Descending into the basement meandering through the wood-panelled alcoves of the long, low club my eyes abug, a chill of anticipation runs through me. The chic club is where I will have my eyes opened up to London's music scene like nowhere else.

Wondering what I am doing here; Out of my depth and experience.

Mick Jagger wanders past and I gawk at him from behind Pattie, George grins mercilessly then is off, dragging me over to a dimly lit corner. Setting me down in a seat before wandering off with John to fetch drinks and talk to those assembled at the bar.

Tucked away in the heart of the busting Soho district close to fashion central Carnaby Street , the Bag O'Nails is a private members club offering a luxury experience 'like no other' .

Well that's what the sign said as we approached the stairs to the basement, as if to remind me I was an outsider.

"Here, drink this"

A drink of aqua blue is sat in front of me and one positioned for Pattie upon her return from the toilets

"It's fancy and new, called a Blue Hawaiian" George explains.

"A what?!"

"Hawaiian, Blue Hawaiian Abbs it's got loads of good stuff in it, try it" George pesters me as I take a tentative sip, he slips away and I taste it again, smiling around the straw as Pattie drops down beside me.

"Nice?"

"mmmmhhhm" I grin again.

The boys are back and conversations run through a gamult of topics- tours, albums, family, lovers as many people wander in and out of the corner. The red velvet curtains, that match the velvet on the lounges we are seated on, swish back as a drunk girl dashes past to the toilets, chased by two more slightly less drunk girls.

It's fun and I like how the boys are always making sure Pattie and I are ok, as Pattie loosens up she begs George for a dance pulling on his previously loosened tie and rolling her blue shadowed eyes at him as he ignores her giggly pleas.

The deep brown square wood panelling making the room feel smaller than it is, creates a pleasant vibe of humming friendly sound and laughter, a few girls on laps of other musician's has me intrigued to the goings on around me and John sometimes pats my hand to rein me in from craning my neck to gawk. The Blue Hawaiian, having taken a toll on my sensabilities, has me up on my knees at times watching Pattie shimmy on the dance floor, George is a pretty good dancer and I nudge John to look as he drains another glass.

As the night progresses the room gets increasingly louder. I thought it was just me but even Pattie is yelling over the din now.

George and John lean over the bar, John looks smooth and cool in his outfit, it fits him really well, George's shirt is ruffled greens and blues with flecks of yellow and his pair of deep purple trousers are bright. They chat to a few others, I can see Mick and Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, the drummer - Moon.

Just from watching John tonight and the last few I can see he is sad, the aura that it creates haunts his eyes, oh of course he smiles and laughs and acts the goose covering it nicely, but an underlying feeling of doubt of himself breaks through at times.

Which for John, I would think, is not natural. He is, or usually is, the most positive person about. Is it a front that has cracked a little under the pressure of Cynthia's and his end?

Pattie nudged me, Tom Jones 'Deliah' was nodding a hello at Pattie and I as he walked by, we waved but he was on his way out with a lady friend.

"Toms nice, welsh. He has a great voice. That's his wife she's not really a clubber"

"I know how she feels, this is surreal, all this"

John spreads drinks down on the table our old empty glasses pushed to the side.

A slow number is played and Pattie pushes me into John, we agree silently to sway the dance away. Fingers threaded around his neck and hands close over my hips so close and I can feel all my dreams and nightmares. My mind running a million miles an hour. He leans and whispers 'this is nice, yea' and I hold him tighter in response. My lips can't form words so I press my ear over his heart and listen. He lifts his hand to mine and holds my hand, our palms flat together, fingers twirled around.

The music ebbs away and so does he, leading me back to the table, hand on the small of my back. The music then turns on its head surrounding us with pumped up noise of a top twenty hit, the dance floor throbs as we retreat.

He sits himself down on the corner of the lounge we are situated on and watches me drink more of the yummy cocktail then, while I straighten my skirt, continues his watch. For the second time this week I feel him follow my movements, as I tug my skirt into place. I pause and catch him with my eyes and he grins guiltily. We haven't been here, at this point, for a while.

"I'm going to the loo"

"What? Speak up" John cups an ear to listen, I'm not sure if its working because I end up leaning over close to his ear to say it a third time. I was close, a whisper away "I'm going to the loo!" I've yelled now and he bounces back from me, shaking his head- no to the yell but eventually yes to my need.

He has been a perfect gentleman and I have felt safe enough with him to kiss his cheek without worry, or regret, that I was fawning over him like a school girl.

The bathroom, as crowded as the bar, is a struggle to get through. All the pretty girls reapplying makeup. I felt clammy like I'm going to be sick, the heat tightening my chest from all the bodies and alcohol, a leather couch beckons and I sit for a bit, head back eyes closed.

The chattering of ladies drifts around me, who saw who and what he did when she sat on his lap... I tug at my mini skirt, the black and white skirt not my first choice of attire but with Pattie as fashion stylist I don't get much say.

Someone stumbles past and I sit up a bit drawing my legs inward. A breath of cool air hits my face as the door opens and closes. I breathe deep then drift over the past few days.

He had been quiet all morning, the phone call was the solicitor and now he was angry, saddened at the debacle that she was creating, the news of the divorce would seep out into the press shortly and he could see the headlines looming like a guillotine of hate over his head.

I made numerous attempts to draw him out. Chatting inanely about Paul and Jim. About the last phone call I had received the one that had Paul groaning on and on about Jim's overly grumpy mood. Paul was putting too much detergent in the washer apparently and it blowing up in bubbles- suds everywhere. And that he was being made to play the piano scales cause, from Jim's mouth I quote 'Abby would, every day, its soothing' " I giggled 'cause I hadn't; Jim was just teasing Paul and had him over his barrel.

John basically ignored me all morning, moping about, smoking on the garden steps or slung down on the couch with his feet over the back of the seat, grizzling and belly aching. If I did make him smile he would go straight back to the morbid John I was worrying about.

"Do you want a sandie, Abbs?" John yelled yesterday; a very late lunch around  two pm and we were being lazy- him with the newspaper, reading and doodling. He had settled a bit by one and given me a kiss of apology for his weary ways of the morn. I, currently, was ignoring him. My nose stuck in that damn book reading feverously. "Abigail!! Give me that"

Looking slightly guilt ridden I handed it over, but not before a quick turn of the corner capturing my page for later perusal.

I couldn't find it last night so I went to bed after Pattie left, George having been thrown out minutes before. Then this morning I spotted it on the mantel over the fireplace. I must have put it there and not remembered.

"Arrr Lady Chanterly's Lover" John started flicking through the pages, I blushed lightly remembering some of the words, he seemed to zone in on my blush and thumbed directly to a page and began reading aloud.

I cringed.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began to travel down the curve of her back, blindly, with a blind stroking motion, to the curve of her crouching loins. And there his hand softly, softly, stroked the curve of her flank, in the blind instinctive caress.

I made a grab for the book but John stalked away, holding the literature too high from my reach. To my torment, he continued on, his voice lowering then rising when the words needed such inclination.

And closing his hand softly on her upper arm, he drew her up and led her slowly to the hut, not letting go of her till she was inside. Then he cleared aside the chair and table, and took a brown, soldier's blanket from the tool chest, spreading it slowly.

She glanced at his face, as she stood motionless.

His face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate.

"You lie there," he said softly, and he shut the door, so that it was dark, quite dark.

With a queer obedience, she lay down on the blanket. Then she felt the soft, groping, helplessly desirous hand touching her body, feeling for her face. The hand stroked her face softly, softly, with infinite soothing and assurance, and at last there was the soft touch of a kiss on her cheek.

John leered at me over the top of the book and rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

She lay quite still, in a sort of sleep, in a sort of dream. Then she quivered as she felt his hand groping softly, yet with queer thwarted clumsiness, among her clothing. Yet the hand knew, too, how to unclothe her where it wanted. He drew down the thin silk sheath, slowly, carefully, right down and over her feet. Then with a quiver of exquisite pleasure he touched the warm soft body, and touched her navel for a moment in a kiss. And he had to come in to her at once, to enter the peace on earth of her soft, quiescent body. It was the moment of pure peace for him, the entry into the body of the woman.

She lay still, in a kind of sleep, always in a kind of sleep. The activity, the orgasm was his, all his; she could strive for herself no more. Even the tightness of his arms round her, even the intense movement of his body, and the springing of his seed in her, was a kind of sleep, from which she did not begin to rouse till he had finished and lay softly panting against her breast.

"Geez Abbs I have a hard on from this, shame on you" John smirked and slammed the book down in a pretend huff "I don't know how you read such flith. I'm... I'm quite horrified by your choice of reading materials, lucky you didn't have it to bed wit' cha last night, I may woken to being fondled"

John clasped his chest overexaggerating heaving up and down, at the very thought of my fondling and I slapped him one as I grabbed the book back.

"It's a classic"

"It's smut, pure an' simple" John kissed my cheek and I broke out bright red at his novel review.

Then last night.....

He came crashing into my room as I painted my toe nails preparing for tonight, a lick of cherry red flicking up my foot missing my toe by miles, I glared daggers and reached for the stinky remover and a cotton ball.

"Can I help you Winston?" I was picking at him and he knew it, he plays the game better thought, grabbing my foot I am now being given a manicure by John Winston Lennon.

I sit on the bed, legs dangling over his shoulder's as he leans back. Sat on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed, his long legs flayed out in front of him. My feet are inches from his face. I swing them about and he grabs, and a game of catch and paint starts.

My legs are tickled from ankle to knee no higher. He smirks back at me, then he is back concentrating on the toenails as he paints. I can't stand tickling and he knows it, I squirm and wiggle to get away from his clutches but fail every time.

This is how our nights used to be. Fun, laughter and a kiss or too... when I was seeing him before. When I knew nothing of Cynthia;

He was grinning widely now and I liked that face I was seeing, happy again.