A Little Bit of Chelsea in Essex
One summer Laura went on a budget holiday to Spain with her girlfriend, June. As soon as they left Essex, they started drinking with some Chelsea boys in the airport bar and nearly missed the plane. The holiday was a real lark. June found a Chelsea shirt to take off every night, but no one, in Chelsea shirts or otherwise, appeared to be interested in Laura.
“He was nice, Lar. Why ever not?”
“He’s too young, June. That’s why.”
“I would not have said no.”
“There is always tomorrow night.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
On the very last night of the holiday Laura dolled herself up, squeezed into a pair of tight jeans and put on her red heels. She went out without any real expectations.
The bar thinned out until June had gone off with Number Seven and Laura was left all on her lonesome.
“Why aren’t you dancing?”
“Not into it.”
“Me neither. What are you into?”
Laura shrugged.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“You a drinker then?” she said sarcastically.
“No, I am just being polite.”
Laura looked up at the wall flower standing in front of her.
“Alright, what are we going to do?” she said.
“Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand.
They walked for several hundred yards; then he stopped. “Wait here,” he said, “while I get something from my room.”
Laura sighed and lit a cigarette. I’ll give him five minutes, she thought.
He was back in three, guitar in one hand and bottle in the other. “I thought we could go to the beach,” he said.
The following morning June burst into Laura’s room. “Where were you last night? You get lucky then?”
“Juney,” said Laura, “you cannot imagine what a night I had.”
“I knew it. So, what happened?”
“We sat on the beach and he sang songs to me under the silvery moon.”