So, here I am, back home, offering round a plate of delicate cucumber sandwiches at a wake. My whole world is numb and I get the impression that I'm playing out a scene from a movie. It's unreal.

Our living room is full of relatives and family friends, a low hum of chatter echoing off the flower patterned wallpaper. It's been two months since I returned from Scotland, and one week since Dad died.

A massive stroke took him away from me. I found him sprawled out on the garden path, dressing gown flapping in the wind, a broken coffee mug still in his hand. It's strange how little I reacted at the time. Calm, quiet and taking charge of all the necessary actions while Mum and Gran ran around like headless chickens, clucking and crying. I found it hard to relate to their grief, with no idea of how exactly I should be reacting myself. What are you supposed to do when these things happen? Cry, I guess, but I can't, I'm in limbo.

Auntie Dora, sitting in an armchair, grabs my wrist as I offer her a sandwich. She's in her fifties, a small woman with tightly permed hair, streaked with platinum blonde highlights at the sides. She always makes an effort to stay up to date and in with the current trends, unfortunately, this included going to discos and nightclubs with her much younger collegues from the supermarket where she worked. This woman would not let her age stop her from having fun or younger men.

"How are you doing, sweetheart?"

I've been hearing that all day, and I've grown tired of making up some lame-ass reply, so I just nod.

"Oh. It's such a shame! Let me know if we can do anything. Anything at all."

I fake a smile and move on.

Cousin Dave. Oh hell. I can't stand this fifteen year old, spotty, spiky haired would be little gangster rapper. He's stuck in the corner behind the dining table, trying to hide from our boring old relatives who constantly grab his face and say 'My, haven't you grown.' I don't blame him for that, but I wish he'd take off that stupid cap and at least pull out his earphones. He spots the sandwiches, grabs a handful and shoots me a peace out sign. Great.

Mum and Gran are busy in the kitchen fixing food and constantly clearing up. It makes them happier to be occupied I guess. Why can't I be on the same level as them? I'm almost jealous of the way they've been able to let out their sorrow.

Coming back up to the living room area, I narrowly avoid the clutching grasp of Harry Smith, Dad's old workmate. The man is always wearing aviation sunglasses, giving the effect of an ageing fighter pilot. He's sat by the hallway door so he can make a grab for me anytime I pass by.

Gran comes waddling back into the room. Her short ultra-black dyed bob bouncing with each flat footed step. She's carrying a tray of french fancies and homemade scones, rattling as she goes.

"Ooh!" She exclaims to the guests. "Who wants to hear all about our Jill's new boyfriend then?" She flicks me a wink and I sit down on the floor, my back against the glass doors which divide the room's two areas. Guess I've been expecting this.

"You'll never believe what his name is." She places the tray on the coffee table in the middle of the living room and rubs her hands in glee at her captured audience. "Jack!"

Giggles from round the room.

"Jack, imagine that, and he's Eyetalian."

Harry perks up, "Did he fetch the pail of water for you love, you know from up the hill?"

"Thanks, Gran."

Auntie Dora squeals with delight at the delicious gossip. "Oooh, Jilly girl, Italian hey? How'd you manage that?"

I roll my eyes and stare out the front window. It's a beautiful day out there, and I'm longing to be free from the demands of playing the dutiful daughter. "In Scotland."

"Really?" Dora's like a dog with a bone. "Was he on holiday too?"

I reply blankly, monotonously. In my mind's eye I can see Dad's broken mug, and the black coffee spreading in a dark pool, soaking into the concrete pathway. Draining away. "No, he wasn't."

"He saved her from that terrible storm they had up there, do you remember?" Gran nods encouragement to raise the room's interest. "His mum and dad live in Tuscany, don't they dear?"

"Yes, Gran."

There's a motorbike coming up our cul-de-sac and pulling into the drive. I see it before I hear it.

"And he's very good looking too, yes, Jilly?"

"Yes, Gran."

Amidst rumblings from the older generation, and much baser implications from Harry, I jump up and run out to open the front door. Hoping beyond hope that this motorcyclist would be who I so desperately wanted it to be. I fling open the door to find the rider dismounting.

Helmet in hand, Jack smiles. I couldn't remember ever being more delighted to see someone. I run into his arms and cry my heart out. The tears I've been holding back since the moment I found my Dad on the garden path flood through me, and it's going to be hard to stop. Jack holds me, saying nothing, until it eventually passes.

We sit on the doorstep for a while. Chatting and sharing a bottle of beer my mother has thoughtfully handed out to us in her 'this is a usual family get together' charade. As the daylight begins to fade to a red rose hue, we cuddle together in silence. I can hardly believe that he's come all this way for me, we'd spoken on the phone nearly every night since I'd got back from Scotland, but I hadn't been sure if I'd see him again, until now. I sigh and curl up closer into him, his aroma of warm leather and sexy cologne making me want to crawl under his clothes and get to the hard, strong body I knew waited there for me.

Is it right to be thinking this at my father's funeral? Is there something wrong with me?

After a while the guests start to leave and I introduce them as they go. Jack begins to squirm in his leather trousers uncomfortably. He finally admits to the cause of the problem. "I need to pee, Gorgeous."

I take him in and point out the bathroom door at the top of the stairs. As he bangs his motorbike boots up the wooden staircase, Dora creeps round the banister.

"Oh, my, Jill, he's a bit of alright. Do you think he might need a hand with something up there?" She giggles, way too uninhibited by the liberal whisky shots from Harry, even though he himself abstains.

"No thanks, Auntie. I can handle it." I sprint upstairs.

********

Making sure that nobody is around, I wait outside the bathroom until I hear the toilet being flushed, then I knock gently on the door. I've got to get closer to this man. I need to have his skin on mine, his hands on my body, his mouth on mine.

The door is unlocked and Jack peers round the door. One look at my face and he catches onto my intentions. Standing back to let me in, his hand slides under my black, lacy top to trace a line of fire under his fingertips across my belly.