin. Imagine that?’

   ‘That’s gross,’ exclaims Evie. Pity he’s going there. If he went to Mars instead, he would become a Martian. Could you live with a Martian Nicola? You would never know if he’s about to turn into a little green man and sprout a small, strange proboscis in his trousers.’ They both collapse in a fit of giggles at that.

   He stares at them both in bewilderment. ‘What are you both on about? I just thought Nicola might like to know that I would love to accept her invitation to move in.’ He walks over and puts his arm around her protectively. She looks up at him but does not move any closer.

   ‘I think you two need to go somewhere and have a long talk,’ says Evie glaring at him. ‘I have to say that I think it bloody unreal that you choose to come here and make an announcement like that.’

   Nicola shrugs off his arm. ‘I am in the middle of my meal too,’ she says cooly. ‘We can talk about that some other time.’ She glances at Evie and then turns to Alex. ‘Thanks awfully for coming.’ And then turns to her sweet and sour without looking at him. Evie walks to the door and holds it open.

   Alex walks slowly out without a word, scowling at her as he does. Evie slams the door behind him. ‘He did that quite deliberately,’ she declares, walking back to the divider. ‘He had a bloody nerve coming here and he knew it.’ She sits and leans on the divider, giving Nicola a searching look.

   ‘It’s his way of claiming ownership. You do realise that, don’t you? It was all about him trying to show me that you belong to him and that you will go running to him every time.’

   Nicola shakes her head in exasperation. ‘I am not going to be owned by anyone, still less by a Martian and I don’t care what he has in his trousers, I make my own decisions. I will not be ruled by him, whatever he may think.’ She smiles at the mention of the Martian.

   ‘So, what are you going to do?’ Evie sighs, finishing her Chinese and topping up their vodkas.

   ‘I probably will let him move in and we will see how it works out for a month or two. If it doesn’t, he will be moving out, I can promise you that.’ She gives Evie a reassuring nod and before she can respond, adds: But I haven’t made my mind up yet. I want to give it some thought first.’  

   Evie frowns. She suspects Nicola has made her mind up but is not prepared to admit it. She is also certain it will not end well. ‘I know you, Nicola. You are determined to do it. I can tell. God knows why. What on earth do you see in him?’

   Nicola just stares at the divider; her brow furrowed and does not answer. Evie shrugs: ‘OK, it’s your life but I think you are making a mistake. Yes, I admit I can’t stand the guy. I think he’s unscrupulous, manipulative, and superficial. He will increasingly attempt to isolate you from Pam and me and even your mother so that the entire focus of your life will be on him.’

   Nicola still doesn’t respond. Evie pauses for a while and then says finally: ‘I wouldn’t mind betting that he even tries to get you to move jobs to one where you don’t meet people. That would be typical controlling behaviour.’

   Nicola stands and shakes her head. ‘Well, I can assure you that isn’t going to happen either. I love my job and nothing he says or does is going to change that. She walks around the divider and puts her arm around her friend. ‘I know you don’t understand, and I can’t really explain it, but this is something I just have to do. Yes, I may well regret it and in a few months’ time you will be able to sneer at me telling me that you told me so and I will then re-join the ‘All men are bastards’ club.’

   For the next hour the prickly subject of Alex is forgotten. Instead, they compile a list of all the people they most dislike, starting with the Prime Minister and working their way downwards – or upwards depending on your point of view.

   Later, after an empty vodka bottle had joined the remains of Chinese lying scattered on the divider, Nicola decides it is time to ring for a taxi leaving Evie to stagger her way to bed.

   Nicola is not in the mood for idle, inconsequential, chatter and makes that clear to the driver as she closes the car door. He mutters something in response which she cannot quite hear but which she suspects may have included the word ‘bitch’. She doesn’t care. She needs to think.

   They are not far from her home when ‘Puddles’, the ringtone on her mobile sounds. She picks up. It’s Alicia, a friend from the office. Why would she be ringing at this time of night?

   As soon as she picks up, Alicia says a little breathlessly. ‘Nicola, can we meet . . . soon.’ And before Nicola can ask why, she goes on: ‘There is something I think you should know, but not on the phone,’ she says mysteriously. ‘I’ll meet you in Café Nero by the office at 10 tomorrow. That OK?’

   ‘We’re at your home,’ says the driver. ‘Or shall we just sit here all night?’

   ‘Piss off,’ she says handing over £10.

The present

Nicola

Who the hell is William? Who the hell is William?  I keep repeating it in my mind over and over. I was desperate to talk to Adele and Rob because they must know what happened to me. Even if they don’t know the full story, they will know more than I do! But despite all my efforts they could not hear me. I even attempted to read Rob’s mind, but I failed at that as well. It was so bloody frustrating.

   And then they vanished through the gate and onto the plane en-route to their love nest in Rome leaving me with that alluring prospect of someone called William who I was apparently involved with. Who was he? Who is he? Was I really supposed to be meeting him here at Terminal Three?

   Actually, it does answer one question. I think I may have mentioned that I had the distinct feeling I was due to meet someone at Gate 132. I think I just assumed it would have been Alex. I wasn’t aware I knew anyone else in trousers! Not that well anyway. It seems I did. Intriguing!

   And talking of Alex all I am aware of at the moment is that I was going through a stormy patch with him, mostly because of his controlling behaviour which was irritating in the extreme. It was as if he considered me to be one of his possessions; an accessory to be flaunted to the outside world whenever it suited him. I know that sounds completely off the wall, but I sometimes had the feeling he thought it endeared me to him. Yes, I know that sounds insane and I suppose there are women who would argue that controlling behaviour is better than indifference. Well, all I can say is good luck to them. I will go for freedom – of thought and action – every time.

   All I know is that I was not ‘owned’ by anyone and any man who thought otherwise could kiss my ass. Alex may have thought he could control me by belittling me or telling me how to dress, but he soon found out what a mistake that was. Instead of being the demure and obedient girlfriend, it had quite the opposite effect and I would become outrageous by unashamedly flirting with other men when we were out. I suppose that must have made him feel like someone was stealing his car!

   There was one occasion when we were invited out to dinner at a posh restaurant with two friends of his. They were both in the PR trade and I was not looking forward to it, so I thought if I dressed down, he might suggest I stay at home. But he didn’t. He just moaned at me, and he still had a face on him even when we sat down in the restaurant.

   The two guys were Raphael and Sebastian who I think quite quickly sussed out the situation. I also suspect they were not exactly bosom mates of Alex’s, despite what he may have fondly thought. Anyway, the evening was a riot – for me – with the two of them flirting with me shamelessly. I lost count of the number of times I had to remove a hand from my thigh and the atmosphere was thick with complements which I naturally revelled in.

   No, I don’t care what you think. I thoroughly enjoyed the evening. It was pure fun and made me think that perhaps not all PR guys are boring assholes. It could not have been fun for Alex, I suppose, but I really didn’t care. It was his fault for treating me the way he did.

   It’s really strange, but while I remember how the evening ended, with him almost pleading with me to allow him to come in for a chat, I don’t remember much after that. I remember that he announced his plan which was for us to move into a flat largely paid for by me selling my house. And, oh yes, getting rid of Sonny into the bargain too. I know I must have stared at him as if he had just landed from Mars. He must have thought I was a bit simple if I was likely to agree to that. Get rid of my adoring Sonny? Not to mention my lovely house. I think not. I would get rid of him first.

   I don’t recall what happened after that. My life after that is blank. I am pretty bloody sure I did not sell my house though. As if! I also don’t know if we stayed together or not. Quite honestly, I would say that it was unlikely given the way he was behaving but I just don’t know. My amnesia extends from then until my death apparently.

   There is something else too. Something I realised just a short time ago. I know this is going to sound really weird, but I am not always in the terminal. There are occasions when I am literally nowhere which must be difficult for you to understand; I don’t understand it either!

   Being a newcomer to the ghost club, there are obviously many things I am not yet aware of. You see, I am either in the terminal or I am not. I have no idea what happens in between. I’m not asleep either – obviously – because ghosts don’t need to sleep. What I don’t know is how long that situation is likely to last.

   I am wandering around the check-ins at Terminal Three. I have always thought that it is the poor relation of the terminals at Manchester, as though it was almost an afterthought with some desks situated in what can only be called a corridor. There aren’t that many airlines that are based there either; only about seven I think, among them British Airways which only flies to Heathrow.

   I have flown with them many times, to Heathrow and then to Canada to visit relatives so I got to know a few of the staff over the years, including a lady called Sarah who has the patience of a saint. There was John too, a tall guy with rugged good looks who I quite fancied but sadly I doubt he even noticed me as he hauled my bag onto the conveyer and handed me my boarding pass.

   He is not there today but Sarah is, smiling patiently at a traveller who is not sure what he is supposed to do. He is elderly and is very probably new to the routines of checking in.

   I am next to Sarah at the desk. She is unaware of me – obviously – and it is new for me as well to be on this side looking at the queue which is not really that long. Sarah is asking him for his e-ticket. He looks confused. He probably has no idea what an e-ticket is, so she explains that it was probably printed out for him by somebody. His face lights up and he searches an inside pocket and produces a passport with a print-out inside it.

   He apologises for being stupid and she assures him he isn’t at all. She goes out of her way to help him and re-assure him. If only they were all like her!

   As I look at her chatting to him I suddenly ‘know’ that she had to have an abortion after her lover abandoned her and that she has an elderly mother at home who has cancer and probably does not have long to live. I can picture her at home in bed. I also ‘know’ that her father died a few months ago. I feel immensely sorry for Sarah who must have much on her mind but stoically does not show it.

   And then it dawns on me. How did I do that? How did I ‘know’ all that? I was not able to do it with Adele and Rob. If I had I might be nearer to knowing what I am doing here. Has something happened to me? Is it a new ability?

   I wasn’t aware of anything changing. There was no message from the guy with the long white beard informing me that if I play my cards right, I will be able to read minds. I daresay there are conditions. There has to be rules for instance. There are always rules. Maybe there is celestial small print as well. It can’t be that simple. The old cliché about there being no such thing as a free lunch really is true. It usually ended up in the bedroom I discovered over the years. Well, no lunches anymore, free, or otherwise. No bedroom either. I just wish I knew what the rules are!

   So, does this mean my abilities will slowly expand without me realising it? Is this how it works? All I really want to do is to find out what is going on at home, to Evie and Pam and to Sonny. And if my new abilities help find out why I am here, so much the better. I will obviously just have to just keep trying.

   There are also other things I need to find out too. Let’s get back to William. Who exactly is he? Was I in a relationship with him? I can’t see me flying off to somewhere exotic if I wasn’t. There are so many other things I want to know as well. How did I meet him? What happened to Alex? Was I having an affair? Did it having anything to do with my death? It could be the key to my situation.

   I stare at Sarah. She is smiling at another passenger. If only they knew how difficult life is for her. I once read somewhere that everybody has a story. How true is that.

Terminal Three

The present

Nicola

Time really has no meaning when you’re a spirit. It’s as if somebody has stopped all the clocks and is standing to one side smirking and giving you the finger. I read somewhere that Einstein once declared that the past, present and the future all exist simultaneously. He may have had a headache when he thought that one up and most people probably thought he was just crackers.

   Like most people who don’t have long white beards and a doctorate in physics, I didn’t understand it at the time, but I think I may do now, even though I don’t have a beard, white or otherwise. At least, I don’t think I have.

  Well, despite being dead, I am still female. I still feel like a woman even though I no longer have a body which probably strikes you as being a bit weird. It certainly does me! I wonder if I still look the same. I must try and find a mirror . . . assuming I still reflect in mirrors of course! Dracula didn’t in Bram Stoker’s famous story, but then I’m not a vampire and I have no idea if every-day ghosts like me do, or not.

   I’m curious to know what I look like. Do you stay the same forever when you’re dead, I wonder? Will I always be in my early thirties for ever?’ Does Anne Boleyn look exactly as she did when she was executed, or does she wander around the Tower sans her head?

   Most of the ghosts I have heard about always look so bloody miserable. I’m not miserable at all; puzzled and frustrated certainly but not miserable. Yes, I would obviously prefer to be alive given the choice, but we are where we are. I have always prided myself on being a good-looking lady in a quiet understated way, so hopefully I will be a good-looking spirit! If I ever become visible, I intend to give people a winning smile to put them at their ease. It would be nice to be a smiley ghost that people would be happy to see, rather than for them to flee in abject terror.

   I have never been able to rival Evie when it comes to pulling power, but I have had my moments and I have always been a snappy dresser, able to turn the odd male head which is not something I have to worry about any longer, I suppose. Ghosts have not been known to have extensive wardrobes which means, now I think about it, that I am destined to wear the same clothes for ever. In the normal way of things, I would be appalled by that prospect. Imagine having to wear the same pants until Hell freezes over . . . exactly! Try not to think about it?

   The thought makes me chuckle, however. Something else I also no longer have to worry about is periods and all that goes with them. It’s almost worth being dead to escape the monthly trauma. Also not for me is the menopause or the possibility of going slightly mad in the process. I also will not miss the routine of the knickers roulette. I’m sure you know what I mean. I daresay I am not the only girl who had three sets of pants: one for every-day, one for pulling and one for periods. I particularly enjoyed wearing the nice black brief lacy sets – for pulling obviously. Ah well. Memories!

   By contrast, I am not actually conscious of wearing anything now. I suppose that comes with not having a body. I don’t really feel anything either. I guess that’s why I couldn’t pick up the phone to ring Pam. It makes me wonder how some spirits can rap on walls, open doors, and make things disappear. I suppose I have much to learn.

   The thing about dying is that nobody actually tells you what to expect. It’s not like starting a new job where somebody behind a desk tells you what your hours are and where you go for a wee.

   One of the things I am becoming aware of is that I am dimly conscious of the past; and yes, I know about the future as well but only vaguely; I have a feeling it will become clearer, but I have no idea how I know that.

   Being vaguely aware of the past, however, is not helping me find out how and why I died. I keep returning to the car park at Terminal Three, but it doesn’t help; I keep hoping I might get a glimpse of what happened there but all I get is endless queues of frustrated people with luggage and bad breath. Yes, I may be dimly aware of the past, but MY immediate past seems to be closed to me. I wonder why?

   On one of my visits to the car park I sensed another presence by the lift. All I could see is a white glow and a feeling of anger. It did not seem to be aware of me – or I don’t think it was – and it appeared to be rooted in that particular place. I felt uneasy when I looked at it and decided to steer clear. Yes, yes, I can imagine you’re asking how can a ghost be scared by another ghost? Well, I just am. I really have no idea why it is there, and I really don’t want to know.

    So, I wander around the terminal a bit aimlessly; the check-in desks, the gates, even the apron where all the aircraft are at their stands. I daresay if people could see me, even briefly, it would very soon clear the place. There would be stories in the papers; on TV; on YouTube too no doubt. I would become Terminal Three’s Grey Lady, or Red Lady or perhaps the spectral lady with a ghastly smile. For the first time in my life, I would be famous. I quite like that thought, even though it’s a pity I have to be dead to achieve it and I’m not going to make any wisecracks about being ‘dead-famous’ either. I will spare you that!

   There are times I pretend I’m alive and imagine I’m a passenger about to set off for somewhere exotic, so I tour all the gates and stop when I find one I really fancy. Somewhere warm and carefree in the Caribbean sounds just about right. Places like Antigua, Barbados, St. Lucia or The Grenadines perhaps.  I would travel First Class – naturally – and reside in a plush hotel where fawning waiters attend to my every whim.

   I would be the Lady of Mystery, wearing deep shades and a red bikini with a patterned see-through Kaftan as I elegantly glide to the bar and order a glass of chilled champers. I would totally ignore the surreptitious glances as conversations pause and the not-so surreptitious stares of husbands and boyfriends.

   I would disport myself, temptingly, by the pool reading my favourite Ruth Ware novel and perhaps allow a Mr Hunk to seduce me later. It goes without saying he would have to be swooningly good looking as well as ruggedly well-built and endowed where it matters and, of course, disgustingly rich. I would have no time for peasants, no matter how well-endowed they are. Love on the Dole has no attractions for me.

   But then I return to reality and leave the queue. It was a nice daydream while it lasted. I bail out because I know I cannot leave the terminal. I have no way of knowing whether that will change. I hope it does because I would like to go home and see Sonny. I wonder what has happened to him. I hope either Evie or Pam is taking care of him. He must be missing me terribly.

   I decide to  do a check list of what I know about myself in the hope that it might trigger something. I know my name. Nicola Westbury – Check! I know where I once lived, Tarporley – check! I know about my sister Pam and my friend Evie, and a brother called John who I’m close to but see little of because he’s in the army – check! I know what I do – or did – for a living. A researcher for BBC TV – Check! And I know I had a boyfriend called Alex – check!  That’s quite a lot really. Also, most recently, I have seen situations and scenarios in my life. Just very brief flashes or glimpses, you understand, and then they are gone. I hope that one of them will soon explain why I am here. I must continue to build on my knowledge.

   I decide to take another look at the other gates and then I stop in my tracks. I spot two friends from the BBC at a gate which announces the destination as Rome. They are Rob and Adele, who both work for News. I wonder if they are on business or if they are off on a break. They don’t look like they are out on a job but then reporters frequently don’t if they are travelling to foreign parts.

   They are sitting suspiciously close together. Hmmm. I think they may be an item. I know Rob is married. Not sure about Adele. I think she has a boyfriend which I am certain is not Rob. Well, I guess it’s not the first time an office romance has sprouted like poison weed.

  I decide to get a bit close so that I can earwig what sweet nothings they are muttering to each other. No, I am not being a voyeur or a ghoul. Well, I suppose I am a ghoul but not one who would get off listening to a couple talk romantically. It would just be professional curiosity you understand.

   ‘What do you think happened to her,’ she is saying to him.

   He stares around the gate. ‘I heard she was seeing someone called William. They were due to fly to Barbados.’

   ‘I thought she was living with someone. I met him once. I disliked him on sight. I wouldn’t blame her for dumping him.’ She screws up her face at the thought.

   ‘Yeah. I always liked Nicola. She deserved better.’

   ‘Oh, so you had a thing for her, did you?’

   He laughs loudly and kisses her. ‘Not since I met you.’

   There is a loud announcement that boarding is beginning and they both join a queue.

   They were talking about me! I try to ask them questions as they shuffle forward but they can’t hear me. Then they are gone.

   Who the hell is William? And did I really dump Alex or did he dump me?

Terminal Three

12 months ago

It has been quite a few weeks since he first asked her out at the book launch and if she is honest, she still cannot give a sensible answer if anyone asks why she agreed to that first date. The TV crew had sneered at him, especially at his apparent ignorance of the requirements of broadcast journalism and it had been more than the usual hostility between journalists and the PR fraternity. He had come across as smooth and insincere just like many of his contemporaries who have often been compared to a fanatical religion: an echo chamber of bloated self-importance and self-righteous froth.

   Nicola knows full well that PR people are known to have hides that you could line your shoes with and there are those who describe themselves in grandiose terms almost bordering on black magic.

   There have been times when she has been plagued by PR people herself and on one occasion, she became so annoyed and frustrated with the constant calls that she had told that particular Mr Silver Tongue to go fuck himself. She felt a little ashamed afterwards but despite that it worked! She never heard from him again.

   All of which makes it even more bizarre that she should agree to a date with her very own Mr Silver Tongue. Maybe it was because it had been some time since the last love of her life had departed after getting a better offer from his ex. It had succeeded to her subscribing to the ‘all men are bastards’ club for a while and she had devoted her energies to work and to art. It had also been some time since she had been out with anyone other than Evie and Pam.

   When Alex had asked her, a bit hesitantly, she had been rather tempted to tell him to closely examine his backside, but then she thought it might actually be fun to listen to all the bullshit while enjoying an expensive night out. She had smiled when the thought had occurred that people like him are usually so self-opinionated that they don’t realise that they are being ridiculed, especially if it’s with po-faced sincerity.

   But it had not turned out like that at all. He had been self-effacing and had appeared really interested in her life and her career to the point that she realised that it was she who was doing all the talking and not him.

   When he had dropped her at her house feeling rather pleased with herself, she had opened the door to be rapturously welcomed by Sonny who had appeared holding his lead. She told him earnestly that she had been out with a nice man who had bought her a lovely meal and given her plenty of wine and that she really didn’t feel like going for a walk.

   But Sonny was not about to be cheated out of his nightly walk sniffing out the squirrels and the fox who also enjoys the nightlife in his neighbourhood. He had gazed at her wistfully and stood on his back legs placing the lead in her hand.

   ‘OK, just once around the block, no more,’ she had said to him sternly.

   That date led to the second which was a visit to the Palace Theatre to see a thriller called ‘The Bodyguard,’ followed by another meal. That had gone well too; indeed, even better in that he had begun talking about his life in a very understated way. Gone was all the bluster and the self-exaggeration that went with the public image and instead there was a man somewhat uncertain of his identity in the complex world of publishing and PR.

   The biggest difference, however, to the first date was that it had ended with a kiss in his car when he dropped her home. And it wasn’t just a casual peck on the lips either. Well, it had started that way, as is so often the case, but she ended it when it became increasingly passionate, and a wandering hand had begun to explore a breast. She had gently removed it, smiling, saying it was time to say goodnight.

   In truth, it had been some time since she had shared a bed and although she could feel herself becoming aroused, she was not sure she was ready to share one with Alex. She was greeted, as usual, by Sonny and this time she needed a walk in the cold air asking herself the question if she would; if indeed she should, invite him in next time.

   But, of course, inevitably she did after the next date. The next morning her thighs were sore which puzzled her until she remembered what they had done when passion had ruled, and inhibitions were forgotten.

   It had been quite some time since anyone had been so attentive to her needs. There had been too many ‘fuck and forget’ sessions when she was younger when her body had simply been used leaving her feeling cheap and frustrated.

   Since then, Alex had become a regular visitor, sometimes staying the night, especially of a weekend, but more often leaving her in bed asleep and quietly closing the door on his way out. Nicola increasingly began to feel that perhaps, just perhaps, Alex could be THE ONE. Sonny was not so sure. He regarded Alex warily keeping his distance and ignoring invitations to be stroked.

   It was about this time that she confided developments to Evie. ‘You did what,’ was her yelped response. ‘Are you crazy? You let a creep like that shag you. Have you lost your mind for chrisake?’ She had stared at Nicola frowning. ‘You’re going to tell me that you’re in love with him next I suppose.’

   Nicola had shaken her head saying: ‘Nooooooo. It’s just nice having someone who is good in bed and who treats me like a princess when we’re out.’

   Evie shakes her head sadly. ‘You’re just being used. It will not end well, and you’ll regret it. Seriously Nicola, get real.’

   Nicola’s colleagues at the BBC were, of course, entirely ignorant of any of this. She could not face the hilarity, the sniggering, and the sideways glances during whispered conversations.

   It was a little later that Alex had complained about her going out with Pam instead of seeing him. She had deferred then thinking that it was natural and pleasing that he would want to be with her. But then a major row had developed a week later when she announced on the phone she was going out with Evie. It had ended with her turning her phone off and then having a riotous time in a club where Evie was a regular.

    Since then, an uneasy peace has been restored apart from a new niggle when he passed comment on the way she dresses which he described as ‘provocative’. It first she took it seriously but after the third time she became annoyed and decided to neutralise it by simply grasping his balls and squeezing. Not too hard, mind you. That really wouldn’t do. But it had worked, for a while at least.

    A few weeks later they are invited out to a meal at a super posh joint in Manchester city centre. Definitely not the sort of place to wear jeans or a T-shirt, unless of course you’re super rich in which case you could arrive half naked, and all the rules would be ignored. It was an invite from two chums of Alex, also in the PR business. Nicola greeted it wryly and was less than enthusiastic.  Having a PR executive as a boyfriend was bad enough, but the prospect of three of them all spouting bullshit at the same time is not her idea of a good night out.

‘It will be fun,’ declares Alex, appearing in hios finest with a wide smirk until he catches sighr of her which makes him stop and stare. She is wearing a bright green V neck Loosen long sleeve plain blouse with Low Rise Skinnies heans. ‘Are you really going like that?’ he asks, frowning.

‘Yes, I bloody well am and if you don’t like it, I won’t go at all,’ she snaps.

   ‘I might have bloody known you would want to be different. Why can’t you dress up and be stylish like a normal woman.’ She gives him a hard stare and before he can say anything their taxi arrives.

   They arrive at the restaurant and are

greeted by a casual Raphael and Sebastian, both wearing fashion jeans and tops. ‘You look gorgeous,’ oozes Sabastian, grinning broadly, revealing gleaming teeth as he pecks her on both cheeks. ‘Love the outfit. Just call me Seb.’

    ‘Hiya flower,’ beams Raphael giving her a full body hug and then studying her approvingly. ‘Has anyone told you how gorgeous you are? She responds with a demure but mischievous smile. e starHe studies HHHHH

They sit down and a waiter materialises to take drink orders. ‘I’ll have a gin and orange,’ says Nicola. Alex glares at her. ‘Nobody has orange with gin and tonic,’ he growls. ‘Why do you have to be different?’

   ‘Because that’s the way I like it and since I’m the one drinking it, why do you care?’

   ‘Perfect,’ declares ‘Seb’, glancing at both of them in turn. ‘I’ll have one too. ‘So will I,’ says Raphael not to be outdone and who has also instructed Nicola to call him Raph while casually resting a hand on her knee.  They order one for Alex as well without actually asking him. He scowls at her. When the drinks arrive, Nicola holds up her glass for a toast grinning playfully at them both.

   Despite her earlier misgivings, the evening is fun and full of laughs. ‘Seb’ and ‘Raph’ playfully teased her and showered her with complements. Having two articulate, witty men making it plain they both rather fancy her is a game she enjoys playing. Alex is a reluctant onlooker wearing a forced smile while all this is going on. She later decided that they must have been doing it deliberately. Maybe Alex is not as popular as perhaps he believes.

   In the taxi on the way home there was a fraught silence for most of the journey eventually broken by Nicola. ‘That was a really great evening,’ she said knowing that it was anything but for Alex. ‘I could go out with those two any time,’ she says staring out of the window.

   ‘You were a fucking disgrace,’ mutters Alex. ‘Why didn’t you just open your legs and invite them in.’

   ‘Yes, you’re right. Maybe I should have. Just drop me home and give me a ring sometime, or don’t. I am past caring.’

   ‘OK. OK. I’m sorry,’ he says hurriedly holding up both hands. ‘It’s just that I hate it when other men look at you like that and even more so when you encourage them. I’m crazy about you. You do know that don’t you? We don’t spend enough time together as it is, and I get jealous when you spend time with other people.’ He hesitates and looks at her artfully. ‘I have a suggestion to make. Can we have a little chat when we get to your place.’ There is a pleading in his tone, so she agrees. ‘Just ten minutes,’ she says. ‘I’m tired.’

When they reach her house, she opens the front door and is greeted by Sonny and his lead. She promises him a walk; ‘Alex will be going home very soon,’ she says, pointedly.

They go to the kitchen and stand either side of the divider. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?

     ‘No,’ she says bluntly. ‘What is it you want to say?’

    ‘I think we should move in together.’

   ‘You want to move into my house?’

   He shakes his head. ‘No, I think you should sell this old pile and we can buy a nice modern apartment in central Manchester instead. It would be more convenient for both of us to be nearer our offices, don’t you think?’

   ‘Would it? What about Sonny?’ She bends down and gives him a cuddle. ‘You wouldn’t like to live in a flat, would you? You would miss the garden and the countryside too much.’ Sonny’s tail wags furiously.

   ‘Well, we could just find a good home for him,’ says Alex staring at the dog distastefully and then he turns to her, a triumphant smile on his face.

   She just stares back at him.

This is the centrepiece of an exhibition in Liverpool, UK, which opens later today. It is entitled ‘The Dance’ and aims to show dance in all its many forms and in a variety of styles, from the neo-Impressionist, Expressionist, Abstract and Realism.

The exhibition is at one of Liverpool’s most historic churches, All Hallows in Allerton, which dates from 1875 and is famous for its Arts and Crafts leaded windows created by William Morris and Burbe-Jones.

The exhibition is open on Wednesdays and Sundays.

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The painting above is ‘The Dance 10’ and measures 50cm x 40cm and is painted in acrylics on canvas. It is also framed. Sale price £200.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 9’ and measures 50cm x 40cm and is painted in acrylics on canvas. It is also framed. Sale price £200.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 1’ and is A4 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £60.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 3’ and is A4 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £60.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 4’ and is A4 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £60.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 5’ and is A4 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £60.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 6’ and is A4 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £60.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 7’ and is A3 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £85.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 8’ and is A4 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £60.

The painting above is ‘The Dance 12’ and is A3 in size. It is painted in acrylics on 350gsm acid-free archival board. It is framed and under Perspex. Sale price £85.

Terminal 3

THREE

12 months ago

Alex Thompson is the head of public relations for a major publisher in Manchester. He is tall, good-looking in the way that dark-haired men with designer stubble are often perceived to be. He met Nicola at a party for a book launch. Nicola was there as a researcher for the BBC doing the spadework for an interview with the author.

   The first time she noticed him, he was going through the motions, working the room, handing out press releases, amiable and knowledgeable as the publisher’s public face. Not knowing who she was, he responded to her questions almost dismissively with studied politeness, until she mentioned she was a researcher with the BBC when there was a transformation, and he became almost unctuous in his enthusiasm to help. She asked for background on the author, a rather eccentric academic with startling views on the future of democracy. The Beeb were keen to record his far-right views which will be highly controversial once the book hits the streets.

   It was when she had briefed Tom Smart the interviewer, who she was fairly certain was going to give the academic a tough grilling, that she decided to help herself to a glass of mediocre wine that all too often accompanies book launches.

   As she sipped the vin ordinaire standing next to the cameraman, she took an almost savage pleasure knowing that her briefing was helping him make the academic squirm. She gazed around taking note of a few people who were watching with amusement, when she happened to glance across the room to catch Alex studying her furtively, and if she was not mistaken, rather lecherously. He had looked away guiltily as their eyes met ever-so fleetingly. But a lecherous look is like a chance insult; it cannot be undone or explained away, and she had stared at his back, a half-smile on her face.

   After the interview had been wrapped and the academic bundled away, Nicola was chatting to the crew and Tom when Alex had rather furtively sidled up. Conversation had stopped instantly, and six pairs of eyes studied him silently. The only pair that didn’t belonged to Nicola who decided to study the camera settings instead.

   ‘That went well, didn’t it?’ he said jovially, beaming at them each in turn.

   ‘Glad you think so,’ said Tom, smirking at the crew, knowing it was blindingly obvious that Alex was not aware of the car crash that was now in the can.

   ‘Actually, I would just like a word with Nicola,’ he announced staring at her back. She grimaced at the crew who smiled back mischievously.

   ‘Me! ‘She exclaimed, feigning shock, turning and looking at him squarely. ‘You want to talk to me as well. Are you sure?

   He coloured up in embarrassment and averted his gaze. ‘Just a quick chat,’ he muttered and inclined his head for her to follow. She mouthed tosser at the crew, shrugged and followed.

   ‘Lucky you,’ murmured the cameraman, grinning at her.

   She didn’t tell the crew as they packed up later that she had agreed to go out with him. She just felt too sheepish to own up.

   ‘What did Prince Charming want?’ asked the cameraman whose name was Phil. ‘Was it an offer to buy you the most expensive meal in Manchester while running his hand up your thigh?’ He laughed heartily.

   If only he knew, she thinks, but instead of coming clean and admitting her guilt, she said: ‘I would rather feast on turnips with the pigs.’ The crew just grinned at her.

   Two months later she and Evie meet for a catch-up in one of the fashionable bars near Media City in Central Manchester where they had decided to hang out for the evening.

   Evie studies her friend quizzingly. ‘Well, are you going to tell me or not?’

   ‘Tell you what,’ says Nicola innocently.

   ‘You bloody well know what. How is the love affair of the century? she asks, sipping a large vodka cranberry while treating a designer-dressed guy at the bar to a mischievous smile.

   Nicola hesitates before answering. If she is honest, she isn’t totally sure herself. She still does not know why she agreed to their first date two months ago. She had thought him obnoxious when she first met him. She simply found herself saying yes when he asked if she fancied a meal out. Maybe it was his good looks. Maybe it was just curiosity. Maybe it was a desire to fleece him to the most expensive meal she could find. She still isn’t sure.

   But the first date led to a second and then a third. It felt like she was sleep-walking from one date to the next. It was all so easy. He was so attentive, so charming, nothing was too much trouble, and she enjoys the looks of admiration – or is it envy – when they are out together.

   ‘You’re not in love with him, are you?’ continues Evie eyeing her up suspiciously.

   Nicola sidesteps that and instead says: ‘I don’t understand why you don’t like him. You’ve only met him once and you were really obnoxious for no reason. What’s the problem? He’s done nothing to you. He tried his best to be pleasant.’

   ‘You really don’t get it, do you? He’s bloody boring Nicola, a smile in a suit and completely insincere to boot.’ She stares at the man at the bar and turns to Nicola, nodding in his direction. ‘We all know what he’s after. You go out, you know what to expect. It’s the real deal. With your lover boy, you just don’t know, and you never will know until it’s just too late.’

   Nicola is looking uncertain, staring at her vodka. She also glances at the man at the bar. He has a ready smile and is dressed in a carefully reckless way with designer jeans and a red leather top. Evie notices and grins. ‘Tempted, are we? It might take your mind off lover boy. No? Are you quite sure? You definitely will after a couple of months with slimy Alex.’ She grins mischievously. ‘By then you’ll want to climb into your coffin to relieve the monotony. . .’ She pauses . . .’ that’s if he lets you!’

   Nicola giggles at that. ‘Don’t be so bloody melodramatic Evie. He really isn’t that bad. You don’t know him. He’s Ok really. He tends to be quiet until he knows people. And I have never had a boyfriend who is so attentive, so’ . . . she hunts for an appropriate word . . . ‘so admiring,’ she says finally.

   ‘Bullshit,’ mutters Evie, staring at the guy at the bar.

   Nicola knows it is Evie who is the attraction. It has always been the same. She knows she cannot compete with Evie who is blonde and knows it with eyes that survey the world with an amused detachment. She also has the figure to match. Not that Nicola would crack any mirrors, but she is different in almost every way. She has dark, shoulder-length hair with green eyes and an oval, serious face and is tall, a good six inches taller than Evie which can be a turn off. There are men who have a problem with it, not that they would admit that because it’s an ego thing about having to look up at a woman, no doubt inherited from their stone Age ancestors.

   Evie is staring at her with an unbelieving smirk. ‘He’s a PR man for God’s sake Nicola. PR men aren’t quiet. They’re a pain in the arse. They are paid to convert lies and half-truths into what passes for facts. And complements come cheap Nicola, remember that.’

   She sits back on her high stool, frowning. ‘I would rather a bloke call me an ugly, cold, hard-hearted bitch because at least I would know he means it, rather than one who smothers me with insincere crap just because he wants to get my knickers off.’

   ‘You have a way with words,’ smiles Nicola. ‘What’s the betting you’ll soon find out which one he is.’ She nods in the direction of the bar.

   ‘Maybe.’ Evie frowns and shakes her head. ‘No. Don’t think I’m in the mood. I would rather go home and have a takeaway with you.’

   ‘I’m up for that,’ says Nicola. ‘Do we need to buy some booze on the way? Or have you decided to go teetotal?’

   ‘Don’t be silly. We may need some mixers though to go with the bottle of poison dreams somebody gave me.’ She grins as I look at her questioningly. ‘He thought he could get me pissed and shag me. He was wrong but I kept the bottle anyway.’

   Nicola shakes her head. ‘You’ll come unstuck one of these days.’ She glances at the bar and notices designer jeans man is standing up and looking like he is going to make his pitch.

   ‘Let’s get out of here before we have to peel Mr Trend off.’

   They make their way to the door. Nicola turns and glances at the bar. Mr Trend glares and sticks a middle finger up. ‘I think you’ve just become an ugly bitch,’ Nicola says laughing as they head outside.

Chapter Two

Nicola

I never really believed in ghosts when I was alive which is deeply ironic since I seem to have joined the legions of the dead and therefore should qualify for ghostly status. Or do I? Hmmm. Thinking about it, I wonder if you have to haunt somewhere to be a real ghost. In other words, just being dead doesn’t hack it. You have to hang out somewhere as well, which probably implies that you must have a reason to hang out in your chosen location.

   I suppose that could apply to me. After all, I’m in Manchester Airport and I am definitely dead, but what is against it is that nobody can see me; or is even aware of me. I feel a bit thwarted about that. If I’m not a ghost, what am I doing here? I remember one Christmas when Evie and I and one or two admirers were huddled around a fire busily emptying a bottle of Champagne when somebody decided to ‘do’ the creepy ghost thing. We had switched all the main lights off and lit a few candles which threw flickering orange shadows around the walls. All very atmospheric, especially when you are full of booze with the prospect of sex a little later.

   Anyway, the point I want to make is that somebody started talking about Ann Boleyn who reputedly haunts the Tower of London. Thinking about it now, that means she is still hanging out there after over 480 years!! That is an utterly horrifying prospect. Does that mean I am destined to spend hundreds of years in Terminal Three? A few hours are more than enough for most people.

   Ghost or not, I think it all comes back to the reason I am here. I have no idea why Ann Boleyn is still wandering around the Tower after all this time, but I think I am beginning to understand something I had not appreciated at first. I feel drawn to this place. It is difficult to explain but I don’t think I will be able to leave until . . .what? And that is the clincher because I just don’t know.

   The other thing I am also beginning to appreciate is that time is somehow different when you’re in spirit mode. That would explain why my watch doesn’t work; it isn’t electrical gremlins doing their bit to be annoying as I first thought. My watch is frozen at 10.45am and my mobile simply doesn’t work; I guess they don’t have the Internet in the spirit world. There’s something else as well; I have just discovered I can go anywhere by just thinking about it. No, sorry, that isn’t quite true; I must qualify it. It seems I can go anywhere providing it’s within the airport. I tried thinking about Sonny my lovely dog who will be missing me like crazy wondering why I have deserted him. And I also thought about Evie and Pam, but nothing happened. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was still stubbornly in Terminal Three.

   Evie is no doubt thinking I am out on a bender somewhere doing disgusting things with a man I met in a pub when we were out the other night surrounded by admirers all determined to pour expensive booze down our throats and that I will re-appear at some point, all bleary-eyed, my face wreathed in guilt. If only . . .

   So, for some reason I am stuck here. I am also aware of being strangely drawn to the top floor of the Terminal Three car park. I have no idea why. I think myself there and, not surprisingly I am greeted by cars awaiting the return of their owners who will no doubt be replete with Spanish sun tans and chronic indigestion after expensive airport booze and airline plastic food.

   As I gaze over the apron with all its aircraft, more cars arrive disgorging excited people who are blissfully unaware of the nightmare that awaits them. I smile grimly. Soon, they will join the queue for the Promised Land and if they are really, really, lucky, they might even make their flight.

   I have a strong feeling that something happened here in this car park and on this floor, but I have no idea what that might have been. There are no clues to help me either. Am I having to serve some sort of penance for something? Is that why I am here? If so, it would be really helpful if it could be spelled out so at least I would know why I’m being punished.

   I stand there for a while surrounded by a sardonic silence. If I am expecting the thought to be rewarded by some sort of response, I am disappointed. There is no gent with a long white beard emerging from the heavens telling me in a stern voice what an evil bitch I have been. That, I could understand. That I could even agree with up to a point. That would at least have given me a reason for this shadow world I have been consigned to.

   The other place I am drawn to is Gate 132 in Terminal Three. I have a strong feeling I was supposed to be meeting someone there, but I have no idea who that might have been. Yes, yes, I realise he or she will be long gone by now when I didn’t show up. I am just hoping it might somehow spark a memory and give me a reason for being here.  

   I get there instantly to see crowds milling around like an army of ants, some stopping to stare hopefully at one of the destination boards; others sitting resignedly in seats waiting, waiting, waiting.

   And that is what airports are all about these days. Queues and waiting. I remember my dad telling me once how in the early 60s he turned up at Liverpool Airport to fly to Amsterdam. He arrived at the check-in desk, was allocated a seat, and given a boarding pass in minutes, was through to the gate and climbing aboard the plane, all in less than half an hour. The good old days when flying was civilised!

   Gate 132 has a queue, of course, but at least these people have made the Promised Land and know they will be sitting in a plane in the not-too-distance future. Disappointingly, it all rings no bells for me. I still have no idea who I was supposed to meet.

   I can imagine you may have a fairly low opinion of me from what you have read so far. You could be excused for thinking I have the morals of an alley cat, but it really wasn’t like that. Until about a year ago I led a fairly ordered life, busy working for TV and little time for liaisons. I only went out with Evie now and then and did not get involved in her wild ways as a player. I was content with my life. I had my own house left to me by my gran. I had my beloved dog Sonny who I took for long walks in the surrounding countryside. My sister Pam came round occasionally, and we would spend the evening chatting over a bottle of wine and a meal. I suppose you could call it middle-class mediocrity if you wanted to be scathing but frankly, I would not have cared.

   Pam – or Pam Loughton to give her married name – is my younger sister by three years. She is married and has a couple of kids, both girls, who I adore. They are eight and nine and listen to my stories about life as a TV researcher and the stories I tell about the famous people I meet with wide-eyed fascination. I’m sure they tell all their friends about the exploits of their ‘Aunty Nicola.’

   Pam is much more assertive than me, frighteningly so, sometimes. She is also disgustingly good looking with long blonde hair, large lustrous brown eyes and a figure that can stop conversations. You won’t be surprised when I tell you she was a fashion model in her twenties with an inflated ego which was not matched by the pay! She left that high-pressure world to work for a publisher where she met her husband, Ted. Before that, she played the field with a string of boyfriends, some sporting flash cars, flash jobs and flash smiles.

   She was always our mother’s favourite whereas I spent many hours with my long-suffering dad who as an astronomer at Jodrell Bank, had the universe in his head! I would listen spellbound when he would explain about the planets and the great mysteries of galaxies, black holes, pulsars and all the wonders of the heavens. I was heartbroken when he died not so long ago. I know I will be meeting him again very soon.

   All that changed when I met Alex Thompson at a party. He was amusing, witty, good-looking, and appeared to be a regular good guy. It did not take long for me to begin thinking that he might be THE ONE! Pam was not so sure, and Evie simply dismissed him as a witless tosser.

   I actually began thinking I was falling in love with him and about a year ago when he wanted to move in with me. Sonny was not so sure about him at first and would eye him up suspiciously. In fact, I don’t really think they ever became buddies. As things turned out Sonny was right!

   It did not take long for Alex to begin complaining whenever anyone came round. He would make visitors feel unwelcome, especially family like my mother and Pam. He hated Evie and there were rows every time I wanted to go out. He even attempted to persuade me to move jobs. He loathed me mixing with other people but outwardly he would tell people how much he adored me.

   I knew it was controlling behaviour but thought if I ignored it, he would simply accept that I was not about to change just to please him. But it got worse which is when I began going out with Evie as a kind of rebellion.

   That was the start of our ‘sessions’ which for all I know may be why I have ended up here at Terminal Three. At the moment though, I am no nearer to finding out.

TWO

Nicola

I never really believed in ghosts when I was alive which is deeply ironic since I seem to have joined the legions of the dead and therefore should qualify for ghostly status. Or do I? Hmmm. Thinking about it, I wonder if you have to haunt somewhere to be a real ghost. In other words, just being dead doesn’t hack it. You have to hang out somewhere as well, which probably implies that you must have a reason to hang out in your chosen location.

   I suppose that could apply to me. After all, I’m in Manchester Airport and I am definitely dead, but what is against it is that nobody can see me; or is even aware of me. I feel a bit thwarted about that. If I’m not a ghost, what am I doing here? I remember one Christmas when Evie and I and one or two admirers were huddled around a fire busily emptying a bottle of Champagne when somebody decided to ‘do’ the creepy ghost thing. We had switched all the main lights off and lit a few candles which threw flickering orange shadows around the walls. All very atmospheric, especially when you are full of booze with the prospect of sex a little later.

   Anyway, the point I want to make is that somebody started talking about Ann Boleyn who reputedly haunts the Tower of London. Thinking about it now, that means she is still hanging out there after over 480 years!! That is an utterly horrifying prospect. Does that mean I am destined to spend hundreds of years in Terminal Three? A few hours are more than enough for most people.

   Ghost or not, I think it all comes back to the reason I am here. I have no idea why Ann Boleyn is still wandering around the Tower after all this time, but I think I am beginning to understand something I had not appreciated at first. I feel drawn to this place. It is difficult to explain but I don’t think I will be able to leave until . . .what? And that is the clincher because I just don’t know.

   The other thing I am also beginning to appreciate is that time is somehow different when you’re in spirit mode. That would explain why my watch doesn’t work; it isn’t electrical gremlins doing their bit to be annoying as I first thought. My watch is frozen at 10.45am and my mobile simply doesn’t work; I guess they don’t have the Internet in the spirit world. There’s something else as well; I have just discovered I can go anywhere by just thinking about it. No, sorry, that isn’t quite true; I must qualify it. It seems I can go anywhere providing it’s within the airport. I tried thinking about Sonny my lovely dog who will be missing me like crazy wondering why I have deserted him. And I also thought about Evie and Pam, but nothing happened. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, I was still stubbornly in Terminal Three.

   Evie is no doubt thinking I am out on a bender somewhere doing disgusting things with a man I met in a pub when we were out the other night surrounded by admirers all determined to pour expensive booze down our throats and that I will re-appear at some point, all bleary-eyed, my face wreathed in guilt. If only . . .

   So, for some reason I am stuck here. I am also aware of being strangely drawn to the top floor of the Terminal Three car park. I have no idea why. I think myself there and, not surprisingly I am greeted by cars awaiting the return of their owners who will no doubt be replete with Spanish sun tans and chronic indigestion after expensive airport booze and airline plastic food.

   As I gaze over the apron with all its aircraft, more cars arrive disgorging excited people who are blissfully unaware of the nightmare that awaits them. I smile grimly. Soon, they will join the queue for the Promised Land and if they are really, really, lucky, they might even make their flight.

   I have a strong feeling that something happened here in this car park and on this floor, but I have no idea what that might have been. There are no clues to help me either. Am I having to serve some sort of penance for something? Is that why I am here? If so, it would be really helpful if it could be spelled out so at least I would know why I’m being punished.

   I stand there for a while surrounded by a sardonic silence. If I am expecting the thought to be rewarded by some sort of response, I am disappointed. There is no gent with a long white beard emerging from the heavens telling me in a stern voice what an evil bitch I have been. That, I could understand. That I could even agree with up to a point. That would at least have given me a reason for this shadow world I have been consigned to.

   The other place I am drawn to is Gate 132 in Terminal Three. I have a strong feeling I was supposed to be meeting someone there, but I have no idea who that might have been. Yes, yes, I realise he or she will be long gone by now when I didn’t show up. I am just hoping it might somehow spark a memory and give me a reason for being here.  

   I get there instantly to see crowds milling around like an army of ants, some stopping to stare hopefully at one of the destination boards; others sitting resignedly in seats waiting, waiting, waiting.

   And that is what airports are all about these days. Queues and waiting. I remember my dad telling me once how in the early 60s he turned up at Liverpool Airport to fly to Amsterdam. He arrived at the check-in desk, was allocated a seat, and given a boarding pass in minutes, was through to the gate and climbing aboard the plane, all in less than half an hour. The good old days when flying was civilised!

   Gate 132 has a queue, of course, but at least these people have made the Promised Land and know they will be sitting in a plane in the not-too-distance future. Disappointingly, it all rings no bells for me. I still have no idea who I was supposed to meet.

   I can imagine you may have a fairly low opinion of me from what you have read so far. You could be excused for thinking I have the morals of an alley cat, but it really wasn’t like that. Until about a year ago I led a fairly ordered life, busy working for TV and little time for liaisons. I only went out with Evie now and then and did not get involved in her wild ways as a player. I was content with my life. I had my own house left to me by my gran. I had my beloved dog Sonny who I took for long walks in the surrounding countryside. My sister Pam came round occasionally, and we would spend the evening chatting over a bottle of wine and a meal. I suppose you could call it middle-class mediocrity if you wanted to be scathing but frankly, I would not have cared.

   Pam – or Pam Loughton to give her married name – is my younger sister by three years. She is married and has a couple of kids, both girls, who I adore. They are eight and nine and listen to my stories about life as a TV researcher and the stories I tell about the famous people I meet with wide-eyed fascination. I’m sure they tell all their friends about the exploits of their ‘Aunty Nicola.’

   Pam is much more assertive than me, frighteningly so, sometimes. She is also disgustingly good looking with long blonde hair, large lustrous brown eyes and a figure that can stop conversations. You won’t be surprised when I tell you she was a fashion model in her twenties with an inflated ego which was not matched by the pay! She left that high-pressure world to work for a publisher where she met her husband, Ted. Before that, she played the field with a string of boyfriends, some sporting flash cars, flash jobs and flash smiles.

   She was always our mother’s favourite whereas I spent many hours with my long-suffering dad who as an astronomer at Jodrell Bank, had the universe in his head! I would listen spellbound when he would explain about the planets and the great mysteries of galaxies, black holes, pulsars and all the wonders of the heavens. I was heartbroken when he died not so long ago. I know I will be meeting him again very soon.

   All that changed when I met Alex Thompson at a party. He was amusing, witty, good-looking, and appeared to be a regular good guy. It did not take long for me to begin thinking that he might be THE ONE! Pam was not so sure, and Evie simply dismissed him as a witless tosser.

   I actually began thinking I was falling in love with him and about a year ago when he wanted to move in with me. Sonny was not so sure about him at first and would eye him up suspiciously. In fact, I don’t really think they ever became buddies. As things turned out Sonny was right!

   It did not take long for Alex to begin complaining whenever anyone came round. He would make visitors feel unwelcome, especially family like my mother and Pam. He hated Evie and there were rows every time I wanted to go out. He even attempted to persuade me to move jobs. He loathed me mixing with other people but outwardly he would tell people how much he adored me.

   I knew it was controlling behaviour but thought if I ignored it, he would simply accept that I was not about to change just to please him. But it got worse which is when I began going out with Evie as a kind of rebellion.

   That was the start of our ‘sessions’ which for all I know may be why I have ended up here at Terminal Three. At the moment though, I am no nearer to finding out.

This is the second artwork to go on sale at Ebay. It was the second of a series of paintings that were used to produce a Christmas card over eight years. This one is from 2016. The series created a new art langauge of shape, form and colour. The bird is painted in a non-objective way in which the subject remains recognizable although the form is highly stylised called collectively ‘Birds orf Freedom’ and were all painted painted in acrylics on 350 gsm acid free board. The finish painting is mounted and framed under perspex (more durable than glass) and is A3 in size.

All eight formed an exhibition at the historic All Hallows church in Liverpool. UK, last Christmas. Only six remain unsold.