The Derelict Asda

"Do you remember Camden?", he said.
She smiled as she spun her straw around the base of the glass. She appeared coy and embarassed. Of course she remembered Camden.

They had rented a small flat on Delancey Street when he was someone. She was adrift in reminiscence. It was the summer of 1997. The noise from the passing buses echoed up Parkway. She was standing in the bay window, fingering the tassles of the chintz curtains. Across the street orange cloth billowed in front of the Odeon. It never sagged in the rain. She could not understand that.

He would come back early from the studio, over near the lock. His frank expression teased, for it lied. Things were good. Bicker and Buckley had many clients, all clamouring to buy and renovate. Not just the Japanese who demanded such attention. He would talk of how he hated their interfering, which always ended with a compromised design. The large number of thirty-something-Brit-buyers (TSBB's as he branded them in the article in the Observer) would give him a free hand to create masterpieces of classic fashion.
He would hold her hand as if to greet, then spin her body as if he were unravelling a mummy, catching her lips in a surprised kiss. Later he would always buy her a martini in Riki-Tiki's, or Vodka from Red. Everyone on Greek Street recognised them. In that year they were it. She was totally entranced by him. For dinner, Coast, was an extension of their dining room. The first time she had been holding his hand as they dominated the staircase into Quags. Nothing ever beat that. The double-take of diners as they looked up, took a sip of wine, then looked again with uncertain haste as they recognised his face, his exagerrated gait. They were something then.
More Martini back in Underworld, whilst they pretended to love punk.
Back in the flat he would make love to her like she were a goddess. She was never Julie Brimshaw from Crouch End when she was with him.

Clapham was not just 10 miles away, or merely 30 years later, it was the furthest mountain in paralax. The Junction served detergent headed ale. You could taste the stale smell of smoke and beer in the carpets. He looked into his empty glass.
"Eh? Those were fine times, Julie. You still love me, even now?"
"The distractions are gone now, Peter. One can never love in Camden. I did not love you then. I loved the life. Now, I love you."
She took his good arm and helped him into his chair.

As she strained, pushing him up Lavender Hill, she caught their reflection in the broken glass of the derelict Asda. She did not let him see the tear. She would never let him know. She owed him that.