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“Pop!” Duncan reopened the bottle of Cristal Champagne that he had so reluctantly corked the night before. Had he continued to sup the heavy opiate of champagne and sweet memories what might he have said? He sipped again from his magical chalice before composing his morning email. Although she hadn’t replied since his last lengthy messages to her, he desperately needed to write again. If only she knew how deeply in love with her he had once been. Dig – dig – dig, how easy the ecstasy of remorse unearthed itself to him from its shallow grave. Forty five years! Had it been that long? Was he to find solace in regrets? “Non, je ne regrette” – nonsense, he mused to himself, we all have regrets, and we revel in them, wasn’t that what Oscar Wilde said, ‘..nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret’. All those years ago she was ‘his femme fatale’, one that any real man yearned for. He had consumed her until his very soul ached with longing for more. But, soon after she had floated into his life, she slipped away; away across the years, lost in time. He had never forgotten her.

But why? There had been other women in his life, others that he had cared for – and said he had loved, though none had bewitched him so over time. What love was this that bore so deep into his being? He filled his empty goblet one more time and stared down at the rising effervescence. It reminded him of her; of those halcyon days of youth. He was a naive 19 year old with the wide eyed wonder of a child, and she, probably no more than a year older but already bubbling and swirling higher and higher, within a vortex of comely people in a beautiful age. How his thoughts were so often interlaced with images of her; she brought so much joy into his life: it was suddenly full and the world was a plaything. He was her plaything and he knew and revelled in the lifestyle he had found with her. He had reached the highest transcendental state love can elevate us to….he had fallen in love with love. How intoxicating that feeling was. No wonder then that the memories lasted. He had learnt since that magical summer and winter of ’65 that love – wonderful, suffocating, all embracing love – is rarely attained, but once it is you are forever destined to fall in love at the drop of a hat in the prevailing hope that someday you’ll return to the land of Xanadu.

His goblet and bottle were empty; with aching limbs he swivelled his chair to open the email again. He gazed at the screen and his blank page. Not yet, he couldn’t write to her yet. Another bottle of champagne will do the digger no harm other than risk he disturb the ghost of some other time. Drink, gulp, swallow deep the elixir of love lost, and luxuriate in the pleasure of sifting through what his spade unearthed. The draughts of alcohol, sweet as caressing lips, carried him back like a child; back once again to the past.

A warm tropical breeze beckoned him to the balcony of his penthouse apartment as if to whisper some spell binding magic to ferry him back to her embrace. Clasping the rail, he imbibed more of the bubbling words never said and the ominous, ominous truth that lay ahead. He smiled as if for a brief moment he realised his folly. At long last he had found again the girl of his dreams; the chime of her voice, the softness of her touch, the scent of her hair as he held her so close: the tingling excitement of embrace. Oh, what rapturous joy he had found. Could he bear to reconcile the impassioned ghost from his past with a woman two score and five years away from….what might have been?

Her last letter to him, sent months after he had left for Vietnam, described a cold Chicago night as she walked alone through the snow along State Street. If only he had kept the letter, as he had her picture and the etchings he had made from it. How he wished he too had been stepping through that white winter wonderland with her – the chill of the wind and the snow in young faces. Young love, hand in hand, and a lonely trail of footsteps in a white never-never landscape. He could feel the warmth of her body wrapped so snugly in furs and the delirious excitement of holding her hand again. How apt it was that it should have ended that way. And how cruel that he had been carried away to fight in a foreign war in a far off land, never to return to the bosom of the one he loved so passionately.

ParkerGoldstein, little wonder his occasional Internet searches for Brooke Parker had been unsuccessful. Tracing her by a maiden name was the only lead he had. How fortunate she had retained it now. A failed marriage, a return to maiden status and then a new matrimonial coupling with a double barrelled family partnership. Is that what happened? Whatever the reason, he was thankful. He had finally found her, although no longer remembered how he eventually stumbled on her page in FaceBook; he was sure he’d searched there before. But there, at last, was the face that caused so much burning, aching loneliness as it had weaved itself into his midnight slumbers and daytime dreams. Changed of course, yet the ravages of time had been kind; still the same flaxen hair shaped as it always was, the tilt of her nose, the sweetest lips and those smiling inviting eyes. Duncan slumped into the wicker chair on the shaded balcony as he mused over the image. She was beautiful – still is he thought. He swirled the wine in his glass goblet and lit a cigar. He imagined her, through the hazy blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his Monti Christo cigar, sitting with him now, together, looking out over the gently waving palms that seemd to bow as if in homage to great lovers. What fancyful folly. Was she 20 or 65? Slightly tipsy, his mind was muddled. Brooke Parker was married, she said, to a lovely man. In her email – how wonderful it had been to receive that email – those were her very words, ‘had two husbands and now married to a lovely man’. So married twice and now happily so it seemed. Oh, the joy-pain of remorse. The curling smoke had cleared as he settled his gaze on the empty chair beside him. There came a sudden chill and he moved to return to the email. How many lovers had she enraptured in the months and years that ensued? Was love ever found? Or was it always one sided as it had been for him. Oh yes he knew, of course he knew. His own ardent soul once cradled the pain of her unrequited love. How else could she have left him for another? Love, oh love, what hopeless love can do!

Brooke then and Brooke now – these were different people. His foolishness had been to give a voice to the ghost from the past. It was madness. Brooke ParkerGoldstein was not his Brooke Parker, and there was not to be another email… The bright morning sun had by now changed to a late afternoon glow. The empty glass goblet fell from Duncan’s hand and shattered into a thousand glisening pieces; a thousand crystal memories shining like diamonds beneath his feet. He finally raised himself from his chair and stooped to pick up one small speck as he drifted aimlessly towards the balcony’s balustrade. Placing the sparkling particle in the palm of his hand, a tear fell upon it and for a brief moment he saw her face. What alchemy was this?

Grenville Mills
Copyright 27 April 2010

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The publishing industry would label me as ‘talent’. Call me old fashioned, but if my small offerings are as rewarding as the  ’talent’ picked up at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse on Saturday nights, I’ll have accomplished my goal. On reflection, ‘performing artist’ rolls off my tongue somewhat more agreeably, albeit with a sprinkling of talent.

I can write for you, talk  for you, act for you. All for a small fee, starting as low as the cost of my next meal.

The site is intentionally minimalist for ease of navigation. Use the Categories to select from VoiceOvers (the spoken word); Film (a potpourri of acting roles); and The Written Word.

Thank you for coming round. You will notice (hopefully) that I have discretely scattered a few poor boxes around the site for those generous benefactors who may wish to show their appreciation by way of a small donation to the arts.  I’ll be more than pleased to erect a Benefactor’s Plaque (in glorious Search Engine sensitive hypertext) recognising the generosity of those who support my art form. Thank you

Grenville Mills

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(Note: This full Narration has been Sold, and the AudioBook Published)

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