Do you Remember that Last Night in Trinidad?

They met in a 1950s diner in SoHo. Formica tables with checked covers, lots of stainless steel, waitresses called Betsy and Peggy-Sue, little America in a narrow London side street. He arrived first, casually dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, sunglasses perched on top of his salt and pepper head. He ordered a flat white from Billie-Jo and took a window seat where he could see the street outside in both directions. She was late. He wasn't surprised. He waited 15 minutes, then thought about leaving, began withdrawing cash from his wallet. Something made him look up, and there she was, blonde curls gleaming in the late spring sunshine, bouncing as she walked like a shampoo advert. He ran a hand through his own hair, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She pushed the door open, a discordant bell announcing her entrance and made straight for his table. He stood up to greet her, subtly appraising her outfit. Pale pink three-quarter length trousers and a candy striped blouse. Dressed to suit the location. Up close, he could see some signs of age, but she was definitely ageing gracefully. He didn't know whether to shake her hand or hug her,

so he did neither, pulling out a chair so she could sit and handed her a menu.

They both began to speak at the same time, then laughed. He gestured for her to go first. "I was just saying I don't get into the city much nowadays. I'm a bit of a country mouse really. Writing, gardening, painting, long walks with the dogs. Labradors, three of them."

"I have a studio just around the corner," he replied. "I mainly do studio work, not so heavy on the travelling. Girls in pearls, pre-wedding shots, some glamour stuff. Keeps the wolf from the door."

He smiled at her, remembering the long, hot summer twenty-five years earlier when she had been his muse as well as his lover. They had travelled across Europe, through Africa and on to the Caribbean. It had been the best summer of his life. The photographs he took formed his first exhibition. But by then she had gone from his life. He still didn't know why. He recalled a sultry night on a Caribbean Island, the rumbling of a small earthquake. Too much booze, not enough food. He needed to know what had gone wrong. That was why he had invited her today after seeing her photograph in the newspaper, a profile of her as a writer. He was pleasantly surprised she had accepted. 

They ordered pancakes with bacon and maple syrup and spoke casually about their lives. Betsy cleared their plates away, chattering about the weather. He reached across the table, taking both her hands in his. Looking into her blue eyes he asked, " Do you remember that last night in Trinidad?"