"Jeff was very depressed when I saw him on the sidewalk, so we spent the night together. Not that together, although that seemed to be his original plan with me. We went to the Dufferin together where we hung out over a beer or three (he did all the drinking, I just had club soda with lime). We closed the place down, then he invited me back to his apartment in the West End, not far from Stanley Park. Stupidly, I went to bed with him, but with the idea that nothing would happen. He did try to hit on me. I ignored him, I got up and slept on the couch. I didn't really fall asleep, woke up at 5:30, left him a note with my phone number, then took one of the first buses out to the farmhouse in Richmond where I promptly went to sleep.
"Jeff phoned me. He was a mess. I became his caretaker. He was in his way, very sexy and charismatic, I did say he was a failed rock star, and I turned into sort of his assistant, I practically lived in his apartment, while cleaning up his messes, sitting with him when he was miserable and humouring him during his temper tantrums. I also allowed him to extort money from me, supposedly to pay his rent (later I learned that the money all went up his nose). But I had something else in mind, I had made up my mind that I was going to London, England, or the real London. I had just cashed in rather nicely on my share of my mother's death benefits. Jeff was British, and recently had lived in London. So, we talked about both of us flying there together, and I would be looking after him because, among other things, Jeff had AIDS, and I was quite prepared to care for him while he was dying..."
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