I arrive at Nicole's gallery just after noon, desperate to get inside out of the baking New York heat.

The large space is almost empty apart from a few random people dotted around staring at Aidan Foley's remarkable work. Thankfully none of them appears to be Nicole. I'm there two minutes before a brunette supermodel in a black sleeveless shift dress spots me and starts toward me.

"Hi there. Welcome to the Weston, can I help you?" She comes to a stop in front of me, looking me over somewhat snootily.

"Actually yes, I was wondering if Nicole was here? I'm a friend," I lie. I can't think of a time other than right now when I'd refer to Nicole as a friend. And I'm only doing it now because it's necessary.

"I'm sorry she's out at an appointment right now." She cocks her head to the side apologetically. "Can I help at all?"

"Oh well, I probably should have called first. She's always so busy, but I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd pop in," I smile.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a painting. It's pastel in hue and looks like a woman but the shapes are too sharp. It's completely inhuman in the way its been drawn on the canvas. It's striking but it looks cold and impenetrable. Angry maybe. I wouldn't mind a closer look but the woman is shifting on her feet and I'm clearly about to lose her attention entirely. I look back and smile charmingly. "I'm sorry, did we meet last night? I'm Eloise. Jordan works with my husband? Oliver?"

"Oh, actually I think we did briefly, yes. Hello again, I'm Sasha." she smiles. Time to get my game face on. The one I used to worm my way into events I hadn't been invited to when I was at the magazine.

"Sasha yes, of course. You know what, maybe you can help. I'm looking for a contact number for Aidan Foley. I'd like to speak with him about one of his pieces. I know Nicole would have it but I'm guessing you would too?"

She eyes me curiously like she's figured out my game. Good luck Sasha. Not even I know what my game is.

"Well yes, we have contact details for all the artists. But there are regulations about giving them out of course."

"Oh god, of course, there are. You know what, why don't I call Nic, see if she can text me it. I should maybe have gotten his number last night." I dig my phone out of my bag and dial the number of our apartment. Chastising myself for calling it apartment even in my head. When it goes to answerphone I turn away from her and disconnect the call. Speaking loud enough so that Sasha can hear me, I leave a message for Nicole. "Hey Nic, it's me. I'm at the gallery. I just popped in to get Aidan's number but you're not here. So if you get this can you text it to me. Cheers babe. Talk later." When I turn back to Sasha she's smiling and looking indecisive. She's close to breaking.

In that instant, I get a tiny fraction of clarity on what I'm doing here. The extremes I'm going to in order to see this man again. It was close to ridiculous. "No answer." I shrug.

Sasha debates internally for a bit before nodding. "You know what. I can call Mr Foley. Let him know you're looking to speak with him. Take it from there?" she offers.

Slightly startled, I process this. What if he tells her absolutely no way did he want to speak to the stuck up Mrs Alford who verbally insulted his work last night? What then? I had been prepared to take that response personally from him over the phone. Not via Sasha, the Glamazon Gallery assistant.

"Oh really? That would be great. Thank you." I gulp.

She turns and I follow her across the gallery and through a lower ceilinged corridor to the back, where she motions me into a stylishly compact office made of glass. It has no walls except for the back wall which looks out into the alley behind the gallery. I take a seat on the ridiculous white Wassily chair in front of the white gloss lacquer desk, as she walks around it and logs into a white desktop Mac computer. So Nicole liked white. Perhaps it was to show off her fake tan better? After some quick tapping on the keyboard Sasha makes a satisfied sounding noise and reaches for the white desk phone.

Nervously, I shift in the chair and look around Nicole's office to distract myself. There's a white leather sofa behind me, over which hangs a colourful Jackson Pollok print which I recognise as summertime 9A. Dali and Pollok were the only artists I could recognise at a distance, or at all. I guess I'd try my luck at Picasso too if someone put a gun to my head. In any case, apart from a contemporary flower arrangement by the door, and the Pollok print, the office is sparse and clinical. Very cold. Very Nicole.

"Mr Foley? Hi, it's Sasha from the Weston, so sorry to disturb you." She chirps as I tense on the chair. "I have a Mrs Alford with me just now, whom you met last night I believe? Yes. She was interested in talking to you about one of your pieces and was looking for a contact number for you but obviously, we don't give them out without express permission from the artist." Silence. Then she giggles and nods. "Yes, she's with me now." Longer silence. I'm clenching my bum so tight it's beginning to go numb. Sasha's eyes light up and she nods. "Oh, I don't know. Let me ask her." She lowers the handset and covers it with her hand. "He says he's free now if you'd like to speak with him in person? At his studio."

I feel my mouth drop open. I also feel that familiar clenching in my stomach and thighs.

"Now?" I stammer. "As in right now?" She nods, pleased with herself. I look at my watch for absolutely no reason other than I'm terrified that my face will give something away. Something pathetic and desperate. I don't have to be at Dr Cohens until 3 pm. Finally, I look up and nod. "Now is fine. Yes." My voice is certainly not solid.

"Now is perfect," Sasha says to Aidan. She nods and looks back at the computer and reads out an address to him, which he must confirm because she nods again. "Oh, you too. Hopefully, see you soon. Take care." She's grinning like a fool when she hangs up and returns her focus to me. "God that accent is so..." she giggles, "I don't know. Hot."

When I don't agree out loud she seems to realise the height of her unprofessionalism and resumes a serious air. I smile politely and stand up from the ridiculous chair. Sasha scribbles down the address on a white business card and hands it to me.

"There you go."

"Thank you so much." I smile as I take the card. Are my hands shaking? Seriously?

"He sounded really surprised. He's so humble. Such a lovely guy. We all have such a crush on him down here." Who the hell was 'we all' exactly? Her and Nicole? Clearly, Sasha could be professional for short periods of less than a minute and a half. "It's in the village. You can take the Canarsie line, and then change at 12th and take any of the Manhattan lines," she offers.

"Oh, I think I'll take a ca - taxi. I still haven't mastered the subway here. I have the London tube memorised. Only room for one up here." I tap my temple and smile at her. "And thank you for doing that. I'll call Nicole back and tell her I got it sorted."

She walks me out and goes over to the where a group of stylish people are moving toward the video installation which is at this very moment showing the infamous shed.

Out on the Brooklyn pavement, it's a few minutes before I spot a taxi. Having only just mastered the art of waving one down in this city, I step onto the road between two parked cars and do my wave come nazi salute and it screeches to a stop. Inside the stifling hot death trap, I read out the address and he pulls off at speed as I buckle myself in. The taxi smells of diesel and sweat and it doesn't help the uneasiness swirling around my stomach whatsoever. I was going to see him. When I stepped out of this thing it would be at Aidan Foley's studio.

Then and only then do I realise something. God knows how it took me so long quite frankly. Self-denial? I want more than to just see Aidan Foley again. I want Aidan Foley. I hadn't felt this pathetic over a guy in my life. Not even Oliver. I'm a teenage girl with a crush. I'm in serious bloody trouble.

***

Close to 20 minutes later the taxi pulls up outside a 4 storey red brick building with lots of windows in Greenwich village. It looks like a warehouse but the driver in his short-tempered, New York way, assures me that it's the right address - clearly angry about being questioned by an English woman. I contemplate asking him to wait.

For all I know Aidan told me to come over just so he could tell me to fuck off to my face for being a rude ignorant bitch. Though in the end, I decide not to. There are plenty of them whizzing past and now that I knew how to get one I shouldn't have too much trouble. I look down at the piece of paper again before walking up the few steps to the front of number 1815 E 24th Street.

Apt 3 is what's written in Sasha's girlish handwriting and luckily it's also what's on the intercom on the wall. I press and hold for about 5 seconds and wait. When no response comes, I press again, longer this time. Just when I think he's not home I hear a click from the intercom.

"Yeah?" The deep male voice says sounding out of breath.

"Mr Foley? It's Eloise Alford. You said to come over." My voice sounds polite and steady to my ears. Go me.

"3rd floor," he says gruffly before I hear the sound of the door unlock.

A little unsettled by his tone, I take a deep breath and push open the heavy door into the building. It is a warehouse. Or was. The entrance hall is a wide and has industrial levers and exposed steel beams in keeping with its previous life. The lift is also one of those industrial style ones you see in movies. The ones large enough to fit a mini inside. The door is heavy, but with a firm yank, it slides up and I step inside, managing to pull it down with greater ease. Inside, I hit the large button which says 3 and the thing jerks into motion.

As it ascends I take out my compact and smooth down my hair and pinch my cheeks. Why am I so bloody nervous? Is it about seeing him again? About what he might say? Is it because I'm scared he isn't quite like how I remember him? That I've built him up a little too much. There's no way his eyes were that hypnotising.

With a jerk, the lift comes to a stop and I reach down for the handle to pull up the huge metal door. However before I reach it, it slides up all by itself. From my bent-over angle, the first thing I see is a pair of slightly tanned, very male bare feet.

Standing up straight, I take in the sight as it's slowly revealed. I literally have to swallow a pathetic female gasp. He's wearing a plain white T-shirt which has risen up to show me a hard tanned stomach. A smattering of dark hair trickles down into the top of his faded black jeans which are slightly loose and belted with an aged brown leather belt. His hair is messy unruly curls which still look damp. If I were writing a description it's what I would describe as 'Just fucked'.

Oh fuck, was it?

From some sad desperate female place inside me, I hope not.

"Hello," I say with a polite smile.

He doesn't respond. He just smiles a small reserved smile. He doesn't look angry though so that was good. No, there are a whole host of adjectives I would use to describe how he looked right now but angry isn't one of them.

"You getting out?" He asks. I nod and my body lurches forward. As I do I glance along the corridor and see a door open, which he gestures toward with his large eyes.

He follows behind me in silence, the weight of his stare heavy on me. Why isn't he talking? Why on earth did he invite me over if he didn't want to talk to me? Maybe seeing me reminded him of exactly how annoyed at me he was?

As I walk through the door of his flat I stop dead in my tracks. This isn't his bloody studio. This is his flat. In fact, the term 'flat' doesn't quite cut it. It's huge. It's a loft. One of those artist lofts you see in magazines or Bon Jovi videos. It stretches the entire length of the building and then disappears around a corner. To my left is a large open plan stainless steel kitchen with a solid wood island and lots of exposed brickwork walls, the same colour as the outside of the building.

On the opposite side of the room is a huge wooden dining table scattered with paper and a laptop. There's a raised section beyond the kitchen which looks like a glass greenhouse with white sheets hanging on the inside, which I assume must hold his bed. Ahead of me at the far end of the room is a large sitting area, with three grey sofas arranged in a square in front of a huge flatscreen TV on the wall.

As I hear the door close behind me I turn to face him. He has his hands deep in his pockets and that small smile on his face. It makes his eyes light up. When he doesn't speak, and the weight of his stare starts to feel too heavy I clear my throat.

"Well thank you for agreeing to meet with me," I start. Fidgeting with the strap of my brown shoulder bag. "I know how busy you must be. So to see me today is really nice of you."

He raises an eyebrow. "Nice of me? Really?"

Oh, the accent. Deep and male and very... Irish. Sasha was absolutely spot on as it turned out.

"Well, yes." I nod, confused.

He smiles deeper before turning and walking towards the large black fridge. "You want something? A drink? Hot? Cold? I never know what to drink here. Feels like I'm on holiday which makes me want alcohol, but then I always want alcohol so..." he shrugs running a hand over the back of his neck casually.

He always wants alcohol? Does he have a drinking problem? When I don't answer he turns and looks at me, expectant.

"Um. Sorry. Yes. Water please," I nod. "Water would be nice." My voice is a strange measure of over-politeness. It's the voice I use when I see my doctor.

"Nice," he repeats quietly under his breath. "You'll be wanting a glass I take it?"

Why does it sound like he's mocking me?

"No. The bottle is fine." I say, reaching out to take it from him, meeting his stare as I do. The bottle is cold and suddenly I'm very very thirsty. He opens his bottle and takes a long sip and though his beard obscures his throat somewhat, his Adam's apple is still visible. The sight of it bobbing as he drinks, makes my stomach flutter. When have I ever noticed a man's Adam's apple?

What I can't seem to take my eyes off of though are his hands. They're beautiful. The skin is smooth, the fingers long and shapely, the veins large and pronounced. They travel across the backs of his hands and up his arms disappearing under the sleeves of his T-shirt. His hands look strong, but with the potential to be tender and gentle.

Jesus Christ, am I fantasising about his hands? And his Adam's apple.I really need to get a grip here. I'm a married woman. I don't think I've stared at Oliver's cock as much as I seem to be staring at Aidan Foley's hands.

He puts the cap back on his bottle and walks toward me. When he's close, a foot or so away he stops and runs a hand through his perfectly rumpled hair and across his mouth and beard.

"So," he says, expectant. It's like he wants something from me, and I have a feeling I know exactly what it is.

"Mr Foley, first of all, I want to apologise for what I said last night. I truly had no idea who you were," I shake my head, "I would never have said... well... I mean would never have been so forthright had I known who's work I was looking at. It was so rude." I shake my head again. I feel the heat creep up my face. "I was mortified."

He says nothing. Just stares at me, that same, small (sexy) smile hovering over his mouth. Nothing in his expression has changed since I began speaking. I contemplate more apologising but think better of it. What the hell does he want from me? Blood?

"Aidan," he says finally. "Nobody calls me Mr Foley."

He steps toward me and then past me and walks ahead into the lounge and I glance after him as he goes towards the sofa in the centre of the room and takes a seat. I follow and choose the one opposite him, my back to the window. As I sit I pull my arms and knees tight together, afraid of taking up too much of his space.

His stance is relaxed. Utterly. His legs are open and he's slouched back looking like he doesn't have a care in the world. Maybe he doesn't? His eyes though. They're not relaxed. They're alert and shrewd, and... smiling. So it is possible to smile with just your eyes.

"You were saying? Apologising I think?" He gestures with his hand for me to go on before resting the bottle of water between his legs, against his crotch. I swallow.

"I was."

"For having an opinion? That right?" He frowns. Sexily.

"No. For verbalising that opinion in the way I did. Rudely."

He nods. "Because you didn't know who I was."

I can't tell if its a statement or a question and I can't decide whether to shake or nod my head. So I do neither.

"I had no idea who you were, no."

"What would you have said if you had known who I was?" He lifts the bottle to his lips again. "And I'd asked for your opinion about my work."

His question stuns me a moment. Why would he ask my opinion about his work? What would I have said?

"About your work generally or your film?"

His mouth quirks and he leans forward on his knees. "About my work. Video Installations aren't for everyone, I get that. Especially those that want to take something out of you."

"Take something?"

He nods. "Right. Happiness, pain, guilt, disgust." He places the bottle on the table and shoves a hand through his hair. "Static art is a lot more abstract than moving images. People know that art has been put there. It's man-made. The images in film are real people. It harks back to the old days when folk were scared the camera was trying to steal their soul." His hands are expressive and distracting and I don't know whether to look at them or his face. His mouth or his eyes. "Which in today's selfie-obsessed society I firmly believe it fucking is. Constantly trying to show people how fucking happy you are. I don't get it. Maybe it's my soul they're stealing who fucking knows?" His voice has gone from relaxed and conversational, to passionate and intense in less than thirty seconds.

I take a deep breath. "That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. Selfies aren't art though. Your video made me feel miserable." I admit.

"So you lied last night then?"

"What?"

"When you said you couldn't feel art. You lied."

I take a moment to think over his words. "I suppose I did. Though it wasn't intentional. I just never thought of it like that. But I didn't enjoy looking at your art, Aidan. I'm sorry. "

"You're apologising again."

I nod. "I am."

"So don't.' It sounds like an order. 'You don't have to apologise for feeling like that. For feeling fucking miserable looking at it. I felt miserable making it. It's bleak and depressing and you fully got its intention. It just so happens that some people enjoy looking at other peoples misery." He lifts his water again and sips at it before resting it back between his legs.

"I've always considered misery more of a solitary activity." I force a smile.

He smiles back and it sends a prickle of heat across the back of my neck, between my legs. "You have a valid point there."

"Well, to answer your question..." I shift on the chair, skirting my gaze from the intensity of his. 'If I had known who you were and you'd asked my opinion about your work then I would have said I'm only here for the free champagne.'

He chuckles softly and nods. "Fair play."

"But now... Now that I've had ample time to consider it, I'd say you are a very talented director." He looks faintly surprised. "The film was haunting. Cinematic. Moving. It made me want to cry.' An image of the little boy's eyes flash loud and bright in my mind and I swallow, looking down. "It reminded me of an old piece of silent film, but contemporary somehow."

I hope I haven't insulted him again. For all I know he hates cinema. Especially silent cinema.

"Well, I would have said thank you, so thank you. Coming from you that means a lot," he says this with a glint in his eye. I feel my cheeks glow and I look down at my hands.

"So why are you here... Mrs Alford?"

"Eloise," I correct.

"Eloise," he says, his accent rolling around my name. I like it. "Why are you really here?" He asks. My heart starts to beat, rapidly. Does he know why I'm really here? "You wanted to talk to me about one of my pieces? Which one?"

Thank god. My body relaxes.

Fuck. Which piece? I don't know any of his pieces. Fuck. My mind goes to the colourful pastel one I saw just before I came here. But did it have a name? Why didn't I go look at it? Jesus this is embarrassing. As if I needed to embarrass myself anymore in front of him. This was a half-arsed plan.

"I'm truly terrible at art," I say. "That much you may have gathered already?"

"Well, I've gathered that you think my art is terrible." He's smiling, sexily, again.

I cringe. "No. God no. Aidan, I don't think that. You're very talented. That much is obvious. I'm just truly awful at all kinds of art. I see nothing behind it. I see colours and shapes and sometimes the wrong ones. It drives my husband insane. We went to The Louvre once and the only thing I had to say was that my feet hurt and I was hungry. I honestly couldn't understand why people were queuing in droves around the Mona Lisa."

"Yeah well, the Mona Lisa is overrated," he says flatly. "It's a symbol that's all."

I'm not sure what he means by 'a symbol' and so I just nod. I've honestly never seen the obsession with the Mona Lisa. It's dreary, the colours are horrible, and the woman has zero personality.

"Well, what I mean is, it's actually for my husband - the painting. He wouldn't stop talking about it.' How easily my lies are coming now. 'He said it was pastel colours, a woman maybe? Lots of harsh angles. It was striking, he said. So I thought I might buy it for him. As a gift. Do you know which one he might have meant?"

I smile a demure smile. It's flirtatious and shy. It's the smile I give when I want a man to think I'm delicate and in need of protection. Which I'm not. Which I've never been. It had worked on Oliver though and it had never failed me yet. Though did I want this particular man to think I was delicate and weak?

Aidan smiles, but only with his mouth. It doesn't reach his eyes. He nods.

"Yeah. I know which one he meant."

"Great! Perfect! Then I'd like to buy it for him." It occurs to me then that once I buy this painting that's it. No more contact with Aidan. This little... whatever it is... is over. The thought deflates me.

He sits forward on his knees again and rubs his hand over his short, perfectly trimmed beard. His white t-shirt has a wide neck and I can see a lot of soft slightly golden skin under a sprinkling of dark hair just at the base of his throat. Of its own volition, my mouth waters.

"You could have done this at the Gallery?" He says, reasonably. "Made an offer to purchase it. Why did you need to speak to me in person for this?"

My whole face seems to burst into flames and my heart stops beating for a moment. I can't breathe. He knows. Or if he doesn't then he bloody well suspects. God knows how the hell I manage it, but I keep my eyes firmly on his, and my expression utterly impassive.

"Well, Nicole and her husband are good friends with Oliver, and well, I want this to be a surprise. I thought by speaking to you directly there was less chance of it being spoiled." My voice is steady, I'm certain it is. He stares at me a long time, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his bottom lip.

"Well, I can't sell you the painting, Mrs Alford," he says after what seems like hours. He's not kidding.

"Why not?" I frown. "Is it because you don't think I'd appreciate it? Because despite my ignorance, it would be looked after, Aidan, I promise you. Oliver is a massive art lover and I know he'd cherish it." My voice is sincere if a little desperate.

Aidan's mouth is set in a firm line, eyes dark and hard. He looks immovable. He looks angry actually. Angrier than I'd seen him at the gallery. Actually, he didn't look angry at the gallery. He does now though. Offering to buy his painting had somehow made him angrier than my critique?

As I see very little room for negotiation I nod and stand.

"Well thank you anyway."

"Please sit down," he says. The tone of his voice takes me a little by surprise. It's soft but forceful. I do as I'm told and sit back down.

"It's got fuck all to do with whether you'd appreciate it or not. To be honest I don't give a shit who has my work hanging in their offices, or morning parlours or games rooms." He smirks sarcastically. "I also don't look down my nose at people who don't like art, whether it be my work or Da Vinci's. People like different things. Simple as that," he shrugs. "It's just that before you came over, the gallery told me that most of my stuff sold last night, including the piece your husband liked. No one bought the video though. So I'm more than happy to sell that to you if you'd like? Maybe you can get a projector and play it at every party you and your husband have from now on? Birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas." He stops talking as a chuckle escapes from his mouth. His laugh is infectious. Deep and soft. But it sounds bitter too.

I smile, relieved that the atmosphere is lighter than it was a moment ago

"Well, that's great. Not for me, but for you. Congratulations, Aidan," I say. I mean it.

I resolve at that moment to go back to Nicole's Gallery as soon as possible and have a proper look at Aidan's work. It deserved that much. He deserved that much. Plus, now I was curious about him. About his life. About his misery.

"Thank you," he says meeting my stare with an intense one of his own. He looks down at his hands, rubbing his palms together slowly. Neither of us speaks for a few moments but then he looks up, as though a thought just occurred to him.

"You really wanted to buy that piece?" He asks. There's something searching in his tone.

"Yes, I did," I nod.

I hadn't realised quite how much until this moment. Like Oliver, I also wanted a piece of Aidan Foley art hanging in our house, questionable motives aside. I'm disappointed that it now wasn't going to be the case. Aidan nods slowly, his gaze turning deeply thoughtful in the last few moments.

Unashamedly I study him as he seems to be doing with me. His skin is more perfect than I'd seen on any supermodel we'd ever shot for the magazine. He had no right.

"I guess if I hadn't insisted we leave last night after my faux pas then we wouldn't have missed out. My fault," I admit.

"I have a proposition," he says.

"What.. sort of proposition?" My heart rate quickens as all manner of ideas run through my head. Not all of them socially acceptable. In fact, most of them definitely not socially acceptable.

He smiles then, fully, and I feel my legs weaken even though I'm sitting down. It's a real smile. It makes the sides of his eyes crinkle adorably. I smile back with a smile nowhere near as perfect as his.

He rubs both hands across his face, covering his mouth and hiding his smile.

"Ok... You really don't want to know what I was about to say there." He chuckles with a shake of his head. I want to tell him that I do in fact want to know what he was about to say there. That I probably won't sleep tonight if I don't know. "Ok, sorry... head in the game, Foley. Well, I was going to suggest, that is if you're that keen on one of my pieces, that I could do a commission for you. Or for your husband as the case may be?"

My mouth drops open. "You'd do that? You'd create a piece of art, for me?"

"Yes. I would," He says, sincere.

I take a moment to process this. Then another. I don't deserve it. God knows I don't deserve it But christ do I want it.

"God, Aidan, that would be incredible. Exciting and incredible. Unsurprisingly, I have no idea how it works or what it costs but hopefully we can work something out."

"I've never done it either actually. I make stuff for myself because I'm miserable and it keeps my mind occupied. Out of mischief." He gives me an odd look then. "Then I charge people a fortune to come and look at it that is. But it's pretty straight forward: you tell me the sort of thing you like, and well... I already know the sorts of things you don't like."

I look down, embarrassed. "Yes, you do."

"But I do have one request. Or one condition rather."

"Oh, of course. Anything," I nod, excited, a strange girlish lightness having taken over my body. Aidan is creating art for me. The thought does something to my insides. The idea of him thinking of me as he worked was almost carnal. Getting dirty, sweaty, and exhausted as he made me something touched a baser part of my soul. It was inexplicable beyond that. "What's the condition?"

"I want you to be the subject," He says, his gaze unflinching.