Free The Greening by Margaret Coles

of the year, Cruft’s champion – and I miss my dear old dog, my dear old Rufus, every single day.” Alex sounded as though he was about to cry.
    I said, “Shall I come over?”
    “No. I’m OK.”
    “Really, shall I come over?”
    “No. I’m OK. I’ll be OK. Listen – get your beauty sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Jo.” Alex hung up.
    Was Alex taking drugs? I wondered if I should go straight over to his place, but thought he probably would sleep and that he needed his rest. So did I. It had been a long, emotionally draining day. In bed that night, I recalled Dr Newell’s words: “Professionalism isn’t enough.” I thought: No, professionalism isn’t enough – but it is a great refuge, at least for now . I had played Michael’s Joker and it had worked – hadn’t it? Feeling far too restless to sleep, I took up the journal.

2 September
    My hand is trembling, my heart’s beating fast. I feel alive, I feel part of the world at last, because tonight something wonderful happened. I had given up hope and now hope fills me and surrounds me with a buoyancy that lifts me out of the shadows. Tonight I was noticed and admired and, perhaps, loved.
    I saw him as I entered the room. He turned – almost as though he had been expecting me, waiting for me – and smiled. In that moment I felt that something passed between us, arecognition. He walked across to me – again, as though he had been expecting me.
    There was a vibrancy about him and a lively curiosity in his expressive, soft blue eyes. I couldn’t speak. But I didn’t need to. For he was smiling at me with a boldness and confidence that made up for my tongue-tied awkwardness.
    He introduced himself – his name was Mark – and asked me my name. Then he asked, “Do you often attend these seagull sessions?” I had no idea what he meant, so he explained, “You know, eew, eew, eew. The sound of us philistines being impressed by you thespians. I’m assuming you’re a thesp and not a seagull? You don’t look like a seagull.”
    I confessed that I rarely attend fund-raising theatrical events, not even for my own plays. He said, “But you should. A beautiful woman should be looked at and admired at every possible opportunity.” As he said the words, I felt beautiful; I felt that the ease and confidence that comes with the assurance of one’s own beauty might perhaps be mine. We talked and talked. He made me laugh. And all the while he looked at me, in a gentle and thoughtful manner, which I liked. I liked the openness of his face, the straight nose, finely drawn cheekbones and soft mouth.
    He was exciting and amusing, with plenty to say; yet he seemed as keen to listen as to talk. We talked about serious and trivial matters – our shared love of the performing arts, his Labrador, Jasper, who seemed to be the light of his life. He asked so many questions; he wanted to know every detail – my likes, my dislikes, my work, my past, my hopes for the future. When he laughed, a lock of thick auburn hair fell across his forehead and I would have liked to gently brush it from his eyes.
    Perhaps I drank a little too much champagne because suddenly Mark was saying, with an odd, desperate urgency, “I have to leave. But I must see you again.” Moments later we were in Piccadilly Circus and he was hailing a cab. We climbed in and the taxi set off, rumbling through the brightly lit streets.
    We sat very close together; then, without warning, he reached out for me and took me in his arms. He held me gently for what seemed like several minutes. Then, as I withdrew from his embrace, he kissed me on the mouth. He held me tightly and his kisses were at first gentle and then passionate. Though I wanted him to continue, I drew back, feeling shy and awkward. By the flickering lights of a continuous stream of lamp posts and neon signs, I looked into his kindly blue eyes. He said, “You’re lovely. You’re wonderful.” I asked, “Why am I wonderful?” He