“I’ll see what I can do, mate.”

  “Then sign me up. I was gonna take a bath next week, but this sounds more rad.”

  “You know it, Dirt. This could be it—your big come back. Or you might die on TV then you’ll be made for life.”

  “Schnauzer!”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, man. Rad!”

  I don’t remember much about the next 48 hours as I was celebrating down at the Dog & Donut, an Irish boozer near my apartment. Jaxon tracked me down there and sent a limo to take me to JFK for a flight to Orlando and then the Caribbean.

  When I finally sober up, I’m on a plane so small, I think it’s held together with plastic bands and gum. Maybe the show has started already and no one told me? That happened once, and I missed the first 30 minutes of the band’s performance of a lifetime: I’m told we were great.

  Something stinks real bad, and I realize it’s me. I smell like I’ve been dead for several days, belching whiskey fumes and with surprisingly itchy balls. Either it’s the leather pants or a certain lady of the night who goes by the name of Crusty Dusty.

  I check out the other people on my flight, thinking they could well be my competition on the show. There’s a girl who looks like an elementary teacher and I grin as she eyes the tattoos running up my neck. Then I groan as my headache kicks in, and I rub my eyes, smudging the thick eyeliner, and introduce myself by grabbing my crotch then saying,

  “Call me Dirt. Does the dog want to see the rabbit?”

  The other passenger is a short, hot Asian chick with scary eyes and muscles that remind me of the Terminator.

  I smile at both of them.

  “Gemma Smart,” the Asian chick says, nodding curtly. “I’m in it to win it, so you’re either for me or you’re against me.” Her voice drops to a threatening whisper. “You don’t want me for an enemy.”

  I belch and pass out.

  Sometime later, I realise that we’ve landed as I’m currently lying on a floor with tables and chairs looming above me. I think it’s raining then realise that someone is pouring a jug of water over my head, and I get to meet the rest of the contestants.

  There are some hot and tasty women there, but my eyes are drawn to a woman my age with dyed blonde hair, thin as a rail, and with the kind of piercing blue eyes that men dream about. I lick my lips and send her a winning smile.

  “Put your tongue away, Mr Dirt,” she says frostily in a British accent that makes her sound like sexy royalty. “I have no intention of having any of your appendages anywhere near me; I am certainly not snogging you.”

  “I like ‘em feisty,” I grin at her. “I reckon my charm offensive will work eventually.”

  “The ‘offensive’ part certainly has,” she shoots back.

  And Pow! Just like that, I’m in love.

  You know, I’m all for a fine looking woman—anyone above the age of 18, ‘cause I ain’t no perv, ya know—but there’s something about a woman of a certain age and experience that gets my motor running, ya know what I’m saying? And Octavia Fancy-panties Palmer-Jackson is a challenge.

  So I tell her.

  “You’re right up my alley, lady.”

  “I suspect that is a dark and dangerous alley with a dumpster at the end of it,” she snorts. “I don’t know what your game is … yet … Mr Dirt, but let me state the blindingly obvious: I am 55 years old, with no tits, an arse like elephant, and skin like tanned leather. Even my friends say that I look like a horse, smell like a horse, and swear like a stable-lad.”

  “Yeah,” I nod in agreement. “Me like! Totally babealicious!”

  “I’m also stony broke so there’s no point trying to butter me up to borrow any money.”

  “As my man Lennon said, ‘Love is all you need’.”

  She shakes her head in exasperation and walks away. Suddenly, this whole reality TV show set on a volcano is looking a lot more interesting. I may not survive it, but it’ll be a blast.

  Later that evening, or it might have been the one after, I’m sitting with my guitar trying a few different riffs, and half listening to the conversation buzzing around me.

  But I sit up straighter when I realize that Octavia has turned to look at me.

  “Are you in a band?” she asks in a tone of voice that reminds me of a doctor I met once who was a proctologist.

  “Yeah, pretty lady. Rave in the Grave—maybe you’ve heard of us.”

  “Rave in the Grave? Good heavens! Where on earth did you find that unfortunate name for your band?” she asks.

  “Ah well, that was Lanky’s idea,” I say. “He’d been in a production of Hamlet off, off, off-Broadway,” (so far off, he was on the other side of the Hudson), “and there was that scene where he picks up the head…”

  “…you mean the skull?”

  “Wow! You’ve seen that play, as well?”

  Hmm, that’s at least two people that I know off. Must be a good show—I should check it out some time.

  She sighs heavily and waves a hand in the air.

  “Please continue with your enthralling story,” and she yawns.

  “Yeah, so Lanky was playing this gravedigger and picks up the skull and thinks this fella, Yorrick, must have been a party animal in his day…”

  “I know I’m going to regret asking, but why would ‘Lanky’ come to that conclusion?”

  “’Cause of what the actor says, ya know, ‘More ass for Yorrick’. So … Rave in the Grave, right?”

  She grits her teeth. “‘Alas, poor Yorrick’! He doesn’t say anything about an ass.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Bummer. That was my favourite anecdote.”

  Octavia pats my hand. “You know what, never mind, Mr. Dirt. It explains everything about you. What a super story.”

  “Yeah?” I say, brightening. “Wanna hear me sing?”

  And I whip out my instrument and ply my tuning fork before she can say Bonadelle Ranchos-Madera Ranchos (the small town just outside Fresno, Cali where I was dropped into the world).

  “Come as I am, as I was

  As you want me to be

  Now a friend, ‘Tavia

  As a weak cup of tea.”

  She smiles as she recognizes the tune for Nirvana’s Come As You Are but the lyrics altered by yours truly, just for my Octavia.

  Take your time, going slow

  Choice is there, Octavia.

  Take a rest, I’m a pest,

  In and out infirmary

  Infirmary.”

  I lift my head and look into her eyes, lined by age, etched with character, and feel her soul reach out to mine, to the man I was before drink and drugs left me with one booted foot in the grave.

  “That was surprisingly lovely,” she says gently.

  I give an embarrassed cough.

  “Yeah, yeah. Well, ain’t nothin’ as pathetic as an old rocker, know what I mean? Kurt would be in his fifties if he’d lived—imagine that. But old rockers like me don’t die, we just slide to the bottom of the charts.” I give her a goofy smile and play another riff on my guitar. “Rave in the Grave—my band—we’re finished. When Herby, our singer snuffed it last year, the life went out of the band, ha ha,” and I can’t help sighing. “This is my last chance saloon but I’m not sure I care that much.” I shake my head. “Fuck me, I’m in danger of boring myself to death before the drink and drugs do it.”

  “Don’t start being a pessimist now!” Octavia says sharply. “I was just starting to like you.”

  I can’t help grinning at her. Those Brits don’t mince their words.

  “Nah, sunny side up, me,” I laugh, sounding like a wheezy old dog. “Sunny side up. Fancy a shag, Tavi?”

  “Certainly. The moment hell freezes over. Remind me to put your number on speed-dial.”

  “I knew you’d be asking for my number, Tavi, I just didn’t think you’d be that easy. But God bless you.”

  Her face is completely stony, then she cracks a smile.

  “This is going to be an interesting few weeks, Mr. Dirt. Very interesting indeed.”

  Octavia gives a sassy wink and goes back to ignoring me. It’s then that I think of the perfect title for my autobiography: The Road to Ruin And Back Again (A Lot).

  Ain’t love grand.

  THE END

  You can read the rest of Octavia and Dirk Dirt’s story in my romcom with Stu Reardon Survivor Love Island.

  NOVEMBER

  It Wasn’t Meant To be

  David got the house in the divorce. By then, I no longer cared and just wanted it all over with. At least he had the decency to let me pack up my stuff in peace before he moved in his new girlfriend. Sorry, wife … before he moved in his new wife.

  I was sad and I wasn’t; sometimes I was angry. Mostly, I was just frustrated by the five years I’d wasted on him. Fifteen years that I wasn’t going to get back; fifteen years where I wasn’t getting any younger.

  In hindsight, we never should have married. It should never have gone beyond a few dates and then called it a day. We had nothing in common but he was nice, and I was tired of going on endless first dates.

  I’d tried to make it work, and I’d let him have his own way on so many things, from the house we bought and the way we decorated it, the furniture we sat on, the bed we slept in, even the car I drove. Because fighting every small battle was tiring, and I thought that letting him decide on material things would help me win the war.

  But no, he decided he didn’t want children either.

  In hindsight, I was a fool.

  And David wasn’t as nice as I’d thought.

  I’m not sure when he first start having affairs—possibly from the first year of our marriage. I didn’t want to know. But the most recent one had resulted in a baby. David’s daughter was six months old.

  “What do you want to do with this box of old photographs?” asked Bonnie.

  I turned to look at my oldest friend, the one I’d met in kindergarten, and tears gathered in my eyes. “What would I do without you?”

  “You’re my best friend in the whole world, Carla, so you’ll never have to know,” she replied with a small smile. She shook the box at me. “So, photographs?”

  “I don’t even know what they are—I haven’t printed out a photograph in a decade or more.”

  I sat down on the floor with the box and picked up the first one. It was of my mom and dad, taken in the back yard of the house I’d grown up in. Fresh tears pricked my eye and I wiped at them angrily.

  “God, I’m such an emotional mess,” I half laughed, half cried. “I can’t go more than five minutes without welling up. Last night, I started crying at that advertisement with the dog.”

  Bonnie threw me a look. “Everyone cries at that—and if they don’t, they have a heart of stone.”

  “David wouldn’t,” I sighed. “He doesn’t like dogs.”

  “I rest my case,” Bonnie said with a smirk.

  The next photograph was of me and Bonnie at the top of the Empire State Building. You wouldn’t have known where it was from the blurry background, but we both smiled at the same time.

  “That was a great weekend,” she said. “We should do that again—have some serious retail therapy.”

  “I’d love to,” I sighed. “But money is going to be tight for a while.” Probably the rest of my life.

  “My treat,” she said immediately.

  “Bonnie, I can’t…”

  “La la la! I can’t hear you!” she sang. “Come on, Carla. What are friends for? Don’t say no. Just think about it, okay?”

  I nodded, noncommittal, and picked up another photograph.

  “Who’s this?” she asked.

  I peered at the photograph, plucking it out of her hand.

  “Oh, that was at my bachelorette party in Vegas. I loved that dress, but the air conditioning was crazy in the hotel and I had to wear a sweater all weekend. It was so cold in the cocktail lounge, I could practically see my breath. Do you remember that?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, casting a puzzled look at the photograph, “but who’s the guy?”

  A faint blush heated my face.

  “Oh, I think it was Joe.” Short for Giovanni. “Alice must have taken that photograph—she’d gotten that new Polaroid camera.”

  “Oh, I remember that,” Bonnie said, still frowning. “But why is this guy in the picture?”

  “We just sort of started talking,” I said, smiling down at Joe’s handsome face and thick, dark, wavy hair.

  His eyes were hidden in the photograph, but I knew that they were a delicious chocolate brown.

  “And?” Bonnie prompted.

  I shrugged.

  “And nothing. We talked,” for hours, “and then we all left to see a show. He was with friends and they were going to a casino.” He invited me to go with them.

  I smiled to myself. I’d kept that memory close to me for years. Bonnie, Alice and Melissa had been drinking cocktails that night and were flirting with a bunch of Navy guys, so they hadn’t really noticed me talking to Joe. He’d liked me, maybe more than liked me, and I’d thought he was gorgeous and out of my league, and had seriously considered having a final, pre-wedding fling with him. I didn’t because I couldn’t bear the thought of cheating on David; couldn’t have born the guilt. What a joke.

  What a giant, cosmic joke.

  I reached for the next photograph of me and Bonnie at our high school graduation.

  “Oh my goodness! Look at your perm,” I laughed. “I’d forgotten about that!”

  “There’s a phone number on the back,” said Bonnie. “And a message.”

  I turned over the picture in my hands. “No there isn’t. What are you talking about?”

  “Not our graduation,” Bonnie said impatiently. “You and Joe. He’s written a message on the back.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Very sure.”

  “What does it say?”

  Silently, she handed me the photograph.

  Written in beautiful handwriting using a fountain pen was a short message that nearly stopped my heart:

  Beautiful Carla, your husband-to-be is a lucky man.

  I wish I was the one, but I met you too late. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.

  If you ever change your mind, please call me, cara mio.

  Voi che per li occhi mi passaste ’l core.

  Joe

  707 555 2233

  Stunned, I turned my eyes to Bonnie.

  “Wow!” she said, speaking for both of us. “And you never called him?”

  “I didn’t even know he’d given me his number until now.”

  “Where’s that area code?”

  “Sonoma County, I think.” I didn’t think, I knew. His family had a vineyard there. I remembered it all…

  “I wonder what the Italian means?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, shaking my head.

  She grinned at me. “I’m going to Google it: read it out to me?”

  “Um, okay … vo-ey chay purr lee ochee, um, okky, me pass-ass-tee, el kor-ay…”

  It took several tries, but finally she found the translation.

  “‘You, who pierced my heart passing through my eyes.’ It’s by a poet named Guido Cavalcanti who lived like 700 years ago. That’s so romantic!”

  The pain was surprisingly sharp. Never once in fifteen years of marriage had David ever said something so lovely to me. Never.

  Bonnie pursed her lips. “So, are you going to call him?”

  I laughed out loud. “Bonnie! No way!”

  “Why not?”

  I blinked at her in amazement. “Because!”

  “Because what?”

  I huffed impatiently. “Because! It was fifteen years ago. Because I’ve just gotten divorced. Because he won’t even remember me. Because we were both drunk and I don’t remember anything about him.”

  My face heated as I lied to me oldest friend. We hadn’t been drunk and I remembered everything about him.

  “Because that phone number probably isn’t even in service anymore.”

  She shrugged as I was probably right, as if it didn’t matter.

  But then she said, “One way to find out,” and she picked up her cell phone.

  I grabbed her arm, horrified. “What are you doing?”

  “What you should be doing,” she replied. “Getting over the asshole and getting on with your life.” Her voice softened. “You’re probably right: the number won’t work and if it does, there won’t be anyone named Joe at the end of it … or if there is, the chances are that he won’t remember you. But so what? Wouldn’t you rather know than not?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I said fiercely.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because!” I yelled. My head dropped into my hands. “Because it’s perfect as it is—a perfect memory of a perfect guy. It wasn’t meant to be, but it’s a perfect memory.”

  She sighed and squeezed my hand.

  “Real life isn’t perfect, it’s just life. If you look for perfection, you’ll never find it. Honey, you deserve everything that life has to offer.” She paused. “But you have to make the effort to look for yourself.”

  “It’s hard,” I whispered.

  “A life lived in fear is a life half-lived.”

  I stuttered out a shaky laugh. “You stole that line from my favorite movie!”

  She winked at me. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

  “So, you just want me to call the number? That’s all?”

  She shrugged and nodded.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  I blew out a long breath. “Okay, give me the number. Before I lose my nerve.”

  I punched the number into my cell and nearly dropped it when I heard a ring tone.”

  “Hello?”

  “Oh my God! Someone answered!” I hissed, holding my hand over the phone.

  “Say something!” Bonnie hissed back.

  “Hello?”