As I stare at the thing on the wall with the paintbrush in my hand I start to worry that the more I work on it the less she'll like it. This morning I'd already added some highlights in her hair and a little more depth to her eyes, but I didn't want to over-do it or overpaint it. Especially since she actually liked it.

I'd been up since 6 am having slept the entire night after she left.  I can't remember sleeping so long, or so well, or waking up so early in my entire fucking life. The only time I'm ever awake at 6 am is for a flight, or because I haven't been to bed yet. It's normally torture.  Though not today.  Despite waking up alone with the only smell of her on the sheets for company, and wondering whether I'd dreamt the entire fucking thing, I feel better than I could remember ever feeling.

It occurs to me that letting her go last night was just a taster of how it was going to feel when this was over.  It scared the living shit out of me, to be honest. But she isn't gone yet. She's coming back to me today and that had been the only reason I'd been able to let her leave last night.

I'd thought about that as I'd run around the park this morning. As I ran, I'd played over every minute I'd spent inside her and tried to decide whether I'd be happy with yesterday being all I ever got. I'd gotten more than I ever dreamed I would. I'd held her in my arms as I made love to her. I'd woke up next to her more than once over the course of the day. But in the end, I'd decided that no, I wouldn't be happy for that to be all I got.

I wanted more. A lot fucking more.

I'm shit scared to properly dissect why it had happened, or the events that had led to it, but I'm convinced now that it hadn't been about him or his apparent infidelity.  It hadn't felt like revenge for something he'd done. Eloise wasn't that kind of person anyway — that much I had come to realise. There was no malice in her. Not like there is in me. She'd been conscious and fully aware of what we were doing.  She'd let me use her body for my own pleasure not out of revenge, but because it's what she'd wanted. And I'd let her do the same with mine.

A quiet groan escapes my mouth at the memory of her beneath me, moaning my name as I made her come.

"Bloody hell," I hear from behind me. 

I don't startle and I don't turn around.  Ever since the day the bullet exploded through my mother's body it had taken a lot to startle me.  I lean in and touch the sky grey to the hollow of her neck, my hand placing soft light touches against her canvas skin. With a steady hand, I carve out a slight shadow beneath her hair.

"Fucking big isn't it?" he adds, closer to me now.

"It's 5 by 4, it's not that big," I say quietly, trying to keep my body still. He doesn't say anything more but I feel his eyes watching me for the next few minutes until I pull back from the canvas. I stare at the new spot for a long moment; examining the path my brush just took, before letting out a breath and turning to face him. He's wearing sunglasses, indoors. I want to punch him.  Only blind people should wear sunglasses indoors. I frown at his ridiculousness. "Letting yourself in again, mate?"

"You gave me a key for a reason," he reasons.

"Yeah, in case I locked myself out or lost it when I was pissed," I say.  What if Eloise had stayed the night? What then? Pat would obviously take my secrets to the grave, but I didn't want to give her any reason to freak out and put an end to whatever this was. Pat walking in on us would certainly freak her out.

He gives me a confused look "Hmmmm, I was pretty sure it was so I could bring hot American chicks back here whenever you were out, instead of bringing them to the fucking dump I'm staying in across town," he frowns. "Why don't you go out more, Aidan?"

I give him a sympathetic smile, "Mate, you couldn't get a hot American chick to come home with you if you were the last Englishman on the planet, let's be honest here," I smile.

"Well, that's fucking harsh man, but I'm glad to see you've got your sense of humour back. Well done, where was it?" He holds out the large brown coffee cup. "Get some last night then?"

I give him a look that tells him to mind his own business, then cross to the work table to put the tray and brush down before coming to take the cup from him.

"So, what's up?" I lift the cup to my mouth, "What you doing here at fucking early o'clock?"

"Missed you too, sweetheart," he grins. "Why are you even up at fucking early o'clock? Expected I was gonna have to drag your hungover half dead Irish arse out of bed." He slurps his decaf cappuccino with 45 sugars in it too loudly like he always does.

I shrug, "I slept well,"

"Because you got some?" he smirks nodding. Clearly, he wasn't going to let this one go. "That chick from the gallery you took to Nicole's dinner party?" He looks impressed and the need to correct him is strong. Course I want to scream about what had happened from the rooftops but I can't. How did she feel about it today? No doubt her mind is still the mystery it had always been.

"You're not over here just to ask me about my sex life, though I wouldn't put it past you, you celibate short-arsed pervert," I smile, moving past him towards the stairs. "Why are you really here?"

"Yeah, I live for your yarns of debauchery and tantric sex marathons, Aidan," he rolls his eyes as he follows me down them slurping loudly. "I'm also here to find out why the hell you'd turn down the Weston's offer to extend your show. Especially now that you could make a fortune here, mate. Especially now that the woman you've been in love with half your life is in the same city at the same time. I assume you were pissed when you said no?" He looks genuinely confused.

"Had my reasons," I tell him as I sit down on the sofa.  Had.  Things were a little different now.

"Reasons better than the ones I just gave you?"

"It's complicated Pat," I sigh.

"Oh, I know it is, Aidan. It's you we're talking about fuck sake. When isn't it complicated?" He sits down on his usual chair and slouches back comfortably, too comfortably, as though he's planning on staying a while.

I look at the clock behind his head and wonder how the fuck I'm going to get him out of here before she arrives in two hours. That is if she hadn't woken up this morning filled with regret and guilt and the desire never to set eyes on me again.

No. I don't believe that.  Though even as I say it to myself the panic shoots through me, sudden and cold. It makes me put the coffee cup down by my feet and reach into my back pocket to pull out my phone. Should I call her? Too desperate. I could wait until 12, and if she wasn't here then I could call and demand to know where the fuck she was because we had a piece of art to finish.

It's only 9:45 am. Can I really sit here for the next two hours not knowing what's going through her head?  I could send a text. But texting her seems trivial somehow — I feel like I should send a letter by carrier pigeon or hawk or something. 

Fuck it. I quickly type out a text message debating far too long over the words and what tone to go for — sexual and/or sarcastic seem to be the only two options.  Then I realise that I never gave her my number she only gave me hers so I'll have to let her know that it's me somehow.

Finally, I settle on:

[Hope you slept okay. I did after I stopped crying like a baby. You'll be early again today I presume? Remember, don't bother with underwear this time...]

I switch my phone from silent to vibrate and slide it back in my pocket and cut a look back at Pat.  He's covering his eyes, coffee resting on his knee. Is he asleep?

"Hungover?" I ask as I lift my own cup.

"Nah, just tired. The guy upstairs insists on playing reggae music until the crack of fucking dawn. I've passed him on the stairs too and he's this geeky white guy with black glasses and freckles. What the fuck is that all about?" He looks at me like I have the answer.

"So you'd be okay with it if he had dreadlocks and a beanie hat?"

"No, but at least it would make fucking sense," he groans. "I'm ready to go home, mate. Why am I even still here? You don't need me anymore. When are we leaving?"

I sit back and take a deep breath, focusing heavily on the point of my arse where I want to feel a vibration any moment now. He's right in a sense. I don't need him here. He'd helped me get my stuff over, helped set the show up, and he'd stuck around to make sure I didn't go off the rails and drink myself to death from nerves and the bad reviews which ultimately never came.  He'd done his bit and Roisin would be happy about that. 

I run a hand over my mouth and let out a sigh. "The show has two and a half weeks left. I can supervise getting the shit back home on my own. You can go now if you're really pissed off here. I'll be fine on my own." With Eloise.

He stares at me for a long time, eyes narrow and calculating as he tries to figure out what's going through my head. He knows me far too well so he probably knows that something's not quite right here. I drop my eyes to my coffee cup away from his heavy stare.

"You any idea how much they were offering you to stay?" He asks.

"Never asked," I tell him with a shrug. I sip my coffee and pull out my phone to check just incase. Still nothing. Maybe I should leave it out.

"You wanna know?"

"Not especially."

Pat sighs and leans forward, clearly ready to launch into one of his usual tirades about how I don't take my art seriously enough as a job. That I need to make money from it if I don't want to go back to my old way of living where people expected shit from me at certain times and if I didn't deliver them then I didn't eat. Where my life was just gig after gig, pub after pub. Going nowhere.

But just as he opens his mouth my phone starts to vibrate. It's not a text message. She's calling me. My chest tightens with something. Nerves, panic, anxiety. The lot. I feel sick.

I stand up. "Mate, I need to take this in the bedroom," I say as I leave him sitting there.

Once inside I pull the door closed but leave the curtain open, not wanting to make him too suspicious, before hitting 'accept '.

"I was just kidding about crying myself to sleep," I tell her. "I'm fine, you didn't have to call." My voice sounds weird. Jittery.

She doesn't seem to notice, giggling soft and light down the phone. "Well, that's a relief. I was about to rush over with a box of tissues and some ice cream." She sounds different over the phone.  Her voice abstract and disembodied from the mouth I'd memorised which spoke it. It's a little surreal but I can still see the way her lips move and the way her eyes narrow ever so slightly when she smiles.

"So did you sleep okay?" I ask.  Did you wake up with regret? Are you coming back? Will I ever see you again? I need to see you again.

She hesitates a moment. "Eventually. You?"

"Like a baby," I admit.

"I'm glad to hear it. You did work pretty hard yesterday." She giggles again and it's flirtatious this time. My cock throbs with longing. With memory.

"You are a pretty hard taskmaster."

"Am I?" She asks innocently. "Listen, I know you texted, but I didn't wake you up properly did I? I hate texting. I'd rather call. And I'm always awake so bloody early here. It's the noise of this place. I honestly wish this city would sleep."

I smile at her grumpiness. "Nah. You didn't wake me. What time are you coming over?" I ask brazenly.

When I hear her take a deep breath my entire body tenses up in preparation, in defence. Here we go.

"So after I left last night, and when I got home, I was thinking..."

The tension in my body tightens further and my breathing starts to shorten. She's not coming back. She regrets everything. Of course, she fucking does. Why the fuck wouldn't she? She's married. To a cunt nonetheless but of course she regrets everything. I sit down on the bed and prepare for the worst, my palms dampening with sweat, my throat closing with panic and loss.

"Oh, to hell with it, how are you fixed for the next couple of days?" She blurts, surprising me.

"What?" I ask, my face contorted in confusion. 

"Are you free for the next couple of days?"

My confusion deepens. "Of course I'm not. You're supposed to be coming here remember? We're supposed to finish your piece. Or toss it and re-do it entirely." My voice is calm but my body is tense as fuck and my hand is gripping the phone as hard as my strength will allow.

"No! You won't be tossing anything! You touch that painting and I'll be very pissed off, Aidan, I mean it." She sounds pissed off now.

"Then what are you asking me here?"

"I'm asking... well because, I was thinking about how much I wanted to stay last night, with you, and well I was trying to think of a way that I could stay, with you.." she trails off.

"Okay.... and?"

"Well, I didn't really see how I could not come home without it being obvious. We have doormen, we have a cleaner, it's all ridiculous really..." she sighs, "but I thought that if I actually left the house for a few days, went away for a few days then that would cover it."

"Eloise, I'm so fucking confused right now."

"I know, I know, sorry," she takes another deep breath. "Well, I was thinking that if you were free then you could come with me? Upstate for a few days. I saw a cabin at Lake Placid which looks beautiful, but it doesn't have to be there. I really need to get these chapters of my book finished by next Friday otherwise my editor is going to drop me or go bald — and since I'm finally writing again I really don't want to lose the flow, you know? Well, I guess you do know because it must be the same sort of thing with your work." She hasn't stopped for breath I don't think. I mean she's still talking but I'm not really listening. My mouth has gone from a hard line to a round hole, to a shit-eating grin. I realise she's stopped speaking and is waiting for me to answer.

"Sorry, wait, are you asking me to have a dirty weekend with you, Eloise?" I ask, stunned.

"Ugh. Please don't call it that! But fine, we don't need to sleep together, you can have one of the other bedrooms," she says but I can tell it's because she's embarrassed. I can see her cheeks redden against the pale skin.

"Oh, can I now?" Like that would be fucking happening.

"It was a stupid idea, forget it, I just thought —."

"When?" I cut her off.

"Ummm, well, today until Thursday maybe. Or Wednesday. I need to pay for the full week regardless so it doesn't matter, but I need to call the owner back and let him know. There's a train from Penn Station at 1 pm that takes about four and a half hours. I know it's a while but the scenery is supposed to be lovely," she adds. Oh, the scenery would be lovely all right. The scenery would be her.

"Call him back," I say.

"And tell him?"

"Tell him you'll take it. I'll meet you at Penn station at half twelve."

I hear her let out a breath. "Oh god, really? Ok, great. I think it'll be fun. Won't it? Quiet. Ok, perfect. I'll guess see you later then?" She sounds a little nervous now I think.

"You will."

After she hangs up I sit on the bed for a few minutes to gather my thoughts. Four days with her. My luck was continuing to astound me.

Standing, I walk to the wardrobe and take out my canvas overnight bag and my rucksack from the highest shelf before dumping them on the bed. What to pack?  Though it's not like I have a 'weekend away' wardrobe.

In the end, I throw in a few t-shirts, a white casual shirt, boxers and socks, a pair of jeans, and my favourite woollen jumper. At the last minute, I stuff in my brown boots too. My converse and lightweight jacket I'll wear. As I toss my shower bag into the rucksack I hear a knock on the glass bedroom door. Pat. I'd actually forgotten he was here.

He glances at the bags and then gives me a confused look. "What? You decided in the last ten minutes you were going back as well?"

"Nah, I'm going away for a few days, spur of the moment." I cross to the side of the bed to unplug my phone charger.

"What? Where?"

"Lake Placid," I reply. As I pass I put my hand on his shoulder, patting it. "Looks like you got your wish. Loft's yours until Thursday. Bring back as many hot American chicks as you can get, man. Just strip the sheets after will you?" I throw him a skeptical look.  I zip my charger into the front compartment of the rucksack and try and think what else I need. Paper, my camera, and my computer.

"Who was on the phone?" He asks, his dark over-full eyebrows knitting together.

"No one you need to concern yourself with, mate." I don't look at him as I lift the bags and carry them through to the kitchen, dumping them on the dining table. He follows me, hovering, staring, analysing. When I glance up and give him a long look his expression changes instantly.  The loud sound of his brain as the realisation thunders through it.

Yeah, he knows me well alright. 

His eyes widen and his mouth falls open, trying to form words.

"Fuck off. No way. No fucking way," he shakes his head.

"Your Tourette's are getting worse I see," I say, closing the Mac and cushioning it between a pair of jeans.

"You fucking cunt. You're going with her? You actually are aren't you?" When I turn he's shaking his head in utter abject disbelief.  I leave him to it and shove my camera and cable into the side of my rucksack and zip it. My sketchpad is on the coffee table and I've just discovered I already have about 45 pencils in the inside pocket of the rucksack. "How the fuck did you manage that? What happened? How? When? And how the fuck is it that you and her can fuck off to Lake fucking Placid together without her husband having something to say about it?" He sounds both incredulous and impressed.

"I've honestly no fucking idea what you're on about, Pat."

"Like shite you don't you smug cunt. I fucking knew there was something up as soon as I saw you awake, not hungover and smiling. Proved my theory then did you?" He looks proud of himself now as he nods.

"Just had an early night and a good sleep, that's all."

"Yeah, I'll fucking bet. Thirteen years of pent up sexual frustration must have taken it out of you, mate, surprised you're still standing," he grins. "So was it everything you hoped it would be? Did you hear angels singing?"  As the grin spreads wider I have to try very hard not to mirror it. Letting him think it is one thing. Not denying it another. But telling him outright, that didn't seem right. It was Eloise's business as much as it was mine and I wasn't about to go around sharing her business with people she didn't know. But fucking hell the idea of having someone other than her and me knowing it had actually happened, would definitely make it feel less insane.

"Like I said," I look him in the eye, the hint of a smile on my mouth. "My sex life is none of your business. Focus on your own."

He takes a few steps toward me, nodding. "So do I congratulate you or something?"

I roll my eyes "No. You don't, you fucking twat. You look after my vinyl, you change the sheets in my bed if you manage to find anyone drunk enough to come home with you, and you say nothing to anyone about where I am or with whom, alright?" I widen my eyes on the last part for emphasis.

He frowns, looking insulted. "Who the fuck would I tell,  Aidan? Anyway, couldn't if I wanted to since I don't know who you're going with," he winks.  "Vinyl, sheets, utmost discretion. Got it. Anything else?"

I stop.  Biting down hard on my lip as I think about it, then I nod. "Yeah. Set a meeting up with Nicole and Jordan Weston. Tell them I've had another think about extending my run here."

He doesn't look surprised by my change of heart. He simply nods. "Found a reason to stay huh?"

"The only single one that exists," I reply.

***

Penn Station is mobbed, even for a Sunday. And unlike me, everyone else seems to know exactly where they're going. Despite hating them, she sent a text to say she had the tickets and was waiting near Platform 6 East which meant absolutely fuck all to me. The place is like a busy cave but thankfully pretty well sign posted and after dodging porters and weekenders, I find a set of escalators that take me up to platforms 6-10.

The weird edginess that had settled on me when I left the loft had exacerbated on the subway, and two stops before I was due to get off I finally figured out what it was.  Nerves. I'm fucking nervous. When I'd tried to analyse the fear and what it was I was scared of I'd come up with three possibilities.

1: I was scared she'd see me again and realise she'd made a mistake.

2: I was scared she'd be sick of the sight of me come tonight and want to leave first thing tomorrow morning.

3: I was scared that these few days with her would be perfect. Then when it was over she'd go back to her husband and I'd be alone.

It was the most terrifying and the most realistic option, to be honest. It was what was going to happen.  But the other two could easily happen too. I wasn't an easy guy to be around most of the time — moody, insular, probably boring. She'd scratch the surface and see the real me long before these few days were out and she'd tire of whatever this was.

Just as I'm about to go darker into this train of thought, I see her and I stop moving and thinking entirely.  Like always, she stands out from everything and everyone else around her; like everything around her is out of focus and she is sharp and clear.  Even from the side, she's fucking immobilising to look at. I wonder how many other guys had looked at her today and wondered what lucky bastard got to be with her. For the next four days, I was that lucky bastard.

She's wearing slim fitting grey jeans and an oversized white shirt, her hair knotted at the back of her head and her sunglasses perched on the top of her head. She's on the phone, but as I come toward her she finishes her call, checks her watch and turns around. The second her eyes meet mine her entire expression changes, lightening and softening.  The same thing happens to my entire body, and relief floods through me.  She doesn't look regretful in the slightest. 

Though as I come a little closer she smiles, and I notice it's heavy with something that I'm sure wasn't there yesterday.

"You came," she says looking down, shy.

I shrug. "Had nothing else on. Why not?"

"You know what, I think I've decided to just go on my own," she rolls her eyes and goes to turn away but my hand shoots out to grab her.

She's smiling as I pull her close to me and I notice then there are faint tints of red in the whites of her eyes — she looks tired. Though, even tired and make-up free she's still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.  I lower my mouth towards hers, keeping my eyes open as I kiss her. She closes her eyes and moans softly as I slide my tongue between her lips. She grabs hold of my forearm tightly as though to steady herself, as my mouth explores hers. It's been about 17 hours since I've kissed her but it feels like 17 years.

When I finally pull back from her mouth I find her face flushed and her breathing a little short as she licks the taste of me from her mouth. Nope, I'll never get bored of her reaction to my kissing her.

"You probably shouldn't have done that here," she whispers. "Someone might see," she glances around edgily.

"I'm pretty sure this city is one of the least observant places on earth. I could probably fuck you right here and no one would notice, Eloise."

She blushes. "I mean someone who knows us, Aidan."

I bring my hand up to graze the side of her face, dragging my thumb down her cheek. "I know about five people in this city and you're one of them. What about you?"

"About the same," she says. I slide my hand down her arm and go to take her bag from her but she grips it hard, pulling it away from me. "It's fine. It isn't heavy," she tells me.

"Let me do something for fuck sake, I feel pointless."

"Oh, don't worry, I have plenty for you to do once we get there," she winks, seductively. It makes my groin vibrate.  "Now come on. We should try and find our seats."

Finding our seats isn't too hard. We're in carriage B; she'd reserved seats by the window facing each other with a table in between. The train isn't as busy as I imagine it must be normally but apparently it's the only train that runs this route on a Sunday and so it's not empty either. Eloise looks around the carriage anxiously as she settles into her seat.  She catches me looking at her.

"I'm being paranoid, I know," she says, watching me place our larger bags in the overhead compartment. I smile and slide into my seat across from her.

"So what would you say?" I ask as I reach into my rucksack.

"What?"

I slide the bottle of water I got for her across the table and lean back in the chair and unscrew my own. "If someone you knew, one of your five, got on and saw us," I ask shifting until I find a comfortable spot. "What would you tell them?" I take a sip of my water.

Her eyes widen and she reaches forward to lift the water bottle. "Thanks," she says.

"Least I could do," I shrug. "So?"

"Well, our five are mainly the same. So it's not like we could lie and say we didn't know each other." She unscrews the cap on her bottle and sips. "So I suppose I'd just have to tell the truth," she sips again, shrugging slightly.

"Which is?"

The corner of her mouth twitches with amusement. "That you and I share a very special bond — an interest in the glorious sights along the Adirondack route."

I chuckle quietly as Eloise smiles at me and the train begins to move. Pulling away from New York, Pennsylvania Station, and away from the five people who know who we are. Eloise's expression turns more serious as we start to move, her navy blue gaze looking at me with that unidentifiable addition that I don't quite understand. 

For a large portion of the journey we talk. Or she does. Listening to her talking about her writing is a revelation. I got the impression that she didn't like talking about it, but once she starts she's enthusiastic and excited and extremely articulate about the process and what it means to her. Though she does veer toward the self-deprecation side of the humility scale, something I myself recognise, she doesn't diminish her achievements. She knows how hard it is for a writer to get published and she's bloody proud of herself for making it happen.

She'd written her first novel whilst she was at university, but it took her five years to complete it. It wasn't the first book she'd ever written, apparently she had several at home she'd written over the years. She'd gotten lucky with this one because she'd met a publisher at a networking event for her magazine, pitched it half drunk on gin and tonic and the rest was history.  She wrote for fun, for herself, and for her sanity because writing things down was what she'd always done to clear her head. A fact I already knew because she told me this thirteen years ago the day I never asked her out. 

She'd written for her school newspaper and studied Journalism at London City University but would forever regret not taking the creative writing degree instead. When I point out that she had a book published, and that most people on that course were probably still trying to do that, she seems unconvinced. 

After thinking about her response for a long time she says: "Yes, but I'll never know if I'd have been a better writer if I'd done that course."

Which to be honest is a pointless thing for her to focus on. I mean I'd never know whether if I'd asked her out that day in the café we'd have been married with children by now. Or if the last thirteen years would have been better with her in them.  Actually, I do know the answer to that one.

Like always when she's talking, I lose myself the movement of her mouth and her tongue, and the way her eyes change depending on how she feels about what she's talking about. Absorbed in her completely, I find it very comfortable saying fuck all for long periods of time. Though I'd always been called a good listener — probably because I was shit at talking. 

Like me, she uses her hands a lot, tucking a hair behind her ear, scratching her cheek, touching her neck.  I spend an inordinate amount of time wishing the train would hurry up and get us where we're going so I could touch her. I hate that I can't touch her in public.

As we get further away from the city and into the greener parts of the route, the train begins to empty and quiet. It turns out that the Adirondack route does have some glorious sights and we hit some beautiful scenery that I wouldn't mind catching on my camera. However, the desire to listen to and watch her talk is far stronger.

"What about you? Did you always want to do something artistic?" she asks, tucking her legs up under her.

I shake my head. "No. I never wanted to do anything," I tell her honestly.  "I enjoyed taking photos, making films, painting. But I guess it never really occurred to me that I could make a living out of it."

"So then you must have had someone who encouraged you to give it a try?" She sits forward, leaning on the table to stare at me hard, shrewd blue gaze forcing its way inside me. When I say nothing she nods and runs a hand through her hair. She'd unclipped it about a half-hour ago.

"For me it was my grandmother," she tells me. "She died a couple of years ago, just after I got published. I honestly think she was holding on just to make sure I made it happen. She'd have come back to haunt me if I'd let her down. She had so much faith in me. She'd read anything and everything I wrote growing up — and Christ, some of it was truly awful." Her voice is soft and tender as she talks about the 'strongest, wildest, woman' she'd ever known.  How she'd described her in the acknowledgement page of her book.  When she lets go of the memory of her grandmother and focuses her attention back on me I feel weighed down by it.

"She sounds like a special woman," I say.  The sun streaming in the window has turned her strawberry blonde hair the same golden colour it was in the park that day and makes the silver in her eyes glint. I've never seen her look more beautiful than she does right now.

"She was," she nods. "And what about you? Who encouraged your dreams?"

It's basically the same question she asked a minute ago. The one I hoped she wasn't going to ask again. I take a long time before I answer, not quite sure what sort of response to give her. What kind of response she's looking for. I didn't have a matriarch that I could look to for inspirational stories of how to overcome adversity and push for my dreams. My family was a broken scattered half-dead thing. It was always more about getting on with things.

Auntie Roisin was a practical woman who recognised the need for me to have something to focus on that would keep me out of trouble. She cared for a difficult teenager when she didn't have to. She gave me food and shelter and the love she could. Or rather, the love I allowed her to give me. I'd long learned to live without the kind of love Aunt Roisin was offering me when she took me in, and so had been long convinced I didn't need it. Anger sustained me. Anger at the world. And the people who had let me down. At everything.

Like always, thinking about her at any length makes me feel guilty. I should be there. I should be helping to look after her. They'd found the cancer again just before I left for New York. It was treatable she said. I should still go to New York and show off my art she said. People lived through ovarian cancer all the time she said.

Eloise is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. "I took encouragement whenever I found it, family and friends told me I was good, but it took me a few years for me to believe them and do anything about it. Pat helped a lot in getting me started with my first show."

She nods. "Yeah he told me how you met," she smiles, clearly remembering him with positive thoughts. Not sure how I feel about that if I'm honest. "He's so funny actually, nice." It's ridiculous but I feel my fists tighten with jealousy. Funny? Pat? Terrified she might see the jealousy in my face or hands, but also terrified she might ask me more questions, I shift and slide out of the seat. "Need a piss," I tell her before turning to weave my way toward the cubicle at the end of the carriage.

When I come back from the toilet she's reading. She glances up from behind something called 'The Secret History' and gives me a long indecipherable look. Her eyes look different, a little colder and more closed off. I dunno if it's related to the book or me.  Probably me.

I let out an exaggerated sigh as I sit down. "Are we nearly there yet?" I ask, hoping it puts a smile back in her eyes.

"No," she says and looks back down at her book. "Didn't you bring anything to do on the journey?"

"I was hoping you'd entertain me."

When she glances up it's clear she's trying not to smile. "With what exactly?"

I draw my eyes down her body and raise an eyebrow. The blush spreads outwards from her nose across her cheeks. "Are you actually serious?" She whispers. I give her a serious look and lean forward, stretching my hand across the table to run my index finger lightly across her exposed arm. When I feel her body tremble under my touch it makes my cock jerk to life.

"I'm always serious about being inside you, Eloise." I say quietly. 

Her mouth parts and she moves her arm, hooking her fingers inside my own to graze the pads of mine softly as she meets my eye.

"You're insane," she says but her breathing shortens anyway.

"Thinking about it now though aren't you?" I ask. She doesn't answer and so I decide to go on. "It would have to be fast, and we'd have no space to undress back there." I move forward a little more and bring my hand to the top button of her white shirt to find the skin under it is warm and soft. As I dip my finger inside her shirt to graze the top of her breast she gasps softly. "Probably be easier from behind," I muse.

"Aidan, don't be ridiculous we can't," she shakes her head and drops her eyes, gazing furtively about the carriage. By my count, on the way back from the toilet there was a family of 3 two seats behind us, a single hiker, and a group of German-sounding tourists near the opposite end.

"You've said 'can't' a couple of times to me now, Eloise. I'm gonna stop asking sooner or later you know," I lie. I'd never stop asking her. If I did it would be because I no longer had to ask.

Something flits over her eyes as she looks back at me. "You seriously want us to have sex in a train bathroom?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

I pull open her shirt slightly to see that she's wearing a white lace bra that I'm sure I'd be able to see her nipples though. I groan and my dick begins to throb harder. 

"Depends on whether you promise not to scream this time. There's a little girl back there," I smirk.

Her mouth drops open and she makes a small desperate noise at the back of her throat. I dip my hand further inside her shirt to scrap my nail across her hard nipple. The feel of it makes me want to rip open her shirt to see them. To be honest I'd fuck her right here but getting arrested would only ruin my alone time with her.

"Have you done that before?" she asks me, eyes intense.

"What? Had sex in a train bathroom?"

She nods, her expression stiff now.

I shake my head. "No. I've never been that desperate for anyone before that it couldn't wait."

It's the truth. I'd fucked a lot of women. I mean not a lot, an average amount for a guy who wasn't awful looking I guess, but I wasn't really the adventurous type. Sex was sex.  Sex with her was something else entirely.

"Well, we're almost there," she says, looking pleased by my response.

"What? so you lied when you said we weren't?"

She smiles sweetly, sitting forward so that her face is inches from my own. "We're about an hour and a half away. And I've only heard good things about delayed gratification," she whispers, leaning forward across the table to kiss me.

I grip the front of her shirt and pull her down to me as I slide my tongue deep into her mouth. As I do I feel her grip the hair at the back of my neck tight in her fist and it makes me moan inside her mouth. My need for her only increases as she nips at my lip with delicate licks of her tongue and teeth. She tastes sweet and hot and when she finally pulls back from me I feel slightly pissed —like I've just necked something extremely fucking strong that I should have taken a mixer with.

I watch as she rights her shirt, licks her lips and settles back into her seat before picking up her book again. She glances at me once more, smiling like a fucking temptress, before dropping her eyes back to the page in front of her.

"You really should have brought a book with you," she smirks without looking up.

Oh, she would pay for that. The minute we were alone and there was something I could bend her over, she was going to pay for that.

As it turns out my hard-on takes almost the rest of the journey to subside. At one point I take out my sketchpad and doodle (or try to doodle) the image I've been looking at for the last 4 hours, but like always I manage to capture parts of her while the other parts of her are like moving water.  Impossible to catch. In the end, I put the pad back in my bag and ball my jacket up between my neck and the window to try and get some sleep instead. Looking at her and not being able to touch her, having not been able to touch her for the last 4 hours has been fucking torture.

I must dose off for a good bit because I have too peel open my eyes when she shakes me awake across the table.

"We're about here. Westport," she says.  She's standing up to my right as the family of three retrieve their bags from the overhead. I nod and scrub a hand over my face and turn to stare out the window. I see rather than feel the train slowing down to a stop.

"So this is where the guy is picking us up?" I say as I slide out of the seat.

"Yes," she nods.  Apparently, the owner lived out here and offered to drive us out to the property. "So nice of him. Beats the bus," she smiles.

I nod. I agree. Buses make me travel sick. Trains fine. Boats fine.  Cars fine. Flying metal tubes fine. The furry seats, engine noise, and diesel fumes of buses made me ill.

She stands and wraps her oversized grey scarf around her body, which looks more like a blanket and hikes her brown leather overnight bag up and over her shoulder. She turns to me:

"Oh and just to say, I told him you were my husband." She says it like it's the most natural, obvious thing in the world, whereas my head feels like a bomb's gone off inside it. "I thought it would just be easier to introduce you as my husband rather than the guy I'm sleeping with and all of my ID has my married name on it. I wasn't sure if he was going to want to see something." Her tone is light but something in my face clearly makes her worried. "Is that ok?"

I find a voice from somewhere. "Do I need to put on an English accent and pretend to be Mr Alford?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Um, no. I don't think that's necessary. Just be... husband-like," she shrugs, smiling stiffly.

"Husband-like," I nod. "Ok, I'll give it a go." I sling my other bag on my shoulder before reaching out to take hers from her. She shakes her head and tries to pull away with it.

"Uh-uh," I point to myself. "Husband remember? Pretty sure we carry the bags."

She smiles. "You're right.  It's one of the only things they do. See, I knew you'd be good at this!" She drops the brown bag from her shoulder and lets me take it from her.

We come out of Westport station, which is a quaint looking timber-framed thing surrounded by trees, into a hot clammy summer evening. Though it's muggy, the air smells cleaner and more alive than the dirty Manhattan shit for air I'd been breathing in for the last few weeks. Eloise quickly unwraps herself from her grey blanket and stuffs it into her brown oversized shoulder bag and ties up her hair again.

It's very quiet outside the station and only a few people get off with us, which I guess I'm surprised at. Though I think the train goes all the way to Montreal.  As we come down the steps into the small car park, I see a tall sandy-haired guy in his early fifties leaning against a large green jeep staring in our direction.  He's wearing a check shirt and jeans and looks like he's planning on shooting a deer right after he drops us at the house.

"Mrs Alford?" He smiles leaning up off the car.

"Ted? Hi!" Eloise says warmly.  "Eloise, please."

"Eloise," he beams at her.   "Nice to meet you." He sticks his hand out and she takes it, shaking firmly. "How was your journey? Smooth I hope." Ted has a southern accent kind of like Sasha's only stronger.

"It was, the scenery was so beautiful, breathtaking actually." I find this amusing since I think I saw her look out the window for all of ten minutes before yawning and switching to her book for entertainment.  "Ted, this is my husband, Aidan." She turns and gives me a small, knowing smile. I'm unable to even look at deer hunter Ted because the words 'my husband, Aidan' are just echoing around the inside of my head making a lot of noise.

When she widens her eyes expectantly, I turn to him and shove out my hand and try and look normal.

"Nice to meet you, man," I say in a weird voice.  Must be my husband voice.

He gives me a sturdy handshake and turns to open the boot of the car to let me dump our bags inside. I want to sit in the back of the car with her but I decide to do the husband-like thing and sit in front so deer hunter Ted feels less like a taxi driver. As I open the back door for her and she moves to climb in, I grab her arm and pull her back to plant my mouth on hers. She kisses me back slowly, a small moan coming from her throat.

"Was that husband-like enough or too much?" I ask, licking my lips.

"Hmmm very convincing," she nods, before sliding herself up into the raised back seat. I close the door for her and climb in next to Ted and buckle myself in.

"Thanks so much for offering to pick us up, Ted, it's really appreciated. The last thing you want to do after a 5-hour train journey, is get a bus," Eloise says as she buckles herself in.

"I hear ya. It's no problem at all. Happy to do it," he nods jovially. 

He chats all the way there in his overly-sincere American manner telling us all sorts of things we can do whilst we're there —none of which I have any intention of doing.  The house is a five-minute walk from the village apparently and backs out onto to the lake itself.  At the pier at the bottom of the garden, we'd find a small rowing boat we were free to use. Fishing rods in the shed. I almost ask if he's kidding but it's clear he's not.

As we come into the town the scenery starts to change, becoming shinier and more immaculate. Even the people we pass look healthier.  I'd always thought that about the rich - that it wasn't about the clothes they wore or the cars they drove, it was about the healthy glow in their faces and the sheer number of years they had left compared with everyone else. Poor people mainly looked sick and tired.
Watching the houses as we drive through the place makes me feel out of place, both socially and literally.

Eloise sits forward and nods at Ted's relentless tourism tips about kayaking, hiking, and trekking but tells him politely that we were really just here to relax and enjoy each other's company for a few days away from the city.  I turn to her at this point and she gives me that same seductive smile that makes my dick groan with want. Ted tells her the place is perfect for that too.

Finally, we turn off onto a gravelled road lined by very tall, very green trees through which I spot the lake. A huge, glittering, grey-blue expanse that seems to stretch for miles. The height of the sun in the sky and the time of day illuminates it in a soft early evening glow which makes it look almost metallic.

We drive along the lakefront for another few minutes and it occurs to me that I haven't seen another house for at least the last ten.  So she'd chosen seclusion. She wanted to be this alone with me?  I can't decide if I'm scared or fucking delighted. I see the house a second later; a large, two-storey, wooden structure with lots of glass windows. It's hidden snuggly in the dense green trees but with an open view to the lake on one side, a high sided forest on the other. 

When Ted pulls up to the side of it, I get out first, then go to open the back door for Eloise.  She peers up at the house and smiles, before looking around at me to gauge my reaction. I give her a smile, not really focussed on the house anymore, but instead on the way the forest light makes the silver in her eyes sparkle.

The sound of Ted opening the boot breaks my focus and I move around to help him lift out our bags before we follow him around to the rear of the house. Ted unlocks the door and enters first, holding it open for us. The smell of wood is the first thing that hits me, like the hot settled scent of a sauna, and it quickly becomes clear why. The structure, every surface, and most of the furniture is carved from woods of every type imaginable.

We come in under a low ceiling but as we walk ahead the space opens up to double height with a wooden mezzanine running along the upper walls.  A solid looking oak staircase leads up to it between the lounge and kitchen, which are on either side of us, and straight ahead is almost an entire wall of windows that showcase the lake. It's a stunning house. Jaw-dropping actually. It's the kind of house you see in Christmas movies.

The next thought through my head feels more like a kick in the chest. Did she use his money to pay for this?

I move towards the huge glass doors and turn the key to slide them open and step out onto the wooden patio. To my right is a huge seating area complete with rocking chair, and to my left is another which has a covered square in the middle of it that I assume is covering a hot tub.

Despite my growing discomfort at the wealth on show, I can't help but imagine her in it, wet and naked and wrapped in my arms as I fuck her.  Eloise doesn't strike me like a hot tub kind of person though for some reason.  Straight ahead are a few steps down onto a large stretch of grass that leads down to the lake, and there, tied up at the end of the narrow wooden pier is the small white rowing boat.  I'm not sure how long I stand there staring out at the lake before I hear her behind me.

"What do you think?" She asks.

I turn around slowly and take a deep breath, sliding my hands into my pockets.

"Where's Ted?"

"He's gone. He showed me how to work the 'stove' because clearly I'll be doing all of the cooking since I have a vagina," she smiles. "And he left his number incase you can't find the toolbox."

I chuckle softly and rock forward on my feet as the question I want to ask her burns my throat. Fuck it. It'll only piss me off the whole time we're here if I don't ask. I need to know.

"Did he pay for this?" I let out a breath as the words leave my mouth.

She flinches like I've hit her. Then her eyes narrow on me.

"You think I'd invite you here and use my husband's money to do it? You think I'd let you fuck me in a bed paid for by my husband?" Her voice has an icy heat. It burns me.

"I don't know, would you?" Shut the fuck up, Aidan. When will you ever learn to shut the fuck up?

Something in her face changes and she stands up straighter and folds her arms across her chest. "Ok, and what if I did? Would you get the train back home? Would you go stay at a hotel? Or would you stay and not touch me the entire time?"

"No. I wouldn't do any of those."

"Then why ask in the first place? Why does it even matter?"

She's right. Why did I ask? Why did it matter?

I walk toward her, stopping when I'm pressed against her soft heat.  Then I bring my hand up and slide it around her neck to pull her head to mine. "I'm not interested in his fucking money, Eloise. I don't want a penny of it and I don't want to be here with you on it." My voice is cold and hard because clearly, I'm unable to temper it when it comes to that shark faced prick.

"But you are interested in his wife?"

"Yes, I'm certainly interested in his wife."

As I begin stroking my thumb across her jaw, then down to her throat, her expression goes from cold to warm, hard to soft.

"I paid for it Aidan," she says softly. "Me. I wanted to be here with you and so I paid for it.  With my money."

I bring her head closer and press my mouth onto hers, roughly. She hesitates only for a moment before she wraps her arms around me, melting into my body.  Before I lose control entirely and fuck her right here, I withdraw from her mouth, licking her top lip before pulling back.  She's looking at me with a soft curious expression.

"What?" I ask.

"You really hate him don't you?" She asks with a soft frown.

Her question surprises me. It hadn't occurred to me that she was aware of my feelings toward her husband. I continue to caress the side of her neck with my right hand as I consider how to answer that. As I consider whether I hate him or not.

"No. But I hate that he gets this every night." I slide my hand across her throat again and down over her breasts. Down to her stomach to skim my fingers along the waistband of her soft jeans. I tug the button open gently. "I hate that he gets to wake up beside you every day. I hate that he gets to fuck you whenever he wants. I hate that he gets to call you his wife." I slide my right hand inside her jeans and down between her legs to cup her there. She's hot and damp against my fingers.

Her breath short and her eyes wide, she swallows. "Well, I don't think he'd want to call me his wife right now," she moans as I dip a finger inside her.

"His fucking loss," I breathe. Because for the next few days I get all the things that are normally his to take for granted. She slides her hands under my t-shirt to stroke the hairs on the flat of my stomach, then proceeds to unbuckle my leather belt. My cock strains against my jeans, punching through the fabric, desperate for her attention.

I may only have a few days before she went back to being his wife, but when she did I'd make sure she did it with the sound of my voice echoing in her ears, and the memory of how I felt inside her. This time she'd remember me.