I remember her well in the Chelsea hotel

Jane.

It's a simple name, a monosyllable. Sometimes it's combined with the words calamity and plain.

The Jane that I knew and loved was a calamity but she was most emphatically not plain.

She was a Welsh girl from Newport, Gwent. A slim pert breasted brunette with a French bob whose fingers entwined, melded, and melted into mine the first time we held hands.

When she told me was leaving me she still stayed the night. She really, really shouldn't have done that. When she left the next morning I inhaled her scent from my towels and cried hard bitter tears.

I hated her for years.

I don't hate her now. Being older (although certainly none the wiser) I now recognise that she was a profoundly damaged personality before we met.

I think everyone finds a great love in their life. When you find that it's not the longevity of the relationship that's important, it's the intensity. That girl gave me more in the space of eighteen months than any daft male has a right to expect in a lifetime.

We shared baths full of bubbles and threw rubber ducks at each other. I shaved her legs once and nicked her shin with the razor. A small shimmering globule of blood appeared. She looked down and I looked down. We looked up into each others eyes and laughed.

If someone gives you the sensuality, tactileness, and profound love that girl bestowed on me you should be profoundly grateful.

My dear, dear lost girl. My true peer and contemporary whose dreams and memories I curate.

I try not to think of her that often.