

Lady Longshaw's Lover

by

Marcia Schott

Copyright: OW number 74486, named Lady_Longshaws_Lover.docx

as securely stored by Myows PTE LTD dated 2014-09-28 19:28:35

Marcia Schott has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Pattents Act 1988

to be identified as the author of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise,

be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author's prior consent in any

form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar

condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published as an ebook 2014

ISBN – 13: 978-1511845434

To those I love. You know who are.
The Present

October –

Early morning fog gave way to grey skies, gave way to even greyer clouds which bore rain. Heavy rain. Driving rain that lashed against the window panes.

Michael stood at the window staring out across the moor, deep in thought, his nose pressed against the glass. The silence between us grew with each passing moment. Outside, the branches of the Elm and Birch trees strained against the biting wind, their coats of copper and bronze tossed wildly and flung to the farthest reaches of the Estate leaving their branches stripped bare, shivering in the howling wind. Beneath the trees, dry stone walls and disgruntled sheep bed down together bracing themselves against the elements, and beyond them barely visible through the storm, Carl Walk, shrouded in low lying dense cloud, appears bleak and forlorn.

"You should write this down, Cara," he states finally, turning form the window. "Everyone has a story to tell, and this is yours." I look at him in disbelief. And it is evident that he has seen the fear in my eyes. Michael crosses the room, his footsteps sounding lightly on the wooden floorboards; his voice remains calm and reassuring. "You should at the very least consider it. It's a story that needs to be told, Cara."

"You want me to open myself up to the judgement and loathing and ridicule of others. Is that it, is that what you want?"

"We are judged every day of our lives, all of us, both by what we do and what we don't do. You have an opportunity to liberate the minds of others, Cara. Your story is the key that will unlock and reawaken hearts."

Outside, the rain continued to pound heavily on the windows and in that moment a seed had been planted.

*****

The Past

The onset of summer –

A thin strip of light shines through the small gap in the curtains, the only evidence in this otherwise darkened room that it is morning. It is hot beneath the sheets and I am in no rush to slide out of the huge oak bed. Lying on my back, I turn my head slowly to the right and glance at the empty space beside me – I miss Him so much. I miss his warm smile when he wakes and sees me for the first time each day. I miss his eyes that say ' _I love you'_ every time he looks at me. And I miss the feel of his body next to mine. His strong but gentle hands touching me, bringing my body to life. I close my eyes and can see Him there lying there beside me, his tender eyes like deep pools looking directly into mine as though he is gazing into my very soul, the way he always did. I want Him so badly. I want to feel Him touching me, burning deep down inside of me.

Slowly I allow my left hand wander across my chest and come to rest on my right breast, softly squeezing and releasing it in my palm, the way He used to do. I loved it that way, the gentle fondling, the tantalising entre to a more delicious dish that I knew would be served with unreserved passion and expertise. With thoughts of Him in my mind, my left hand continues to caress my breast, whilst my right hand glides decisively across my smooth and slightly rounded tummy until it finds the soft downy fur between my legs. I part my legs slightly as my middle finger slides purposefully between my lips to my already moist opening. Just the thought of having Him was always enough to moisten my waiting pussy. My mind and fingers begin to wander. I imagine his strong, loving fingers expertly sliding between my slightly swollen lips, dipping in and out of me, and his palm pressing gently against my clitoris making my body ache with pleasure. The tip of my middle finger slides inside me, sending tiny shock waves through my body in sweet anticipation of a longer, deeper entry still to come. I can almost smell Him next to me as my finger moves purposefully towards my clitoris, making tiny circular movements. The small of my back arches and I push my pelvis involuntarily deeper into the mattress as my level of excitement began to rise.

A deep, fulfilling warmth begins to radiate from between my legs, flooding my stomach and filling my breasts making my nipples joyfully sensitive. My thumb and index finger of my left hand take hold of my right nipple giving it a short, sharp squeeze. Tiny electric shocks course through my body causing my back to arch further and my chest to rise. The fullness of my breasts becomes evident beneath the silk sheets. My finger and thumb pinch the nipple harder, again and again, sending more tiny electric shock waves running down my abdomen, as further ripples of excitement simultaneously pour forth from my swollen loins, colliding somewhere deep inside my belly. It is His hands that I imagine filling me with a deep and growing pleasure. As my excitement increases, I slide two fingers deep inside my wet pussy, forcing the palm of my hand hard against my clitoris bringing me to the brink of orgasm. I am remembering His hard cock thrusting deeper and deeper inside me, touching my very core. As my fingers move in and out, the present and past fuse into one and I am locked in an ecstatic fantasy - it is His cock and the base of His cock that I can feel pressing against me, filling me with pleasure. And in one final thrust, he drives deep inside me filling me with His hot cum as my entire body explodes into a thousand shards of blinding light. I hear my soft whimper as my hand stills, and comes to rest on my throbbing pussy. I bask in the pure and unadulterated pleasure. A smile of spreads across my face as I return to the present. Finally I am ready to greet the day.

Sliding out of the silk sheets I walk over to the window. I can still feel my pussy deliciously pulsating deep inside as I throw open the heavy drapes. Sunlight bursts in, filling my favourite room in this flat with a brilliant orange glow. How I love hot summer days. And judging by the strength of the morning sun, that is exactly what I have to look forward to. I ignore my dressing gown which has been carelessly discarded on the chaise longue at the foot of the bed, and proceed towards the bathroom. The full length mirror on the bathroom wall perfectly frames my naked body. Long, auburn curls hang loosely over my shoulders, stopping just short of my dusky pink and still erect nipples. I look at my full, rounded breast. I liked the fact that they still attract admiring glances from strangers. My tummy is smooth and ever so slightly rounded. I smile at the thought of myself standing here gazing at my own body in the full length mirror. My eyes linger on the smooth, sensual curve between my waist and hips. He used to rest his hands on my waste and slowly trace a line down to my hips with his tender fingers. "I am in love with this part of your body," He would whisper, and I would melt and want Him to take me right there and then. My eyes continue down following the line of the arc from my waist over my hips and down my thighs, before descending the length of my legs culminating at my cherry red painted toe nails. Satisfied, I gradually lift my eyes until they come to rest on the small triangle of soft, trimmed strawberry blonde hair, above a blushed vulva that resembles a beautiful, fleshy peach. Slowly, I turn my back to the mirror and glance over my shoulder, looking at my buttocks. "Womanly," He would say, "rounded and smooth." Nothing much has changed. I turn back to face the mirror and take a step closer to the glass, looking closely at my face. Only the faint trace of whisker-thin lines around my eyes and the corners of my mouth gave any real indication of my age.

I take a long hot shower, taking care to thoroughly wash and condition my hair and shave my legs before turning the tap to cold and bracing myself for the icy water. I have always found the experience of moving from one extreme temperature to another breathtaking and invigorating in equal measure – rather like diving into a cool, clear mountain stream on a sunbaking day. Lifting my face to the jet stream and running my fingers through my hair I allow the cold water to run through my hair and down my face and neck, before separating and rushing down my back and flowing over my chest simultaneously, once again forcing my nipples to harden as the icy stream cascades over my breasts, making my skin tingle.

I pat my body dry, leaving my hair to hang wet over my shoulders causing tiny rivulets to wind their way down my spine and over my torso. It helps to keep me cool on hot days. From the array of deodorants and perfumes littering the glass shelf beside the bathroom mirror, I select the Aloe Anti-Perspirant Deodorant and liberally apply it under my arms before taking down the half-empty bottle of Chanel No.5 and lightly dabbing it to my wrists and behind my ears. Finally, I apply lip balm to add depth and moisture to my lips. After all, the lips are one of our most sensual features, so why not accentuate them. Returning to the bedroom, I pull on a clean pair of panties and a pair of old, comfy jeans and slip into a white, loose fitting cotton shirt, the buttons fastened as far as my cleavage. I turn to the mirror before leaving the bedroom. Happy with my look, I turn and head downstairs to the kitchen.

An empty bottle of Saint Emilion and a single crystal wine glass stand on the farmhouse table. The table stands before a heavy stone framed window that overlooks a formal stone walled garden (my garden) that forms a small part of the Longshaw Estate. The Estate boasts over eleven thousand acres and includes the stately property that I live in referred to as Longshaw Lodge. Built for the Duke of Rutland in the nineteenth century as his shooting box, the Lodge is now owned and managed exclusively by the National Trust and has been divided into a series of exclusive flats – one of which I live in. Beyond the formal stone garden wall lies the rugged and wild Derbyshire Moors. I adore this place with its untamed heather, its unkempt grass and its abundance of bold, weather-beaten rocks and boulders. The estate comes into its own every season, whether painted picture-postcard white by the winter's snow, or dappled in purple heather during long, hot Indian summers. And this morning is no exception as a sea of rhododendron flowers unfurl in pastel shades along the perimeter of the garden and beyond. It never fails to take my breath away. I prepare a breakfast of home-blend muesli with slices of banana and semi-skimmed milk, and sit down to eat.

The sound of voices drifts in through the open kitchen window from somewhere out of sight. Curious, I crane my neck hoping for a better view. Just beyond the stone wall a small team of gardeners, wearing the estate's regulation green overalls, are gathered. The first, a rotund, middle aged man with a ruddy face pours what looks like tea from a tartan thermos flask into a plastic cup. The second, who is perhaps ten years younger than his colleague and substantially leaner, with unkempt hair tied roughly in a ponytail, draws longingly on a ready rolled cigarette. The third looks much younger. He looks intently at his colleagues through his long, thick, veil like fringe, then smiles: a warm, friendly smile that seems to light up his entire face. They continue talking as I turn my attention back to my garden and my bowl of muesli and banana. A sudden burst of laughter from the gardeners fills my room, arousing my curiosity once more, and once again I crane my neck to observe them. The ruddy faced man has replaced the plastic cup on the top of his flask, and his ponytailed colleague stubs out his cigarette on the garden wall before flicking the butt into the rhododendron bushes to his left. The younger one has removed his overalls from over his shoulders and tied the sleeves around his hips revealing his broad shoulders and slender waist, both of which are tanned a rich golden brown.

The ringing of the doorbell draws me away from the scene.

*****

Michael's cheesy grin awaits me when I open the front door. He hands me a beautiful bunch of long-stemmed white lilies and declares, "My god, you look ravishing this morning. Just the right amount of cleavage on show to titillate without being overtly sluttish." I raise an eyebrow to suggest my disapproval, but I can sense that Michael has no intention of taking me seriously. Pursing my lips I look him up and down as if making a judgement on his appearance. Much to my annoyance, he is as gorgeous as ever. Clean shaven, not a hair out of place and immaculately dressed in a loose fitting silk shirt and well pressed Chinos. Shit!

"Come in and go straight upstairs. Take your clothes off and make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a minute," I instruct. Still smiling, Michael moves past me. He is very familiar with the layout of the flat and does not hesitate as he moves through the hall before taking the flight of stairs to the first floor.

I arrange the flowers in a slender white vase and place them on the kitchen window sill. They look so elegant. As I turn to remove the items from the kitchen table, I catch myself glancing back towards the gardeners. Ruddy Face and Ponytail are still stood beside the stone wall, laughing and nudging each other playfully. The younger gardener is nowhere in sight. I begin to wonder just how much of my conversation with Michael those two overheard. I quickly tidy the kitchen, arranging the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher, and placing the empty wine bottle in the recycle bin. The crystal glass I hand wash, wipe and returned to the cupboard. After wiping the crumbs and splashes of red wine from the farmhouse table I turn and head for the stairs, knowing that Michael is waiting patiently for me.

The door to the upstairs room is ajar and Michael is sat, naked, on a solitary stool in the centre of the room. His head is turned to the left looking out of the window as I enter. "You took your time," he utters suggestively. Michael always enjoys being provocative, especially around me. I choose to ignore his comment and instead walk casually over to my easel and palette. "I never tire of this view," he continues. "You don't know how lucky you are to be living here." The truth is, I know exactly how lucky I am, and take time every day to thank Him for introducing me to this beautiful place all those years ago. "The view of Carl Wark from up here takes my breath away every time I enter this room," he adds.

I pause and look out of the huge stone framed picture window and admire the vast expanse before us. "It is majestic isn't it," I reply. The view was the primary reason for choosing this room as my studio, that and the fact that being a first floor room it guaranteed me the privacy I needed when working with models. Michael remained seated silently while I docked my iPod into the SoundLink Bose music system, and scrolled through my iTunes collection to select something suitable for the morning. The high-tech music system looks incongruous sat on a long, heavily soiled antique oak table that is littered with an extensive collection of artists' brushes, tubes of paint, knives, palettes, charcoals, soft pencils and jars of turpentine and linseed oil. Apart from that much loved table, the only other items of furniture in this large and airy room are a dog-eared chaise lounge situated beneath the south facing window, my easel and a large threadbare Persian rug laid out in front of the hand carved Henan yellow marble mantelpiece and covering a large expanse of stripped wooden floorboards. A vast collection of stretched canvasses and painted wooden boards, displaying works of art in various stages of completion, are leaned against two of the studio's internal walls. Only two pictures are actually hung in the studio. The first is a 155 x 131 cm oil on canvass hung in the alcove beside the fireplace – it is an exact replica of Claude Monet's _Nymphéas, reflects de saule_ that I painted during my final year at The École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts. The second, also an oil on canvass, is much smaller than the first measuring only 45 x 60 cm - it is an etude for my work _Light and Lust_ which formed part of my first solo exhibition at London's Tate Modern. It hangs proudly above my old oak table.

Nina Simone's dulcet tones seep into the room from the Boss system. "Time to start work," I quietly announce. "Your posture is good, but I would like you to turn slightly more to your left." Michael shifts slightly. "Perfect," I tell him. I've lost count of the number of occasions that Michael has sat and posed naked for me, somewhere between fifteen and twenty at a guess, and it is evident now that he feels much more comfortable doing so. "Look at you," I tease, "sitting there all nonchalant. You could easily be mistaken for a professional model." I can see his smirk. He loves it when I flatter him. He holds his gaze on the _Nymphéas, reflects de saule_ painting in the alcove beside the window the way I have taught him to. His tanned shoulders are relaxed and well defined, sculptured from a lifetime of lifting weights. His muscular chest gently rises and falls with his every breath. Even in this relaxed posture, his abdominal muscles are evident. Michael sits perched on the edge of the stool, his athletic legs slightly parted. His right leg bent at the knee with his right foot turned outward, resting on the horizontal bar towards the base of the stool, while his left foot is planted firmly on the floor. And there in the middle of his perfectly formed body, rests his thick, heavy tool. He could have been the model for Michelangelo's David. But Michael wasn't always this confident. I remember the first time, it took a whole bottle of Hunter Valley's **Braemore Semillon** before I managed to prize him out of his underwear, and a further two glasses before he felt able to remove his hands from covering his manhood. Now look at him, relaxed and confident with his crown jewels listing slightly to the left and resting heavily on his left thigh. And not so much as a glass of wine in sight.

Carefully, I remove the covering from the easel. "When can I look at it?" he enquires.

He asks the same questions every time: 'When can I look at it? How does it look? When will it be finished?' And every time he gets the same reply, "You can't rush art. It'll be finished soon enough. You'll see it when it's finished, and not a day before." I know that this frustrates him – patience has never been a particular strength of his – but I enjoy the game. And deep down inside, I think he does, too. "So, how are things between you and Slim Jim?" I ask. Slim Jim is my pet name for James Robinson, Michael's lover, on account of his slender tool – Michael let that one slip out after a few too many glasses of red wine not long after the two of them met. It appears that Michael is prone to letting all manner of things slip out after a glass or two.

"Don't ever let him hear you call him that, not only will he be terribly embarrassed, he'll hang me by my genitalia from the top of Longshaw's flagpole."

"Now that would be a sight to behold. Anyway, how is he?"

"Actually, he's very well. Very well indeed. And for a man who is clearly not the most well-endowed person on the planet, he certainly knows how to handle himself I'll have you know. I'm beginning to wish, Cara, that I'd never mentioned anything about James' manhood."

"Too late," I assure him, "the news is already out there."

At this point Michael lowers his voice before continuing, no doubt for added effect. "Do you know he made me come three times last night. Three times! When was the last time you came three times in one evening?"

The truth is, I can't remember, but I am not past the point of trying, I know that much.

Michael continues regaling me with anecdotes about his love life and planned trip to Amsterdam, while I pick up a palette and filbert brush and begin to mix the yellow ochre and the flake white oil paints together. It has been a week since I last saw Michael and I have missed his brazen honesty. I also happen to know that underneath that flippant exterior and the occasional bawdy comments, Michael is one of the most sensitive, thoughtful and loving men that I know, and I feel blessed to have him as a dear friend.

After an hour or so Michael begins to subtly roll his shoulders and tilt his head from side to side and it is evident that he needs to take a break. "Let's take five, Michael. It can't be easy sitting perfectly still for long periods of time, and you have done very well this morning."

"Thank you," he replies. "I was beginning to stiffen up."

"I can see that," I tease, glancing at his penis. Michael blushes, glancing down at his semi-erection.

"Sorry," he adds apologetically pulling on his Calvin Cline underpants.

"There's nothing to be sorry about, I was rather enjoying the view. It's been a while since I've been in the company of an amiable cock."

"Mind if a roll a little number?" he asks, removing a small resealable bag and a packet of cigarette papers from his Chino's pocket.

Instantly I'm interested, "What do you have?"

"Black Moroccan. Would you like to join me?"

"Love to. It's been a long time since I last indulged." I replace the cover over the easel and go down stairs and put and put the kettle on while Michael rolls a joint. "Tea or coffee?" I call up to him.

"Coffee, strong and black – just the way I like my men."

Back upstairs Michael is sat on the Persian rug in front of the open fire place and has already lit the joint and is drawing deeply on it. I sit beside him and place the coffee on the hearth. "The flowers look lovely, by the way. Thank you for thinking of me." Michael winks at me, and after a few seconds takes the joint from his mouth, and without exhaling, hands it me. Slowly I place the roach between my lips and inhale deeply. The sudden rush from that first inhalation of smoke makes me feel dizzy. I close my eyes, exhale, and wait for the dizziness to pass and the tingling at the back of my neck to begin. "God, that feels good."

"I hope that it's not going to affect your ability to paint," he teases.

"From now on, whatever happens to the painting is your responsibility."

"In that case, I'll take that back," he says, gently easing the spliff from between my fingers, "before this painting transforms into an abominable piece abstract art!"

"There's nothing wrong with abstract art, Michael. I happen to be very fond of it. And who says that it isn't already an abominable piece of abstract art. Why else would I keep it covered up?"

Michael looks at me askance, with those 'don't even joke about such things' blue eyes of his.

"Oh, Michael, I'm teasing," I explain. And by way of showing him that there is are no hard feelings, I lean towards him and kiss him on the cheek. "Come on, gorgeous, you'll love the painting, I'm sure of it. Now finish your coffee, it's time for me to go back to work."

The soft plucking of violin strings, as Puccini's _Humming Chorus_ commences, fills the room with a beautiful, calm, almost melancholic air. And I am momentarily transported to a different time and place. _Madam Butterfly_ was His favourite opera, and he would unconsciously hum the tune as he shaped and smoothed the clay with his hands: those strong, yet oh so gentle hands. "You okay?" Michael asks.

"Yes. Sorry. Just remembering." Michael offers a warm, knowing smile and returns to looking at the _Water Lilies_. I unveil the canvass and stand back, considering the work thoughtfully. Progress has been slow by my standards, and each stroke considered and deliberate. This has been an interesting challenge and departure from my usual style of painting. And I am very pleased with the way the picture is taking shape. My usual impressionistic splashes of colour and soft, defused images have been replaced by a richness and depth of colour, and precise lines and form more reminiscent of the Italian Baroque artists Caravaggio and Gentileschi. I continue to work on the painting throughout the morning. Michael looks lost in thought and so the session is quieter than usual.

As midday approaches Michael dresses to leave. I carefully drape the hessian cover over the painting and head back downstairs calling over my shoulder, "And don't even think about peeking."

"Spoil sport," he calls after me, but I am already down stairs and have no intention of responding.

"By the way," he adds joining me at the front door, "I left a something for you upstairs."

"Can I smoke it?" I ask.

"You bet your ass you can."

"You angel. How much do I owe you?"

Michael plants a kiss on my cheek "My treat."

"Michael, I am not a charity. Now how much do I owe you?" But as I speak, Michael is already heading down the steps to the car park. "Michael!"

"Honestly," he responds, "my treat." Ignoring his comment I turn back into the flat and lift a fifty from my purse and dash out of the door. He is just about to get into his car when I catch up with him. "Here," I say, slipping the money into his silk shirt pocket and planting a kiss on his lips. "And thank you." Michael blushes and climbs into his Land Rover. The car window is down, and as he fires up the engine George Michael's voice rings out, singing a song about freedom at full volume. Typical.

"See you next week - big boy," I call, as his Land Rover pulls out of the parking space. I blow him a kiss and watch him disappear. A cloud of dust from the sun-baked gravel track takes to the air and billows in his wake. Ruddy Face and Ponytail are back at the wall eating sandwiches smiling at me. I smile back and walk inside.

*****

The late afternoon sun hangs like a golden globe over Carl Wark, illuminating the rocky promontory, and presenting Hathersage Moor in all its glory. The richness of the colours are further enhanced by the lenses of my Wayfarer sunglasses. The walk down to Grindleford is a mere two miles. The route takes me past Longshaw's pond and winds its way through Granby Wood until the well-trodden path meets the road that leads down to Nether Padley. From there, it's just a short hike past Padley Chapel and the remains of Padley Manor, and finally across the picturesque Grindleford bridge, whose three ornate arches straddle the River Derwent.

I roll my hair around my fingers until it gathers at the nape of my neck, loosely resembling a bun, and place my wide-brimmed straw hat over the folds of hair, leaving my neck and shoulders free of hair and exposed to the soft summer breeze. I have swapped my jeans and shirt for a lightweight cotton dress that hangs loosely, but elegantly from my shoulders and follows the smooth contours of my waist and hips and stopping just below my knees. On my feet are my favourite dusky pink converse shoes, and over my shoulder is my Eagle Creek daypack. The long dry grass strokes my shins as I cut across the field, ignoring the path, on my way to the pond. Apart from the V formed by a solitary coot gliding across the water, the pond is undisturbed and bathed in sunlight. Just beyond the water lies the inviting arch of trees that announce the start of the woodland path and the prospect of welcome shade. The floor of the wood is dappled with spots of diffused white light that caresses the rich Islamic green blades of grass and the tubular, sweet scented bluebells.

Exciting the woods, I step lightly through the narrow opening in the dry stone wall and turn left taking the footpath down to Nether Padley. Gritstone escarpments and dry stone walls flank either side of the road. Littered among the steep slopes, ornate stone houses stand exposed, tall and proud, defiant of the harsh freezing winters and sweltering summers. The road is quiet and the sheep in the neighbouring fields are happily grazing near the roadside. The lambs are still in high spirits and bound gaily across the moors, scampering through the summer heather. I cross the road to take shade from the line of silver birch trees that skirt the road, and continue down the hill towards Grindleford bridge. Through the line of trees on my right, the single stone chimney of Padley Manor and the stone cross that extends heavenward from the gable end of Padley Chapel can be seen rising up from behind a grassy hillock. As I descend further, rounding the hillock and stepping back into the sunlight, the remains of the manor house and chapel come into full view. Sited around a dilapidated courtyard, the ruins act as a constant reminder of the atrocities that befell the parish under the rule of Queen Elizabeth I.

Tourists delight in recitations of the parish's macabre history. A tale that dates back to the sixteenth century and recounts a period of increased hostility and prejudice against the Catholic Church, and in the case of Padley Manor, prejudice against two Catholic priests, Robert Ludlum and Nicholas Garlick. The priests, who took refuge in the manor, were arrested and charged with coming to England with the intension of seducing the Queen's subjects. They were duly condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered. In 1588, the priests were hanged but cut down whilst they were still alive. In a barbaric act of indignity, their manhood was then cut off and their bowels taken out and burned before them. The ceremony concluded with the severing of their heads and their bodies being sliced into quarters. It is Rumoured that Garlick took advantage of the enormous crowd that gathered to witness his execution to preach his final sermon, before he and Ludlum were erased from this world and written into the history books as the 'Padley Martyrs'. In an unusual twist of fate the manor house was later converted into a Roman Catholic chapel during the nineteen thirties. I smile at the thought of the priests finally getting their own way, before picking up the pace and striding down towards Grindleford bridge.

I arrive in Grindleford feeling hot but invigorated from the walk. My wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses offering no protection from the sweltering heat that still hangs heavily in the air. I sip from my bottle of Evian water before returning the bottle to my daypack and entering the general store. The layout of the store has changed little in the past twenty years: three centre isles displaying tins and jars and essential dried food items, as well as a limited range of cleaning products; a selection of wines, beers and spirits line the wall directly opposite the door; on the far left is a small freezer section; beside the door fresh local produce is piled high in wooden crates lined with artificial lawn matting; and to my right the glass serving counter is overflowing with cooked meats and dairy produce, including an impressive selection of international cheeses.

I quickly select a handful of groceries – vegetables, fruit, bread and milk – and make my way to the counter to pay for them. Judy is stood behind the counter in her customary pinny looking every one of sixty-two years. Many moons ago she lived with Michael's father, which was in many regards a high point in her life, even though it ended acrimoniously. Michael and she remain good friends and talk often, despite the fact that he and his father haven't spoken in years. She looks over her spectacles at me, and gives me a quizzical look before speaking. "Good afternoon, Cara. How is Michael's painting coming on?" I am momentarily taken aback. She knows about the painting? I hesitate before replying, "Slowly but surely." My answer is intentionally vague. Michael has made it perfectly clear to me that the painting is to be kept a secret, and I feel very uncomfortable discussing the topic. I quickly change the subject, discussing the weather and increase in tourists through the Longshaw Estate. We continue to exchange pleasantries as I place the groceries into my bag and pay for them. "Say hello to Michael for me when you see him," she adds, and concludes with, "And tell him that I can't wait to see the painting when it's finished."

"I'll tell him," I say walking out of the door. Although I rather suspect that this is not the kind of portrait that Michael is going to want to put on public display.

As soon as I leave the shop I rummage around in my daypack in search of my mobile phone and dial Michael's number. "Hello beautiful. I thought you'd have had enough of me for one day."

"I could never have enough of you, Michael. Now, the reason that I'm ringing is because I have just walked out of Judy's shop..."

"Really?" he interrupts. "And how is the old broad?"

"Keen to see your portrait."

"What! You told her about my portrait?" I can hear the exasperation in his voice.

"I didn't have to. She already knew."

"Shit!" There is a moments silence before he continues. "I must have let it slip out when we had dinner at Antibo's last week. I was a little drunk."

"Really?" I struggle to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

"Yes, really. And don't even think about launching into a lengthy lecture right now. I'm in no mood for it."

"Who me?" I ask, innocently.

"Yes, you. Jesus Christ, I must remember not to drink when I see her. She has a way of teasing things out of me." He sighs heavily before continuing. "I remember telling her something about seeing a lot of you recently, but I don't recall saying anything about the painting. Fuck. I must have been seriously pissed."

"Uh-huh, I think so." There seemed little point in denying the fact. "Well, now that Judy knows, I suspect that all of Grindleford and the best part of the Peak District know about the painting. Perhaps we should arrange a public exhibition."

"And perhaps not! Must go, I'm driving. I'll call her later and aim to implement some damage limitation strategies. Though I fear we may be past that point." I blow him a kiss and hang up. I replay the telephone conversation in my head as I stroll up the hill to Gridleford's coffee shop. One 'Jesus Christ', one 'shit' and one 'fuck' in the space of one minute, I wonder what Father Lonegan would make of that.

Grindleford's coffee shop is situated in an old stone building. Sections of stone have been removed to allow for larger windows to be installed. Outside are three wrought iron tables, each with four wrought iron chairs, and octagonal canvass parasols rising through the centre. The mosaic table tops are inlaid with fragments of brightly coloured ceramic tiles forming concentric circles. And beside the open door, swings a vintage red and black metal sign depicting a steaming cup of coffee and bearing the simple slogan: _Our delicious coffee_ _hits the spot_ _._ A group of walkers gathered around an ordnance survey map occupy one of the tables, the other two are vacant. It is too hot to sit inside, and so I lift a copy of _The_ _Guardian_ from the newspaper rack and sit at one of the vacant tables. A spotty faced teenager wearing teeth braces, a very short black skirt and holding a notepad approaches my table and looks down at me and smiles, "Can I get you anything?"

"Thank you. I'll take the lemonade with a slice." Despite being a coffee shop, they sell the most sensational homemade lemonade. Astral, the shop owner, makes it daily with fresh, home-grown Meyer lemons hand-picked from the orchard behind the shop. On many occasions I have overheard her explain to customers how the Meyer lemons are chosen specifically for their extra sweetness, and served chilled with a slice of fresh lemon. "They are the mother of all refreshing drinks. Perfect for a summer's day," she always explains. I quite agree with her.

When my drink arrives, courtesy of the spotty faced waitress, I am already engrossed in an article in the newspaper. I cast her an appreciative smile and return to the article that has grabbed my attention. I do not immediately see the two Longshaw gardeners, Ruddy Face and Ponytail, take the table beside me. They are both sat with their backs to me looking in the direction of the spotty-faced waitress who is taking a further order from the hikers. I assume, given that I am wearing my wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, and was reading the newspaper when the gardeners sat down at their table, that neither of them recognised me.

Ruddy Face places an order with the waitress the second she turns away from the hiker's table, "A Caffe Latte and a Cappuccino, please."

"An' a juicy tart," Ponytail adds salaciously. "Just like this one." He points to the picture on the menu.

As the young waitress leaves with their order, the two men snigger and begin making suggestive comments about the length of the waitress' skirt and what they would like to do to her "given 'alf a chance". I have half a mind to go inside and share their thoughts with the young girl, and suggest that a long cool glass of iced-water is more in-line with what the gentlemen need – preferably tipped directly in their laps. But I resist the urge, and instead return to my article and my thirst quenching lemonade.

The afternoon sun creeps purposefully towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the cobblestone road. I watch the shadows lengthen and crawl across Main Road as I contemplate the pleasant walk back home. I had all but forgotten about the gardeners sat at the next table until Ruddy Face announces, a little too loudly not to overhear, "...an' she's a good looking woman. I don't get it. Why do ya think she 'as to pay for sex?"

I am irritated by their conversation and begin to fold the newspaper in front of me.

"I don't know. It don't make any sense. Maybe she's retarded or somethin'," suggests Ponytail.

"More likely she likes getting up to some kinky stuff while 'er 'usband's away."

One track minds. I pick up my bag and prepare to leave.

"Ya think so? I don't mind a bit o' kinky stuff myself."

"Well, maybe you should knock on 'er door and volunteer your services." Ruddy Face puts on a posh English accent: "Pardon me, Ma'am, I am the head gardener at the Lodge. I've been informed that you have a _bush_ that needs carefully tending." Ruddy Face sounds ridiculous using that forced upper-class accent. They both begin to laugh heartily.

"Jokin' apart," Ponytail continues, "if she's so desperate, I'd gladly shag her for free."

"Like she'd be interested in yo'." Ruddy Face scoffs. "She looks like a classy broad, so unless you've got a Land Rover and arrive barin' flowers, I don't think she's goin' to give yo' a second glance – big boy!"

I stop dead in my tracks, suddenly aware that they are talking about me.

*****

The sun's early morning rays illuminate the stained glass panels in the top of the kitchen windows filling the room with a soft, welcoming defused light. I prepare my first cup of Earl Grey Tea for the morning, made just too my liking with a splash of milk and a heaped teaspoon of muscovado sugar. I love the scent of bergamot as the hot water disturbs and swirls the tea leaves. I consider spending time working on Michael's portrait today after my morning walk. I take my tea out onto the lawn and breathe in the fresh morning air – its fragrance is intoxicating. A flock of synchronised swifts dart like skilled jet pilots, in perfect formation, over the dry stone wall, beneath the extended arm of the Elm tree, and swoop down over the pond, scooping up a droplet of water on their way, before darting back over the wall in preparation for a another flyby. A chorus of bird song in the surrounding trees enters my consciousness – the only thing to disturb the silence at Longshaw.

Casually, I turn around and cast my eyes upon this charming house, admiring its strength and majestic elegance: its ancient, sturdy stone walls and towering chimneys, its grand bay windows and its rough stone steps worn smooth by countless feet. For centuries the building has stood like a beacon on the hillside; its cavernous rooms silently beckoning kindred spirits from far and near. My very being is woven into the fabric of these walls, these smooth stone steps and these towering chimneys. As my eyes wander across the house's eastern façade Michael's white lilies come into view, looking tasteful and delicate in equal measure.

At the back of the building Mrs. O'Brien shuffles into the garden wearing a pinny and carrying a plate of bread crumbs for the birds. "Good morning, Hannah," I call. She carefully makes an about turn, her carpet slippers leaving a shiny trail in the morning dew. Hannah has lived at Longshaw since the summer of 1959, when she moved in as a newlywed. The following year she announced to the other residents that she was with child. Sadly, her husband, Olly, was killed in a car crash later that year and the shock caused Hannah to miscarry. She has remained a devoted widow ever since. Nowadays, she is considered as much a part of the Longshaw Estate as its dry stone walls and worn stone steps. I walk over to her, my tea still in my hand. "How are you?" I ask. She screws up her face and squints in my direction, clearly trying to work out who it is that is talking to her. I move a little closer.

"Oh, it's you, dear. I thought it was one of those disgraceful new gardeners calling me," she states, and turns back towards the bird table where she places the crumbs.

"No. It's only little old me, I'm afraid."

"No need to be afraid, dear," she replies. "I'd rather it was you, I can assure you."

"Why, have you been having trouble with the new gardeners?" I ask.

"Let's just say that I much preferred having Old Tom around", she adds wistfully. "He had worked at Longshaw since he was a boy. Did you know Tom?" she asks.

"Yes." I reassure her. "I certainly do remember Tom. And his little Jack Russell that followed him around the Estate."

A smile spreads across her wrinkled face at the mention of Tom's dog. Hannah loves to reminisce, and I am happy to spend a while with her, listening to one of her many, many Tom stories. I cannot quite imagine the Estate without her. So much of Longshaw's history will be washed away with her when she passes. She recalls the past with such detail and fondness, and her pale grey eyes shine a little brighter as her tale unfolds.

I am curious to ask Hannah about the new gardeners. She is well respected among the Longshaw community, and is regarded as an authority on all Estate matters. With that in mind, I decide to wait patiently for an opportune moment. Eventually her story draws to its conclusion and Hannah's eyes glaze over as she stares into the distance, no doubt lost in a memory.

"Hannah?" The mention of her name jolts her back to the present. Her eyes, like tiny pools, brimming with tears. Perhaps now is not the time to talk about new gardeners. Perhaps now is the time to remember and reflect. I excuse myself and head off for my morning walk, leaving Hannah alone with her memories.

I leave my tea cup on the garden table and the flat door unlocked before heading out through the garden gate into the moor beyond. In all the years that I have lived here, there has never been a need to lock the flat. I like that about the place – it has always been safe. It's still before 8.00am but the air is already warm. I am comfortable in my faded jeans, converse shoes and T-shirt. The grounds are peaceful: no walkers, no gardeners, just me and the birds. Perfect.

*****

The sun is higher in the sky when I arrive back at the garden gate, hot yet exhilarated. My T-shirt is wet with perspiration and clings to my body. Walking back across the lawn I catch site of the young gardener sat on the grass, his back against the stone wall that surrounds the garden. His head is down looking at what appears to be a book on his lap. I approach and he lifts his head and smiles at me, displaying a row of immaculate white teeth framed by soft, full lips. His blue eyes, like sapphires, gaze confidently at me. He has an appealing boyish charm. "Hey," he utters.

"Hey back."

"You live here?" he enquires, tipping his head in the direction of the house.

"Yes. And you?"

"Don't," he concedes.

"Quite." – Is all I can think of to say. I feel his eyes momentarily drift down towards my breasts before returning to meet my eyes. I am suddenly aware that my nipples are erect and are clearly defined through my sweat soaked T-shirt. Feeling self-conscious, I fold my arms across my chest and blush.

Despite his good looks, I am about to admonish him for inviting himself into my garden when I see that he is holding a pencil in his long, slender fingers and that it is a sketch pad on his lap. "So, you're an artist are you? May I see?" I ask, referring to his book. He looks a little bashful but hands me the book open on the page he has been drawing. His slender fingers lightly brush against mine as I lift the book carefully from his hands. I look thoughtfully at the drawing on the open page before flicking through the other pages. The pages were littered with beautiful illustrations. I am rather surprised by just how good these sketches are. "You drew all of these?" He nods and raises his hand to shield his exquisite blue eyes from the sun. "They are very good," I add thoughtfully. "Very good, indeed." I look quizzically at him. The style is reminiscent of the pencil studies produced by many of the Renaissance artists. Paris Bordone and Piero del Pollaiuolo come to mind. I glance back at the young gardener and find his expression hard to read. "You have quite an eye for detail," I add as I offer him back the book. He reaches out and takes the sketch pad from my hands, lightly running his fingers along the length of mine as he does so, and my heart flutters. What was _that_? Was that an accident or is he flirting with me? Surely not, he cannot be more than half my age. I briefly close my eyes and clear my thoughts. Evidently, my imagination is running wild. It must be the heat. I can feel myself begin to blush again, this time at my own foolishness. He smiles up at me and his thick, black fringe falls across his cobalt-blue eyes.

"Ethan?" A disembodied voice calls out from beyond the garden wall. The young gardener stands. So that's his name.

"Time to go back to work," he states matter-of-factly. I turn and watch him saunter away. For some reason I can't take my eyes off of him. I am still looking when he gets to the garden gate and glances back at me, casting his wide boyish smile in my direction. I turn away embarrassed, and feel myself flush once more. I pick up my cup from the garden table and head inside. Thoughts of the young gardener occupy my mind as I cross the threshold.

I spend the afternoon working methodically on Michael's portrait, trying to capture the perfect balance of dark and light. Art historians refer to it as chiaroscuro: the effect of darkening the shadows and bathing the subject in a vivid shaft of light. Throughout the afternoon I keep referring back to the works of Caravaggio, making a mental note of how he achieved this perfect contrast, and using my understanding of his processes and style to inform my work on Michael's portrait. Progress remains slow, but I am pleased with how the painting is turning out. I only hope that Michael feels the same way.

As the sun heads west towards the farthest crag beyond Carl Walk, the white walls of the studio take on a soft warm hue, and I know that it is time to replace the canvass cover over Michael's portrait and uncork a bottle from the wine cellar. I use turpentine to wash my coveted filbert brushes and to remove the oil paint stains from my fingers and palms. The turpentine has a distinctive odour and always leaves my hands feeling dry and coarse. As a consequence, after removing the paint from my hands, I ritualistically wash them with a fragranced _Savon De Marseille_ Olive Oil Soap, leaving my palms and finger tips feeling soft, smooth and delicately scented.

I remove a dusty bottle of Saint Emilion from the cellar and fill a Normandy Thomas Webb crystal glass to the brim. There is something rather sophisticated and decadent about drinking a particularly good merlot from a beautiful wine glass. Though there is nothing sophisticated about the measures that I pour myself. I walk over to the kitchen door, which remains propped open, and rest my shoulder against the door frame. The garden is bathed in a soothing orange glow. Satisfied with my day's work I raise the glass to my lips and savour the first sip. It tastes earthy and is complimented by the delicate aroma of ripe fruits. Subtle, yet deliciously satisfying.

I take my glass and wander across the lawn. The ramblers and visitors that meander through the Estate's woodlands and footpaths throughout the day have all gone. The Visitor Centre staff and the gardeners have finished for the day. Only the sheep remain, silently keeping watch as they wander through the purple heather. The air smells sweet. The old oak gate which hangs from its wrought iron hinges on the south side of the garden groans as I ease it open. I take the worn stone steps that lead past Longshaw's Chapel, paying attention not to spill any of my wine. The Estate's pond lies ahead of me. Like a looking glass, it reflects the line of trees that skirt the water's edge on the far side. The path leads through a copse, and for a while the pond disappears from view. Long shadows reach out from the base of the Ash and Birch trees which stand silhouetted against the cloudless sky.

I disturb a rabbit, which darts away, zigzagging through a cluster of bushes and shrubs at the water's edge. The pond looks peaceful as it comes back into view on the other side of the copse. A small thicket of low lying bushes form a crescent on the south side of the pond and among them rests an old log lying on its side, no more than three feet long and a foot in hight. Running my left hand across the bark it feels rough and in parts brittle. Over the years layers of the bark have peeled away exposing the smooth wood beneath. I step over the log and sit on it, looking out over the pond. A gentle ripple moves across the water's surface stirred by something on the far bank. A coot perhaps, or a moorhen. The ever expanding circles centre about a small, dark image among the reeds in the shadows of the west bank. The images moves gracefully through the water at a sedate pace, moving in the direction of the centre of the pond. Then suddenly it disappears beneath the surface. I follow the thin line of bubbles out of the shadows. When the figure resurfaces, bathed in amber light, I am a little startled. Ethan's bronzed head, long dark fringe and muscular shoulders appeared above the water's surface. He seems oblivious to my presence. I continue to watch from the safety of the thicket as he swims and splashes through the water. At times gliding with all the grace of a dolphin through the water, barely disturbing the water's surface, save for a tiny 'V' left in his wake. At other times, he makes huge splashes as his feet kick violently driving his body deep beneath the water's surface.

At last the sun has slipped behind the farthest crag and the pond is bathed in silvery moonlight. Ethan swims back towards the line of trees on the opposite bank and steps out of the water, naked. Despite being slightly embarrassed by my own voyeuristic behaviour, I am strangely aroused at the sight of his undressed body. Trails of water, like jet black rivulets, run from his dark locks over his broad shoulders and down his suntanned back converging at the base of his spine before continuing downwards, forming a pool at his feet. I cannot take my eyes off of him. His body is perfect. Intellectually, I have long understood the attraction of gazing at nudes. Indeed, I have dedicated the greater part of my adult life to the creation of images depicting the physical beauty of the human form for the gratification and admiration of the voyeur. But in doing so, it was always with the consent of my subjects. This is different. But despite that, I will him to turn around, if only for an instant. I can feel the warmth between my legs beginning to radiate outwards as my eyes drink him in. Without drying, he slips into his underwear which clings to his body like an extra layer of skin, only managing to accentuate the firm roundness of his buttocks. Pulling on his gardener's overalls and work boots, Ethan slips into the shadows, and disappears out of sight.

*****

A knock comes at the door. I try to ignore it, choosing instead to continue working on Michael's painting. I have already been interrupted twice this morning, once by the postman wanting to know if he can leave a neighbour's parcel with me as she appears not to be at home, and once by the ruddy-faced gardener wanting to borrow a cup of sugar. He looked a little indignant when I told him that I only had muscovado. "It'll do, I suppose," he grumbled as he took the cup from my hand. "Ta." And with that he had turned and walked away. The studio windows are thrown wide open allowing a welcome breeze into the room, but also giving a clear indication to whoever is outside that the property is most probably occupied. And that probably gave rise to the insistent ringing of the bell. I try blot it out, focusing instead on the music coming from the speakers: ironically, Van Morrison singing about haunts of ancient peace.

"Hey, Lady Longshaw, I know you're in there." I recognise Michael's voice instantly. "Either you come down and open this door or I scale these walls and climb in through your bedroom window." I dash over to the open window and look down. He is standing below, gazing up at me, grinning from ear to ear.

"I'm sorry, I had no idea it was you. I'll be right down." Ruddy Face and Ponytail look up from their cups of steaming tea.

"I should think so too, I'm desperate to get out of these clothes and join you upstairs," he continues. I cringe at the thought of what Ruddy Face and Ponytail will make of this.

After throwing the cover over Michael's canvass, I descend the stairs two at a time, clearing the last three in one jump. I open the door and find myself once again face to face with Derbyshire's best dressed architect – a bunch of beautiful flowers in his hand. "Hello gorgeous," I beam, "are those for me?" I ask, taking the flowers and giving him a hug.

"That's better," he says giving me a gentle squeeze, "I was beginning to think that you didn't to see me anymore."

"Don't be silly," I reply before stepping aside so that he can enter the flat. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Well, I happen to have the morning free. James has to go visit his mother in Wolverhampton, and while the cat's away I thought that the mouse could come and play. Shall I go upstairs and undress while you put those fabulous roses in some water?"

"They are rather fabulous aren't they. And yes, you may go upstairs and remove your clothes, but no peeking under the canvass," I call after him as he bounds up the stairs. I place the roses in a porcelain vase that Michael brought me back from China a few years ago – picked up, he assures me, from a tacky market stall in Beijing. The seller claimed it was a relic from the Ming Dynasty, but we all know better. But despite its lack of antiquity, it is priceless to me.

Michael is looking relaxed and seated on the stool when I enter the room. My iPod has advanced to Paul Kelly's 'Spring and Fall': an inspired album that charts the journey of a relationship from the excitement of first love through to its bitter sweet conclusion. I decide to let it continue playing. I remove the cover again from the canvass and pick up my brush. "You're a terrible flirt, Michael. Have you any idea what those gardeners think of me already," I scold him. "Your suggestive comments will only further reinforce their deplorable impression of me."

"How can they possibly think anything deplorable of you? You are a saintly figure, Cara."

"And don't think that you are going to charm your way out of this with your flattery. Especially when the flattery is wrapped in such undeniably monastic sarcasm." Michael looks at me like a hurt child, but I can tell that he doesn't mean any of it. And neither do I.

Despite the teasing, I am happy that Michael is here today. It will allow me to continue working on the contrast between dark and light in the painting – the compositional chiaroscuro – which is the embodiment of Baroque paintings. I collect a table lamp from the bedroom to illuminate the easel and palette, and a free standing spot light from the store cupboard on the landing which I position high above Michael's left shoulder shining directly downwards. Michael looks on patiently, with a glint of curiosity in his eye; the room is well lit and the need for additional lighting obviously has caused some confusion for him. When I eventually draw the heavy velvet curtains on the studio windows, Michael's expression tells me that he finally understands. The effect is exactly what I was hoping for. The overhead shaft of light dramatically illuminates Michael's muscular shoulders and deep chest, and casts a fiery orange glow upon his sculptured forearms and thighs, whilst at the same time creating rich opaque shadows that define his musculature.

"So, how's your love life?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. I return to the canvass and ignore his question. "That good, eh?"

"I'm not really interested in a relationship at the moment. It's still early days."

"Three years is a long time, Cara. Perhaps, it's time to let go." I sigh inwardly. "Why don't you come over for dinner tonight? James is an amazing cook. I'll invite a few friends over, it'll be a laugh."

"Thank you for the thought, Michael. Really. But I don't think that a night out with a congregation of beautiful gay men is going to satisfy my needs."

Michael smiles.

I begin to carefully apply paint to the canvass, musing as I do: I miss the intimacy of being close to someone, really close. But I am not ready for the complications of a full-blown relationship at this point in my life. So how, I wonder, how does a single woman like me find her release? Michael maintains his silence. Perhaps I should venture out. Perhaps I should socialise a little, instead of sitting here in the flat every evening. But if I went, what would I say? It's been so long. It's different with Michael, we go back a long way. I've never found it difficult to talk to him. He knows everything that there is to know about me. My deepest secrets have been laid bare at his feet. And I know that my secrets are safe with him. He understands. I'm just not ready to open up to anyone else. And right now, I don't even want to open up any further to Michael.

I work in silence for the next hour, enjoying the fact that I don't have to make conversation or explain myself to him. He just understands. It's not an awkward silence, but a peaceful one. It allows me to slowly return, in my own time, to a better place.

"I went for a walk at dusk yesterday. Down by the pond." Michael looks over at me. His smile is soft and thoughtful. He has been waiting, silently, patiently, for me to drift back into our shared space.

"How was it?" he eventually asks, not really pushing the issue.

"Peaceful. Calming. The sun was just setting and the moon was on the rise. I sat beside the pond enjoying the stillness for a while. Then something rather unexpected happened."

Michael had noticed that I had laid down my brush as I was talking, a clear indication that I had something of importance to say. Trivia I could always manage with my brush in hand, but anything of any substance, anything that required my full attention, usually resulted in me habitually putting down my brush in order to concentrate.

"This must be serious," he states, matter-of-factly.

"No. Not serious. Just..."

"Yes?

"Michael, I feel a little embarrassed about this. In fact I can't quite believe that I'm about to tell you." His eyes begin to widen in anticipation.

"Well," he enquires, "are you going to keep me on tender hooks for the rest of the day or are you going to spill the beans?"

I take a deep breath and began to let my tale of the young gardener unfold. Starting with our meeting in the garden earlier in the day yesterday, and culminating in the incident by the pond. I recount every little detail that I can recall. What I had seen and how I had felt. At my conclusion, the slightest hint of a smile appears at the corners of Michael's full lips. "My, my, you little hussy," he declares.

"Michael," I scold. "I am not a hussy, and I'm highly embarrassed by the whole thing."

"And highly excited, too," he offers with an ever widening grin.

"This is not a laughing matter."

Still undressed, Michael steps down from his stool and wanders across the studio floor and puts his arms around me. "My dear, Cara. What you need is a bloody good rodding," he states softly. I can feel myself begin to flush and bury my head in his chest. "It's a shame that I don't find you in the least bit attractive," he adds. "If it were not for that, I'd have been more than happy to oblige myself." This makes me chuckle and I turn my head and look deep into his eyes.

"What is going to become of me, Michael?"

"Well, I suspect that after you've gotten over your embarrassment, you'll go out and find your young gardener. Then you'll take him to your stately bed and promptly fuck his brains out. After that, I suspect, you'll return to your life of solitude and misery." I hit him playfully on the chest and then tell him to get dressed as my stomach tells me it's time for lunch. I cover the portrait and head down stairs.

As if from out of nowhere, Michael's arms reaches around me and he dips his index finger into the chicken liver mousse. "Mm, _pâté_ my favourite," he announces as he proceeds to lick his finger.

"I know. And bloody expensive, too. Wine?"

"Just a small one. I have to drive home shortly. I want to be back before James so that he doesn't suspect anything." The toast pops up in the toaster. Michael reaches out to dip his finger a second time into the mousse. I playfully slap the back of his hand and thrust a plate containing the toast in his direction.

"Now take this to the table, please." Michael takes the plate and sits down at the farmhouse table, looking out of the window. I join him with the mousse and two Chrystal glasses half-filled with _The Reserve_ from the Barossa Valley. Michael lifts the glass to his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. "Mocha." He announces before sipping the wine. "And... chocolate."

"Yes! Chocolate. I can't believe that you identified that flavour." He winks at me and I can't help but smile.

"So. Is that him?" I am sitting with my back to the window and Michael is looking over my shoulder towards the garden. "He looks a little more rugged than I imagined. And older, too."

I turn around and see Ponytail working on the capping stones on the gate pillars. "No. That is _not_ him. What do you take me for?"

"Well, if I'm not mistaken, a desperate woman."

"I am not a desperate woman, and even if I were, he most definitely would not be my type."

"Then if it's not him, I guess it must be that one over there." Michael is pointing to a spot beyond my line of vision and I have to turn and look over the other shoulder to see where he is looking. I am half expecting to see Ruddy Face when I turn around, but I am pleasantly surprised. There he stands. Ethan. His overalls are tied around his waist again exposing his well-developed chest and trim waist. His head is turned down, his gaze fixed on the hinges of the old groaning gate, and his fringe hangs down like a thick black curtain. "I can certainly see the attraction. He's stirring things up in my loins, too."

Again I can feel myself begin to blush and I turn away from the window, though I can't bring myself to look directly at Michael either. "Look, it's all just nonsense. Pure fantasy and nothing more. I mean, it's absurd to even contemplate anything happening between us. He probably hasn't even given me second thought. And besides, I'm probably old enough to be his mother."

"Cara, it's every young man's dream to be seduced by someone who is more mature, more experienced and sexually more enlightened."

"And how would you know?"

"I was about his age when I was seduced by a Portuguese God whilst on a Mediterranean holiday with a group of friends. They tried to warn me about going off with strange men, but I took no notice whatsoever. He was more than twice my age and hung like a donkey." Michael leans across the table and in hushed tones pronounces, "He taught me things that I hadn't even dreamed were possible." Michael paused for effect just long enough to allow my imagination to conjure up some interesting possibilities. "Trust me," he said, sitting back in his chair, "it was the best sex that I've ever had. Though I would never divulge as much to James. I think that it would seriously knock his confidence."

"You don't have to worry, your secret is safe with me."

"I know. Now brace yourself, kiddo, 'cause you're about to go out there and seduce that very sexy young gardener."

"Michael," I proclaim, feigning shock, "I am not a seductress."

"Well, not yet."

*****

I am in no mood to paint after Michael leaves, and instead I pull on my walking boots, grab a bottle of chilled water from the fridge and head out of the back door at a brisk pace, ignoring the sideways looks from the gardeners. I need fresh air, and space to think. The sun is still high in the sky as I step outside, although it is clearly heading westwards towards Carl Walk. I take up a good pace which I know I cannot maintain for more than a few hundred metres, but that will be far enough to get me away from the house and the gardeners and most of the day visitors. The ground is uneven, littered with thick tufts of grass, exposed rocks and rabbit holes, but none of them hamper my pace or progress. Gradually my breathing becomes a little heavier and I turn to see that the house and its gardens are no longer in sight. I stop to catch my breath and sip from the bottle of water and to take in the view. The majestic heath stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions, rolling and undulating: a moorland tide. Knee-high ferns, in thick patches, compete with the ochre and green grasses and the purple heather. Hay Wood, in the far distance, is a little over three kilometres away as the crow flies, due south-west. A thin covering of wispy cirrus clouds provides temporary respite from the sun and will make the walk to Hay Wood all the more pleasurable. A solitary rambler fades into the distance. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, filling my senses with the heavy, musky aroma of blooming heather. Rejuvenated, I press on.

By the time I return to the house my clothing is damp and clinging to my body. The walk has provided me with the time and space that I needed to collect myself and see things for what they really are. I kick off my boots and take the stairs two at a time, peeling off my T-shirt as I do heading towards the bathroom. A soft, auspicious light seeps in to the bathroom through the full length French doors that overlook a dense woodland copse at the back of the house. The stripped antique oak floorboards and the carefully selected ceramic wall tiles with their Renaissance motifs give the bathroom a touch of sophistication and elegance. Leisurely I walk across the room and open the French doors fully, allowing what little breeze there is to drift into the room. I stand naked from the waist up and look out on the copse that rises steeply on the bank behind the house. It is a restricted area, inaccessible to visitors, and it affords me the privacy that I enjoy.

Leaving the doors open wide, I remove my faded jeans and undies, letting them fall to the floor and step into the shower cubical. A harsh jet of cold water rushes from the shower head hitting my chest and running down over my belly taking my breath away and causing my muscles to involuntarily tense. My nipples harden in the icy torrent and my entire body remains momentarily rigid. The experience is both shocking and invigorating in equal measure. Gradually, the stream of water begins to flow warm. I circle slowly, allowing the water to warm my skin all over. My shoulders relax and I turn my face towards the flow and close my eyes. The warm spray caresses my body as it cascades down my torso, running in rivulets down my inner thigh. I wash and condition my hair, allowing the warm jets to massage my scalp as I do so. I feel for the bar of scented soap and knead it under the stream of warm water. The smell of citrus is refreshing and reawakening. I begin to work the soap into thick lather before applying it to my sea sponge. Gently I begin to work the sponge over my body, leaving my skin tingling and feeling alive. As I brush across my breasts, my nipples harden again, reacting to the slightly course fabric of the sponge. I am reminded of my embarrassment when the young gardener glanced at my chest. The _handsome_ young gardener. The handsome young gardener with the _captivating smile_ : Ethan. My thoughts linger on his beautiful smile as I continue to rub the sponge over my torso, working my way down in the direction of the mound of soft, curly fur between my legs. I slide the sponge between my thighs and gently stroke my womanhood in slow, cleansing and exciting me at one and the same time. With my eyes still closed, I conjure an image of Ethan's broad sun-tanned shoulders and his defined pectoral muscles, and fantasise running my fingers across his firm chest and down to muscular stomach. As my imagined fingers caress his chiselled abdomen, I release the sea sponge from my hand and guide the soap over my clitoris, moving it in slow circles. My body begins to ache – for him; for pleasure; for release.

My left hand feels along the wall of the shower cubical until it reaches the shower head. While my right hand continues to work its magic with the soap, I unhooked the shower head and hold it inches away from my left nipple. The force of the water stimulates the nipple further, making it tender – almost too sensitive to bear. But the pain excites me further. My imagined fingers move further down Ethan's torso, tugging at the top button of his jeans. I can see his erection straining against the fabric, crying out for its release. I spread my legs and moved the shower head down, over my tummy, until it comes to rest on my swollen genitals. Multiple jets of spray simultaneously stimulating every inch of my pussy. I am enraptured. I push the shower head hard against my groin as I near orgasm. As my imagined fingers unzip Ethan's jeans and reach inside to grasp his manhood, my body erupts in wild convulsions that rip through my abdomen and loins. The pleasure is exquisite as shock wave after shock wave radiates outwards from my genitals spreading throughout my body, rendering me weak and completely satiated.

I stagger from the shower and reach for a towel on the rack. A welcome, satisfying breeze blows through the open French doors. I wipe the water from my eyes and turn to face the breeze. Opening my eyes I see a solitary figure looking back at me from the edge of the copse: Ethan.

I am surprised by my inner calm. I meet his gaze with unexpected confidence. Still dripping wet, I let the towel fall to the floor and walk, naked, over to the French doors, never once taking my eyes from his. I don't know how long he has been standing there or how much he has seen. None of that seems to matter. What strikes me is the look in his eyes; a soft, thoughtful, engaging look. The kind that art lovers reserve for Modigliani's _Reclining Nude_ or Titian's _Venus_. He holds my gaze as I outstretch my arms and reach for the doors. I pause, holding the doors open wide, just long enough to look into his eyes for a moment longer, before slowly closing the doors and turning to leave the bathroom. Only then do I blush.

*****

I wake early on the Saturday morning – shower, dress and leave the Estate long before the Visitor Centre staff and early morning ramblers arrive. The roof of my 1966 Convertible Volkswagen Beetle, Daisy, has been folded down, affording me an unbroken view of the cloudless sky above and the feel of the sun's warm rays on my skin. A gentle breeze rustles my hair as I wind my way through the Derbyshire countryside, bypassing a patchwork of green fields and tiny stone cottages. On mornings such as this, I love driving this old car.

I remember the first time that I saw Daisy back in the mid-nineteen eighties. She had been buried under a dusty sheet in the back of Ray's garage and had not been driven for years. Ray was a family friend. Daisy didn't even have a name back then. I remember pulling back the cover and climbing into the driver's seat. I saw Him looking at me, a warm smile on His radiant face. He walked across the garage and folded down Daisy's roof before climbing into the passenger seat beside me. We laughed at the basic dashboard and the silly triangular windows on either side with their ostentatious chrome handles. She looked just like an old fashioned coach pram when her roof was reclined. Ray stood and considered us from the far side of his garage. "My father owned her from new," he said. "It was the first car he'd even owned. He used to take mother for long drives through the countryside in it when they were courting. When mum passed away the old fellow couldn't bear to drive the car anymore. Too many memories, I suppose. He couldn't bear to sell it either, so it stood in his garage gathering dust. When dad passed away I tried to start it up, but I didn't have any luck. In the end," he concluded, "I called a mechanic friend who had it towed over here, and it's been here ever since."

There was a moment's silence. "Your father must have loved her very much indeed," I suggested.

"Yes. I suppose he did," Ray remarked, and then turned and left the garage.

Three months later He arrived home all excited. I recollect that I was making soup when He ran into the kitchen. He loved soup in the wintertime. I remember him frantically rummaging through the kitchen drawers until he found a clean tea towel. "Here," he demanded, "put this over your eyes. Oh, and grab your coat. And a scarf. And you might need a hat."

I didn't know what was happening. "Will you just slow down and..."

But it was no use. The tea towel was tied in place like a blindfold and a coat was being pulled over my shoulders. A scarf was wrapped around my neck and a hat thrust upon my head. "I have something to show you," he announced.

"And I'm supposed to be able to see it with this cloth tied around my head!" But there was no use in complaining, He had his mind made up. Carefully, He led me through the flat and out of the door. He guided me down the smooth stone steps at the front of the Lodge. I remember still how excited I felt that day. I had no idea what to expect, but I trusted Him completely. I heard what I presumed to be a door opening and He guided me inside a vehicle and reached over me to fasten the seat belt. "No peeking," he stated. I heard the passenger car door close and Him walking across the gravel drive to the other side of the car. Then he started the engine. I had never heard anything like it before in my life. A throaty roar followed by the sound of wheels spinning on gravel and we raced off down the driveway. As we neared the road He reached across and untied the tea towel letting it fall from my face. I could not believe my eyes: we were driving down the driveway in that beautiful, old VW Beetle with the roof down. "Ray said that he wouldn't have sold her to anyone else – not for all the tea in China. I hope that you like her, 'cause she's all yours," He said.

I looked across at Him, tears in my eyes. Perhaps it was the cold wintery wind that caused my eyes to stream that night. Or perhaps it was the fact that I was completely and utterly in love with the man sat beside me.

I turned to look again at the road ahead of us. "Now, what are you going to call her?" he asked.

I considered this for a moment before answering. "Daisy. I'm going to call her Daisy, after Ray's mother".

A slow-moving tractor ahead brings me out of my reverie. I slow down and continue at a steady pace, trundling on behind the tractor, through the village of Baslow. I glance up and read the inscription around the clock face on the church tower: VICTORIA 1897. The hour hand points to a space between the V and the I whilst the minute hand points directly to the A, which tells me, and anyone else who cares to look, that the time is precisely 8:15am. I continue past the church and the sixteenth century toll shelter to where the road narrows at the ancient bridge. I follow the tractor over the bridge, crossing the River Derwent, and at a convenient place accelerate past the tractor. If the motorway traffic is kind, in a little over an hour I will be at the University of Nottingham.

At 9:32am precisely I pull in to the University of Nottingham visitor's car park. Already the air feels heavy, indicating that it will be another stinking hot day. I have time for a short stroll around Highfield's boating lake before the Djanogly Art Gallery, located on the campus's most easterly perimeter, opens. A smattering of students and weekend visitors sit on park benches enjoying the shade beneath the Willow and Elm trees that skirt the lake, or wander in quiet conversation across the manicured lawns. Only the slightest breeze, causing tiny ripples, disturbs the otherwise still water. On the far side of the lake, overhanging branches, thick with foliage, create dappled shadows upon the lake's surface. And beyond them, located at the highest point on University Park, stands the magnificent Trent Building whose clock tower reaches out, high above the trees, into the cloudless sky. I take the path that leads around the south side of the lake. A small brick kiosk at the water's edge houses a stout, bespectacled man wearing a leather money pouch hung from a well-worn strap over his shoulder. Beside him a sign reads _Rowing_ _Boat Hire_. It's early in the day and the boats, with their faded paintwork, are still tied to the bank, each with a pair of heavy oars resting across their wooden seats. Past the kiosk, the Rhododendron and Azalea bushes are in full bloom and bursting with colour and lemon fragrance. The path winds around gently, bordered by exotic and native trees to the left and a knee-high fence to the right, separating the visitors from the lake. Rounding Tottle Brook I turn right and cross the ornate foot bridge towards the formal terrace and Trent Building.

The façade of the building is impressive. So much so that both of the university's international campuses, the one in Malaysia and the other in China, are modelled on this iconic structure. Built of Portland stone in a classical style, between 1925-1928, the building now serves as the main administrative wing of the Nottingham campus, but in days gone by its Great Hall was graced by many distinguished visitors, among them Albert Einstein and Mahatma Gandhi. The building also boasts an extensive art collection, most of which are acrylic or oil paintings, including works by Thomas Lawrence and Godfrey Kneller, with the greatest concentration being on display in the Great Hall. With its prestigious history and appreciation of the Arts, I am assured that the university is a befitting venue for hosting the current exhibition of _French Art: Renaissance to Neoclassicism_. I arrive at the Djanogly Arts Gallery foyer a few minutes after the doors have opened. A square opening in the wall to my left marks the entrance to the exhibition space. A small group of Asian students are gathered inside the exhibition room on the right-hand side of the gallery, excitedly discussing a controversial painting by Meister der Schule von Fontainebleau, entitled _Portrait of Gabrielle_ _d'Estrées and Duchess of Villars_. The image depicts Gabrielle, one of Henry IV's many mistresses sitting upright in a bath with her sister. Both are seen naked from the waist up. Gabrielle is holding what is presumed to be Henry's Coronation ring between her thumb and index finger, whilst her sister reaches out with her left hand and tweaks Gabrielle's right nipple between thumb and forefinger. Two of the students at the back of the group begin to snigger, obviously amused by the image. They are abruptly reprimanded by their stony-faced tutor and the giggling ceases immediately. Personally, I too find the painting rather amusing, but turn my attention instead towards Delacroix's _Crouching Woman_ which is hung in a commanding position on the wall directly opposite the gallery entrance. I ignore the paintings hung on either side of me as I make my way casually towards Delacroix's study, noting the description on the plaque beside the picture: _Eugéne_ _Delacroix (_ _1978-1863)_ _Pastel with black, red and white chalks and touches of blue chalk on tan wove paper_. The woman in the picture is depicted with her back to viewer. Her strained posture exudes a sense of tension and discomfort. I stand and admire the artist's capacity to capture, in just a few simple strokes, such an intense feeling of pain and despondency.

The arrival of another visitor at my side prompts me to move on. I turn and scan the paintings along the eastern wall of the gallery before taking in the whole room. There are only a few visitors this morning and the gallery feels cool, they must have turned on the air conditioning, and the stark white walls and bright overhead lighting make the room seem light and airy despite the fact that there are no windows. My eyes are drawn towards a narrow archway leading from the main viewing gallery to a smaller side room. I walk over and peer inside. The room contains a single bench seat in the centre of the room and a smaller selection of exhibits from the collection, among them, Ingres's _Odalisque with a Slave_. I sit on the bench and place my hands on either side of me facing Ingres's indisputable masterpiece. The painting's colours are rich and the brush strokes indiscernible, but that is not what strikes me about this painting. It is the image of the odalisque reclining fully exposed in her harem that holds my attention. Her eyes are turned away from the viewer towards her lute playing slave, but her seductive posture and her pearly white skin are aimed directly at the voyeur, tempting them, exciting them, inciting feelings of lust and passion. For a moment, the distant voices in the other room drift out of my consciousness and I am engulfed by silence and consumed by the rich and sensual image before me.

"What do you see?"

The voice is soft and sensitive and comes from a safe distance behind me. It stirs me from my private place. I am unsure if the comment is aimed at me or at another visitor, and so I casually turn and look over my left shoulder. A young man dressed in faded jeans and wearing a floral patterned shirt unbutton to a point just above his abdomen is looking directly back at me, his thick black fringe hanging loosely across his face. His slender feet are bare. Instinctively he brushes his hair away from his face exposing his deliciously blue eyes. "Hello, Ethan."

*****

There is a moments silence before Ethan steps forward and repeats the question. I cannot quite believe that I am about to engage in a conversation with someone who has recently watched me step naked from the shower without address the fact – but it would appear that that is exactly what I am about to do. I turn back to the picture and contemplate it for a moment longer. He moves forward and sits beside me on the bench, his shirt gapes slightly open at the front. From the corner of my eye I glimpse the firm, smooth, tanned skin that otherwise would lay hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt and my pulse involuntarily quickens. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, looking intently at the picture.

"The painting has a dreamily, erotic quality. It is a sensual fantasy overloaded with Eastern romanticism," I suggest. It is a very potent image. Sexually charged. "Notice the concubine's slightly flushed cheeks and her blushing nipples. Are they not suggestive of a state of post coital rapture?" the question hangs in the air. "She appears to me to be stirring from a delicious encounter." I turn to Ethan whose eyes are fixed straight ahead. "What do you see?"

His eyes remain fixed on the image before him. His lips, full, closed, kissable. He remains silent, deep in thought. Then, slowly and thoughtfully he responds. "An entrancing woman... Captivating...and naked. She delights in knowing that she is being admired, though she pretends otherwise." All of a sudden I am unsure if we are still discussing the painting or if our conversation has moved on to a more personal level. My thoughts are unclear and my breathing has become laboured and my chest begins to noticeably rise and fall.

Thoughtfully, Ethan slides his right hand across the bench and lightly, deliberately, touches my fingers with his. His touch is soft and the feeling unimaginably pleasurable. I close my eyes trying hard to calm my breathing and collect my thoughts. My rational conscience and my irrational desire battle it out in deafening silence. Admonishing and justifying back and forth. But rationality is always weak in the presence of desire. He is so youthful. So beautiful. Yes, I have to attest, his beauty is disarming. And I, I envy his brazen daring. Touching my fingers with his is a simple action, and yet it is charged with intent. I look down at his slender, sun-kissed fingers as they lightly stroke mine. Cautiously I lift my eyes to meet his. His deep, sapphire blue eyes sparkle with the promise and youthful desire. In what seems like a reckless instant, a triumph of desire over rationale, I close my eyes and kiss him full on the mouth. His lips, soft and sensual. It lasts but a moment. Our lips remain closed. Slowly, I pull away, just a few inches, and turn my head down. Not in shame but in uncertainty. What was I thinking? What is he thinking? Ethan moves his hand and places his index finger under my chin and affectionately lifts my head until his eyes are looking deep into mine. And then, without a word, he closes his eyes and places his lips on mine. Tenderly his tongue parts my lips and entwines mine. Gingerly, I raise my palms and lightly place my fingertips on his cheeks. His skin is smooth, exquisite to the touch. He presses his lips harder against mine in response, his tongue delving deeper whilst his arms embrace me, holding me fast against his chest. And in that moment, in that very instant, my heart roars uncontrollably inside my chest and I let out a whimpered cry as our lips part. The impenetrable wall which shields my heart shudders. For the first time in a long time it shudders. And for what seems an eternity we are each held, suspended in the others' tender embrace. Hesitantly, I ease away from him, my fingers lingering on his cheek, my eyes never once leaving his. I savour the sound of his whispered panting. My head feels light and I feel dizzy, intoxicated. Ethan's hot breath, still only inches from my cheek, scorches my skin.

"You realise that I don't even know your name," he whispers, his voice sounding hoarse, manly.

"Cara." The word is barely audible, carried on my breath. Little more than a whisper.

"Ethan," he replies, and his perfect smile spreads across his face. Flawless white teeth framed by soft, sensuous, kissable lips.

"Yes, I know." He tips his head quizzically. "The other gardeners. I heard them calling you that day I looked over your sketches, remember?" He nods in response. "What will they make of this I wonder? Will you tell them?"

He runs his slender fingers through my hair and gently squeezes the nape of my neck before slowly straightening up, allowing his arms to sink and his left hand to come to rest on my thigh. He looks past me, into the distance, as though deep in thought. "I don't really talk to them. They wouldn't understand." He casts his eyes down. And for a brief moment we are worlds apart yet sharing the same space. A space that is filled with uncertainty and doubt. A space that is filled with previously inconceivable possibilities.

"I was serious when I said that you have quite a talent," I tell him, changing the subject. "Where did you learn to draw like that?"

His look softens, as though he is back on safe ground. "I don't know," he says, his eyes returning to meet mine. "I've always drawn, I guess. For as long as I can remember. There was this one teacher at school who was passionate about art. I wasn't in his class, but he allowed me to come into the art studio at lunchtimes to draw and paint. Sometimes he'd be in there, too, and I would watch him. He loved painting birds. All kinds of birds. He painted them on pieces of slate, never on paper. I wasn't particularly interested in birds, I was more interested in the human form."

"Yes, I've noticed. The naked human form." I emphasise the word _naked_ and this time it is his turn to blush, and that makes me smile. We talk more. Gentle conversation about art. We admire some of the lesser known works of Titian, Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci in the exhibition. I find myself discreetly looking sideways, not at the meticulously produced paintings and sketches that adorn these walls, but at the young man who is stood beside me gazing at the art works.

11:55am. Ethan's mobile phone chimes. He removes it from his pocket and runs his thumb across the screen to read a text. "I have to go," he offers by way of an explanation. "I have to meet someone. But I want to meet up with you later in the day." I am a little taken aback and throw him an enquiring glance, but he remains intentionally vague about the arrangements, making it quite clear that I am not invited along. "Is that possible?"

"Perhaps." My response unsettles him. Two can play at this game, I think to myself.

"I could call you when I'm free, if you'd like." He suddenly seems uncharacteristically unsure of himself and shifts his weight, first onto one leg and then the other.

"All right. Text me. If I'm still in Nottingham when you call then we can meet up." His shoulders visibly relax as I read out my mobile number and he keys it into his phone. He slips the phone back into his pocket and stands nervously close by. All of his confidence has waned. That one little word, _perhaps_ , has put doubt in his mind. I smile inwardly at his awkwardness before leaning forward and kissing him full on the lips. Not a long, lingering kiss. Not a sensual, passionate kiss. Not a sexually charged kiss as before. But a reassuring kiss. And with that kiss Ethan departs.

I turn back to Titian and Leonardo da Vinci but am unable to concentrate on the paintings. Instead my mind is reliving every last second of our encounter. Every sentence, every word, every syllable. I recall them all. Replaying them. Rewinding them. Analysing them. I marvel at the unlikelihood of it all, and wonder where it will lead. I revel in the uncertainty. Such are my thoughts that there seemed little or no point in staying in the gallery. Any idea that I may have harboured about immersing myself further in art seemed futile. I go back outside, cross the lawn which lay sprawled out in the midday sun, and stroll sprightly up to Daisy. I place my key in her door and climb in. She fires up first time. A deep, throaty roar. There is no doubting it, despite her vintage, she still has what it takes.

*****

The sun has long since sunk into the River Trent. I had watched it slip unfalteringly from the night sky and slide, silently, beneath Trent Bridge's steadfast iron arches, before submerging itself in the dark, murky waters. Two grey shadows move silently across the water, arching their long necks and dipping their heads beneath the water's surface before resurfacing and gliding past, heading down stream. I press the _Messages_ button on my phone. The empty envelop tells me that I have no messages. Resigned, I smile knowingly and feel every bit the fool that I am.

The drive along The Embankment is pleasurable enough. The night air hangs heavily, held in place by looming silhouettes that by day mascaraed as Oak and Chestnut trees, but by night present a more sinister demeanour. Daisy moves purposefully forward, oblivious to the looming dark images, and disturbs the heavy stillness. The night exhales: its breath hot. Countless stars, the size of pin pricks, sit a million miles above me like stationary dust particles trapped in a beam of light. I leave The Embankment and turn onto University Boulevard. There is something immeasurably satisfying about driving a convertible through deserted streets at night. It frees the mind. Ahead hangs the moon. A perfect circle. Suspended. Weightless. And silhouetted against it, the majestic clock tower of Trent Building. I sigh, a deep, heavy sigh, then laugh at myself, and turn off the Boulevard and point Daisy towards home.

*****

Sunday morning. A thin strip of light creeps in to the bedroom through a crack in the curtains, forming a perfect triangle on the ceiling as it narrows towards the centre of the room. I roll over and focus on the digital clock on the bedside table. 7:47am. I rub the sleep from my eyes and turn onto my back. The light, silk sheet crumples around my waist as I roll over leaving my torso uncovered. My mood is light and airy. I focus on the elongated triangle above me and a series of disconnected images flash unexpectedly across my inner eye: Ethan's beautiful smile; his exquisite etchings in his sketch book; his naked body bathed in silvery moonlight at the lake; his gaping shirt at the gallery; his mobile phone in his slender fingers; his tall, lean figure walking away from me at the university; the sun sinking into the dark waters of the River Trent. And I am reminded of the waiting. The naïve anticipation and the inevitable realisation. And the lightness dissipates and morphs into a dull, numbing cloud.

The cloud lingers through breakfast and follows me out of the Longshaw Estate and down towards Nether Edge. The backseat of Daisy is stacked with cardboard boxes, and each box is overflowing with paintbrushes, tubes of paint, rolled sheets of butcher's papers secured with elastic bands, canvasses, an assortment of pencils, charcoals, pastels, chalks and a portable CD player. My mood lightens as I exit Nether Edge and proceed towards the market town of Bakewell.

Bakewell town's community centre is a Victorian brick building. The paint on its sash windows and timber doors is flaking with age. I appreciate its distressed exterior, its aged frown. Inside, the timber floorboards have long since lost their shine. In the corner of the room, a beat-up pine dresser, a Belfast sink and a copper urn demark what many consider to be a kitchen area. And in the centre of the room a series of rectangular trestle tables are positioned in a circle around a single stool. Apart from that, the only other piece of furniture is an oak table on which I will place the boxes that I haul from the back seat of the car.

By eleven o'clock, the boxes have been unpacked, their contents spread about the oak table, Mozart's Clarinet Concerto chimes out from the CD player, and eight pairs of eyes shift intently between sheets of butcher's paper and the nude sat on the stool between them. I check my mobile phone for the third time this morning before moving around the room in silence, behind the artists, encircling them, studying their form and line.

Janet brushes her grey, wiry hair from her face and looks thoughtfully at the model as I approach. Although she looks all of her seventy-three years, there is a fiery youthfulness in her eyes. They are sharp and keen. She observes her subject well, capturing effortlessly the contours of the model's body. The charcoal and chalk flow effortlessly across the page in her steady hand. They play to her strengths as she adds light and shadow to the model's pendulous breasts. "You look sad today, Cara," she observes quietly, turning to hold my gaze.

"Just a little distracted," I offer by way of explanation, but I can see that she is unconvinced.

"There's no light in your eyes," she adds.

Her observation brings a smile to my face: a sad, reflective smile. Very little gets passed the old broad. "Perhaps a little more shading here," I suggest pointing to an area below the nipple. Janet looks back to her sketch and then at the model.

"Perhaps."

I move on and glance at my mobile phone as I pass the oak table. The symbol on the screen indicates that I have one new text. I swipe my index finger across the screen to unlock the phone and feel slightly apprehensive, perhaps even excited, at the thought of opening the message. When I do open it I am disappointed to see that it is from Michael and I chastise myself. What was I thinking? After last night, it is more than evident that Ethan has no intention of contacting me. I read the text and place the phone back on the table before returning to the artists working studiously around the trestle tables.

*****

A case of wine rattles besides the boxes of art materials on the back seat of the car as Daisy rumbles along. The moon peers from behind a solitary cloud. Already it has started to wane. A thin strip of silver is noticeably absent from its right-hand edge. The smokeless chimneys that project upward from Longshaw's slate grey roof stand tall and reach out into the night. Apart from the lights on the front of the car, Longshaw Estate is in darkness.

Daisy rolls steadily to a halt in front of my flat, and I apply the handbrake and turn off the car lights before stepping out onto the gravel surface. I leaver the front seat forward and reach back for the case of wine on the back seat. With the case held precariously in one hand I close the driver's door and turn the key in the lock. I suddenly get a sense that I am not alone. I turn around and stand, motionless, with my back to the car. I can't see anyone, but I can sense that somebody else is close by. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck send an electric current down my spine and I am suddenly alert, hypersensitive to all around me. My eyes dart through the darkness trying to decipher the shadows. Everything looks the same as it always has, but something inside of me tells me that things are different. I can feel my pulse throbbing in my forearms as I clutch the case of wine, holding it close to my body. From within the dark recesses a shadowy figure steps forward. I can feel my shoulders begin to tense and my fingers begin to tighten around the case of wine. The figure moves forward, out of the shadows and grins.

"Holy fuck, Ethan, you scared the shit out of me. What the fuck was you doing hiding in the fucking shadows like that?"

He draws hard on a hand-rolled cigarette, inhaling deeply, before discarding the butt with a flick of his finger and exhaling through his nostrils. "That's a whole lotta fucks for one night, Cara", he says and flashes his immaculate teeth in a deliciously boyish grin.

I so want to be mad as hell with him, but try as I might I find myself completely disarmed. That does not, however, mean that I will refrain from reprimanding him for his childish prank – even if the eventual reprimand lacks venom. There is a moment's awkward silence before we both break out into a wide-mouthed smile, and I resign myself to being incapable of holding a grudge any longer.

"So, what exactly are you doing here?"

"I thought that you might like someone to lend you a hand carrying the wine."

"You're lucky that there is any wine left," I tease. "I very nearly dropped the entire case."

"You're right. I'm sorry. Really." He looks a little unsure of himself once again and turns his eyes down. When he looks up again, his eyes are caught in the glow of the moon, shining like pearls.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?"

"Actually," he says before hesitating, "I had something else in mind."

My curiosity is aroused. And with that he takes the case of wine from my hands and places the box on the stone steps leading from the car park up to the front door. Then he takes my hand and leads me in silence across the grass, heading down towards the pond. The long grass murmurs "shush," as we brush past and enter the cops of Elm and Ash trees that border the pond.

The Estate lies silent and still as the stars wheel through the sky above, and by the light of the waning moon Ethan stops and leans in towards me. "Take off your clothes," he whispers in my ear, his cheek brushing lightly against mine. And with those few words I am disarmed, rendered speechless. I stand before him open-mouthed. Ethan has already begun to unbutton his shirt. "When was the last time you went for a moonlight swim?" he asks, removing his shirt and revealing his deep chest and chiselled abdomen. "I've already seen you naked, so what have you got to lose?" There. It's out there. It's been said. I can feel myself begin to blush, though I know that my embarrassment is masked under the cover of night. Ethan tugs at his belt and unfastens his jeans allowing them to fall to the ground. He is not wearing any underwear. My eyes come to rest on his pelvic area. A thin trail of dark, downy hair descends from his navel, coming to rest in a tidy bush just above his manhood. His delicious manhood which hangs splendidly, framed by his slender hips and athletic thighs. I fleetingly imagine stroking him, watching him rise, then quickly avert my eyes before he catches me gazing at him. "I saw you looking," he declares, and I cringe. "Here at the lake," he adds by way of explanation. "The night that I came for a swim. I saw you on the opposite bank. Looking." I don't know what to think. I had no idea that he was aware of me that night.

Ethan now stands before me. Confident. Smiling.

Naked.

"Time to cast away those inhibitions, Cara," he announces before turning and taking a few strides to the water's edge. And in the next moment he has disappeared, melted beneath the surface of the dark waters.

Another version of me, an adolescent me, an untamed, uninhibited version of me, rips off her clothes and runs, naked, splashing and screaming into the water with youthful abandon, wading, waist deep towards the young man bathed in moonlight. Without hesitation, we embrace. His cool, wet body pressed against mine. My nipples, erect and highly sensitive, tingle with excitement. And in that moment my imagined adolescent self dissolves and I morph back into my own skin. Beneath this silver moon, I am delirious with dreamy fervour. Intoxicated by the beauty and frenzy of it all. I hear myself shriek and laugh out loud. I laugh with joyous wonder; at myself, at my daring, at my nakedness, at the beautiful young man whose body is held against mine. Happiness, for the moment, is all mine.

*****

Soaking wet and clutching our crumpled clothes, with only our shoes on, we walk back across the field towards the Lodge, trying hard not to disturb the rest of the house as we draw near. Our comments are kept to a joyful whisper and our laughter to a stifled snigger. In the one moment I am little more than sixteen and all of thirty-six, filled with unspoken adolescent anticipation and a deep understanding of the pleasures and mysteries that accompany maturity and experience. I have seen him naked, held his body against mine, and now my body aches to feel him deep inside.

Ethan recovers the case of wine as I fumble with the key in the lock before staggering through the front door of the flat and dropping my clothes in a crumpled, damp pile in the hallway. Ethan barely has time to place the box of wine on the floor before I take hold of his wrist and pull him towards me, kissing him full on the lips. Turning, I pull him towards the stairs. Our ascent is hurried and clumsy as we stumble and laugh our way towards the bathroom.

Bursting through the door I turn, panting, to face him, and in one smooth motion he cups my face and presses his lips hard against mine. His breathing is erratic and his chest heaves heavily against my breast. And lower down, beneath my navel, his hot cock swells and presses against my abdomen. I can feel my own warm juices begin to flow, moistening my waiting pussy.

"I want to feel you inside me," I whimper.

With his right hand, Ethan tenderly traces the line of my neck and the contour of my shoulder, his lips never once leaving mine. His hand slides down further still, following the curve from my waist to my hip and running down the outside of my thigh. Taking hold, he raises my thigh up towards his waist. Giving myself to him, I wrap both arms around his neck and raise myself on tiptoes whilst snaking my left leg around his waist. My aching body pressed against his.

"Take me, Ethan. I want you to take me now." Without hesitation, he reaches beneath my thigh and takes hold of his hard cock, guiding it slowly into me. A satisfying, penetrating heat that radiates deep inside me. With unexpected tenderness he eases himself deeper and deeper inside me, holding me closer and closer with each heavenly thrust. In response, my pelvic muscles tighten around his shaft, gripping him firmly, and Ethan moans in reply. Softly, playfully, I bite down on his lower lip and Ethan moans once more. His cock, full and hard, slides further inside me as his tongue begins to encircle mine. I am enraptured, brimming with fiery emotion, consumed by the intensity of the moment until I can hold back no longer. He is filling me, penetrating me deeper and deeper, and with his next momentous thrust my body explodes around his manhood, sending exhilarating convulsions ripping through my abdomen and causing Ethan to cry out in ecstasy as his searing cum fires into me.

Panting, we remain locked in each other's embrace. Our bodies heaving in sweaty unison. And beyond we two, there is nothing to disturb the perfectly still night.

*****

I wake and see Ethan's youthful face on the pillow beside me. He sleeps silently. His tussled fringe hanging down over his eyes, his full lips waiting to be kissed. A smile appears at the corners of my mouth as my mind replays our night time folly. Every luscious minute of it. I wonder as to his age – seventeen, eighteen maybe. Surely no more

I slide out of bed, careful not to disturb him and slip on my silk robe, tying it loosely at the waist. The clock says 7:23am. I briefly visit the bathroom before heading downstairs to the kitchen. The tiles on the kitchen floor feel cool underfoot. I make a pot of Earl Grey tea and place two slices of freshly-cut granary bread in the toaster. I contemplate the morning ahead. Breakfast in bed. Carnal delights with that gorgeous young Adonis that is presently fast asleep upstairs. Shower. Kiss Adonis goodbye and retreat to my studio. Perfect.

The toast pops up in the toaster. I place the slices on a plate, which in turn gets placed on a wooden tray alongside the teapot, cups, sugar bowl, a jug of milk and an assortment of conserves. Then I turn towards the stairs. Already I am wondering if I will be able to keep my hands off Ethan long enough to enjoy breakfast.

"Good morning," Ethan calls from the top of the staircase as I place my left foot on the bottom step. He is pulling his T-shirt over his head having already pulled on his jeans and socks. Noticing the tray he adds, "Sorry, I have to go."

"Can't you at least stay for breakfast _or something_?" The comment is unmistakably suggestive.

"Sorry. I have to be at work," Ethan explains as he descends the stairs.

And with that, Ethan turns past me and makes his way to the door. In the next breath he is gone.

No kiss goodbye. No hug. No _See you later_. Nothing.

I return to the kitchen, place the tray on the farmhouse table, and proceed to poor myself a cup of Earl Grey tea. I turn and look out of the window. The early morning shadows stretch out across the lawn, and beyond the dry stone wall, in the meadow, the Estate's gardeners have already begun their morning duties. Ethan strolls across the meadow and joins them. There appears to be some friendly banter between the three of them. They all begin to laugh and the ruddy-faced gardener pats Ethan on the back. I feel an encroaching humiliation begin to set in and chastise myself. What did I expect would happen? I retreat away from the window, away from Ethan, leaving the cup of Earl Grey tea on the kitchen table untouched.

*****

Thursday, I think. The clock shows 2.16pm. A half-empty bottle of Saint Emilion and an empty Normandy Thomas Webb crystal wine glass sit on the kitchen table. Steadily, I pour myself another glass. If I'm going to drink myself to death, at least let it be with panache, I muse. There have been no visitors to the house. Not today. Not yesterday. Nor the day before. A collection of empty wine bottles and their discarded corks litter the kitchen worktop. An empty, upturned bottle of Jack Daniels and a Royal Dalton tumbler, along with dirty plates, saucepans and cutlery are piled high in the sink. At least I'm eating.

For two days I have stood and watched Ethan through the window. Watched him labouring in the fields, his overalls rolled down to his waist, his shirt stripped off, his toned, bronzed body sweating in the sun. For two days I waited for him to turn towards the house, to see me, to smile, to wave. For two days I watched him working busily in the distance, rebuilding a section of dry stone wall that had tumbled; worn down over the centuries by harsh weather, careless ramblers and falling branches. For two days watched him methodically select rocks from sorted piles and lay them in place; tie stones, risers and capstones. For two days I watched, and waited, until I could wait no more.

*****

Saturday. The gardeners are away doing whatever it is that gardeners do on weekends. From somewhere deep within resilience surfaces. I find my inner strength. I always do. I tidy the flat and throw myself back into my work. A knock comes unexpectedly at the door. I curse and put down the paintbrush and palette on the table in the studio and sigh. Mrs. O'Brien, quite probably, wanting me to fetch something for her from the local shops. Bread and milk, no doubt. And possibly some fruit. ' _And if it isn't too much trouble, dear, a copy of today's newspaper. But not that terrible Tory paper. I can't abide that, dear_.' I take a deep breath. It's a good neighbourly thing to do, I remind myself, and leaving Michael's portrait uncovered and the music on the iPod playing, I make my way down the stairs.

I glance at the wall clock at the bottom of the stairs. Just after half past three. The shops will still be open. And I too could do with some essentials. I glance at my reflection in the mirror by the front door as I pass. My hair looks ruffled. My eyes, duller than usual; grey in fact. And my blouse, perhaps open a little too much for Mrs. O'Brien's liking – too much cleavage on show, I suspect. I decide not to make any adjustments and open the door.

A pair of piercing blue eyes look back at me. "Hi," he says, casually.

My hesitation is noted in his expression. "Hello Ethan," is as much as I can manage. He shifts uneasily from one foot to the next.

Eventually, Ethan breaks the nervous silence. "Would you like to invite me in, or would you prefer that I turned right around and left?"

I compose myself, self-consciously fastening a button on my blouse as I do so. "I'm sorry, I was half expecting it to be someone else. Please, come on in." I am unclear of my thoughts. It has been almost a week since last we spoke. Almost a week and not a word. Not a sound. I have seen him around the Estate. Working. Always at a distance.

He enters the hallway and I close the door behind him.

"I was just working on Michael's painting," I explain. "Let me just go and put the brushes in turpentine. It won't take me a minute and I'll be right back. Why don't you go through to the kitchen."

Ethan tips his head to one side, inquisitively. "You mean you're not going to invite up to see your studio?" he asks, flashing that beautiful, disarming smile.

"I didn't know that you were interested. You may come up if you wish."

In silence we make our way up the stairs. A thousand thoughts racing through my mind. I try to make sense of them. Try to work out what I'm going to say. Everything inside my head is suddenly all jumbled up.

I walk into the room and Ethan stops a few steps behind me, leaning against the door frame, looking into the room. Taking it all in. "So, this is where you work?"

I pick up my brushes and place them, bristles down, in a jar containing turpentine, then turn to face him. "I thought that perhaps you didn't want to see me again." My tone is neutral.

"Why would you think that?" he asks, once again flashing his boyish, wide-mouthed smile. I am in no mood for adolescent games.

"Oh, I don't know." My tone turns sarcastic. "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you left rather suddenly the last time we met, without saying anything of any substance before leaving. Nothing. Not, ' _I had fun last night'_ , or, ' _Can I see you again?'_ Not even ' _Goodbye_ '. You know, that might have something to do with it, Ethan. Or maybe it has something to with the fact that you've been working on the Estate all week and haven't bothered to attempt to communicate with me. Not once. Not even a phone call. Not even a fucking text. I had no idea what you were thinking. You just disappeared without a word. And now, now you turn up unannounced on my doorstep like nothing has happened." I am aware that my fists are clenched at my sides and my voice has begun to rise with my exasperation.

Ethan looks bemused. "Nothing _has_ happened."

"My point exactly."

"Cara, you're really mad with me, aren't you."

I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Consciously releasing and relaxing my fingers as I do so. I am trying to at least appear calm. I am also trying hard to understand exactly how I do feel. I was angry with him. But that had passed. So why do I feel so hostile towards him now? I feel confused. I thought that I had it all figured out - obviously not. I take a moment before I respond.

"Mad. With you? No. Not any longer. Disappointed _in myself_ would be a better description of how I feel. I should have realised that I was just a shag to you. Hopefully, a good shag. But _just_ a shag all the same." I Pause giving Ethan a chance to interject. He remains silent, leaning against the door frame, and so I press on. "And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with a good shag, Ethan. I just wish that I'd realised that that's all it was a little earlier. But you know, I'm grown up, and I get it. We had fun." I take another deep breath. _"I_...I had fun. And for that, I thank you."

Billie Holiday's painful cries pour out from the speakers and fill the pause in the conversation.

... _dry all my tears_

Then whisper sweet

Little things in my ear

Hugging and a-kissing

Oh, what I've been missing

Lover man, oh, where can you be?

"A shag, eh? It's an interesting choice of word." he eventually says. "And a very interesting point of view that you have."

Casually, Ethan eases himself away from the door frame and thoughtfully moves in to the studio, making his way directly towards a clay figurine that stands on the floor in the far corner of the room. He carefully picks it up and slowly begins to turn it over in his hands. The figure stands nine inches tall. A female nude, mounted on a black, wooden plinth. The figure kneels on the plinth, her back arched, her head thrown backwards in ecstasy. Ethan lightly runs his fingers across her torso as if caressing her, tracing the contours of her breasts and following the line down the side of her body to the curve of her hips - just the way He used to as he smoothed the then wet clay beneath his tender fingers. "It's beautiful. Potent." Ethan takes his eyes from the figurine and looks up at me. "It's you, isn't it."

"What do you want, Ethan?"

"You. What I want is _you_."

*****

I wake and shower early, taking breakfast in my dressing gown at the small wrought iron patio table outside the kitchen door. The first rays of golden sunlight peep through the trees and stretch out like elongated fingers across the lawn towards me. A skylark flies overhead leading a chorus of bird song as the Estate comes to life. A thin veil of wispy cirrus clouds overhead, carried by the gentlest of breezes, move slowly from east to west, leading the sun across the sky. Soon the first of the Sunday hikers will wander past, taking the path through Longshaw, across the moor to Nether Padley and eventually on to Grindleford and beyond. The last mouthful of croissant I break into tiny pieces between my fingers and thumbs, and cast them across the lawn for the birds. Patiently I sit, sipping from my cup of Earl Grey tea, hoping to entice the Hawfinch - with its jet black eyestripe that gives it a rather shifty appearance - from its branch on the overhanging Wild Cherry just beyond the garden wall. The wary visitor, however, seems content to pick at the burgundy coloured fruit that is in abundance on the cherry tree and pays little or no attention to the scraps on the lawn. Those are left to a handful of common garden Sparrows and a pair of Grey Wagtails who feast happily.

Accepting that the Hawfinch cannot be lured from its perch, I retire to the kitchen, place my crockery in the dishwasher, make a fresh cup of Earl Grey tea and place the last remaining croissant on a plate, and head for the bedroom.

Ethan stirs as I enter the room. "What time is it?" he asks sleepily.

"It's Sunday. Who cares what time it is. I assume that you don't have any plans."

"No. Not exactly. Why, do you have things in mind?"

"Actually, I do." I place the cup and the plate on the bedside table. "Eat your breakfast, shower and meet me in my studio. And don't bother dressing." I plant a kiss on his forehead and turn to the wardrobe letting my dressing gown fall to the floor, my back towards Ethan. I take a pair of panties from the drawer and slowly bend over and step into them, taking much longer than usual to do so. I watch Ethan's reflection in the mirror, his eyes are locked on my ass. I pause momentarily and catch his eyes in the mirror, "Enjoying the view?" I ask playfully. Ethan begins to blush. I chuckle, slip on a cotton shirt, fastening just the one button above the navel and head towards the studio.

*****

By the time Ethan arrives at the studio door I have removed Michael's painting from the easel and hung several sheets of cotton fiber paper clipped to a large board in its place. A selection of pencils, a box of charcoals and a stick of white chalk rest on the horizontal cross member of the easel. A bunch of wild flowers, picked from the woodland glade behind the lodge, bring a splash of colour and a sweet aroma to the room. Van Morrison's _Inarticulate Speech of the Heart_ fills the otherwise silent space. A solitary stool stands in the centre of the room, waiting.

I draw long and hard on a spliff, watching the bright orange glow at the end burning back towards the roach. My head begins to spin - a delirious dance. A potent cocktail of distortion and dizziness. I close my eyes and hold my breath, allowing the full effect of the joint to wash over me. Before finally exhaling, letting out a long, narrow stream of smoke that eventually separates and drifts upwards and outwards. "Want some?" I ask. Ethan stands smiling, his boyish fringe falling across his beautiful blue eyes. His nakedness, a gift from the Gods: athletic beauty with a herculean manhood rising from his midriff. He reaches out and takes the spliff from my fingers. "Why don't you both come in," I suggest, looking down at his fully erect penis. Ethan laughs and enters the room.

"What do you have in mind, Cara?"

"I want to draw you. Naked. Any objections?" Reaching the centre of the room, he turns and faces me.

"I don't know. I've never done this before. What exactly do I have to do?"

"You don't have to do anything. I'll do all the work. You just have to pose for me and I'll draw you."

"Looking like this?" he asks, glancing down at his erection.

"If you like."

Ethan strikes a pose – his head tilted back and turned to the side with one hand firmly holding on to his cock and the other offering the spliff up to his lips. "How's this?" We both burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of his posture.

"Just relax and be yourself. Whatever makes you feel, you know, at ease."

He sits down on the stool, Michael's stool, and adjusts himself until he feel comfortable. His erection begins to wane. "Are you happy for me to carry on smoking?"

"Perfectly. Just don't smoke it all. You have to save some for me, okay."

"You got it."

I produce a series of six five minute sketches, ripping off the sheets of cotton fiber paper in quick succession and letting them fall to the ground as each study is completed. This is a process that I have adopted over the years. The art of creating a series of preliminary etudes which can be returned to and developed over time.

The spliff is still between Ethan's fingers when the sixth sketch hits the floor, though it requires relighting. I toss him the Zippo and he relights the joint, taking another toke. "This is good shit," he concludes before handing the joint to me.

"Why thank you. I had no idea that you were a connoisseur."

"There are a great many things that you don't know about me, Lady Longshaw." The appellation makes me chuckle.

"Is that how you see me, as the Lady of the Manor?"

I see you in lots of ways, Cara. But the way that I like to see you best of all..." he begins, as he walks across the room and opens the one fastened button on my blouse and exposes my breasts, "...is naked."

And with that, Ethan sinks to his knees and begins to peel down my panties. As I step out of them, Ethan tenderly nuzzles against my triangle of downy fur, gently pressing his lips into my soft mound: kissing me – awakening me – arousing me. My body craves his attention. I ache to feel his lips, his hands, his entire body pressed against mine.

With my one free hand I purposefully take a firm hold of his hair and steadily pull his head closer towards me, whilst simultaneously raising the cigarette to my lips with the other hand and inhaling deeply, sending my entire body spiralling out of control. Deliberately, Ethan slides his hand in between my legs and parts my lips with his fingers. The anticipation is intense. Passionately his tongue and lips begin to caress and suck my aching vulva. I cannot get enough of him. I slide my right foot to the side, forcing my legs apart. With slow precise movements, I tilt my pelvis upwards, curling my gaping pussy towards his mouth. His delicate touch sends shockwaves through my body. I want him to eat me, to devour me, to bury his face deep inside me. "Yes, Ethan. Yes. Harder. Harder." Ethan responds with frenzied movements, licking and sucking at my clitoris and the opening to my pussy. "Harder!" I swing my right leg over his shoulder, opening up my pussy wider still, allowing him access to every gaping centimetre of my saturated hole. "Yes. Oh, God. Ethan. Yes! Yes!" I thrust my pelvis forward, pressing my swollen labia against his mouth. With expert fingers, Ethan sinks his fingers deep inside me, stimulating the outer wall of my vagina, massaging my G-spot with his fingertips, bringing me to a rapturous crescendo, causing my entire body to explode into a million tiny shards around him – an exhilarating orgasm that leaves me satiated and spent. We sink to the floor together. Ethan wraps his arms around me and lovingly strokes my hair, whilst my head and body swim in a delicious sea of euphoria – the perfect blend of sex and marijuana.

*****

A brief note left on the pillow reads _I am addicted to you_. The note and the crazy patterns on the bed sheet beside me are a sweet reminder that Ethan has been here. I roll over and bury my face into the pillow where he laid his head. My senses soak in his gentle fragrance that lingers there still. And the warm glow I am feeling inside tells me something about my feelings for him. I ponder this thought for a moment before glancing at the clock. It shows that it's almost a quarter after nine. I must have slept very heavily as I have no recollection of Ethan waking or leaving this morning.

After showering I pull on a silk robe and head downstairs. I slip outside unnoticed and place my cup of Earl Grey tea silently down on the patio table and settle into a low slung chair with my back to the Lodge. For once, not a bird can be heard in the trees nor a rabbit seen hopping across the moor. Lost in the stillness, the silence stirs my mind and, with my eyes closed, I slip into a blissful reverie recalling the events of the previous evening: _the night's breath warm against our skin, the soft grass making our conjugal bed and the spiralling stars our covers. Naked we lay, coiled in a passionate embrace. Our kisses, lingering and wet. My breast heaving silently beneath Ethan's gentle touch. His manhood buried deep inside me. With only the heavenly stars and the crescent moon to bear witness, our bodies moaned and trembled with untold pleasure._

" 'e told me she was shaggin' a bloke in the garden." Ponytail's unmistakable half-whisper came over the dry stone wall; I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"Really? Was it the same fella that was 'ere before?" It was Ruddy Face who responded.

"I don't think so. 'e couldn't see proper, but 'e thought it were a young lad. I'm tellin' ya, there's somethin' goin' on there. She's 'ad more sex than I've 'ad 'ot dinners."

I am speechless. Surely, they're not talking about me again. It just isn't possible. There was no one else about. I am quite sure of it. I suddenly become aware of my heart pounding in my chest.

" 'e said they were lying on the grass, completely naked."

" 'ere Ethan, wha' do ya reckon to this." Ruddy Face asks, the semi- hushed tones carrying over the garden wall still. "Old Lady Longshaw was seen screwing some young lad in the garden last night. Wasn't you was it, eh?

Oh, shit. This is too much.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Thank you, Ethan. Thank you. Deny everything. Oh, shit, shit, fucking shit!

"The ol' bird who lives in the flat o'er the wall – you know, the good looking one with the nice tits – she was seen havin' it wi' a young lad in the garden last night. Stark bollock naked they were. On the bloody lawn. Can ya believe it? She's a bit of a goer, that one. Reckon she's a pro. That's how come she can afford to live in a place like this."

"Have you got nothing better to do than listen to idle gossip? Talk like that is going to get you into a lot of trouble one of these days."

"What's got into yo'? Not taken a fancy to 'er 'ave ya, eh?" It was Ponytail who asked.

"Listen 'ere, young fella," Ruddy Face continues, "not long back it wa' that posh bloke with the Land Rover. The one who was standin' out 'ere on gravel driveway shoutin' out at top o' 'is voice 'bout ripping 'is clothes off and joining 'er in bedroom. Now it's this young bloke in the garden. Deny it all you like. It don't mean it ain't 'appenin'."

"What _bloke_ with the Land Rover? What are you talking about?" I can hear the agitation in Ethan's voice.

I can't listen to any more of this. I can feel the tension in me reaching boiling point. I head for the door, closing it silently behind me so as not to draw their attention. My hand is visibly trembling as I release the door handle. I want to scream out loud about the injustice of it all. I want to run back outside and scream in their faces, telling them what they and their fucked-up, small-minded, plebeian friends can do with their fucking-up ideas. But instead, I turn and run upstairs and head straight into the bedroom: my hands, clenched in fists of rage, my face, lined by tears brought on by my anger and frustration. Grabbing a pillow I push it hard against my face and let out a long, deep, strangled howl.

****

_Dinner at eight_ , Michael had said. I was already late. He would forgive me. He always did. I ring the bell and a far too energetic figure comes hurtling towards the door. "Cara, darling. Late as usual, I see. You're beginning to make a habit of this." He plants a kiss on my cheek and steps back to let me into the hallway. "Ah, wine and flowers. I assume that they are for me." He takes them from me and leads the way through to a spacious dining kitchen at the back of the house.

Sinatra is playing and James is stood, gently swaying, over a large steaming saucepan. A sweet aroma fills the room. James stops his stirring as I enter and makes his way towards me.

"Hello, beautiful. How the bloody hell are you?" We hug, then he stands back to observe me, the way one might observe a painting. I begin to feel a little self-conscious and cast my eyes downwards.

"Can we save that question until I've had my first glass of wine," I suggest.

"You poor thing. Of course. It's not that hunk over there is it that's upset you?" James asks, tipping his head in Michael's direction. I can see the feint trace of a smile on Michael's face, but he chooses to ignore the comment.

"No. It's not that hunk over there. At least not this time." Michael looks back feigning hurt and continues arranging the flowers in a rather tasteless ceramic vase. I decide not to enquire into the vase's history or how come the offending article found its way into Michael's home.

"White lilies," James adds, "they look great."

"Traditionally given at funerals as a symbol of the innocence that has been restored to the souls of the departed," Michael muses.

"And sometimes just given because they are beautiful." It's the only retort that I can conjure up, though I can't help but wish I had something witty or clever to add.

"However, you have redeemed yourself with the wine. Rioja. Imperial Gran Reserva. I don't know this one."

"Well, it had better be good. It cost me an arm and leg."

"Planning on drinking away your sorrows?"

"Something like that."

James returns to the stove and removes the saucepan, carrying it over to the sink before straining it.

Michael takes down a small, wooden box from the kitchen shelf and removes from it a packet of cigarette papers, a pouch of tobacco and a zip lock bag containing a small quantity of weed: small enough to be described as for personal or recreational use. "Looks like you might appreciate a little number before we go any further," he suggests.

"That is the best offer I've had all day."

"Why don't you take a seat while I do the honours?"

Referring to the wine, I turn to James, "I hope that red goes with whatever it is you've got planned for dinner."

"Red is perfect – just like you."

"Hmm, I'm not so sure you'll think so highly of me after this evening."

"I am quietly confident, Cara, that there is nothing that you could say to me that would change my opinion of you."

"You are such a lovely man, James. Why don't you leave this muscle bound Adonis and come and live with me?"

"I'm tempted, Cara, believe me," James says without turning around. "It's just that Michael has a little something extra to bring to the party that you just don't have."

"Not so little, by all accounts."

"All right, enough," Michael interrupts. "Cara, be my guest." He hands me the joint and the Zippo.

"Cheers."

Two shared joints, one meal and a bottle of wine later and I feel like a different woman. The Pasta with Taleggio was delicious, the wine expensive and satisfying, and the dope, Cuban and exquisite. My head feels much lighter and my mood has greatly improved.

"So, ready to pour your heart out, beautiful?" It was James who posed the inevitable question. I look longingly at his slender fingers wrapped around the wine glass, and the gold signet ring on his left hand before answering. "You have no idea how lucky you two are." James raises an eyebrow as if to say, _please explain_. "You have each other. It's easy – there are no complications. Whereas I... I have a void. A big hole..."

"That's a little too graphic just after dinner, Cara." You can always depend upon Michael to spot the unintended innuendo. I know that that is his attempt to keep the mood light, nonetheless, I supress a smile. "Sorry," he acquiesces.

"Is this about the young gardener that Michael told me about?"

"Michael!" I can feel myself begin to blush.

Michael shrugs apologetically. "You know that James and I talk. And besides, he is extremely discreet."

"Unlike some, I might add." I throw the comment at Michael, looking him straight in the eye. Michael shuffles slightly in his chair and I can sense his discomfort, but I can't help feeling slightly betrayed by his actions and so make no attempt to let him off the hook. "And besides," I continue, "I made it perfectly clear that the very thought of anything happening between Ethan and I was totally preposterous."

"You certainly did," he concedes. "But that doesn't mean that nothing has happened. Does it." That final proclamation hung in the air. Both Michael and James sit waiting, their eyes fixed on me - Michael poised with boyish excitement and anticipation, eager for the sordid details, James with what looks like genuine concern and understanding.

The thought of having to admit to an affair with a boy half my age fills me with dread. What is the matter with me? Why can't I find a proper boyfriend; one my own age would do for a start? I sigh and resign myself to the fact that I am about to lay myself open to public scrutiny, only to be derided as a scarlet woman once the facts are on the table. The sheer embarrassment of it all. I reach into the ashtray and place what's left of the joint between my lips, accepting a light from Michael. I take a long toke and inhale deeply, before blowing out the smoke in a single, continuous stream. I feel ready. With trepidation, I proceed to recount the sordid details, interrupting myself time and again to explain the ridiculousness of the situation.

By the time I reach the events of the previous evening, James has uncorked a second bottle of wine – a perfectly palatable Oyster Bay Merlot. I regale them both with the details: the lawn, the stars, the moon, the warm breath of evening on our skin. "And about bloody time, too!" Michael suddenly blurts out.

"I have to admit, Cara, I quite agree with Michael," James thoughtfully adds. "There is nothing for you to be ashamed of. You're a beautiful, caring, loving woman, who is having, by your own admission, great sex with another consenting adult. What could possibly be wrong with that?"

I can feel my pulse begin to quicken. "What's wrong? What's fucking wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong... he's a boy. He's... he's young enough to be my son. It's bloody ridiculous is what it is."

"Cara..."

"And don't fucking interrupt me! I haven't finished." Michael and James both sit bolt upright without saying another word. "There are things that I still haven't told you." I compose myself before continuing. "I'm...I'm sorry for shouting." Michael and James both visibly relax. "You just don't seem to have grasped the gravity of the situation. This morning, I took breakfast in the garden..." I recall the discussion that I overheard between Ruddy Face and Ponytail, including the part about one of my models shouting out that he can't wait to get undressed and join me in the bedroom. I omit to mention that the model is Michael for fear of uncovering our secret painting sessions.

"That's pretty insensitive of the model," James offers.

"I'm sure that it was intended as nothing more than a harmless joke," Michael quickly jumps in.

I cast James a knowing smile, and his dark brown eyes meet mine and linger as if to say, I understand, Cara. Michael lights another spliff, draws slowly on it watching the end glow brightly as he inhales, then passes the joint around the table. James takes my hand in his. His elegant, dark fingers tenderly laying over my lightly-tanned skin.

"And so now, they think that I am having sex with just about every man that steps foot on the Estate. References to prostitutes have been made. Have you any idea how that makes me feel?" I can feel my breathing becoming more laboured. "And the truth is, that it had been so long since I had last had sex that I almost qualified as a virgin again." Michael smiles at the comment. I can feel the tears starting to well, but I am determined not to give in to them. "Ethan is the only person that I have slept with since..." The silence hangs heavily in the air. I swallow and choke back the tears, looking imploringly first at Michael, and then at James. "And even if Ethan doesn't believe what they are saying about me, they have told him that I am sleeping with one of my models. And now... now I don't know what he's thinking. I don't even know what I think myself, for that matter." James squeezes my hand in a kind, comforting way. "And the truth is," I continue, "I don't really care what he thinks anymore." I can detect the edge that has crept in to my voice. "The whole situation is fucking ludicrous. He's just a boy, for fuck's sake. What was I fucking thinking?" The question is left unanswered. I look across the table at Michael, imploringly, hoping that he will understand. "He is... was... just a shag. That's all. Nothing more." As the words come tumbling out I am unsure who I am trying to convince most of all.

*****

Michael's Land Rover crunches to a stop on the gravel driveway. Longshaw is coming to life; sheep graze in the meadows wet with dew, a solitary kestrel hovers, suspended in the air, surveying the ground beneath him, searching for its prey and birdsong fills the air.

"Thank you, Michael. I really appreciate this."

"Any time."

"She's never let me down before. I don't know what I'd have done without you."

"Really, it's not a problem. I'll contact the mechanic later today to see how Daisy's coming along. You never know, I might even be able to get him to drop her off for you once he gets her running again."

Really? Do you think he'd do that for me?"

"Maybe. He owes me a favour. But I can't make any promises."

"No, of course not."

"Are you going to be okay? About Ethan, I mean."

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry about laying all of that of you both."

"Don't be silly. That's what friends are for."

I cannot help but feel an overwhelming sense of affection for Michael at this moment. "I must be the luckiest girl alive to have you as a friend. I don't know what I've done to deserve you."

Michael leans over and we hug. As our arms relax and fall away, he kisses me on the lips and slides the gear stick into the _drive_ position. "Time," he begins, "for Cinderella to leave the coach before it turns back into a pumpkin, and we are both stranded here without any form of transport."

"I could think of worse people to be stranded with," I reply.

"Go on. Get out of here. Some of us have a job to go to," he teases. And with that I open the door and climb down from the car.

"Any chance of you dropping by later in the week?" I ask.

"Desperate to see me naked again, eh?"

"Don't flatter yourself, big boy."

Michael smiles. "Wednesday would be good. I have a couple of hours around lunchtime, if that's any good for you."

"Perfect. I'll see you then. And thanks again."

"My pleasure." I close the door and watch as Michael turns his car around and heads down the driveway. Looking back, he holds his hand to the side of his face, extending his thumb and little finger to make like a telephone to indicate that he will call me later. I blow him a kiss and wave, then watch him disappear in a thin cloud of dust as he heads off down the long gravel drive.

"Who was that?"

I turn around surprised to find Ethan leaning against one of the brick pillars at the base of the steps that lead up to the Lodge. His bedraggled fringe falls across his face, shielding his pale complexion and the grey shadows that circle his eyes.

"Ethan. Good morning. I wasn't expecting to see you." His hands are thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders are hunched.

"I asked you who that was." His tone is curt.

"Yes, I heard you." By contrast, my tone is gentle and my words are softly spoken. "Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea? It's a little more private indoors. It would seem that the walls of Longshaw Lodge have both eyes and ears, and they are not very good at keeping secrets."

Ethan begins to shuffle nervously. His eyes seem to be searching the ground for an appropriate response. As I head towards the steps he moves sideways as if to block my path. He doesn't appear threatening, but it is evident that he is highly anxious. "Ethan, please. I'd like to go inside."

"Who is he, Cara?"

"He's a friend. Now, if you want to continue this discussion, can I suggest that you move aside and follow me into the flat." He does not move, but he makes no attempt to stop me as I walk around him and head up the steps. It's still early. Too early, I consider, for Ruddy face and Ponytail to have arrived on the estate. The sound of Ethan's footsteps follow me up the steps to the front door. I am hoping that he is willing to continue our discussion in a cordial manner.

"Tea?"

"I'd prefer answers."

"Would you like milk and sugar with that?" I switch on the kettle and take down the teapot from the cupboard overhead.

"Are you sleeping with him?"

"I don't like your tone, Ethan. And I like the insinuation even less."

"Are you?"

"Ethan, I'm not even going to dignify that question with an answer. What's come over you?"

"Me!" This is the first time that he has raised his voice in my presence. "What the fuck do you mean, _'What's come over me?'_ It should be me who's asking what the fuck's come over you?"

"Ethan," my tone remains calm, "either we sit down and talk about this like adults or you can leave. The choice is yours, but I am not going to stand here and argue with you." The dynamics of our discussion are beginning to make me feel uneasy. My experience and his immaturity have polarized us. I see myself as the epitome of calm rationalism weighed against his agitated irrationalism. This is a scene that is played out in millions of households across the world on a daily basis between a sagacious parent and their churlish adolescent offspring. I can't continue with this conversation in this way. I am not his mother. I am his _lover_.

"Ethan, please come and sit down."

"Have you any idea how long I've been sat waiting for you out there?" Ethan remains rooted to his spot, standing his ground just inside the kitchen doorway. "HAVE YOU?" He raises his voice again.

"No, Ethan. I have not."

"Try all fucking night. All fucking night, Cara." It had not occurred to me that he had been waiting so long. But looking at him now – the dishevelled clothing, the unkempt hair, the pale complexion – it all makes sense. He is much quieter when he resumes speaking. "I have sat on those cold, stone steps all night waiting for you, Cara. And when you do finally come home, it's with your arms around another man."

"Ethan, you are clearly very tired and very upset and..."

"I have every fucking right to be upset!" he interrupts.

"Ethan, I can't carry on with this discussion if you continue to shout."

"What do you expect, Cara? Do you have any idea how I feel? Do you know what they have been saying about you around here?"

"Yes, unfortunately I do. Though I rather wish I didn't." The kettle switches itself off. "How about that tea?"

"I need to know, Cara. Are you fucking him?"

I am becoming a little exasperated by Ethan's Jack Russell like tenacity. "You've already had my answer to that question, Ethan." My response is firm but measured. "And if you have any feelings for me whatsoever, you'll stop this behaviour right now." For a moment I let the words linger in the air, hoping that they will filter through to his sleep deprived core and resonate with something deep inside. "You don't have to listen to what everyone else says about me, Ethan – listen to your heart. That's all I ask. Just listen to your heart."

"I don't need to listen to anything, especially not this bullshit. I've got eyes, Cara. I know what I saw." He clenches his fists until the blood drains from his knuckles, and his lips begin to contort and curl into an angry distorted snarl. "My stomach was in knots yesterday when they were talking about you – ridiculing you." His fists slowly pump against his thighs. "I was the only one there defending you. Do you know that? The only one! Everyone else was calling you despicable names. And it made me feel sick inside the way they carried on." I am moved by his concern, but need to find a way to get through his anger. I move, cautiously, across the kitchen, holding my arms out towards him but Ethan steps away. "Don't fucking touch me! Just don't! You have made me look like a fucking idiot, Cara. A FUCKING IDIOT," he shouts. "I really hope that you're pleased with yourself."

He suddenly turns and makes for the door. "Ethan!" I hear the door close behind him with a resounding click and he is gone, leaving behind two empty vessels – one being a bone china teapot, and the other being a fragile woman.

*****

A discarded bottle of Saint Emilion lies on its side, exactly where it had fallen, on the narrow bedside table. Besides it, a crystal Royal Dalton glass contains the dregs of the Saint Emilion bottle, dried out and crusted. The heavy bedroom curtains remain drawn – the light shut out. It is impossible to tell night from day. Impossible, but for the illuminated digits on the bedside clock that show 5:14pm. Beside the clock a burned down candle flickers, emitting a hazy, sepia glow. A Merlot bottle, minus its cork, has spewed its contents onto the floor. And on the bed, an empty bottle of Pinot Noir lies nestled between crumpled sheets. "Fuck." I despise myself for getting in to this state again. I begin to loathe the weakness in me – a weakness that splinters the thin, glossy veneer and exposes the ugly, distorted truth.

My head feels heavy and a dull ache has settled in behind my eyes. My stomach begins to rumble - a long, winding, deep grown. I can't remember the last time I ate. Somewhere between the first and second bottle, I think. I try to lift my head from the pillow but the weight of the ache holds me fast. Surrendering myself to the gloom within, I close my eyes and pray for sleep to return...

_A figure emerges from within the shadows, slowly taking form, separating itself from its surroundings; a naked figure, walking towards me. A neon light blinks and shimmers overhead illuminating the figure's contorted grimace. I turn away._ "Cara". _Ethan? Is that you? I turn back, seeing Ethan's ripped abdomen and swelling penis; a thick, heavy log that begins to rise and twist and slither over his belly – squirming, writhing, morphing into a hideous, elongated grub whose suggestive tongue flickers back and forth._ "Cara." _A disembodied voice calls my name._ "Cara, are you there?" _Who are you? I can't see you._ "Cara?"

"Cara!" I am ripped from a fitful sleep. The room is in darkness. The candle on the bedside table has burned out. For a moment I am unaware if my eyes are open or closed. The room is hot and sticky. My head is filled with a deep and penetrating pain. My breathing is laboured. The sheets clammy with sweat. I listen, searching the void for the voice. Silence. I turn over, and wait for sleep to return...

3:57am. The ache in my head has developed into a dehydration driven relentless pounding. The room is pitch black. I drag myself out of the bed and stagger towards the door, feeling my way, searching for a familiar object – a chair, a wall, a light switch, a door handle – anything to help orientate myself. The door issues a disgruntled grown as I ease it open and stare out into the darkness, unable to distinguish the night from the shadows. I move forward instinctively, running my hand along the wall, in the direction of the bathroom. The thought of turning on the light as I enter the bathroom is beyond serious contemplation. The sink moves forward to meet me sooner than I anticipated. Cursing, I crash into it, jarring my hip. I fumble for the toilet, managing to slump down onto the seat before relieving myself. The stench is pungent. "Fuck." I must drink water before returning to bed.

Cupping my hands under the tap, I gulp down mouthfuls of cool water. My head is spinning, the tips of my hair becoming saturated in the steady stream of water that flows from the tap, filling my palms and spilling over into the basin. Satiated, I stand and turn off the tap and wipe away a trickle of water from my chin with the back of my hand before making my way out of the bathroom.

I feel physically exhausted. My knees want to fold, to crumble beneath me where I stand. My eyes are closed and my head feels like it is about to explode. Every raw nerve in my body cries out for sleep as I crawl back into the bed. Through my splintering headache flashes a series of images that flicker, relentlessly, upon my inner eye like a series of fragmented frames from a movie vault spliced incoherently together: Michael driving into the distance, waving goodbye; Ethan standing by the kitchen door, his disfigured lips twisting into a vulgar snarl; red wine glugging from a fallen bottle; Ethan's erect penis stabbing at my face; a candle flickering on a bedside table; Ethan's accusing eyes; Michael's sensitive smile; a bottle falling, tumbling, in slow motion, and coming to rest on cum stained bed sheets. I need to shut them all out. I need to banish the demons – to drive a stake through their vicious hearts. I clench my eyes shut, and feel my face begin to contort into a hideously grotesque creature, and my body begins to emit a silent, harrowing, unholy howl...

Thud. Thud.

A distant, muffled drumming stirs me from a disturbed sleep. The clock's blurred digits fade into focus to display the time. 10:06am. What fucking day is it? And who the fuck is making all that noise? I turn over, pulling a pillow over my head in an attempt to drown out the incessant knocking, to no avail. The banging continues and for a brief moment I begin to wonder if the sound is inside my head. No, not in my head. There is no space in there for anything more. My skull is filled with a toxic ache that grabs hold of my eyeballs, and begins to squeeze.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The knocking is incessant and more determined this time. My mind begins to explore the possibilities that lay before me: Ignore – how can I fucking ignore this relentless fucking banging! I pull the pillow down further, pressing it against my ears.
Bang. Bang. Bang.

Answer the door – how the fuck can I answer the door in this fucking state!

"Cara!"

Michael? The voice is muffled – hard to distinguish.

"Cara!"

I struggle to my feet and shuffle across the hallway. A pencil thin strip of light creeps under the door to the studio opposite. Easing open the door, the bright sunlight that comes streaming through the window is momentarily blinding, debilitating. I freeze and shield my face. As my eyes become accustomed to the brightness of the room I begin to walk across the floor and stare out through the picture window. Michael's Land Rover is parked in the driveway.

"Jesus. You look like shit, girl!"

"Thanks. It's good to see you, too." Michael stands grinning, one hand casually leaning on the door frame. "I guess you'd better come in. The fucking bright light is killing me."

"Looks like somebody got out of the wrong side of the bed today," Michael suggests crossing the threshold and squeezing past me. I close the door purposefully behind him, relieved to be back in the semi-darkness. Michael walks ahead of me and turns into the kitchen. "Holy shit, you must have had yourself one hell of a party," he glances back towards me, one eyebrow raised, "and you never thought to invite me. I am disappointed."

"No party, Michael. Just a couple of drinks, that's all."

"Really." He turns away and walks further into the kitchen. I follow a half a dozen or so steps behind.

"Saint Emilion. Jack Daniels. A pretty desperate Merlot – what were you thinking when you bought that?" He inspects the remainder of the bottles that lay scattered around the workbench or upturned in the kitchen sink. "I presume that these were not all full when you started." I shrug. "I count at least seven bottles, Cara."

"Humour me, Michael, it's been a rough couple of days." I rest my hands gently on either side of my head, and begin making small circular motions with my fingertips, massaging my temples. The pain behind my eyes has not diminished. "If you're planning on staying for a while, why don't you make yourself useful and pass me a couple of those paracetamol." I point to the open bottle on the windowsill.

"Hmm. Feeling a little delicate, are we?" Michael pours a glass of cold water and hands it to me along with two little white tablets.

"You could say that. Not that I was looking for a running commentary on my present condition." I pop the pills in my mouth and drink from the glass, feeling the pills as they slide down my throat, carried by the water. "What exactly is it that you want, Michael?"

"Actually, I've come for our session, just like we agreed. Remember?" I wrack my brain trying to recall a previous conversation when we had agreed to meet, but my head hurts too much to think that hard.

"What day is it?"

"Oh, boy. That bad, eh?"

"No, not that bad. I've just lost track of time, that's all," I lie.

Michael turns back to the sink and the pile of unwashed crockery and upturned empty bottles. "Why don't you go upstairs and have a shower while I clean up in here." The hot water is already filling up in the sink and Michael has rolled his sleeves up. It was less of a suggestion and more of an instruction. But I am thankful for his suggestion and immediately regret my earlier churlish remarks.

"Are you sure?" I ask, hoping that he does not retract the offer.

"Go. I'll be here when you come back."

I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around his waist and hug him from behind. "I love you."

"I know," he declares as a matter of fact. "Now get out of here before I change my mind."

*****

Michael is sat at the kitchen table when I return; the smell of freshly cooked toast fills the air. The room is tidy: surfaces wiped clean, crumbs swept from the floor, every piece of crockery put tidily away in its rightful place, every trace of those lost hours meticulously removed. A teapot sits neatly on the table in front of Michael, and beside it an empty cup, a sugar bowl and a jug of milk. The table is set for one: a side plate containing two slices of toasted rye bread, the butter dish, a small pot of homemade apricot jam and a silver knife.

"Hmm, low-cut was always my favourite colour on you," Michael mocks, referring to the loose fitting smock that I have slipped in to.

"Why are you so good to me?"

"You mean apart from the fact that you're incapable of looking after yourself? I guess it has something to do with friendship."

"I don't deserve having you as a friend."

"You're right."

"So why are you so nice to me?"

"Actually, it's a charity thing. It makes me feel good about myself knowing that I have helped a useless basket case like you, coupled with the fact that I'm hoping that God will look favourably upon me when I reach the pearly gates. I need something to offset my long list of misdemeanours."

"I thought that you were an atheist."

"I am. But it doesn't hurt to hedge your bets." I manage a half smile and begin to spread butter on my toast while Michael pours the tea.

"You wouldn't like to start on the upstairs while I eat breakfast, would you?"

"Ah, an attempt at a joke, you must be feeling much better." Michael casts me a smile through the ribbon of steam that rises from the cup of Earl Grey tea. "As for the upstairs, consider it your penance."

"Spoil sport."

"Indeed. I think I am," he concedes. "But you love me none the less for it."

Which, of course, is absolutely true.

Michael kisses me on the cheek as he makes to leave. "And remember what I said," he adds.

"What did you say?"

"Give yourself permission to love again."

I don't know where to look or what to say. In the end, all I can muster by way of a response is to say, "Thank you. For everything."

"Any time," he assures me.

"I'm sorry that I didn't get to work on your painting today," I add, as he descends the stone steps that lead to the parking area.

"Next time." He climbs into his car as a light rain begins to fall. I watch as he heads off down the driveway, and I manage a gentle smile. The prospect of cleaning the bedroom hardly fills me with joy, but it is a job that must be done. I run my hands through my tussled hair and place my best foot forward, advancing with determination to get my life back in order.

*****

Within the hour the sheets have been stripped from the bed, the curtains pulled back and the windows thrown open. The rain continues to fall; in heavy, vertical sheets now, drumming gyroscopic images on the surface of fish pond and painting the world anew. Soon, clean sheets are tightly stretched across the matrass and every shred of evidence of the lost days has been packed into a plastic bin liner or stacked in the dishwasher. Satisfied with my efforts, I walk over to the window and rest my arms on the sill; the eaves sheltering me from the rainfall. The moor looks lush and I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the sweet earthly scent of geraniums and rhododendrons that has been released into the air.

A light tapping at the front door draws my attention. Feeling energised, I quickly descend the stairs and skip along the hallway to the door.

"Hi." His voice sounds unsure. He stands slightly back from the door shifting nervously from one foot to the other. He has the look of a displaced drenched sewer rat; his saturated clothing hanging from his frame like a heavy pelt, his head submissively hung and his intense blue eyes peering out from beneath a rain soaked fringe. A small puddle forms at his feet.

"Hello, Ethan."

"I saw Michael," he adds, by way of explanation. I tip my head inquisitively. "...as he was leaving."

"It's not what you think, Ethan."

"I know. He explained everything."

"He did?" What the fuck did he say, I begin to wonder. Ethan shifts his weight again.

We stand in silence, held in each other's gaze, the puddle growing about Ethan's feet. The moment lingers a tad too long and I sense that we have both become uncomfortable with the situation.

"I just wanted to say," Ethan begins, "that I am sorry, Cara. I..." he hesitates and his bottom lip begins to quiver and droplets of rain fall from his fringe.

"Why don't you come in and dry off?" I ask.

"I... I don't know if that's..."

"It's okay, I don't bite."

"I know, I just..." His insecurity fires my confidence.

"Look at you. You are soaked. Please come in, Ethan." Our eyes lock, and in that moment I sense that the battle is over. Something within both of us has relaxed and unfolded. I lean towards him and kiss him lightly on the cheek.

"I think it's time that we got you out of those wet clothes," I murmur, taking him by the hand and leading him across the threshold.

Neither of us speaks as we ascend the stairs. Turning in to the bathroom we lock eyes. The silence between us continues as I help Ethan out of his rain-soaked jacket, never once taking my eyes from his. The jacket slumps to the floor. With slow determination I peel off Ethan's shirt, uncovering his firm, athletic torso.

"I want you." I whisper softly, cupping his face in my palms and pressing my lips to his. As our lips part I utter the word, " _Now_ ," I and press my body against his. "I want you to make love to me _now_."

Without hesitation Ethan reaches down and takes hold of the hem of my smock and lifts it expertly over my head, allowing it to fall onto the pile of discarded clothing at our feet. Wearing nothing but my panties, I stand before him, expectantly. With careful precision Ethan eases his fingers under the soft fabric, until he reaches my soft mound of downy fur.

Affectionately, I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Our lips part and come back together; our tongues blissfully entwined. Ethan's tender fingers moving slowly between my swollen, wet lips occasionally dipping gingerly inside me. "Take me, Ethan. Here. Now," I plead.

Removing his hand Ethan begins to tug at the waistband of his jeans, forcing them down over his slender hips. Slowly, I uncoil my right arm from around his neck allowing my hand to slide down between our heaving bodies until my fingertips touch the soft cotton of my panties. I pull the fabric to one side, whilst sliding my left thigh up the outside of Ethan's and leg before wrapping it around his hip, exposing my pussy, fully, to Ethan's swollen cock. Bending his knees slightly, Ethan steers his cock skilfully towards my opening; his manhood rising deep inside me. Slowly he begins to rock backwards and forwards, his hands pressed against my buttocks pulling me onto him. His cock feels hot as he buries himself further inside me, stretching me, filling me. His rhythm is steady. He eases himself in and out with masterful strokes, delving deeper and deeper with each gentle thrust. Again and again and again. I tilt my head back in the throes of passion, my body awash with ardent fervour. I roll my hips to meet him as he moves inside me, driving his manhood deeper still. The pain is sweet, comforting, reassuring.

I can hear Ethan's breathing beginning to quicken, and the pace at which he drives his cock inside of me quickens with each breath. Harder and harder he thrusts into me, pounding me. I struggle to retain my balance as his movements intensify, and then, in one swift movement, Ethan lifts my right leg from the floor and holds me fast in his strong, youthful arms. My legs encircle he waist and and my arms hold tightly around his neck as Ethan continues to drive his steel rod into me. "Yes! Yes! Oh, God, yes!" As Ethan squeezes my buttocks hard; the tip of his finger touching the rim of my anus. I can feel my excitement surging towards fever pitch; my body trembling at his touch.

Ethan's breathing becoming increasingly laboured as he continues to hold me in his arms whilst pumping harder and faster into me. With equal intensity I thrust my vagina down onto him, causing our bodies to come crashing together until we two are pounding against each other in a sexually charged frenzy. I grit my teeth as Ethan pushes his finger inside me and I know that I am about to explode all over his steaming cock and delicious finger. I let out an impassioned cry, propelling him to climax; his throbbing cock violently pumping his hot cum inside me. And as Ethan pours forth, my body is flooded with an intense chemical rush, bringing me to my own earth-shattering release.

*****

Ethan steps out of the lake, his immaculate body glistening in the midday sun. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. I cannot wait for the sun to set and to run my hands all over that perfect body.

A thin trail of downy hair traces the route from his outie bellybutton to the unbuttoned waistband of his threadbare denim cut-offs. He approaches, all too aware of his youthful beauty, and leans over my sketch pad looking at my illustrations. Droplets of water fall from his fringe onto my page, forming tiny rivulets. "Mama Bear draws nice pictures," he says, before kissing the top of my head and sitting down in the long grass beside me.

"Mama Bear?"

"Sorry, I don't know where that came from." Ethan casts his eyes downwards, looking slightly embarrassed.

"And don't think, not even for a second, that I didn't spot the use of the word 'nice' in the middle of that sentence. Really, Ethan, if you're going to make a judgement about the quality of my work, you're going to need to be considerably more eloquent than that."

It is evident that Ethan has failed to detect the slight hint of sarcasm in my voice, and I enjoy his moment of uncertainty and confusion. In the end I give him a big shove with my elbow and wait for his response. He regains his balance quickly and throws me a 'What was that for?' look, which melts the minute he sees my wide mouthed smile looking right back at him.

"Why don't you show me what you can do, Big Boy?"

"Alright," he says suggestively, reaching across and cupping my left breast in his wet hand.

"With a pencil!"

He laughs and pulls away, picking up his sketchpad and pencil.

An elderly couple walking on the far side of the lake hold hands and talk, their voices barely audible across the water. A golden Labrador bounds on ahead. Ethan begins to make marks on the page. His hands work fast; feint lines at first, darkening as his confidence grows. Like a ghost walking out of the mist, an image begins to form, fleshing out on the page; wispy clouds, towering trees with gnarled branches and dense foliage, shadowy figures moving through the undergrowth, dark smudges that transform themselves into moorhens gliding over silent waters. Time has stood still, and I have remained motionless, captivated, enthralled. I have watched Ethan's tender hand swirl effortlessly across the page in what appeared to be a single motion: the artistic equivalent of a stream of consciousness.

That's very good, young man." A disembodied voice breaks the spell. The old man from across the lake, is stood slightly to one side stooping over Ethan's shoulder. A wet-nosed Labrador presses his head against Ethan's hand, seeking attention; his tail wagging. "He's very good isn't he," he adds, looking at me. "You must be very proud."

I am unsure how to respond, the insinuation sitting uncomfortably.

"He obviously has your geans," affirms a very excited old woman who appears a little unsteady on her feet and who now stands beside the old man.

"Oh, he's not..." I begin, before being cut-off mid-sentence.

"Look, that's Rufus," the unsteady woman calls out even more excitedly than before, pointing a shaky finger in the direction of Ethan's sketchpad.

"So it is. Fancy that," the old man responds.

The couple continue to discuss the merits of Ethan's sketch, commenting on the trees and the moorhens and the figures strolling behind the dog, whilst Ethan and I sit in silence, bewildered.

Without ceremony Ethan takes hold of the page and begins to remove it from the scrapbook, tearing the page, carefully, along the spine. "Here," he says, "I'd like you to have it."

"No, we couldn't," replies the old man. "But thank you for the offer."

"Don't be silly. Here. Go ahead, take it."

The unsteady woman sinks against the old man, linking her arm through his and turning her head to look into his watery eyes. The old man nods and a gentle smile appears at the corners of her mouth.

"Thank you," she says extending a trembling hand towards the proffered sketch.

"That's very generous of you, young man."

"Not really," he replies.

"Come on, Rufus. Time to go," the old man states, and Rufus quickly turns and runs on ahead.

Steadily, they stroll away, the drawing firmly held in the woman's shaky hand. "That was very kind of the young man," she declares as they step through the undergrowth. "And it's such a nice picture."

Ethan reaches across and takes my hand. "She said my drawing was _nice_."

"I know. They also thought that you were my son."

"You noticed that, eh?"

"It was difficult to miss. How do you feel about that?"

"Well, obviously they're both suffering from dementia. Lovely people, but their reasoning is seriously impaired."

"Ethan, I'm being serious."

"Sorry, but you can't take these things seriously. And besides, I don't care what people think," he says, shrugging. "It's what you and I think that counts."

My uncertainty is evident, and Ethan reaches across and places his hand, lightly, upon my cheek, never once taking his eyes from mine. And then, softly, he kisses me. A slow, lingering kiss that makes the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. His lips are soft and full. The heat of the sun comes to rest on my closed eye lids. And in that instant, in that very moment, a chain reaction begins; starting with the soft touch of his tongue tantalizingly stroking my open lips, a shiver runs down my spine, reaching down between my buttocks and igniting a spot deep within. My mind is once again filled with thoughts of Ethan's body pressed against mine and his manhood filling me. And I can resist him no longer. Carelessly, we sink into the long grass, our hands exploring the others' willing body. And there, beneath a blazing summer sun, he takes me.

*****

The sun is low in the sky by the time we return to the Lodge, our stomachs empty but our hearts full. "Why don't you pour us both a glass of wine," I suggest, crossing the kitchen.

While Ethan pours I throw together a platter made up of left-overs from the fridge; dips, crudité, a selection of cheeses, chilli olives, and a half stick of French bread from the pantry. I barely have time to place the platter on the table before Ethan is pawing at the food.

"Hungry, I see."

"Ravenous," he declares, his mouth brimming with food.

"Really? I hadn't noticed." Ethan swallows hard, emptying his mouth. He has such a voracious appetite, I wonder as to how he manages to retain such a God damn fabulous physique.

You not eating?" he aks, realising that I am sat motionless, watching him eat.

"Yes, I'm eating. I just prefer to savour my food, that's all."

Ethan, with his mouth full, stops chewing and he looks at me as though he is trying to work out if I am joking or being serious. A smile creeps into the corners of my mouth and Ethan visibly relaxes and smiles as best he can with his cheeks bulging and his lips closed.

The evening is gentle mix of easy conversation interspersed with free flowing wine and delectable finger foods.

As darkness sets in, we curl up on a pile of loose cushions besides the open fire. Just a few small logs give off a radiant glow, more for effect than warmth. Booker T & the MG's _Time Is Tight_ oozes out of the speakers. Ethan rolls a joint and lights it, inhaling deeply before passing it over to me. I watch as he exhales, releasing a long, swirling cloud of smoke that drifts lazily upwards. In this milieu we talk at length, about music, about film, about art, and about the time I spent in Paris.

"What was it called again, the school where you studied?" he asks.

"The École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts."

"It sounds amazing."

"It was, and I suppose it still is, for so many reasons. Not least of which are its elaborate frescoes and its location in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, across the Seine from the Louvre." I reach out and touch Ethan's cheek which glows sienna in the firelight. He looks back at me, tenderly, and smiles. "I am visiting Paris again, in a few days' time. Why don't you come with me? It's far more beautiful in the flesh than any image that I can conjure up with words."

Ethan draws on the spliff, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs before slowly releasing a thin line of white smoke. "I'd love to."

*****

We depart from London's St. Pancras International station early in the morning, arriving at Gare du Nord, Paris, at precisely 9.47am, just as the Eurostar timetable said we would. Ethan flashes me a wide smile; excitement is written all over his face.

I love Paris in the summertime: I love its café terraces with their wicker chairs and neat table cloths; I love the eclectic mix of chic city dwellers and wide-eyed tourists that populate those establishments; I love the busy squares littered with bohemian artists eagre to follow in the footsteps of the Masters – Monet, Modigliani, Picasso, van Gogh, Dali, to name but a few; I love the romanticism that pervades every aspect of the city. In fact, I don't just love this city, I am _in love_ with it.

And not just in the summertime. I love this city no matter what the season: The tree-lined Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which runs a full nineteen hundred metres from Place de la Concorde in the east to the Arc de Triomphe in the west, comes into its own over the festive season when its clipped horse-chestnut trees are elegantly dressed with shimmering Christmas lights that hang like strings of pearls above the snow-covered ground; And in the springtime, when the soft rain falls and washes clean the city's pavements and the rendered exteriors of its buildings, or when the cherry blossom and apple blossom trees are in full bloom, delicately wafting their sweet aroma and pastel confetti along the boulevards and across the bridges to the feet of the city's most celebrated monuments, I again fall under Paris' captivating spell; And then, when the shadows grow long and the boulevards disappear under a blanket of auburn leaves, and the setting sun's amber rays bathe the western façades of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica and Notre Dame in its heavily hues, only a heart made of stone could not be moved.

Yes, it is a fact, I adore this city; this charming, seductive, elegant city.

Our apartment in Montmartre is a little over a kilometre from the train station; comfortable walking distance we decide. The streets around the station are busy with excited tourists and cigarette smoking commuters.

We cross the Boulevard de la Chapelle and turn immediately left up Rue d'Orsel, a narrow street lined on either side with seven story buildings, each with row upon row of identical balconies that overlook the narrow cobblestoned street below. The high sided buildings cast long, broad shadows that offer pleasant respite from the morning sun.

Beneath a candy-striped canopy that served no purpose on this darkened street sits the Boulangépicier delicatessen – second to none in this Arrondissement. Ethan follows me into the shop. A ruddy faced man sporting an unusually large handle-bar moustache stands beaming at me from behind the counter. "Bonjour, Madame. Agréable de vous voir de nouveau."

"Bonjour, Auguste." His smile widens into a Cheshire cat grin at the mere mention of his name.

"Peux j'avoir un baguette, un camembert, moitié de kilo de raisins et de bouteille de votre Sauvignon le plus parfait blanc s'il vous plait."

Auguste thoughtfully selects the requested items and places them carefully in two brown paper bags. We exchange pleasantries as he does so. I pay for the items and smile as Auguste hands them over the counter to me.

"Merci, au revoir, Auguste."

Ethan looks at me inquisitively; a small crease presenting between his eyebrows. I step out onto the street and turn to continue our walk up Rue d'Orsel; Ethan, like a well-trained puppy, at my side. "Is there something that you wanted to say, Ethan?"

"Three things, actually," he states, with the pretence of nonchalance. "Firstly, I had no idea that you spoke fluent French." And why would he. Ethan pauses just long enough to allow time for a response, but seeing that none was forthcoming, he continues. "Secondly, you haven't so much as looked at a map or read a street sign since we arrived, and yet you seem so sure of where we are going." Well observed, Sherlock. The thought stays inside my head. "And thirdly..." Yes, I do remember him saying that there were three things. "...unless I'm very much mistaken, you and the handlebar moustache have met before." I try hard to hide a smile.

"And those things surprise you?"

"I'm just becoming aware of how little I actually do know about you, Cara."

"And that bothers you?"

"Actually, no. I'm enchanted by the mystery," he adds, and the crease fades. He suddenly looks so young. Too young, perhaps. I quickly dismiss the thought and smile at him. He reaches out and takes one of the paper bags from under my arm and kisses me on the cheek as he does so. Unease lingers but I do not bother to explain.

Montmartre is located at the highest point in the city, in the 18th Arrondissement, and the Sacré- Cœur Basilica is located at the very summit. Those willing to venture up the steps to the Basilica are afforded a sweeping view of the city that lies sprawled out before them: the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame and the winding Seine unashamedly present themselves to the enthralled viewer like parading peacocks. In the full sun we take the steps beside the funicular car; the Basilica, standing in all its glory, awaits high above us.

At the top we find ourselves among a throng of camera touting tourists who have come to admire the Basilica and the spectacular views. Ethan removes an unopened bottle of Evian from his backpack and offers it to me. The water is lukewarm but my lips and throat are dry and the water offers some relief. I hand the bottle back to Ethan who hastily raises it to lips and drinks deeply, a steady stream trails from the corner of his mouth over his jaw, tracing a thin line that slips beneath the neck of his t-shirt. He stands facing the sun, his eyes closed as he drinks from the bottle.

I take a moment to look at him; I can't quite believe that I am here, in Paris, with such a breathtakingly handsome young man. And his looks are breathtaking, of that there is no question. Even in his crumpled t-shirt and rugged jeans he looks stunning. I notice how the t-shirt rides up slightly as he lifts his arm to drink, exposing his perfect abdomen and the thin line of downy hair that runs from his navel and dips beneath his belt. My eyes continue down towards his pelvic area and his tidy bulge.

"Beautiful," Ethan says softly, after taking the bottle from his lips. My thoughts exactly.

"The Basilica or the view?" I enquire.

"Actually, I was talking about you," he answers, and his wide, boyish grin spreads across his face once more. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him full on the lips; a passionate, lingering kiss. And in response, Ethan gently wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer towards him, our bodies softly pressing against each other.

A shriek of delight from a barefoot toddler excited to see a scavenging Herring Gull take to the air brings us back to the present. Reluctantly, our lips part and I let my hands slide down from around Ethan's neck and pass over his chest before coming to rest on his hips. "To be continued," I murmur. The rest of the morning is spent gazing into each other's eyes, holding hands walking around the Basilica, and laying in each other's arms on the soft, warm grass overlooking the city that stretches out before us in the full sun. A light smattering of leaves, blown by a gentle breeze, drift and settle at our feet – not uncommon for late summer. We whisper in each other's ears and steal kisses on the side, in between taking bites from our camembert and grape stuffed baguette and sipping sweet Sauvignon blanc straight from the bottle. What is there not to love about Paris?

A little after midday, and a bottle of wine looser, Ethan presses his lips against my right ear and whispers, "Come on, Cara, as breathtaking as the view is, I have other things on my mind." I turn towards him and raise an eyebrow inquisitively. "I want to make love to you, right now," he adds by way of an explanation. "Take me to our apartment."

I am delighted at the thought of him wanting me, and the very idea of him taking me in his arms makes me ache deep down inside. I want him too.

*****

We leave the grounds of the Basilica and follow the cobblestone streets that snake around to Place du Tertre. An unassuming plaque hung on a white rendered wall besides a flaking louvered window shutter informs us that Place du Tertre is located in the 18th arrondissement. This quaint square is nuzzled in the very heart of Montmarte, and is a magnet for tourists and artists alike. At any other time my eyes would feast upon the exuberance of this tiny, busy square where restaurants and portrait artists representing every corner of the globe jostle for business, side by side – but not today. Not now. Not whilst my mind is preoccupied with the thought of Ethan's naked body pressed against mine.

Our apartment is located above Le Sabot Rouge, a lively café on the northern side of the square. Wicker chairs are scattered around small round tables on the cobblestone pavement outside the café. Most are occupied by afternoon diners or those prepared to pay handsomely for a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. A tired, bottle green door, sandwiched between Le Sabot Rouge and La Cremaillere Restaurant next door, displays the number forty-five in brass numerals.

I remove a key from my pocket and place it in the lock. Effortlessly the key turns. We slip unnoticed from the street, Ethan clawing at my waistline trying to unfasten my jeans as we take the stairs. I can't help myself and let out a squeal of excitement as his hands reach out trying to get a firm hold on me. A turn in the staircase causes Ethan to stumble slightly, allowing me to momentarily escape his outstretched hands.

At the top of the stairs I dash forward, heading across the landing towards the opened bedroom door and the large brass bed situated on the wall opposite; Ethan no more than a stride behind me. Hurling our backpacks on to the tiled floor, we burst into the room, Ethan throwing his arms around me and we fall headlong onto the bed, laughing.

I try to roll over so that we are facing each other, but Ethan has me pinned face down under his weight.

After a few seconds of lying there, he pulls his right arm from under me and places his strong forearm across my shoulders, holding me firm. "Don't move," he murmurs. His voice soft, like whispered velvet. Ethan has stopped laughing, and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my neck. A warm, comforting glow stirs deep within my belly, radiating outwards, flooding my loins. I am willing to surrender myself to his every desire. His left hand moves purposely beneath me, gently forcing its way under our combined weight, stopping at my hips. With practised fingers he unbuttons my jeans before taking a vice-like grip on the waistband and tugging – pulling my jeans down, over my hips with his one free hand and dragging my panties with down with them. I writhe and squirm beneath him, wrestling my legs free of the clothing, leaving myself exposed and at his mercy. Ethan wastes no time in moving his left hand over my buttocks and sliding his fingers down between my legs, pressing his palm against my soft, wet fur. Under his weight, I force my legs open as far as I can. His fingers find my open lips and slide inside. I let out a low, pleasurable moan as his fingers explore my pussy. In unison, my fists and pussy clench under his hold. I feel sexually charged by the unpredictability and suddenness of Ethan's domineering behaviour.

I can feel the hot of Ethan's breath against my skin and can hear his heavy breathing in my ear. Slowly, he removes his hand. My head begins to spin as fear of him leaving me in this heightened state races through my mind; my open thighs crying out for him to continue touching me. But I needn't have feared. A few short moments later, still holding me pinned against the bed, Ethan begins to tug at his own jeans, wrestling them down. Then, with slow precision, Ethan slides his fingers between my buttocks letting them come to rest, lightly, against my anus. Deep inside my body aches for him. I long for him to touch me _there_. I arch my back, forcing my buttocks to rise towards him. "Yes, Ethan. Yes," I say, my voice little more than a whisper. His middle finger presses against my anus gently. "Oh, God, yes." I arch my back further still, causing the cheeks of my buttocks to part. His finger continues to press softly, tantalisingly, at my hole. "Yes," I repeat, "Yes. Yes." Slowly he begins to move his already wet finger in a circular motion, rimming me, teasing me. Delicately he dips the end of his fingers inside me, tempting me, preparing me. I arc my back to its limit, forcing my ass upwards, towards his finger, opening my hole to him, wanting to feel him inside of me. In response, Ethan presses his finger deeper inside, causing my muscles to clench involuntarily around his finger. The sensation is sweet. I want him. Like this. I want his hard cock pressed inside me. "Fuck me, Ethan," I manage to say, breathlessly. "I want to feel your cock buried inside me. _There_." I am panting through my words. "I want you to own every last inch of me."

Ethan repositions himself above me. I grit my teeth and tilt my ass further, offering myself to him completely. In one smooth motion he eases his finger out of me and replaces it with his manhood, driving it into me further and deeper than I imagined possible. I let out an impassioned cry as his huge cock sinks deeper still. Ethan stills inside me momentarily, his swollen cock filling me. The sensation is sublime. And then he begins to rise and fall, slowly; his swollen cock pressing, lovingly, into me. Smooth, soothing strokes that gently open and fill me. Ethan's breathing becomes heavier as the excitement between us intensifies, and his pace quickens, and the smooth sinking is replaced by a more urgent pace; his cock driving in and out of me, again and again and again. Pounding into me, harder and harder.

Relentlessly.

Stretching me.

Filling me.

Until, with one last almighty push and a loud, resonating roar, he explodes inside me. The intensity of his orgasm brings me hurtling towards my own uncontrollable frenzied climax. My body convulsing beneath him as his heroic frame comes crashing down on top of me, and we collapse in an exhausted, panting heap; his heavy cock still buried deep inside of me.

*****

The crowds have not abated when we emerge, arm in arm, from the apartment. My insides aching. And yet the ache brings a level of unparalleled satisfaction: a constant, inexplicably pleasurable reminder of what has gone before. I am satiated. Ethan's hair is tussled, and he is still wearing the same shabby t-shirt and jeans. Even like this, he is adorable. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, our lips instantly parting, his delicious tongue sensuously caressing mine. I cannot get enough of him. I want to take him back upstairs right now and fuck him all over again.

"Let's go back to bed. I want to feel you inside me all of the time." Ethan throws his head back and laughs.

"You are insatiable. Later. Come on, I want you to show me around this beautiful city."

"Are you denying me, Ethan?" I tease.

"I wouldn't say that."

"Then what would you say?"

"Let's just say that I'm requesting a brief interlude. After all, you promised to show me the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts and the Louvre."

"Hmmm." I purse my lips and acquiesce. My own enthusiasm for art has brought about my downfall.

"After that, maybe, we can grab something to eat." Ethan suggests. "And then, well, then we can go back to the apartment and do whatever you want."

"Whatever I want?" I can feel a smile spreading across my face.

"Yes. Whatever _you_ want." He knows now that he has won the fight, but ultimately I shall win the war.

"Then you had better brace yourself, soldier, 'cause tonight I am going to blow your mind."

"You already blow my mind, Cara."

"Well, tonight, I have something _very_ special in store for you."

"I thought that what we just did was pretty special, don't you?"

"Yes, it was wild."

I take hold of his young face in both hands and kiss his full, soft lips.

"You know," he suggests as our lips part, "I had no idea that nice girls do that sort of thing."

"Well, now you know different." I flash him a wicked, knowing smile. "So, I suppose that now you think of me as some sort of perverted courtisane, set on bringing your immaculate reputation into disrepute?" I tease.

"On the contrary, my reputation was already soiled," Ethan whispers. "And as for being perverted, well, if what we did just then was perverse, then I am one serious degenerate." We both laugh.

"Now," Ethan suddenly becomes animated, his eyes light up and his voice rings out, "let's go find the École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts."

"And the Louvre," I add.

"Indeed. And the Louvre."

*****

By the time we exit The Louvre, it is evident that Ethan's thirst for knowledge about art is equalled only by his voracious appetite for an altogether different art form – the art of love making. And this afternoon I plan on satisfying both of his passions simultaneously.

It is just a short walk through to Jardin Dds Tuileries to the Musée de _l'Orangerie._ Along the way we observe a busker draped in a chalky white toga besides the Grand Bassin Rond, and we stop to observe him. Ethan gives my hand a gentle squeeze and I rest my head against his shoulder. The busker does not acknowledge our presence, but stands before us, motionless, upon a small box, covered in an off-white sheet. His exposed skin and hair is plastered with the same tone of off-white paste. A living, breathing statue; Emperor Caligula, perhaps – or possibly, Julius Caesar. An anaemic laurel wreath sits on his brow. I gaze at him; tiny beads of sweat form under his make-up just below the wreath. What a way to earn a living, I muse – and in this heat. I reach into my pocket and pull out a handful of coins and place them on to the white sheet at his feet. A subtle twist of the busker's head and a slight turn of his right hand, so that the palm faces upwards, acknowledge my gesture. And then the busker slowly resumes his original pose; standing motionless once again in the full sun.

_We move on_ _._ Musée de _l'Orangerie is hidden away in the west corner of the_ Jardin des Tuileries adjacent to the Place de la Concorde, and boasts an impressive collection of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings. The bells of the Madeleine church ring out in the south as we cross the threshold of the gallery. I check my watch, a quarter past five; a little under an hour before the public are asked to vacate the building. And the quietest time of the day. Perfect for what I have in mind.

The stately nineteenth century vestibule was designed by Claude Monet: a space that divides the city from his art. It leads through to two oval rooms, each housing four of Monet's monumental, yet surprising intimate _Water Lilies_ paintings. This is one of my favourite spaces in the city. I have lost count of the number of hours that I have whiled away within these curved walls.

Ethan listens intently as I begin to recount how, following the _Great War 1914-18_ , Monet donated the paintings to the France, offering war torn Parisians a series of images that encapsulate nature at its most tranquil, encouraging peaceful reflection and quiet contemplation. I begin to feel self-conscious, sounding a little too much like a museum guide, and so I stop talking. Ethan doesn't seem to notice; he is lost in the paintings. His eyes wandering over the expansive canvasses before us. Spread over two oval rooms, the eight canvasses capture the passing of time, from sunrise in the east to sunset in the west. Here, in these images, the sky, the trees, the flowers and the water all seem to converge with no horizon or shore to separate them. Ethan is captivated it would seem, not only by the scale of the paintings, but by the enormity of Monet's achievements. When we reach the second of the oval rooms we are alone. Apart from the front of house receptionist the only other person in the ground floor gallery is the Docent, and he is too distracted by the receptionist's low-cut blouse and rather excessive cleavage to pay any attention to us.

Ethan pauses directly in front of Monet's _Reflections of_ _Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond_. Little more than a metre separates the two of them. At this distance, the painting, constructed on three identically sized canvasses placed end on end and extending to over twelve metres in length, quite literally wraps itself around the viewer. Despite my attraction to these majestic masterpieces, I find myself unable to shift my gaze from Ethan's slender waist and the thought of his neat ass hidden beneath his faded jeans.

Knowing that we are alone and that the Docent eyes are fixed on an altogether different set of majestic masterpieces, I silently cross the polished oak floor and stand directly behind Ethan, lightly pressing my cheek against his back. Ethan's shoulders relax in response and I can feel his upper torso slowly expand and contract with each breath. I slide my arms around his waist, my left hand coming to rest on his firm abdomen, the other snaking down to the zip in his jeans. Without hesitation I tug at the zip, pulling it downwards and reach inside, taking hold of his manhood and squeezing it gently.

Almost immediately he begins to stiffen.

Slowly I ease his cock out of his jeans and run my hand up and down its length, taking care to caress the tip of his cock with each up stroke. Ethan's breathing gradually becomes heavier and his hips begin to sway slightly, rocking back and forth. My head, still resting against Ethan's back, is turned towards the arched passageways that lead back through to the first gallery and beyond to the vestibule. I am reassured by the sound of distant laughter that the two staff are still deep in conversation at the entrance of the museum.

With this in mind I keep hold of Ethan's cock in my right hand and move around his body until we are stood face to face. I plant a kiss on his tender lips, then, without a word passing between us, I sink to my knees and place my lips around the tip of Ethan's erection. In slow deliberate movements I slide my head up and down his shaft, taking care to run my tongue around the swollen rim of his penis before sliding my lips back down his length, and feeling the end of his cock pressing against the back of my throat. Up and down his length my lips and tongue continue to work, sucking firmly, caressing his swollen rod, whilst my hands grip the base of his erection, squeezing and releasing in a slow pumping action. I can't get enough of him. My whole body aches to feel him buried deep inside me, and with that thought I close my eyes and take him deeper and deeper inside my mouth until I can feel his cock sliding past my uvula and gently probing the soft fleshy tissue beyond my tonsils. Ethan's breathing becomes heavy and laboured and his body begins to stiffen. I can sense that he is close to orgasm. His fingers suddenly take a firm hold of my hair, and I can feel his tension in his clenched fists. In that instant his huge cock begins to violently pulsate as he lets out a low moan and ejaculates his hot, creamy cum into the back of my mouth. His juices taste salty, and I savour their deliciously smooth texture on my pallet before swallowing.

As I take Ethan's cock out of my mouth, he relaxes his hands and begins to stroke my hair. I glance up towards his face. His eyes meet mine with a look that declares his deep affection for me. Carefully, I slip his now limp penis into his jeans and return to a standing position before him, never once taking my eyes from his. Ethan kisses my lips - a long, lingering kiss - then whispers, "I think that it may be time for us go. My guess is that the security cameras in this room not only send live images to a series of monitors elsewhere in the building, but that they also record what takes place in this room." Ethan gestures with a twist of his head towards the security cameras located above the archways leading back into the first gallery. "Presumably, wide-angle lenses capture everything that happens in this room," he adds. "I suspect that our actions might be a little difficult to explain away."

I feel myself begin to flush and bury my head in Ethan's chest. "Oh, God, you're right."

I quickly pull myself together, and take his hand and head towards the connecting archway leading back into the first gallery, all the time praying that the Docent and the object of his desires remained preoccupied during our little indiscretion. "I hope that you've seen enough of Monet, darling," I say as we exit the room.

The two staff are still at the front desk as we re-enter the vestibule. The receptionist blushes and casts her eyes down as we walk past. For the first time I notice the two monitors on the back wall behind the desk, each displaying multiple images of the inside of the gallery.

The Docent stands aside, nonchalantly, as we pass. But the sudden sound of unrestrained laughter from the Docent and the receptionist as we exit the building makes me wince with embarrassment. Once outside, I feel an overwhelming sense of relief and my confidence is restored. "However," I continue, turning to Ethan, as if no time at all had passed since my previous statement, "given the French's preoccupation with carnal pleasures, I suspect that having sex in a public place would most likely meet with their approval. But, to pay such disrespect to one of the nations most treasured figures, as Monet no doubt is, would undoubtedly attract a most severe punishment." Ethan begins to laugh and squeezes my hand tenderly as we make our way across Place de la Concorde in search of a restaurant. Having tasted the hors d'oeuvres, I am eager to move on to the main course.

*****

A little after nine o'clock, beneath a steel blue sky littered with jewel-like stars, we stroll back into Place du Tertre, our bellies and our hearts full. The square's narrow, cobblestone streets are as busy by night as they are by day. A solitary busker sits illuminated beneath a Victorian street lamp, her cello placed firmly between her open thighs, her bow gracefully stroking the strings. The Sacré-Cœur Basilica stands in all its glory silhouette behind her. "Mozart's Cello Concerto," Ethan states. I recognise the piece instantly, but I am both surprised and delighted by Ethan's cultural depth. "It's my mother's favourite piece of music," he offers by way of explanation. I quickly reassess my evaluation. Ethan seldom mentions his family and I know so little about them.

"What's she like? Your mother I mean."

"Pretty, I suppose – for her age." I wonder at what that age might be. "And slender. She's a teacher. Primary school. Though she'd rather not have to work." I picture a prim woman in her mid-fifties: pleated skirt, crimplene blouse, brogues and hair tied neatly in a bun – the Jean Brodie type.

He stops beneath a street light and casts his eyes down. The music wafts past on a gentle breeze. For a moment he is lost in thought. I can sense his discomfort. Eventually he raises his head and looks at me through sad, reflective eyes.

"She's become a little bitter and twisted since she and my father separated. She didn't cope very well with his leaving. She suddenly realised that she had no idea who she was. She'd given her life over to being his wife – to being what she considered a good middle class, stay at home wife and mother to be. Then all of sudden he moved out – just like that. There was no big bust up. No obvious lead up to it that I was aware of. He just announced one day that he was leaving, and the next day he was gone. My sister and I had to grow up fast, and we both left home shortly afterwards. Mum's world was suddenly filled with silence where love and laughter used to reside." Ethan looks up, casting his eyes upwards, over the rooftops, towards the starry sky above. A tear begins to form and brim at the corner of his eye. Suddenly he looks so young; so vulnerable. "Even her so called friends proved to be no more than acquaintances, or friends of my fathers. And it wasn't long before they stopped coming around, too. Eventually, she was forced to sell the family home and move from their desirable Georgian home in the Pennines to a terraced house on the edge of an industrial estate. She became an empty vessel. It was as though her life had been defined by the things that she had around her: the expensive house, the executive car, friends in influential circles. All the usual trappings of a middle class life, I guess. And now, now she is a shadow of her former self. All of her confidence has been whittled away. Everything that she thought was real, everything that she thought she could depend upon, has gone."

"I'm sorry. It must be hard for her." Ethan nods silently, his eyes still looking off into the far distance.

"I wish she were more like you, Cara," he muses, although he still appears lost: caught somewhere between a memory and reality. At last, his eyes come to rest on mine. "What happens to women like her, women who suddenly find themselves alone after years of sharing their lives?"

The pang within is awakened but not shared, and Ethan remains oblivious.

"You embrace life, Cara. Look at you. I mean, you know..." He suddenly seems at a loss for what to say, and I am unable to help him. He sighs. "You have so much energy. So much passion. You... well, just look at you – you're here, with me, in Paris, having fun. We're fucking like rabbits and what the fuck is she doing? Sitting in her little terraced house wasting away, that's what. You two are not so different, Cara, and yet you are worlds apart." Ethan's words hang in the air... ' _You two are not so different'_. I can feel my breathing becoming laboured.

"Madam." A weather-beaten artist, wearing the obligatory paisley neckerchief and sporting a nicotine stained smile, calls out from behind his easel. "Excusez, Madam. English?"

"What?"

The weather-beaten artist beams at us, "If you want, I, er, I paint picture for you."

I can't deal with this now. What was it that Ethan just said?

"Madam?" The artist is persistent.

"Non, merci."

"No problem," he acquiesces. "Er, maybe, I, er, I paint picture for your son, no?"

"Non!" I snap. "Merde!"

"Oh là là _._ " The old man turns away. Ethan stands with his jaw open, but says nothing.

It's all too much. I begin to panic, suddenly feeling old – too old. I feel my fists begin to clench as I turn and catch our reflections in a restaurant window; I recoil at the vulgar reality of it all. He is just a boy and I...

In that instant the spell is broken. The illusion shattered. The charade exposed. What the fuck am I doing?

I turn away from Ethan without any explanation and begin to move away from him. What was I thinking? I hear Ethan call after me but I don't turn around. I can't turn around. I can hear the confusion in his voice.

I start to run, weaving in and out of the pedestrians, my feet pounding on the street below. Ethan's voice rings out behind me, calling me back. I dash past the pretty girl with the cello, tears streaming down my cheeks, her playing drowned out by the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.

I don't stop running until the square with its hordes of tourists, and the busker and the artist and Ethan are far, far behind me.

*****

Place du Tertre is deserted by the time I get back, all except for a desolate street sweeper. He pushes and pulls his broom mechanically back and forth across the cobblestones, sweeping away all traces of the day. Momentarily he pauses to attend to something in his pocket and to adjust his headphones before resuming his sweeping, oblivious to my presence. I wonder how long I would have to stand here before he sweeps away every last trace of my shame. A light bulb flickers in an overhanging street lamp and the sweeper glances up and glimpses me. He nods politely in my direction before returning to his solitary task.

The door to the apartment is unlocked. A warm orange glow radiates out from the bedroom, casting a soft beam of light into the hall. Ethan is sat upright in the bed, looking dispirited and crestfallen. Quietly he watches me as I walk in to the bedroom. I cast my eyes down unable to look him in the eye.

He is the first to break the silence. "Are you okay?"

"Fine. Just a little tired."

The clock by the bed says a quarter after three.

"I was worried."

"I'm fine."

I remove my top and jeans and let them fall to the floor before moving around the room and sitting on the edge of the bed, my back to Ethan. I cannot bring myself to face him. I slide under the sheets in my underwear, lying with my back to him. I'm tired and confused and I need more time to understand how I feel.

Ethan turns out the light and reaches over and gently lays his hand on my shoulder.

"Please Ethan, don't. Not now. I'm sorry."

*****

The morning sun is still hidden beyond the eastern ridge of the city as I slink out of the apartment. Ethan remains lost in a fitful sleep. I had been unable to sleep. I pull my backpack, with the few possessions that I had been able to silently gather together, onto my shoulder and silently close the apartment door behind me. A light rain begins to fall, washing away the fine layer of dust from the city's parched streets, leaving behind a clean canvass on which to paint a different tale.

The first Eurostar train departs from Gare du Nord at 6.43am, arriving at St. Pancras station, London, at 8.00am local time. I phone through a booking on my mobile phone and make my way through the maze of empty streets towards the station. I make no effort to avoid the soft falling rain, refusing to make mad dashes between shop canopies and obliging trees offering shelter. My pace is steady, my purpose clear. I turn off my mobile phone and place it in the side pocket of my backpack. The rain feels warm against my face and against my body as it soaks through my blouse causing the delicate fabric to cling to my arms and chest like an extra layer of skin. Soft, summer rain: cleansing, rejuvenating, washing away the sadness and masking the tears...

*****

The train rolls and rocks to a steady rhythm along the tracks. Raindrops on the carriage windows distort the view of the fields that fly by, painting an impressionistic and sympathetic pastoral narrative. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes, pulling a veil across the scene. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the carriage, I slip into a place within; a place where the senses are dulled and all thoughts exiled.

*****

Summer's end –

Who can point the moment summer turns to autumn?

The answer to this question lay hidden in nature, carried on the breeze and whispered to the flora and fauna. Squirrels and jays harvest acorns and bury them for later retrieval. Hedgehogs and dormice gorge themselves on fruit and nuts respectively to build up stores of body fat in readiness for hibernation. The towering horse chestnut, high above its canopy of lush green, is turning amber, and the prickly shells containing its glossy fruits have cracked open. All of the above, clear indications that the seasons have signalled their change. Soon hordes of young children with their families will descend upon Longshaw and its surrounding woodlands to rummage through the falling leaves and gather handfuls of conkers. And the beech trees, standing proud and mighty before a forest of slender silver birch trees, tune in to the changing of the season as their leaves by turn bleed from Islamic green to carmine and maroon. And in abundance at their feet, dense gatherings of ferns take on a pale pinkish hue before finally succumbing to the deep rusty tones and brittle texture that comes with the ensuing winter.

There is chill in the air as I trudge through the heavy undergrowth on my return home. Rambler traffic has been light, just a smattering of figures off in the distance. I am thankful for the solitude. There is still an hour of daylight left and Longshaw Lodge is now within sight. Lines from Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballad Lucy Gray come to mind as I walk the last furlong home.

Over rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

I wear the lines like a familiar cloak, though they offer neither strength nor comfort.

Mounting the worn smooth steps that lead from the car standing up to the Lodge I become aware of just how weary I feel. The day has been long, and I can think of nothing better to do right now than to sink into a hot bath with a glass of Chateau La Fleur Peyrabon. I smile at the thought. France continues to seduce me despite our recent contretemps.

Closing the heavy front door behind me, I wearily climb the stairs and cross the landing to the bathroom. Reaching over the bath tub, I turn on the hot tap before adding a rich blend of lavender and rosemary essential oils into the steaming water. I light a handful of scented candles before leaving the bathroom and retreat to the master bedroom. I remove my clothes and let them fall to the floor. Pulling my dressing gown around my shoulders I walk back onto the landing. The door to the studio ahead of me is ajar and Michael's painting rests silently on the easel drawing me towards it. These past weeks, since returning from Paris, I have thrown myself into my work in a desperate bid to find solace. Michael's painting is finally finished, and I am hopeful that Michael will love it as much as I do. Steam, accompanied by the hypnotic fragrance of lavender and rosemary, billows out of the bathroom door, igniting my senses, luring me back into the bathroom.

10:03pm. Outside, darkness has enveloped the house; there are no street lights to pollute the blackness, nor stars to brighten the sky. The fire is blazing in the grate, a bottle of Chateau La Fleur Peyrabon is half empty on the hearth and Al Cohn's Body And Soul pervades the air. I sit and contemplate the burning logs in the fireplace, enchanted by the petrol blue flames swirling around before my eyes. By the fire's glow, thoughts of Ethan seep silently into my mind; flickering images bathed in an orange glow – our bodies wrapped around each other beside the fire; Ethan's slender fingers thoughtfully, tantalisingly removing my clothing, exposing my flesh to the radiant heat; His tender lips lightly brushing against my arched neck; My aching body hungry for those same lips to kiss and caress and arouse every inch of my skin; The heat of his manhood slowly filling me, satisfying me, reaching deep inside, touching my heart.

A burning log falls in the grate disturbing the revere, bringing me back into the present. Back to the otherwise stillness of the room; back to my solitude. I miss the intimacy with Ethan, but I am unable to live with or to reconcile the inextricable emotions that flood my body whenever we two are together.

I have missed seeing him around the Estate these past weeks. Missed seeing his cobalt-blue eyes peering out from beneath that shock of black hair. Missed seeing his sultry best James Dean as he leans against the drystone walls soaked in sunlight. But I take refuse in the knowledge that he is better off without me in his life. And his absence has helped me to regain my strength – the strength to let go; the strength to move on. I place another log on the fire and watch as the flames engulf it. The log crackles and spits in the grate before igniting and casting its orange glow into the dark recesses of the room, illuminating the portraits that stare down from the walls in judgement. An unexpected knock at the front door interrupts my train of thought. I am not expecting company and do not stir.

The knocker persists. How long, I wonder – from the comfort of the rug beside the fire – before they go away? I bring my knees to my chest and pull my dressing gown around me. I pick up a half smoked joint from the ashtray in the hearth and draw upon it. A long, slow, intoxicating inhalation that distances me further still from the knocking at the door. I feel light-headed. How long before they walk away?

Silence follows, broken only by the sound of the crackling in the fireplace. Blissful silence. I close my eyes and feel the heat of the fire on my eyelids.

A thumping on the window behind me, accompanied by a voice calling my name startles me. I turn around and see Ethan's face through the glass. "Cara, let me in. Please." He must have used the side gate to gain access to the garden. Cursing under my breath I place the joint back in the ashtray and slowly rise and open the door that leads from the living room to the garden. Ethan stands before me. "Please, Cara. We have to talk." He looks cold with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and his shoulders hunched. The chilly night air swirls around my bare feet and slips through the open door into the warmth of the living room.

"I've nothing to say, Ethan."

"Cara, please." He looks at me with those imploring eyes.

"I can't see you anymore. I'm sorry." I know that this is for the best – for both of us.

"I... I don't understand."

I can see the confusion written across his face. No amount of explaining will help him to understand. Self-preservation runs deep and all too often defies logic. In protecting myself, something inside me has had to change; my feelings for Ethan. At what point, I can't recall. Can anyone point to the exact moment that love turns cold?

"Go home, Ethan. Go home." The words fall heavily from my lips. His eyes brim with tears and a pained expression takes hold of his face.

"I am in love with you, Cara." His words are soft. Heartfelt. Impassioned.

"I'm sorry, Ethan. You have to go." And with that, I slowly close the door.

Ethan's pained expression lingers on the other side of the glass. His eyes pleading, his suffering evident. Cold and impassive I hold his gaze. At last, he turns away. And in his wake, another face emerges from within the darkness with eyes that stare accusingly back at me from beyond the glass: my own sinister, loathsome reflection.

The deep, anguished wail that follows echoes around the room like rolling thunder...

The phone rings three times before Michael picks up. "Hello?"

"Hi."

"Cara! I was beginning to worry. You haven't returned any of my calls."

"Well, I'm returning them now."

"That you are. That you are." There is a long pause before Michael continues. "How are you?" His voice is soft, concerned, tender.

"I'm... okay."

"Do you need company?"

"I just need someone to talk to."

"Do you want me to come over?"

"No. No. I'm fine. I just wanted to talk to you."

"Well, here I am."

"Yes. There you are."

A long silence follows. Michael doesn't attempt to break it. I can hear his steady breathing on the other end of the line and I find it reassuring, just knowing that he is there and that I am not alone.

"It's Ethan."

"I thought as much. How is he?"

"I don't know. Hurting, I think. I can't be sure."

"You had a disagreement?"

"Not exactly. I... er... It's complicated."

"It usually is."

"I told him I can't see him anymore." I empty the dregs of the Saint Emilion into the crystal glass on the mantelpiece and smile: I even do trashed with aplomb. Michael waits patiently in silence. I run my middle finger around the rim of the crystal glass before finally picking it up. "You still there?" I can still hear his steady breathing and already know the answer. Asking the question fills the silence, nothing more.

"Sure. I'm still here."

I drain the glass and place it heavily back on the mantelpiece.

"I fucked up, Michael."

"You? Never." A lump forms in my throat and I choke back the tears.

"I really did this time." My bottom lip begins to curl and tremble involuntarily. "I really fucked up," I manage, fighting back the tears.

"Whatever it is that you may have done, Cara, I am sure that it can be worked out. Why don't I come over?"

"No." Sniff. "I'll be okay." The tears flow freely down my cheeks. "I just need a minute and I'll be okay. Alright?"

"Take all the time you need."

I sink slowly to my knees before the fire, holding the phone close to my ear. "I think I'm in love with him, Michael."

*****

I wake early; cold, with a hangover and a terrible crick in my neck. It was after midnight when I put down the phone after talking with Michael, but it was several hours and a second bottle of Saint Emilion later before I finally fell asleep in front of the fire. Not even an ember glows in the hearth now.

Early morning sunlight, filtered through a smoke like haze, seeps in through the living room windows. I immediately regret not having taken myself off to bed last night. Outside, clouds of fog cover the hills that surround Longshaw. Sheep, ghost like, emerge and disappear in the creeping, wispy veil as they wander through the meadow. The chink, chink of a sledge hammer driving a steel stake into the ground tells me that Ruddy Face and Ponytail are already busy digging out the footings for the new gate post on the path leading down from the Lodge to the lake. After more than a century of bitter winters and driving rains the old post finally gave way.

I warily make my way upstairs and into the bedroom, pulling on the first items of warm clothing that I come across; a pair of faded jeans, an oversized wool jumper and a pair of knitted socks. I need air. I need to clear my mind.

I fill the sink in the bathroom with hot water and cup my hands before lowering them into the water. I leave my hands there for a moment, feeling the heat enfolding my fingers, before bringing my face and hands together, allowing the hot water to wash away the crusted tear stained lines from my face. Then, just as slowly as I ascended the stairs, I begin the descent. Lifting a cashmere scarf from the newel post, I wrap it around my neck and head for the door. Glancing up, I catch my reflection in the heavily framed mirror that hangs on the hall wall. Two washed out eyes set in coral, puffy eyelids peer out from a pallid, sullen face. I turn away and unlock the front door.

A scroll of brown butcher's paper, tied with string, tumbles and falls lightly at my feet as I open the door. The inscription, written by hand in slightly smudged charcoal letters, reads _Lady Longshaw_. I pick it up and carry it back into the house, closing the front door behind me.

After placing the scroll on the living room coffee table I take two steps back, never once letting my eyes stray from the coiled brown paper. The rolled package is perhaps two feet in length, no more, and two to three inches in diameter. The inscription is written in Ethan's unmistakable hand.

After careful consideration, and with slow deliberation, I step forward and pull at the ends of the string. The scroll gives slightly – as if it had been sucking in its belly before finally being allowed to completely relax – though the wrapping remains coiled, establishing a looser cylindrical shape: its contents remaining concealed. Hesitantly, I unroll the brown paper, unrolling the sheet of artists' paper that lies beneath it at the same time. And there, revealing itself inch by inch, is an exquisite acrylic painting: Its subject reclining on an unmade bed; Her tussled hair and slightly blushed, post-coital gaze captured to perfection; The figure's half turned naked body and the artist's self-assured and unconstrained application produce an image reminiscent of Modigliani's provocative reclining nudes.

Gingerly, I stroke the uneven surface of the painting with my fingertips, registering every undulation, as one might read a page written in braille. Beneath my touch, and beneath the figure's undeniable sensuality and the painting's overt eroticism, lays a discernible melancholia: a tangible sadness that dwells within the painting, woven into the very fabric of the paper; A sadness born out of pain and heartache; Every brushstroke a meld of lust and despondency, of tenderness and suffering. I look at the image before me, the likeness is painfully accurate. The figure in the painting is _me_.

*****

The days that followed the unveiling of the painting became a blur – a fusion of despondence and self-doubt, and insomnia driven by insobriety. Time had stood still. Days turned into nights and nights into days. In the lingering gloom I had transcended time and place and emerged somewhere between art and emotion. I became absorbed by the painting: captivated by its undeniable beauty; consumed by its evident melancholia.

In the Living room, cold grey flakes of ash litter the fire box and spill out into the hearth. A Bourbon bottle, bled dry, stands discarded on the bitter marble. To its side, a toppled Crystal Dalton glass lies broken on the hearth amid a growing pile of joint butts.

Voices outside, beyond the drawn curtains, thwart my disengagement. Grudgingly, I stagger to my feet and tug at the heavy fabric, blinking back the daylight. Ruddy-Face and Ponytail swagger into view, engaging in their usual bravado banter. I curse them under my breath. Steam rises from Ponytail's flask as he unscrews the cap. Their muffled voices give away none of what they are saying, but their tone is light bringing smiles and the occasional outburst of laughter from one or the other. In this manner they continue as they sip their tea and eat their sandwiches. I turn from the window, despising their frivolity.

I need air, but concede that it that would be impossible to leave the flat at this point in time without encountering the gardeners and providing them with yet more evidence of my debauched lifestyle – and I do not have the strength to face even more ridicule. Instead, I drag my feet across the living room and crouch down beside the fireplace and begin to clear the debris.

After splashing water over my face in the kitchen sink I pour myself a long glass of cold water and sit and observe the two gardeners from the safety of my farmhouse kitchen table. Slowly, my senses return and I am able to contemplate the prospect of resuming my life. I wander back into the living room and draw open the curtains fully, throwing open windows and enjoying the clean, fresh air. The gardeners, thankfully, remain oblivious to my presence.

Mid-conversation Ponytail unexpectedly raises a hand and waves, presumably to someone out of view. Ruddy-Face turns to look over his shoulder, his chubby cheeks ballooning with his smile until his face resembles a fleshy, crimson pumpkin. The two gardeners head towards the unseen figure and disappear from view. Meanwhile, I settle back into a chair and enjoy the unspoilt view out of the living room window of the meadow stretching out into the distance, way beyond the formal garden. A sudden twitch in the foreground draws my attention to a solitary gray squirrel huddled in a corner of the garden, clutching an acorn tightly in his claws. Like a shifty thief his beady eyes dart this way and that as he nervously scans the garden looking out for potential predators intent on stealing his loot.

In time, both gardeners return to their work, labouring with renewed vigour and much discourse. I am drawn away from the window by a light rapping at the front door. I try to work out what day it is; trying to calculate how many sleeps I have had since the last point in time that I can remember, but it is futile exercise – I have been so out of it that I am unable to reach a decision. The caller continues to knock. I have a vague recollection that Michael had said that he wanted to call in to collect his painting at some point. Was that today? Pacing down the hallway I am still trying to work out what day it is. I take hold of the door handle I begin to pull. Ethan stands looking back at me from the other side of the doorway.

"Hello, Cara."

The sobering sight of Ethan brings me to my senses. Ethan is holding a bunch of white lilies whose velvet petals are on the verge of opening. I feel a knot tightening inside my stomach, but fight to conceal my unease and I place a hand against the doorframe to steady myself. I study his face. His hair is shorter, but not too short. His fringe no longer hangs over those delicious cobalt-blue eyes. Instead, they peer out at me like crystal clear pools. Apart from that, he looks just the same. At ease, surprisingly, and wearing the same pair of tattered jeans and another crumpled t-shirt. I am suddenly aware that I am standing with my mouth gaping open and a look of complete surprise written upon my face. "I'm sorry," I eventually manage to say, "I was expecting someone else."

He offers a gentle smile by way of a response.

"I didn't expect to see you again."

"I couldn't leave without saying 'goodbye'," he explains.

Leave? What does he mean leave? "Where are you going?" I didn't mean to sound quite so concerned. Where is my cool when I need it most?

Ethan shifts his weight uneasily.

"Look, why don't you come in?"

"Are you sure? You didn't seem so keen the last time we met."

"Yes, I'm sure. Please..." I step aside and Ethan flashes a row of perfect white teeth and slips past me heading directly towards the kitchen. God, his ass looks great in those jeans. An unexpected flutter in my abdomen acts as a reminder that I am still undeniably attracted to him.

Halfway down the hall Ethan glances over his shoulder and catches me looking at him. Shit. "Would you like me to place these in a vase for you?" he asks, with a knowing smirk.

Embarrassed, I look away momentarily in order to collect myself. "Yes, that would be good. Thank you." Ethan proceeds into the kitchen and begins to open and close cupboard doors in search of vase. Meanwhile, I try to pull myself together, wishing that I had time to shower and change before joining him.

Just a drink, I tell myself. A drink and a chat and that's it. Nothing more. _Nothing more_.

"You look good, Cara," he says as I enter the kitchen. I smile at the irony of his statement. I look like shit. "It's good to see you."

"Likewise."

Ethan cuts the stems of the flowers before arranging them in a slender porcelain vase and placing the vase on the stone window sill. They look beautiful framed by the heavy stone casing and set against a backdrop of autumnal colours.

"Tea?"

"Tea would be good."

I cross the kitchen and fill the kettle before returning it to its cradle and pressing the 'on' button. Ethan places the paper that the flowers were wrapped in in the bin and sits down at the table.

"So, how are you?" Ethan looks relaxed and composed as he asks the question.

"Do you think perhaps that we could we start with something that's a little easier to answer?"

A gentle, knowing look tells me that Ethan understands. At times like this I can see in his eyes that his wisdom exceeds his years. We exchange small talk whilst I make the tea. The autumn sunshine comes streaming through the window.

"You said that you are leaving."

"I'm going back to Paris."

Paris! What does he mean _Paris_?

"I've been offered a place at the _Paris College of Art_."

"I don't understand."

"I visited the college whilst I was in Paris, a few days after... you know."

Yes, I know all too well.

"I showed them some of my work." He hesitates before continuing. "I've decided to accept their offer of a place, Cara. I start this term."

"When do you leave?" I can barely get the words out.

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" I sink into the chair opposite Ethan unable to take it all in. It is evident that Ethan has detected the panic in my voice.

He nods and tiny pools form in his eyes.

I choke up and cannot find any words to say that even begin to explain how I am feeling. Cautiously, Ethan reaches out and takes my hand in his. For a moment we look into each other's eyes, holding each other's gaze. Our silent tears slowly rolling down our cheeks.

Without a sound, and without letting go of his hand, I lead him through to the living room, barely taking my eyes from his. The painting remains unrolled on the coffee table in the middle of the room. "It's beautiful, Ethan. It's so beautiful. I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me." Ethan turns towards me and wraps his arms around me, pulling me towards his chest. I fall voluntarily into his embrace, sobbing.

When all of the tears have run dry, I reluctantly pull away, wiping my cheeks and forcing a gentle smile. "So, tell me all about the _Paris College of Art_." We sit on the rug beside the fireplace and Ethan spends the next hour talking, whilst I listen, interrupting only occasionally to ask for clarification or further information. No detail is so insignificant that it is not accounted for. He recounts spending the days after we parted in a confused state, wandering aimlessly around the Parisian walkways searching for me, eventually accepting the fact that in a city of two million people, the chances of finding me were verging on impossible. It was only then that he resigned himself to being alone in the city and began filling his time by making sketches in his notebook; buildings, people, dogs in parks, tree-lined avenues, gargoyles on the top of Notre Dame, anything and everything that called to him. He went on to describe how a chance meeting with an art historian on the steps of the Seine, led to an unexpected visit to Paris' prestigious _College of Art_ , and an even more unexpected opportunity to share some of his sketches with a number of influential academics at the college, including the Professor and Chair of the Fine Arts Faculty. Based on what they had seen of Ethan's work, and what he had shared with them about his life and his passion for art, Ethan was offered a place at the college commencing this Autumn. "I guess they kinda liked what I had to say."

"I guess they did." The statement hangs in the air for a while before he continues.

I wasn't sure what I should do, Cara. That's what I came to talk to you about the other night. But when you closed the door on me, that's... well, that's when I realised that there is nothing left for me here."

I feel a tightening in my gut and a searing pain in my heart like someone is wringing out my insides. Pandemonium rages within as my head and heart draw swords, blinding me, making me want to vomit.

"Cara. Are you okay?"

For a moment I am unable to respond.

"Cara?"

"Fine. I'm fine. I'm just a little shocked."

I collect myself. Ethan waits patiently, silently.

"When do you leave?"

"9.32 tomorrow morning. I'm catching the train from Nottingham to St. Pancras."

"And then Eurostar?"

"And then Eurostar."

Oh, God. "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know." I can feel my heart begin to pound in my chest. "I haven't made any plans to return. It's a whole new chapter in my life – and so far the pages are blank. I'd just like to leave it that way, for a while at least."

Tenderly, he reaches over and rests his palm against my cheek before proclaiming, "There is a place in my heart that will always belong to you, Cara." And with that he closes his eyes and leans in towards me. For a fleeting moment I feel the gentle touch of his sweet lips pressed against mine, and then all too soon he moves away. No, no, Ethan. Don't go. Don't leave me, my inner voice pleads, but the words are trapped within, choked back, unable to find their release.

And then it is too late. He quietly stands and begins to step backwards, slowly, deliberately, until he reaches the door. With a sweet, tender smile he murmurs, "Goodbye, Cara," and with that, he is gone.

All I can do is sit and stare at the empty space that now fills the doorframe. A faint click from down the corridor tells me that the front door has closed behind him.

*****

Mrs. O'Brien is wrapped in an over-sized woollen cardigan and sat on a folding deckchair in the middle of the lawn, enjoying the afternoon sun. A pair of threadbare carpet slippers hug her feet. Her frail hands tear tiny pieces of bread from the loaf on her lap which she tosses onto the grass around her. A pair of sparrows hop about pecking at the crumbs at her feet.

"Good morning, dear," she calls as I venture outside looking for a quiet place in the garden. Her voice barely carries the small distance from her chair to where I'm stood.

"Good morning, Hannah."

"I thought it must be you, dear. My eyesight is not what it used to be."

The sparrows take to the air as I walk across the grass and sit beside her. "How are you?"

"I mustn't complain. I learned a long time ago that nobody really wants to listen to an old woman's troubles, so these days I keep them to myself."

I admire her frankness, and admonish myself for not being more attentive over the years. "I'm probably one of those people who could have taken more time to listen," I confess. "I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry about, dear," she states, "that's just the way of the world. It's not your fault. People are just so busy rushing around getting on with our own lives that they don't have the time to think about everyone else." She seems so matter of fact in her explanation. Not a hint of bitterness.

"Why don't you come inside with me and have a cup of tea?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't want to be any bother to you. And I certainly wasn't looking for pity. But I thank you for asking all the same."

"It's no bother," I reassure her, suddenly not wanting to be alone anymore. "And to be honest," I add, "I would really appreciate the company right now."

We spend the next hour sat around my farmhouse kitchen table sipping Camomile tea and discussing everything from the weather to the histories of the families who have come and gone at Longshaw over the years. "I can't remember the last time that I sat in this Kitchen," Hannah informs me. "Olly – you remember Olly don't you, dear – he used to be friends with the family who lived in this flat before you moved in. The kitchen wasn't nearly as modern as it is now, but I am pleased to see that you have retained many of the original features."

"We were determined to do so. Even down to restoring these beautiful mosaic floor tiles which we discovered hidden beneath a layer of cracked ceramic tiles – presumable laid down after the war. The restoration process wasn't easy, but we felt that it was well worth the effort."

"Oh, it so was, dear. I remember Olly being just as fastidious when he was renovating our flat. 'Always maintain the integrity of the building' he would say." I smile at the thought. Her pale grey eyes glaze over as if she is lost in thought – lost in a memory, perhaps.

"Sadly, not much has happened since he passed," she finally says as if no time has lapsed at all since her previous comment. "I've had the place redecorated from time to time. Painted, you know. But I've never done anything adventurous. The flat's a bit like a time capsule now, I think. A bit like me: a relic from a different era. When I'm dead and buried they'll probably turn it into a museum and charge people a pound or two to visit."

"What do you think Olly would have made of that?"

"I suspect that he'd turn over in his grave at the thought," she declares with a knowing frown. "He loved the flat. He'd have liked me to have kept it just so," she states. "Truth be told," she adds, leaning in a little closer, as if ensuring that nobody else overhears, "he'd probably have liked me to have kept myself _just so_ , too."

"What do you mean?"

"Well just look at me, dear - sitting here in my glad rags," she says, glancing down at her over-sized cardigan and thread-bare slippers. She chuckles. "You'd never know it from looking at me now, but I was quite a catch in my day." A wide smile spreads across her wrinkled face and a sparkle returns to those watery grey eyes. And then the smile begins to fade. "I should never have neglected myself the way I did," she concedes. "And now it's too late, of course. If Olly were here today," she continues, "I'm sure that he would berate me for the choices I have made."

"I'm sure that he would still love, just the way you are."

"Of course, he would," she chides. "I'm not suggesting even for second that he wouldn't _love_ me. But you're missing the point, my dear. The point is: Olly is _not_ here. And _because_ he is not here, he would have wanted to _me_ to go on living. He would have wanted me to seize every opportunity that came my way and to have embraced it whole-heartedly. And in that regard, I have let him down. And for that, he would berate me."

Hannah's words weighed heavily as I walked her back to her deckchair.

"Thank you for the tea, dear."

"You're welcome. I'll try not to be so much of a stranger in future."

As I turn to leave Hannah reaches out and takes my hand. "You know," she says, almost as though it were an afterthought, "there was a young man, once." She looks into my eyes as she speaks. "A year or two after Olly had passed. He was a charming young man. Very charming. He lived in Grindleford with his mother. Back in those days very few young men bought houses on their own – they used to wait until they were married before they left home – not like today," she adds. "He used to walk through the Estate every weekend, come rain or shine. We'd often see each other out on the moor. George, his name was. Sometimes we would walk together, passing the time of day, talking about nothing of any importance.

"Then one day, it was springtime as I recall and the hedges were full of daffodils. George picked a bunch and presented them to me as he passed the Lodge. I thanked him and then he asked me out. I remember he took me to a very expensive restaurant in the city. He was the perfect gentleman. All evening he was so attentive and the conversation never ran dry. Afterwards he drove me home and asked if he could see me again. I said he could. But as I walked in to the flat and saw Olly's photograph standing in its silver frame on the piano, I suddenly felt guilty. I remember feeling as though Olly's eyes were following me as I walked along the corridor. It was as though he were judging me. I couldn't bear the thought of hurting him.

"When George came to call the following week I hid and pretended not to be home. It carried on like this for weeks and weeks afterwards. I couldn't even bring myself to go on my usual walks just in case he saw me. Eventually, he stopped calling, and he stopped coming for walks on the Estate, too. It was a silly mistake, I know that now. Olly would have wanted me to be happy. He would have understood. I often wonder what happened to George." Hannah's eyes glaze over again and absentmindedly she releases my hand and lowers hers until it comes to rest in her lap. "Maybe he moved away and found himself a beautiful girl and got married," she says, as if thinking out aloud. "And perhaps they had dozens of charming children, just like him. I'd like to think so."

The day draws on. And with the onset of dusk the heavy weight of night looms ever nearer. The flat suddenly feels vast and empty and depressing. The absence of the gardeners' banal conversations only adds to my feeling of isolation. I press play on the CD player before walking through to the kitchen and uncorking a bottle of red. Without registering the label I pour myself a large one. The first glass doesn't even touch the sides. The second I carry through to the living room where Van Morrison laments:

' _In the afternoon, baby in my room_

When I'm really down get me off the ground

Melancholia, Melancholia'

I become absorbed in the songs' lyrics and sentiment.

The sight of car headlights illuminating the chapel beside the Lodge followed by another knock at the door redirects my thoughts. I make my way through the flat and head towards the door. Michael stands with one hand resting on the door frame wearing a wide grin.

"My God, you look gorgeous!" he announces mockingly. "Fatigued looks great on you."

"Michael don't, please." His wide-mouthed smile, full of perfectly aligned white teeth, falls away, leaving a troubled expression in its wake. I can feel the tears welling up inside. "Why don't you come in?"

"Are you okay?" he asks, stepping forward and hugging me. I hold on a little longer than usual, thankful to feel his comforting arms wrapped around me. He shows no signs of pulling away, and so I linger in his arms a while longer.

"Wine?" I eventually ask, my head still resting on his shoulder.

"Just a small one," he replies.

We unpeel and walk down the hall together in silence, Michael turning into the living room whilst I gather a crystal glass and the opened bottle of red from the kitchen.

Michael is stood over the painting on the coffee table when I enter the room. I settle in to a chair and pour Michael a glass. "Here," I say, holding it out towards him.

"Thank you," he utters, turning his attention back to me and taking the glass. "It's stunning, Cara," he adds, nodding in the direction of the painting. "I never knew you had such an alluring body." I settle for a wry smile by way of responding.

Michael smiles and gently runs his fingers through my hair, brushing away a few stray hairs from my forehead.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve having you as a friend, but I am eternally grateful."

After a few minutes of gentle conversation I ask, "Would you like to see your painting?"

"I was afraid that you were never going to ask."

"Silly," I tease. "Come on, it's upstairs," I say, placing my glass down and preparing to stand. Before I can stop him, Michael has placed his wine glass beside mine and swooped me up in his arms and is heading out of the room. "Michael, what are you doing? Put me down."

"Too late, I'm in full flight. So hold on tight, we have some seriously steep stairs ahead of us."

"Michael!"

But my words fail to bring him to a halt as he bounds up the stairs carrying me in his strong arms.

Puffing slightly, Michael enters the room with me still in his arms. His canvass stands on an easel in the centre of the room, facing the door. Michael stops dead in his tracks just a stride or two into the room, his eyes fixed on the image before him.

"You can put me down now, if you like," I say.

Thoughtfully, and without responding, he lowers me to the ground, never once taking his gaze from the painting. I step back and watch him intently. No words are necessary; it is evident that my work is done. Satisfied, I turn and slip unnoticed from the room.

I sit and listen to Michael's steady footsteps as he descends the stairs: slow, deliberate. Thoughtfully, he walks in to the living room. "It's all and so much more than I could have wished for, Cara. How can I thank you enough."

"Knowing that you are happy with it is thanks enough."

He sits on the chair beside me and picks up his glass and takes a sip. Settling back into his chair, he turns towards me. "So, do you want to tell me all about it?" he asks.

I nod by way of response, but the words take a while to surface.

"I've been such a fool, Michael."

He takes my hand and waits patiently for the story to unfold. He never once interrupts me during my retelling of the day's events.

By the time we have finished talking I know exactly what I need to do.

"Thank you, Michael," I say, before handing him the painting and kissing him on the cheek. "I love you."

"And I you."

And with that, for the second time today, a man in my life turns and walks away.

*****

Fall –

Ruddy-Face and Ponytail have taken to wearing heavy, woollen donkey jackets with shiny PVC panels on the shoulders of late - poor imitations of those jackets worn by nineteenth century manual workers which had shoulder covers made from real leather and poacher's pockets stitched to the inside. A chilling northerly wind has caused the two gardeners to turn their collars up this morning and work at a more energetic pace in an effort to keep warm. The new post for the gate leading down to the lake is installed, and the gardeners are busying themselves cutting back the rhododendron bushes that have ballooned over the summer beside Longshaw's chapel.

They work without conversation this morning, Ponytail doing the lion's share of the lopping, whilst Ruddy-Face huffs and puffs around him, gathering and bundling the offcuts in his arms before shuffling across the path and dropping them in a pile, no doubt for burning later. They continue in this fashion for a while longer, until Ponytail visibly shows signs of waning and Ruddy-Face becomes noticeably redder. From the warmth of my kitchen I sit and watch them labouring away, sipping occasionally from my cup of steaming Earl Grey tea.

At precisely 7.30am I pull on my three-quarter length Burberry trench coat and head out to Daisy. After placing a carefully selected item on the passenger seat beside me, I turn the key in the ignition and Daisy roars. With a slight churning of gravel the wheels start to turn and Daisy heads off down the driveway. I have left myself plenty of time to reach my destination and drive steadily through the villages and down two Motorway junctions, enjoying the light traffic conditions. I go over in my mind all that Michael and I had agreed that I should do and say, rehearsing my lines as I drive. With each retelling the script changes slightly, as I seek to perfect my delivery. I check my watch as I pass the turn off for The University of Nottingham. 8:47am. I have exactly forty-five minutes to reach my destination, a journey that should take no longer than 20 minutes. I glance across at the item on the seat beside me and take a deep breath before going through my lines one more time.

Traffic steadily increases as I draw nearer to the city centre. Converging lines of traffic adds to the build-up of vehicles on the road and soon my speed is reduced to a walking pace. Still enough time, I reassure myself. As long as the traffic keeps moving there is plenty of time.

It is not long, however, before I am drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel in stationary traffic. With less than twelve minutes before Ethan's train pulls out of the station, I suddenly begin to curse myself for leaving home so late – I was sat there drinking tea convinced that I had plenty of time, and now I am faced with the imminent possibility that the train will leave with Ethan on it and I will have lost him forever. The vehicle in front inches forward again before cautiously accelerating. Come on... come on... eight minutes... please. The cars maintain a steady pace as they drift past the tall tower blocks and converted Victorian warehouses. A signpost ahead indicates the location of the Station. Five minutes. FUUUCK! COME ON! In a moment of complete panic I abandon the car on the pavement, and snatching the item on the front seat, proceed to run towards the station. The station entrance is barely three hundred metres away, but my breathing becomes laboured and my heart begins to pound inside my chest.

Crashing through the door I steal a glance, first at the clock, and second at the electronic display board detailing departures. The clock reads 9:29. The display board show that the 9.32 to St. Pancras is still on the platform.

I race across the foyer and down the steps following the overhead directions, clutching the item close to my chest. Halfway down the steps I see Ethan's unmistakable figure standing across the platform beside an open carriage door towards the back of the train. Beside him stands a middle-aged woman wearing a sensible raincoat over a knee-length pleated skirt. She places her arms around his neck and kisses him lightly on the cheek. In response, he hugs her back. I stop at the bottom of the steps unable to move. Thoughtfully, she brushes his fringe across his brow and he smiles down at her; a soft, tender, loving smile; the sort of smile that a son has for his mother.

A whistle blows and Ethan steps inside the carriage, turning to close the door behind him and to look back at the woman stood wiping tears from her eyes on the platform below.

No. Please, no.

Steadily, the train begins to pull away. One by one the carriage doors roll past and Ethan's carriage draws nearer. Look for me, Ethan. Look for me and see me. I am here my love. I am here. Look for me. But the figure walking alongside the train, gently waving to him, holds his gaze. As she draws alongside me something seems to change in his expression, and then he is gone.

The woman in the pleated skirt might never have noticed me had it not been for the sound of the clay figure that Ethan once held in his tender hands slipping from my arms and shattering on the heartless platform below.
The following extracts feature in this retelling:

Lines from _Lover Man_ written by Roger J. Ramirez, James O. Davis and Jimmy Sherman:

'... _dry all my tears_

Then whisper sweet

Little things in my ear

Hugging and a-kissing

Oh, what I've been missing

Lover man, oh, where can you be?'

Lines from the poem _Lucy Gray_ written by William Wordsworth:

' _Over rough and smooth she trips along,_

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.'

Lines from _Melancholia_ written by Van Morrison:

' _In the afternoon, baby in my room_

When I'm really down get me off the ground

Melancholia, Melancholia, Melancholia'

