I don't want to be here.

Why does he do this to me? Why does he always insist I come to these things? He knows how I feel about pretentious art, yet he drags me along all the same, warning me with his eyes to smile and be sociable. Even now.

I'm not even convinced Oliver knows what this kind of crap is about. In fact, I'm convinced that even the person who made it has no idea what it's about. I'm convinced they create something so meaningless and puerile for the sole purpose of laughing to themselves as critics fawn over it with enough sycophantic phrases to choke a horse.

It's so evocative of the darkness that dwells within the human psyche and the deep division of the soul between the morality and mortality of being.

No, it's a bloody fruit bowl. Honestly.

To be fair, this exhibition isn't as impenetrable as some of the others he's dragged me to. I can see some photos on the far side of the room, just beyond where the wide, white, wall on wheels is displaying several abstract colourful paintings. The artist seems to paint in bold brash colours, but photograph in dark monotones. I'm not sure if this is his style or if it's just coincidence. I've no clue about this artist whatsoever. Some up and comer apparently. Morely Prize winner. New York Debut. Blah blah blah.

Alone, far from the paintings and photos, is the award-winning focal point. A looped video installation being projected onto a large space partially cordoned off from the rest of the gallery. It looks like this guy can't even decide what sort of pretentious crap he wants to torture us with so he's covering all bases. Lucky us. Luckier me.

With a loud sigh, I move to try and get a better view of the film beaming at us from the fifty-inch screen. It's not a fruit-bowl. It looks like an image of the sea, but the film is fuzzy and looks deliberately aged so it could easily be a close-up shot of genitalia for all I know. The picture dissolves and becomes a rusty gate, swinging open and closed in the wind, beyond which lies a run-down garden shed crumbling on all sides. It's the most pitiful, lonely-looking shed I've ever seen. It makes me feel even more depressed. How on earth does a shed have the ability to depress?

I close my eyes and try harder to not think about the thing that Dr Cohen told me I need to think about and should think about. The thing I shouldn't be afraid of thinking about. The thing I needed to stop hiding from. Oh, if only I could bloody hide from it.

Ignoring all of her advice, I push it from my mind and look back at the film. I could be at home not writing instead of being here. I could be watching the entire boxed-set of Downton Abbey or Sherlock instead of being here - anything to convince myself that if I block out the area surrounding the TV I could be on the couch in our house in London.

Suddenly I feel eyes on me and I turn around to look at him standing twenty feet away. My husband. My smart, handsome, successful husband. His eyes aren't on me though, they're on Nicole who runs the gallery, and her short husband Jordan (The fact that we now know a grown man called Jordan amuses me. You couldn't write this kind of stuff - well, I suppose I could. Once I would have been able to.  But I seem to have forgotten how to write entirely these days so maybe even I might struggle) Yes, our new best friends were the reason he'd dragged me here tonight. They invited us.

Ellie, we can't not go... he's a Morley prize-winning artist... you know you'll feel better once you get dressed up...

In other words: you look like shit Eloise, get your act together and get out of the bloody apartment. Oliver had started calling our flat an apartment. Even though if we were in London it would be our flat. But we weren't in London, we were in New York, and in New York Oliver called flats 'apartments' and more recently, lifts 'elevators'. When I caught him doing it the other day I'd just stared at him open-mouthed. He didn't know why I was staring.

As I stare hard at the Morley prize-winning artist's miserable film, I realise with some clarity that I'm basically the little child in The Emperor's New Clothes. I don't get it. Everyone else around me seems to be getting it, while I just stare at it, blankly. It does nothing for me except make me want to cry. Though since I always want to cry these days it's entirely possible it's not all the film's fault.

"So you look like you're concentrating really hard," an accented voice says from my right.

Startled, I look around, and then up a fraction at the tall form standing next to me. He isn't looking at me, he's looking at the crumbling shed, and it gives me a chance to absorb him.

Tall, with a lean and compact build, his profile is of a neat well-kept light brown beard, a very straight nose, and lightly tanned smooth skin. His hair is a messy mop of chestnut brown, a shade darker than his facial hair. On first inspection, he's certainly not unattractive.

I glance back to the shed. Except it's not a shed anymore, it's an electrical pylon on what looks like the outskirts of the ugliest town I've ever seen. Strewn with broken buildings. Wide-open crumbling urban spaces overgrown grass, and haphazard graffiti, it could be war-torn Sarajevo for all I know.

Yes, this is definitely one of the most depressing things I've ever laid eyes on.

"Yes, I am concentrating hard. On being anywhere but here," I say, which causes him to chuckle softly.  The depressing video installation is called 'Anywhere but here'.

"Ah. Thought I spotted a foreigner," he says with a smile in his voice. His accent on second hearing is definitely Irish. Low, soft and almost melodic. I'm not great with accents; all celt accents sound the same to me which is probably racist or something, but his is strong and distinct, meaning it's Northern Irish. The only one I can ever tell apart. The only one I've never found particularly attractive until right this moment. When I look at him again he is looking at me.

Oh.

My breath falters slightly as we make eye contact. His eyes are... something else. Large and deep, and a kind of blue-grey colour that actually sparkle under the bright gallery light. It makes the corneas look like moving water. They might possibly be the only thing that this light doesn't make look a million times worse. As he stares at me, his pretty, neat mouth is quirked up in a sardonic half-smile.

"Sense a kindred spirit did you," I ask, smiling back. His smile deepens and he nods slowly, bringing a hand up to brush it over his facial hair. A little long for my liking. Normally.

"Something like that. You looked a little... lost," he narrows his eyes on me curiously. Do I look lost?

I smile politely, feeling momentarily uncomfortable under the weight of his eyes. I look back at the pylon. It's still a pylon. But there's a dead bird now too. When I glance up away from the image I see that some of the other pylon viewers are looking over at me curiously.

When I look round at Irish again he's still watching me with a half-smile, half-frown on his face, as though I have a difficult maths question written on my forehead. There's something in his stare, something I don't quite understand. He opens his mouth to say something, but quickly decides against it and turns abruptly back to the screen.

Folding one arm across his chest and resting the other on top of it, he begins to scrape his fingernails across his mouth thoughtfully as he studies the film. I notice he has nice hands for a man. Something I've always appreciated in the opposite sex. His fingers are long and elegant, yet somehow still masculine, and are topped off with neatly clipped fingernails.

"So I take it you don't like it then?" he says, cocking his head to the side to study the thing harder. I don't have to look back at the screen to confirm. So I don't. I keep my eyes on him. He's becoming easier to look at the longer I stand here.

"Honestly, I think it's one of the most depressing things I've ever seen. I don't get why anyone would enjoy this." I sound a little angry. Or bitter. Probably both.

Angry that Oliver brought me here and bitter that people are standing around in awe of something that I can't even be bothered pretending to enjoy. He chuckles again. Again it's low and softy and rather sexy. Something I'm certain he probably knows. Vaguely I wonder if he's trying to pick me up? Is he here alone? I glance behind us but see no obviously jealous female ready to claw my eyes out. Though people are definitely staring at us now.

"Really?" He turns back to me. "Well, maybe you aren't supposed to enjoy it, maybe you're supposed to feel it?" He challenges. He looks amused now.

What's so amusing? It's like he can tell I don't understand a thing about art and is having a go at mocking me. Also, why is he still looking at me like that?

More importantly, why do I feel strange with him looking at me like that? Studied. Bristling with warmth.

I swallow and my eyes narrow a little. "Well, maybe I don't have the ability to feel art. Perhaps I'm a normal person. Maybe I look at art and I feel emotion?" My voice is more heated than I intended as a flush of something defensive heats my cheeks. 

Turning away from him, I sip at my champagne in a hope to cool my mouth down. Why did I just snap at this complete stranger?

Then, I realise why.

Because when he first spoke to me and smiled at me, I thought I'd found a co-conspirator. A kindred spirit; someone else who could tell that the emperor was totally bloody naked. He's disappointed me.

The dead bird pylon combo was now a little boy. A very cute but very scared looking little boy with brown curls and big eyes that stare straight at me, into me. My stomach lurches and my chest constricts and I need to look away quickly. It makes me think about the thing I'm supposed to think about but can't. As I glance away from it, I notice that the people staring at us were now whispering. What on earth are they looking at?

"Sweetheart, I see you've managed to nab the man of the hour," Oliver says smiling brightly as he seems to appear from nowhere. He's not smiling at me though, he's smiling behind me. At Irish.

When I turn around to glance confusedly at Irish, I see him looking from me to Oliver as though unsure of which of us he should look at. I'm aware that calling him Irish is a little reductive, but the only alternative seems to be 'attractive bearded guy' and I don't think that's particularly ideal either. Jordan, in his immaculate suit and expensive teeth, steps forward and stretches his hand out to Irish.

"Aidan, what an absolute pleasure to see you again," Jordan beams, "this is absolutely spectacular. When Nicole told me about the piece and wouldn't shut up about it I knew tonight would be the talk of the city." He looks at Nicole who is also beaming. Her smile may be worth even more than Jordan's. "I actually said to her I'd do whatever I could to ensure that we got you for The Weston. But I honestly love the piece. It's so vibrant and affecting, but dark too — really evocative of the human soul..." Jordan drones.

Aidan.

Aidan's piece. This is Aidan. Aidan Foley.

In my mind, I see the invitation with his name emblazoned on the front in bold grey letters. Attractive beard guy is the prize-winning artist. This is his exhibition. The realisations come thick and fast then, battering me over the head.

Jesus Christ. Kill. Me. Now.

I'd stood next to him and verbally demolished his creation, whilst he'd just stood listening and smiling sexily.

The heat of mortification washes over me, suffocating me. I feel foolish, dry-mouthed and far too hot as I stand there and mentally beg for the ground to swallow me whole - preferably regurgitating me on the couch of our house in London, or anywhere, as long as it was far away from this man standing to my right.

When it doesn't happen, I look up at Oliver who's smiling cheerfully at Aidan and nodding. (Why couldn't I just have done that? Smiled cheerfully and nodded?) Nicole meanwhile beams, mentally undressing Aidan with her eyes I think while Jordan drones on and on.

When I look back at Aidan, he's nodding politely, casually rubbing his finger along his lip in a serious artist type way. He looks relaxed if a little uncomfortable with Jordan's exultations. Perhaps he's forgotten all about what I said.

Except, every now and again, his eyes drift to me and his mouth quirks up playfully, his grey eyes filled with humour.

So now, in my mortification, we were finally co-conspirators.

I try and avoid looking at him entirely but find that I can't. My head keeps turning back to him as if independent of my body.

Yes, I think he definitely looks uncomfortable with Jordan's verbal worship. But then I don't know him very well. He could just be uncomfortable standing next to me after my thoughtless, needless critique of his award-winning video installation. I lean into Oliver and whisper that I need the toilet, which earns me a look that says - this is Aidan bloody Foley Ellie, how can you even think about bodily functions? - which I choose to ignore. As I pass, Aidan catches my eye and smiles again. Of course, he has perfectly even white teeth behind that pretty pink mouth.

Inside the bathroom, stylish New York gallery-frequenting women are gushing candidly about the integrity of Aidan's work and about how much of his tortured soul comes through the stark imagery on show. It makes me cringe all over again.

They're also gushing about how they didn't know he was going to be quite as good-looking, and how they'd love to help him with his tortured soul given half the chance.

At least this part I could relate to. The guy was certainly very good-looking. I find an empty cubicle, lock the door and sit down on the lid. I need to figure out a way to escape. Leave. Never set eyes on the man again. How the hell can I hang around here socialising with him after insulting his work to his face? How utterly mortifying.

Oliver will be annoyed when I tell him I want to leave, angry probably. He'd say, for the hundredth time, that I had to stop this and start living. He'd say that doing normal things that normal couples do was the only way things could get better for us. Maybe I could just tell Oliver the truth? Tell him that this wasn't about moping, this was actually about the fact that I'd just insulted Aidan Foley to his face and that if he'd heard what I said he'd probably want to leave too. He'd be annoyed and angry about that too though.

But then, he was angry and annoyed at me a lot these days so what did one more time matter. Or maybe I could just go apologise to Aidan? What could I reasonably say that wouldn't sound like a back-pedalling lie? He'd heard my true feelings, uncensored. I didn't enjoy the piece; it was a dead bird and an old shed and it was depressing. I hide behind my hands as I re-live it all over again, cringing anew. Bloody idiot.

Bugger it. I'm just going to have to deal with Oliver. He was in a good mood. Manageable. I take my time fixing my make-up in front of the mirror - though since I don't wear a lot, it isn't nearly long enough. Essentially all I do is pick a few loose strands out of my up-do and touch up my lipstick and take a deep breath. With any luck, Jordan and Nicole will have stopped fawning and Aidan would now be mingling with his many other admirers. People who hadn't needlessly insulted him on his opening night.

As I come out of the bathroom, I look stealthily across the large space to where I left them and breath a sigh of relief when I see Oliver standing alone. He's observing Aidan's piece as he sips on his champagne. Jordan, Nicole and my newest fan aren't anywhere to be seen. As I scurry over to Oliver he turns and stretches out his hand for me to take, letting him pull me into the comfort of his body. I close my eyes and lean my head on his chest.

"He's an interesting guy," remarks Oliver.  "What were you talking with him about before we came over?"

I swallow. "The film. I honestly didn't know who he was."

"I wouldn't have known him either. He's pretty reclusive. Apparently, he refused to give Nicole a photo for the program. Guess it all adds to his allure..." there's an almost wistful note to Oliver's voice.

"I guess..." I admit.

"Bleak though..." he says, half hypnotised by the film. I follow his eyes back to the screen. It's a shed again. So the misery is a loop.

Well, at last: something about his work I could relate to.

I take a deep breath. "Babe, would you mind if we called it a night? Feel a bit lightheaded. Probably all the fresh air, and other people." I turn my head up to smile at him, playful. His eyes cloud for an instant but then they soften on me, and he leans forward and kisses me gently on the mouth.

"You don't want to see any of his photos? They're pretty remarkable." He touches his lips lightly to my forehead and I nuzzle into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent and comforting warmth. I feel close to him in this moment, closer than I've felt to him for weeks and I want more than anything to say yes. I try for a compromise.

"I had a glance over as we came in but it was crowded over there." I look over at the far side of the gallery, where people are still huddled around Aidan Foley's remarkable photos. "Why don't you buy some and we can look at them at home?" I say against his chest.

He looks down at me, eyebrow raised. "Buy some? I thought you hated this sort of stuff?"

"I do. But you love this sort of stuff and I love you so..." I shrug with a smile. Oliver smiles back.

God, I adore his smile. It's bright and dashing and it reminds me of why I married him. Actually, it reminds me of why I fell into bed with him. Marrying him came later. Loving him later still.

"So stay and help me pick some. You'll have to put up with them in the apartment," he gives me his boyish grin. He's 9 years older than me but doesn't look it. Especially when he smiles like he's smiling now.

"Well, you know I like surprises. Plus, I have a headache and that doesn't really make for a healthy consumer state of mind," I say. He stares at me for a moment before dropping his shoulders and stepping back to take hold of both my hands.

"Ok, let's go home." He leans forward and presses a kiss to my forehead. "The show's here for the next six weeks, I'll arrange with Nicole for us to come down and take a look when it's empty? How about that?" He says.

I reach up and wrap my arms around him, leaning up on my tiptoes to kiss his mouth. His lips move against mine, his tongue tasting of champagne and familiarity. When he breaks away he licks his lips and smiles down at me, eyes glinting with heat. Heat that for the first time in a long time touches something inside me.

"Sounds perfect," I whisper. He pulls me into his chest inhaling deep against the top of my head. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of Oliver rubbing the small of my back in soft circular motions. When I blink open my eyes over Oliver's shoulder I'm certain my heart stops beating for a fraction of a second. Aidan Foley is standing on the other side of the gallery staring straight at me, his large blue-grey eyes inscrutable as they drink me in. He still doesn't look angry or insulted. He looks... Covetous. The word blasts loudly through my mind.

He's looking at me like a hungry man might look at a three-course meal. The goosebumps break out over my body all at once, across my arms and the back of my neck, as a knot of deep heat tightens low in my belly. It eclipses fully the heat kindling there from Oliver's kiss a moment ago. Aidan and I hold each other's gaze for a long time before I hear Oliver's voice break through the fog.

"Sweetheart?" I hear him say. Dazed, I step out of his arms, heart beating fast. Too fast. "Ready?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm ready. Let's go," I nod. My voice sounds breathless. As Oliver pulls me with him towards the door of the Gallery away from Aidan Foley, the urge to look back is overwhelming. I can feel him looking at me still, the heat from his eyes burning me, pulling at me, urging me to turn around. Simply to check whether I'm delusional or not, I give in and turn my head back around.

I'm not delusional.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he watches me, that same curious study, Aidan strokes a long graceful finger along his bottom lip. He looks like he's in a trance, yet he also looks intently focused. On me.

It's unnerving, yet extremely intoxicating. I feel warm and alive, my body thrumming with a dull vibration. When I finally manage to turn my head away from his stare we're out into the New York evening and I'm thankful for the fresh air. As Oliver steps out onto the road to hail a taxi, I take several deep necessary breaths and try and gather my wayward thoughts. Thoughts that are filled mainly with an Irish accent and large blue eyes.

What the hell just happened?