He looked so perfect on that Vespa. With the straw hat on his black barnet. She leaned against the wall and watched as he performed, smiling to herself. Ska boy, she called him. Or Blue Beat boy. He loved the genre - she knew that. She had heard all about him from her friend Trudi - his girlfriend. Her imagination started to run wild, picturing him performing on the Vespa in a million video clips, until she pulled herself back down to earth. With a bump.

“Hey Cindy”, he yelled. “Watch this”.

He started the Vespa and rode around the path which formed the perimeter of the park. He was chanting loudly to the music of “Double Barrel” by Dave and Ansell Collins. “Da da da da da daaaa”, he sang. “Da da da da da daaa”.

“Joe you’re a daft sod”, she shouted, smiling to herself and throwing her hair back.

He completed a circuit and approached her.

“You comin’ on the back”, he asked as he drew up.

“Aw, I dunno”, she said blushing a little.

“Come on Cindy. Johnny won’t mind. He’s leant the scooter to me while he’s away after all”.

“Not sure”. She wanted to go on the back more than anything in the world right now. But she was becoming wary of the way the afternoon was developing.

“Come on”. He watched as she looked down and her hair fell across her face. He was becoming determined now. “You’re only young once”.

“But I might catch my dress”.

“No you won’t”. She smiled coyly.

“Go on then”.

“Yes!”, he said to himself, as she breezed across the path and got on the back, hitching the hemline up a little.

“Just one circuit”, she said.

He started the Vespa again. As far as she knew, this was a chance meeting. There he was, buzzing by on his mate’s scooter, when he had spotted her, taking in a languid afternoon. But it wasn’t quite like that. Since Trudi had introduced them at Shotgun - a regular night of reggae, soul and R&B - a week ago, he had subtly gathered information about her. Where she lived. What her habits were during the day. One was a love of hanging out in this park in the early afternoon. For the last five days, he had made it his business to be around here at this time. Only today had he managed to see her.

He raced around the park again and then cut across some grass and onto the road.

“Joe”, she yelled. “What are you doing?”.

“Going for a ride”, he shouted.

“But what if we’re stopped”.

“Who cares”.

“We’re not wearing helmets”.

“Don’t worry about it”.

She couldn’t bring herself to be angry with him. Most lads would demand they wore helmets. He was different. Take the chance was his attitude. It was something she loved about him.

“Where are we going?”, she shouted.

“You’ll see”.

They sped along the city streets, him head down, looking straight ahead. She held on, her long hair blowing back in the breeze. They were certainly getting some attention and he loved it. His pulses were racing. Riding round town with Brigitte Bardot on the back - that was how it felt. What could be better. He turned to her from time to time, cracking a joke, imitating passers by, making her laugh. That was the important thing. To give her a good time.

In a while, he turned into a quiet street and pulled up.

“We’re here”, he said.

“Where?”, she asked.

“In my manor”.

“You live here?”.

“I do”.

It was studentville, bedsitland. The city’s underbelly, combining a raw sophistication with an irrepressible danger. Or rather a sense of it. The reality was that these streets were as safe as anywhere could be. But if you went a mile down the road the story would be very different.

None of which mattered. Cindy, from her roots in suburban hinterland, saw this as enough. She was impressed. And that was all.

“Come on”, he said casually, getting off the Vespa.

“Come on where?”, she asked.

“Just follow me”.

“Where to?”. She got off.

“Listen to some sounds”. He walked up to the door of a house.

“In there?”.

“My pad. Up a couple of flights”.

“What will Trudi say about me coming in your flat?”

“She won’t know“.

She hesitated. There was a boundary ahead of them. She could either follow, or pull back now. She thought of her friend. What would she say the next time they met?

“Come on”, he yelled from the door. “Trudi won’t ever find out. She won‘t care anyway“.

“How do you know?”.

“She won’t. You know what she says”.

“What’s that then?”.

“Live for the moment. Do what you want. How can she object?”.

He had a point.

Then she thought of Trudi as she was at school.  The attitude. The gang. The reputation.  She quickly put the thought out of her mind.

“Look”, he said. “If it makes you feel better I won’t say anything to her. If you don’t”.

“All right”, she said, getting off the Vespa and following him into the house. She felt relieved that at last she had made her decision. The correct decision, for the moment at least.

“You took you time”, he said, turning to her and grinning from ear to ear as he led her up the stairs. He wouldn’t be telling Trudi, that was for sure. He knew what she could be like. He thought about that night on holiday. All he had been doing was chatting at the bar. He had no desire for a repeat performance.

When they reached the first floor, he stopped and unlocked the door.

“Come on”, he said. “Sit down and make yourself at home”.

She treaded gingerly in. It wasn’t a large bedsit but it wasn’t tiny either. She was impressed by the tidiness. Most lads would have a mess to live in. Not Joe. Next to the single bed was a small coffee table, complete with emptied ash tray. Next to it was a stereo, turntable, and then three walls lined with LPs and books. Not to mention the wardrobe. Above the bed was a picture. Of legendary ska superstar Prince Buster.

“So what do you want to hear?”, he asked, taking his straw hat off and placing it on a plastic head that sat on a shelf.

She sat down at the end of the bed and leaned back on her arms.

“Not sure”, she said. “Surprise me”.

He walked over to the other side of the room and took a record out of its sleeve, depositing it on the turntable and lifting the stylus across. A deep bass throbbed around the room, along with some drums, rhythm guitar and horns. The distinctive sounds of his favourite music. Then he took a pack of Benson and Hedges filter tips from the side and removed two. He lit them both and passed her one.

“Cheers”, she said, putting it to her lips and inhaling deeply.

Now for his favourite tipple.

“Want a drink?”, he asked.

“Don’t mind if I do”.

He opened a cupboard, taking out two cups and a bottle of Vodka. He unscrewed the cap.

“Here you go”, he said.

He poured a liberal quantity into each cup. He passed her one and she put the cigarette down in the ashtray. The smoke floated up into the air. He sat down next to her. The infectious rhythms of drums and bass and horns resonated around them, bouncing off walls, sinking deep into their subconscious. He loved this music. Always had. Always would. And she knew it.

“Cheers”, he said, holding his cup up and clinking it against hers.

“Cheers”, she replied, smiling warmly at him, taking a swig of the Vodka and feeling its effect as it flowed down her throat. “Mm, that’s good”.

“Nice one”, he said. “What are you up to tonight?”.

“Going for a dance“, she said. “At Shotgun. Same as you“.

“That’s true“, he replied, moving closer. He put his cup down on the table. Then he took hers from her hand. She looked deep into his eyes and made no move to resist. He thought of Trudi. She thought of Trudi. For a moment.

As he took her hand, she felt herself melt inside.