It is the closest I have ever come to dying. It was 22 December 1995 and I had flown to Chicago from New York to spend the weekend with my friend Matias before returning to London for Christmas. The day started well: Matias was having a fancy-dress party and in the course of helping him shop for canapés I fell into conversation with a sexy, mischievous girl who worked in the local delicatessen. Her name tag said ‘Kelly’.
Afterwards, I mentioned this girl to Matias — ‘Do you know her?’ — and he urged me to invite her to the party.
‘But won’t it look a bit desperate, going back to the shop with the sole purpose of inviting her?’ I said.
‘Don’t be such a pussy.’
He was right: faint heart ne’er a fair lady won. So I returned to the deli and delivered a bumbling, self-deprecating invitation. To my astonishment, she accepted — and she didn’t even ask to bring a friend.
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