I wait and I wait but no phone call comes.

Bloody men. They're all the same.
Even Brett, despite him having shown signs of thoughtfulness yesterday. I should've known that he wouldn't call.

Perhaps he felt sorry for me and took pity on the poor lonely Northern girl who has nothing else to do all day except sit around in scruffy tracksuit trousers, feeling sorry for herself.
When he'd said he'd call he might've had every intention of doing so, but he'd probably forgotten, I decide.
I am the type of girl who is easily forgotten.

Jane has noticed, I suppose it would be hard not to, as I practically jump out of my own skin each time the phone rings. And then I'm torn between making a dash for it or letting her answer instead. Because I don't want to come across as desperate or too eager. I don't want Brett to think I'm waiting for his call.
Even though I am, but still....

The first call I do answer, I stand like a madwoman, poised ready to grab the receiver from it's cradle but mindful of answering it too quickly.
When I lift it casually to my mouth I make an effort to sound nonchalant and - God only knows why - sultry....or something.
I know, I know it's pathetic. Brett already knows what I sound like, we've talked enough by now for him to know the sound and pitch of my voice, but for some unknown reason I still find myself speaking huskily into the phone. Attempting to emulate Bridget Bardot but sounding more like Madge from Neighbours. Or Bonnie Tyler.
Not sure which is worse.

As it turns out, it's nothing more than a call from the gas board, ringing to arrange the annual visit to check the appliances and so on. And it's probably a good thing it isn't Brett....given that I sound like I desperately need a throat lozenge. I'll bet the gas man will turn up expecting to find Tom Waits living here.

When the next call comes I decide to let Jane answer.
It turns out to be her sister, and I sit anxiously drumming my fingers against the corduroy arm of the couch, wishing she'd hurry up and get off the line.
That woman could talk a glass eye to sleep, and after a good forty five minutes has passed I've managed to work myself up into an agitated frenzy. Jane is giving me funny looks, as I fail to hide my irritation. Gritting my teeth and shifting restlessly whilst repeatedly checking my watch.

As evening rolls around, I decide to take a bath. A nice relaxing soak with scented candles and plenty of bubbles is just what the doctor ordered. But as I languish there, the skin on my hands turning wrinkly and the water growing chilly, my ears are still trained on the bloody phone. Waiting, hoping to hear the high pitched trilling of it's ring, and then that soft Southern lilt on the other end of the line.

God. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm like an obsessed girlfriend, except Brett isn't my boyfriend. He isn't even my friend. Not really.

This is crazy.

Just as I walk into the living room, clad in my beloved Miffy the Rabbit dressing gown which has seen better days, and my face a mile long, I suddenly catch the distinct sound of....Brett's voice.
At first I think I must be going mad. Having spent the last half an hour absentmindedly replaying parts of conversations I'd had with him yesterday over in my head, and anticipating his call, I'm convinced it must be my imagination.
But as I turn towards the portable television, from which the phantom voice seems to be emanating, haunting me, I almost drop the glass of milk I've just poured for myself.
,
He's there. Right there, smiling out at me from the screen. Chewing gum it seems, and dressed in a snug-fitting leather jacket that's zipped halfway up but with - holy shit - nothing underneath it.
Damn him.
Such a thing should be laughable, ludicrous even. But no, not only does this enigma somehow manage to pull it off, he also looks unfathomably stunning in the process.
His chin-length, Galaxy chocolate hair falls down around his face as he dips his head coyly.
I feel my grip on the glass loosen and it almost slips from my hand like in a scene from a film.

Stunned, I hear an excitable shriek and realise with some embarrassment that it's come from myself. Without thought or hesitation I rush forwards towards the set and my fingers fumble for the volume button.

"Oh my God! He's on the tele." I say to Jane, who's sitting by watching me with growing curiosity.
I don't expect her to recognise him, or even know what I'm going on about, but I'm so caught up in the moment I simply can't contain my astonishment. I have to share the excitement I'm feeling with someone. Anyone.
Even Jane of all people.

"Who is it?" She asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"Brett. His band played at the pub on Saturday. I can't believe he's on the tele! What programme is this?"

Jane leans forward, her eyes focused on Brett pushing the long strands of hair behind his ears as he answers the questions that are being fired at him.
"I'm not sure. I think it's some local channel on cable. London Live or something like that. So you actually know him? Gosh. How exciting!"

I nod, listening with avid interest as the attractive woman with an unidentifiable foreign accent ploughs on.
"So how would you describe your music?"

Having heard Brett's wide-ranging singing voice and the accompanying music of his band which has been likened by the Melody Maker to David Bowie and The Smiths, I find myself smiling in agreement as he finally responds, after some deep contemplation.
"Um...emotional, I think...and intense are two words that I'd use..." He pauses briefly, his denim-blue eyes affixed on the middle distance. "Um...because we don't really play in one particular style. So you have to use broad, sweeping categories like those two words to describe it."

"He's very good looking." Jane pipes up, then asks bluntly "Is he your boyfriend?"

I almost choke on my milk. "W-what? No! We're just sort of friends. That's all."

"Sort-of friends? But you are seeing someone, aren't you? Your father said he walked you home. And didn't he go to your appointment with you yesterday?"

I feel my face grow hot. I wish she'd just shut up and let me listen to Brett talking. Besides, how can I explain that it was Damon who asked me out, not Brett.
"It's, it's a bit complicated." I mutter distractedly. "Damon...he's the singer in another band, he was the one who invited me on Saturday. And then he sort of asked me out on Sunday. Brett just walked me home from the pub, and he only went with me to the hospital because he was going anyway. It wasn't exactly a date or anything like that."

"Oh. I see." She says, though it's blatantly clear that she doesn't see.
She doesn't see at all and her next comment confirms this. "So you've got two men competing for your affections."

She's smiling at me wickedly and to say I'm perplexed is putting it mildly.
Competing for my affections? What century is this woman living in? And she obviously doesn't understand the concept of platonic friendships. Also I'm pretty sure that accompanying a stranger to the hospital under duress isn't widely considered romantic.
Blood tests, urine samples, and burst eardrums aren't exactly the foundations for a budding romance.

"No. It isn't like that. Brett isn't interested in me--"

"Are you sure about that Samantha?" She cuts me off mid-sentence, using my full name for added effect. "Will you be seeing him again?"

I feel my brow furrow, and try to ignore the hot flush sweeping my cheeks. "Well....he said he'd show me around town, but he hasn't called. And anyway it's Damon that I like, he's the one I'm seeing."

Jane sits back and folds her arms. Tucking her hands into the wide sleeves of her baggy M&S jumper, she shoots me a knowing look. I've just unwittingly given away the reason why I've been hanging around the phone all day and jumping like a scolded cat each time it rings.
To my relief though, she doesn't pass comment on it.
"So when are you seeing this Damian?" She asks instead.

"It's Damon." I correct, then shrug, turning my attention back to the TV. "He's busy recording a new album. He said he'd call whenever he's free."

"And are you actually going out with him then?"

"Well he didn't exactly ask me to go out with him." I reply waspishly.
I really don't know what to say to her because it isn't like in school when guys run up to you in the playground, give you a dead-leg, then say 'will you be my girlfriend?'
Which, as lame as that was, did actually make things a lot clearer and simpler.
"We've just hung out, and stuff."

"And 'stuff'?" She eyes me questioningly and my face grows hotter still. Giving the game away. "Ah. So you've snogged."

Oh my God.
I sit there and will the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
Snogged?! She's somehow managed to make me feel like a fourteen year old that's about to receive 'the talk'.
I shudder.
There are some words you should never hear a parental figure say, and snogged is most definitely one of them I decide.

I open my mouth to speak but right then I hear the female interviewer quite unexpectedly asking, "And do you have a girlfriend at the moment?"

Oh Crap. Why would she ask that? How did the conversation take such a drastically personal turn? I must've missed something.

For a moment Brett hesitates, he seems slightly taken aback by the forwardness of the woman. She's looking at him expectantly, and his silence is making me nervous.
Does he have a girlfriend? I haven't seen one or heard him mention one, but that doesn't mean he doesn't have one tucked away somewhere. I mean, how can he look like that and not have one?
My guts cramp as I find myself awaiting his response with bated breath.

I really shouldn't care if he's single or has a harem of women. One for each day of the week, and is the third participant in a ménage à trois on the weekends.
But damn it, now the question has been asked I want to know. I need to know.
Yet at the same time, I don't think I want to hear the answer.

"Why?" He replies finally, the hint of a smirk on his nearly perfect pout, puffing out his lower lip as he fires back "What's it to 'ya?"

I can't tell if he's affronted and hiding it behind banter, attempting to avoid answering, or worse....is he flirting with her?
A fleeting rush of irrational jealousy causes me to feel momentarily irritated. Then it passes just as quickly as it arrived. He doesn't strike me as the overtly flirtatious type. Damon is the blatant, unapologetic flirt, Brett is far more aloof. Playful sarcasm with a dusting of suggestiveness is more his style.

"I was just wondering because of your androgynous image, do you think girls find it difficult to approach you?" The woman retorts, smiling and touching him affectionately on the arm as she speaks.

Brett sniggers and fidgets a little. Awkwardly running a large hand through his hair. Embarrassed? Nah that couldn't be right. Not after that performance on stage the other night. He's like some erotic force of nature. A corrupter of innocence.

And then another thought hits me like a ten ton truck.
What if he's gay?

Oh Jesus Brett, please don't be gay. I silently pray.
Not that I have anything against being gay, I just don't want him to be gay. I don't know why. It shouldn't be any skin off my nose if he is, but it would be such a terrible pity. Such a waste.

A sudden image of Brett slinking around the house in Moorhouse road decked out in a satin smoking jacket, clutching a cigarette holder, à la Noel Coward, flashes before my eyes. He's certainly suave and elegant enough to carry that off.
Worse still, what if Damon is some kind of awful homophobe, and that's why they're so standoffish with each other?
Ugh. Stop it.
I scold myself inwardly. What is it with me lately? My imagination keeps running amok and I seem to have been hijacked by hormones.

"Yeah maybe." Brett's saying now, and when she persists again asking if he has a girlfriend I find myself wanting to slap the woman. I'm not a violent person by nature, but I could quite happily make an exception for her.
She seems to be badgering him. What is she doing...hinting? What is she hoping to achieve? Does she think he'll ask her out on a date?

"I might do." He answers vaguely, giving nothing away. I can see the disappointment in the woman's face. Perhaps she was angling after some juicy gossip. Getting the scoop on Rock's new Mister Sex.

The interview is drawing to a close when suddenly the telephone, which has been sat atop the Art Deco dresser, taunting me with it's silence, now decides to ring.

Reluctantly I drag myself away from the television in order to answer it, and almost faint with surprise when I realise it's none other than Damon.

Damon the cute Essex heartthrob with the mockney accent. I ought to be jumping for joy, for he has rang me. Little old me.

"'Ello darlin'." He croons in that self-assured tone of his. "Fancy comin' out tomorrow night?"

"Oh, Hi Damon."
I feel slightly miffed that he doesn't ask how I am, there's no small talk or chit-chat. He's very direct, and straight to the point.
But still, isn't that what adds to his appeal? His confidence is one of his most notable traits.
"Sure. Sounds cool. Where were you thinking of?"

"That's a surprise." He states ominously, and I can practically hear the grin in his voice.

I don't have the heart to tell him that I'm not overly fond of surprises because nine times out of ten they never turn out to be nice ones. But, I have to admit it is nice of him. He's a busy guy, and yet here he is making time to call me, and wanting to take me out.

So I agree to meet him tomorrow at 7:00pm by the underground at Crouch End - due to my naive ignorance and his strong Essex twang, I have to ask him to repeat the name of the place. Sceptical at first that an actual area would be named 'Crouch End' - and then we say our goodbyes.

Short and sweet.
Which is good, I assure myself. After all the emotional turmoil I've been through with Mark, simple is good. It's a refreshing change. And change is what I so desperately need.

***************

The following morning I hear my name being called - or rather shrieked, with unabashed excitement - by Jane.

Her voice wrenches me from a rather distorted dream about Doctor Who, funnily enough. But instead of inhabiting a spaceship shaped like an old police call box, this Doctor traveled around in a big red London bus, and the inside was filled with musical instruments.
I can't say I recall what the last Doctor Who looked like either, but I'm pretty sure he didn't have pierced ears and a leather jacket.

Bizarre. Very bizarre indeed.

I stumble to the phone, and in my sleep befuddled state I fail to recognise the giddiness Jane is exhibiting as she hands me the receiver.
In hindsight, I should've known something was amiss and prepared myself.

"Mmmf...yeah?" I practically grunt down the line. I'm not awake enough to be polite or even articulate.

There's a moments pause, and then "Is that you Sammy?"
The speaker sounds suitably unsure, given my muffled and nondescript greeting.

Wait. What? Sammy?

My head snaps up and my stomach performs a gymnastic flip. I am now very much awake, and fully alert as if I'd just been zapped with a cattle prod.
Perhaps it's the doctor - natch - that is, the one from the hospital. Good old Dr. W. Ho, calling to check up on me or speak to my dad or something.

"Y-yes?" I confirm shakily, unable to form a sentence yet it would seem.

"How are you doing? Listen, I'm sorry I didn't call yesterday."

Oh shit.

It isn't Doctor Ho at all, and I ought to have known it.
This lulling, deep, spellbinding influence of a voice only belongs to one person, and he isn't oriental. Neither does he work in the medical profession.

I subconsciously grasp the receiver tighter, and manage to find my own voice. "Hey, Brett...I'm good thanks, how are you? It's okay. Honestly there's no need to apologise."

"I'm not too bad thanks, Sammy. I don't want you to think that I'm bullshitting you or anything, I was mad busy yesterday."

"I know. I saw your interview." I tell him.

"Oh God." He groans "That was dropped on me at the last minute, so I had no time to prepare and I didn't have the foggiest idea what to say. I must've sounded like a right arse, and looked a complete prat."

Oh Brett. Really? If only you knew. I think to myself. You're like a living, breathing personification of coolness.

"No. Don't be daft." I tell him lightheartedly. "You looked fine to me...I mean good. You looked good. That is very, um, natural in front of the camera, so to speak."

He chuckles softly at my babbling "Thanks. Listen, how about you and me do something tonight? I was thinking we could go for a walk down the embankment. It's quite nice down there at night, I think you'd like it. Maybe check out a band in one of the basement bars, and grab some dinner. What d'ya think?"

A light sweat breaks out on the palm of my hand that's gripping the phone, and I try to quell a wave of excitement.
It sounds absolutely bloody fantastic. And, very date-like indeed. But no, no it isn't intended as such, I'm sure. I don't want it to be, and he wouldn't want it to be.
Besides he knows that I'm sort-of seeing Damon and....oh crap.

"I'm seeing Damon." I blurt the words out unintentionally, and immediately regret it.

"Oh." Brett responds, sounding somewhat deflated. And I find myself wishing my legs were long enough and flexible enough to give myself a swift kick up the backside.

"He rang last night and asked if I wanted to meet up." I add hurriedly.

"In the pub I presume?"

"I don't know."
There's an accusatory tone in his voice, but as I stare down at my bare toes which are scrunched in horror, I find myself consumed with disappointment. "Sorry Brett. I would have liked that a lot. It sounds lovely."

"S'alright. Maybe some other time, yeah?"

Oh no. That sounds way too vague. People tend to have a habit of saying that when they've absolutely no intention of making further arrangements.
I need to pin him down to another day.

"Are you free tomorrow night? Perhaps we could go then. Or Thursday?"

"No, sorry. We've got late sessions booked in the studio from tomorrow onwards. Under pressure to get the debut album recorded and released as soon as possible you see." He explains dolefully.

Oh hell no. He's going to hang up, and then that will be that. He'll be sucked into the heady world of fame and fortune, and I'll most likely never hear from him again.
My guts twist into knots. I'm trying to think of something to say, something to keep him on the line a little bit longer.

"Actually. Are you busy now?" He asks suddenly, pulling me from my sell-pitying reverie.

"Now?" My voice comes out slightly more high-pitched than I would've liked, but I'm standing here in tatty pyjamas, my untidy mass of hair held into place by one of those torturous plastic claw clips. I look a complete sight. "Well, I um. I was just about to jump in the shower."
Ugh. Wonderful. I didn't want to admit to him that I'm not dressed yet, so instead he's probably picturing me naked now, and gagging into the phone.

"No problem. I could come over to yours for twelve-ish? Will that give you enough time? We can do somethin' else instead. Don't worry about lunch, I'll fix us something."

I blink, looking at my watch. It is 10:46am.
"Yes, um sure. Sounds good."

"Cool. I'll see 'ya shortly then Sammy."

***************

As it turns out, an hour and a half isn't nearly enough time for me to get ready.
After trying on several different outfits, complete with matching accessories, only to leave them discarded in a pile on my bed, I finally settle on my turquoise coloured, long, crepe-chiffon dress and black, mod monkey-boots.
It looks bright and sunny outside, and whilst I'm not one for wearing dresses usually, I really like this one. I bought it from the market but have never had the opportunity to wear it before.

I stand for a while, surveying my appearance in the full-length mirror. Not entirely convinced.
The dress is pretty, unlike me.
I feel rather weird wearing such a thing, and almost change clothes again until Jane stops me. Talking me into leaving it on, as she surprisingly showers me with compliments.

I scrunch my hair up into a messy bun with strategically loose tendrils falling down around either side of my face.
I also go to painstaking lengths to apply the kind of makeup that's supposed to look as if you're not actually wearing any. The kind that gives the illusion of being a natural beauty. The kind you apply early each morning before your boyfriend has time to see you bare-faced, until eventually one day they catch you unawares, and vomit with shock.

It is approximately 12:15 when the buzzer on the hallway intercom sounds, and I square my shoulders, trying to ignore the fluttering sensation in my tummy as I make my way downstairs, my small, black velvet shoulder bag hanging just below my hip.

"What'cha." Brett greets me casually, with a wide grin as I open the door.
He's wearing light denim jeans and a loose-fitting white shirt, the sleeves of which are turned up to the elbow, exposing his slender-yet-sturdy forearms. They also have, I notice, just the right amount of hair on them. Enough to be manly, without looking like he should live up a tree.

He's chewing gum, and his eyes are hidden behind black sunglasses. But as I coyly return his smile, my nervousness grows when his grin fades and he stops chewing.

"Um, hey." I mumble, resisting the urge to fiddle with my bag.

"Hey." He parrots needlessly. "You look..."

I bite my lip, waiting eagerly for him to finish his sentence.

"You look really..." His words trail off again.

"Yes?" I urge, giggling shyly.

He tucks one side of his hair behind his right ear, his silver sleeper earring glinting in the sunlight. "Um, nice. You look really really nice, Sammy."

A rush of excitement and pride surges through me, but I try to look unfazed. "Thank you."

He cocks his head to one side in a puppy-like fashion, and indicates towards the Waitrose carrier bag he's clutching in his left hand. "Have you got a blanket? I was thinking we could have lunch up on the Heath."

"You mean like a picnic?" I ask, smiling goofily now. "I think Jane has one. Just give me a sec, I'll go and grab it."

I almost trip over my damn dress in my haste to ascend the stairs, but luckily he doesn't seem to notice.
I'm still smiling to myself as I wreck the airing cupboard, rifling through its contents, pulling out various towels, tablecloths and bedding, until I find what I'm looking for.

Thirty minutes later and we're stepping onto the platform at Hampstead station. Jane's checkered, woollen blanket rolled up safely under my arm.

On the journey Brett has filled me in on the history of Hampstead Heath.
It is by all accounts a wonderful grassy, hilly public space, with woodland and ponds and a historical mansion known as Kenwood House.
Parliament Hill, he informs me, affords marvellous panoramic views of the London skyline. As well as it having been used in promo shots for the artwork on one of The Kinks' album covers.

We turn left and take the steps up a wide passageway which leads to somewhere called Holly Mount.
The weather is delightfully warm, and I'm feeling relaxed and good about myself as we walk along companionably.
Lost in thoughts of how adorably odd Brett is, with his cool demeanour and rock star persona, yet he's a bit of a history geek at heart, like myself. And the very idea of him suggesting a picnic lunch is mind boggling. I mean, it isn't exactly rock 'n roll. It's quite twee actually, and romantic.

I swallow hard at the sudden realisation. It is, undeniably the sort of thing that couples do, isn't it? Go for picnics? Or am I being paranoid and narrow-minded?

Suddenly Brett speaks, and just then a train rumbles in towards the station, drowning out his voice. But for all the world it sounds - albeit disturbingly - like he says "Nice breasts"

"W-what?' I cry, eyes widening in shock. I must've misheard him. Surely to goodness. "What did you just say?"

He raises an eyebrow above the rim of his sunglasses. "I said, nice dress."

"Oh!" I giggle, with immense relief. "Sorry I thought you said....something else."

He looks quizzically amused, and then his face breaks into a mischievous smirk. "You do know that dress is see-through, don't you?"

I halt abruptly in my tracks and immediately stare down at the offending item of clothing. "Is it?" I demand, mortified by having made such a fashion faux pas.
My mind instantly jumps to Jane, plotting my revenge.
Why didn't she tell me? Although I'm struggling to see properly in the sunlight, but it doesn't look transparent to me.
If it had, I most definitely wouldn't have bought it, let alone worn it.

"Only in a certain light." He says reassuringly, except this doesn't reassure me at all.
"As you're moving, the light kind or shines through the material and...well...." His smirk now becomes a lecherous grin and my shame cranks up another gear. "...I'm not complaining."

He removes his sunglasses in one swift motion and winks at me.
I blush crimson with embarrassment.
Holy shit. He may as well have said "Nice breasts" after all, being as I'm bra-less and parading around in a bloody see-through frock.

God I want to die.

But Brett's wolfish grin has a disturbing effect, heating and burning my insides whilst my stomach performs a triple somersault this time.
The feminist in me should be outraged, appalled at him for showing such brazen appreciation for my semi-visible form. But I'm ashamed to admit I'm not appalled. Not in the slightest. On the contrary, I feel as if I'm melting into a puddle as he eyes me intently. Looking every bit 'Hungry Like The Wolf' as Duran Duran once sang.

"Behave, Wolfie." I retort teasingly, and before I can stop myself I'm playfully nudging him.

He chuckles heartily and we continue walking. "I always behave, just badly sometimes."

"Why doesn't that surprise me? You're a rock star, it comes as standard."

"Hey, c'mon be fair....at least I did the gentlemanly thing and told you. So at least my honesty counts for something, surely?"

"Er, a gentleman wouldn't have noticed!" I point out, trying to sound mortally offended. "A gentleman would've had the good grace to not look!"

"Is that right?" His voices thickens somehow, becoming a seductive drawl. "Well, maybe I'm a badly behaved gentleman then....amongst other things."

"You mean there's even more to Brett Anderson from Suede? Other than just being a sarcastic git, and sexy lead singer?"

He bumps me playfully with his hip, making every nerve in my body stand to attention. "What can I say? I have hidden depths....or rather, hidden-shallows."

"Hmm. So you're not just a pretty face then." I say teasingly, bumping him right back.

Oh. My. God.

Have we just inadvertently flirted?
Sort of.
Kind of.
Maybe.
I don't know.

Forget Duran Duran, this is bad, real bad - more like Michael Jackson territory.

It's going to be an interesting day, that's for sure.