Ch. 5 Bed & Breakfast

             

Bed and Breakfast 

At some point during the night I woke with a start. My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I took in the scene. With a sickening sense of horror I made out the dishevelled clothing, the empty bottle, the half full glasses. I saw my phone lying there, out of juice, a stark reminder of the life that I had carelessly discarded a few hours earlier. The room was dark but a finger of dawn was poking through the heavy velvet curtains. There was the outline of my pretty bedfellow, breathing softly, on his side away from me, the curve of his long brown back exposed, the sheet covering his hips.

I experienced such yoyo-ing guilt, delight and utter disbelief at that moment my head started to spin and I groaned, the red wine jabbing at my head, judging me. He turned over and reached out, pulling me toward him. Part of me resisted, sobering up, remembering more and more of my irresponsible actions with every passing second.  Then I looked up at Liam Gallagher, eyes closed, his arm stretching out for me under my shoulders and pulling me on top of him, his hands on my hips, warm lips finding mine. I am ashamed to admit, not for the first time that night I just melted. And my other problems melted as well.

My legs parted and he found his way inside me easily. He was absolutely rock hard and I gasped at the sensation, was wet almost immediately, his musky smell overpowering my senses, my hands in his hair, his tongue finding mine, his hips rising to meet me. We moved together silently at first, sleepy little movements, a thrust here, a groan there, his hands crawling all over my back, my hips, my ass, pushing himself inside me. I pulled his hands away and clasped them over his head and pulled myself up to look at him properly, my hips moving steadily, his blue eyes half lidded, staring up at me intently. I leaned forward, let my nipples graze his face. His mouth nipped at them one at a time sending shockwaves through me. I bent my head to kiss him again, tug on his lip with my teeth, feel his stubble burn my face, and he broke his hands away, clasped my face, his hips moving faster, breathing heavily. I sat upright, ran my hands through the dark hair on his chest and closed my eyes, feeling his hands run down to my breasts, rubbing, twirling, squeezing my nipples, feeling him in me, imagining him there. I cried out with pleasure and my body tensed and deep inside me I could feel the rising tide yet again, the pulsing, throbbing and my head fell back, letting it overwhelm me, riding him, crying out for what seemed like quite a while, and then his hips thrust me upward and he let go deep inside me, groaning loudly. I fell on top of him, sweating, breathless, spent. Hungover.

I tell you what Carolyn, you are some woman, Liam was saying some minutes later, his arm across his face, obscuring his eyes, his long muscular neck exposed, looking just jaw-droppingly beautiful. Men have an infuriating habit of looking better first thing in the morning, even after a skinful of alcohol and little sleep, while women need to work quite hard just to look like they did before they were tumbled into bed. I was sitting up next to him, body tingling, head spinning, smoothing my hair, wiping the smudges from under my eyes, wondering where my clothes were. 

The strangest shift was taking place inside me and I was actually overcome with the urge to flee and get back to my family, my life, normality. But we were 100 miles from London and I knew I had to bring him back with me, after all, I was driving his car. What's wrong with this picture? What kind of seductor coerces the seductee into driving herself to her own seduction? Even if it is Liam Gallagher, that still bothered me especially as it now was down to me to return both of us to real life again down the A41. 

Even though I was dreading facing the music at the other end, and part of me didn't want this adventure to end, the urge to escape was overwhelming. I just wanted to go home. It was only 7am but we were wide awake thanks to the alcohol and very little sleep. The thrilling apprehension of the night before had given way to conflicted emotions, fearful reality and a terrible heaviness in my chest.

Fortunately Liam was in no mood to hang around either and I was relieved when he shook his head at the offer of the included breakfast. "Can't stomach food first thing man," he said, rubbing his stubble and looking for his other shoe. "Over there, by the curtains," I pointed, remembering some joke about Adidas Gazelles we were sharing before he tore them off and threw them across the room amid gales of drunken laughter. Had all of this actually happened? 

As another notch on the bedpost for this rock star I somehow doubt my lover was experiencing anything like the same inner turmoil.  Tugging on my tights I cast my mind back a few hours earlier; Liam chasing me up the stairs, kissing me at the top, smacking my bottom as I ran away from him, pulling me inside the hotel room in the dark, pushing me against the wall and kissing me, hands somehow both up my sweater and down my skirt before scooping me up entirely and depositing me several feet away on my back on the large four poster bed. At that point he removed all my clothes very slowly and expertly kissed and licked every part of me before touching my most sensitive area of all. And spent some considerable time down there too; I never realised the other benefits several days' stubble could offer; in spite of the shame and the battle I was losing with my conscience I had to admit Liam seduced me with total class and sophistication; I made the seduction all the more straightforward by offering absolutely no resistance whatsoever. I was probably overly willing looking back on it but 4.5m Twitter followers can't all be wrong can they. I was a lucky girl on some level, and my seesawing stomach remembering it all obviously agreed.

Once in the car the atmosphere was friendly, convivial, but obviously a bit awkward. Two banging hangovers and not even a coffee between us didn't help matters. We listened to the AM radio when the reception permitted and Liam surprised me by finding Radio 4 and got all involved in an old Just A Minute programme from the 90s. He dropped a few names and I was amazed to hear he'd spent time with some of the clever Footlights types like John Sessions and Josie Lawrence; but then the Groucho Club is a tiny place and cocaine is a very friendly drug, he explained with a wink. My head was pounding and every mile we ate up made my stomach clench more in fear of what lay ahead of me. Not only did I have to navigate the North Circular and the tangle of traffic in Highgate to drop Liam off and his car, I then had a nightmare journey by tube on a Saturday back to South London. If it was a match day in North London I knew I got what I deserved.

Sensing this in some way Liam offered to let me use the car to get home and I told him we'd decide what to do when we got back to Highgate. An hour later we were parked outside the Prince of Wales again, indicator flashing, staring at each other. Where our adventure began, with my massive bag and bad intentions. 

 On either side of the road were red and white and blue and white football colours; not only was it a match day, it was a North London derby, Spurs v Arsenal. I told you I deserved this. My phone was still not charged and I had no idea what was waiting for me at home but I couldn't get there quickly enough to find out.

"Well, I loved every minute of that," Liam said, leaning forward, cupping my face with his hands and kissing me again. One more smacker and he insisted then I take the car. 

"Come on backstreet girl, you can navigate back twice as fast this time of day in that. Keep it for now. We'll work out how to get it back once you've got home. Might soften the blow for your other half as well," he added, admiring his own classic car with a nod. He had a point. 

"I should take your number," I mumbled, wishing he'd thought of asking first but the practical female in me had to get this sorted, I was not about to spend a further afternoon stalking his local pub in order to return this incredible car. God only knows where that would lead.

"Good fuckin shout man," and did the modern version of swapping cards and called my mobile, even though it was dead. 

"You know where you're going, yeah?" he asked me through the open passenger window. "Can you direct me if I don't?" I answered. 

"Get to fuck," he smiled. 

"Thought not," I replied, blew him a kiss and pulled away. 

Ch. 4 Daytime drinking

Chapter 4. Daytime Drinking

So I say I went to his local pub. It actually wasn't that easy.

I do have a husband. Family. Responsibilities. Quite a responsible job. At some point these inconvenient truths waded into my pubescent fantasies; friends pointed out quite rationally and several times that I was losing my marbles and, shamed into it, I reluctantly got a hold of myself. Cracked on with work. Took care of my kids. Ignored that message on my blog and reminded myself that my little world was a world away from his altogether larger world. And so time passed.  Christmas came and went, the weather got colder, I stopped checking my blog. My Twitter feed became a little less of an essential item to check and check and check again.  And I gradually welcomed reality back into my life. It was all a bit ridiculous, I said to myself, in fact, a lot ridiculous. This is real life.  Homework with the children. Feeding a neighbour's cats. Book club. Hanging out washing. Doing the weekly shop.

Yes that's what I'd like to say happened, but then we are talking about Liam Gallagher here, and not one but two seemingly random meetings that have come out of nowhere. He actually kissed me twice. Not an easy thing to rationalise and put into perspective. How did this happen? Was it just luck? London is funny like that; the people you meet seemingly randomly can lead to all sorts of unexpected consequences. I certainly felt lucky sitting next to Liam’s PR girls on the night of those awards. I would be surprised if they felt the same way; I probably made a complete dick of myself. They probably felt they’d been dealt a bad hand stuck next to me for 3 hours.

Maybe luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe I don’t even believe in luck. Or fate. Maybe it was just a crazy coincidence. I have morphed from average suburban working mother to superfan in a matter of months - I'm not proud of it, merely stating a fact.

So I was falling off my ergonomic office chair wasn't I. And I did. It didn't take a lot of googling to work out where his local is and one afternoon I found myself in the neighbourhood quite by chance. Well I say that, I actually cleared an afternoon in my diary, took a tube completely out of my way for the best part of 40 minutes to end up in his neighbourhood quite by chance. Walked around a bit by myself, felt very alone and started questioning my mental health. The clouds were heavy with rain and it was one of those grey London days where it never seems to get quite light. The red brick mansion blocks loomed high on either side of the treeless street on the way up the hill from the tube and it all seemed quite oppressive, not leafy and moneyed as you'd expect. But maybe it was just my mood.

I did find the pub and I peered in the window. It was very dark, heavy wood everywhere, virtually empty at 2 in the afternoon on a weekday. Course it was empty. I went in anyway, heart thumping, feeling very exposed and ordered myself a glass of red. As you do, in the middle of the day when you are miles from home with no particular plan in mind. It was an old school kind of pub with a kettle not a coffee machine; given my rattled state of mind I was happy to self-medicate with alcohol that afternoon.

There was no indication I was actually in the right place; I don't know what I was expecting, a signed 10x8 of the man in a clip-frame by the bar or something? A blue plaque? I was looking for some indicator but didn't find it.

Apart from 2 mums in the window of the pub with toddlers, pushchairs and a half empty bottle, and several old men scattered around reading the paper, I was alone in there. Fleetwood Mac was on the jukebox and the bar maid looked bored, scrolling up and down on her phone. The mums and kids were making a lot of racket and I felt momentarily wistful for a time not so long ago when I had toddlers - then quickly banished the thought. There isn't much tempting about returning to a time of stair-gates, sterilising and CBeebies, nostalgia apart. I'm glad to be out the other side. Out the other side and parked in a pub in north London hoping to bump into a famous person that is, oh yes the possibilities are endless now the kids are that much older, I thought savagely. What on earth was I doing here.

I gulped down my wine, which I had optimistically stuck on a tab. Paid the bill quickly. Somehow being in a pub on one’s own as a woman is still awkward; it still looks like you've been stood up regardless of your age and appearance, well that's how I feel anyway. Coffee shops are the opposite, but in a pub a woman on her own just looks a bit sad and dejected.

Thank goodness I was way up in North London and far from anyone I knew - imagine if I got caught by someone sitting here hoping to see a famous person, I thought. My cheeks went pink imagining how a conversation with any one of my friends or family might play out. This all felt a bit contrived and nothing like as spontaneous as our previous two meetings, and I lost my nerve. I had to get out of there. What if he actually walked in, what was I actually going to say to him? I had no plan at all. I just wanted to go home.

With new resolve and a sense of purpose, I was packing up my bits and pieces visualising all this horror when the mums raised their voices in greeting and I heard the toddlers yelling loudly at newcomers to the pub. The door opened and an overloaded pushchair tipped backwards - hilarity ensued. More pissed up mummies and over-excited snotty kids arriving presumably.  Jesus I thought, get me out of here. With my head tucked into my parka I made for the entrance, crowded with further pushchairs and mothers. I swung past a couple of people on the way out, we clipped shoulders and my oversized bag got caught on the handle, preventing any of us from moving ahead, which I furiously tried to extricate. I hate this bag, it's like it was designed to get caught on anything.  A flurry of sorry's followed and then to my horror someone said my name.

I looked up and there he was, right in front of me, looking surprised but rather delighted. I was so unprepared and astonished I'd actually tracked him down that I blurted a hello, but the momentum of the swinging door kind of kept me moving past him as he said something unclear back at me and then I was out in the street, leaving him inside, squinting after the darkness in the pub. A pause ensued and I stood outside wondering if he'd come back outside – I wasn’t going to head back into that mummy mayhem and try and have a sensible conversation – and luckily the door swung open again and all of a sudden Liam Gallagher was facing me outside in the street. He was wearing a blue cagoule, dark jeans, the desert boots again. 

“Carolyn! What the fuck are you doing up here?” Never one to mince his words. I felt excitement rising up in my gut hearing that foul language again. Nobody famous talks like this anymore, or at least peppers their language so lavishly with expletives like Liam Gallagher. It never stops being a novelty. Makes me feel young again for some reason and I always want to laugh when I hear it.

“I, uh, had a meeting with a client,” I lied, feeling the blood rise up my neck and rest on my cheeks. I am a hopeless liar.

“Hmm,” he said looking doubtful. “Fuckin good to see you man!”, he said, “I tried to get hold of you after the uh, incident..”

“Did you?” I asked innocently, blinking at him. Hard-to-get instinct kicked in in spite of being caught out, caught stalking a world famous rock star. “I didn’t realise.”

He smiled and said, “Let’s get a coffee.” I nodded, my heart pounding, stomach churning with butterflies. 

What were the odds he’d actually turn up at the pub the only time I went to find him?  We walked a few doors down and I heard a shout of Liam! from the pub but he seemed quite determined to escape the attention of all those mothers – what on earth was that all about? A more unlikely setting I can’t imagine for the hard drinking, foul-mouthed former Oasis frontman with grown up kids. I would grill him on this later.

We settled in the corner of an Italian café, left alone again – North London treats its A Listers with real disdain, you wouldn’t get this where I live – and Liam said, “So they charged me with fucking driving with undue care and attention you know,” sipping his coffee.

“You’re kidding! You didn’t do anything, Elsie ran out in front of you! I think that’s really unfair. What happened next? I never heard about it in the press…” My voice petered out. I was still in a daze. Was this actually happening?

“No well that’s why lawyers make so much fuckin money, fuckin ghouls,” he scowled. “I never want to see another one as long as I fuckin live.”

I didn’t want to pry and said nothing. Not really my business. But let’s be clear. Liam Gallagher isn’t my business. What the hell was I doing? I should have been doing domestic things, work things, mummy things myself, not consoling the ex-frontman of Oasis in a coffee shop miles from home. While I felt some compulsion to get the hell out of there, I couldn’t move a muscle. He looked absolutely beautiful, even at close range with a deep frown and a few days’ stubble. God was just showing off when He made Liam Gallagher.

There was a pause. I was about to ask him about the mothers in the pub when he said suddenly, “Listen can you drive?”  

“Of course. Why?”

“Alright! Show off!” He gave me a mock scowl.

“No I didn’t mean –“

“I’ve got a car round the corner, want to get out of here?”

“Yeah!” I didn’t mean to sound this enthusiastic.

And he nodded to the owner, left some change on the table, walked a few hundred yards and sure enough there was a glorious 2 door, dark blue Mercedes 500SL cabriolet, a classic 80s model I have always admired, in pristine condition. It had obviously been restored, resprayed, new fabric roof, chrome gleaming.

What a class act. He might be a terrible driver but he has amazing taste in cars. Liam passed me the keys.  Let me be your middleman, I thought to myself, sliding in behind the wheel. I turned the engine over and my nerves evaporated. I sighed with happiness. Could it get any better than this?! If there is one thing I love doing and do well it’s driving, and as my world famous passenger was a known menace on the roads I felt in control for the first time throughout this whole bizarre episode.  

The car was a joy to drive and we headed north, stop starting through Highgate, out through the dreary post war sprawl of the north circular and pretty soon we were on the M1 making good progress, Liam rooting around the foot well looking for cassettes to put into the ancient stereo, chatting easily about music, the band, his family, his kids, making me laugh out loud. He talked about Noel and said nothing I hadn’t already heard him say publicly about that situation, it was really very sad. I'd hoped it was all a big publicity stunt. He was surprisingly good company – he doesn’t come across as the most articulate rock star but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have plenty to say. I let him talk, laughing at his jokes, waiting for a good moment to say,

“.....Where are we going?”

“Little place I know up north. Fancy it?”

I nodded. Of course I did. But now was the time to admit what had been on my mind since I cleared the North Circular.  I had childcare issues looming; my kids would need collecting from after school club on the other side of London in a few hours.  Pressing as this was, I was not about to ruin this incredible situation with a few silly real-life details. I gulped, realising however that I couldn’t even discreetly make a phone call from the behind the wheel of a classic sports car in the first lane of the M1.

“…you know what I mean? I mean, fuckin, come on!” Liam looked sideways at me, gesturing wildly, hoping for a response to the end of whatever story he’d been telling. I’d tuned him out worrying about all this.

“Er, Liam look I’m sorry - I have a little problem here,” I said, changing lanes. The driver in the car on the offside did a double take when he saw who was overtaking him and waved at Liam with gusto. My co-pilot ignored him and asked me what the matter was. I explained sheepishly and he said – give me your phone.

I gestured to my bag on the floor, and not for the first time Liam Gallagher was rooting around my grotty handbag. Oh why oh why had I not brought out a nicer, newer one this morning, I wailed internally.  I winced watching him rummage amongst crumpled tissues, a Happy Meal toy, various kids snacks, some that I know were half-eaten, and I really cringed when he produced a cheque book and said, ‘Seriously?’ I sputtered that it was rude to go through a woman’s hand bag and he said with a wink, ‘you’re not just any woman Carolyn.’

My stomach did an involuntary cartwheel at such an unexpected compliment and then with my phone in his hand he got me to reveal my security number and asked for the name of the childminder.  He punched the details in. I changed lanes again and as if in a dream I heard him say in a perfect, clipped Home Counties voice, “Hello? Yes I’m sorry but Carolyn won’t be back on time tonight, she has a dinner date with Liam Gallagher, which simply can’t be moved. He will hit the roof if we have to reschedule again. Please can you contact the next of kin to arrange further childcare. Yes, I realise that but quite frankly I couldn’t give a fuck. Many thanks.” And he hung up, raised his eyebrows at me and said, “There. Not that hard is it.”

I looked back at the road, stunned, feeling a familiar, utterly maternal combination of liberation and guilt, only in a very unfamilar, unorthodox situation. What on earth is going to happen at home now, I thought, virtually shrinking at the wheel in horror. I should have pulled over, taken control and done the responsible thing. But I am no hero. It was selfish I know, and I would end up probably very sorry once all this was over. But I said nothing. Kept driving. Put the drama unfolding in my domestic life in a box labelled 'Tomorrow', and looked across at my passenger, now busy slapping his hands to the music on his knees nodding and humming. Imagine going through life being Liam Gallagher, I thought. The possibilities really are endless. It made my head spin.

It was late afternoon and we were in real open country by now, well beyond the M25, heading into Oxfordshire on the A41, gentle green hills and sandstone villages every few miles. Cosy pubs and chintzy gift shops and an overabundance of outrageously expensive kitchen shops in this part of the world for some reason. Need a salad bowl/egg timer/funky knife set? Look no further than the Cotswolds.

Turn off here, he instructed me. A few more left and right turns into a deeply rural area. Down a gated dirt track with a sign lit up at the entrance that in the twilight that I couldn’t make out clearly, and we pulled up outside what looked like a hunting lodge with a gravel driveway, glowing with warm lights, heavy curtains and a huge fireplace. A few people were gathered at the bar, laughing and raising glasses. The place looked expensive and very inviting. Not the kind of retreat I would expect Liam Gallagher to neither know nor care about actually, he was full of surprises. But it did look private and these days Liam wasn’t one to be seen at the best parties, so perhaps this suited him.

We headed inside and I took a deep breath and relaxed. I couldn't do much about whatever was happening at home, but whatever was about to happen next I knew I was going to enjoy myself.  He ordered a bottle of Malbec and 2 enormous glasses and left me at the bar for a few minutes.

He came back in with a swagger, clapped his hands together and said with a smile, 'Nice one!' We settled into a booth near the open fire. Few people were around and it was now dark outside. We pretty much had the place to ourselves.

“Something very sexy about a woman who knows how to handle a big motor,” Liam was saying as he filled my wine glass. “Know what I mean?" he added, giving me a look that suggested he wasn’t talking about cars at all. “Is that right,” I said, clinking my glass against his. “Well seeing as I can’t even fucking drive, yes, for a variety of reasons,” and I felt his leg press hard against mine. The light fell across his face emphasizing his cheekbones and strong jaw, and I gulped, not for the first time since our story began. He was such a knockout even now, 20 years later. How on earth did I get this lucky?

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for fucking months,” he went on. “You’re a tricky one. False names here, there and everywhere. Dead ends, broken fucking links. Do I even know your real name? Are you a fed or something?”

“No of course not,” I laughed.  “You should have asked Aysha and Amber.”

“What? I tried that didn’t I. They said you were married and refused to give me your fucking number.”

“But I am married, with kids. They weren’t wrong to do that. You might not realise this but my extra-curricular obsession with Oasis - and you by association - is perhaps not the most appropriate hobby for a woman of my age. Not everyone gets it. My husband has been terribly patient with all this. Very understanding, even though he doesn’t understand it really. It is a bit weird.

“So it’s easier to just have different handles for my blog, twitter, my character’s name. I didn’t want anything to connect...it's quite deliberate, Monsieur Poirot. It’s not as if I expected to ever have any contact with YOU is it,” I said, taking a big gulp. I laughed out loud. This was ludicrous. "Sorry I didn’t leave my phone number, Liam. I will make a mental note to do that next time I log on.” I raised an eyebrow at him.

He laughed, reached over and pulled me forward, hand around the back of my head. Kissed me firmly and moaned, "Jesus Carolyn, you do something to me..." He kissed me again. "At a very base level," he added, in that posh Home Counties voice again. I laughed, something at a very base level stirring inside me, too.  “You look lovely. Come on. Drink up.”

Before I knew it the bottle was empty. I admit I kind of forgot I was the designated driver until it was far too late, and when I realised that it raised a rather obvious question. But like the proactive, take-control character I am I did nothing about asking that question and just nodded meekly when Liam held another full bottle over my glass with those famous eyebrows raised. My stomach did another involuntary cartwheel.

Right he said. Dinner? The rooms here are amazing. We can stay if you like. They have a room for us. You can talk me through all your pseudonyms one by one. Probably take us all fuckin night.

Bugger the consequences, I thought. This is the chance of a lifetime.

*******

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Ch 3. Due Care & Attention

By the time I left the office it was dark and I was in a foul mood.  End of the month, a few more days till pay day, nothing in the fridge at home, the dregs of a hangover. Kids would be asleep by the time I got home, then tag team with husband so he could go out. I was facing a boring early night at home and a tedious, stop-start journey getting there by bus because the tubes were on strike. Again. At least I had a seat. 

I was staring out of the window when the bus came to a stop at some lights and I saw something that made me look twice. A plump old lady came tearing out of an alleyway between two shops wearing nothing but a green dress, no shoes and a clear shower cap on her head, looking terrified, dishevelled and confused. She was yelling incoherently at someone presumably ahead of her and waving what looked like a red dog collar in one hand and a blue tea towel in the other. It was really cold and wet so the no shoes thing struck me more than anything else; in the part of London where I live you get used to seeing all sorts, but she was clearly distressed and ran straight out into the road and into the path of the car which was overtaking my bus, and it obscured my view of her at first.

There was a dull 'thunk' noise and a screech. Alarmed, I stood up to look over the car to see what had become of her - there didn't seem to be any serious impact, but there was obviously some sort of commotion, and without thinking I ran off the bus to help. The car had red driving school ads all over it so it probably wasn't going fast; from what I could make out the man at the wheel was staring straight ahead, frozen in fear and dread. His driving instructor was shouting and gesturing at the windscreen, swinging open the car door in panic.

She was lying in the road looking skyward, very dazed. Her eyes were rolling and she was groaning 'It's gone, it's gone, it's all gone.' Someone said that classic thing about giving her some air but the air was so cold she was more in danger of hypothermia than suffocation so I took my coat off, crouched down and placed it on her. I lifted her head and put my scarf underneath her, which I later realised is the absolute worst thing I could have done. The terrified driver and his teacher joined me and a few others around her, everyone talking at once. The attention seemed to shift from the injured party on the ground to the driver of the car and initially I assumed it was basic fury at his general incompetence until I heard a girl say, 'No way! I can't believe it!'

I looked up then and saw what the all the fuss was about. Someone looking awfully like Liam Gallagher was peering down at the scene looking shocked, arms folded awkwardly; Liam, who caused me to pass out on the stairs in a strangely public exchange about a very private matter barely a month earlier on the other side of London.  I did a double take. What on earth was he doing taking driving lessons in Tooting High Road? The traffic is notoriously bad round here, he must have rocks in his head. He was a long way from home as well. I doubted he could place me amid all this drama and he seemed uncharacteristically mute. Dark glasses during a night time driving lesson? What was the man thinking? No wonder he's never passed his test. I'd heard he couldn't drive, I thought it was because he wouldn't drive, that it was all part of being a Rock n Roll Star. He looked deeply uncomfortable; I almost felt sorry for him.  Phones were being whipped out of pockets and selfies taken, it was completely inappropriate; in spite of my thumping heartbeat and disbelief at having run into the world famous subject of my fantasy not once but twice in a month, now was not the time to be swept up in a celeb spot situation.

I asked the lady her name; Elsie, she told me. That was good, she was conscious and could hear me. I asked her if she knew where she was and she groaned again, so I took her hand in both of mine and told her not to worry, we were there to help. I made soothing noises and asked her if it hurt; she turned her head and I saw some blood behind her ear. I asked Liam to call an ambulance, seeing as bizarrely I knew him better than anyone else assembled there. He was non-responsive, staring down at the mess he'd made, so I looked over at his teacher who had gone very white and said, Hello?! Seriously? Call an ambulance! Now! More fiddling with phones.

The bus driver came over with two community support officers who cleared the people out of the way. The people that get called 'onlookers' in situations like this. Unless they're dead onlookers, or overseas onlookers, and then they're generally called Britons, I've noticed. You're never a Briton unless you're missing abroad, or dead abroad.

An ambulance and police pulled up fairly quickly but it still seemed a terribly long wait especially for poor Elsie whose feet were going blue and she had most likely gone into shock.  Liam and his teacher were blaming each other by this stage, voices raised, foul language was being exchanged. It was almost like an Oasis reunion. I can't say it was Liam's or the instructor's fault exactly; Elsie did run right into his path, but the dark glasses would not have helped his defence.

The paramedics had her up in a stretcher and in the back of the ambulance very swiftly and the police were talking to Liam and his instructor; I was then involved as a witness. Elsie left the scene for St Georges Hospital, sirens wailing. The police insisted on Liam taking off his dark glasses, and when I told the officer my name he looked at me properly for the first time. 

He recognized me then and exclaimed, "Fuck me!" and maybe it was the shock of what had happened and surprise at seeing me, I don't know, but I could see he was trying not to laugh. I mean, really. The officer was taking his details and in the middle of it Liam glanced up at me with a searing look that went straight to my nether regions. It was hardly the time or place but I couldn't help it, I did it straight back. We stared at each other for a long time while the officer was taking notes, and amid all the commotion he mouthed at me 'you look lovely'.

A crowd had gathered on either side of the street and the bus was stationary, heaving with people; phones were flashing and I could hear shouts of 'I love you Liam!' and 'Liam you fucking rock man!'  It was kind of amazing being in the epicentre of this. I could just picture Twitter trending with #liamgallagheraccident, or #liamdriving, or worse. Imagine what Noel would be thinking, he's so straight, so righteous, he'd be furious with his little brother. As I say, I almost felt sorry for him. But really. Learning to drive - learning to drive! At night in Tooting! In dark glasses! He had it coming to him, Elsie or no Elsie.  I didn't think his driving instructor would last long.

The police were slow to recognise the futility of trying to interview a world famous rock star on Tooting High Road surrounded by shouting fans but eventually they invited us to continue the interview at the police station, about a mile away. In a surreal moment I found myself squeezed in the back of a police car with a now very animated Liam Gallagher, pumped up by all this drama, back to his old self, a gibbering driving instructor and two very excited male police officers, one of whom lost all protocol once we'd left the scene, turned to Liam and asked him for an autograph. The dark glasses returned to Liam's face and Rock Star mode was switched to On.

I felt a leg pressed hard next to mine while the driving instructor was growing increasingly agitated defending himself to the police, who were trying to calm him down.  Liam turned to me and said in a low voice,

"Bit of a coincidence isn't it? If you wanted to see me again you only had to ring," and he peered at me over the top of his glasses, eyebrows raised. He took my breath away.
"You're ex-directory," I replied and looked out of the window. He laughed, squeezed my thigh and left his hand there; nobody seemed to notice, but then we were in a fairly unorthodox situation I suppose. My entrails went liquid and I nearly licked the glass with excitement. I pushed my leg back in his direction and his hand moved further up my thigh.

We pulled up outside the police station and headed up the steps one by one, the police and the instructor ahead of us. As we made it up the steps Liam tugged the hood of my coat and said, hey. I turned around one step ahead of him so we were more or less the same height.

"What are the odds?" he laughed. "It's mental bumping into you like this."
"Well,  I think you bumped into Elsie first," I said.
"I know, I feel really bad. Do you think she'll be alright?"
"I don't think it's that serious. But I'd avoid the dark-glasses-at-night trick in your next lesson."
"Fuckin' smart arse, aren't you?" He moved closer to me.
"What are you even doing south of the river?" I asked him.
"Am I? I don't know where I am. Driver brought me this way. I'm on an intensive course."
I looked at his mouth and said, "Intense is right."  And he kissed me hard, right there in front of the station. He did that thing again and held me by the small of my back so I could just fall into him, it was glorious. I groaned and snaked my arms around his neck. The door swung open and one of the male officers cleared his throat. We sprung apart.

"I... take it you already know each other -?" he looked confused.
Liam nodded. "She's my official biographer," and patted my bottom.
"Well if you could tear yourselves away, you are required to provide a statement, Mr Gallagher, Ms...?"

We were separated into different rooms. Liam turned and shot me another paint-stripping look on his way out. I rang home and explained the bizarre circumstances, feeling very guilty as I obviously didn't give all the details. What on earth was I playing at...I had an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. The whole thing had a dream-like quality to it, like it wasn't really real. Not that that's any defence of course. 'It didn't feel like it was real, your honour." No I need to work at that one.

I gave my statement. I know I should have been thinking about poor old Elsie but I was actually thinking about his clothes, how does he pull it off, looking that good all the time? Even in a road traffic accident he looked like he'd just left a photo shoot, expensive navy trench coat, desert boots, 2 day old stubble, tousled hair. In total contrast I didn't even want to look at myself, bleary eyed after 10 hours staring at a computer screen, hem coming loose, roots needing doing.

Wouldn't it be amazing if Liam, the driving instructor and I all head off for a curry on the High Road after this, I thought. We'd have a laugh over a lamb pasanda, clink glasses and say it's a funny old game. Hopefully the driving instructor would be keen to get his car back and disappear. I was quite carried away with the possibilities of what might happen next when a female officer came in and told me I could go. My disappointment would have been obvious. I snapped back to reality, lingered outside for as long as I could without making a nuisance of myself and eventually left. God knows what he was being charged with.

By the time I got home it was nearly 11pm, too late to call anyone so I tumbled straight into bed, exhausted by all the excitement. It took a long time to get to sleep. I am just a crazed fan, not a girlfriend. Or even a friend. Get a grip, I told myself. You're a married woman. And middle aged at that. This is just a mad coincidence. I tried to put all this in perspective but it all kept playing in my head and the image of him in the back of the police car with that lazy smile on his face kept swimming in front of me as I eventually drifted off.

Next morning my phone pinged. Up came the little Twitter bird and my new friend in Scotland @Zoe_C86 said, "Crazy news about LG - he must be feeling very silly x"

I didn't reply straight away. We've never met, we are friends through my secret Twitter handle and a shared crush on Liam Gallagher, we have a lovely time talking nonsense to each other. She'd have never believed me if I'd told her I was there, as if London is a little village and we are all in each other's pockets all the time. The PR girl thing is almost a step too far to be believable and that actually happened. She'd think I was a total nutter if I told her I had been involved in this. And how was Elsie doing? What had become of her and why DID she burst onto Tooting High Road like that anyway? The shower cap, the shoeless entrance, the dog collar? I was intrigued. Was Liam charged with anything or was it just considered a freak accident?

Back on the bus gazing into space, my phone pinged again with 'OMG! I just saw you in the picture with LG - this never happened did it? Am I dreaming?! Tell me!!" And attached was an article in the Daily Mail featuring a very poor photograph, of me, unmistakably me at fairly close range, surrounded by people, bending over Elsie at a most unflattering angle with a concerned Liam looking over my shoulder next to a tortured looking driving instructor. There. On the internet. In living colour. My arse for all the world and @liamgallagher to see and inspect clearly. Forever. Oh the delight, the thrill of fame. If this is what he has to deal with on a daily basis I am disabling my Twitter account immediately.

There followed a long, borderline hysterical conversation with Zoe who was so sweet and supportive and kindhearted, actually considering we haven't met in person just the sort of interaction I needed the day after something as bizarre as this.  Elsie was in ok shape, being kept in for observation, and had only sustained a few cracked ribs and concussion amazingly. Strong lady. I didn't find out anything else about the reasons for her distress. Once at work I obsessed madly for much of the day, pored over the web for details but that photo of me just kept surfacing again and again and my Facebook page was an absolute riot of activity. I gave everyone a stock answer about being glad to help in an emergency situation and kept the other details completely to myself. By 4pm it all got too much and in the end I just decided to do some work.

After about 40 minutes hard slog preparing a press release, my concentration failed completely and I felt compelled to write the whole story down, if for nothing else but to clear my head. I opened my blog and noticed a comment on my home page, my first one. Either Zoe or one of my mates. I clicked on it and felt the colour drain from my face as I read:

 'That was mental wasn't it.  Need to talk to you. LG X'

I nearly fell off my ergonomic office chair, then when realised I had no way of reaching him I nearly fell off it again. Aysha and Amber would have been the obvious route, and they are very nice but are also very professional and would quite rightly refuse to pass on personal details for their hugely famous client. So I did the only obvious and sensible thing. A sane and rational move. Anyone would have done it.

I went to his local pub.

*********