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|Lost Love (standard:romance, 2404 words)|
|Author: Ian Hobson||Added: Feb 17 2010||Views/Reads: 2062/1028||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A story inspired by a sixties pop song. I'll let you guess which one and who sang it. Some strong language.|
Lost Love ©2010 Ian Hobson I was late for my shift for the third time in as many weeks, and I'd probably get fired; but it was a shit job anyway, so I didn't really care. Before crossing the street I waited for a bus and a police car to pass, then weaved my way between the remaining vehicles. A car horn sounded angrily but I ignored it. It was late afternoon, though still very warm, and the city thronged with people, many of them tourists with bulging wallets and expensive looking cameras; the city's pickpockets would no doubt be reaping a rewarding harvest. As I turned into Main Street, where most of the grandest hotels were situated, there was a commotion of some kind up ahead. Were it not for heavy traffic I might have skirted left around the gathering that was blocking my way, but I knew well enough how to slip through a crowd. Though soon I was part of that crowd, straining to see over the tallest of them and to identify the cause of the obvious excitement. 'Here she comes!' At this impromptu announcement, the crowd surged forward but was held in check by two lines of blazer-wearing hotel heavies. A gleaming limousine had pulled up opposite the hotel entrance and one of the blazers was hurrying to open the rear door as cameras clicked and whirred, some of them held by paparazzi. 'Who is she?' I asked one of the onlookers. 'Madeline Dumont. She's in the new Giorgio Caprioli film, and big in Hollywood too.' The man pushed a little closer to the front of the mass of adoring fans, and I slipped into the space he had vacated. Madeline Dumont: I vaguely recognised the name, but I had never been a movie-goer. A pair of long, bronzed legs, feet and high heels, swung out over the paving, followed by an immaculately dressed and slender figure, topped with an impossibly large hat that shaded the face of its owner. As the female stood waiting, a middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit followed, and she took his arm, before the two of them strode purposefully towards the hotel entrance. 'Madeline!' One of the paparazzi, crouching low, had slipped through the cordon of blazers and managed a couple of shots before being unceremoniously dragged out of the couple's way. As they were momentarily delayed, the young woman raised her head in answer to a call from a fan standing a couple of paces to my left. But as the woman's head turned, her eyes met mine... and it was as though time stood still. *** Madra lay sleeping. I liked to watch her sleep, and to listen to the steady rhythm of her breathing. Like me, she had a made up story: her mother had been an actress, and her father a very important American who drove a Ferrari and lived in an enormous mansion with lots of servants, but both parents had drowned when the American's yacht sank in a storm. My story was similar: my parents had been rich, but both had been killed in a car crash. In truth we were just street urchins, orphans, unloved and unwanted. And though we wished that we could be like the children we sometimes saw being ferried around in expensive looking auto-mobiles, we knew that that was the way things were; there were haves, and have-nots. We lived amongst the have-nots, and had done for as long as we could remember - especially so, since our escape from the orphanage three years before. Though, luckily, I had just found us a place of our own: a half-demolished wartime air-raid shelter behind the old railway station. Madra stirred and then her eyes opened. 'Renaldo.' She spoke my name and then stretched, cat-like, before giving me a smile. She was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, and although I was not much older Click here to read the rest of this story (196 more lines)
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