Robert

(Part of a collection of stories I’m working on – still need a name for it, but here goes)

I was 22 at the time. My long-term relationship was on the rocks while my long-term opiate addiction was flourishing. I moved out of my ex’s studio and moved a few streets away, to a shitty little mould-infested room. Almost every day, I would walk past a café on my way to or back from work; I’d walk past this middle-aged guy, with his dog, playing guitar and drinking either red wine or coffee. He was handsome and somewhat mysterious, always seemed completely invested in his music but he would occasionally look at me, in connivance. One day, he called me over, and we chatted for a while. Robert. 

We met for drinks a few times at local pubs after that, and I met his girlfriend. She was closer to my age than his and worked as a solicitor at an office down the road. Robert was 53. I thought, he’s a year older than my dad, so that doesn’t make it as weird as if he were my dad’s age. 

Robert and I would also go on walks with his dog, Pi. One day, he asked me if I could look after Pi because he was playing a jazz gig at a bar and dogs weren’t allowed there. I could just go to his house, which was only a short walk away from where I was staying, and dog-sit there. I could even help myself to his vast wine collection, he said. I agreed, but warned him I’d have to bring drugs into his house. We were pretty open about this. He also let slip he had called things off with his girl – or was it that she was going away to Australia for a while? I don’t remember.

I think I was so flattered to be getting an older guy’s attention, and I assumed that his age would guarantee experience and a good time in bed. Nope. Flaccid cock and horrible words. He’d tell me to stop acting like a fucking pornstar if I did anything other than just lie there. 

I stayed for the booze and the abuse. That’s what I deserved. Plus, he’d let me smoke my heroin, rarely asked for some, and he’d take photos of me wearing nothing but his silk shirts. How cool, how artsy.

What the fuck.

Robert and I would often go to really nice pubs for drinks and talk about music, literature, any of the things we had in common.

One night, he grabbed me by the throat and shoved me against a wall.

I carried on seeing him.

I really thought that was part of my rock’n’roll lifestyle and narrative.

I am an object of desire. I hate myself so much that I need to be worshipped.

Plus I really loved Pi. She was a gem of a dog, we had a great bond. Taking her to Duke’s Meadows, letting her loose and having her run back to me was exhilarating. I was so desperate for love.

One thing Robert and I didn’t agree on was politics. It was easy for him to dismiss my opinions as the views of a 22 year-old girl who still had a lot to learn.

Brexit happened. I had stayed the night, and when we woke up that fateful morning after a night of heavy drinking and pitiful sex, he read me the news. He went to grab the champagne. I cried my eyes out.

What the fuck.

And yet, every time I go through West London, even all those years later, I think about knocking on his door to see how he’s doing, to hear if he still plays my song on his guitar. I don’t remember it, but I think he would.