In hindsight, I'm beginning to think that honesty isn't always the best policy. That phrase in itself is very misleading, because sometimes telling white lies are essential in order to not hurt someone's feelings.

Such as when a woman asks "Do these trousers make my bum look big?" Whilst we want and appreciate gentle honesty, nobody likes it when the response is "Yes, and the trousers aren't the problem, it's your arse that's fat."
Okay, so maybe that's more a question of tact, but when it comes to being honest, I've come to realise that sometimes 'hiding the truth' is a better way to go.

When Jane asked me the million dollar question, "So, how do you feel about Brett?" And urged me to be honest, I should've just rolled my eyes and said something like, "Well, you know....he's tolerable enough in small doses." I should've trusted my instincts and gabbled excuses to leave the room, or subtly changed the subject, but no....instead I had to go and open my big fat mouth and talk about my feelings.
Ugh.

It's been a few days since that cripplingly embarrassing conversation, and now I'm starting to wish that I'd kept my muddled-up thoughts to myself.
Firstly, it's almost as if that by me voicing how Brett makes me feel, it has made it a thing now. It's made it more real. I've been forced to face up to the very real possibility that I might actually fancy the pants off him.

I was more than happy wallowing in denial, content to keep dismissing what I've probably known right from the start. The inexplicable attraction that I felt, from the first time he spoke to me and bought me a glass of Coke, and then caused my ovaries to explode with his powerful, sexual showmanship on stage.

But Jane was right when she surmised that he inadvertently intimidates me. He's six years older, he's articulate, intelligent, and artistic whilst simultaneously having a certain edginess.
Despite his über cool outward appearance, there is the distinct sense of the untamed about him.

Aside from being impossibly good looking and charismatic, there's this potentially dark and mysterious, wild aura just barely suppressed below the surface.
And well, he's everything I'm not used to.
Which terrifies me.
I've just never met or seen anyone quite like him before, and I don't know how to handle that.

Unbelievably, my stepmother in all her infinite wisdom has advised -and encouraged - me to just run with it, run with it as far as I can go, and just see where I end up.

Well, that's easy for her to say. I'm the one feeling like my mind is a tangled mess of twisted knots.

To occupy myself and hopefully maybe help my dad out somehow, I've been spending a few hours each day at the shop.
It kind of serves as a bit of a distraction, even though the place is in dire need of a revamp and is about as exciting as a morgue, with barely any customers venturing inside.
Those who are morbidly curious enough to brave the painfully out-dated, poky little interior often leave without purchasing anything. Hardly surprising once they realise that as music shops go, the deceptively named 'Raucous Records' has very little to offer.

So, needless to say, the whole Brett situation is still very much never far from my thoughts. And thanks to Jane, now seems to be gnawing away at my insides like butterflies that bite.

A few days pass and I hear nothing, nada, not a peep from either Brett or (less unsurprisingly) Damon.
I really don't expect to hear from him after my little outburst in his kitchen, and whilst I do feel bad about it now, I'm not sure how bothered I am about having fucked it up between us, that is even if I'm bothered at all.

Brett's silence, on the other hand, is bothering me. Which is stupid. It shouldn't bother me, he's super-busy and I'm not exactly a priority.

Still, it's been four days since Suede's appearance on TV, and I'm absolutely dying to talk to him about it. And I miss him. Which is really really really really bad. I should not been missing him,
I've only known him five minutes, it's only been a few days since I last saw him, and....he's not mine to miss.

As it happens, it would seem that Brett and Damon are like a couple of buses. You wait around forever and there's no sign of one, and then when one shows up the other always seems to come along at the same bloody time.

My dad and me literally just walk through the door, after having been at the shop all day, when the telephone rings.
My dad answers, and seems a little on-edge as he informs me that it's for me, and even hovers around for the duration of the call.
Which isn't very long.

A part of me gets all giddy, my limbs seemed to buzz with excitement as I took the receiver from him, but to my amazement, it's actually Damon. Not Brett.

He's ringing to apologise, and I almost pass out with shock when he insists on taking me out to dinner, to 'clear things up.'

Well, why not? It can't do any harm surely. So even if it goes against my better judgement, I decide to let him take me out for a curry.
Yes - even though I'm not exactly a curry fan.
But this is me growing up. Or rather being grown up, about the whole situation.

Then, lo and behold, no sooner have I hung up the phone, when five minutes later I find myself talking to Brett.

This conversation is decidedly more awkward now - well for me at least - as he's oblivious to my newfound feelings and inner turmoil.
He chats away easily, asking how I am (if only he knew) and he's all apologetic for not having been able to organise our day out to Highgate yet, and all the while I'm trying not to melt on the inside just at the mere sound of his voice.

Shit. Have I really got it that bad?

I assure him it's fine, and somehow manage to ask him if he could offer any advice in relation to helping my dad attract more customers to the shop.

"I dunno...um....I'd probably have to take a look at the place, you know, have a look around and see what it's like. As soon as I'm free I'll take a look in, alright? Scouts honour!" He promises me.

The man is too adorable, I swear he'll be the death of me.

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

Okay, so being too polite by agreeing to a curry when I'm not overly keen on it might seem like apathy, but I'm trying to see things from a different perspective.
I need to be open to trying new things. That's what adulting is all about.
How am I ever going to become sophisticated and more womanly if I don't act it?

So, this is how I find myself sat across from Damon in the 'Bengal Dynasty' restaurant, in London's famous Brick Lane.
Willing to give him - and curry - another chance.

He wants to explain himself and talk honestly about the whole rivalry/love triangle thing, and I am all ears.
I want to know. Every little detail.
Call it morbid curiosity, but for some reason I find myself wanting, needing, to know all about this Justine, and how on earth she managed to bag herself the two most attractive and fascinating men I've ever met in my life.

She must be something else. My mind's eye is flooded with imagery of a Goddess. An Amazonian. An enchantress. A beguiling beauty. How else could she have both men, at some time or another, wound around her little finger? And caused such a rift, such animosity?
It's mind-boggling.

After taking the tube from Southwark underground station, I meet Damon in central London, and Half an hour later we're sitting cosily in the fuzzy, flocked haze of the curry house. A humongous pile of poppadoms rising between us.

Now there is lots of cuisine on offer around here, but with over fifty curry restaurants, the London guide books tell me it would be almost a crime to visit Brick lane without sampling some curry. Especially given the smell of spices wafting down the street until the early hours.
So, I go with Damon on this. Despite my dislike of India's most world-renown dish. Call me a mardy cow but I don't get pleasure from eating something that's painful. My idea of an enjoyable meal doesn't result in feeling as if I've swallowed hot lava.

Not having the foggiest idea about curries, I gladly let Damon order for us, feebly informing him that I can't handle anything too spicy.
Small talk ensues, mostly concerning the somewhat sore subject of Blur's latest album.

As it turns out, after recording only four songs at the Church studio, Damon and Andy the producer could no longer agree on the sound or style of the songs, so both parties agreed that it would be best to part ways.
So at present the band are without a producer and a studio. Which is obviously hindering the process of getting the album released.

The waiter arrives with an absolute mountain of food, and Damon breaks off from his rant to point out what everything is....'onion bhajis, pilau rice, chicken tikka masala, spicy potatoes, a king prawn curry, and a bottle of Turrunyo Carmenere.'

I've listened sympathetically as he bemoaned the difficulties of compromising when it comes to creativity within the music industry, and knowing how he can ramble on for hours once he's started, I leap on the opportunity to steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go.
Namely, Justine-wards.
Though admittedly I do this in a rather heavy-handed manner, and worryingly remind myself of my dad with his lack of tact.

"So, um...this minor set-back you're having with the album...does that mean Suede's will be finished first?" I ask breezily, before hastily adding. "It's not a competition though, right? Because you've already released an album, Suede are yet to do that. So technically Blur are already ahead."

Damon looks immediately irritated, but I choose to ignore it.

"No it's not a competition. If it were, we've already won. It's just...well.." His voice fades away as he stares into the middle-distance.

"Do you feel you have something to prove because Brett is Justine's ex?" I interject boldly. Seemingly all out of patience. But I just want to get to the bottom of....well, everything.

"I don't have anything to prove." He says unhelpfully, dipping the corner of a poppadom into some coriander dip and crunching on it loudly, which I find inexplicably annoying.

"Then what's with all the rivalry? I don't understand. Didn't she choose you over Brett? Which means you won again. So Brett and his band should be no threat to you."

"Look, near enough every song on their album was inspired by me and Justine." He says, sounding all indignant, as if he believes he's entitled to royalties or at the very least, have Suede's forthcoming album accredited to him.
"He's nothing more than a bitter ex-boyfriend, out for revenge."

I stare at him askance. "What makes you think he's the vengeful type? Just because his life experiences inspire his song writing, isn't that normal? It's not like he's publicly naming and shaming you both-"

"It's how he is with you."

I fall silent, my hands grasping at the napkin that's in front of me.

"He's trying to come between us. And it's working, isn't it? He's wormed his way in with all his false flattery and charm."

"No. He's just been nice to me that's all. Why do you think he has some sinister plan to get back at you?"

"Oh come on." He leans back in the chair, onion bhaji in hand, and looks at me like I'm a half-wit. As if the idea of Brett using me as a pawn in some twisted game has never dawned on me before. Except he doesn't know that it has. And him reaffirming my earlier suspicions, makes me lose my appetite entirely.
"It's easy to see that he's trying to take you off me."

"You mean like you took Justine off him?" I state flatly, twisting the napkin between my fingers tightly as Damon nods his head sheepishly.

Dear God, here's me trying to be an adult. Trying to be more mature because my new acquaintances are in their early twenties, yet here we are talking about relationships like kids in a playground.

Even the words "take you off me" sound so utterly childish and petty. It makes me sound like nothing more than a thing. A toy.
And Damon's mentality of "well I stole his toy, now he's stealing mine." is absolutely ludicrous. Pathetic even, and so bloody immature.

Taking a sip of the vinegary wine for courage, I brace myself. "Justine must've meant an awful lot to Brett, for him to want to seek revenge on you." I say spikily. "And you must've fallen in love with her, right? To break up her relationship, it must have been something special. So how come you're not with her now?"

Shifting uneasily in his seat, Damon takes a deep swig from his wine glass. "Justine fell in love with me. It just happened. There was this instant spark, like a chemistry between us, you know? It was intense and felt like if we didn't explore it further, we'd both go mad or be wondering about it for the rest of our lives."

My mouth goes dry, and I distract myself by spearing a prawn with my fork.
If someone had spoke to me of instant sparks and chemistry a week or so ago, then I'd have been blissfully ignorant.
I'd have shrugged my shoulders hopelessly, having nothing to compare it to other than the drivel I've seen portrayed in the films.

But now everything's different. Everything is new.
Alarmingly, I think I can actually understand and relate to what he's saying, because I'm experiencing it for myself. Heaven help me.

"So how come it didn't last?"

"What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" He laughs dryly, and I rather want to throw my fork at him.
"Things just didn't work out, that's all. Although I think she felt guilty for ending it with Brett, he didn't exactly make things easy for us."

"Well can you blame him? He's hardly going to give you his blessing is he?"

Honestly, what did he expect? For Brett to give him a slap on the back and say 'nice one mate.'

"Listen you don't know what he can be like. He might be all sweetness and light around you, but Justine told me he was no joy to live with, his moods were all over the place. He can be a moody bastard."

I think about this for a moment, as a sudden unwanted image of Brett materialises in my mind. To me he looks naughty but nice. More naughty than nice actually - almost surly....until he smiles.

Giving up on my food now, I push my plate away. "I know I haven't known him as long as you, or Justine for that matter, but why are you so convinced that he's just putting on an act to win me over? Can't it just be him being nice? Has it not occurred to you that he might just perhaps enjoy my company and like me as a friend?"

"No." He answers flatly in a patient but bored voice, without any hesitation, and the word stings me like I've just been physically slapped.

Wow. Don't hold back Damon. I think sourly.
So I'm really that unlikable? He can't possibly genuinely like me, that is what he's basically saying.
And why should I believe him? Because he knows him better than I do, and therefore knows him well enough to suspect he has ulterior motives for befriending me.

Which is exactly what I was afraid of.

"He's not over Justine." Damon continues, twisting the knife inside of me a little bit more. "He's narked at me, he blames me for ruining his relationship, even though Justine fell out of love with him long ago. And when you arrived on the scene, he saw you as a way to get his own back."

I take a huge gulp of wine even though I don't really like it, I'm grateful for it. I need the alcohol to take the edge off.

"It's childish I know."

"Mm." Is all I can manage. Childish is putting it lightly. Right now I want nothing more than to knock his and Brett's head together for their immaturity.

"He's actually quite an antisocial person, bit of a stuck-up prat actually. He thinks he's all that with his poncy degree, looking down his bent-nose at everybody."

Damon has a really unpleasant streak, I must say. I throw him a dirty look, which he ignores.

"Brett just doesn't go around making friends easily like that, believe me. You can ask anyone. So him being nice to you is all tactical. He wants to goad me and gain a reaction."

"Which worked."

Damon actually blushes slightly at this, and looks more than a tad embarrassed. "Yeah, I was an idiot. I shouldn't rise to it, and I'm sorry for going on like I did. I was out of order."

He reaches across the table and places a cool, reassuring hand on mine.

"If you can forgive me, I'd like to forget about the whole sorry lot and move on. We can't let him win, why should he ruin what could potentially be a really good thing Sam?"

Why should he win?
Funny how the conversation has reverted back to everything seeming like a competition. But this isn't a game, and as much as I like Damon - and Brett, obviously - I have no desire to be a consolation prize. A substitute for Justine the temptress.

"Um, how about we just take each day as it comes, and see what happens?"
I scrape my chair back, down the last dregs of my wine, then beat a hasty retreat to the loo.

When I return he is leaning back in his chair, chatting to a couple of women at the table behind ours.
They're doing that eyelash-batting, giggly thing that women do when they fancy a man.

"See 'ya then." He tells the pair before turning his back on them.
"So, where were we?" He asks me, leaning across the table.
He inclines his head, and I reel back slightly. His breath is pure alcohol. One flick of a lighter and...

"The bill?" I suggest, hastily.

I'm feeling quite crappy, having somehow forgotten to take my insulin before I left. But it isn't just that.
All I want to do is go home, back to the friendly, familiar sanctuary of my box room, and crawl under my duvet and hibernate for ever.

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

The following day I have plenty of time to mull over the previous evenings' conversation, when my dad leaves me holding fort at the shop whilst he nips to the bank.

I still have so many questions, more in fact, than before.
My head is completely all over the place, and seems to be continuously at war with my heart....no wait, it can't be my heart.
My heart has no place in this, I must be confusing it with my gut.

Yes that's right, my gut instinct, or something. The heart is where you feel love, and your gut is supposed to be intuition...well, that's also where your stomach and intestines are. So similarly to when you think what you feel is love, it's most probably the same as what it is in your intestines - shit.

I'm sitting behind the counter, glancing at a crumpled, dog-eared copy of Record Collector magazine when the unfamiliar sound of the door opening makes my head snap up, and I almost fall off my stool with shock.

"What'cha." Brett announces his arrival as he wafts in, eyes of clearest blue immediately darting around the cramped confines of the shop. Taking in the rows of records, stacked in their yellowing or foxed covers.
"This isn't that bad." He states cheerily.

"We haven't sold one record in all the while I've been coming here." I tell him dismally, whilst self-consciously tucking strands of my messy hair, which is in much need of a wash, behind my ears.

His dark, low-arched eyebrows shoot up animatedly.
"Oh." He draws the word out "That is quite bad."
He is trying to look solemn and sympathetic but it isn't working. I know he wants to laugh.
"I wouldn't have thought you'd scare the customers away that easily, although you do look painfully miserable I must say. Face like a wet-weekend."

"Bugger off! Cheeky sod!"
He duly receives an obligatory thwack on the head with the rolled-up copy of Record Collector, which he accepts, pulling a comically pained face for added effect.
"You'd look miserable if you were stuck in this morgue all day. What are you doing here anyway? Is it your day off from being a rockstar?"

"Somethin' like that yeah." He leans down, folding his arms on the counter and looks up at me, the hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of his perfectly kissable mouth. "I had plans for global domination but I slept in so, had to cancel."

I smile back at him dreamily, and feel my stomach begin to do an alarmingly familiar yo-yo of lust.
Oh Lord.

"Actually we've managed to finish up early at the studio, which is just up the road there in Kilburn, so I thought I'd call in whilst I had the chance."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it. Do you think there's any hope for this place? It could certainly use a revamp, but it's the stock. It's so outdated."

He moves efficiently now towards the shelves, and thumbs through a few of the records. Forehead scrunched in concentration.
"Hm. Yeah, I see what you mean. A lot of this stuff is retro and valuable to the right buyer, but it only applies to a specific audience. If your dad wants to attract more customers he's going to have to branch-out, rather than just catering solely for collectors and fans of old-school rock."

He really isn't just a pretty face.

"I don't know how I am ever going to convince him to do that." I sigh.

Then with impressive timing, I hear the distinctive rumble of my dad's Triumph Tiger motorbike pulling up outside.
The noise immediately draws Brett's attention away from the vinyl, and he's soon peering through the glass in the door.

"Speak of the devil."
I wander over and join him by the door.
Sweet Jesus, he always smells good. The spicy scent of his aftershave is a stark contrast to the stale, musty stench of our dusty surroundings.

"Is that your dad's bike?"

"No he stole it." I quip, not bothering to hide how amusing I find my own sarcasm.
What makes it even more satisfying is when Brett actually laughs.
I find the sight of a hot guy laughing very attractive, especially when I'm the one responsible for it.

"Alright, snarky." He sniggers, and bumps his shoulder playfully into mine.

Oh. Dear. God.

Why do I suddenly feel like I've been clubbed over the head by lust?
It's terrifying and overwhelming, and I'm almost relieved when he moves away from the door so that my dad can enter.
I follow his lead but to my horror I'm blushing crimson by the time my dad has joined us inside.

"Everything alright?" My father asks me, with a measured amount of scepticism.

"Y-yes. Fine. Why wouldn't it be?"

I chance a quick look at Brett, who appears to nervously run a large hand over his hair in an attempt to smooth down any long, unruly strands. He catches me looking at him, and gives me a discreet, hurried wink.
I see my dad follow my eye-line. He stares at Brett for an awkward moment and then back at me expectantly.

"Oh, dad this is Brett. He's um, he's a friend of mine...Brett this is my dad, Alan."

Brett smiles warmly and sticks his hand out. He opens his mouth to say something but my dad cuts in abruptly before he can barely draw breath.

"I know who you are." He remarks ominously, and grasping his hand a little too tight, begins shaking it vigorously.

Brett doesn't flinch, instead choosing to match the strong handshake with a firm grip of his own. "Oh? I wouldn't believe everything you might've read in the papers." He chances a wry smile.

"Ay?" My dad looks unsurprisingly mystified, and I quickly jump in.

"Brett's pretty much famous, dad."

"I wish you wouldn't keep saying that Sammy." Brett says, looking embarrassed. "I'm hardly Prince."

"No, thank God."

He rolls his eyes at me, but I notice then that my dad still has his hand clasped in an iron-like grip and I'm worried that he might actually pop his shoulder out if he carries on.

"Well his band is the next big thing anyway....er, you can let go of him now dad."

"Hmpf. All this modern rubbish sounds the bloody same to me." My dad grumbles, sounding like the grumpiest old geezer in the world probably, seemingly unable to muster even an ounce of civility.

Still, at least he's released Brett's hand before cutting off his circulation. I notice him glance down at it, as if making sure that it's still attached to his wrist. I shoot him a sympathetic look, and he responds with a reassuring, understanding smile.

"Nice bike you've got there mister Lewis." He says unexpectedly.

My dad eyes him suspiciously before responding. "Just Alan will do."

"Right, sorry. Alan...Tiger Trail, isn't it?"

My dad nods, and I can see his stern expression wavering slightly.

"750?"

"Yeah, that's right." My father sounds pleasantly surprised now. "You know a bit about bikes then?"

"Not much to be honest." Brett admits reluctantly. "I had a Yamaha GT50, nothing special." He says this modestly, pretending it's irrelevant.

Holy shit.
So on top of everything else, he is also a biker of sorts. I swear my ovaries can't take much more, especially as I'm now picturing him in snug fitting, head-to-toe black leather.

"Oh. So you can ride?"

I'll bet he can. I think lewdly, and then blush at my own inappropriate thoughts. What is happening to me? I'm turning into a complete perv.

"Funny, you don't seem the sort." My dad is rudely saying now, though Brett's cunning ploy to gain favour with him has undoubtedly worked.
"With a name like Brett, wouldn't you be more at home on a surf board?"

"Dad! You've been watching Home and Away again haven't you?" I say hurriedly, hoping that Brett is at least vaguely familiar with the Australian soap opera.

"Actually my mum used to watch The Persuaders." Brett explains patiently with a soft smile. "She named me after the main character, Lord Brett Sinclair."

A sudden look of recognition crosses my dads face, and he now actually cracks a smile. "Roger Moore's character? Of course!"

It would seem that by the weirdest twist of fate, Brett's name has now earned him dad's full approval. My dad is the biggest Roger Moore fan, and I thank the universe for Brett's mum having been the one who named him, and not his father.
I can only imagine what my dad's reaction would be like, if instead I'd had to introduce Brett as 'Wolfgang'.

After a few more minutes of Roger Moore related chit-chat, my dad settles himself back behind his beloved counter, taking his usual spot, and Brett asks me if I'd fancy taking a walk down to Camden Lock. Despite the weatherman having forecast rain, it's surprisingly sunny outside, and the opportunity to spend some time with Brett is just too rare a thing to pass up.

He's got a couple of things he needs to do first, he tells me, but as long as I don't mind tagging along, and even though there's not enough time to go to Highgate, he thinks we might as well make the most of things whilst he's got some free time.

Naturally, I agree. And after checking with my dad that he's fine with me taking the rest of the afternoon off, Brett and I head off into the town.

Our first stop, is at a small branch of Boots chemists, whereupon he insists on me waiting outside.
Intrigued, and most definitely disgruntled, I finally agree to his unreasonable demand.

Cheeky sod.

I pace up and down for a while, grumbling to myself about this unfair treatment, but when he at last joins me again outside, and all is revealed, he is immediately forgiven.

"Here ya' go." He pulls from the small carrier bag what looks like a disposable camera. "I know it's far from adequate but it's the best I can do I'm afraid, at such short notice. At least you'll be able to take a few pictures, get a bit of practice in for your photography course."

I take the camera from him gratefully with trembling fingers, and I'm honestly lost for words. So deeply touched by his sweet gesture I think I might actually cry.

"Brett, I don't know what to say....thank you!"

Oh, God, I want to hug him. Being near him without breaching that physical barrier is so hard. Wanting to touch, wanting it so bad but being unable to...
Without anymore deliberation or hesitation, I can't help but wrap my arms around him and squeeze.

"It's only a cheap-throwaway camera." He laughs, returning my embrace. "It's all they had."

"It's perfect." I sigh, revelling in the sensation of his strong arms enfolding me tightly.

You're perfect. Is what I want to say.

The clean softness of his scent envelops me. I can feel the tautness of his chest beneath his black shirt, and I close my eyes. The waves of attraction thud along my arms, down through my stomach via my chest and straight into my knickers.

Holy, holy shit.

I don't want the hug to end, but it has to when we're forced apart by a perplexed looking woman who wants to get into the shop, and we've unwittingly been blocking the entrance.

I feel weightless, and almost lightheaded as we make our way down towards the lock.

"D'ya fancy a cup of tea?" Brett asks.

I fancy you.

"I've just got to meet Justine down by the lock, she's still got my dictaphone and I need it back. So she's gonna meet me on her way back from the market."

Wait. What?

He says it so airily, like this sudden information is nothing, but for some reason this revelation is a massive deal to me, and his words pack a wallop like a Doc Marten boot to the gut.

It should be of no consequence, no importance to me.
So why is it?

We park ourselves on a bench, and I temporarily become preoccupied with admiring his long legs in their tight black jeans, stretched out before him.
However we haven't been sat there long, when Brett stands, having seen his ex approaching.

The knot in my stomach tightens, and I fight to keep my composure and look unruffled as the tall, lithe figure of a woman approaches. But all my efforts are in vain, and my heart sinks into my boots as I take in the chic, epitome of cool elegance that is Justine.

She is tall, a good three or four inches taller than I am, and her slender frame merely accentuates her height. Her thick, dark hair is shaped into a short bob, which is bang on trend, and her features are neat and pretty. She looks tomboyish yet stylish. And exotic in a foreign sort of way.

She's probably exceedingly intelligent too, given that Brett met her at university. I'll bet she's well travelled and is fluent in several languages, even the arcane ones such as old Norse or Aramaic - which aren't of any use unless you meet a genuine Viking or Jesus.
She comes from money too, Alex told me. No doubt aristocracy. She probably has a longer pedigree than the queen.

She approaches Brett, and greets him fondly - a little too fondly for my liking - and they stand for a while, in quiet conversation.

Feeling more self-conscious than ever, I remain on the bench, silk cut fumes pouring from my nostrils, feeling about as sexy as an overstuffed black bin liner.

She's wearing smart black suit trousers, and a casual white T.shirt. The latter spectacularly accentuates her olive skin tone, just like my own black T.shirt accentuates my alabaster one.

She's eyeing Brett like a hungry dog eyes a bowl of pedigree chum.
But he's not her pedigree chum, I think hotly.
Well at least not anymore.
Then again, he isn't mine either. Nor is he likely to be.
I absentmindedly pinch at the soft fold of flesh which clings around my belly and hips, which has so far stubbornly resisted all attempts to shift it.

She hands Brett his dictaphone, they give each other a small peck on the cheek, and I prickle all over with irrational jealousy.

You had him. I think.
You had him. He wanted you. And you threw him away.

By the time Brett rejoins me, my skin is almost blistering with the heat of my envy.
But there's something else now bothering me too, and I silently curse Damon for sowing the seeds of doubt in my mind.
Although in fairness, the doubt was already there. And has been since the day Brett took me up to Hampstead Heath.

I'd somehow managed to force it to the back of my mind, but it's back again. Like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.

"Where do you find the inspiration for your song writing?" I blurt suddenly, as we set off walking back towards the town centre.

He rubs his chin and looks thoughtful. "I dunno really. From all sorts of things I suppose...love, life..."

"Your love life?"

"I never said my love life, I said love and life. Meaning in general."

"Oh. Right."

"Why do you ask?" He says this in his usual friendly tone, though I can see his brow furrow slightly in confusion.

I shrug in an attempt to look nonchalant. "Oh, no reason. I'm just curious about your songs, that's all."

"You mean, what they're about?" He ventures.

I nod.

"All kinds of things, like I said...life. I just try to make it sound more poetic and slightly less grim."

"What about....what about romance?"

"Romance?" He echoes, and his mouth tweaks up at the corner, displaying his dimple. "It depends on what your idea of romance is. Everyone is different."

I sigh heavily. "That's true. Did you know the Roman emperor Nero gave his girlfriend his wife's severed head in a basket as a gift?"

He grimaces. "Ew. Well I do now, cheers for that. I see what you mean though. I suppose that was his mad, twisted idea of a romantic gesture."

"Yep. Kind of makes you wonder what the girlfriend was thinking though, she should've ran a mile. But no, lovesick tool stuck around until he got bored and had her kicked to death."

"Christ! Nice bloke then. But how about you? What do you find romantic? Presuming it's not severed heads that is."

"Oh I don't know, I wouldn't mind kicking my ex to death."

"He wouldn't be worth the prison time."

"That's true." I laugh. "I suppose I find the usual, silly, girly stuff romantic I suppose. Long moonlit walks and passionate kisses in the rain....that sort of thing."

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "That's not silly."

"It is when it's nothing more than a stupid fantasy. It isn't real life, as you'd say."

We break off from the conversation in order to devise a plan and decide on finding a chippy to grab some late lunch, so we can sit by the lock and share a bag of chips or something.
Not that Brett is 'tight' with his money - as my dad would say - but rather I quite like the idea of sharing chips whilst sitting down by the water, watching the boats.
That's also my idea of romance, but I'm getting a bit carried away.

"So, your songs are about real life....which also means there must be an element of romance in them. And truth, right?" I pick up the conversation again, I just can't help myself.
I'm like a dog with a bone.

But it's been nagging at me since Damon mentioned it. His accusation that Brett's entire first album was inspired by Justine and her betrayal.
I'm trying to remember the songs, but it's no use. I've only heard them once and it was a while ago now.

I distinctly recall one song about sleeping pills, which I remember mostly because of the line about an angel, and the way Brett put me in mind of one as he sang it beautifully, with his ethereal beauty and otherworldly voice.
It struck me then that he might well have fallen from heaven, although....so did Satan.
And there's something deliciously devilish about Brett. But in a good way. I hope.

But...but what if Damon is right? Brett arranging to meet with Justine here has fuelled my paranoia. What if he's trying to make Justine jealous?
No, that can't be right. I'm hardly going to evoke feelings of jealousy.
Maybe he told her that I'm Damon's new girlfriend and he was rubbing her face in it? I couldn't hear their conversation.
For all I know the pair might've been having a good giggle at my expense.

I shudder slightly, feeling quite sickened by the possibility.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Brett's concerned voice pulls me back.

I hesitate, and my pause lasts long enough to make him slow down to a complete halt in the middle of the pavement.

"Sammy?" He looks directly at me, and I can't bring myself to meet his intense gaze. "Tell me."

"It's nothing."

"That's not true, I can read you like a book. Please just tell me, It'll bug the shit out of me if you don't. And then I'll just have to keep bugging the shit out of you until you do tell me."

I suck in a deep breath, beginning to feel quite panicked now.
He's right. I know him well enough to know that he won't let this go, and will no doubt continue pestering me until I cave.
I'm going to have to be brave, just grip the bull by the horns and ask him outright.
Otherwise I'll never know any peace of mind.

"We're....we are friends aren't we Brett?"

"Of course. Why would you even need to ask that? I think we..."
His voice dissolves and his expression darkens like a huge black cloud passing over the sun. "Oh. Hang on a minute. Has this got something to do with Damon?"

I chew on my bottom lip furiously, and it would seem that is all the response he needs.

"Come on, what has he said?"

"He seems to think that...that...you're only being nice to me, to get back at him."

"What?" He exclaims sharply, almost making me jump. "You're fuckin' kidding me? And the sad fucker actually believes that does he, or is he just trying to stir up shit between us?"

Us. Is there an us?

"But he hasn't got any reason to try and stir things between--"

"Please......please don't tell me you actually believe him?"

Shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I feel myself withering beneath the heat of his blistering glare, his eyes now resemble two glowing coals, and he's looking at me as though he can burn a hole in me with them.

"For fucks' sake! Really?"

I've never heard nor seen him look so angry before, and it is deeply upsetting. This is not what I wanted. I can feel him moving away from me, emotionally and physically, as he abruptly sets off walking again.
He is undeniably, thoroughly pissed off. And I need to fix this.
And fix this fast.

I dart after him, struggling to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. "I didn't know what to think. That's why I had to ask." I say breathless, a little desperate. Hoping to limit the damage. "No ones ever been that nice to me before."

He doesn't answer me, and I can't quell the rising panic that's frothing in my throat, making it difficult for me to catch my breath. My chest feels heavy like a lead weight has been placed on me, and it's slowly crushing me to death.
What I'm feeling borders on physically painful. I'd rather him unleash his fury on me, and shout angrily than blank me.

"Brett please." I beg. "I'm sorry. I just had to ask, I had to."

"Why? Why did you have to ask me something like that Sammy?" He hisses in a don't-you-dare-actually-answer-me-or-this-conversation-is-over tone. "Do you honestly think I could be so conceited? So malicious, so vindictive?"

We reach a point where the pavement has been dug-up, and workmen are busily extricating what looks like gas pipes from beneath the concrete. A pedestrian safety barrier has intervened between the path and the road, forcing us to part ways as we walk alongside it.

"No. I don't think that at all. It's just..."

"It's just what?" He demands.

"It's just, I suppose I couldn't understand why you would be so nice to me." My voice wobbles with emotion, and tears pool in my eyes.

Overhead there's a sudden ominous rumble of thunder, and all at once the heavens open. Other pedestrians make a mad dash for shelter in shop doorways, or scurry off down the street, but we just keep on walking. Both of us refusing to acknowledge the downpour. And I can honestly say I don't feel the rain, just as I don't see the passing cars or hear the sound of the traffic or rainfall bouncing off the tarmac. Everything else pales in significance, leaving only us.

He impales me with his blue eyes that shine with fury. His face contorted by failed words.

"Brett, I am sorry. You've been so kind towards me, and because of that, I just thought you might be--"

"Using you to get one over on Damon." He supplies with a snarl  "So you automatically think the worst of me. Presuming me to have some fucked-up motive."
His voice lowers but now instead of sounding indignant and furious his tone is tinged with disappointment. I don't know which is worse.
"It was easier for you to believe I had a hidden agenda, rather than just believe that I actually......" He wavers slightly, as if carefully searching for the right words. And my heart is suddenly in my mouth. "...that I actually...like you...and care about you."

In an instant he's gone from enraged and affronted, to heartbreakingly sad.

My blood is chugging through my veins, forcing little ripples of blood out to my throbbing temples. I feel heavy, and strange and hollow inside. An insane buzzing-feeling in my head making it impossible for me to think clearly.

He stops again, and turns to look down at me. His expression all soft and sad, and I can sense impending doom like a gathering storm. "But now I know you obviously can't think that much of me."

"No! That's not true, Brett I care about you too...a lot."

"But you don't trust me. Clearly."
The anger, hurt and bitter disappointment is evident in his expression, as well as his voice.

"I do...well, I mean I should have, but I do now. Completely."

The rain is coming down heavier now, and he pushes his wet hair back from his face, his eyes never leaving mine. "You don't get it do you? Have you any idea how shitty you've made me feel? Believing that sneaky bastard, a man who lies and cheats and does have an ulterior motive, over me? But of course, you would believe him.....because he's your sort-of boyfriend."

He turns abruptly, and talking to his back isn't any easier than talking to his face.

"Yes but, that doesn't have anything to do with it. We're not even properly together. This is all because of my own stupid insecurities."  I wail, huge droplets of rain streaking their way down my face, melding with my tears.
It had never made sense in my head, but it probably makes less sense coming out of my mouth.
"Can we please just...just talk about this?"

"What is there to talk about?"  His tall frame sags slightly, his shoulders slumping forwards.

I try to speak but the words seem to stick in my throat. I'm quiet for a heartbeat too long, Brett growls under his breath and starts up the street again.
Panic squeezes at my chest, so I lunge forwards and grab hold of his arm.
"Wait! Brett, please....I..."

The contact is enough to make him think twice about walking off, and he looks at me over his shoulder, his one visible eye narrowed.
My hand falls away nervously as my eyes fuse with his.
I'm desperately trying to relay what I need to say to him using eye contact alone, being as I haven't quite mastered the art of telepathy yet.

He turns slowly towards me and before I realise his intentions, he catches me by the arms, and pulls me into him with such force that my entire body follows.
His kiss is so sudden and fierce that for a split-second I wonder if my front teeth have been knocked down my throat.
His passion and ferocity is both startling and arousing, and my heart beats wildly, my pulse whooshing in my ears as I lose all of my senses to him.
His lips are perfect. The kiss is powerful, creating a kind of sweet, electrifying vibration throughout my entire body, making every nerve stand on end.

Then suddenly he's gone.

I stand rooted to the spot, dazed, breathless and overwhelmed as I watch his retreating back. His tall frame cuts a lonely figure as he walks away. I close my eyes against the sting of tears and bury my face in my hands.

How is it possible for one of the worst moments of your life, to simultaneously be the most utterly perfect?