0.1 How it began…’the Fall’

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Leda and the Swan, William Butler Yeats

I’m a drummer and five years ago, I ‘depped’ in a band for a rehearsal. As usual, I was in first and set-up. The rest of the band arrived only one of whom I knew – Jay. Last through the door was a woman who took my breath away. Her name was Helen: American, tall, long auburn hair and a warm smile. She was open, friendly, and enthusiastic.

The next day I friended her on Facebook and spent an hour chatting on messenger. She was 55 but looked 35. For the next year we kept a cordial social media relationship. Eventually, the guy I depped for left the band and Jay asked me to join. I said yes, instantly.

At first, I didn’t enjoy it. Some of the personalities didn’t gel. Successful performance must be based on a common understanding of what we are playing and how it is going to be played – particularly the structure. We would constantly chop and change arrangements – difficult when you are trying to get the songs in your head in the first place. Tensions grew and the start of the pandemic triggered a band re-shuffle. As things returned to ‘normal’, things improved – we settled, became good.

Over the next four years, my feelings towards Helen zig-zagged. She is a striking woman, compassionate, damaged, complex, at times nutty. Helen has none of the tropes of a ‘beautiful’ woman. It’s a vinous mixture and I would tamp-down my feelings, avoid intoxication. Despite being a former model, it was not a physical attraction at first. Okay, maybe a little. The difference between what you might expect from someone like that and who they turn out to be is rare and very compelling.

We played a festival in the North, and all stayed in accommodation together. I wanted to go into her room – but to do what? It wasn’t a sexual impulse. I dreamed of her holding me, stroking her hair. Remarkably innocent. Instead, I got drunk, was an idiot and argued about God. She forgave me but it was a black mark (that I think has remained).

A local gig. Helen is unusually physical – lots of touching, offering me a bite of her food. We go outside to look at the beer garden and see one of her friends that I haven’t met. Helen introduces me as ‘one of her favourite people in the world’. I’m taken aback and struggle to process for a moment.

Helen’s friend, Leda, is at the gig. She sits opposite me. Every time Helen reaches out to touch me or offer me her food, I see Leda watching – a smile in her eyes. In retrospect, I see she is watching ‘the fall’. In slow motion. I don’t realise it at the time. But this is the moment.

The gig goes well. We hug goodbye.

As the weeks go by, what Helen said at the gig nags at me. I feel seen. I message her and express some of my amazement:

“Well, it’s true. You are an amazing human – kind and funny and original and honest and wicked talented. Own it.”

Those latent feelings erupt. I really want to control it because I know how much she loves her ‘solo’ life. Surely, there can’t be something more…? I battle it for weeks. The cadence of our messages changes – she leads more. We help Jay with his new house, though I’m pretty useless on the day.

Cleaning Jay’s bedroom, Helen cuts a lonely figure. Do I sense sadness? Definitely a lonely vibe. When I see her like that, I want desperately to hold her – but, all I can do is a long goodbye hug. The doors always closing in front of me.

Later, I message her:

Me: Hey – you OK? I keep thinking about what you said: ‘what else would I be doing?’
Helen: That was flippant. I guess I don’t have much of a social life, but I’m okay. I’ve always been a rather self-contained person.

A few weeks later it’s the night of Helen’s birthday party – a significant one. I find her alone in the venue worried about numbers. I give her a present. It’s personal, meaningful. Presents are part of my love language – to anybody I care about. The night passes and I hardly notice Helen. There are lots of people there and she has chosen not to have the band play (a relief – we can all enjoy ourselves and no packing up).

Then it is time to go. I hug her and the tequila helps me whisper in her ear:

I wish you loved me the way I love you.
She replies: I do love you, just not like that

I crumble inwardly. The Uber ride home: I ignore my friends and listen to Rachel Grimes on my headphones.

Next day my head overdrives. I am confused and hurt by the inconsistent contact between us and what Helen said at the party. I am by nature, hyper-vigilant of how people react to me. A childhood where my mother consistently withdrew her affections has left me scarred and watchful. I tend towards pleasing people so that they like me.

At the next rehearsal I get between Helen and the others as we leave the studio and ask her if she has an afternoon to spare for me. Will she meet in town at a gallery? Helen agrees readily. I plan to disclose my feelings because, well maybe I’ve misunderstood, but need clarity: no me? no anyone? both?

What has really happened is that I have suddenly started to feel seen as a man. It will take a long time and much therapy to get to that realisation.

Saturday, I arrive in central London and find my way to the gallery. Helen is late. The exhibition is okay but I can’t focus. I need to talk to her. We go to the cafe, order coffee and a pastry to share. I’m in my 60s for God’s sake but my hands are shaking. I tell Helen that I want a shot with her. Probably a bit much… but it is heartfelt. I wasn’t asking her to marry me, let me move in – just explore the possibility of something more than we are at that moment because I at least felt that there WAS something between us.

But I also didn’t want hope. Hope kills the soul. I needed to know:

Helen is somewhat prepared, is kind and tells me that she just had this conversation with another man recently, in the States. She doesn’t want a relationship, marriage etc. She might consider a ‘partnership’ at some point in the future. Helen has two marriages behind her – both of whom cheated. Also, there was a boyfriend in the middle who cheated too.

I had wanted certainty. And I seem to get it.

We walk back to my car. It’s a pleasant and friendly, we go into shops and laugh as we look at bargain tat. When we get to the car, I take her hand. She’s confused:

“I’m not shaking hands”, she says.
“No, I want to hold your hand, just once,” I say.

We hold hands. Her’s is soft, light. I begin to cry, desperate not to lose control, and I say that:

“it’s doesn’t matter if you don’t love me because for once, my heart is full ”
She replies, “No, that can’t be true!’.

But it is.

We are hugging now and she is crying too. I hold her tight. We separate and look at each other. “One more hug?” I say. We embrace and as she leaves, Helen looks back at me, tears in her eyes hesitant to go.

I get into my car and weep.