The moment she takes my cock in her hands it feels all wrong.

Her hands are too tanned and her fingernails too long. And she has harsh red polish on them. Eloise didn't have polish on hers. I look down at the blonde head kissing its way down my body. From this angle and under this much alcohol it could be her. Then she looks up.

Brown eyes.

Brown eyes framed with fake blonde hair. Not blue eyes and pale strawberry blonde hair.

She smiles at me and I press my head back on the couch and cover my eyes with my arm in an attempt to focus. How much focus was actually involved in a woman sucking your cock? Should it take this much effort?

When her mouth closes around it I moan but it's more from sheer disappointment that it's not her. I can't believe she's back in my fucking head. And in my fucking life. And married.

The chances of all of those things happening at once, at this point in time, is actually pretty hilarious. I feel myself smile. The laugh breaks out of my throat before I can stop it.

"What's so funny?" The light American accent says.

"Nothing. Just..." I sit up on my elbows and squint down at her. "You know what? I'm way too pissed, sweetheart. Would you mind if we called it a night?"

"You want to go to bed?" She smiles seductively.

See, this was the issue, any other time, I'd be absolutely fine with fucking this girl and not calling her tomorrow. Now I just want her to go. So I can be miserable and alone while I think about her. Then not call her tomorrow.

"Yeah, I do. By myself," I say with an apologetic smile. "Let's do this another time yeah, Lauren? Leave your number?"

She sits up. "It's actually Laurel," she frowns. It makes me feel like a cunt. I am a cunt. "If you want me to go that's cool though," she nods, standing to straighten her T-shirt and fix the thick smooth band of silver hugging her neck. "Mind if I use your bathroom first?"

"Not at all. It's through there past the greenhouse with the bed in it." I nod in the direction of the toilet as I move to sit and tuck myself back into my jeans.

She looks bemusedly at me before turning and strutting off in the direction of the bathroom. I scrub my hands over my face a few times to try and wake myself up. Because contrary to what I just told Laurel I have literally no desire to go to bed right now. I feel like torturing myself some more and getting all the way pissed.

When she comes back from the bathroom she grabs her leather jacket from the back of the couch and throws me a disappointed look. Reaching forward, I grab my sketch pad from the coffee table and flip it to the back. When I hand it to her along with my chewed pencil she takes it from me with a slow smile.

"I'll call you," I offer. Who knows, maybe I would.

No, I did know. I wouldn't call her.

I watch her scribble something on the pad before she hands it back to me, still smiling. "Well, I really liked your show," she says.

I smile. "Thank you." She nods and spins on her heel and saunters out of the loft without looking back. Did I really just refuse sex with an attractive woman? I'm a fucking tit. I glance down at the sketch pad and smile wider, shaking my head.

I was going to put my number on here but what's the point? - Lauren x

Standing, I go to the kitchen and grab the bottle of Bushmills, then the laptop from the dining table, before returning to the sofa to get down to how I really want to spend the opening night of my first exhibition in the states.

First, I type 'Oliver Alford' into Google. So the grinning suited twat was a banker. That much should probably have been obvious. He was 39 and had gone from being some executive at Barclays to being Vice President in charge of Overseas Investments & Capital at JP Morgan. Suddenly his shark-like smile took on a whole new meaning. She'd married a fucking banker. I'd never have imagined it. Not in a million years. I thought she'd marry some professor maybe, or a doctor perhaps, a scientist; someone smart and with fucking integrity. Never a fucking banker.

Over the years whenever I imagined what she might be doing, what she had done, and where she'd gone, I'd imagined her in France for some reason. Or Italy. Writing. In the garden of some vineyard sipping on a cool white wine. I'd known she'd become a writer, had even published a book because I saw it in a bookshop one day and almost knocked the stand over my hands had shaken so fucking much. I thought I might shit myself from how loose my entire body had turned at the sight of her name there in cool blue lettering on the cover.

I'd spent an hour reading it there - scanning the acknowledgements in case there was some cryptic message to some random guy from her past. Unsurprisingly there hadn't been any mention of a scrawny Northern Irishman she'd spoken to in a cafe once. There was only one acknowledgement. To my grandmother, Millie - The strongest, wildest woman I've ever known.

Eloise could write. Raw and immediate and sharp, but with a definite femininity to her prose, I could feel her come through her words. She wrote from a place inside her which was real. I'd bought a copy of her book 'A darkening light' and finished it the same night. Wasn't really my kind of book, bit emotional for my liking, but I'd enjoyed knowing it was her thoughts and words and feelings that had gone into it. It was a story about love, and fate and redemption. A sequel had been touted apparently. Film rights talked about.

What the fuck did Eloise Airens want with a fucking banker ten years older than her? I'd known she liked older men, I guess, the guy in the cafe had clearly been older, but what did she see in this twat? Apart from the fucking obvious of course: money.

Googling them both together was what I'd call a sobering experience. Glad I hadn't thought of doing it any less drunk. It drags up one wedding photo, apparently published in a women's magazine she'd worked for. The caption read: "Ladies, he's officially off the market! And we couldn't be happier for our girl!" Patronising cunts.

In the wedding photo Eloise was wearing a simple strapless cream dress made of lace, hair loose about her shoulders, a circular flower headband of purples and greens settled on top. She was holding a glass of champagne and smiling wide as Oliver Alford whispered something into her ear. He looks handsome I suppose. She looked beautiful beyond belief. More than that, she looked happy. Utterly, completely happy. For a moment, I lose myself in the idea of making her smile like that, making her happy like that. To be the cause of her being that fucking happy.

It was painful.

Alford looked smug of course. Couldn't blame him for it since he'd just married her. I'd have looked fucking smug too. Further research uncovers how they met. Eloise had interviewed Alford for an article called 'The Guys Who Run The World.' (He was apparently number 22 in a list of 50) and if the wedding article was to be believed they fell in love almost instantly, before marrying in an East Sussex castle eight months later. The article is three years old. Had I stumbled upon it earlier, two years ago, or even three, would I be coping better than I am now?

I knock back several long gulps from the bottle as I click on the link to the original article written by Eloise.

According to her, Oliver was 'charming and witty' and 'dresses like the million US dollars he made every hour.' If it was possible to hate him any more, it comes when I get to the part where she asks him what he looks for in a woman.

I almost throw up onto the fucking keyboard:

O: A smart beautiful woman who knows her own mind. Elegance and grace are a must, and beauty too, of course. E: What does beauty look like to you? O: A lot like you actually. [He laughs, charmingly] Whether Oliver Alford charms all the women who interview him, I don't know, but there's something old-fashioned about him, something distinctly Rhett Butler about him. There's a quality which is quite hard to pin down. But one thing is certain, he knows what he wants and knows how to get it.

I could literally picture his grinning cunt face as he read her article afterwards. Had he seduced her before it went out? Or had he decided he wanted her after reading it? Why did it matter? He had her. She married him. Wanker.

Jesus, I hadn't felt this kind of anger for years. Frustrated, self-pitying anger that I was pretty sure I was done with. I slam the laptop closed and grab the bottle before staggering up the metal stairs to the studio.

Might as well make my fucked-off inebriation productive. I always did my best work under the influence of rage and alcohol.

Two hours later I'm covered in red paint and limestone plaster up to my elbows. I'm stinking drunk staring at a monstrosity I don't even remember assembling.

I say staring, mainly I'm struggling to see anything through the whisky fog that's settled over my eyes. Being Irish invariably means my tolerance for alcohol is higher than most. This basically manifests itself in the fact that the bottle is empty and I'm still standing. I was my father's son after all.

I can see her in the curves of red. The arch of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the plump bottom lip in the smudge slashed across the middle. I'd memorised every inch of her and yet I'd still never been able to capture her in any art form. For years after I'd tried to sketch her. She was my go-to doodle. Over a decade ago in that class, she had been my first attempt and clearly not a whole lot had fucking changed.

Well, some things had changed. She'd married a banker.

But she wasn't happy. She was a million miles away from the smiling Eloise from her wedding day, that much was obvious. Whether it's about him I don't know, but all wasn't perfect in the Alford's paradise. Sadistically, it's this thought alone which causes a glimmer of hope to shine through the dark rage brewing inside me.

Staggering back downstairs, I move to switch the stereo on to full blast level despite it being after 4am. New York never slept which was good because I rarely slept in silence. The angry loud post-rock blares at me from a speaker above the bed as I remove my paint-stained t-shirt and drop it on the floor trampling it as I walk to the bathroom. I then spend ten minutes scrubbing my hands raw in the sink before calling it a night. I can't even be arsed removing my jeans, although the urge to stroke myself as I think about her is overwhelming.

There had to be some sort of divine intervention in it. In her being here in New York at the same time as me. At her being at my show. There had to be. Just before I pass out, I start thinking about how the hell I'm going to see her again. Nicole knows them. I'd start there. Tomorrow I'd start there. The last thought as I go under is of her glancing back at me as she walked out of the door of the gallery. Did she look scared? Or had I imagined that?

***

The sound of an air raid siren is the first thing I hear as the light explodes in my eyes and in my temples. What the fuck? Turns out I'm not living in a war zone again. The intercom in this place is just industrial-sized like everything else.

My body creaks and groans as I haul it up from the bed towards it, almost stumbling down the two steps as I go, lunging for the black thing screaming at me from the stone pillar in the kitchen. Why is it so fucking loud? My Irish constitution has a kind of cinderella type expiration point on it - it disappears by morning and so my head feels like it has a herd of fucking elephants in it.

"Yeah?" I croak into the receiver as I scrub my hand over my eyes. I needed to get some blackout blinds for this fucking place. Today.

"Aidan, it's Nicole. I said I'd pop by? It's not a bad time, is it? I didn't interrupt you?" Her New York twang vibrates between my ears stirring the elephants into trampling frenzy.

"Shit, it's noon already?" I glance at the watch on my wrist but remember quickly that I don't wear one. I scrub my hands over my eyes harder this time. "Sure, come up. Sorry, I slept in." I press the entrance button then go open the door for her and go through to the kitchen.

Leaning over the sink, I attempt to flush some of the whisky induced mulch from my eyes and mouth with some cold water. It isn't even remotely successful.

I grab a bottle of water from the oversized fridge and drain it entirely just as Nicole comes flouncing through the door. Nicole Weston is like one of those women you see in lifestyle magazines about New York women. Dark, almost black hair styled so perfectly about her face that I'm convinced the whole head comes out of a box-fresh each day. She's dressed in a light longline blazer and matching trousers, a silk scarf despite the season, and always wears what must be 8-inch heels. I find this amusing since her husband is on the short side.

She smiles brightly with her perfect teeth as she closes the door behind her. "Aidan, hi! How are you? You look well." She lies as she looks over my topless form. Definitely should have put a t-shirt on for a meeting with the woman who is effectively my boss.

"Sorry, had a bit of a late one." I scrub my hand over my beard, then my eyes again, grateful for the moment of darkness it provides.

"Oh, of course. You had every reason to celebrate. You were a massive hit! They loved you. George Dahmer from the circle said he's thinking of moving to Northern Ireland to see if he can discover the next Aidan Foley before anyone else." She claps her hands and laughs. Yet immediately I'm caught in some sort of existentialist panic about why he is looking for another version of me when I'm right here. Though the idea of George Dahmer flouncing about west Belfast with his green tweed suit and red bow tie certainly speaks to my sadist side.

"And Sarah Daughtry from The Standard was equally enamoured. I think she has a crush on you." She smiles girlishly.

I literally have no clue who she's on about. I cannot picture this person at all. There was only one face I could accurately recall from last night. Well, two. The cunt's grin I could remember pretty clearly too.

I smile and nod at Nicole and run a hand through my hair. Why is she even here? Why didn't I foresee I'd that I'd be hungover as fuck before agreeing for her to come here today? I need Pat for this kind of shit. I give her a look that I hope urges her to her point.

"So...... I'm really excited to tell you that we sold pretty much everything," she blurts. "Most of the sketches are gone, which you thought no one would like. Which everyone would 'fucking hate with a passion' I think you said!" she laughs. "Everything went or received offers to purchase. The film and the two paintings you didn't want to sell, and a couple of others are all that's left. We're calculating the final return at the moment, but Jordan estimated it was the biggest opening we've ever had. And we had Lara Clayton. It's really astounding Aidan. You should be massively proud."

She's beaming at me and I don't have to dig far inside to find some surprise. I never expected everything to sell. Not in a million years. I never really expected anything to sell, I never do. My work is difficult to look at, dark in places, too dark. There's some light in there, but it's hard work seeing it. Leaving on the counter, I temple my hands over my nose and mouth in shock.

"Wow. I don't know what to say. Thank you," I shake my head.

"Oh don't thank me, Aidan." She waves her hand. "It's your hard work. Of course, once the reviews get out the place is going to be swamped. I know it. You should seriously think about putting some of the other stuff you have gathering dust at home out there too," she says looking at her watch because she does wear one. A gold one. Rolex I'd guess. "But we have five weeks left of the exhibition, and you still have a few interviews right? I really think depending on how you want to play this, you could find yourself with a lot of open doors come the end of it. Get used to the attention." She smiles again and glances down at my chest, then lower to my torso. She seems to catch herself though and looks away awkwardly.

"Did the Alfords buy anything?" I blurt. What? Am I still drunk?

"Oliver and Eloise?"

I clear my throat in what I hope is a casual way. "Yeah, that was the English couple you introduced me to wasn't it?"

"Yes, yes it was. Um no I don't think so. I know Oliver was keen... I don't think they stayed long enough to get a proper look." She smiles again, apologetic this time. I shrug, nodding, and Nicole claps her hands together. The noise sounds like a starter gun.

"Well, I just wanted to come by and give you the news personally, really well done, Aidan. Oh, and to ask you to dinner at our place next Friday. We're having some people over, we do it every month or so. It would be great if you could come. Bring someone, of course." She nods as I try and wade through my brain for an excuse to say no.

I fucking hate social gatherings. I hate gatherings. I'm not a gatherer.

"Oliver and Eloise will be there, and some other people whom you met last night so it won't be a room of complete strangers." She coaxes because she also knows I'm not a gatherer. She needn't have bothered coaxing though. Because about 4 seconds ago she'd already convinced me.

"Yeah, sounds good. I'd love to come along. I'll bring someone," I nod. I sense it before it happens and flinch just as she claps her hands again.

"Brilliant. Excellent! I'll see you next Friday then, if not before. I'll call when I have the final figures." She picks up her expensive handbag and starts toward the door and I follow her, half dazed, half drunk. "Congratulations again, Aidan"

"Well thanks again to you and Jordan. For taking the chance. It's been a while since the Morley. Who knew anyone would still care." I shrug with a smile. "And sorry I'm such a mess. Was working way too late last night. I felt inspired."

"Oh, you were? That's great. And don't apologise, really." She places her hand on my arm just below my shoulder and squeezes gently. "You actually carry hangover off perfectly. It's the artist in you - and the Irish, of course." She smiles and I offer an awkward half-shrug half-nod and move to open the door for her.

"Guess I'll see you next Friday then," I nod, rubbing the back of my neck, wishing desperately that she was halfway down the building already.

After Nicole leaves I walk across the loft and flick the stereo up loud, changing last night's bitter angry post-rock to something softer. Something that will soothe the elephants.

So I'd see Eloise next Friday. That was something. I'd sold almost every piece in the exhibition and I'd see her in less than a week. Not bad considering the state I went to bed in.

And just like that my hangover starts to fade. Replaced by the hot steam from the industrial-sized shower as it starts to fill the bathroom.

Just as I've stripped out of my jeans the phone rings. I contemplate ignoring it, but something drags me dutifully to the cordless phone by the side of the bed.