

Tinderbox

By Sasha McCallum

Copyright © 2020 Sasha McCallum

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

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Contents

Part One: Hospital

Part Two: The Search

Part Three: Dream Within

Part Four: A Pale Horse

Part Five: Tinderbox

One: Hospital

There is no describing nothingness. The word itself is something. So we have only space to describe loss of self, a gaping absence of past, realised only upon waking. And thence, the search to fill the void.

A woman lies on a bed in a seventh floor room.

She wakes, eyelids snapping open to reveal large, hazel windows to confusion. She can feel her limbs, see a hand as she lifts it in front of her. Her body is heavy and prostrated, her mind an empty cavern. She can smell disinfectant and hear the dim sound of footsteps and voices beyond the four walls surrounding her.

She's alone in the room, a thin blanket spread over her lower half. The fog in her head matches that drifting beyond the windows to her left. Then a name appears, persistent; Michelle Coderre. Her name. She runs her eyes carefully over her surroundings. The paint on the walls, an egg-shell colour that might have been white once, is cracked and peeling in some spots, the floor has dust building outside the well-trodden areas around the bed. Yellowing curtains hang listlessly at the windows, undrawn on the dreary half-light beyond. Two doors lie in front of her, one from the right wall which doesn't have a handle, the other perpendicular and not fully closed, revealing a sliver of darkness on the other side. She guesses the ajar door is a bathroom and the handle-less door, the way out. She's locked in here, but it's the stubborn emptiness of her mind which causes more discomfort.

A stainless steel sink protrudes from the opposite wall, antibacterial soap dispenser suspended above it, small shelf flanking its right. A cheap, plastic clock hangs beside the bathroom door, hands pointing to 12 and 5.

She lifts her hands again and studies them. They feel stuffed with stones at every extremity, but look undamaged, ligaments strong under clear if sun-starved skin. A cannula sticks from a vein at the back of her left hand, unattached, lonely; clinging to her flesh with medical tape. She can see the bright red of her blood leaking into its tubing. She's wearing a hospital smock, she feels the knot pressing against her back and the gape of cool skin where it's failed to stay in place. If she were to get up, her ass would hang out for all the world to see. But there is no one on the other side of the windows and the room is empty.

She's grimy, a scent of unwashed sweat below the neckline of her gown.

The room is unlike any hospital she has in her mind's eye. Spartan, uncluttered with bandages and sodium chloride syringes. It's a third-world hospital room. Had she been hurt on a trip to the Philippines or Mexico? Except it's more basic than third-world, almost otherworldly. The cracks in the paint taunt her with their history, we can tell you things, they say, we know!

A nurse's call button faces her from the stand beside the bed but she won't press it. Not until she's planned some line of questioning; for now, her mind remains clouded.

Michelle Coderre. Michelle. Coderre.

She remembers a presence in the room with her before she slept. A comforting presence sitting quietly in the modest, battered chair closest to her. If she closes her eyes she can almost still feel it. A night nurse. Or suicide watch, the thought occurs unbidden. Had she tried to kill herself? It's a possibility, an explanation for why she's here, locked away. If she'd overdosed, maybe amnesia was normal. Amnesia, that's what it was when you couldn't remember anything. The word gives her confidence, to name what she's suffering from, so does the memory of someone being here with her. She can figure this out without making a fool of herself.

She pulls her body up to a better position and leans across to pull the top drawer in the nightstand open. She realises she's expecting to find a phone only upon not finding it. The drawer contains a small, double-sided mirror and a plain schoolroom exercise book with a blue Bic pen latched over its cardboard cover. The notebook is marked with a large, black number 3 and when she opens it, a list sits inside the front cover.

Her vision swims but the words are printed in Sharpie, they're readable but provide little help.

Michelle Coderre

9th August, 1990

Leah Sherwood

Declan Kerr

Zach Whitby

Esme Baskov.

Her name and birthdate. Her sister, Leah. The names Declan and Zach mean nothing to her but the final entry, set further apart and pressed thicker than the others, sends a shiver down her spine. She doesn't know why. It seems an awfully small list.

She replaces the notebook, takes the mirror and holds it before her. The woman who looks back is pale, auburn hair lank, hazel eyes ringed with sallow circles. She's unwashed, unpreened and tired. She feels she should be shocked by what she sees but can't muster the energy. A sharp ache latches its teeth into her temples as she stares, but she can detect no visible injuries. She wants to get up and go to the bathroom to splash some water on her face and get a clearer look. She's pushing the sheet and blanket from her legs when a clang outside the door freezes her in place and it opens. She hasn't had time to grasp the situation but it's too late now. She pulls the blankets up and adopts an expression of nonchalance.

"Hello," the man who swishes in says with a Scottish accent and bright smile. "Good to see you awake, how're you feeling?"

Her response is an undeniable twinge of gratitude; to hear a human voice, to be smiled at, to know she is real and there. Empty vessel that she is. At least she isn't out of place, she's supposed to be here.

"Hello," she responds flatly. It's the voice she adopts when she doesn't know what to expect, when she can't be certain what comes next.

"You should have rung for me." The man approaches the bed and pulls syringes from his blazer pocket. "Been waiting for you to wake from the dead."

"Have I been dead?" the words slip out too quickly and she regrets them, but the pale eyes crinkle in amusement.

"Not yet!" he snorts.

He looks impossibly young, a teenager. He wears plain clothes and has a simple lanyard around his neck which displays nothing but a barcode. His face is kind and patient.

She reaches and comes out with, "My name is Michelle Coderre," trying to put some tone in her voice.

"I know who you are," he says. "Everyone knows who you are, Miss Coderre. I'm Owen, your nurse today."

"Just Michelle is fine. Where am I?"

"You're in All..." He stops and corrects himself. "Aberdeen Mercy Health. You're safe." He inserts the smaller of his needles into her cannula.

What is she doing in Scotland? More worrying, she knows Aberdeen, she's spent of time here, but this particular hospital is unfamiliar.

"What are you giving me?"

"Pain relief. How's your head?"

"It hurts but I'm more confused than anything. Can you tell me how I got here?"

"We had to switch rooms, you had a rough night last night and we need to keep a better eye on you."

It doesn't answer the question but she isn't sure how to rephrase to get a better one. She struggles, unwilling to reveal how blank she is. She needs more time to think, to remember.

There is a hint of cattiness when she says, "You seem rather young to be a nurse."

He chuckles. "I'm qualified, don't worry." He hesitates with curiosity. "How old are you...Michelle?"

There is a sadness to his face, a world-weariness that shouldn't be present in someone of his age. Yet a spark when he meets Michelle's eyes and says her name in that halting, unsure manner.

"Thirty one." The answer comes without thought and she knows it to be true.

"That's only six years older than me," he says with a grin and she looks him up and down while he flushes the cannula.

She asks, "Is that clock correct? Is it five at night or in the morning?"

"It's five pm," he answers. "You've been asleep all day."

"Will the nurse from last night be back?"

He feigns hurt, "I'm not good enough?"

She's not sure how to respond to his familiar character, none of this feels like a joke to her.

"She..." Yes, it was a woman. Though a face remains out of reach, she can remember Christmas songs in the room last night. "She was nice. I think she played music."

"I'm not sure which one you mean. I'll take a look and see who's rostered on. Dinner will be here soon, are you hungry?"

She slides her tongue around her mouth. "No." Really. No. "What date is it?"

"Twenty first of December."

"That makes sense." It accounted for the carols anyway.

He carries the jug to the sink, fills it along with the plastic cup beside her.

"If you can force yourself to eat a little, it would be good. Dr Bernard will be by shortly too for her rounds." A doctor. Soon. A doctor might answer her questions more methodically. "Do you need anything else?"

"No." She wants him to leave so she can think.

He gives her a sweet smile and sweeps from the room. She sees him press a small button beside the frame which releases the door before he pushes through and it reseals behind him. She's not locked up, she can get out. It brings a sense of relief - she can't have done anything too terrible. The boy-nurse seems to know her but he didn't treat her like a criminal. The sharp grip inside her temples is easing, replaced with a liquid wave of heat and cool. It feels good, like an old friend greeting her back to a long lost home. They must be giving her something very strong.

Why am I in pain, strikes her as a relevant question. She pulls the notebook to her and tries to steady her hand with the pen. Her writing is oversized and wobbly but legible. What's wrong with me?

She has to get up, find her clothes. She twists her legs from under the thin blanket and lowers them to the floor. She has a catheter tube running from her underwear. When did that happen? She checks and finds her pubic hair overgrown. A wave of nausea makes her dizzy; she sinks back to the mattress and breathes deeply. Something is really wrong, she can barely walk. The button beside the door taunts her; not three metres away and she can't reach it.

She's very tired. She'll rest her head, just for a moment to collect her thoughts. She doesn't know where to go anyway, when she attempts to grasp a destination, it slips away elusively, the shadow of a rat in a sewer. Work, she thinks, I have work to do, but she doesn't remember where it is. It must be within her somewhere, why she's here, what has happened. She pulls the sheet up under her chin.

There is another commotion outside and the door opens. She straightens her loping head and tries to look alert. In files a middle-aged woman with a clipboard, two juniors, one Asian and one black, behind her. They're all dressed in the same muted grey as the view beyond the windows.

"Miss Coderre," Clipboard says. She has a mild French accent. "You're looking refreshed."

One of the subordinates holds the door open while a fourth woman enters, slides a tray onto the table and exits, keeping her eyes down and her mouth shut. Wrapped sandwiches.

"I'm not hungry," she says. "Are you Dr Bernard?"

"Call me Alice. How do you feel?"

"Weak and confused. The nurse gave me a shot of something. I need to know what's happened to me."

"Cortical atrophy. You're suffering substantial memory loss."

"You don't say."

"You're safe but given your condition, we'll be monitoring you closely over the next few days. Miss Coderre..."

"Stop calling me that," she snaps, Clipboard's face remains accommodating.

"Mr Kerr is outside, he'd like to see you, if you're up to it."

"I don't know any Kerr. Where's my phone? Where's my family?"

"Uhm." The doctor's face contorts briefly so Michelle knows she's lying when she says, "They will be here soon."

It makes no sense they would lie about that. If they can't answer a simple question honestly she can't trust them to tell her any shred of truth. Her heart starts to race, her breathing quickens and she's angry.

"Dr Bernard," she says in the most professional manner she can convene. "What's wrong with me? What do you mean by cortical atrophy?"

The two interns sneak a glance at each other behind her shoulders but Clipboard keeps her watery eyes fixed on Michelle.

"You had a TIA last night. Transient ischaemic attack."

"Cut the crap, I'm not a medical person."

"A mini-stroke, Michelle. You will need plenty of rest and to take a fair amount of medications so we can be sure it doesn't happen again."

"A stroke..." Michelle stares in shock. "That's not possible, I'm too young."

"Even babies can have strokes. I'm sorry."

"Will I get my memory back?"

"That you're alert and speaking is a good sign."

"My memory?" she presses.

"Only time will tell. The most important thing is not to panic, try to stay calm."

"I don't have much choice, I can barely get up."

"Physical weakness is to be expected. Give yourself time."

Michelle averts her gaze to look out at the grey fog. A stroke. Surely it wasn't true.

There's a few moments silence before the doctor speaks again.

"Mr Kerr is... You're not up to a visitor, are you?"

"I told you I don't know any Kerr. When my mother gets here, I'll see her. Or my sister."

"Right. Family only." She glances over her shoulder at the others. "We'll let you rest and see you again tomorrow. If you feel yourself getting over-anxious, call the nurse. Okay?"

Over-anxious? At what point does anxiety become over-anxiety? She hates the way their gazes stray to their pads or the windows, anywhere but her. She hates the way they speak, as if she's a child requiring patience.

"Okay," Michelle agrees flavorlessly. She wants them to leave, she can't trust them.

They take a last look at her then file out in the same order they entered. The door clicks shut and Michelle closes her lids to the room, to this senseless situation. Why didn't they ask her questions? Delve?

When she opens her eyes another woman is emerging quietly from the bathroom. Unlike the doctors, she wears a shy smile and gazes at Michelle openly.

"Where did you come from?"

She stands straight and tall, glances back at the bathroom door in amusement as if it should be obvious. She doesn't speak. Her skin is pale, hair dark and loose, cascading behind her shoulders. As with Owen, she doesn't look like a nurse, but she's older, closer to Michelle's age. She's dressed differently too, she wears a double-breasted coat in raw umber, heeled ankle boots and a white bodycon dress. Michelle feels she's at a disadvantage, languishing, unwashed in a hospital smock while this groomed, composed woman peers at her. But her expression contains no pity or disinterest, rather an attentive affection. Her face is an open book, it offers answers. Michelle adjusts the smock at her neckline.

"You look at me differently than them." She waves a hand at the door the grey people disappeared through. "Why?"

The woman steps away from the wall, closer to the bed, her mouth curling up at the corners, lips full and red. A vampire preparing for her meal.

"They do not see the girl I do. They see something else, a patient to be treated."

Her voice hits Michelle like a slap in the face, a jolt making her feel stronger and weaker in unison.

"I know you," she says and the woman raises a brow. "You were in my room last night. Will you have me tonight too?"

She tilts her head contemplatively. "Yes."

"Good," Michelle concludes. "Can you sit down for a minute?"

She pulls a chair closer and sits.

"They're lying to me. The doctors."

"What are they lying about?"

"I may not remember yesterday but I know a lie when I see one. My family aren't coming. Which means they're lying about the stroke too. I'm too young for a stroke."

"What about your amnesia?"

"You've got me on powerful drugs. Maybe even some kind of psychosis-inducing hallucinogen."

The woman chuckles, a chuckle of happiness not spite.

"You are right," she agrees. "Your family is not coming. But no one here is trying to hurt you."

"Then why did they lie? And why isn't my sister here?"

"Leah is otherwise occupied."

"You know Leah?" Michelle asks in surprise.

"I know of her."

"Too busy to see her sick sister. Can't I talk to her on the phone at least?"

"No."

"I'm very confused. What's your name?"

"You can call me Thana." She reaches to open the cupboard in the nightstand where Michelle can see a stack of paperbacks. She ignores them and withdraws two exercise books identical to the one in the top drawer. "These will help," she says and offers them to Michelle.

They have Sharpie on the cover too, numbered 1 and 2 respectively, but unlike 3, these pages are full, bulky with blue ink. They spark no memories but they're hers, with the same basic list inside their covers, and handwriting, small and neat within. The Sharpie is legible but the pen isn't.

"I can't make out the words," Michelle says and she's handed a pair of reading glasses. "I don't wear glasses."

"Try them."

She holds them in front of her face critically. They are quite ugly, but if they help her focus... She hooks them around her ears and peers again at the pages, words clear as day now.

"Why did I write it, I wonder. It would have been a lot quicker and easier on a tablet or laptop."

"Maybe you did not want it to be quick or easy."

"It's so much, it will take me days to get through all this."

"You have time. Look around, no television, no phone. There are some novels too but these will be more useful, they will help you remember."

"Can't you tell me what's in them?"

"I don't know. They are yours, your personal account."

"Of fucking what!?" she blurts, her frustration mountainous.

"It must be something you did not want to forget."

"Did I know I would have a stroke?" She regrets her harsh tone, above all she does not want to alienate this nurse. The first one she feels at ease with. "Take it. Take it away, I'm tired."

"Shall I go?"

A wave of melancholy sweeps through Michelle at the idea. "Just...one more minute."

The nurse's eyes smile and she leans forward, pulls the glasses from her ears gently and places them on the nightstand.

"I know how confused you are," the soft voice continues. "There is no rush, you will figure it out." Her words are full of emotion.

"It's not just memory. My body feels heavy, weak."

She waits for an explanation, but none is offered. Michelle likes her face, it reassures by presence alone. With unspoken understanding. Michelle loses interest in the answers she seeks. A brain tumour, she thinks, causing psychosis, amnesia, the infernal ache in her head which has now eased. The woman's face becomes more beautiful, a halo around her, glowing warmth. She's so familiar. She gives up her struggle to remember, her lids flutter shut against the pillow and she floats.

*

Down the corridor outside the room, and unbeknownst to its occupants, Dr Alice Bernard speaks to a tall, suited man in an otherwise empty day room.

"I have to see her, she needs me." The man in the suit's expression falls. "Surely it's not healthy to keep her alone without stimulation."

"She has books. It is over-stimulation I'm worried about; she needs to stay calm, a stranger barging in claiming to know-"

"I'm not a stranger!"

"She doesn't remember you, Mr Kerr."

"How long will she be like this?"

"There's no way to be certain. It's important to keep her as stress-free as possible. Her welfare is extremely important to us."

"I know." He shakes his head and begins to walk. "It's just hard to twiddle my thumbs while..."

The voices push their way through a ward door and fade in transit.

*

Michelle wakes with a start. She wakes to the heart-wrenching sensation of her hand being let go. A glance around proves she's alone again. A light has been turned on behind her and the windows have faded to darkness behind the straggles of curtain. The chair where the night nurse sat holds the first two notebooks. She stares at them.

Thana. She hasn't forgotten her name.

A protein drink and plastic wrapped sandwiches still lie on the table, which makes her nose crinkle. Zero appetite. She hooks the glasses around her ears and pulls the pen from the front of Notebook 3.

Thana, she writes on the first page. Night nurse.

Owen. Day nurse.

Stroke. 20 December. Memory loss.

Dr Alice Bernard. Liar?

Her writing is more disciplined this time. The name Declan Kerr goads her from the inside cover. The doctor had mentioned him and doubtless sent him away. She'd had the prescience to write his name down and it still means nothing. Perhaps she should have seen him, he might have been able to tell her something. Anything. She shuts the page and tucks 3 back in the top drawer, leans awkwardly to the empty seat and takes notebook 1. The wording is direct, to the point. It pulls her in.

Notebook 1

There's no easy way to start this except with lucid truth; I've been diagnosed. It was inevitable I suppose. I was lucky to avoid it for so long. Treatment should have been effective for a few months, but the deterioration is progressing faster than predicted. I will lose my memories and slowly, my grip on reality. I was not advised to write, to record, I made the decision myself. So much time spent trying to obliviate certain parts of my life and now I know it will slip away, I don't want to forget. I write this as a counteractant, as a gathering of what happened, memoirs of what is precious to me. Though I may not have understood how precious until now.

Of all the life-changing situations I've faced, this is the most frightening. I'm not afraid of death, I'm afraid of the loss of self which will come before it. I fear having to depend on others, I fear being a burden. These are facts and do not require further mention. My purpose in this endeavour is not to dwell on what will happen, but what has happened.

This isn't about my political career, or the terrible circumstances that allowed it to reach the heights it did. It's about what came before, a personal account of something I've never allowed to leave my mind like this. Declan will respect my wish to destroy the book, it is not for public consumption. Its purpose is preservation of sanity now, and later, perhaps to hold what's special a little longer than I might.

As yet, it's my short term memory that causes problems but soon, my long term memory will go. I must get this down before it disappears. This is the way I remember it, this is what's always been at the back of my mind, through everything.

As with everyone, my issues began humbly.

I was a wilful girl, defiant. A tiny red-haired child who struggled to make myself heard and did it whatever way I could. Nowhere was that more obvious than at the dinner table. I ate like a bird and Mum piled my plate senselessly high. When I refused to eat what was on it at night, the entire family suffered. After a particularly difficult night, Dad, an elusive character until that point, decided enough was enough. He waited until the following day and took me aside for an earnest conversation - it was the first time he'd paid attention to me exclusively and I listened in awe.

He explained that Mum needn't know when I did something she didn't agree with, that I did not always have to tell her. It would be a lot easier on everyone if I simply learned to keep secrets. Mum would be happy knowing her daughter was following her orders and I would be happy not having to eat so much.

That day a new world opened up for me and Dad became a much more valuable mentor than my mother. He sat me next to him from then, and I passed my chunks of meat and potato to him under the dinner table while Mum remained ignorant. He was right, everyone was happy. I had a connection with my father which towered above all others. He was a problem-solver, I adored him.

At the ripe age of four, my father taught me the concept and value of deception.

Food was only the beginning of course. In a family with five children, I had to fight for everything, and being the youngest and weakest, I took my fight to devious places. Theoretically, I understood it was wrong, but in a practical sense, truth became redundant; lies and manipulation the rule not the exception. It was necessary for endurance within that thick melange of conflicting desires and emotions. I was prepared to tackle life with a similarly limited conscience, even as it clashed with my ideals.

These are behaviours I've analysed from a distance, only in the years since have I understood them so they can be explained as a clearly ordered process. Because I didn't see myself as deceptive in the traditional sense, it was something I had to do which didn't fit with how I wanted things to be. My desire to change the world may have been a result of this clash. Feelings repressed early on in life end up expanding and evolving, so that by adulthood they've become an entity unto themselves, simmering under the surface, sabotaging external identity, waiting for an opportunity to take over.

At thirty two I was engaged to Dominic Rylan and had been an MP for four years; humanity was still chugging along. But I wasn't in a good headspace, I was losing the tenets I'd always coveted. My accomplishments were overshadowed by failures - everything was a competition, everyone a rival. I had a plan for my allotted lifespan, albeit a distorted one, but damned if I'd let anything get in the way. My understanding that what was very wrong with society extended deeply into my own psyche was limited.

Life has a way of beating us into the worst versions of ourselves; that's where I was, expecting and accepting the bad. I felt old, wizened and bitter. Put bluntly, I'd turned into a fool and a bitch. It's easy to see and say that now, at the time my awareness wasn't so encompassing.

The people around me, including my husband to-be, had blended together, they'd become little more than hollow husks behind painted masks. I didn't see auras around people or anything so plebeian, I attached a single stereotype to them; people were largely shallow and predictable, rarely did their symbol change over time. Small steps toward campaign success made me feel good. Hidden beneath, there were others - the innocence in a child's smile, the laughter of a baby; the big brown eyes of a miniature Schnauzer poking a wet nose into my hand.

There was no joy in my impending wedding, but a sense akin to relief, one more thing ticked off my list. Dominic had been living in my apartment only three months when I properly noticed her. She lived on the same street and I'm sure I must have seen her around before, but my overworked, overstressed and utterly self-centred lifestyle meant I didn't absorb the peripheral details in my environment easily.

It was a day like any other when our eyes met. Colourless, unremarkable.

There was a Caffe Nero near my building on Thackeray, it was early morning and I had stopped in with Dominic before separating to our respective employments. The fact of it was I was impatient and felt stifled by his new, constant presence. I'd begun staying ever later at the office to avoid my bland nights. He wasn't difficult to live with, he was boring, unstimulating, we weren't on the same wavelength. He was supportive of my career and constant struggle to change things, but he didn't understand and shared none of my passion. I can recognise now I felt resentful of him, that I lived in a world where marriage was the norm. I never considered simply discarding him, following the path less travelled. At that time my fight was focused on my career, not my personal life.

The cafe was bustling, I was cranky, and took the opportunity to have a heated argument with Dominic about constitutional reform. It was one-sided, I always had the feeling he merely watched when I talked shop and never absorbed a word. I'd tried to make him understand too many times. He didn't argue back and it would have appeared like an ill-tempered epithet to an observer.

It turned out the observer was Esme. In the middle of a pitch on proportional representation to a dopey-faced fiancé, I noticed her sitting alone at a table to the right. Rarely did my eyes stray to strangers, I was wrapped up in my own affairs, they didn't interest me. This woman was different, she stared openly, without disguise, her gaze penetrating to the core. She would certainly have heard what I was saying and my sharp tone; her eyes captured me, big and blue, and it seemed she was my preferred audience not the man opposite. I lost my flow mid-sentence and the bicker died in my throat when she eventually looked away, back to a pad and pencil in front of her. Why her gaze pierced me so irreparably at that moment, I don't know. We left a few minutes later and I immersed myself in the days particulars, but the look stayed with me, burnt into my memory; an attentive annoyance, as if she disagreed and was battling to keep her mouth shut. I was reading too much into it but still, I discovered myself imagining the conversation that might have ensued had she been sitting with me instead of Dominic.

I saw her twice more that week, on the street and leaving what I surreptitiously noted was her building, seven doors down from mine, on the other side of Nero, by the liquor store. She wore long, woollen coats in beige or black and boots of various heel sizes. Her clothes hugged her figure but were nothing expensive. She didn't see me those two brief glimpses and I felt disgruntled by the lack of attention. With a single look she'd worked beneath my skin, sparked a tangible allure. The image I associated with her, before we had even spoken, was not like any other - a diaphanous hurricane, an anomaly.

The third time, I was almost at my door and had Leah with me. She'd been complaining about her latest man trouble and I had definitely said something savage when I noticed the woman coming right at us. I cut short and Leah's next words were lost to me. She passed in the opposite direction, so close I caught a whiff of Black Opium. The connection was made, again she looked at me haughtily, challenging. She didn't take her eyes from mine until we were past each other and kept moving as if nothing was up. But it was, I wanted to talk to her. Twice she had witnessed my bitchiness and reacted with that expression; I felt a need to justify myself, repair my reputation. To a stranger.

The following Monday I ran into her directly. A tragicomic accident.

It was late, almost nine, and I'd had a chaotic day. My arms laden with bags, I arrived at Thackeray Street and bore down on the off-license to browse for a decent bottle of wine. I walked out with three and was distracted as I went to cross the road. Only the laptop bag slipped from my grip when I barged into the bulk of another person; the wine was fine. I sighed in relief till I took in my collider's big eyes, stopped and staring in irritation.

"You crashed into me," I said defensively and felt foolish, trussed up in layers. It was cold that December, the coldest we'd had in years.

"I did not," she said, picked up the satchel and held it close to my few free fingers. "Hello Michelle."

Her voice was not what I expected. She wasn't English, sported an accent. Eastern European, I thought; mellifluous and soft, like husky vanilla. Her directness caught me off guard, the way she pronounced my name - Meshell - sent a current down my spinal cord.

"Hello. Sorry. I was just... I've just got back from work."

Her response, "Riveting."

How had I got here, not able to come up with a better comment than that and her rejecting it so easily. I couldn't move, rooted to the sidewalk and she made no attempt to continue on her way either. Her hair was thick, dark and wavy, blowing onto her ivory cheeks from a breeze at her back. Her storm symbol consolidated in my mind.

"How do you know my name?"

"Liberal Democrat. I'm aware of you." The words were presented with a sneer, making me feel affronted.

"Is that why you look at me the way you do? You disagree with my politics."

The remark, far too open, popped out unimpeded. Inappropriateness aside, the words got her attention, her eyes drank me in from cosmopolitan updo to Miu Miu-booted feet. She looked critical, but didn't answer.

"You hate me," I said, uncomfortable with the depth of silence.

She moved, swept past me and swiped the card to her building, taking a glance at my speechless figure on the pavement. Anger flared in my chest.

"Hey," I started, and, when she held the door open for me, I ducked through. "You're damn rude. Can't you answer a simple question?"

"Hate is a strong word. I dislike you," she said as I trailed her toward a dark wood door with a black 10 on it. "The woman you were walking with the other day looked on the verge of tears."

I didn't wonder why I followed so freely into her building and subsequently her apartment, my frustration at her attitude was compelling and there was an arcane familiarity about her. It was the simple honesty of the woman.

"My sister and I have a long-standing dynamic, it's not something a stranger could understand."

My effort was going to waste, she wasn't heeding my words, did not seem interested as she shut the door behind us and made her way through the open-plan rooms, to a sparse kitchen. My heels clicked too loudly on the oak parquet flooring.

"Are you chasing an argument?" she asked.

"Maybe. You treat me with less courtesy than a hobo."

It sounded childish and I half expected her to laugh, but she only went about putting two teabags in a black ceramic mug and switching a kettle on without looking at me. Ridiculous, that this woman should disarm me so easily with silence.

"Are you going to offer me one?" I said eventually.

She glanced at me, turned back and took a second mug from the cupboard.

"You don't have to stand there looking lost." It was an invite to put my bags down and I accepted.

I sat at an oval table made of walnut and watched her, determined not to speak again until she did.

"So, you want me to tell you why I look at you the way I do," she muttered into a stream of steam rising from the kettle.

She made it sound pathetic and I was embarrassed, sitting at this strangers table demanding an explanation for a look. There was no way to reply without shaming myself further, particularly since she hadn't phrased it as a question. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and remained stubbornly quiet, contemplating an apology and quick departure. But it was too late now.

"I do not disagree with your politics," she said. She added milk to the mugs, brought them to the table. She removed her coat and draped it over a chair, sitting perpendicular to me. "But when I look at you, I see a person contradicting her own words. To hear your views on economic inequality, one would think you were a hobo, dressed in rags and sleeping in a cardboard box."

"Are you disappointed I'm not?"

"A little. You should be living your philosophy not just preaching about it. Set an example."

"I should be..." I'd never tolerated anyone telling me what I should do, her bravado shocked and fascinated me, yet her point was oblique. "You expect me to move into a box?"

"It is bigger than that. I don't think you know yourself very well."

"But you do? You've seen me all of twice on the street and not at my best."

"You are a person who surrounds herself with the best of everything. Someone who constantly desires more, better; a mass consumer victimised by advertising and media. Furthermore, you are ruthless enough to tell your own flesh and blood you are ashamed of her because she lives differently to you."

I stared. She'd heard whatever snarky comment I'd made to Leah that day and she, a complete unknown, was now attacking it. No one had ever called me a victim before, it made my extremities vibrate. It was tempting to return fire but I had no ammunition of my own. Besides, I had asked for this, inviting myself in and demanding answers. I had no right.

She kept her gaze on mine with an almost-smile, driving her point home with her eyes. That's right, I know what you are, they said.

Smug twat, I thought with interest. She watched as I peeled my gloves off, pulled my mug close and inhaled the steam. She made a strong brew, only a few drops of milk and no sugar. It smelled palatable despite its inferior quality.

I scrambled to form my next sentence and was further agitated by the way it came out.

"It wouldn't be the first time I've made her cry."

I didn't voice what was really bothering me - that her snap evaluation resonated as staggeringly accurate. I felt compelled to turn it around but changing the foundation of your being isn't so easily done. I could see from the outset that this was not a person swayed by performance. Her gaze dared me to lie. I wouldn't - whether they were or not, my verities shouldn't be compromising.

"What do you see when you look at your sister?" the percipient eyes asked.

A luridly direct question and I considered for a moment. What first appeared in my mind wasn't something I'd admit as a rule, but this woman demanded truth in all its nefariousness.

"A gaping vagina singing Britney Spears," I said quietly and studied my tea.

The image revolted me but I'd always suspected, if I told someone else, they might laugh or accuse me of something incestuous. No laugh was forthcoming and I dared a glance up.

"And when you see the man you live with?"

"A dollar sign."

"Putulica," she muttered under her breath and I could only assume it a crass expression in her mother tongue. She shook her head. "What am I?"

This one made me hesitate cursorily. I said, "You're different, a tornado."

"You reduce people to a single idea," she mused, my reveals doing nothing to help my cause.

"And it's a reflection of myself, not them," I finished, caught up in a desire to stay in step.

I hadn't thought about it much but it was true. My companion seemed roused by my honesty, not shocked or repelled, and I wasn't as uncomfortable as I should have been. The conversation was dreamlike, being acted out on stage or playing in a movie theatre. Removed from reality yet more substantive than any discussion I'd had recently. I was disorientated, it was as if we'd been here many times before.

"Yes," she said. "Maybe you do understand."

"Don't take me for a nitwit."

Beneath the subject matter, I sifted through accents I'd heard before, attempting to identify the woman's country of origin. I took a sip from my cup and noticed her clock the rock on my engagement finger. She leant forward and stroked the lapel of my coat, the gesture so gentle and intimate, I almost flinched.

"How much did it cost?" she asked. "Hundreds? More? And you probably have five others in your closet."

"Nine. I like nice things."

"You are not paying for a nice thing. You are paying for others' approval, others' envy, and others' awe. Have you had cosmetic surgery?"

I felt the burn of humiliation on my face and ignored the question rightfully.

"Is that what drives you to attack me? Envy?"

"You are in trouble, Michelle."

I liked the way she said my name. I clicked into my slot as blame recipient, and began to feel empowered by the emotional strip down. I could take it, I was strong.

"Because I own expensive clothes? I was raised in a dirt poor family, it's not wrong for me to want something different."

"I do not believe it. You and your sister both have that self-important, middle-class milieu."

"Leah was just as eager to leave her roots behind and feign a public-school upbringing as I was. She bled both her husband's dry to get where she is, I'm allowed to be honest with her."

"In struggling so hard to free yourself of the shackles of poverty, you have created new ones," she returned the focus to me with ease and studied my face for a moment. "You talk of the gap between rich and poor, you fight to make it smaller, but look at you. The embodiment of arrogance and waste."

"Why are you taking such pains to cut me down?"

"Could you say you value everything in your possession? But if you were to lose it, you would be without the strength of character to cope."

"You don't know me well enough to make that assessment."

"Am I wrong?"

"I'm not my possessions. I fought hard to get where I am, if I were to lose it, the fight would start again."

"For what? Material wealth? Status?"

"Power. I want the power to change things."

"To the detriment of personal values. You know it too or you would not be sitting there so calmly listening to a stranger call you out. You don't want validation, you are desperate for someone to see what you are and suggest you fix yourself before working on the world."

I stared, opened and closed my mouth twice. It wasn't how right she was that baffled me, it was that she had the backbone to say it to my face with such confidence. It made me wonder just how long she had been observing me from a distance, and how much information a person could find about me online.

All I could say was, "You think I want to hear I'm a piece of shit?"

"Yes."

"What makes you think you can say these things to me without consequences?"

"I hope for consequences, I like consequences, I would like to change your mind. You want people to argue with you but when they do, you dismiss them. You surround yourself with pushovers, people who bow to you. It is ugly."

"Obviously they aren't fighting hard enough." She studied my face, her expression impossibly hard to read. "You seem to have my defects diagnosed, let's talk about yours."

The muscle in her jaw clenched and she looked at her cup, took a sip.

"While you determine the most evident trait a person presents, I search for their hidden ones. Maybe we are as bad as each other," she said.

"That's the nicest thing to come out of your mouth yet." I glanced around at the spacious kitchen. "Do you live here alone?"

"I have a cat, she will be on the sofa."

Failing in my attempt to classify the woman's accent, I confronted it squarely.

"Your English is very good, where are you from?"

"I grew up by the Black Sea. Romania."

I started to speak, interested to question more, but my phone rang. I pressed the red circle on Dominic's name and was dazed to see the time. Almost ten, I had squandered almost an hour choosing wine and antagonising a weird neighbour.

"I have to go," I said quickly.

The interruption was for the best, I didn't want to provide this impertinent foreigner with any more personal information while I was too tired to see straight. Maybe when my mind was clearer...

I gathered my bags and she held the door open for me as I walked through. In the doorway, I turned back, puzzled.

"I didn't ask your name," I said.

"Esme."

"Thank you for the tea." I left without looking back.

And thus went my first meeting with Esme. Open. Honest. I'd received my first dress down in years. She insulted me bitingly and I didn't attack back, instead offering her the truth about the images I attached to people. Average predictions decreed I should have regretted my openness, but I didn't. It felt good, liberating. As if I'd been purged, it was easier to return to the lies.

Two: The Search

Michelle is tiring, her eyelids droop lower. The clock ticks restlessly, pointing to twelve fifteen. She dog-ears the page, flicks back to the first paragraphs and rereads them. Her head falls back on the pillow in defeat.

"You are crying," a soft voice says and Michelle opens her eyes.

The night nurse is back, sitting in the same chair. She's a tricky character, sneaking in and out unheard, but Michelle's glad of her presence.

"I'm sad."

"Why?"

She wipes a stray tear on her cheek and holds the notebook up.

"All it says is that I was diagnosed. With what?"

"Your brain is degenerating."

"This is why I had the stroke? I'm not going to get better. There's no way back from this."

"There is always a way."

Michelle meets her eyes. "I'm thirty two in this story. I've lost a year."

"Are you having trouble reading or understanding it?"

"No, but... I don't remember any of it. It's hard to believe. Maybe I was already delusional when I started. I'm talking about a woman who seems to hate me."

"That cannot be right."

"Insults me at every turn." She frowns. "It's interesting reading... But how am I supposed to figure out what's happened from a bunch of fantastical nonsense?" She closes the book.

"What's her name? The woman."

"Esme. Someone who lives on my street in London. Apparently."

"Keep reading, there must be answers."

Michelle looks into the kind face and trusts it. "I'll pick up later, my eyes are tired."

"Rest is good. Can I do anything for you?"

"Well..." Michelle hesitates. "How long do you think I'll be stuck in this room?"

"A few days."

"That's a bathroom through there, isn't it?"

"It is connected to the room on the other side. You share but it is lockable."

"I feel dirty. I am dirty. I want to wash."

"There is a shower in the bathroom. If you think you're strong enough, I can help you in."

"My need to get clean tout de suite is overriding my weakness."

"Just a short one then? Keep the door unlocked on this side?" she asks and Michelle nods. "Okay. You'll have to be careful of your," she points to Michelle's arm, "thingamajig."

"Technical term." Michelle frowns curiously. "You're not a nurse, are you?"

"No. Did you think I was?"

"Thought you were my usual night nurse, you're familiar, but it's hard to grasp the memory."

"I'm more like a caregiver. I could not deal with vomit and blood on a daily basis."

"Yet here you are. With me."

"You are not throwing up everywhere."

"Good to know I can rely on you if things get hard."

"You can rely on me," she says and Michelle's caught by tone; pointed, serious. She gets up, pushes her way through the bathroom door and flicks a light on. "There are towels and soap. It has a little seat too. Kind of cute."

"Good. I won't fall on my ass and need rescuing." The image of being sprawled naked and flailing in a stream of water, nurses rushing to her aide, isn't attractive.

"Clean negligee too." Thana pops back into the room with a grin, carrying another cursed hospital garment.

"Negligee?" Michelle chuckles. "It's a bloody smock."

She pushes the blanket down and dangles her legs over the side of the bed. She leans heavily on Thana to get the few metres to the bathroom, indebted of the support.

She doesn't stay under the water long, just enough to give her salty skin the once over with a washcloth. Her hair will have to wait till she's stronger, help while naked isn't an option, her body is in bad shape. No upkeep means hair everywhere. Highly embarrassing to parade in front of another person.

"You smell like roses," Thana comments with a smile when she gets Michelle back to bed.

She tucks the blankets around her like a protective mother hen.

"You're good at this. Full of bosh about the roses but you have a way."

Thana laughs, pure joy written on her face.

"Feel better now?"

"Much. Tired in a good way."

"Can I encourage you to eat a sandwich?" She holds the package aloft. "Ham and cheese, it will help keep your stomach settled. You do not need nausea on top of everything."

"Go on then. Mustn't expose you to vomit."

She gets through both halves under Thana's watchful gaze, she's close to chewing unconscious when she puts the last crust down and her guardian pulls the hospital trolley back from the bed. Michelle struggles to keep her eyes open.

"Sleep," Thana says. "You are safe."

"I'm scared. What if I don't remember anything when I wake up?"

"Then we will start again."

"Will you be here later?"

"As long as I'm welcome."

"You're welcome."

"Thank you," she smiles and the woman on the beds eyes fall shut.

*

She's woken by the boy-nurse entering the room. Thana is gone, the clock reads just past eight.

"I remember you," she says dozily to his cheerful face. "Owen."

"Awesome." It's a genuine response; he looks happy. "Did I wake you? Had a good night?"

He has a cup of pills and she accepts them because she's decided to trust what Thana's told her. She's decided to trust this young Scotsman.

"Yes, actually. I was reading my notebooks then I had a shower."

"On your own?" he asks with surprise.

"Thana helped me into the bathroom."

"Ah. Thana," he says. "Today, don't hesitate to call me if you need help. You mustn't feel obliged to do things on your own."

"I'm quite capable."

"You are, aren't you? How's the pain?"

"It's creeping in a bit now."

"Not surprising." He inserts a needle into her cannula. "You're doing incredibly well getting through such long stretches. It's another thing you must feel free to ask for, we want you comfortable. Breakfast's here," he says as a woman enters, places a tray on her trolley and fills her water jug. "You ate your sandwiches yesterday. Excellent."

He pulls the trolley closer to the bed as the meal lady leaves.

"And I slept so deeply."

"Good stuff. Is there anything at all I can get for you?"

"No." She picks her notebooks from the nightstand. "I'm going to read for a bit."

"A fine idea. Keep the brain stimulated. Pretty curious to know what's in those books myself."

"They're helping me remember, I've become aware that I've lost a year." She adds, "They're personal."

"Not to worry, I won't snoop," he grins.

He's not as solicitous as the caregiver, but she likes him. The recondite hardship veiled by buoyancy. She's glad it isn't a stranger.

"I know my brain is sick," she says quizzically and he makes a face.

"Don't let it get to you."

"You'll be here all day?"

"It's a privilege to be at your beck and call."

When he leaves, she sighs and takes a spoonful of soft egg. She notes 22nd December down in Notebook 3. She crosses out Night Nurse beside Thana and replaces it with Caregiver. The steaming mug of tea beside the plate makes her think of her story. The woman, Esme, and their bizarre interaction. She opens book 1 to its dog-ear.

Notebook 1 continued...

Esme was an oddity, misplaced in my world. After one limited conversation I reached the conclusion I was being tested on my de rigueur way of life. My ego viewed her as a personal crucible and about this, if nothing else, I was correct. I liked tests, I knew I would talk to her again. She was a challenge I accepted, and boy did she live up to it.

The following days found me scanning pedestrian faces coming and going on Thackeray. As I took in the strangers who lived around me, I was offered smiles and words of greeting I'd never noticed.

On Thursday, I made an effort to get home early and eat with Dominic like a normal engaged couple. He was in good spirits but table conversation seemed more drab than usual.

"You chew too loudly, Dominic. Close your mouth."

"Dinner at Mum and Dad's Saturday, don't forget," he said.

"For God's sake." Another two hour sit down with the prospective in-laws. Another matinee.

I felt him look at me. "Sweetheart."

"Sweetheart only ever means 'shut your mouth' in that tone."

"At least they're nice to you." He sounded as irritated about it as me, a sulky look on his face, elbows propped against the white damask tablecloth.

"Caroline will want to go through wedding magazines."

I concluded my meal almost untouched and travelled across the room to the windows.

"It's a woman thing." He raised his voice to cover the distance.

"I'm too old for the blushing bride routine," I sighed.

"The sexiest old lady I've ever seen."

The street below still carried people, wrapped from head to toe in winter woollens. Fog rose from their lungs and the crisp air formed halos around streetlamps. I heard Dominic move to the kitchen and clang his plate in the dishwasher.

"You're in one of your weird moods. Will you be standing there all night?" he called.

I spotted her as he finished the question, rounding the corner from Cambia Street, on foot and still a fair distance from her door; her shoulders hunched against the night and an oversized bag hugged to her side. My sight sharpened and pulse sped up. I checked my phone, almost eight. If I hurried, I could catch her right outside.

"Actually, I'm going for a walk. I need air," I said.

"In this weather?"

His footsteps approached and he laid a kiss on my cheek. I could smell his aftershave and takeout lobster on his breath. I shuffled from his proximity toward the coat closet.

"Won't be long." I gave him my best smile.

"Do what you have to do."

I bundled up in haste and took the elevator the three flights to street level.

She was almost at my building. Her head was down, tucked into a white cashmere scarf, eyes peeled to the pavement and I walked directly toward the storm. Normally people found this method of approach intimidating; they tended to recoil, as if I might attack them. Esme didn't, she stopped short and stood to my height. She peered at me, cheeks rosy from the cold, eyes sparkling. Her hair was pulled up in a topknot, hands stuffed in the pockets of a tailored coat, leather boots reaching up calves of thick, winter leggings. She looked good.

"Evening," I said, blocking her way and her mouth made a small O-shape.

"Walk with me," she invited eventually and shouldered past. "I have to keep my legs moving. This cold..."

I followed, falling into step beside her. I didn't question why I was back outdoors, wandering with a nobody when I should be settling in for the night. It felt natural.

"You were quite rude to me the other day."

"Did you like it?"

"A bit," I admitted. "Why did I like it?"

"You know why. You are bored."

"I work too hard to be bored."

She gave me a look. Pish, it said, and her body shivered inside its layers.

"Can I buy you a hot chocolate?" I gestured to the warm glow of Nero across the road and questioned with my eyes. She nodded.

Few customers so late, I hijacked a sofa and peeled my gloves off. Esme wore a pale blue popover under her coat, it made her eyes look bigger and deeper.

"What is it you do?" I asked, holding a finger flaccidly at the enormous messenger bag she placed on the floor.

"I draw."

"An artist, that doesn't surprise me. Could I see something?"

"Maybe." She made no move toward the bag.

The young barista brought two mugs and set them on the table, marshmallows floating thickly on top. It smelled delicious but I couldn't drink it, my diet was strict and the drink was an excuse. Esme had no such problem, she spooned one of the melting mallows into her mouth.

"Mm." She commented, "Most people would go to a bar this time of night."

"Flesh farms are Leah's scene, not mine," I said and a line formed between her brows.

"Do you look down on people seeking pleasure?"

"Depends. You don't seem like the bar type either."

"'The life of a hedonist is the best preparation for becoming a mystic.'"

"Who said that?"

"Hermann Hesse."

"Wasn't he a Nazi?"

"You are thinking of Rudolf Hess. Hermann Hesse won a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1946."

I concluded, "You're not the bar type."

"Tell me about the man you live with," she rechanneled and I was disappointed.

"Why?" I could think of more interesting things to talk about.

"Because I asked."

"He plays football and works in a gym."

"I'm not asking what he does for a living," she said and I knew.

I took an anxious glance at our surroundings, no one sat close.

"Can I trust you?"

"To do what?"

"Keep what I say private. I can't be canoodling with an enemy."

"You are a public figure," she nodded. "You can trust me. I am not interested in fanfare."

There was a few moments of silence while I studied her. She waited, not taking her eyes from mine.

"Dominic is five years younger than me," I said quietly. "He's learnt to say the right things at the right time, learnt to use his looks and charm to distract people. But it doesn't take much digging to see he has the personal depth of a teenager."

And there it was, my honest side; this is what my honest side does. I'd almost forgotten.

"This is the way you talk about the person you intend to marry?"

"I assumed you wanted the truth. You're the only one who does."

"Have you no sense of loyalty?"

"On the contrary, I like his lack of intellect. It makes him less of a monster than everyone else."

"You look around and see monsters. It says more about you than them."

"Maybe so, but it keeps me safe."

"From what?"

"Being used, I suppose."

"That you feel nothing for him makes him safe. You use and you are lonely."

"I have a fiancé, friends, family. You're the one who's always alone, I have everything."

"That prudently polished image you've concocted has. You have rallied all the expected things around but you tell me plainly your fiancé is a prop."

"I said no such thing." I paused to gather my thoughts. "Not just a prop anyway. He's a doorway, his family is upstanding; they have valuable connections."

"Forgive me, I thought you were superficial."

"Why does every sentence out of your mouth have to be so acerbic?"

"I would not waste spite on you unless I thought you were worth it. You should not be marrying a man you are able to talk about so callously."

Esme's role as crucible again seemed clear.

"He's pretty," I shrugged. "Easy to control too. It's a lot more than most men can offer. I'm thirty two, I don't want to end up a spinster."

"Why fear being alone? Only a pathetic person prefers a pretty lie to an ugly truth."

"Are you calling me pathetic?"

"Yes."

"Christ on a crutch."

"The world you occupy..." she trailed off softly and shook her head in disappointment.

"That world provides me with a position of respect, a family who welcomes me."

"How would this family feel if they heard you talk about their son the way you do?"

There it was, a simple question that caused my illusion to crumble. I would not admit it though, I would defend my position to the end. I could work with ugly truth.

"His family is largely comprised of success stories - sharp, business-minded people with unique intellect, yet somehow he turned out thick as two short planks. That's why they approved me straight away, they have a misguided idea his inferior brain will balance out with someone like me around. If they heard me talk about him this way, they would probably agree."

I toned down my honesty, laced it with a little lie, which immediately made me uncomfortable. Esme could see right through me, the woman was a witch. A lone ghost, all-seeing.

"You are not happy," she said. "You are a hypocrite, entombed by your own myopia."

"And you're the Devil propositioning a way out?"

Esme chuckled under her breath and a volt travelled up my back.

"Will you accept the deal?"

"I'm here, aren't I? What's in the fine print?"

"The Devil does not offer details."

I was able to forget we were different species for a moment. She put her cup down and pointed to my gradually cooling one.

"Are you going to drink that?"

"No."

She reached forward and pulled it to her.

"Help yourself, please."

"Waste not, want not. That term is correct?"

"Correct. Can I assume you don't have a partner?"

"You can."

"Why not?"

"I don't require a relationship for public affirmation."

"But wouldn't it be nice? To have someone?"

"Is it nice for you?"

I didn't answer; the reasons it was nice would not be adequate for someone like Esme. She narrowed her eyes at my silence.

"Do you think he loves you?"

"Of course."

"The way you want to be loved?"

I didn't know how I wanted to be loved. I assumed she was talking about romantic love, about which I was wise enough to realise I knew nothing. I inhaled and exhaled a slow breath through my nose.

"You're an idealist, Esme. You think the world can be turned into a fairy-tale just by sticking to a set of overly moralistic principles. It's sweet but it's sophomoric. I wish it could be so simple, but it just isn't."

"Yet here I still am. With my ideology. And you are listening to it. Are you not afraid I will contaminate your perfect, unconscionable world with my ideas?"

The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention.

"Are you happy? On that lonely podium?"

"Reality is perceiver-dependant. My fairy-tale world exists to me, but because of your kind of mentality, it is mostly comprised of villains. I am happy knowing I have not sold out, altered my way of looking at life so assholes appear acceptable. Have you heard the saying, 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth'?"

"My mother used to use that bloody phrase," I scoffed.

"She was probably forewarning you about the future," she said and I waited for her to go on. "Your clothes, your accessories, your apartment, your fiancé. You say if you were to lose them the fight would begin again, but what if this time your fight was not successful? It happens to thousands of materialists every day. Would your self-esteem go down, would you become depressed, lose hope. After months and years, would you turn to drink and pills?"

"Months and years?" I visualised it. "I don't know."

"Buddhism considers the self to be a fiction and the primary cause of human suffering."

"Are you a Buddhist?"

"The world could benefit from more philosophy."

"Really."

"When you crave material things or desire compliments to enhance your reputation, Buddhism says you are treating your fictional self as real, reifying the self. They may bring instant gratification but they also entrap you and cause persistent suffering. To a Buddhist, a self is worse than a passing physical illness, it is an enduring affliction."

"Is this why you think I'm unhappy?"

"This is why I know you are unhappy. Your priorities are not aligned with your needs, you have lost sight of why you are driven for advancement."

"At least I'm not wearing fuck-me boots," I beaned and she glanced down then back at me in dismay.

"Fuck me boots? Do people call them that? Why?"

"That's what they say. Fuck me."

"Oh no, this is not good. I do not want to say it to everyone on the street." She looked so worried for a few seconds, I stifled a laugh.

"I was being snide. My point is, I don't see you minimising your needs. Your apartment is huge."

"You do not see me bitching publicly about the inequality paradox either."

"Sound logic. How do you afford that place anyway, if you spend your time drawing?"

"My uncle owns the building. Call me the super."

"He must be wealthy."

"Yes. He is an intelligent and good man."

"Are your parents in England too?"

"They died a long time ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

People were often surprised I had one dead parent at thirty two and Esme couldn't have reached thirty yet. Her shrug told me she wasn't interested in speaking of her family.

"If I'm not a self, what am I?" I asked.

"A tiny part of an intricately woven network in which everything affects everything else. One person has a brain, but an entire population contributes to a mind. It is a philosophy you should embrace if you want to be an honourable prime minister."

I studied her with a frown. "That's a large leap. Prime minister."

"Your seat in the House of Commons is secure, but Dhruv Hale's credibility has been ruptured. You are primed to take over leadership soon."

"Okay, so you've heard the rumours. That's all they are, rumours."

"You are ambitious, aren't you?"

"Yes." I stared, her pupils were the tiniest pinpoints swimming in dark blue. "I'm ambitious."

"You are right, you have worked hard to get to this point and are still young. You are not the type who would lead as a puppet, but you must care about people. Not from a distance, but up close and personal."

I narrowed my eyes further. She knew me. She may not have accepted everything with grace but she knew who I was.

"Is your mother Christian?" she asked.

"Protestant."

"The idea prevails in western culture as well. To excess, creature comforts carry great risk, you end up lost without them. They make you brittle; in most cases inner strength and material wealth are irreconcilable. The meek maxim is not Buddhist, it is from the New Testament, but being raised Protestant, you must know that."

"I put religion behind me years ago. Too much double-dealing."

"That is ironic coming from you. No one should allow negative facets to diminish the value of historic writings."

"Not everybody's so good at distinguishing between the two." I paused to reflect and came out with, "I believe I have inner strength."

"More than you know," Esme agreed, to my surprise. "But you have not tapped into it, and the time will come when you are going to need it."

"You're not some kind of life-coach, are you?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You're mentoring me," I said.

"You concern me. A person poised for great responsibility on a power trip."

The way she spoke indicated no condescension. She believed in me, maybe more than I did.

When I left the cafe that night and watched her walk in the opposite direction, it was with reluctance. Like with that first cavalier look she catered, she burnt a bit deeper under my skin.

Her treatment may not have been wrought with the kind of regard I demanded from others but there was a level of intimacy to it I hadn't encountered before. I disliked not Esme herself but the undeniable attraction. It may simply have involved opposition and I briefly considered the possibility I was turning into a masochist. My conclusion was negative on this; her words felt less like abuse than the lies others offered; her ability to tell and siphon truth was a mark of respect. All the layers of deceit I dealt in through the day were stripped bare and I found it a relief. An inelegant relief. I was being offered an anodyne, if only for a short period; my world laid bare in all its imperfection.

Dominic and I had dinner at Bel Canto that Thursday. I studied him over the table as he talked about his teammates. He was a handsome devil, chiselled jaw and playful green eyes; I concentrated on those. We hadn't had sex in days, the scary part was I couldn't remember how many. I rushed him through dessert and borderline dragged him home. For multiple reasons we had to have sex, stat as far as I was concerned. I initiated with aggression when we reached the apartment and Dominic responded eagerly. The simplicity of men, I thought, when half-way through it occurred to me I wasn't going to orgasm. I started it but was taking no pleasure from the act. I could hear the noises coming from my mouth, could detect the usual movements of my body; but they were no indication of how I felt. That I was having a full-blown debate with myself on my sexual proclivities. How often did I do this, I wondered, how often did I fake? It hadn't been a habit; our compatibility may have ended there but Dominic and I used to have a healthy sex life.

It's since he moved in, I realised. I was a walking cliché; my desire for Dominic had dwindled since our commitment to each other. And now I was actually faking to get it over quicker. I shouldn't have to pretend, I should push him away right now.

Esme wouldn't bother pretending.

I don't know why that thought occurred to me at that precise moment, but with it came Esme's face and voice, her scathing criticisms; the utter composure with which she delivered them. And abruptly the noises I was making turned genuine. Truly, fantastically real. I reached down to my clit to help it along and kept Esme's memory in my mind. The orgasm came quickly and explosively, the relief and release too satisfying for me to question the method by which I achieved it. I didn't allow the turning-point veracity of the act to sink in - that the first nail had just been pulled from my figurative coffin of an engagement.

I tried to marshal the minutiae of work in the following days. The few times I stood at my windows late at night, the street below was empty. I realised I was expecting to see Esme and every time she failed to appear, I felt a little more disappointed. My state became comparable to withdrawal from her truisms. I was famished for them.

At seven thirty, a week from our last conversation, my feet refused to carry me past her building. I itched as I slowed at her entrance, backed up and pressed the buzzer for 10. She took too long to answer and I got paranoid about whether it was appropriate to visit this way, but Esme didn't fall in line with rules of what was appropriate or not.

"Yes?" finally reached through the intercom.

"It's Michelle," I said and gripped the thermo-traveller I carried tightly.

She didn't reply. A crackle then buzz sounded and I stepped inside the entranceway.

My throat constricted when I saw her, holding the door to number 10 open only a few centimetres. She looked unsurprised by the visit and peered at me through sedate eyes, ringed with the same heavy eyeliner she seemed so fond of. Her irises were not a pure blue, I observed; in that bright, foyer light there were flecks of green and grey I hadn't noticed before.

"A home visit from Michelle Coderre. What a privilege," she said.

"May I come in?"

She disappeared, leaving the door ajar and I pushed my way inside.

The living area was spacious and sparsely furnished, making Esme's figure seem smaller within. She sat at a window seat, sparkling lights through the glass behind her, knees up and an enormous pad against them, pencil in hand.

"I haven't seen you around for a few days," I said and pressed my lips together stubbornly to prevent anything further coming out.

"Mm," Esme grunted.

The western wall, stacked art supplies, two easels against it, and plastered with sketches, summoned me. The drawings were of little creatures with black eyes in various poses, detailed to the extreme. On the right, the creatures were presented beautifully, soft mouths with tiny babies in their arms; the cutest things I'd never imagined. As my eyes moved leftward, their poses changed, they turned aggressive. By the far left, their faces were terrifying; madness in their eyes, sharp fangs bared as they snarled and screamed from their white windows. While those on the right inspired a warm rush of affection, these I wanted to run from and forget I ever saw.

"Are they aliens?" I asked, my voice almost lost in the space of the place.

"Earthlings," she said and I turned from the drawings to look at her. "Tibetan snub-nosed monkeys."

She kept her eyes on her page and I studied the detail of the sketches again.

"You must have altered them. These things can't be real."

"The duality of nature is more astonishing than fiction."

"I'm not sure what... You have talent, Esme."

"You don't have to be polite, you can say what you feel."

"They're frightful."

"That's better. Thank you."

I propped my bag against the only sofa in the sprawling room, a sapphire-blue camelback, and my cup on a low side table. The delicate scent of cinnamon and apple permeated the air and a small, grey cat, lay curled on a cushion, one eye open a slit, observing me. The scene was rather domestic, the scent of something my mother used to make.

"Sit down," Esme ordered. "She won't bite you."

She wore faded jeans with tears at the knees, a woollen jumper and beige sheepskin boots. She looked painfully comfortable compared to me. I obeyed and eyeballed the cat in return.

"What's her name?"

"Higgins."

"That's so English," I laughed.

"She is a stuck-up English cat. How are you?"

"Not so wonderful," I said. I didn't come here to lie.

"Tell me your troubles, child," Esme responded in a priest-like baritone.

"No troubles, not really." I failed to follow through on the honesty. "Just some anxiety. The usual."

"Sometimes it helps sticking a finger in your anus," she said flatly.

I transferred my gaze from the cat. "Excuse me?"

"A good hard rub will be sufficient mostly, but in extreme cases full penetration is necessary," she drawled.

"Bloody hell," I commented after a moment's wide-eyed silence. "You're serious."

"The anal sphincter holds a lot of tension and can become neglected. You look like the kind of person who suffers from constipation a lot. It is not sexual, it's like yoga but quicker, all you need to do is pop to the ladies. Remember to wash your hands."

She didn't look at me, kept her concentration on her pad and I noticed a charcoal smudge on the defined line of her jaw. I stared at it, the small detail hypnotic.

"You're an aberration."

"Try it. Better than Klonopin."

"I can't leave the office in the middle of a meeting to finger my asshole."

"Up to you," she shrugged. "You are thinking I say these things to shock you."

"Of course you do."

I watched her wool-cased shoulders rise indifferently again. The wool-knit was getting under my skin. While normally I would associate it with old ladies' moth-eaten cardigans, on Esme it took on a charm, made me want to get close, touch, smell it. The memory of Esme's face being responsible for my last orgasm inconveniently recurred. I bit my lip and glanced away from the woman, colour rising in my cheekbones. I pushed the thought away and was glad Esme wasn't focussed on me.

"What are you drawing? More monkeys?"

"Yes."

"May I see?"

She twisted the pad around and I made my way over to study it. This one was different. The monkey was singular from the torso down, but upwards its body twisted into two separate creatures, like Siamese twins. The left was beautiful, serene; the right screamed and clawed at the left as if in terrible agony from the process of emerging. It was disturbing and I opened my mouth to comment, but Esme got up abruptly and tossed the pad onto her seat in a careless fashion.

"You will stay for a piece of pie," she said and walked toward the kitchen.

"Pardon?" My eyes remained on the grotesque sketch, view at an awkward angle.

"Pie. It is cool enough."

Her voice got muffled by the distance and I tore my eyes from the drawing and followed, abandoning the cat to her snooze. Esme fossicked in a drawer and I sat at the table. The mentioned pie was placed on it and a plate and fork in front of me. It was homemade and reminded me more of my mother. It looked delicious and my stomach howled a command.

"I can't eat that," I said, ignoring the plea. "Too much sugar."

"Apple and rhubarb," Esme mumbled. She'd ignored me. She dished a triangle onto my plate and added a large dollop of cream. "I made it myself."

"It smells good. But really, I can't have any."

"You have lost a lot of weight recently," she continued, forking a portion from her own plate into her mouth. A spot of cream clung to her lip and I stared at it. I had the unwonted compulsion to wipe it away with my finger.

"That's not true," I lied. I picked up a fork and poked at the creamy crumble, the motion of fork to mouth instinctive.

"Are you doing it for your wedding? If so, it is counter-productive. You do not look well."

"Thank you so much. We haven't set a date yet. I have to watch my diet, I'm thirty two." I talked with my mouth full but it didn't register. I had to stop mentioning my age, maybe I expected Esme to supply her own. She didn't.

"It is the wrong time of year to drop so much weight." The spot of cream was still on her lip and I kept my fork busy to stop myself staring at it. "You have to have some meat on you in winter."

"Sod off, Esme. Why do I bother with you."

"You know I'm right."

I didn't answer. That stupid bloody orgasm; and the spot of cream... I couldn't take the risk of blushing again, not while we were facing each other this way.

"You have a...um..." I gestured at her lip without meeting her eyes and Esme dabbed a napkin against it before continuing eating. I needed to fill the silence. "Do you draw all day?"

"I was in court for six hours today," she said. "Jury duty."

"God." My eye-roll was an expression of true sympathy. "What's the case?"

"Murder. 'God' is right, the justice system is one of the elements of modern society you politicians need to pay attention to. It requires a heavy-duty overhaul."

I admired the way she turned it around; they would have been warned not to speak about a case to outsiders.

"Oh? Do explain the failings of the criminal justice system."

"Even if DNA evidence connects a defendant to a crime," she said, stabbing her fork emphatically into the innocent air, "it does not determine whether they had intent. The jury's role in many cases is to decide on degree of culpability so that an appropriate sentence can be handed out, yes?"

"Right."

"By mental inference, twelve individuals must decide if a person intended to cause harm. Jurors have the implausible duty of being clairvoyant."

"You're dramatizing. Clairvoyant is hardly an accurate term, and even if it was, it's an innate human quality, to be able to read a person's expressions, judge their feelings. You yourself said it takes a population to make a mind."

"I did say that. But this has more to do with the disparity between individual brains. In a predicting brain, a judgement is a guess constructed based upon the defendant's actions and there is no objective criterion of intent. A judgement is dependent on jurors' emotion concepts, which may be very different than the emotion concepts of the defendant."

I chewed over the words before I spoke.

"You're saying that unless the judge and jurors ways of feeling and expressing emotion align with the defendant's then the whole process is flawed."

"Precisely. A prime case in point is how deeply culture determines actions and experiences. For example, a male raised in Ukraine is accused of murder; on the stand he displays little emotion because stoicism is part of how males are taught to behave in that country. By contrast, a female raised in the UK would likely express great regret, even if she does not feel it, because that is what she has been taught she should be feeling. While English jurors may see the males' outward stoicism as an expression of guilt without remorse and give him the fullest sentence, the woman might receive a lesser sentence. Just for doing what is expected of her."

"That's a broad example, but you're dead right."

"Simple cultural differences cause misunderstandings all the time and it gets serious in a courtroom where you are playing with a person's future. When that misunderstanding could be the difference between a few years or a whole life in prison."

"They picked the right person for the job, you're obviously taking it seriously. Have you studied law?"

"It is not an issue of law, it is an issue of psychology, which has applications in every other field."

"Like politics?" I said and she nodded. I wanted to keep her talking, I liked the sound of her voice.

"Think about the First Amendment Right of the American Constitution."

"You'll get yourself in trouble if you start debating that," I chuckled but Esme continued undeterred.

"It was founded on the notion that free speech produces a war of ideas which eventually allow truth to prevail. In 1787 the authors did not understand that culture wires the brain, that our environment turns genes on and off. Once an idea is hardwired, it is difficult for a person to reject it."

"Are you really sitting there arguing against freedom of speech?"

"Yes. Ideas are always behind actions; while law targets illegal action, it does not do anything about the likely causes. That is a policy issue. But as you know, people are attached to their freedom to talk rubbish, even if it spreads hate."

"You're a radical."

"You could not disagree with the progress we have made in all fields of understanding since 1787. Not rewriting policy in accordance with new knowledge is an act of negligence and outright idiocy. There is no question that if we are to survive and make progress, people will need to give up certain freedoms. 'Free men are not equal, equal men are not free. Freedom is not free.'"

"Now you sound like a communist."

I scraped my fork against my plate and found it forlornly barren.

"You've finished it," Esme said.

"What?" I absorbed the empty dish and dejected smears of pie and cream on the plate in front of me, felt myself go pale. I wasn't queasy, just appalled. "No. I can't have."

"You did well. Once you got started."

"You distracted me," I accused. "Oh no, that's not good. I'm so sorry, your pie."

I was deeply embarrassed. Esme had watched me stuffing my face without realising it. The woman had barely blinked. To think I had been a smidge triumphant for getting her to speak freely.

"I had a piece. I made it for you anyway. Relax, it was a small pie."

"For me?"

"I thought I would have a visitor tonight," she shrugged and took the plates to the sink.

I stared at her. I didn't know what to say, thought maybe I wanted to hug her but didn't know how hugs worked with someone like Esme. It might turn awkward, especially with the sex scene memory still indecently fresh in my mind. Then I thought maybe I should yell at her; the sneaky bitch had watched me consume three slices of pie and hadn't stopped me.

Esme returned to her seat, linked her hands together primly and tilted her head in thought.

"Despite what I said, you are not wrong in viewing the world as full of monsters," she said.

"Perish the thought."

"It is the knowledge that at any given moment on this planet, millions of living creatures are in emotional and physical torment. This world is a faulty, warped place. We have only the illusion of law and order, any intelligent person can see that. Most choose not to because if they did, they would want to kill themselves twenty four hours a day."

Again, I stared at her.

"I liked you better when you weren't agreeing with me. You don't talk about yourself much."

"I think you like that, I think you do not want to know my life story." She paused then said, "I had a dream last night that I stabbed someone and liked it. Freud would say it was all about penis envy and the desire to penetrate."

My eyes widened. Eventually I said, "When you're open, you are really open."

She nodded. "Freud might be right."

"You want to penetrate."

"Everyone does."

"Okay. I have to ask, are you a little bit barmy?" She met my eyes with a smile.

"A little bit?"

"There are loads of levels to mental illness, aren't there?"

"Oh yes. And a lot more we have not put in a box yet."

"Well?"

"I'm as sane as you are."

"Are you insulting me or denying lunacy? I can never tell with you."

"Would I know if I was insane? Would I admit it?"

"Can you tell me something about yourself that's not designed to shock?"

She went quiet for a minute, her gaze never straying from my face.

"I don't want to take anything for granted," she said. "Not one thing. Everything I see, all the little things I use, from toothbrush to teabags, every tiny detail of my world," she pointed an index finger at me, "every person I see, talk to, who looks at me; I want to hold it all in suspended animation. Never underestimated, never forgotten. Is that boring enough for you?"

Those particular words have possessed my memory since, and gnawed at me worse after my diagnosis.

"Not at all, it's romantic," I said.

"But honest."

"I never understood how anyone could think lies romantic."

"People are so eager to see romance, they will accept anything."

"Hmm. A truth is only a truth temporarily."

"I will take the long-term truth." She leaned forward across the table. "I will tell you a secret," she said so quietly I leaned in too. It was barely a whisper, rendering it all the more powerful and I watched. "There is a part of me that hates men. They cannot be trusted. It is their penises, they make them do terrible things. If they all had their dick chopped off at birth, they would not be so bad."

She was baldly stuck on the subject of penetration that night, but her tone was sombre, without a trace of amusement; my head nodded automatically in agreement. The big, blue eyes continued to look into mine, as if in fear of her own admission.

I couldn't say anything, she was so close. Such terribly dowdy clothes and I was peeling them off her mentally; her entire body must be covered in that milky skin. Insane. I wanted to kiss her; it took an enormous amount of effort not to close the small distance and press my lips to hers. The reality of the urge battered with herculean force.

"I want your number," I blurted to stop myself.

But the association had been made, the desire was set, I watched in a state of temptation while she pressed her number into my phone and handed it back to me. It was overwhelming, it scared the shit out of me.

"I have to go," I said and rose quickly from my seat.

She did not seem bothered by my abrupt departure.

I didn't register the cold walk home that night. Inside my apartment I heard the television coming from the living area. I went straight to the bathroom and locked myself inside. I couldn't see Dominic until I'd pulled myself together. I sat and discovered tears cumulating in my eyes. I had not cried for a long time. I didn't swallow them back, better to get them out, get it over with while I was alone.

I should have known Esme's pull on me was more than intellectual after that orgasm. Maybe I should have known from the first time our eyes met, but the realisation was boiling oil in my veins. I'd never thought of another woman that way. Even if I did, it was Esme for God's sake, we were so different. Maybe that was the appeal, I thought, restlessly wiping my tears. Maybe I had eaten too much pie and upset my rationale.

She had given me her number so easily...

I'm getting married. It should have been a comforting, innocent thought, but soon my cheeks were wet again.

*

Michelle has reached the end of notebook 1. She pulls the glasses from her ears and rubs at her eyes. Shuts them with a deep exhalation. She dozes quietly until the meal lady enters with a tray and a smile. Michelle observes the room, dazed. Thana sits in her usual chair but the meal lady doesn't acknowledge her.

"Garlic chicken Kiev for you tonight," she says.

"Thank you, I will do my best."

The plump, grey-haired woman pauses to study Michelle with shining eyes before she exits.

"What was that all about?" Michelle turns to her caregiver.

"People love you," she says. "They are a little afraid of you, but they love you."

"Why?"

Thana doesn't answer, just gives a small shrug and keeps smiling. Michelle rests her head with a sigh.

"You look troubled. What's wrong?"

"It's the notebooks. Even if it's pure fantasy, their contents is a surprise."

"What do you feel when you are reading? Do you feel it is not true?"

"I don't know." She frowns. "No, it feels familiar in a way. It's just...incredibly confronting."

"Is it the woman again, the woman who hates you?"

Michelle waves the question away under her intensive watch.

"It's very personal. Would you make sure no one else touches them? Just, if I'm asleep or in the bathroom and you see someone..." She trails away.

"I will make sure," Thana agrees.

Three: Dream Within

Michelle dreams she's a building in a city ravaged by war and sickness. Her windows are broken and her electric doors no longer function. The life of humans has changed and they don't look after her anymore, they drop bombs that destroy her neighbours. Months pass, years. The people who climb her stairs dwindle, till she is invaded only by looters and those sickly few seeking shelter for a night as they scavenge the landscape. They smash what little glass she has left and steal the wood from her walls to burn. A pack of wild dogs are her last occupants then she's empty, no one comes. She is empty and unloved. Her city, the people who made her, have expired.

She wakes. She waves her hands in front of her face for assurance. She's not a building, but the dream has left her feeling prickly all over.

Grey light streams in the windows, the clock reads eleven and Thana is gone. Her notebooks lie innocuously beside her.

The contents of the books doesn't seem to pertain to her illness or how she got here at all. She wonders if she were right to trust Thana; she could reach the end without learning anything at all.

But she can't resist reading more, she has nothing else to do and wants to flush the dream away. She takes up notebook 2.

Notebook 2

I kept my head down on Thackeray for the next few days. I thought about Esme's number many times but couldn't bring myself to use it. In a state of confusion, my method was avoidance. Talking over the phone didn't appeal to me anyway; I liked looking her in the eye when she delivered her reprimands.

The first morning I stopped in at Nero alone, an ordained rendezvous occurred. Dominic had left for training early and I had some emails to read. I was bent low, rummaging in my messenger bag when two shapely legs, emerging from a layered knee-length skirt, stopped in front of me and I craned my neck up.

When I met her playful eyes, I knew it wasn't a one-off; I wanted to kiss her again right now.

At the time, I couldn't decide if it was just Esme or if it was possible for someone to reach thirty two without knowing they were attracted to women. I'd encountered such stories before and always ridiculed them, labelling the person either ignorant or cowardly. Was I an ignorant coward? I thought, maybe. True personal emotion played little part in my life except as a danger.

"Say something insulting," I spouted up at her. "Quick."

"You are too image-conscious. It is a vile trait."

"Okay," I inhaled and sat back.

"May I?" she gestured to an empty chair and I nodded.

"You're up early. Court again today?"

"In a couple of hours." She eyed the plate in front of me. "That croissant is inviting."

"I'll get you one," I said, pulling my purse out.

"No." She opened her bag. "You should not be buying me things."

"You shouldn't be feeding me apple pie," I said and went to the counter before she could argue.

When I returned I concentrated on my plate, I was avoiding her eyes and I was hungry that morning. Hearing the small groan of satisfaction that emerged from Esme's mouth when she tasted hers whet my appetite further. And turned me on.

"Who is your emergency contact, Michelle?"

"Sorry?"

"Emergency contact. The name you put on applications and such?"

"Why on earth would you want to know that?"

"It says something about a person, who their emergency contact is."

I considered. "It's usually my sister."
"The sister you make cry?"

"Leah might be a skank but she's incredibly calm in a crisis. Besides, she's the only one who lives in London and we don't keep much contact with our other siblings."

"But it's not your fiancé? What is his name?"

"Dominic. I suppose it will be soon."

"Do you and he have anything in common?"

"Neither of us want children."

"That is a big thing."

"Do you want kids?"

"I am not engaged."

"But do you?"

"Children are all right. Child birth scares me."

The crinkle which formed in her nose was adorable. I couldn't have agreed more.

"I find it rather disturbing myself."

"Look at that man in the corner," she said and I turned to see a very old gentleman hunched over a book at the back of the cafe. "What do you see when you look at him?"

"Age. Death. I see death and grief."

"You should see life, a boundless understanding and wealth of experience. You see the book he is reading? The Inevitable by Kevin Kelly; it is about the technological forces that will shape our future. Last week, it was a book on the failings of capitalism and how it will end. He feels outdated and tries to keep up with modern culture. He succeeds, his savoir faire of how readily times change throughout history gives him unique insight as recipient of new information. His mind is sharp and useful."

"You see all that?"

She nodded. "There are real people around us. Beautiful people."

Her assessment was sentimental. When I glanced at the man again, I saw it too. I looked back at her. Forget horns and storms, I could see a fucking halo around her head. She tore another section off her croissant and chewed it thoughtfully.

"Why are you staring at my breasts?" she asked out of the blue.

"For Heaven's sake. I was looking at your hands, they are quite elegant."

She wiggled them suggestively. "Piano fingers. I can do amazing things with these."

I bet you can, I thought. I said, "Do you play?" and her answer was unexpected.

"I play at Table du Roi three nights a week."

"You never said!"

She laughed at my surprise. "Did you think I do not work?"

"I don't know. Table du Roi is classy, you must be good."

"I hate all the stuffy rich people who leave most of their food on the plate. Why order, I always think, why order if you are not going to eat it. Senseless," she muttered.

"You're right," I smiled. "It is bloody senseless. It's a relief to say it."

"I am a good influence on you."

"My aunt Fanny," I said and Esme frowned, glanced around then looked back at me.

"What about her?"

Her vacuous face made me laugh.

"It's an expression of disbelief."

"I will have to remember that. Aunt Fanny? Seems strange." She looked doubtful but when I laughed again, she smiled. "You have a beguiling laugh, you should do it more."

"Golly, Ez. It worries me when you say nice things."

"I will remember that too."

"I tried to learn piano at school."

"Did you like it?"

"I was no good. I realised young my talent lay in protecting artists not being one."

"Ah, yes. You know your place, for what is a politician if not a protector."

"A crook," I offered and she simpered.

"You are coming back to earth." She nodded her approval.

I always felt like I was in a dream with her, like we were outside our own worlds, our own timelines. In the duration since, that sense has only increased. With such differing lives, we could only meet at the bridge in the middle, a place where we were separate from everyone else.

Esme became a confidante to me over the next few weeks. I encouraged Dominic to train early so I could be alone with her at Nero some mornings, and when schedules allowed, I visited her apartment at night. She pushed treats on me when I was there, and I developed a habit of accepting them.

She didn't have a background in the details of legislation or public policy but she listened, reacted, and continued to remind me of the bigger picture. She was a different kind of smart than I was used to, she invested her brain on a personal level, not for work or money. She always told me when I was being bitchy or unreasonable, and her outbursts could come at unexpected times over odd issues.

Her past, her family or friends were not talked about, but she never bored me. For the most part, I ignored my phone when we were together. The more I got to know her, the more interested I was. Her origins became tantalising, which was why I didn't ask direct questions. Her riddle was my treasure trove, Pandora's Box. When I think about that now, it sounds appallingly selfish, but she seemed as satisfied with the status of our friendship as me. Because that was what it turned into, a friendship; the most reliable friendship I'd ever had.

Her French was superior to mine, and she was equally fluent in Romanian and Russian. Too often I asked her to repeat something in Romanian. Her voice did things to me; risqué things, things I should not be feeling. It was guilt-inducing and exhilarating. My painful attraction made our friendship less than ideal. Physically, emotionally, intellectually, it increased with each passing week. I learnt to hide it, I was sure she was unaware.

I made a true effort not to think about her during sex with Dominic, but the resulting orgasm when I did was beyond my control to resist. It was phenomenal, dangerous because when I fought to dispel her image, my enthusiasm in bed was irrefutably phony.

There were moments with Esme when I forgot about my life almost entirely, like the night she blazed me out without blinking. We were sitting on her sofa and I'd been ogling the ashtray on the coffee table for some time before I said anything.

"Is that a joint?"

She glanced at it noncommittally. "Yes. Do you want some?"

"No!"

"It is medicinal. In fact, it might help your anxiety."

"Better than a finger up my ass, you mean?"

"No, not better than that."

"I haven't smoked since university."

"Boring. It helps me see things for what they are." Her eyes smiled, the sneaky devil could see I was considering it.

"Will you sprout horns if I have a puff?"

"My horns are shy. Maybe for you they will emerge."

She pulled the ashtray toward her and lit up. I was mesmerised by the lips that held the fat cigarette, so plump, so smooth. It was them I wanted, but I would settle for anything that had touched them. My desire had become a cause for concern.

She taught me how to mambo that night, I have no memory of what caused the subject to arise but it was the most fun I'd had in years. I watched her body move with grace and my heart stopped every time she took my hand.

When I got home after ten, and still slightly stoned, Dominic was watching television in the living area. He smiled but didn't get up for a kiss, nor did I stoop to him for one. I sat on the edge of an armchair and studied him.

"Are you going to ask why I'm so late?"

"You worked late. You always work late, my little wife-to-be," he said blithely.

My grimace at the acronym must have been visible but his eyes were back on the screen. If the wife-to-be label caused me offence, how was wife supposed to work, I wondered.

Then the day came when I felt the knock of outside influences interrupt my unorthodox alliance with Esme. At Nero one morning, she told me she'd been on a date the night before. It was said casually in response to a question I've now forgotten.

The chill that crept through me was pure panic, which I did my utmost to hide.

"With whom?"

"A violinist. He had nice hair."

"How was it?"

"Fascinating," she said.

Damnation. I was sure it must have shown; that for me, this news was a crushing disaster.

"I thought you weren't interested in social validation. Will you go out with him again?"

"No. The dating ritual amuses me more than anything. The mating ritual, it is so artificial. I try to inject some spice but it goes unappreciated by most. They think I am...what was the word you used? Barmy. They think I am barmy."

I laughed. A laugh of authentic succour.

"A date with you would be interesting. Another night without penetration then?"

Her eyes studied my lips. I shouldn't have asked that, I was being examined and felt the threat of a blush.

"He was too pompous. He could not get me wet if he tried," she said, studious in placing statements for optimal jolt value.

A small squeak escaped my throat and Esme laughed.

"I have another one Friday night with an artist," she continued before I'd had time to recover, my eyes narrowed again. "An artist might be less formal than a violinist."

I looked down at my coffee, took a sip.

"Dominic and I have to attend a fund-raiser that night," I said quietly.

Because I didn't want to grill her about another date, because I didn't want to show the fear that gripped me. I had no right to be jealous, I was engaged; Esme wasn't for me. She never would be. She'd never told me of dates before and now two within a few days. She was dating, she was looking for someone. She would be snapped up soon and we wouldn't have our exclusive talks anymore. It bruised me and the following day found me looking at life through a grey lens. The threat of losing my time with her weighed heavily. I thought I'd get over it, I thought it was an irrational infatuation; one easily overcome if I just continued to resist.

I held clinic in my office on Friday afternoon, listening to constituent complaints on the quality of public services. It was busy enough for me to consciously forget, not only about Esme's date but about my own scheduled dinner. It was there though, lurking in my unconscious, my actions after work had sorrow-drowning written all over them. By seven thirty my feet were carrying me to Day's End, a small bar on the corner of Soryn Street. Not a pick-up bar; people went there alone, its vibe was gloomy, subdued, a reality vacation for solitary drinkers.

It was warm, respite from the biting wind, and just dark enough to suit my mood. I tucked myself into a secluded spot, pulled my laptop onto the table and started a tab with a strawberry Daiquiri. I immersed myself in writing a speech on global crisis for an upcoming charity event and the barkeep kept the Daiquiri's flowing. My output was poor that evening but it was an enjoyable two hours destroyed, 'labouring' while getting patiently pickled.

I started thinking of Esme's words in our second conversation. It hadn't occurred to me at the time, but now I wondered if she'd been suggesting I take her to a bar. A bar would be date-like. I tried to imagine her date with the violinist, Esme's expressions; her presumably condescending responses to lacklustre backchat. If I wasn't so relieved, I might have felt sorry for the violinist. The excitement a person would feel to even have her accept a night out with them. I wanted that excitement, I wanted that chance. So bad it brought stinging tears to my eyes.

I knew it was time to leave when the blurred words on the screen became difficult to read. If I didn't get out now I'd be too legless to make it home. The bartender offered to call a taxi but I was full of rum confidence.

Snow was falling when I got outside. Tiny white fairies drifting down from the heavens, settling on my shoulders and hair. I pulled my gloves on, adjusted my scarf and wandered toward Thackeray, staring upward. The scene was psychedelic, I was too loaded for the cold to be a bother.

A part of me was aware I shouldn't be visiting in this state, but it was weak and bullied to submission by my desire to see her. I buzzed number 10 when I reached her building. Not until I'd waited a full minute did I realise she wasn't there and remembered her date with the artist. An artist, I glowered. What did she want with an artist? I wasn't good enough for her, a mere politician. It was nine thirty, it should have been over by now. It must have gone well, the idea made my heart sink. I felt angry and rejected. Then childish and ashamed.

I didn't want to go home. Instead I stumbled to the bus stop and sat on a bench to watch the snow. It was picking up, swirling in the tawny luminescence of a street lamp. I lay down to get a better view and thoughts of Esme refused to let me be. She should be home, I thought, she should be home by now.

"You tricked me," I heard myself mumble. "The Devil..."

My mind drifted, lying on that bench like a hobo. Snowflakes melted on my face and trickled inside my scarf. The dampness worked its way through my thick coat and eventually, my skirt. I felt my ass going numb and didn't care, I wanted the cold to take me, my perfect life felt like a misadventure.

Time passed before I heard the accent I needed. "Crazy liberal. What are you doing?"

I opened my eyes; my vision was hazy but her voice was unmistakable.

"You're here," I said dreamily.

Esme's face peered into mine; her eyes looked enormous, giant eyes bending over me.

"You are drunk," she said and I beamed.

"Not drunk... Maybe a liddle bit."

"Silly. You are proving me right about being breakable."

The words melted into each other but I was so happy to see her.

"You're for me. My ghost," I said.

"You are turning blue."

"I am blue," I agreed.

She gripped under my shoulder, urging me up.

"Come on, up." Her voice was firm, I had no choice but to obey unsteadily. "Walk," she ordered, then a less audible mutter, "O Doamne, Michelle."

"Meeeshelllll," I imitated with a giggle.

I don't remember much between then and waking, I felt I could slip away now Esme was there. I made it up to her apartment because, when I woke, all I could smell was her. The bedroom had unfamiliar green light spilling from the street through tightly sealed windows and snow still fell beyond them. I was warm and lay stretched on my side in a bed like a cloud, my knees and feet sinking into its softness. I wasn't wearing the restrictive suit I'd had on earlier, I was far too comfortable. I stayed still, Esme's scent was everywhere. Her heat soaked into my back, an arm resting against my hip. She'd found me at the bus stop and brought me in, given me her warmth. I felt no headache or nausea. The breaths behind me were even, she was asleep. She'd fallen asleep sharing her heat.

Dominic and I didn't cuddle, I wasn't a cuddly person. Boyfriends who were spooner's had never lasted, clinginess was an outright turn-off for me.

This was entirely different; I began to heat up straight away. Uncomfortably so. I didn't want to disturb her, part of me wanted to stay there forever; I'd never been this close to her, I might never experience the intimacy again. But heat is not a voluntary action. It didn't take long before she stirred, her arm dragged away from my hip and her warmth faded as she moved away.

I waited until I was sure she was still asleep then turned over. She'd rolled onto her back, her head sloping away, her ear and jawline teasing my eyes. Just a few inches and my lips could be against that velvet skin. Her t-shirt was V-neck, her clavicle well defined, the deep dents rising and falling slowly. How often I had admired its milky curvature; I'd always found the breastbone sexy, even on men. A woman's was better, Esme's was perfection. I hovered a finger above it and air-traced its lines. Heat rose from her chest but touching was out of the question.

I lay, wondering at the loveliness of her profile. I knew I should get up and go home, but it was so nice. I felt peaceful, and when I wriggled marginally closer so I could breathe the scent of her hair on the pillows, she slumbered on and I returned to unconsciousness.

When I woke again it was light and my face was pressed into her shoulder. I startled at the pluck of my sleep-self, then thanked it. Esme basked silently, eyelids showing no movement. Her full lips were slightly parted and her lashes rested long against ivory skin. I didn't take advantage of the closeness, the urge was powerful enough to scare me away.

I slipped from the warmth of her cloudlike haven and went in search of my clothes and phone. My coat hung on a hanger outside her closet door and my laptop bag and shoes sat beside an oak dresser. The skirt suit and blouse I wore yesterday were piled in a messy heap on the carpet, they were sodden. I hadn't been aware I'd taken on that much damp and hoped I wasn't incubating a head-cold.

"There are dry clothes in the lowboy," a husky voice sounded from the bed. The duvet moved as Esme turned onto her stomach. "Help yourself."

The lowboy - how American \- stretched almost a whole side of the room.

"Sorry if I woke you," I said and opened a drawer.

"I need a few more minutes," she groaned, voice stifled by the mattress and I smiled.

I borrowed a pair of skinny slacks to match my boots - their leather had stood up to snow - and clicked the door to the en suite shut. When I emerged, Esme was hunched on the side of the bed, rubbing her face. My condition was improved now my teeth were clean and I was dressed and made-up, but I wasn't comfortable with how she'd seen me last night. There were definite gaps in my memory about what I'd said when she got me here. When she got me changed.

An armchair sat against the wall to her left, I moved a jacket to its armrest and sat, feeling prim and nervous. I watched her stretching her long arms above her head with a yawn. Her t-shirt and silk shorts showed more flesh than I'd seen, all of it toned and tempting.

She glanced at me with a bleary smile.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad. Thanks for your help."

"We have all been there. I did not realise fund-raisers were so bacchanalian."

"What?" I felt my face go pale as I remembered. "My God, I completely forgot about it."

"Oh, Michelle," she tutted. "What happened?"

"I don't know, I was feeling... I went to a bar after work. To write a speech."

"And had one too many. Is it bad that you forgot your event?"

"Just terrible," I groaned. "I haven't done anything so bloody stupid in months." Dominic would be ringing hospitals, but one night of irresponsibility wasn't the end of the world. "My phone's dead, do you have a charger I can use?"

"There are a few in the kitchen, one might fit. You are not rushing away?"

"Free day. You had a date last night. I'm sorry if... Did I bugger that up?"

"No," she chuckled and rubbed at her shoulder. "I was arriving home alone."

"It didn't go well?"

"A bust. That is the correct term?"

"Mm. He was bad for you anyway."

"How do you know?"

"You don't want an artist, you want someone to balance you out."

"You implied I should get off my podium, I thought you would approve of me mixing more."

"I don't disapprove, I just...think you're right to be picky."

She studied me. "I am very picky," she said. "You are the first person to sleep in my bed for a while."

There it was, that vortex eddying in my stomach. I was going to turn beetroot, I could feel it creeping up my neck. I did not want to think about who the last person to sleep in her bed was. Or the next.

"I could use coffee. Do you want coffee?" I said hurriedly.

"Can you work the machine? I have to shower."

"No problem."

"We are supposed to argue," she sighed. "Where did it go so wrong?"

"Somewhere between hedonism and apple pie."

She withdrew her phone from the nightstand. "Almost nine."

She got up and wandered into her bathroom. She looked absurdly good in the morning, one of those annoying people who fell out of bed with messy hair and no make-up, and were still sexy.

I battled with the espresso maker and searched for mugs. Esme's cat sat on the kitchen counter, watching with interest and was delighted by the neck scratch I offered. The refrigerator was a colourful place, stuffed with foods that indicated her lifestyle contained more cooking and less take-out than mine. I was hungry. Hunger didn't usually hit me until late morning, especially not with a hangover, but I had foolishly skipped a proper meal last night. I had a wayward idea I could make Esme breakfast in return for her help. And for all her treats. Avocado, goats cheese, beetroot hummus, the ingredients were all there for a decent toast dish, one of the few things I could do in the kitchen. I made my way back to the en suite to shout if Esme was interested.

I stopped short in the bedroom doorway, the wind knocked from me in an instant. The shower was off, Esme was standing in the wardrobe, shuffling with hangers. She wore nothing but a pale blue pair of underwear. Her gorgeous legs topped by a firm, shapely bottom, narrow waist and the curved side of a swollen breast visible as she raised her arm.

The effect was immediate; I began to overheat, pulse skyrocketing. It wasn't a situation I could control. I'd spent all night in bed with her but it was that moment my resolve collapsed, my body reacted without consent. I dropped the bag of tomatoes I held, the plastic making too much noise as it met the floor. She turned. It happened so fast, I raised my face to hers and sucked in a sharp breath; I'd been caught. She'd seen. Her head tilted in curiosity, just for a moment, at my open mouth and unmoving eyes, then she dropped the shirt she held onto the carpet and turned her whole body to me. I wasn't expecting that. She was letting me look at her openly, it was terrifying. Her dark areola were pert in the cool morning. I could hear the blood rush in my ears, thump behind my ribs.

"Sorry, I..." My stammer was farcical, any memory of breakfast had departed.

I would've turned and exited as quickly as I'd invaded but she held my eyes, then stepped toward me.

"Mon Dieu," she said. "You are not so frosty after all."

And she was close now, her scent thrilling. I hadn't seen her often without make-up, her skin glowed from the hot water, natural, youthful. I remember thinking how impossibly beautiful she was. I said it too.

"You're beautiful, Ez. You're just so beautiful."

Never before had I felt such a need to speak, and such disappointment my words weren't enough.

"I have wanted you to look at me that way," she said, her voice low. Sparks coursed through my veins as her eyes roved over my fully dressed figure.

She reached out, touched my cheek. Her hand was soft, I nuzzled it, inhaling her. I shut my eyes and pressed my lips to her palm. A moment passed and I felt her warm breath on my earlobe, my neck. It was too much, I twisted my face, my lips met hers, my tongue met hers, and I was lost.

I should have stopped it, I knew I was going to a place I couldn't come back from. But it felt so good. Just one mistake, one look, was all it had taken, a floodgate was open and we were ignited. I ran my hands up her waist, cupped her breast which moulded perfectly in my hand, nipple rigid. God help me, I wanted this.

She undid the buttons of my shirt while her lips moved against mine. She reached inside and pulled my bra down, rubbed at a nipple, I was weak at the knees and she could tell. Her force pressed me toward the bed and I fell down on my back, Esme following close behind. She ran her fingers over my breasts, over my stomach, my sides as she looked down at me. Her touch was different than any I'd experienced; it held need but it also held care, like she was cherishing every tiny movement, it was important. For the first time, I felt love in another person's touch and wasn't put off. I was completely undone by it.

When I managed to work my way back on top, I peered down into her eyes, darker than usual in the leaden light of a winter morning. My hand slid down her flat stomach and inched between her legs. I could tell she was hairless through her underwear; I'd never imagined a woman's private parts could feel so perfect. I could trace the outline of her lips, I could feel...

"You're wet," I heard myself groan. "Jesus Christ, you're wet." It shouldn't have been surprising given our activity, but it made me elated; I could achieve what the violinist couldn't.

What I wanted was to push the annoying material aside and plunge my fingers into that warm moisture, but Esme moved suddenly. She flipped herself over and my hand was displaced. It didn't matter, her face loomed over me and a hand undid my trousers and reached inside. I inhaled sharply at the taction, but the hand didn't dawdle, Esme brought it to her mouth and sucked it between her gorgeous lips. She didn't say anything, she didn't need to; I was saturated. She lowered her face back to mine.

Her hands returned to my nipples. I was in another dimension. I didn't try to change positions again, I stayed where I was, my whole being alight at her touch, her kiss.

She knelt in front of me and pulled the pants from my eager legs, she ran a hand up the inside of my thigh, fingers teasing my swollen, naked lips. Her face hovered above mine.

"Say something," she whispered.

"Please keep going."

And those dextrous fingers were inside me and I quaked uncontrollably. She realised how close I was because her movements were slow. Every hostile word from Esme ran through my mind, every judgment, and it excited me more. It couldn't be called fucking, it was too gentle, but with every lunge my body was less mine and more hers.

I was going to cum. So quickly and overwhelmingly, it surged up inside every part of my body. I kept my eyes open, on her stunning visage right up till the end. The orgasm came from deep inside me, barely perpetuated by her movements, it was as much emotional as physical, if not more. How different the experience of one orgasm can be from another, as if they should not occupy the same label or definition. This one made me want to wrap my arms tightly around its harbinger and never let go. A sensation so foreign and frightening, I could do nothing but stare at her in terror.

I did something I would regret then. I clung to her tightly...and cried. Esme didn't say anything, her fingers stroked my back soothingly. What I wanted, strongly, was to stay there with her, in bed all day. All year. All my pitiful fucking life. It scared me so much. The hysteria didn't last long, I pulled myself together and sat up, rebuttoning my shirt and pulling my pants back on.

And I ran. I fled Esme's apartment like the coward I was.

I walked home that chilly morning, half still burning with need, half-numb.

It was after ten when I unlocked my door and hung my coat up.

Dominic's worried face emerged from the living area. "My God, where have you been?"

I dived in. "I had one too many after work, Dom, a friend rescued me and I stayed with her. I'm sorry, I am, I had a hell of a day yesterday and completely forgot about the fund-raiser."

He nodded slowly. "I was calling like crazy, did you lose your phone?"

"No, the battery must have died some time after work."

"What is going on with you lately? It's enough you work so much but now you're not even contactable by phone?"

"It's been a long week," was all I could come out with.

If Dominic said one word about me getting my head on straight I was going to scream. He didn't. He wrapped his arms around me and I stiffened. Would he detect the scent of sex?

"To be honest, I don't regret missing another of those bastard dinners. I'm just glad you're okay. I was worried."

He suspected nothing about my activities and I wriggled from his embrace. He didn't even ask who I had stayed with, where I'd been. Was he blind? Was I? There was so little intimacy between us; not because he didn't try but because I couldn't accept it. It was a pitiable realisation. Dominic and I were as mismatched as a toothbrush and an old, leather boot. It wasn't his fault, but...was I really going to marry this man?

Not until he had left for practise, did I sit at the kitchen counter with tea and really allow myself to think about what had taken place that morning. Esme had got me off, mind-blowingly. Pissing hell, I was a lesbian. I had cried. Then bolted. The memory left me injured with shame; what a terrible thing I had done. My head was so frazzled I couldn't conclude the nature of the terrible thing; whether it was the communion itself or the wordless flight afterward.

I was the worst type of person. I'd betrayed not only Dominic, but Esme too.

But it was Esme who concerned me. As I sat there, working through my feelings, I realised she hadn't said anything either when I made my getaway. I hadn't even tried to return the favour, hadn't even given her the courtesy of a goodbye. My face heated up in regret every time it crossed my mind. Nothing had been a source of such regret before - how could I have a person like her in my arms and not touch her the way she'd touched me. It was chastening. Because when I wasn't in the throes of regret, all I could feel was her curves beneath my hands, the tenderness of her touch. Her fingers inside me. That aberrant desire to stay wrapped in her arms.

The flame of my craving had not been dowsed, it had been fortified. I had a fiancé, and I was utterly stuck on someone else.

When I plugged my phone in the message assault began straight away, most from Dominic. They inspired more guilt. Later that morning, I received one that made my chest do a backflip. From Esme.

Don't be upset with me.

I must have read it fifty times within a minute. The only texts we'd exchanged up until that point were to set meeting times at Nero or her apartment. She was blaming herself for me running out, she was blaming herself for my cowardice. It made my heart shrivel inside its cavity. I had to see her, I had to sort this out. I replied as soon as the minute was over.

I'm not upset with you. Can you meet me at Nero in an hour?

Okay.

She was already sitting at a table when I arrived. She hadn't ordered anything or taken her coat off. She looked at me with huge eyes when I sat, and all my prepared words flew out the window.

"Esme. This morning...what happened..." I faltered and she took the opportunity.

"I know."

"What do you know?"

"It was a mistake. You will marry your football player. Just a mistake."

I frowned deeply, but Esme, for the first time, was avoiding my eyes. A mistake. It could not have meant to her what it did to me. It didn't register too much at first, but I was actually very angry. To think she could jump to that conclusion straight away, to think she trusted me so little. But of course, these feelings were entirely mixed up with anger at myself. I couldn't think of one part of the situation in which I had acted appropriately - according to my real emotions. And at Esme's words, I did not redeem myself, instead, I grasped at them like the flimsy straws they were. I conceded. The love in Esme's touch was an illusion, she felt nothing for me, and I was free to tick my marriage to Dominic off my list. What I did that afternoon at Nero, was ensure that my conversations and friendship with Esme would continue the way they were.

What I did was selfish and a complete lie; the relief that Esme was agreeable was bittersweet.

The following week was difficult even by my standards. A hectic work schedule did not distract me from the changes I'd hoped wouldn't occur between Esme and I, but inevitably did. She made an excuse every time I tried to visit her apartment; she was at work, she was at a class; I was no longer privy to her private space. We talked at Nero, but our conversation felt stilted, Esme mentioned her private life less and less and didn't meet my gaze the way she used to.

It hurt like hell. My snail-pace brain should have realised Esme was in more pain than me. It should have been obvious; the gradual distancing, the eye-avoidance.

It was cruel what I was doing to Dominic too, pushing him away whenever he got close. I couldn't bear his hands on me with the memory of Esme's. It was no good, nothing compared to that single, too-short communion between us. The pair of underwear I'd taken from her drawer that morning became my favourite consort, it was the most abject thing I'd ever lorded over.

On our third morning at Nero that week, the reality of my situation finally sunk in. I remember the scene so perfectly. We were earlier than usual and it wasn't full or noisy yet. An old John Denver song, Take Me Home to West Virginia was playing in the background.

I must have been in a sentimental mood that morning. I commented dreamily, "I haven't heard this song for a while, isn't it nice?"

Esme, frowning into her coffee mug, responded with, "It is clichéd. These men long to get out of their small home towns and make it big in the city with their music, and when they get there, all they end up singing about is missing home and longing to go back."

She spoke blandly and didn't look up from her cup. I stared at her for a few moments before answering.

"You're not usually the jaded one."

"I have the PMS now," she said with the barest of nods. "I could not care very much less."

"Unnecessary information."

"I am not tweeting about it. You expect far too much from me, Michelle."

I laughed. "You won't be boxed in by expectations. I can kiss your ass, right?"

She inclined her head slightly. "You may kiss my ass if you want."

I went to a sordid place \- premenstrual might be an irritable time but it's a time of heightened sexuality as well. She's sitting there griping but she's highly vulnerable, what she needs is an animal orgasm. The natural progression from there was to return to her touch, the softness of her skin. As I sat there making inane chitchat, I realised hanging out like this wasn't going to be enough anymore. I searched her eyes for a sign she felt the same but the few times they met mine were fleeting and insubstantial. I wanted so badly to hold her again, I needed her to look at me the way she used to. We had crossed a line, or at least I had crossed a line I couldn't come back from.

What I knew that morning was this; maybe it made no sense whatsoever, but I was very deeply in love with Esme. The kind of love that doesn't go away. Ever.

It would take a further two days of sleeplessness and disquiet before I accepted the fact of it fully.

Sleep wouldn't come near me on Saturday night. I lay beside Dominic's oblivious form for three hours, consumed with thoughts I was in the wrong bed, beside the wrong person. By two am, an urgency had come over me, I was on the edge and about to jump off. I needed her, and tonight, need overtaking fear, I would resolve the situation.

I slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and shirt, layered myself against the wintry darkness. I left a note on the kitchen counter; Couldn't sleep, gone to Leah's. Play well today and see you later.

I walked to Esme's building with the terror of anticipation fuelling my every step.

I rung the buzzer three times - tonight was not a night to surrender - before she answered with a muffled Hello? and released the lock at the sound of my name.

She opened the door to 10 clutching a silk gown around herself, hair dishevelled.

"It is two thirty in the morning," she said. "Has something happened?"

"Are you alone?" I asked, truly afraid that she wasn't, but she nodded with a frown. "Can I come in for a minute?"

She relented and I trailed her to the kitchen.

"It is not all right for you to show up unannounced like this," she said, and I knew. "You cannot use my phone number like a normal person?"

Her annoyance didn't have the expected effect, I saw through it now, I saw her pain.

"You don't like normal people."

She hesitated and I saw her thought processes. "That is true," she admitted. "What's wrong?"

"I haven't slept for two days."

She gave a disparaging nod and reached up to a cupboard to withdraw a glass. Her gown fell open and I saw only a thin tank top and underwear underneath. My silence was deafening as she poured her water, my eyes drank in the teasing view.

"Shall I sing you a Romanian lullaby?" she said puckishly and turned from the counter.

"Maybe you should." She raised a brow and I sidled closer.

I reached out and traced her breastbone with the tips of my fingers, her eyes connected with mine, she looked at me with fear. And longing. I inched nearer, slipped a hand around her narrow waist, half caught in the silk of her gown and I heard her breathing quicken.

"I thought you didn't want..." she began and I headed her off, pressing my palm against her chest.

"I never said that, Ez. I didn't."

She stared at me, wide-eyed and I must have looked the same to her.

"You are such a hard person to love," she whispered eventually.

A shiver went down my spine and I closed the gap between us, our bodies and mouths interlaced like missing puzzle pieces. The previous week dissolved into nothingness. My need for her was titanic, my hands searched her soft curves, the fast breaths and tiny whimpers coming from her throat testament to our chemistry.

My hand climbed down her torso and edged beneath her satin briefs, but Esme put a hand over mine to stop it, and pulled her lips from me.

"I have blood," she said regretfully.

"I don't care." I grasped her hand in mine and pulled the material down with the other. "I want your blood. Need you. Need, need..."

"La naiba," she rasped and didn't fight me further.

I did what I should have done that first morning, I made Esme shake, grab me, and soak my hand in her fluids, pressed against the kitchen counter. I wasn't nearly as gentle with her as she'd been with me, the weeks grief wouldn't allow it. She didn't object. It was easily the most galvanising experience I could have imagined, all my regret fizzled out when I heard her growl my name before she climaxed. And this time, no way, no how, was I going to run away. There were no tears, I corralled her, standing in the kitchen while her legs were still weak, and, for the first time, I was in exactly the place I was supposed to be.

Esme regained composure and kissed me, opening my remaining buttons and unzipping my jeans. She hooked a finger through the waist band of my underwear and looked down.

"These are mine," she said.

"I stole them."

"You are very bad."

"I needed them."

"I want them."

She eased out of where I had her wedged, and backed from the kitchen, pulling me by the underwear. It didn't take much, I would have followed her anywhere, but her bedroom sent an ache of ardour through me.

I stayed with her that night, and when I woke late to find her still curled in my arms, I felt no inclination to leave. I didn't feel panic or urgency; I was with the right person, content yet completely jazzed.

*

"Someone's coming."

The familiar voice of the caregiver breaks through Michelle's fugue state and she looks up from her page. She is so involved in the story, it is harsh returning to her circumstances. Thana sits in the chair beside Michelle and leans forward with a doe-eyed look. Her words haven't sunk in.

"Pardon?" Michelle says.

A man bursts though the door and stares at her; he is tall, mid-fifties, dressed in a rumpled grey suit. Michelle stiffens and grasps her blanket tightly at her waist, her notebook falling beside her legs. She's grateful when Thana takes her hand.

"It's okay, he will not hurt you," she whispers close to Michelle's ear. "He is a good man."

"Who are you?" she asks his wide-eyes.

"It's me, Declan," he says, his voice gentle with a hint of pleading. "They didn't want me to see you. I had to, I had to see you one more time."

Michelle tries to steady her breathing and grips Thana's hand tighter.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember you," she says quietly.

He comes forward, takes her hand straight from Thana's and she snatches it back. He's not deterred, he crouches down, so close to Thana he's breathing in her face. He doesn't acknowledge her, looks at Michelle with affection.

"I know," he says. "It's not your fault."

Owen and a female nurse enter the room. It is becoming too much for Michelle, she searches for Thana's hand again and grips it.

"Mr Kerr," Owen says. "Time to go."

"I'll follow the plan," the suited man says, his gaze far too intense. "Just like we talked about. That's all I wanted to say. And...I won't forget you."

His eyes are desperate. Michelle shivers inside her gown and leans closer to the comfort of Thana. The man turns abruptly and strides out, female nurse in tow. Owen lingers.

"I'm so sorry about that, Miss Coderre."

"It's okay. I'm sorry. Tell him I'm sorry."

"I will. Are you all right? Did he scare you?"

"He got in Thana's face. It seemed a little rude."

"Thana?" He looks behind him at the bathroom door. "Is Thana here now?"

Michelle twists to look at the face beside her in confusion. She's right there, solid, real, beautiful, a wistful smile playing about her eyes. Owen's expression of concern is only focussed on Michelle. She knows then, she really has lost her mind.

"It doesn't matter," she says. "I'm very tired."

"I'll let you rest. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes."

He leaves and she stares at Thana, feels her first twinge of discomfort with the woman, even anger.

"What just happened?" Michelle whispers, puzzled. "Did they... They couldn't see you."

"I'm happy you realise now. No one else could ever see me, I am here for you."

"I'm hallucinating. You're not real."

"I am not of this world, it doesn't mean I'm not real."

"What does that mean? Are you a ghost?"

"Something like that."

"The books are true, I've lost my grip on reality."

"The books are true," she consents.

"But you... You're not..."

Thana has been the only real thing in this place, and now to know... Her breathing becomes laboured and Thana's eyes fill with concern.

"Do you want me to go?"

"Yes... No. Not yet." Michelle needs her, her voice is too gentle and lovely to ignore.

"You are nearing the end of the books," she comments with a smile.

Michelle doesn't want to talk about the books, it is far too personal.

Quietly, she tells her, "Last night I dreamt I was a building in a dying city."

Thana's eyes sparkle and the corners of her mouth lift.

"Yes," she says. "You may remember more than you know."

"I dreamt I was a building. Am I a building? And you aren't even there."

She lays a hand near Michelle's forehead and strokes her thumb against it. The gesture is tender, a drug rushing in to rescue her.

"Do I feel real?"

"Yes." Michelle's frustration ebbs away and she relaxes against the pillows and shuts her eyes. "You're a corporeal spirit."

"I know how confused you are," the gentle voice continues. "Finish the books, then we will talk properly."

"If I finish reading, will you tell me why my family isn't here?"

"Yes. For now, rest."

Four: A Pale Horse

'And I looked, and behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.'

She wakes again from her doze. She tests her memory. The last two days are in place; the stroke, the doctors, the notebooks, the dream. The bizarre disruption of Declan Kerr. Owen, Thana... Thana.

She remembers the scene earlier. There has been something otherworldly about the strange woman, but to have confirmation, to know others can't see her. As if Michelle isn't unsettled enough. She cannot see her in the room now, for instance, the chairs beside her are empty; the grey light filtering through the windows has tiny dust motes floating in it. But she can still smell her, a fruity scent; not how she imagines a ghost should smell at all. She doesn't suppose it matters, the woman is not dangerous, the scent that follows her is a delight amongst other, chemical odours. She is a pleasant apparition.

She's wide awake now. Thana promised a proper conversation, Michelle has to continue her story. She can't deny she's stirred by it. She's embarrassed the intrusion occurred at such an inopportune time.

She puts her glasses on.

Notebook 2 continued...

I made my toast dish that morning, and slapped Esme's hand away every time she tried to help. A hand that would then return to some part of my skin; breakfast turned out slipshod but it was worth it.

When I turned my phone on, it was already ten am and I knew what was coming. It was nice to shut out the rest of the world for a while but I needed to confront my feelings, and desperately needed Esme to be receptive. I didn't want to hide anything from her. Which is why I was deliciously eager when it was she who approached the subject with her natural integrity.

"Dominic?" she asked when several beeps sounded. I nodded. "What are we going to do about this then?"

"I don't know." In frankness, I wanted to hear it from her, I'd never been with someone I wanted to take more control that way. Esme didn't let me down.

"I think that you have to decide," she said and all I could see was those beautiful eyes, serious and finally looking at me like they did before. "You have to decide what you want from me, because I cannot be some...what is the word," she muttered with a frown and I smiled.

"Booty call," I said.

"Yes. Boot e-call. I am not your sex doll."

"Do you...would you..."

"Speak up, Michelle," she bayed and a snort escaped my nose.

"Do you want me for more?"

"It is why I'm asking, dummy."

"Are you willing to steal me from my fiancé?"

"Could I? He cannot make you happy and I love you. I would share with your job but not another person."

The upwelling of reverence I felt showed in my eyes and my smile, not my words. I never told her, didn't say I loved her back. It has haunted me ever since.

"You're so démodé."

"And selfish," she agreed.

"You had a funny way of showing you loved me."

"I had to keep you coming back for more."

"That's diabolical."

"You are avoiding the issue."

"Can you give me a couple of days?" I said and her eyebrows rose in relish. "I need to sort some things out."

"You will do this? You will leave him for me?"

"Yes. You're a rash I can't get off my skin."

That's what I said, terrible to remember; I compared her to a rash.

"A good rash?" she asked and I touched her breastbone softly.

"A satisfying rash to scratch."

"Sort your things out then. I will be here."

"In the meantime, are you working tonight?

"Five until ten."

"Would you spend the day with me today?"

She smiled over a green grape dangling from her long fingers. "Yes. What about Dominic? Did you sneak away last night?"

"I left a note. He has a game today anyway."

"You have to talk to him."

"Tonight."

Leah and Dominic had never got along very well, but there was always a chance he might call her and discover my lie. I didn't mind, everything was roses now. I wasn't yet ready to end my rendezvous with Esme. Dominic could wait, it had to be done face-to-face. Esme didn't say anything, she studied me with glimmering eyes and I knew she trusted my intentions.

"I'm so sorry I ran out on you that morning." The apology had been marinating too long in my imagination. "I was confused and out-of-my-mind afraid."

"It's okay. You are here now."

"I've wanted to take you out since I heard about the violinist," I said and her smile grew. "Maybe before, but... The violinist." I shook my head.

"Was the ice queen jealous?"

"Batshit jealous," I admitted.

"I like that," she twinkled impishly, sexier than ever.

"I got sloshed because of the artist."

"Ah yes, the artist," she tutted then shivered. "He left half his main course on his plate. Half."

"Capital crime, poor sap. I'm going to take you somewhere beautiful and you should tell me all the barmy things you can think of."

"No obligations today?"

"Fuck obligations."

"Your trashy roots are showing." She pinched the skin of one of her hands. "I think I am dreaming."

"I've felt that way since we met, but I've never felt more right than when we're together."

At least I said some of the words I meant to. Esme's aura was ablaze. The conclusion had been reached, deferred to. A lot of crinkles would need ironing out, but I was caught in the dawn light of a new beginning, we both were.

She rose from her stool and gave me a tight hug.

"You were always going to be the one to change everything."

That Saturday I spent with Esme was the eye of a storm I no longer saw in her. My heart was alive, thriving in my chest, my brain alight with possibility that didn't falter when I watched her walk away for the last time, and headed home early that evening.

Dominic had grizzled in text about my absence but he hadn't called to have a proper fight. It was up to me now to follow through. This, I thought guilelessly, would be the hard part. I suppose in my self-absorbed way, I thought the dissolution of our engagement would not come as a surprise to him, or at least not much of a heart-break. We hadn't had sex for two weeks and, considering we lived together, our time in each other's company was a slim daily margin.

The process was harder than expected. He was happy to see me, explaining he'd made a reservation for us at seven. All the late nights, emotional distance, all the time spent thinking about someone else and he was completely clueless.

I bit the bullet hard, I broke off the engagement.

It wasn't quick, it was a long, protracted conversation on why's and how's and 'Mum and Dad will be devastated', and the hurt and confusion in his eyes made it clear I was the bad guy. He called me a cold bitch and he was right, even to me it sounded like I was releasing him from an arduous employment contract. It felt like it too, I was letting him go, which only made the decision that much more scrupulous. It was his hurt that directed me not to speak of the other person; he would find out soon enough. I didn't out myself because it was something I needed to discuss with Esme first. I didn't know if she would want to take things that far; after her ultimatum and my agreement, the subject had been swept aside by a gushing torrent of romance and self-regard.

It lasted three hours, an exhausting three hours of apologising, trying to make him understand without telling the whole truth; of saying I was wrong, he would find someone better. At the end, he crashed around the bedroom loading a bag and throwing the odd insult my way; I didn't mind the anger, he had every right and it was a lot easier to face than tears.

By the time he left to stay with a friend and drink beer, we had made a loose plan to talk about arrangements tomorrow. I didn't dread confronting his parents, I thought it was obvious I was doing the right thing, even without Esme in the picture.

My plan to stay awake till she was off work was thwarted by an overtired brain. A long day of alternating extremes and several broken night's sleep took their toll.

I woke at nine, regretful, but with no inkling of what lay in store for me that day. Dominic and his parents could wait, I was thirsty to spend an hour with Esme beforehand.

But she didn't answer her phone, it went directly to voice mail. She didn't answer my texts. My assumption was that she was still asleep, had her phone switched to flight mode or allowed it to run dead. But by eleven, I was getting impatient, I headed out to bang on her door if I had to.

There was no answer when I buzzed number 10. I rang five times, until an elderly woman returning home with two hessian grocery bags let me into the building and disappeared up the lift. I knocked but nobody came and an uneasy feeling began to settle in my stomach.

I stood by the wall staring at her previous texts and wondering what to say. My anticipation at seeing her was clouded by frustration - she could have let me know she wouldn't be here this morning, and paranoia - what if she was avoiding me? My imagination cycled through a few different scenarios while I leaned against the foyer wall, but none of them prepared me for the next few minutes.

"Can I help you with anything?" a deep, melodic voice asked and I looked up.

A sophisticated man in a beautiful but crumpled suit peered at me. His eyes were bloodshot, stubble covering the lower part of his face. His was accent slightly thicker than Esme's, it sent a thrill of relief through me; it could only be her uncle.

"I'm looking for Esme," I said. "Are you her uncle?"

His face drooped lower and he diverted his eyes. When he looked back, he didn't answer the question.

He said, "Are you a friend of Esme's?"

"Yes. Where is she?"

"I am sorry to be the one..." He trailed off and looked away again. My brow furrowed deeply before he continued. "She was in an accident last night. She passed away."

He strained to get the words out, I just stared at him. He's lying, I thought, or has his English mixed up. But his blue-green eyes, so similar to Esme's, looked sincere, and heart-broken.

"That's not possible." I fought the information, fought the swell of fright in my chest.

He asked if I was all right. I started to go numb, felt my body go limp. I slid down the wall and the uncle crouched in front of me.

"I am sorry," he repeated. "Were you and Esme close?"

He used the past vernacular.

"I don't..." I choked, unable to finish. "What about Higgins? Her cat?"

I asked as a test, a test to his reaction.

"I am going in to get her now. She will come to my home. Would you like to co..."

I didn't hear the rest, my world was spinning; my lungs weren't getting air. I pulled myself up the wall, ran the few metres to the front door and burst through it. I barrelled out of that building like it was my tomb. I was aware the uncle followed, I could hear and feel his presence, but I was underwater, nothing was real.

The cold morning air did zilch to ease my terror. I leaned heavily against the step railing and felt a supporting hand under my elbow. He kept talking.

"You should give me your number and when it is organised, I will send you the details of her funeral."

Funeral. It couldn't be that simple, a poisoned arrow shot straight to the heart in broad daylight in a street full of people. No one noticed as I died. Funeral.

I don't remember if I said anything else. I went through the motions of jotting my name and cell onto the tiny pad he held out. I left then, ignoring his offer of assistance. I walked home in a daze. Esme couldn't have left me. I saw nothing, heard nothing.

My state of shock would force me to take a week of sick days as the reality of her fatality sunk in. I ignored Dominic's attempts at contact, as I did every non-work-related communication. I stayed locked in my apartment and tried desperately to understand what had happened to me, cycling through denial, rage, emptiness, and the blackest monster, a deep, sickly depression.

I received the details of her funeral and attended in a state of stupefaction. I remember only a throng of black dresses and suits, not one face registered. Except the face in the open casket coffin.

I stared at her for a long time. She looked asleep, if I could just reach out and touch her... But there were people around and it was too much for me.

I'd been cheated; I couldn't have suspected I would be such a hapless casualty of draconian fate.

Because it did happen. Esme died that night. Even after all this time, it still comes as a shock to say it, to put it out there for the truth it was. I looked into the accident, the drunk driver who caused it, the claim she died on impact bringing no comfort. I'd slept. I'd slept through the most traumatising event that would happen in my lifetime. Perhaps that sounds selfish and insensitive given how many lives were lost in the period following. But love is selfish. Esme was my love, my loss.

Inner strength. Inner strength. Inner strength. It repeated in my head in Esme's accented tones on a loop. The time will come when you will need it. I needed it now, the time I felt weakest. For Esme's sake, for her belief in me, I pretended I had it.

My grief was crippling. Only at work or in public could I maintain an appropriate demeanour; alone or unoccupied, I broke down. The pain was profound at first, later, it numbed me.

A month after that terrible day, I took a call from Esme's uncle. The sound of his accent over the phone was soothing to my neglected ears. The contact was unexpected, he wanted to visit but said nothing of what it was about. I arranged to be home that Sunday afternoon, I was willing because he was the only remaining connection I had to that beautiful person who had starkly vanished from my world. I did not hold much anticipation for the meeting, I was certainly not aware it would be another curve-ball coming my way, a further pivot of my life path.

When he arrived, my host-guest technique fell short, I failed to shake his hand, failed to formally introduce myself. I was too distraught; the only times I'd seen this man were when he informed me of her death and at her funeral. At least I managed to lead him to the living area and offer a drink.

"Can I get you anything? Coffee, whisky?"

He seemed like a whisky man. He was in his early sixties, black flecking his silver hair, still handsome and distinguished, in a three-piece suit and Italian shoes. His stubble had grown into a neatly trimmed beard and moustache, but he looked as tired and careworn as I felt. I wondered if his grief was on a par with my own.

He declined politely as he sat in an armchair opposite.

"I think that you must have been surprised to hear from me again," he said.

"I was surprised." I thought about enquiring over his state, but then he might ask about mine. I said, "How is Higgins?"

The corners of his eyes wrinkled good-naturedly. "She is well. Cats are resilient creatures."

Lucky little shits, I thought, but kept my mouth closed.

"I will come to the point, Miss Coderre."

"Michelle, please."

"Michelle. You must call me Iosif."

He pronounced my name just like Esme, it was disorienting, like a distorted former reality. He bent to the leather briefcase at his side and withdrew an envelope from a side pocket.

"I believe this belongs with you."

With a frown, I accepted it from his outstretched and. A single page, and, as I unfolded it, I could see the words were Esme's. Written in her sloping hand, with a date, February 29, 2022 at the top. Our last day together. It was a scrawled note, brief, it spoke of her dedication to a cryptic 'you', her plans. My fragile heart took another thump, and I knew it wasn't yet completely broken. I read her words twice, stunned, confused, but also, for the first time since that terrible day, a tiny spark of life within me.

"It is about you then," Iosif's deep voice broke through my stupor and I looked up to see him studying me intently. "You are the one, yes?"

"It's... It is about me. Us." The words came out with stubborn difficulty.

"You and Esme were in love."

He presented the statement carefully, succinctly, with power, and my composure crumbled. My face fell, tears built and spilled from swelling eyes.

"Perhaps I will have that whisky after all," he said.

He turned away gallantly and walked the short distance to the liquor cave. He brought two tumblers to the coffee table and held one out.

I took it with gratitude, sipped and struggled to retrieve my aplomb.

"You do not need to hold it in because of me," Iosif continued, reading my condition. "If you will allow me, I will fill the void. I would like to speak freely."

I nodded. Because he was right, I couldn't comment, the letter had me on my knees; to receive such a communication after death had separated us. I clung to her page with one hand, my drink with the other, tissues on my lap, and listened to his euphonic vocals.

"First, I would like to apologise. I did not know, if I had, you would have sat up front with me at the funeral. It is where you should have been. Second, the note was folded into a pocket of the bag she carried the night of the accident, unmarked, or I would not have read it. Third, I am glad I read it, or I would not have known about you."

He paused and took a sip from his glass before balancing it on the armrest. His words were inflexible but soft and he remained gentlemanly, keeping his eyes diverted from my blotchy cheeks.

"The way it is written made it clear she was involved with someone." He shook his head. "Not involved, in love. Perhaps you would not think it to look at this old man before you, but the love expressed in that note is something I value tremendously. For me to know she found such a love was a great blessing. You were not named, as you can see, so it took some time to unravel the mystery of who you were. I was slowed down by the assumption that you were a man. She would not tell me, you see," he smiled wistfully. "She was a fiercely private girl."

He inhaled slowly and took a sip, rested his head on the back of the chair for a moment with his eyes shut. I waited, I wanted him to go on, to tell me everything about her. He opened his eyes with a sigh.

"The bit about your career is what caught my attention in the end, about always being in the public eye. The politician, I thought, the woman at her apartment. You were not present at the funeral. Ah, you were there, but not there. It was not the grief of a simple friend, I recognise that now. I spent several days finding out what I could about you and wondering what to do about the note. I am not a man who likes loose-ends and...my heart ached for your silent loss."

He yielded his glass to the table, pulled his case onto his lap and opened it.

"My conflict was borne of concern, I did not want to be the bearer of unnecessary pain. Then I found this in her home."

He withdrew a sketch and passed it to me. My eyes widened. It was only A4 size, myself, exposed in naked splendour, she had captured every tiny detail of my face, every curve of my body. In any other circumstance I might have been embarrassed, but now I stared, awestruck. When had she done it? I was in overload, the cavity that had been my heart, jump-started.

"She did not draw human beings," Iosif said. "It was a kind of phobia for her, she refused, even for a class. You must be the only person she ever drew. When I saw it, my indecision was resolved. I had to pay my respects."

"Two gifts," I said to myself. "May I keep this?"

"Of course, they are yours. Along with anything else I can offer."

"It's incredible, you bringing these. I've been floundering for a month..." I shut my mouth and pressed a tissue to my nose.

"Does anyone else know of your relationship with my niece?"

I shook my head. "I wasn't going to keep her a secret." I would have yelled it from the rooftop if she'd agreed.

"You have had no chance to speak of her and that is not acceptable. Love... Love should be recognised, cherished. You will talk to me, we will have a friendship now."

For the first time in weeks, the smallest suggestion of a smile crinkled my eyes. He was so like Esme, with a backbone of harsh confidence that cloaked his arrant compassion.

I took a shaky breath before I spoke. "You said the note was in her bag?"

"Yes. She used to write notes like that for her parents, she always burned those. The way it is written, she did not intend to give it to you. But I knew you must have it."

"She had to have written it that night at work. After we...before she..."

"I am sorry that it causes you pain."

"No. Thank you for bringing it. Thank you for the sketch, you don't know... I'm indebted to you."

"Nonsense. I am indebted to you, Michelle Coderre."

I snuffled into my tissue and wiped my eyes. "I don't see how."

He gave another of his sad smiles.

"Esme was not a very happy girl. My brother and his wife died in a plane crash when she was seven. She was not the same. Until a few weeks before the accident, a zing. I know she was dating, I never had much hope for that, the boyfriends were artists mostly," he said with a telling flare of his nostrils and I almost smiled again. "She never spoke a word about you, but I saw it in her eyes, she had a secret, something she needed to keep all to herself. Something very precious to her. You."

I wasn't ashamed of the tears still squeezing from my eyes, this man had made me feel comfortable, welcome, turned my grief into a thing of beauty. The tears that flowed now were not entirely unhappy.

"She said they thought she was barmy. Her dates, I mean. I thought she was barmy when we first met."

Iosif met my eyes with a smile.

"She was eccentric, like her uncle. For a long time, I worried she would not find anybody. But look at you," he gestured sweepingly. "My niece had impeccable taste."

"I'm the luckiest person alive, to have known her the brief time I did." I meant it with all my being.

"Thank you for saying that, it warms my heart."

"I broke off my engagement the night she died," I sobbed.

"Yes, and you are receiving some flak for it on the internet. To make that sacrifice only for... Death, it seems, has a taste for taking my family young."

"You raised Esme," I said, because I wanted to keep him talking.

"We only had each other left. I still remember the day she arrived on my doorstep, so small and serious. She needed a protector, a nurturer; I became both mother and father. It was my largest and most rewarding investment."

"She was the rarest person I've ever known. She...made me see myself."

"Turning the eyes inward was a lesson she learned young. I must ask you something direct and simple, but not easy - are you coping? Are you going to be all right?"

His gaze was penetrant. As with Esme, I felt there was little room to lie or avoid. I thought through my answer carefully. His visit had lifted my spirits for the moment, but I gathered my emotions of the past few weeks and found their sum dark and unforgiving. He was right, it was simple question with no easy answer.

"Do you believe in an afterlife?" I asked eventually.

He studied me in silence for a moment. He rose to refill our glasses.

"In a metaphysical sense, yes," he said when he settled back in his seat. "I believe if our conduct is dignified on this plane, we move to a better place. If you are asking if you will ever see Esme again, I could not say. The nature of the otherworld is beyond the understanding of the living."

My existence in those weeks was chaos, there was a part of me that clung to my suffering, nursing my wound, becoming attached to it. That part of me thought I didn't want to be alive; if I could have Esme back, I would have gladly died.

Iosif, wise as he was, knew this. His ability to intuit was akin to his niece's.

"It does not warrant attention, Michelle," he said sternly. "You cannot bow out of life by choice; that I know. You will not achieve anything by giving up. Have you lost someone before?"

"My father."

"You are acquainted with Grief."

"Not like this...not so..." It wasn't possible to describe my devastation. Grief hadn't royally shafted me last time we met. "I have nothing."

"You are a politician, you have a duty. To the population and to my niece. How do you think she felt when she lost her parents? We are all given crosses to bear, we do not cast them aside, we learn to use them as tools, we learn to carry them with grace."

Like Esme, he could press my buttons. If my political aspirations didn't hold their former weight, Esme was a powerhouse. It was what she would have said. Keep fighting. Esme was my cross. Iosif's words gave me my first hint, she would become a symbol of strength, not of weakness. In death, she was a far greater test than in life.

"Did that answer the question?" I said.

"Most sincerely. I am not surprised and I appreciate your candour. But do not doubt that how you respond to this trial will define if your future is a success."

"I haven't been able to think of the future lately. It doesn't seem to make any difference what I do, there's always more."

"I can tell by looking at your accomplishments that you have passion for your job. I like what you are doing in parliament, your work with the NHS. I respect your ability to challenge your superior ministers. You choose your battles well and do not back down. You are a mover and shaker, Esme knew it. You must concentrate on your career now, you must rediscover your passion. In truth, I believe I may be of some help to you."

I raised a brow half-heartedly. "Oh?"

"Did Esme ever tell you what I do for a living?"

"She told me you were an intelligent and good man."

"Yes. There it is again, her profound privacy. But now we are brought together in her absence and I feel compelled to share with you, if you will listen."

"Please."

"I made my money in the export of hydroelectric energy. Now I am semi-retired, perhaps you could call me a philanthropist. I too, in my way, try to lessen the divide between proletariat and bourgeois. You may be sceptical, a man of wealth and status, surrounded by wealth and status. But I am sure you of all understand, it is the wealthy elite who need the most guidance. They become selfish, shrewd people, and they have the power to do great damage. There lies my responsibility, to do what I can to influence their minds. In small decisions on occasion, and at times, on larger issues."

"You speak like her," I said with shining eyes. "She was not shy to voice her political opinions."

"Esme's interest in politics began early," he said with a slow nod. "When you come from a place of such controlling upheaval, it turns to an intrinsic awareness of the danger of politics, the danger of politicians. When she was a child, she was full of questions about what it was like to live in the republic."

"Romania was in the Eastern Bloc," I said. "My knowledge of the subject is limited."

"It was a dark time, a repressive dictatorship, its consequences still hanging over the country when Esme was growing up. She liked me to be honest with her."

"A lot can be learned from past mistakes."

"You are very right, which brings me back to the future. Because this is precisely the wrong time to lose sight of what is to come. You are in a bad place, you are viewing your life and career from a despairing angle. Allow me to stimulate your imagination with a scenario."

I glanced at him, he wore a curious look of zeal.

"Okay," I said, grabbing the lifeline. "Stimulate away."

"Since we are speaking of life-changing plights, I will put this in existential terms. Government and societal stability as it is now is very fragile. The virus two years ago was minor, turbulent times lie ahead; the earth cannot sustain a population of eight billion."

"You have my attention. You foresee a second pandemic?"

"I foresee a culling process beyond anything we have witnessed. We teeter on the edge of conflict; that is inevitable, what is not, is whether we will survive at all. That will depend on people, and more troublingly, what hides in the minds of leaders themselves. You have strength, heart and youth; it will be ministers like you who make the difference in these circumstances."

"You have an active imagination," I smiled.

"Indeed I do," he said with a twinkle, and continued in the same vein. "When our systems and infrastructure fail, I would like to know I have done everything I can to influence a relatively positive outcome. As you English say, I would like to have my thumb in several pies. The political arena is an important pie."

"I'm not really sure what you're saying."

"Mm," he murmured and stroked his beard contemplatively before relaunching. "Major political parties in democratic countries, yours being no exception, are so tightly orchestrated that MP's often have little scope for free action. So, yes, I understand your frustration on making a difference. The problem in future, is that when conflict truly sets in on an international scale, the scope for free action of those few leaders left standing, will widen in the face of little competition and complete confidence. Do you see what I am driving at?"

"I think so. You're afraid the leaders left will be crooked."

"The likelihood is a gruelling staple, you must see that."

"I see it. But you're making a study of unknowable factors."

"Of course, I am," he agreed with a chuckle. "We are talking hypothetically. I like to consider possibilities, I think you do too."

I knew Iosif was trying to take my mind off darker thoughts, to get me to think about the future again. I was grateful; for the moment, I was able to push my self-interest aside and regain a little perspective. I didn't know I would one day look back on his words like prophecy.

"But what action would you like to see?" I asked.

"Ah, you get ahead of me," he laughed, deep crinkles forming around his eyes. "Esme chose you, now I choose you. I would like you under my wing."

"How exactly?" I asked suspiciously.

Though it was a relief to have something other than my grief to concentrate on, I was unsure of his intentions. Being bought off wasn't on my list of personal characteristics.

"Nothing untoward," he said dismissively. "I would like you to come to my home for lunch next Sunday. I would like us to get to know each other. Perhaps, to trust each other."

"I..." What I started to say was that I did trust him, his kind words and sharing of Esme's history were responsible for that. His interest in my career stopped me. I was cautious yet still interested. "Would you tell me more about Romania? About Esme's childhood?"

"I would enjoy that very much. I can show you pictures and you can say hello to Higgins. Will you come?"

"I'll come."

Iosif's standing as Esme's uncle made me receptive to the man, but our precipitate dialogue that day - to have my grief acknowledged and valued - made me like him. If he could earn my trust the way Esme had, it would be a step backward to decline.

It was a wise decision, our lunch that Sunday, followed on to the next and after.

He spoke of his time growing up in a Communist Romania, of the brutal dictatorship they endured under Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife. He spoke of the progress modern societies had made, and their lack of progress. He showed me photos of Esme when she was a child, and they brought tears to my eyes. Some might think it was cruel of him or foolish of me, but Iosif was clear on one point; grief wasn't to be avoided, it was to be confronted, fully experienced, and I found my tears, when I was with him, were not the dark, sickly tears I'd shed the month following her death.

It may sound unlikely, but when we spoke of Esme's history, I fell in love with her more. I wished that it were she telling me her secrets, exposing her beautiful spirit. He spoke of her often and openly, but between these blurbs, he nurtured my real world, my political views and standing. His mind-set was so painfully similar to Esme's; he reminded me of her constantly, mentored me the way she had, with confidence and, when necessary, heated opposition. His focus on the future was admirable and, with time, the future became my focus too. Like Esme, Iosif had a deep understanding of a broad range of subjects and an ability to connect them in ways I found bewildering at first. I had not fully grasped the importance of transdisciplinary initiatives before I got to know him. He had a vision of a different world, one where experts in a wide array of existing fields combined to create new ones, he stressed the relevance of global initiative and analogous global laws.

Our lunches together expanded to less personal settings. Iosif invited me to functions where he made introductions. He had underplayed how many people he knew. His contacts stretched across Europe and the Middle East, to Asia and America. Diplomats, industry moguls, oil tycoons, the list went on, and he always offered the truth about how dangerous or powerful an individual was. Gradually, I was inserted into his network. I found footing and common ground within a group of people I'd had little endorsement from up to that point. I suppose it was what he intended from the start, but couldn't spell out while we were strangers. Like his niece, he had a subtle way of getting what he wanted, a method I would pick up myself within time. What Iosif became to me over the next two years, was a father figure with a professional twist. He strongly adhered to a belief in situationism and the zeitgeist theory of leadership, concepts which made me view the daily details of my parliamentary work from a wide angle, while focussing keenly on a primary goal. I considered myself a competent critical thinker, but how far I progressed under his tutelage was phenomenal; he provided a philosophical framework to my service. These were not incidental lessons, the viewpoint he instilled in me during that time is still with me now, their influence as valuable as his introductions.

Later that year following Esme's death, I met the newly appointed Labour MP, Declan Kerr. We were rivals, enemies even; he thought I was an overblown shrew with too many friends in high places, and I thought he was an immature, womanising chauvinist.

Then the outbreaks spiralled from control, the violence started, and all that changed. As our colleagues died off or were ousted one by one, through both cunning and dumb luck, Declan and I survived. We started to see eye-to-eye, we shared a common goal; we were not Lib Deb and Labour anymore, we formed a united front. The contacts I had made through Iosif supplied me tendrils of hope and power I would not have otherwise had. He had been so very on the money, governments collapsed and a new world was created, almost from scratch. Esme had also been right, the people left had to relinquish many of the liberties we took for granted. Where ever it was safe and useful, other freedoms could be embraced. Declan and I worked within these parameters and achieved a platform from which we could establish the safe cities.

Though I learned to deal with Esme's loss, I never recovered from it. I didn't return to who I was before I met her and I would never be the person I was during our too-brief time together. I became someone new, someone who held all her words pathologically close to my heart, someone I thought she might be proud of. I'm known for my empathy now, my benevolence, no one will ever know it was due to her intervention.

I didn't know how much I needed someone different in my life, Esme was my oracle, my eye-opener in a blind world. Her memory preserved me through every future trial. Because of that, I may have made her into something more than what she was. Of course, after she was gone, it was Iosif who resumed a similar role. I came to rely on his strength and tenderness and he opened up channels which would serve me well. During those early years, I started to feel what I was doing again, as Iosif would have said, I rediscovered my passion. I'm not proud to say that about a time when so many and so much was lost, but it was true - I had a cause.

Perhaps I haven't remembered it perfectly, I have probably connected dots with imagination, but it has been nice to relive my moments with Esme. Less so for Iosif, but I consider his place to be integral to my accomplishments in life. Without him, I would not have got here, without Esme, I would not have met him. I feel calmer now it's down. If I need to, I can revisit her without a struggle.

I've done my best to be a good leader. I kept my goals simple; it was not about saving as many lives as possible (though I'm sure people share that belief), it was about creating a new paradigm for our species, one in which the quality of life for survivors was founded on getting the most out of what little we had.

The future had to be one where we were taught the correct priorities, no one could have a non-essential unless we all could. What people could choose to take more of was education, wisdom, experience and compassion. These attributes made them worthy to live, the more of these things they had, the less they wanted material luxury. This is the meaning of collective enlightenment, a new world order, with brains rewired for a greater good; the harmony of all life. I spoke to the remaining populace of power within spirit and they listened, their values shifted, what little we had became nothing more than the engine behind our willingness to change, to live.

There are no preordained positions, only the ability to learn and give. Survival means nothing without the evolution of mind. Where people once thought of the mind of the individual, now the mind is of an entire population. These ideals have been tried and tested, they will continue in my absence.

As I sit here, I can't remember what I had for breakfast this morning, I can't remember how long I've been sitting here, I cannot remember my last or next trip to the doctor. I remember Esme though, Iosif, my father, mother, I remember the years of turmoil. And I know I have achieved something.

I've been offered experimental procedures, which I declined, it's time to pass the torch. Declan can be trusted, he's been with me though everything, he knows what we all know. We formulated the plan for what should happen over the next decade, and he has protege's of his own now. It is one thing to bring a populace through a time of sickness and war, another entirely to cultivate a new society according to new rules.

Declan will take my reins, a leader for peace.

*

It's the final page. Michelle turns the back cover over but there's nothing more, a small growl of frustration escapes her throat. The book shakes in tremulous hands. She puts it down and removes her glasses, rubs her eyes, shuts them with a sigh. She doesn't know what to make of it. If the earlier parts were confusing, the last paragraphs are implausible; surely she was not in her right mind when she wrote them.

"You have finished," a voice says softly and Michelle's eyes snap open.

"Would you stop sneaking in? You scared the skin off me."

"Sorry." Thana is smiling, she's not sorry.

"I shouldn't even be talking to you... But don't go," Michelle adds quickly. She holds the second notebook up. "You said things would make sense if I read it, but I'm more confused than ever."

"I do not believe you," she says curiously. "I think you feel the truth."

A chill creeps up the back of Michelle's neck. She opens the book and glances between her words and the woman at her bedside. She fights the pervasive sense of reality stubbornly.

"Supposing this was written lucidly, it still tells me very little."

"You wrote what you wanted to remember."

"You said you didn't know what was in them."

"I lied."

"You read them. You shouldn't have done that."

"It's a beautiful story."

"It's grandiose delusion. I'm no leader."

"But you are."

Michelle stares at her for a long time, pulled into the deep eyes that never turn away from her.

"The end of this notebook says something terrible happened," Michelle says eventually, wary to her bones. "I don't know if I want to hear what you have to say."

"You do," Thana says plainly. "You are the strongest person I know."

Michelle is scared, she begins by asking, "How long have I been in this hospital?"

Five: Tinderbox

'All that we see or seem. Is but a dream within a dream.'

"It is time we had a chinwag." Thana laughs, a tinkling sound that sends a shiver of deja-vu through Michelle. "I like that word, chinwag. You English are funny."

"Thana! I'm not in the mood. My day has been... You know what's in the books, delusional or not, it's quite bloody sad."

"Yes." Thana's smile dims but doesn't fall away. "You have not been here long. Ten days ago you had a stroke in your home and were brought here. It is when you lost time. You have had two small subsequent strokes."

"Three strokes," she says vacuously. "Why isn't my sister here? Three strokes doesn't deserve a visit?"

She doesn't ask the question she's most afraid of, how much time she's lost. Thana studies her with interest. It's a strange feeling to be looked at this way, as if she's not just an amnesiac in an ugly smock.

"Thana?" she prompts.

"Do you know what Thana means?"

"It's your name, isn't it?"

"No. It is my role, my choice."

"What does that mean? Would you stop talking in riddles and tell me where Leah is?"

"I will get to Leah. What do you notice about your surroundings?"

"What surroundings? I'm in a hospital room, in a hospital bed. Drugged to the nines."

"Have you noticed what is outside the windows?"

"I can't see anything, just fog."

"Come." She stands and holds her arm out. "I will show you."

"I'm very weak," Michelle says doubtfully.

"Take my hand."

Michelle does. She can get to the chair surprisingly well with Thana's hand in hers. When their skin meets she feels lighter, vibrant. She even remembers more, snippets, like dark dreams. It tells her what is coming, a slap, a storm.

Thana pulls the other chair close and sits as Michelle leans toward the windows and places a hand against the glass.

To look down, Michelle can see buildings rising from the mist, some damaged, crumbling in on themselves. Besides the damage, what strikes her is the lack of lights. A city at this time of night should be glaring, loud, there should be flashing, movement, shining windows, blinking aircraft, neon signs glittering in the fog. Here, the lights visible are separated by expanses of grey dullness cloaked in the shadows of twilight. The city below is foreign to her, a concrete wasteland stretching into a blanket of cloud. Michelle can feel Thana's eyes on her, absorbing her dismay.

"Dorothy is not in Kansas," she says and Michelle sweeps her gaze from the scene below to the woman watching her. The words may have sounded oppressive but a tiny smile curves the corners of her bright eyes.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Formerly known as Aberdeen. People call it Alliance now. Unofficially."

Michelle knows what she's saying. It's eerie, like realising she's covered in a thick layer of spider's web.

"Why are there no lights?" she asks weakly.

"This is one of the few buildings with electricity. Hospitals are prioritised."

"They're falling apart. What happened to the..." She looks out the window again. "What happened?"

"Attacks," Thana shrugs. "From within and without the city."

"In God's name, why?"

Thana leans very close and heat spreads through Michelle at the scent of her, the intention in her eyes.

"It is a broken world," she whispers close to her ear. "You see, you do not have anywhere to run to. This is one of the few safe cities. You have forgotten many years of turmoil."

And with her whispers comes greater clarity; still indistinct, but powerful. It leaves her reeling - sickness, war, death, triumph, power, safety...loneliness. Year after year of crushing loneliness.

She asks the question she is most afraid of.

"How many years?"

Thana leans back and gestures toward the bed. "Look."

Michelle turns, stares. Her hand covers her mouth in shock. A small, wrinkled lady lies asleep on the bed, red hair streaked with pale grey against the pillow. She's hooked to a heart-rate monitor and drip but appears peaceful.

"This is what others see when they look at you," Thana says, watching her intently. "They try to protect you because they love you, because this is the time when you are allowed to slip away."

Michelle rises and shuffles to the bed, studying the woman with tears in her eyes.

"It's me," she says. "I'm old."

"Yes. It is why you are weak, why you have lost your past."

"Vascular dementia, just like my father," Michelle says. She holds a youthful hand in front of her and studies it, looks back at the shrivelled lump under the blankets. "I look happy, I don't look dead."

"You are not dead, just outside your body. To help you see."

"This is just..." She looks at Thana in realisation. "Leah isn't here because she's dead."

"Yes. You have no surviving family."

Tears spill from Michelle's eyes. She turns from the unconscious figure and returns to her seat to gaze out the window. If she focuses on her reflection instead of the view beyond, she still looks young. She touches the tips of her fingers to her face; her skin feels smooth and supple.

"Do I look young to you?"

"You have always looked the same to me."

Michelle presses her fingers against the glass and digests the landscape again.

"The notebooks are true."

"Yes. As the Americans would say, shit happened."

"Can you give me an outline?"

"Waves of infection destabilized global and civil infrastructure, billions were dead within a couple of years. Systems collapsed, anarchy reined. People took what they wanted from each other, war broke out."

"I can't remember details," Michelle says and wipes her eyes with a tissue. "I have this sense of it, death and fear. Constant, unrelenting fear."

"The wars lasted for sixteen years. After the chemical weapons... London, for example, was destroyed, it is not habitable anymore. That," Thana nods at the view, "is what a good city looks like now. You are responsible for it, you made this place what it is."

"I'm a leader." She has to say it out loud, it's still so distant.

"Yes."

"I didn't stop it. Some leader I am."

"No one could stop it," Thana says with a soft smile. "You lived, picked up the scraps of what was left and created safe havens. Survivors from across Europe risked everything to get here and you did not turn them away. You made this place, and another further south, completely self-sustaining."

"But I'm not in my body, why can't I remember? And why am I still so weak?"

"You are still tethered to her. You are constrained by the laws of this world, by the disease in your body. You don't have to be, you can let her go."

"I'll die."

"All a body does is thread your consciousness into a certain time, reality. Everything becomes clear when you are not trapped by it. We can both move on."

Michelle stares at Thana in the dim light, eyes narrow and discerning. She still wears the same double-breasted coat, ankle boots and dress she had on that first day. But that seems unimportant now.

"Who are you?"

"Silly, Michelle," she chuckles. "You know who I am."

Vibrations play a tune on her skin at the sound of her name. It's the first time she's said it.

"Say my name again."

"Michelle"

The vibrations spread through her chest and weak limbs. She studies the figure sitting in the chair beside her. Ivory skin, lustrous hair with its slight curl. Deep blue eyes ringed with kohl and flecked with green. And yes, she knows who this woman is. It's instinctive, of the heart, not the desolated mind.

"Three days ago, I woke up to the feeling of my hand being let go," she says. "It was a terrible, wrenching sensation, as if a part of me was being torn away. But I remember now, that feeling was not new, it's been around for many years."

"Yes." She doesn't look surprised, she's hopeful, eyes sparkling, waiting for more. "Tell me."

"It's your hand I hold in my sleep. Your beautiful piano fingers. Esme."

Two tears make tracks down her cheeks, she pulls her chair closer and reaches for Michelle's hand.

"I could not get to you any other way. Until now."

"It's true then. You're actually..." Fear and awe reduce Michelle to speechlessness.

Without letting go of her hand, Esme pulls notebook 1 from the nightstand and flicks through it.

"'My ego viewed her as a personal crucible and about this, if nothing else, I was correct'," she reads with a smile. "You had an extraordinary memory before you lost your marbles."

Michelle can almost feel memories filtering through the skin of her hand. If ghosts have skin, she thinks.

"You were my angel," she says because it's true.

"Would you like to know what I saw?"

"Yes."

"I saw a feisty, beautiful redhead with a tongue too sharp to have many close friends. Deep, endless hazel eyes that never backed down. I saw a woman with ambition beyond anything I had known. Passion and complete autarchy made you formidable...and the most incredible lover I could have imagined."

Michelle exhales sharply through her nostrils and looks at Esme's playful eyes. "But?"

"There are no buts. I love you."

"You left me," Michelle says. "You left me to deal with all this shit on my own."

Esme laughs. Laughs. Michelle stares, then relaxes her face. She supposes it is funny that one of the first things she says upon seeing Esme again is in accusation.

"What we had, it was real, wasn't it? I mean, we were..."

Esme nods. "It should have been us."

It comes to Michelle, a memory, powerful and clear as day.

"Te iubesc," she says.

More tears squeeze from Esme's eyes. "You learned Romanian."

"Iosif taught me a few words. I've been saying it in my head for 30 years. I love you, Esme Baskov."

She leans forward and wraps her arms around Michelle, who clings to her for dear life.

"Don't leave me again, Ez. I don't care if you're not real, just don't go."

"I will not be leaving here without you."

Michelle withdraws from the hug and drinks in her beautiful face.

"It made me so happy you and my uncle became close," Esme says with smiling eyes.

"He was like a second father, and now I can't even remember what happened to him."

"He died in the third outbreak. Don't be sad, we all have roles in life, sometimes we achieve them, often not. Uncle Iosif achieved his."

Michelle shakes her head and shuts her eyes for a moment.

"It was always you, I never found anyone else."

"Very few did. Love was lost every second of every day."

"Jesus, Ez. What a shitty, shitty, lonely fucking life I've had. I got cheated... And now you're here. Now."

"We were both victims of circumstance. I fulfilled my role with you; my reward, the choice for us to meet again. Now you have fulfilled your role."

"Not well enough," Michelle gestures at the view outside.

"You brokered peace talks between previously hostile factions, you established protected places and taught people how to live within them. Because of you, they have a future. You created a new zeitgeist, is that not enough for you?"

"I don't know. I did all that?"

"Yes. You were a safety net."

"I would have sacrificed everything for you."

"I know. Which is why it was better I did not accompany you on your path."

"Did you know?" Michelle waves at the window. "This would happen? You said I was poised for great responsibility."

"It was the mood of the time. Everyone felt something was about the happen."

"It scares me." She rubs her fingers against her head, a head she no longer understands the physicality of. "To know that it's all just been erased."

"It has not been erased," Esme shrugs. "You can have it back, and so much more."

Michelle studies her shining eyes. She says, "I expected Death to be more sinister."

"Why? You have lived a good life, you made me so proud."

"What does it feel like? To die?"

"Like stepping over the universe."

Michelle absorbs the woman in front of her, fresh-faced and beautiful. Exactly the same as thirty years ago.

"Are those the clothes you died in?" she asks and Esme looks down at herself.

"I believe so," she says with a smile.

"Will I be cursed with this damn smock forever?"

Esme laughs and shakes her head. Michelle can't stop staring at her.

"Even when I didn't recognise you, I felt this overwhelming affinity. Did I recognise you before three days ago? Did I ever see you before?"

"No. It was...amazing to have you look at me again."

"But what about me?" Michelle waves a hand toward the bed in disgust.

"I think you are beautiful," Esme looks at the unconscious figure affectionately. "Would you like to know what I would look like if I had lived so long?"

Michelle considers. She says, "No, you're perfect like that. You are the loveliest..." She trails away with a frown and looks at the bed again.

"What a life you have lived, Michelle. So much more than I could have done."

"But just look at me."

"I am looking at you," Esme says without taking her eyes off Michelle. "You look the same as you always did to me."

"Not this me. That decimated co-"

She can't finish, Esme leans forward suddenly and catches Michelle's lips with her own. In an instant Michelle is back in Caffe Nero, watching her over a croissant, fantasizing about her while with Dominic. Kissing her in her bedroom that morning. Her lips are soft, her kiss tender, arms warm. It isn't a long kiss; she pulls back quickly and looks at Michelle's wide eyes.

"You still feel it," Esme concludes.

Michelle doesn't answer, she leans back to Esme with a strength she hasn't felt in this room yet. Yes, she still feels it. Oh God, does she feel it. When she lets her mouth get away, Esme's smile is huge.

"Ca alors," she says. "I feel it. It is worth the wait."

"I..." is all Michelle can produce as she sponges the effect of the kiss and Esme's resplendent smile.

Her expression turns shy. "Will you come with me now?"

"Yes," Michelle says hastily, then adds, "Where?"

"A place where everything makes sense."

"Would you tell me all about yourself? About Esme growing up."

"We can do better. Outside of time, I can show you."

Michelle watches as the door swings open of its own accord, revealing emptiness beyond.

Esme stands and holds her hand out with a welcoming smile. "Entities await."

Michelle takes it, Michelle follows.

Two nurses rush in to attend to the woman on the bed whose heart has stopped.

*

The room is empty now, Michelle Coderre's body has been taken away. Mr Kerr has been to pick up her personal effects. All that remains is the empty bed, still mussed from her last hours, a few strands of silvery red hair on the pillows.

As Owen pulls the sheets from it, a page of cracked, yellow paper escapes the inside of a pillowcase and flutters to the floor. He picks it up carefully and reads the sloped words written in fading black ink.

29th February 2022

I walked away from you today the happiest person in the world because I know we are bound. You will break off your engagement. It will be tough for us, you have a public persona to maintain, you may not be so willing to be open about our status. That is okay, as long as I have you behind closed doors. I understand your career is your life, I respect it because I believe in you and would not stand in your way. What I feel allows infinite concessions, nothing could stop me wanting to live as much of my life with you as possible. When you break from work, I will be there. When you need help, I will help you. When you need nothing, I will provide everything. It is funny, that two such different people can unlock each other. I wish I were the type of person who could voice these feelings, but with you, I don't need to, because I can see in your eyes you feel it too. You were successful in hiding for a while, but now I see. Maybe you know I loved you from the moment we met. You liked me insulting you, but as I thought, you are a beautiful person underneath your silly clothes and the way you wield your words as weapons.

You rescued me from a nightmare last night, and today you gave me a perfect day

That's it, nothing more. A sentence left hanging without a full stop, a long past communication Owen will never understand. But it was hers, his patient, his idol, and its riddle is beautiful. He shuts his red-stained eyes for a moment, then slides the page delicately into his blazer pocket.

***

Other titles by Sasha McCallum

Bathrooms & Psychiatric Offices

The Reader & the Writer

There Will Be Blood

The Lake

The Arrangement

Daughter of Night

Said the Spider

Oculi

Pretty Ugly Place
