My second earring is fixed in place and I turn to the floor length mirror.  "Dress smart."  Do I meet the brief?  I don't even know where I'm going tonight.  Part of me wishes I had asked because I've had enough surprises for one week.  A text interrupts my regret.  Rummaging to the depths of my half unpacked suitcase for my silver clutch bag, I pop my phone and red lipstick inside before heading for the door. It slams shut behind me making me jump.  Am I nervous? 

The plush pile of the new carpet devours my kitten heels and one catches on the hem of my grey silk skirt.  On closer inspection the material has puckered and caused a tiny pinhole in the delicate fabric.  Great.  Why on earth did I decide to wear this?  There is no time to change into something else now.  I hitch the skirt up and manage to reach the lift with no further outfit mishaps.  As my fingers unravel from my hard clenched fist to press the call button, my palms glisten with sweat and half moon indents left from the tips of my unpainted nails.  I am nervous.

The lift is slow despite this hotel being a new build but the beds are comfy, the breakfast is included and the price is cheap, for London anyway.  When I needed a hotel two nights ago this was a welcome find.      

I exit through the automatic doors into the veil of muggy London summer.  The car pulls up beside me and when I open the door his scent has me heady before I even get in.  We exchange a feeble "hello" as he leans across the console to kiss me but we fumble and his lips hit my cheek.  I know he looks as alluring as he smells but I cannot bring myself to meet his eye.  He compliments me on how lovely I look but all that is stuck in my mind is the damage to my skirt.  I sense he's a little agitated to pull swiftly away.  I understand he doesn't want to be spotted and city hotels are notorious for paps but this is a Premier Inn in Archway; it is not The Savoy!

The early-evening rush hour chaos on the outside of the car is in stark contrast to our uncomfortable silence within it.  At a red light I see a sign for 'Kenwood House 1 mile'.  I enjoyed my visit there today but its left my legs tingling with fatigue.  Perhaps that explains the damage to my skirt.  It wasn't the hotel carpet's fault at all but me lazily dragging my tired limbs.  An incoming call suspends the reminiscing of my day.  Rob Stringer is displayed on screen.  I don't know who that is but he doesn't answer. 

I glance across at him.  "Please don't reject your call on my account." 

He turns his head towards me.  "It's not important.  It can wait."

I catch his eyes in mine and the crease lines across his forehead deepen.  He is as alluring as I knew he'd be.  Goosebumps prickle and I fold my arms across my crisp white cotton shirt that's resting cold against my skin.  Instinctively he turns the air-con down and one of his favourite songs, Helplessly Hoping, up.  When his hand returns to the steering wheel his fingers are trembling.  Is he is nervous too?

His driving today is so formal, like he is taking his driving test.  He's sat so bolt upright in his seat that the black material of his suit trousers is ruched tight across his thighs.  Both arms are locked straight out in front of him, straining his shirt seams as he grips the steering wheel like his life depends on it.

He navigates Hyde Park Corner passing Green Park then heading up Piccadilly.  I only know where I am because the masses of light bulbs up ahead of the famous Ritz Hotel were highlighted yesterday during my open-top bus tour.  For the majority of the time I zoned out from the commentary though.  It was a sunny day so I sat on the top deck with the warm breeze blowing through my hair and let the City sights pass me by.  

To my left I spot the Burlington Arcade.  How did The Sun ostentatiously describe it in their article about him?  Ah yes, 'an iconic runway uniting Piccadilly and Bond Street, this timeless destination offers a gallery of only the finest, rare and eclectic fancy articles of fashionable demand.'

It's the kind of place that calls watches time instruments and displays no prices.  If you have to ask you simply cannot afford. One does not shop here, one has an 'experience'.  When I searched it up I have never heard of some of the brands apart from Mulberry, La Perla and Manolo Blahnik.  Handbags, knickers and shoes – there was me thinking I am so different!

He posed for pictures with a few fans here the day before yesterday.  They have been flooded all over social media, along with the café picture, as have some pap pictures that also made all of the red top newspapers.  It means The Box Nightclub and Gucci must be around here too.  

My view of the famous turquoise façade of Fortnum & Mason on my right is cut short when the car swings left under a gated archway.  The wheels rumble over the cobbles of a courtyard towards an elegant 17th Century building that doesn't look like either a restaurant or hotel.  It is architecturally quite beautiful. 

He parks then grabs his jacket, slipping it on as he comes around to open my door.  I step out and he offers me his hand but he is standing so close that our chests sandwiched together.  He tightens his grip and my other hand thumps against the lapel of his jacket to stop me falling into him.  I snatch it away, apologising to the floor.  He clasps hold of my free hand so that now he holds both of mine.  Instinctively I am pulled to look to him.  He rubs his dry lips together poking his tongue out to moisten them before acknowledging there's no harm done.  His green eyes stare from my brown eyes to my red lips and back again.  My cheeks flare and my heartbeat quickens, expanding my chest up and down against his.  Is he going to kiss me again? Do I want him to kiss me?  No, I don't want him to kiss me.  Yes I do want him to kiss me?  No I don't want... 

Our hesitation dissipates the moment. 

He releases one of my hands and turns towards the building but we remain connected by our other hands.  Once through the revolving door, a gentleman in uniform greets us and indicates where to go.  I make sure to gather my skirt in my hand before climbing the splendid marble staircase.  The steps bow in the middle, having been worn down over time by so many pairs of feet, and this makes reaching the top easier. 

The Director of Hospitality welcomes us with handshakes.  She hands us a glossy guide each and explains we have an hour before dinner is served then bids us a lovely evening.  I glance down at the cover in my hands:-

Royal Academy of Arts

Burlington House, Piccadilly, Mayfair, London W1

Painting the Modern Garden: Monet to Matisse

"Using the work of Monet as a starting point, this landmark exhibition examines the role gardens played in the evolution of art from the early 1860s through to the 1920s.  Discover more than 120 works of some of the most important Impressionist, Post-Impressionist and Avant-Garde artists of the early twentieth century as they explore this theme. 

See the garden in art with fresh eyes."

Despite my reservation of his extravagant surprise, I am unable to hide the smile that stretches my cheeks.  "Harry, this is wonderful but I don't think I can accept."

He pauses, a glimmer of disconcertment dimming his eyes.  "I've had this," he looks down at the cover in his hands then back towards me, "umm planned for a while so please let's enjoy it.  I mean I'd umm like us to.  We'll have time to talk afterwards over dinner."

My head is rambling inside and I fiddle with my earing.  I agreed to come out with him tonight so I should say yes.  Talking will happen later.  "Okay, thank you, yes I'd love to look around." 

His shoulders physically relax as he stands asides and indicates for me to enter the exhibition room ahead of him. 

'I perhaps owe it to flowers that I became a painter – Claude Monet' is quoted on the entrance wall and this is so poignant to me.  Monet was a gardener, a horticulturalist and a very knowledgeable botanist and his garden and his art combined throughout his career.

The simplicity of the exhibition rooms are in contrast to the ornate gold frames lit by single spotlights.  The paintings are allowed to be the star of this show and I am immediately lost in their atmosphere.  This is a rare opportunity to stand and admire the works without being jostled by other viewers and although we contemplate the works separately, I am aware that he is never far away from me. 

From Renoir to Cezanne, Manet to Van Gogh, 120 works dedicated to gardens are a delight.  Three of Monet's famous Water Lily works fill an entire wall. I had no idea they were so vast.  I make out every stroke of the brush, every layer of paint, every rich mix of colours.  Close-up the images appear like blurred clumps of paint; it is not until I stand back that the beauty of the paintings as a whole really come to life.  I sit on the wooden bench and let the gardens in Giverney, which I hope to see for real one day, consume me.

A painting by Frederick Childe Hassam of a woman gathering flowers also catches my imagination.   Its tranquility draws me in and reminds me of home.  I feel a pang of missing my familiarity.  I cannot take my eyes from it until he says that dinner is served.

Together, we make our way to the middle exhibition hall where a small table covered in a white cloth is laid for two.  He pulls out my chair for me and then sits down himself.  Tension is circling between us until the starter arrives and conveniently becomes a distraction. 

The waiter presents him the bottle of wine and he politely nods his agreement whilst another waiter serves our starters.  The scraping of cutlery on the porcelain to serve the cucumber, smoked salmon and avocado stack and the glugging of Italian white wine from the bottle to glass echoes around the high ceiling of the room.

Both waiters leave and he picks up the wine bottle to peruse the label further, before placing it back down on the table.  His hand remains around the base of the bottle for a few seconds.  He stares into space before he flicks his eyes to mine.

I dart my gaze away and down to my fork, "the exhibition is wonderful," before taking a mouthful of smoked salmon.

He also gathers a mouthful onto his fork but stares at it before resting the fork back on the side of his plate.  

"What's happened to us this week, Beautiful?"