Women tend to know when men’s emotions point in new directions. There was a party held at Saxon’s house somewhere around Easter 1979. We had begun to argue, and she pointed out with bitterness at the end of the evening that we had not danced.
The trouble had been working itself up. In a conversation some weeks earlier she had asked me if I loved her. I said, truthfully, with no hesitation, that I really liked her, and had always loved her company, but that I didn’t feel in love. I have a horrible feeling that I even said something along the lines that I knew I would move on, sooner or later. Ouch!
In retrospect, a more lyrical, heartfelt reply would have included how the bliss of belonging had soothed me, and how wonderful it was to feel somebody’s arm around me at night. That I had wanted this so much, and would always be truly grateful to have met her. But still not the three magic words.
We had stagnated. Hardly unusual. Drifting apart, by infinitesimal degrees. Stuck in a routine, so that I increasingly wanted more time with male friends. Still emotionally raw and vulnerable following her dad’s suicide, she felt herself being pushed away.
We had another argument, when I had forgotten a promise to call around at her house an hour earlier than usual. I mulled things over while working the production line at Davenports, and decided that was it. The fun and the lustre had gone.
Our parting racked me with guilt, especially as we had arranged a holiday in Greece together. One of the last things that she said to me was “you’re not made for this world”. Maybe she had a point.
Geordie lad Gav and I rolled up to a party a month or so later. She was playing the piano for some kind of singalong. I walked back out and never saw her again.
The Biscuit Factory 