As we make our way across to parliament hill, I decide exactly what it is I'm going to do.
What I'm going to do, is this - enjoy myself.

I'm going to enjoy myself, just go with the flow and forget about the rest. Forget about Mark, about Damon, and forget about my accidental flirting with the cover star of a popular music magazine, and whether or not I should or shouldn't have done it.

We wander around together for a while, searching out the perfect spot until we finally find one beneath a giant, gnarled old oak tree which provides some shade, thus keeping the food and drink cool, and the transparent qualities of my dress to a visible minimum.
But I'm not going to think about that either.
I'm going to force it from my mind.
Which is probably a good thing, given that I can't exactly tell where Brett is looking, thanks to his sunglasses.

The large tree also also affords some privacy - not that it's needed - but as we settle down onto the blanket, it strikes me that if we were a couple then this would be the ideal place to 'kiss and canoodle' (as my mum would say) without having to worry about prying eyes.
I have absolutely no idea where this thought comes from, but it disturbs me when my train of thought then goes veering off at a tangent, down an uncharted track, and I find myself wondering what it would be like to kiss Brett.

I try hard to think about the beautiful surroundings I find myself in, about the clean, fresh air and the amazing view of London that's visible from where we are.
But my mind keeps overriding these thoughts, as if I have no control over them at all. Instead they keep returning to Brett's lips and what his kisses would be like.
Would they be firm and powerful, not wet and weak?
Not the kind where you'd have to wipe your mouth afterwards with the back of your hand.

Get a grip Sam. I tell myself firmly.
You hardly know Brett and you don't even like him all that much.
He's sarcastic and sassy, moody and unusual.
Yes he's interesting and undeniably attractive in the most abstract sort of way, but he's such an anomaly I still don't know quite what to make of him.

He isn't what I'd ever envisage as being my 'type'. He's tall and lithe, and has a graceful strength and elegance to him that's almost otherworldly. He's not brawny and strapping like Damon - or even Mark - in short, he doesn't look a typical lads lad.

His features could be described as being sharp but delicate. His bone structure would make any catwalk model weep hot tears of envy, and you could cut glass with his cheekbones. Then there's those eyes....his eyes are like the windows to his soul.
Deep, mysterious, and mournful, they are also intelligent, sharp with intellect. They're the eyes of a deep thinker, whilst simultaneously being dangerous, I-could-do-things-to-you-and-you'd-thoroughly-enjoy-it eyes.

Oh good God. There I go again.

Kneeling now, he opens the Waitrose carrier bag to reveal a large, still warm baguette, two large packets of Kettle chips and three tupperware containers containing a hummus dip, vegetarian taramasalata, and pasta salad.
He's also brought a 2 litre bottle of Diet Coke, but no throwaway cups - he's left them on the kitchen counter - he tells me with marked frustration, cursing his forgetfulness under his breath.

He's being unnecessarily hard on himself, I tell him. Considering that he's remembered everything else one could possibly require for a simple picnic. Disposable cardboard plates, plastic cutlery, and even napkins. Plus, to my utter astonishment, the hummus, pasta and taramasalata are all homemade by his own fair hands.
Impressive to say the least, he's managed to cobble our veggie feast together on the spur of the moment, pick up a bottle of cola - diet, just for me - and all of this whilst juggling his busy schedule around in order to free-up a few hours of his time.

At first I eye the dip and taramasalata dubiously. The pasta salad looks and tastes scrummy but I'm wary of the other offerings, never having heard of, let alone tried, hummus before.
But I'm pleasantly surprised to find that it's absolutely delicious.

"How is it even possible to make vegetarian taramasalata?" I ask, lathering another helping onto a piece of baguette. "Isn't it like, Italian fish or something?"

"Greek fish. But it's surprising what you can do with a few minor adjustments." He beams proudly, crunching his way through a handful of crisps. "I alter recipes to suit."

"Well I'm impressed, Brett this is gorgeous. Perhaps you should retire from music and become a chef instead."

"It'd be very early retirement." He sniggers. "And if I end up famous keep it quiet, alright? I don't think cookery is very rock and roll. It'd destroy my reputation."

"You already are famous." I point out between mouthfuls. "Anyway perhaps cookery could be the new rock and roll."

He pulls a face, then takes a long swig from the bottle of Coke before wiping the rim fastidiously with a napkin and handing it to me. "Hmm. Depends on what you'd class as famous...oh and haven't you heard? Knitting is the new rock and roll. Cookery is the new pottery."

I take the bottle from him gratefully, giggling girlishly at our silliness. "Ah, I thought it was gardening! Anyway, where did you learn to cook? I'll bet you make all the Sunday lunches for everyone don't you? And there's me thinking it would be Jarvis running the house, making sure you all get fed."

"Nah. We'd all starve if it wasn't fo me." Brett jokes, reclining onto his back now, tucking his arms behind his head. "Besides it's Yorkshire pudding and onion gravy all the way with Jarvis."

"Cheeky sod! That's not all we eat up North you know."

"I know. I have been there before. It's where I learned to cook actually, at Uni."

My mouth falls open slightly in astonishment. "You never mentioned you went to university up North."

He shrugs nonchalantly, a crooked smile pulling at his lips. "You never asked."

I tut loudly in mock irritation. "Ha ha. Very amusing."

"It was Manchester actually. I lived in the Owens Park halls of residence until it got unbearably annoying. So I took a gap year and worked as a DJ instead. God I was bloody awful at it."

Following his lead, I lay down on my front and prop myself up on my elbows. "Really?"

"Yeah. It was some dodgy little club called The Cyprus Tavern, and all it involved was playing requests. Sometimes I'd play the stuff I liked instead, which literally almost got me beaten up on more than one occasion."

I gaze at him in wonderment, enthralled. "Shit. That's seriously scary. Just because you played songs you liked occasionally doesn't make you a terrible DJ though."

"No, but when I first started there the bouncers told me that at the first sign of any aggro I had to cut the music, so they could sort out any trouble before it escalated." He turns his head sideways to look at me. "But i was so inept that at the end of every song there'd be a gap, and all these bouncers would come piling onto the dance floor ready to break some heads....and I'd be stood at my decks going 'sorry...sorry.' I don't know how I kept the job actually."

We both dissolve into laughter. Him a the hilarity of the memory and me from picturing the scene in my mind's eye.

We chat for a while about music, and I'm pleasantly surprised to learn that we like a lot of the same bands and artists.
The Rolling Stones, The Sex Pistols, The Smiths, The Ramones, David Bowie, Adam and the Ants, Roxy Music...to name but a few.
However he's almost beside himself when I flippantly disregard The Beatles and Prince, and he becomes animatedly appalled when I express my appreciation of Madonna and Michael Jackson.

After much laughing, taunting and jibing the conversation rolls back around to college and university.

"What were you studying at Uni?" I ask, intrigued.

"Town and Country planning."

'Seriously? Why? I can't imagine anyone in the world ever wanting to study something as dull as that. It must've been boring as all hell. Really Brett, what were you thinking?" I sneer.

"Surely hell couldn't be boring? I reckon it'd be quite the opposite actually. But yeah, the course was pretty grim. I never gave it much thought when I enrolled. I just wanted to get away for a while really. You know what I mean?" He pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and gives me a deliberate look.

I lower my eyes and stare at the empty space of long, lusciously green grass that lays between us.
Oh no. I don't want to do this.
I don't want to get into why I'm here in London. I don't want to talk about Mark, not now. I'm having a nice time and I don't want to give myself indigestion by thinking about my ex boyfriend.

"Anyway, it didn't exactly work out as I'd planned. So I transferred to London and changed my course." Brett continues, sensing that I'm not about to get chatty anytime soon. "I never wanted to study Town and Country planning. I'd just hoped to meet girls and have som fun really. You know, that sort of thing."

"Oh I know." I exclaim spikily. His flippant remark and blasé attitude immediately hits a raw nerve, and suddenly I feel quite vexed. "Meet a few girls, play the field, that type of thing? You're a typical bloke. I get it."

His dark brows beetle together in confusion. "No, no you don't. I didn't mean it like that. What I meant was.....well, it didn't turn out the way I had hoped-"

"I can guess. Don't tell me....you met someone and she felt more for you than you did for her, because you only wanted a bit of fun. You messed around with other women and left her heartbroken when you'd lost interest."

"No. You're wrong. There was only the one girl and I never broke her heart. it was the other way around actually. She broke mine."

"Oh." I squeak feebly. Feeling incredibly guilty for having judged him. "Oh right. I'm....I'm sorry."

"Don't be. There's no need. It's not your fault she cheated on me with the smarmy bastard."

I don't know what to say so I lay there quietly in the hopes that he'll continue. But he doesn't.
Instead he sits up abruptly and takes a long glug from the bottle, and I suspect he's rather wishing it contained alcohol and not just Coke.

"D'ya want some more?" He asks when he finally comes up for air, and proffers the bottle to me again.

"Sure, thanks." I say, not wanting him to suffer further rejection.

I'm truly gutted that I wrongfully presumed him to be another Mark. I should've known better.

We sit in silence for a few minutes and I ferret around inside my bag, searching for my pack of Silk Cut and a box of matches.
Brett's interest remains solely on the ground, his eyes cast downwards, staring at the daisies which sway slightly as the breeze picks up.

"Look you can tell me to bugger off if you want to Brett, which I know you would and I wouldn't blame you." I say, hoping to lighten the moment. I offer the pack to him and smile cautiously, hoping he'll see the funny side and smile back. He doesn't.
"But I am really sorry. I misjudged you, badly."

Slowly he takes a cigarette and mumbles a curt thank you.
I strike a match, cupping the flame in my hand as I lean forwards to light it for him.
The scent of his spicy-sweet, petroleum aftershave wafts through the air, and I inhale deeply.
Whoever this woman was, she must be an absolute moron.

Thinking it can't get any worse, I carry on. "I've been cheated on too. So it looks like we've both suffered at the hands of a smarmy bastard."

He's quiet for what seems like ages, and I watch his face gradually darken until his expression is so black I half expect him to throw what remains of the food back into the carrier bag, and storm away.

"You have no idea. God, the irony."

"What do you mean?"

He sighs deeply and takes a long drag on his cigarette before answering. "Just...just be careful Sammy. You seem like a great girl, and I'd hate to see you get messed about. Especially as you've already been hurt once."

I gulp, unsure of how to respond to his ominous warning. "W-why would I get hurt again? Is this about Damon?"
I tilt my chin upwards slightly in defiance as I speak. Feeling suddenly quite defensive. But not of Damon as such, more for myself. I'm rather miffed to have given him the impression that I need protecting. Or worse still, that I'm gullible or vulnerable and can be easily mislead.
"What is it with you two? Why do you hate each other so much?"

"Hm. That's a tricky one." He says sardonically. Finally looking up at me, his eyes full of anger. "I don't hate him, he isn't important enough to hate. I just don't trust him. When my ex did the dirty on me with him, I like to think that he actually did me a favour."

I don't dare say anything. So he continues.

"If it hadn't have been so close to home, with the pair of them flaunting their relationship right under my nose, then I might never have realised what she was really like."
He pauses to reflect on this for a moment. "So you see Sam.." He says, leaning towards me and looking me right in the eyes. "...Now you know why we aren't best buddies."

I nod feebly, this time choosing to return his intense glare.

We sit and smoke in awkward silence. My head feels heavy as if someone has just deposited a shipment of ball bearings inside of it, and they're rattling around, colliding violently with each other.

Damon. The cute, cheeky, lovable roguish Damon....is the smarmy bastard.
Oh God. He's a life-ruiner. A heart-breaker. A girlfriend-stealer.
I don't know what to think, or what to say.

Poor Brett. Is all I can think, but I don't say it obviously.
Then there's poor me. I feel like a fool for having been taken in by Damon's likeableness. I've been so blinkered, flattered by his attentions towards me, I hadn't even stopped to consider that he might actually be a bit of a shit.

"Thank you for telling me." I say at last, bravely. "I know it can't be easy for you to talk about it, and-"

"Forget about that." He interrupts, his face visibly softening. "This is about you, not me. I'm just trying to look out for you."

He clambers to his feet, crushing the cigarette butt beneath the heel of his Doc Marten shoe.

"Well, I appreciate it."

He offers me his hand and I take it, pleased that he appears to have calmed down. There's the usual spark as our skin comes into contact, adding to my already churned-up state.

"Are you alright?" He asks gently, peering at me closely. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you Sammy. I shouldn't have blurted it out like that."

"I'm fine." I reply breezily. And for one insane moment I find myself believing that as long as I'm with him, I'll always be fine.

This is an alarming notion, and I try not to dwell on it. Choosing instead to swoop down and begin clearing up.

If he keeps looking at me like this, and being so nice, I fear I might just say or do something which I may later regret.
Like hug him. I long to reach out and just...touch him. To feel him close and find some comfort in him.

I'm officially losing it.

************

The atmosphere has lightened between us, and we spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the vast expanse of the Heath.
We stop at a pond and feed what remains of the baguette to the ducks, and I almost fall over laughing when Brett edges closer to a large nest that we stumble upon, in order to get a better look at the eggs, only to be chased off by a protective and seriously disgruntled swan.

We walk around the large grounds of Kenwood House, marvelling at the beautifully kept gardens, and Brett impresses me with his knowledge on the 17th Century stately home.
The architectural style is Georgian and Neoclassical he tells me, and when I ask how he knows so much about architecture he impresses me further by stating that he studied it at University in London. At the internationally renown Bartlett School of Architecture no less.

"Oh my God, Brett! That's amazing. So you're like, a qualified architect? Wow. You're so clever." I gush uncontrollably.

Brett and his double first in Architectural Study and Design, shrug modestly. "Nah. Not really. I just enjoy looking at old buildings that's all."

A conversation ensues regarding my love of the Victorian, Gothic style and how I enjoy taking photographs of such buildings.
He says I'll absolutely adore Highgate - as it's steeped in controversial history and packed with old Victorian houses.
He promises to take me there another day, by which time I'm absolutely buzzing with enthusiasm and excitement.

Admittedly, the fact that I'm going to see him again, and that he actually wants to spend his time with me, has a lot to do with it.

Eventually we head back to the underground. It's gone chilly now and I have no desire to meet Damon wearing a see-through dress, so I decide to go home to change before I head out again.

Once again, Brett insists on travelling back to Southwark with me and walking me to my door rather than taking his own train straight home.
He promises to call and arrange our Highgate trip, and then with a casual "see 'ya later Sammy." and a wink, he's gone.

I barely make it halfway up the stairs before Jane comes bounding down like an over-excitable Labrador.

"Well? How did it go? Where did you go? What did you do? Did you have a nice time?"

She fires the questions at me before pausing to let me answer, and I choose to comply and appease her curiosity by telling her everything she wants to know.
I can't help noticing that as I talk, she beams at me like some woman who's advertising toothpaste, and when I finish her eyes gloss over and she sighs theatrically.
"Aaah. How romantic. It sounds glorious."

"It wasn't romantic." I insist, bursting her bubble somewhat. "We just talked, and had a laugh. Like friends. We're just friends."

"Mmm hmm. But you're positively glowing Sam."

"Glowing? Isn't that what you're supposed to say to women when they're pregnant?"

"Oh shush. You are, you look radiant and so...so happy."

Happy.
That's something I haven't felt in quite a while. But she's right, I can't deny that I do feel happy.
Even in spite of the Damon bombshell, I feel inexplicably happy.
But me being me, I respond with sarcasm.

"If I am glowing, it's probably with anger or embarrassment. This dress is see-through in the sunlight, did you know that? I've never felt so embarrassed!"

Jane pretends to look shocked but her attempt doesn't fool me. "Is it? Well it is very flimsy material Sam....and anyway, it doesn't do any harm to flaunt your sexuality from time to time. You're only young once."

I huff indignantly as I head towards my room. "I don't want to look like a tart thank you. And anyway, like I said, Brett and me, it....it isn't like that."

"Yes yes, you've said. Damian asked you out first, but if you like this Brett then-"

"Hey, hold on I never said I liked Brett....and it's Damon, not Damian."

She waves her hand at me dismissively, as if batting a pesky fly away. "You don't have to say it. It's written all over your face. Really Sam, just be honest with yourself, you like him don't you? Don't you?"

Horrified now I try to keep my expression deadpan. Wondering what on earth has led her to believe that I have a thing for Brett.
I don't. I really don't.
I can't.

"I do like him, but not like that." I explain. "Yes he's nice, and completely different to anyone I've ever met. He's so clever and interesting, and funny....but he's a lot older than me. He's twenty four."

"So? Isn't Damien the same age?"

I hesitate in my doorway. "He's a year younger. But Damon is different. He's more....he's more like the boys I'm used to. He likes football and playing darts down the pub."

"You find Brett intimidating? Because he's different, you feel inferior or overwhelmed? You shouldn't be. Sam you're a lovely young woman, you shouldn't sell yourself short. You just don't have enough confidence in yourself."

I stand for a moment, mulling over what my stepmother - the woman who hardly knows me - has just said.
Perhaps she does have a point. I do lack confidence and I have very little self esteem.
But this doesn't have anything to do with me liking Brett.
It's true, I would feel slightly nervous dating someone like him. I would probably feel like an incompetent idiot most of the time, I'm not graceful, elegant or particularly intelligent. I'm clumsy, and dopey and most definitely nothing special.

Someone like Brett, needs an articulate, sophisticated rock chick on his arm. A graduate from Cambridge with that natural shade of hair which looks almost black, but is in fact dark brown.
Someone foreign perhaps, like the woman who interviewed him on TV.
She'd need a sultry, husky accent and brown eyes. Legs like a racehorse and breasts that start just below her chin.
They'd sit smoking French cigarettes together and discussing Baroque.

In comparison, my own legs....well frankly I've seen better legs on a table, and my C-cup breasts aren't so noticeable given that I don't have a 20 inch waist.
My hair is dirty blonde and looks gingery in the sunlight, and when it comes to intellect, I'm the girl who mistakenly thought a ramekin was a Jewish holiday, and that Carpe diem was a breed of fish.
So no. I'm all wrong for Brett. He's a well educated rockstar, and I'm just a girl.

"I don't think Brett is interested in me, not in that way." I say finally. "He's sort of befriended me because I've got no one else to spend my time with. That's all."

Jane shoots me a sceptical look, and smirks as if she knows something I don't. "That man has been on the tele and in magazines. He's in a band and has records to record, but he still finds the time to call you up and take you out."

I shrug and try to quell the sudden swirl of excitement in my gut.
Jane knows nothing. I can't listen to her. If I start to believe that she's right in implying that Brett might actually fancy me or something - as if - then I'd be reduced to a gibbering wreck. I'd probably develop a permanent nervous stutter just from trying to speak to him.

"He doesn't like me that way. He's just being friendly, there's nothing more to it than that."

"He takes you out, he walks you home, he made up a picnic for Christ's sake. That's more than what this Damon has done, from what you've told me he just expects you to spend your time at the pub. He wouldn't even take you for a coffee."

I open my mouth to say something - I'm not sure what just yet - when an unsettling thought suddenly comes crashing into my mind like a wrecking ball.

Thanks to Jane drawing comparisons between the two men, and what Brett revealed today about his ex girlfriend and Damon, a terrible panic grips me as doubt and suspicion begin to take hold. Choking all the joy and innocence out of the wonderful time I've had this afternoon.

What if.....what if Brett is befriending me just to get back at Damon?

It sounds ludicrous but, but it is a possibility.
There's no love lost between the pair, and quite frankly I'm amazed that Brett has been able to get over the betrayal and go on sharing that house with the man who stole his girlfriend from him.

So what if he isn't over it, and now I've come along and Damon has shown an interest in me, what if Brett is using the opportunity to get revenge?

An icy chill creeps down my spine and I feel suddenly nauseated.
Am I nothing more than a pawn in a game?

I sincerely hope not.

Hastily I excuse myself, telling Jane that I need the loo.
I dart into the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. The blotchy faced girl looks back at me through bleary eyes until my face becomes distorted with the tears.

I don't know why I can't seem to stop myself crying. I'm being pathetic.
Even if Brett is using me as part of some twisted plot to get back at Damon then so what? At least I'm aware of it now, so I can put a stop to it.

My mind swirls, as I try to reassess the situation and devise a plan.
I need to find out, I need to know for sure. No matter how painful the truth may be.
But how? How am I going to get to the bottom of it all?
I could just ask Damon, but how do I even begin that conversation? For a start, he'll wonder how the hell I know about him and Brett's ex.

Oh God.

Then I'll have to tell him that I've been spending time with Brett, which is another issue in itself.
I should've just been open about it from the start, after Blind eye - ugh - Blandine railroaded us into going to the hospital together.

But now I've met up with him again, which will look even worse. As if there is something dodgy going on.
Our secret friendship set-up is shady to say the least, we've never even discussed letting any of the others know that we've met up.

Is that what Brett wanted? To coerce me into spending time with him on the quiet just so it'll look suspicious and questionable when it comes out?
Or perhaps he is just working on me, and planning to hit on me...

This thought makes the breath hitch in my throat - and I'm disgusted at myself when I feel a slight thrill at the very thought of Brett trying it on....making a move on me with those pouty lips. Those strong hands.

Aaagh!

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the inappropriate thoughts. They have no business being there. He has no business being in my mind. He's moved in uninvited and has been walking around in his size 10 shoes, rent free.
Well no, it's time for eviction.
Even if he isn't shifty, and isn't trying to get one over on Damon by spending time with me, this needs to stop.
Brett is not the man for me, he never could be and he never will be.

I need a nice, regular, easy guy. One who isn't so mature, so intellectual, and doesn't ooze sex.
Someone who's safe. Yes. A safe option.
Brett is....dangerous territory.
I'd be so out of my depth. In every sense of the word.

Unwanted images of him strutting his stuff on stage flash before my eyes, and suddenly I can imagine him being some sort of Kama sutra expert. A master of tantric sex, bending himself into every position possible, whilst simultaneously proving that heaven really does exist, as he takes you there...again and again.

A hot flush surges through me, heating my face as well as my groin.
Oh fucking hell.
What is happening to me? Since when did I become such a pervert?
And this is Brett!
I shouldn't be thinking about him and sex.
It's so wrong.

I turn on the tap and splash my burning face with water, and contemplate taking a cold shower. Or perhaps an ice water bath, complete with ice bergs and penguins.

No, I need to be practical for once. I'm going to have to sort this mess out. And the best place to start, I decide, is at the beginning. I need to find out exactly what went on between Damon and Brett's cheating girlfriend.

I need to ask someone, someone who will know. Someone who is impartial but knows them both and wouldn't take sides...

Alex.

A lightbulb comes on in my head, as I have a eureka moment.

I will ask Alex.