2) Christine

Sit down and let me tell you a kind of funny, kind of sad story; it’s called Christine.

I'd met Christine through the Personal Columns.  She was in her thirties, black, from Trinidad & Tobago, bold and beautiful.  Funny, you can tell when you're talking to a beautiful girl on the phone. A fundamental confidence. They know, whatever else, you're not going to be disappointed. I’d talked to her before, during and after the Mandy debacle.  She was sympathetic but, I suspected, not too displeased.  Christine had been an athlete, a Trinidadian sprinter who looked like Denise Lewis, and, I was to realise, she didn’t like coming second.

I had to pick the location.

I knew it had to be just right.

I’d found out she was learning Spanish, so I suggested 'Viva Espana' at Olympia preceded by a lunchtime Pizza Express.  Nice, and safe.

I was late, again – something to do with not having any cash and the first seven ATM’s I went to (with the cab waiting) being out of cash or out of order – but I've done that story, I was above ground, I could call, and Christine was running late too. No problem.

We started lunch rather tensely.  She was beautiful, tall and graceful and proud, but she was from Dalston and I am from South West London, and it takes more then one bridge to cross that gulf.

But I’d bought her flowers (double bluff – they were a surprise) and she loved them.  And by the end of lunch we were both laughing a lot and flirting a lot.  And touching now and then. This was going to go well.

Now you’ve got to go to these Olympia gigs.  They’re run by people selling property in the region but ignore that.  Simply regard it as the best value entertainment in London.  The tickets cost just £15 each (£10 with a Times reader offer - never dodge a bargain) - yet when we walked in the first thing we saw was a live show by the Andalucian horses.  And hardly anyone was watching so we stood at ringside and could smell and feel the power of the horses as they swept past.  Awesome.  Christine loved it. Not bad for £10.

I left Christine watching a Madrid fashion show while I went for a cigarette.  On the way back I heard it – Spanish guitar music. Flamenco!  I dragged Christine towards it and we watched the Flamenco players and singers from the front row while property salesmen chattered indifferently in the background. Prats.

Then we walked around and, unbelievably, there were five beautiful female Flamenco dancers performing on their own.  They’d just got bored waiting for their slot, turned on some music and started to dance for themselves.  And because it wasn’t an ‘event’ nobody was watching.  Nobody.

So I pulled up a barstool for Christine and we watched as if they were performing just for us.  And soon they were.

I could see the Spanish girls were entranced by Christine, black and beautiful, and Christine was enthralled by their elegance and flirtatiousness.  So when I politely asked one of the dancers if she would ‘teach’ my friend, she leapt at the chance.  So Christine, from Trinidad, via Dalston, was dancing with five Spanish girls from Jerez, via Olympia.  It was beautiful.

This was going so well I chanced my arm.  I could see Christine liked my cheekiness so I went one step further.  I asked if she would pretend to be my wife so I could blag myself an escorted, free, three day inspection tour in Spain (Christine was not to come) out of a property company.

She did, and she was a natural scammer.  She loved it so much that at one point I left for a cigarette just so she could fly solo.  And she did.  Perfectly.

Then the show was closing and the guitars started again.  We went over and there was an awkward moment.  The Spanish Lady was there.  Alone.  Blonde and beautiful.  And there, alone.

Christine was not pleased. I don't think she'd have been pleased if my mother had turned up. I couldn’t ignore the Spanish Lady so I stood awkwardly, in the large silence between the two of them.  Then, apologising to the Spanish Lady (which hurt - but what could I do?) , I left, with Christine.

That awkward moment apart, I thought it had gone very well for a first date.  We liked each other, made each other laugh, looked fantastic striding arm in arm through the hall (four long legs in unison), and had been a good couple – making things happen for each other.  We came from different worlds but that simply meant we could introduce each other to worlds neither could otherwise enter.

We had a nice drink back in Pizza Express and she made sure she had her flowers. Then we kissed and she went home.

We spoke several times during the next week.  Funny, conspirational chats.  Like boy and girl friend.

We`had lunch in Zillis and everyone loved her.

I’d told her my gym had agreed that, using one of my guest passes, they’d give her a check out and design an exercise programme she could work with to help her injured leg (which was why she’d given up running – and which clearly upset her) without the need for a gym.

And she’d told me she wanted me to meet her friend who was coming down to stay with her from somewhere up North.  Then she started to worry that I’d like her friend more then her (her friend was a Miss Trinidad or something) and dropped the subject.  That should have struck a warning bell.  It didn’t.

And I found out about the Flamenco Festival at the Opera House and which bars in Soho were the best for Spanish music.

I never saw her again. 

She phoned on a Sunday and said she was looking for ‘commitment’ and she said she didn’t think I was ready for that.

Girls, I must say, do have a habit of deciding what I am or am not ready for and telling me, without asking first, but we’ll let that pass.  This time.

I said I’m probably not ready to commit yet (to what precisely what I wasn’t sure) but couldn’t we still be friends.  Maybe through me she’d meet someone who was more what she wanted.  And maybe vice versa.  But, whatever, it would be fun.

You did enjoy yourself didn’t you?  You do enjoy talking to me, being with me?

The conversation ended.  I called several more times.  She never answered.  The moment was over, and Christine had gone.

peter hero 2006