"Excuse me?" She looks surprised, but not horrifically so. My spirits lighten.

"I want you to be the subject," I repeat. "You can pick the media - photo, canvas, mixed. Whatever you prefer. But I pick the subject - I always pick the subject." Which in this instance would be her.

Oh, who the fuck was I kidding, in most instances it was her.

"And what does that entail exactly? Being your subject?" She looks uncertain. Like she needs convincing.

"It means you'll be the art. So if you don't like it when it's finished then you'll be at least partly to blame." I offer her a small pointed smile.

Her mouth tilts up at one corner, playful, and she nods. She's quiet for a long time, fiddling with her fingernails, pensive and thoughtful. I'd give everything I own to know what her thoughts are. Then, to my surprise, she laughs. The sound makes my cock tighten - as though a hand is wrapping around it. A pale, long-fingered hand with no nail polish.

"Something funny?" I have to try hard not to smile because her laugh is infectious, beautiful. Course it fucking is. Light and airy, like the sound of birdsong echoing off trees.

"Not really." She shakes her head, which makes her hair fall back over her shoulder to expose a long slender neck. I wonder how she smells right there. In that space between her throat and her shoulder. Hadn't thought about that in a long time. "It's just that I actually modelled once before, a long time ago. I mean not modelled, modelled." She looks horrified. "I mean for an art class one summer. A friend told me it was easy money."

"You did?" My heart-rate starts to pick up and I cover my mouth with my hand in what I hope is a casual way.

"Yes. God, I'd almost forgotten about that entirely. I stood, then sat, then lay, for four weeks whilst a group of complete strangers stared at me."

"Six weeks." It slips out without a thought. Fuck.

"What?" she looks perplexed. No wonder. Fuck sake Foley.

I shrug. "I mean those kinds of summer classes. They run for six weeks normally. I took one once." Fucking tool.

"You took an art class?" She asks, eyes wide.

"You look surprised." Which was good. Which meant she hopefully hadn't figured anything out.

"I am. I wasn't aware they taught your kind of art in summer classes?" She smiles. It's a genuine heart-stopping smile. I think my heart actually stops for a fraction of a moment.

When I get my breath back, I shake my head and smile. "They don't. My stuff is just an evolution of what I learned in that class. A friend of my aunt ran it. She said it would keep me out of trouble one summer. It did," I shrug, feeling awkward. Exposed.

What was I doing telling her things about my life? Things that could lead her right to my fucking door. Eloise continues to smile at me. It occurs to me then that Eloise Airens' smile may be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. A force of nature in its ability to awe and debilitate. She's smiling at me, not unlike the way she'd smiled in that wedding photo. How the fuck did I manage that?

"How old were you?" She asks, curious.

I scratch the back of my head. "Eh, eighteen I think..." What the fuck am I doing? Why am I still talking?

"Me too,' she nods. 'How strange? Us both taking an art class when we were eighteen. Though I'd imagine art classes in Northern Ireland were a completely different affair from the one I modelled for."

I nod. "Full of northern Irish folk, and petrol bombs," I quip.

She gives me a horrified look before I laugh and she covers her mouth and does the same.

"I'm sorry, I've no idea why I said that," she apologises. Again.

Personally, have no idea what art classes in Northern Ireland were like. Because mine was in London. With her.

I could remember every detail of that class, about the six weeks I spent in it. I could still smell the paint, the wooden furniture, and the plants if I tried hard enough.

But I could remember every single thing about her.

The first moment I set eyes on her I was sure I wouldn't be able to concentrate properly to be able to draw her.

I'd been right.

She's about my age, I think. Though she looks older. Girls I'd been around didn't look like her or act like her. I'd never seen anyone that looked like her. She was beautiful, clean, flawless, perfection. She looked like a piece of art. She looked like a woman from those paintings from years ago. The kind of woman men spent their lives drawing. Where the fuck did they find her?

I tilt my head and focus on the section between her ear and her shoulder. The section that made my mouth water. She was pale. Almost white. Almost the colour of the loose white shirt hanging off her body. She always wore white. I guess that's what Evelyn told her to wear. Guess it meant our drawings never changed too much and we weren't distracted by bold colours and patterns. Made sense. She suited white anyway. She wasn't wearing anything on her legs. Though the shirt is just long enough to cover up the interesting stuff. Jesus christ what I'd give to see her naked. Did she model for a nude class I could go to? As I drag my eyes slowly down her body I feel the blood rushing between my legs. Fuck sake, Foley. Get it together. Head in the game.

Her legs are long and slender and pale like the rest of her. Her feet are small and girlish and she has one knee pulled up to her chin as she stares off into the distance. I wonder what she's thinking about. I wonder that a lot because her face gives nothing away. Her nose is straight and turns in slightly at the end towards a perfect pink mouth that I'd never seen move. Her cheekbones sit high on her face giving her an almost regal look. Yeah, that was it. She looked like a princess. Like we were all beneath her. I'd certainly like to be anyway.

"Looks good," Evelyn whispers from behind me touching her hand to my shoulder gently. I feel faintly embarrassed. I hate people looking at my stuff. Looking back at the charcoal drawing I wonder what the fuck she's on about. It was shit. The shapes look nothing like the girl sitting in front of me. Had anyone else managed to do anything better? I partly blame the charcoal. Why the fuck had I chosen that? I always figure there's more room for error with it and I make a lot of mistakes before I start to see anything decent. Except the pencil hadn't done me any favours last week either. My pencil sketch of her had been shit too.

I glance at my watch. This is the only place I wear one because I like to know how long I have left looking at her at and there's no clock in this room. Two hours left.

Next week was the canvas. Next week was paint. I'm better at paint - far better. I can do things with paint that makes me feel like I know what I'm doing. Next week I'd do better. I was better at film and photography too, but this was an art class. Which I only took because Auntie Roisin wouldn't shut up about it after she'd shown Evelyn my drawings who'd said I should join her summer class. That I 'should do something with it.' Whatever the fuck that meant. She said I was good. The pile of shit in front of me begged to differ.

Peering around the paper in front of me I catch her scratching her nose. Her fingers are long and girly looking and her fingernails are painted white. I didn't even know you could get white nail polish. The stuff my mum wore had always been red. Bright red that used to clash harshly with the gold rings on her fingers. I hate red. It's the colour of danger and death and blood. My mum's blood. My mum's fingernails. Great. I'd almost gone the whole fucking day without thinking about it.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and look back at the girl who was the complete opposite of my mother in every conceivable way.

Ok, two hours. Let's do this, Foley Try her mouth. You stare at that more than anything. Start with what you know.

We're both silent for a long time. Eloise looks around the loft and then down at her neatly manicured nails, and then back at me. She does this cycle three times and I watch her intently for every second of each. Just like old times. Nothing had changed. Not really. When she looks back at me for the third time she's decided something.

"Okay. I'll do it. I'll be your subject." She lets out a breath and I have to try hard to stop the smile forming on my mouth. "It'll be a nice addition to the gift"

"Oh, I hope so," I say tightly. Because a gift for her husband was exactly what this was all about. For her.

For me, this was fuck all to do with her grinning twat of a husband. This was about her. Being with her, looking at her, keeping her in my life for as long as possible. But mainly, it was about getting her right. About finally capturing her in one form or another. On my terms this time.

"So how will this work? Oliver's 40th is in four weeks. Can it be done in that time frame?"

"It can be done," I nod.

"Great," she says, sounding excited now. "So how often will you need to see me?"

To be honest I'd ask her to move in if I thought she'd consider it. "Well, how much free time do you have?" I ask instead as I scratch at my chin.

"I can work around you. I work from home. I write," she says. "So, I can spare some days through the week if that's suitable?"

"It's suitable," I nod again.

I could do a lot with that. I could do a lot with four weeks studying Eloise Airens. I'd fallen in love with her the last time I'd spent four weeks doing that.

She smiles and glances away from my eyes again. Something she does a lot. Like she's holding a secret in them she's afraid I'll see if I look too long.

"So, you're a writer? That's interesting." I nod slowly, keen to keep her talking. Although I was going to be spending a lot of time with her, I didn't want her to leave just yet.

She laughs softly. "I am. Well in the sense that I had a book published. Once."

"What other sense is there?" I frown.

She smiles awkwardly before looking away from my eyes. Again. "Well, I'm pretty sure to be classed as a writer you have to be able to write. As in physically be able to write. Which I think I've forgotten how to do entirely."

"I don't believe that. They don't call it writer's block for nothing. The same thing happens to me." I say, watching her scrape her fingernails across the back of her hand. "I need to be inspired by something before I can do a thing. I'd imagine it's the same for you."

"Maybe. It feels like more than just a block though. I haven't written anything for months. Before, I was unable to go a day without writing. Every moment I was writing or thinking about writing."

"Before what?" I sit forward.

Whether it's my move forward or my question I don't know, but something in her expression changes instantly, then her whole body language changes, stiffening, closing off, soft to hard. She straightens her spine and brushes a hand through her hair.

"Nothing. Just rambling. I do that." She stands suddenly. "So I'll give you my mobile number. I'd rather you didn't call the apart — I mean flat —I don't want Oliver to suspect anything." She goes into her bag but then stops and looks back at me slightly horrified. "About the piece I mean. I really would like it to be a surprise."

"Of course. I understand. Hang on, I'll put your number in my phone." I stand, trying to remember where I dumped my mobile last night before I descended into my stupor. Jeans. It was in the back pocket.

She follows behind me, shoes clicking softly on the hardwood floor as I cross to the bedroom. She doesn't follow me inside it, she just hovers at the bottom of the three steps leading up to it. Probably for the best. Not entirely sure how I'd cope with the sight of Eloise Airens in my bedroom. Next to the bed I'd had a wank in last night as I thought about her.

As I lift the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and shake, my iPhone lands with a noisy thud on the floor. As I bend over to pick it up I pray the screen is still intact - replacing it for the third time in six months isn't something I can be fucked having to deal with right now. It looks fine.

When I turn back to Eloise, I stop, halted in my tracks by the look on her face. I recognise that look. I'd seen plenty of women look at me like that. But not her. She'd never looked at me like that. I hold her eyes until she drops hers, to fiddle with her phone, clearly embarrassed.

As I cross back to where she's standing and descend the two steps to stop in front of her I see the faint touch of blush on her cheeks. Yes. I know that look all right.

So she's attracted to me.

Well fucking well... That was something I didn't know five minutes ago. I have to bite back the grin threatening to spread across my face as the rush of blood shoots straight between my legs. She's a few inches shorter than me, and from this angle, I can see the outline of her perfect, creamy white breasts under the loose green shirt she's wearing, the faintest flash of a white lace bra. I have to stifle a groan.

In a voice I'm certain is a little breathless, she reads out her mobile number to me which I store dutifully into my mobile. When I hit 'done' and save 'Eloise Airens' into my phone a strange feeling rattles across my stomach.

Jesus fucking christ, what am I? Fourteen?

"So you'll call me?" She asks, blue eyes peering up at me from under those long light lashes I remembered so well. The echoes of embarrassment still on her face.

"You free tomorrow?" I ask.

She looks startled but then nods. "Yes, I am."

"So we'll start then. Come over about midday. If that's suitable?"

"It's suitable." She nods again, still sounding breathless.

As we stare at each other a long moment I realise I was wrong earlier. I'd give everything I own to know what she's thinking now. At this moment. I draw my eyes down to where her perfect pink mouth is open slightly and the short breaths are escaping and I wonder what she'd do if I kissed her. If I pushed her back against the wall behind her and kissed her hard. I seriously can't see her pushing me off but what the fuck do I know?

I'm literally about to find out when she shifts, moving to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she turns toward the door.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow then." She clears her throat.

"Yeah. Tomorrow," I mutter, staring after her as I rub a hand over my mouth. As I move after her I become somewhat transfixed by the delicate sway of her hips and her long strawberry blonde hair as it moves side to side as she walks. And now I have a fucking semi.

Yeah, I am fourteen.

Suddenly, she stops and turns around so that I almost run into her. "We didn't discuss payment at all? The cost. Shouldn't we have talked about that? I literally have no idea how much it costs to commission a piece of art. What if I can't afford it?' She laughs.

I smile. "Don't worry about it. We'll work something out. There's usually an advance payment and the rest on completion. Let's face it, you may hate it when I'm done. In fact, that's probably a given." I chuckle and she laughs again, cringing a little outwardly.

"I'm sure that's not true. I'm sure it will be—."

"Yeah, well, let's not say anything we don't mean right now?" I interject. "If you like it then we can discuss how much you think it's worth. How about that?"

Pat is going to kill me. I can hear him already. 'You said what?!?? Have you lost your fucking mind?! You don't take this seriously. You never have you stupid Irish bastard!'

"Are you serious?" Eloise looks equally stunned.

"I promise I won't refuse anything reasonable." Right then, a wealth of reasonable offers Eloise Airens could make me for this start to run through my head - absolutely none of them monetary, absolutely every single one I'd accept. A sick part of me wonders what her smug prick husband would make of his one-of-a-kind commission piece then.

She nods, still uncertain. As she turns back to the door, I reach around to pull it open for her.

"So you'll let me know about the advance?"

"We'll talk tomorrow. I'll speak to my agent," I say with a smile. Pat was less of an agent and more of a pain in my arse. "Here, I'll get the lift for you. That bugger is heavy."

We walk in a strange electric silence along the corridor toward the lift and I hit the button to call it up, glancing at her as I do. As our eyes meet she smiles again, and as the lift comes to a stop at our floor she seems to remember something.

"Um, what should I wear?" She asks. "Tomorrow? Should I wear anything specific? To stand for you? Any colours you prefer?"

I take my time before answering, studying her face like I used to do. It's utterly symmetrical. I'd never noticed that before. But then, I'd never had a chance to properly consider it from this angle before, this close before. Oval shaped with a straight nose and those high cheekbones which made her look regal. She has a few faint brown freckles dotted across her face, perfectly random, including one on her neck just under her chin. There's one on her left temple too, just below her hairline. It was covered by her hair right now but I know it's there. New though, were the flecks of silver in her deep blue eyes. She's even more beautiful now than she had been then, more beautiful than I remembered.

"White," I say finally. "Anything white."

"White. Of course."

When I manage to break away from her stare, I bend down to yank up the heavy industrial door and she steps inside, turning to face me. As she does, a strange thing happens. The sadness that I saw draped over her at the gallery last night settles over her again like a blanket. It's almost visible in its opacity. Her shoulders drop, her head drops, and her eyes dull.

"See you tomorrow then," she says.

I give her a soft comforting smile. I want to comfort her. Protect her. Though from what, I have no fucking idea.

"Yeah, tomorrow," I nod, before slowly pulling closed the door and hitting the button to send the lift down.

As I walk back to my apartment I try and process what the fuck just happened. All of what just happened. Somehow, Eloise Airens had walked back into my life for real. Somehow, I had got her to agree to model for me. And tomorrow, she'd turn up here wearing white and she'd sit in front of me exactly like she did thirteen years ago.

Well, not exactly like she did thirteen years ago. This time she'd know I existed. This time she'd feel only my eyes on her. This time I'd get her fucking right.

***

I leave it a few hours before calling Pat. I'm surprised he hasn't called me. Gloating. Telling me how right he was in convincing me to do this, here.

Instead, I decide to go upstairs and organise and tidy the studio for Eloise tomorrow. The place looks like a fucking bomb site and I want her to think there is actually some kind of method to what I do rather than what it was — the complete opposite of that.

I tidy away the sketches and drawings, as well as the rejected stuff from the show, and pile it all in the corner before cleaning up last night's mess. How the fuck did I manage to get paint on the windows? I throw a few white sheets over the unfinished stuff and sweep up, wiping down the huge panelled windows and ledges where I planned to have her sit tomorrow. Cleaning calms me. It always has. Weird probably, but scrubbing things clean of dirt and filth has always had an instant, settling effect on my mind.

I open the huge glass doors onto the terrace to air the place out too. Smelled like a plastic factory up here. Paint and chemicals which give me a headache most of the time. God knows what they would do to her.

When it looks passable I head back downstairs and make myself a sandwich, which I finish in four bites before ringing Pat's mobile.

"You're a fucking genius. Told you didn't I?" Is how he answers.

"Thought I was a miserable bastard who made miserable shit for people who want to look at other people's misery?"

"Same difference," he says. "Seriously though, well done, Aidan — I mean that."

I scratch the back of my head feeling as awkward as I always do when people deem it necessary to praise me."Yeah, thanks. Where are you?"

"Shake 'n' Shack, man, Shake 'n' Shack,' he says, mouth full now.

'I honestly have no idea what that means?"

"Best burger in the city. Where are you? Working I hope? Wallowing in misery I hope. Or is that brunette you went home with still there? She was all right, man."

"Pretty sure she was blonde, Pat. And nah, she left last night. Couldn't get it up."

"And yet another downside of Black Bush being one of your main food groups," He says.

"Could be worse, could be heroin."

"I don't know, think of the talent that's come out of that? Cobain, Velvet Underground, Ramones. The list is endless."

Pat had hunted me down about ten years ago after seeing a short film I'd put online he still called 'a masterpiece' to this day. He'd emailed me for months about it before I'd relented and met him in a bar in Camden one night. It wasn't like I made a habit of meeting guys in bars I'd met on the internet, but he'd threatened to email me every day until I agreed to let him use it for a music video for a band he was promoting. We'd ended up getting pissed on Guinness and tequila and getting on pretty well for an Englishman and an Irishman.

In the end, I let him use the video — the band had even done pretty well for a few years — and we'd become friends. When he'd seen my other stuff — my room at Roisin's had been filled with photos and paintings and sketches — he'd swore he'd get me an exhibition somewhere if it was the last thing he did. And he had. If it wasn't for him and his irritating persistence I'd never have come to New York. And if I'd never come I'd never have seen her again which means I have even more to thank him for.

"Good to know you have my best interests at heart, mate. Listen, those interviews tomorrow? How many are there?"

"Two. First one's at ten - so don't get too pissed tonight okay? The New Times, then Descript at eleven. They want a quick photoshoot too."

I sigh. "How many times have I told you?"

"Descript is an arty affair man. They'll put twelve filters on you. You'll be unrecognisable. You won't even have to smile. Promise." I hear him slurp on something.

I'll never understand why folk need to know what I look like to get what I do?

"I don't give a shit. No."

"You're a good looking guy, Aidan, I'll never get why you don't advertise the fact? Think of the chicks at your next show once they see what you actually look like."

"You're a sad, sad man, Kaye, sad. Anyway, I don't want chicks at my shows. They don't buy anything. Only fat, rich men pay money for my stuff."

"Cause they want to fuck you. You've got mass appeal. It's the Irish thing, I'm telling you."

"Did she tell you how much yet?" I ask, chuckling. Not that I care, but I'm wondering how long I can afford to rent this place after The Gallery contract was up.

"Who, Nicole? Nah, but she indicated upwards of two hundred." Answer: Not long. "Which for a first timer in New York is fucking astounding, man. And what did you put out? Twenty-two pieces?"

"Twenty-six. Yeah, I'm happy." I scratch a hand over my head. Here goes... "I got a request for a commission this afternoon too." I cross to the breakfast bar and take a seat on one of the stools. I'll probably need to be sitting once he finds out what I've done. Who I've done it with.

"Seriously? From who? Someone from last night?"

"Yeah. Not sure if you met Oliver Alford last night. He works with Jordan Weston. Loaded apparently." I stroke my hand softly over the hair on my face. It's comforting. Probably the closest thing I've had to a hug in years.

"Yeah I did, briefly. Guy stank of money,' he sniffs, impressed. 'Well in, mate."

"Yeah, well, the request was from his wife."

Pat's silence tells me all I need to know. He's thinking the worst. Which in fairness is completely understandable.

"You're not going to fuck her?"

"Well, not right away."

"Aidan," he warns.

"She asked me to make something for her husband for his birthday, that's it. Calm down."

"I saw her Aidan. She's got your type written all over her. Un-fucking-available."

"She's married, Pat. I'm just doing some work for her."

"For how much?"

"We never actually nailed down a price."

"Excuse me? Cause it sounded there like you just said you never nailed down a price."

I can't help but smile. "I did say that."

"Are you fucking insane?! The woman is loaded. She asks you for a commission piece and you agree without settling on a price with her?"

"Her husband is loaded, Pat. It's not the same thing."

"His money, her money, whatever. What the fuck were you thinking?"

In fact, I was thinking of her naked on the floor of my studio as I fucked her senseless.

"I was thinking you'd be able to sort it when she comes over tomorrow." I rub a hand over my mouth as the image takes hold.

"She's coming over tomorrow? For what? You didn't sign anything did you?"

"Of course not. She's coming to sit for me."

The silence is long. Too long. I move off the stool towards the fridge as Pat breathes his quiet rage down the phone.

"And THIS is why you aren't allowed to talk to people, Aidan. I swear to god you should be locked up, just making things all day with no communication with the outside world. Leave interaction with humans to other people, people with sense, people who don't think with their fucking dicks. Fucking hell."

I'm smiling far wider than he'd appreciate if he were here as I grab a bottle of beer and elbow closed the fridge.

"She'll be here tomorrow. You can talk to her then. Don't scare her off though. I'm doing this. Deal with it. It'll be fine."

My tone is light and conversational because I know it will fuck him off even more. Because I'm like that. Irritating Patrick was one of life's little joys. Like picking a freshly healed scab. Squeezing a spot. Stroking a cat.

"No, it's not fine Aidan. You've agreed to this purely because you're attracted to her. Because you want to fuck her. Because you want to stick it to the man or whatever it is you live by these days." He's moving now, outside maybe.

That's only partly true. I did want to stick it to the man. Hers more than any other.

"I'm doing it because I'm an artist and this is my business and I make money by making and selling art. What you told me I needed to do if I wanted to do this for a living. I thought you'd be proud of me, to be honest," I goad.

"Don't quote me back to me you Irish prick!" He complains. "So the fact that it's a beautiful woman who you'll get to make art with has nothing to do with it?" I can practically see him make air quotes around the words 'make art.'

Sipping my beer, I take a long time before answering him. An image of Eloise wearing white and sitting on the far window of my studio swims in front of my mind. She has her hair piled on top of her head and her dark-framed reading glasses on, exactly like she did that day in the cafe. Fuck it. He'd find out soon enough I guess.

I let out a long sigh.

"She's not just a beautiful woman, Pat," I say as I twist the bottle round. " She's that beautiful woman. She's thee fucking woman."

Silence. Long and heavy. "What?" It's almost a whisper. "You're fucking kidding me? How is that even possible?"

"No fucking idea, mate. Divine providence?"

"You hate religion, Aidan." His voice is calmer now. Serious. Probably because he knows this is serious.

"Yeah, well," I groan as I slouch back on the sofa to stare at the ceiling. "How else would you explain it?" I close my eyes resting the beer between my legs.

"I'll be there in 30 minutes," he says and hangs up.

***

"Why didn't you say anything last night?" Pat reaches across and refills my glass with the bottle of Jameson he brought with him. It's not Black Bush but it would do.

I shrug. "Dunno, I was stunned. Not quite with it." I sip the contents of the glass and sit back in the chair. The taste of it warm and welcome in my mouth.

"I think this is a terrible idea, man." He shakes his head. "Also, this guy is friends with the Westons. You're going after his wife isn't about to encourage them to help promote you."

"Well, since all my stuff sold last night I'm not quite sure what else I need them for," I say. He rolls his eyes. "Anyway, I'm not going after his wife. What the fuck would she want with me? I'm going to have her sit for me, then I'm going to make her a beautiful miserable piece of art that she can give to her rich banker husband for his birthday." I hold my glass up in mock celebration before downing it in one. I groan as I slam it down and pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Aidan, this is still a really bad idea. Fucking awful. Maybe the worst one you've ever had. Maybe even worse than when you were gonna make a bonfire with all your stuff the week before the Brixton show."

"It's not as bad as that, come on."

Pat raises an eyebrow. "You're forgetting I know how obsessed you were with this woman, mate. It was ridiculous. Pathetic and ridiculous. And this was what, five years later? And you're going to go do that all over again? Seriously?" It's a question. When I don't answer he goes on. "Well, you'll come out of it even worse this time. Trust me."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, I do. Because she's married. You're gonna fall for her all over again in that fucking mental way you do and she's going to go back to her husband because like you said, what would she want with you, and you my friend are gonna be fucked."

He's right. He's always fucking right. I hate that about him. As I reach forward for the bottle, which he clearly isn't going to refill my glass with, I fix him with a hard stare of my own.

"She isn't happy," I say as I pour.

"What the fuck has that got to do with you? And how do you even know that?"

"She looked miserable last night."

His brows furrow. "Yeah, well maybe that's because she hated your fucking show mate. Did you ever think of that? Not everyone likes your stuff, Aidan."

"Yeah, well, that might be true, but it was more than that. I know her."

He leans forward, scraping his hands through his hair before banging the table softly. His hands move way too much. Though like I can talk - I speak more with my hands than my mouth most of the time.

"No. You don't," He states, pointing at me. "You don't know her, Aidan. You know fuck all about this woman. You never did. She was some wet dream you had when you were a depressed seventeen year old angry at everything. She's a fucking fantasy, mate."

I glare at him, even though the foundations of what he's just said are the truth. Know-it-all bastard. Pisses me off.

"I was eighteen." Is all I can come up with.

Pat smiles, woeful. "I care about you, Aidan. I care about you far more than you care about yourself. You don't need to do this. Fucking commissions will be ten a penny soon. You can wait it out, think it over — you can do whatever you want to do. You made a small fortune last night which means you get to decide. You have your pick. People want to buy your work. Other people. People who aren't women from your past. Or their husbands."

I sigh and rub my hands over my face. "Yeah, but I'm not doing this for the money, Pat. The money has fuck all to do with it." I'm starting to feel the effects of the Jameson, the heaviness of alcohol and misery settling over me. It's comforting. Like an old friend.

"Yeah, I know. And that's what worries me," Pat says.

I stare at him for a moment before scrubbing both my hands over my face a few times.

"Don't worry about me. I'm a big boy. I can look after myself. Got over her once, didn't I? I can do it again. Just imagine the stacks of miserable art you'll be able to sell when it's all over?" I throw him a grim sort of smile before knocking back the contents of the glass.

He was right though. When this was all over and she went back to her husband I was gonna be fucked.

I was already fucked.