I wake from the depths of sleep feeling slightly disorientated and achy - the deep kind of ache that only comes from too much of one thing: sex.

Just before and just after I got married I used to wake up feeling like this a lot. It feels like a long time ago now except it wasn't. It was a few short years where Oliver and I had been mainly happy.

Until I'd ruined it.

Until it became clear that I wasn't really cut out to be any sort of wife. I'm still not. I'd gotten all of the main things wrong. Surely trust, monogamy and childbearing were the fundamentals of marriage, and by failing at these so spectacularly what right did I have now to consider myself anyone's wife?

In these moments just after I come awake, and just before sleep, I always find my mind at it's most extreme. All of my thoughts and feelings magnified and loud, echoing around my quiet brain. Though since as well as having some of my darkest thoughts at these times, I also have some of my most brilliant ideas, I suppose it all balances itself out in the end.

When I see and feel that the bed is empty it makes me feel unsettled and cold. It also makes me question what time it is. How long have I been here? The sun hadn't set yet, I could see that much, but it had moved so that it was no longer visible from the large skylight above Aidan's bed. Where is he?

I slide out of his bed and gaze about the floor for my dress which had been here in a puddle. Where the hell is it? All I can see is Aidan's t-shirt, torn with aged paint stains, but which smells clean and of him. In the absence of anything else, it'll do.

I lift it and pull it on hastily, brushing a hand through my ruffled hair, before venturing out into the loft. It's eerily silent. Only the faint noises of harried vehicles and shouting pedestrians from the street below fill the empty space. A quick glance about and an ear to the bathroom door bring me to the conclusion that he must be upstairs. Completely naked under his T-shirt, climbing the staircase only intensifies my feeling exposed and vulnerable. So I press my thighs tight together as I ascend to give me a little security - between them feels sticky and well used and a little tightening moves across them at the notion.

As I near the top it becomes apparent the studio is also empty. Okay, had this whole afternoon been a figment of my imagination? Am I dreaming right now? Am I about to be faced with my entire high school English class as I get up here, who are going to point and laugh at my state of undress? Had I dreamt everything? If so it was the best sex-dream I'd ever had. It was better than any sex scene I'd ever written.

It was also the best sex I'd ever had and it wasn't with my husband. The guilt is still notable by its absence.

As I reach the top of the stairs my hand goes to my mouth to cover my gasp as I take in the sight.  My whole body begins to tremble as I move toward it. There, hanging from the wall is me. An enormous black and white abstract version of me. It's a painted landscape portrait — a headshot — with only my face, neck and shoulders visible. I'm turned away looking over my shoulder towards the audience, towards myself. I look distant, yet seductive, thoughtful yet sad. I look... beautiful.

As I get closer to it the hairs on the back of my neck and across my arms begin to raise and tingle, and my breathing shortens. He did this. This is how I look to him. This is me as seen through his eyes. It's stark, bold and loud, but with a depth to it. His depth. It wasn't like any of his other pieces but it still spoke to me of him.

Somehow he'd managed to put emotion in my eyes with just two colours. A thick impenetrable black and a stark clinical white — the background a faint just off-white grey. I see sadness in my face, yearning too, and from nowhere the tears well up behind my eyes.

Seriously? Is it possible I could stop bloody crying for five minutes? Well, at least I realise I'm doing it this time which is something.

"What do you think?" His voice is quiet and soft from behind me but it still makes me startle.

When I turn around I find him standing at the top of the stairs, fully dressed. He's in a pair of casual blue-grey trousers and a slightly crinkled blue checked shirt. On his feet are scuffed looking trainers that clearly used to be white but are now a kind of grey. He looks his usual thrown together stylish self. In any case, he's fully dressed and I'm standing naked but for his shirt while he stares at me, hard.

Instead of having the need to cover myself, I find that all I really want is for him to see me, to keep looking at me like he's doing now. Like he always does.

I pull my shoulders back slightly and my head up and meet his stare as he drags it over my body. He looks hungry and it warms me from my toes all the way up. He licks his tongue over his lip absently back as he begins to move toward me.

"Well?" he asks.

Momentarily distracted by him, I blink a few times before turning to look back at the huge facsimile of me hanging on the wall. It's harder than it should be to gather my thoughts into an articulate format.

"It's... big," I tell him. Great Ellie, very bloody articulate. It is big though. My eyes are the size of footballs and my mouth about a meter wide. I tilt my head to study it harder, noting the freckles that are precisely placed across my nose, and the flecks of white in the dark irises of my eyes. It's abstract yet somehow startlingly lifelike. It's breathtaking.

"You hate it," I hear him say from beside me. He doesn't sound annoyed by the idea of me hating it. In fact, he sounds like he expected it.

"No, I don't." I shake my head. "I think it's..." articulate Eloise. Imagine you're writing these words down. "Hypnotic. Dark and light at the same time." then my stupid book title comes to mind and I feel fake and unoriginal, "It's nuanced. I see you in it. It's stunning Aidan," I finish. He's looking at it intently but then he frowns, his large eyes narrowing and his mouth shaping into a hard line. "What? You don't like it?" I ask him.

I'm worried I've insulted him again. I should never talk about his art. Ever. I really need to learn that I'm no good at it. He glances at me then, and I see that his lips are slightly dry and a little cracked and distractingly I wonder if it's from overuse, on me. Tingle. He looks back at the painting.

"I don't hate it," he says, running a hand over his mouth. "But for me, it's a poor version of you. It has none of your soul in it. It feels cold and empty," he turns to look at me again, "you're neither of those things."

My chest tightens. I want to disagree, to tell him that I'm in fact both of these things but something stops me. Maybe because for the past few hours I haven't felt cold or empty.

He's about a foot from me and yet still I can smell him. The scent of Aidan isn't something I'm likely to forget anytime soon. Years from now, when this was over, his scent would creep into my mind when I least expected it, or I'd smell something similar and be unable to move or breathe whilst I allow memories of him to engulf me. What was it about smells? Their ability to affect you more than images or sounds. A large proportion of my memories were purely smells — the manure of our farm, the smell of cooking meat from my mothers Sunday roast, the fumes of a London bus, our garden back home. The power of smell never ceased to amaze me.

He drags his eyes from mine and back to the 2D version of me and I'm left staring at his perfect profile.

"I mean normally cold and empty is what I'm going for," he says and his mouth softens into a half-smile. "It's what I do best. Not really sure I know how to do warm and... full."

Again I feel that I should tell him it feels cold and empty because this is a painting of me, and that prior to this afternoon it's exactly what I was. I don't say this though. If I do then he'd want to know why I feel that way and then I'd have to tell him things that will make him look at me in a way different to how he looks at me now. It might relieve him of the guilt and confusion he feels about capturing me wrong, but my selfishness and my desire for him to think me 'warm and full' overrides all of this.

And from the way he's looking at the cold and empty version of me hanging on the wall, I doubt he'll want anything to do with the cold empty real me.

"Well, we're always our own worst critic," I say. "And so regardless of what you think of it, I'm the one paying for it and I think it's beautiful." I turn back and give him a soft reassuring smile. "So it doesn't matter if you like it or not because you won't need to live with it."

My words don't have the desired effect and his gaze darkens, his mouth tightening into a hard line again. "No, I guess I won't," he says flatly. "I still want to photograph you by the way. I haven't forgotten about that." His gaze heats up again as he says this.

"And I haven't changed my mind about it," I tell him, my body warming with anticipation.

"Good," he nods. There are a few moments of heated silence as we stare at each other.

"Where were you?" I ask.

"To get food. I've normally consumed about 10,000 calories by this point on a Saturday afternoon believe it or not. And you've worn me out. I'm about to keel over from starvation." His face is deadly serious.

I smile. "Well, you look fine to me."

His eyebrows raise, flirtatiously. "Oh, do I now? Good to know." He moves in closer so that if he bends his head forward his mouth will be on mine. I want it on mine. "Tell me something," he leans back slightly to cast a gaze down my body, "How come you always look so fucking good in my clothes?"

I follow his eyes down my body. "Ummm, because you have really nice clothes?" I suggest. He gives me a doubtful look as he eyes his T-shirt and I giggle, "Okay, this is maybe not the best example, but most of your clothes are nice."

He makes a soft noise of disagreement and then closes the distance between us and brings his mouth to mine, kissing me softly. "I don't think it's that..." he murmurs against my lips before moving his mouth to my neck. "You look just as good in your own clothes... or fuck it, no clothes." His voice is low and accented and it tickles the skin on my neck.

I slide my arms around him and inhale deeply as he kisses his way up my neck back to my mouth again. With my hands knotted in his hair, I pull his head down further onto mine to taste him greedily, delighting in the feel of him against me again, my body rousing to his taste, his scent and his touch. The rough hair on his face tickles as he kisses me, making me moan against him as the dampness pools between my thighs all too easily. I really do love the way he kisses me. His kiss is hypnotising like the rest of him. It's him who pulls back first, breathing hard, eyes glittering with need.

He licks his lips with his tongue and smiles, "So it looks like you're hungry too then. Good. Come on," he grins, pulling me towards the stairs.

I watch transfixed as he prepares what looks to be Japanese take away. From my perch on the bar-stool, I rest my head on my hand and watch the strong expanse of his shoulders and arms move fluidly and gracefully about the kitchen. Twice he's prepared food for me now. I should really return the favour. Or at least take him out somewhere to eat. I get the image of Aidan and I having dinner together in public and it twists something inside me, something like longing but also something like fear. We could never have that. I can't have dinner with him. Here in the city where my husband lives and works, where anyone might see us. A pang of loss follows on the heels of the twist of longing.

Aidan places two plates in front of me and begins opening up several little white boxes with red letters on them. He flicks his eyes up to me once or twice as he works, smiling that little half-smile of his, before his concentrating face replaces it and he looks back down at our dinner. And it was dinner. The large clock in his kitchen tells me it's 6:30 pm. I'd been here over five hours. It felt like days. It also felt like minutes.

I honestly can't imagine being back in that cold empty apartment alone tonight. Though it was better that I was alone. How could I have gone home tonight and looked my husband in the eye? How could I have hidden something like this from him as he pulled me into his arms and kissed the same mouth I'd had wrapped around Aidan's cock hours before? How will I do it when he comes home?

I have five days to figure it out. Best have a think about that before I go to sleep tonight.

One dish is thin strips of dark meat in a sticky shiny sauce flourished with bright green broccoli. The other is pink and creamy, white fish or chicken poking out here and there. Both look delicious and I watch ravenous as he scrapes bright white sticky rice onto the plate before sliding it towards me. He places a white and red box containing 5 or 6 little dim sum parcels next to me and slides his own plate next to that to my right.

"Drink?" He asks as he opens the fridge.

Eyeing the contents, I plump for beer again, which he twists open and hands to me and I take a long welcome sip as he comes around the kitchen toward me. At the end of the breakfast bar he stops and bends down out of sight, before popping back up again holding something.

As he comes towards me he holds out his hand. "Think these belong to you," He says.

The heat and warmth spread over my body, starting between my thighs and radiating up to my chest then my throat. My breathing shallows. Unlike me he doesn't look embarrassed —he looks amused. I drop my eyes to the scrap of white material in his hand and squeeze my thighs together tight, very conscious suddenly of the plastic of the stool pressed against my most intimate area. Precisely because he's holding my underwear in his hand which he tore from my body.

I swallow. "Well, I don't think I'll be able to wear them again." I look back up to his eyes.

"Huh." He lifts them up, inspecting the white silk lace in his hand. "Shame, they're lovely." He flicks his eyes to mine. "Well maybe don't wear any next time you come over, easier that way." He shoves my knickers into his pocket and takes a seat beside me. I stare at him open-mouthed as he picks up his chopsticks and pulls his plate towards him.

And there it was.

Next time. He wanted it to be more than this. Had he known I'd been thinking the same thing? Until he'd said it I'd been scared to admit it to myself, but the notion was there, having burrowed its way into my mind and taking up residence comfortably, hiding until a moment ago. Aidan begins shovelling his food into his mouth, neatly and quietly, totally oblivious to my eyes on him. When he eventually becomes aware he puts down the sticks and gives me a long serious look. He takes his time, chewing and swallowing before opening his mouth to speak.

"Not hungry after all?" He asks.

I drop my eyes and look at the food he dutifully bought and prepared and served to me. I feel ungrateful. It looks delicious. It smells delicious.

Next time.
He wants more than just this.

"No," I say. "I mean yes, I am." I fiddle with a bit of broccoli, pinching it with my chopsticks before popping it into my mouth. It is delicious.

"We could eat it in bed if you'd feel more comfortable there?" He says.

When I look round he's smirking at me, the bare skin of his throat calling out, insulting the broccoli I'm chewing which is tasteless and bland by comparison. As I consider his suggestion, my cheeks heat and my thighs tingle.  The memory of how he looked against the smooth white sheets of his bed, his lean slightly golden body between my thighs, naked, magnificent.

I swallow my mouthful. "Eat this in bed? On white sheets? Are you insane?"

"I like to live dangerously," he jokes, before lifting another stick full into his mouth. I can't stare at him for too long. Too many dangerous idiotic thoughts run through my head the longer I look at him. "He'll be expecting you back I guess," he says after a long moment head down. I watch as he searches around his plate for something.

"Actually no, he's out of town for a few days," I tell him. Aidan lifts his head and looks at me, his eyebrows raised a fraction. He nods. "On business," I add for no reason at all. He nods again.

"He go out of town often?" His tone is nonchalant, but there's something heavy behind it. It makes me think of hot afternoons like this one, twisted sheets, and his large strong body damp with sweat as it moves inside my own. My body trembles slightly.

"How often is often?" I ask, my treacherous voice light and breathless.

His mouth twitches and his eyes flicker lustfully but he says nothing, looking back down at his food as another strange but heated silence ensues. When his plate is three quarters empty he reaches over to stab a dumpling with his chopstick before lifting it into his mouth.

Though my appetite does seem to have disappeared, I feel that I should at least make an effort since he went to the effort, and so I stab a dumpling too. Lifting one of the small whitish parcels up to my lips. I bite half, chew and then swallow slowly before doing the same with the other half. Then I start on the beef which is succulent and tasty and feels satisfying in my mouth.

"Feels a bit weird doesn't it?" he says.

"Weird?" I look round at him.  He's watching me intensely.

He nods. "Yeah, you know. Us sitting here, eating, drinking beer, making small talk, pretending we don't just wanna go back in there and fuck like animals again." He lifts his beer slowly to his mouth and tips it back, keeping his eyes firmly on mine.

I drop my chopstick and my mouth falls open, my whole body clenching with hot waves of desire. I think of him inside me, touching me, teasing me, tasting me, making me orgasm around his tongue his cock. I let out a breath and look down away from his eyes.

"Aidan," I whisper.

"I can still smell your come on my fingers, Eloise," he says nonchalantly. "It's really fucking distracting." My fingers grip the end of the counter for stability as I try and keep breathing. When I finally feel stable enough to look at him he's licking the fingers on his right hand absently, like you would do after eating particularly messy finger food. "Wanna know what you smell like?" he asks.

I look at him horrified but my body clenches tightly all the same.

"Jesus Christ, Aidan, no," I shake my head. Why on earth would he think I'd ever want to know that? Oh my god, but do I want to hear him tell me. What on earth is he doing to me?

"That's a shame. I'd just come up with the perfect way to articulate it as well," he smirks as he steps off his stool and comes towards me. Like it's magnetised, my body turns to face him and I open my legs to let him stand between them. With a deep breath, I tilt my head up to meet his eyes to find that they're dark again. Dark with need this time —Aidan's eyes darken with anger or need I'd learned. Like always, his gaze makes me feel dizzy and loose, hypnotised and wild, ready to do his every bidding.

"Was this perfect articulation going to be with your hands?" I ask, smiling nervously.

He chuckles knowingly. "No, my tongue actually. But if my hands are what you'd prefer." He slides his hand under his T-shirt to graze his fingers softly across me there. The low groan from his throat as he touches it matches the higher one from my own throat. "Fucking hell, do you have any idea how much I want to be inside you again?" He says quietly as he lowers his mouth to mine. I keep my hands gripped on the stool but tilt my body into his eager fingers. I want to know how much he wants to be inside me again. I want him to tell me with his hands while he kisses me.

"We can't, Aidan," I moan pointlessly against his mouth. He pulls his head up to frown at me. His fingers stay right where they are, teasing the outside, wetting me.

"Oh, I think it's a bit fucking late for that don't you?" He says and slides his finger deep inside me. I gasp loudly and move my hand to clutch at his forearm, like I'm going to push him out of me, or stop him, but of course, I don't.

As he slides another finger inside me he covers my hand with his free one and moves it between his legs where he's hot and very hard within the confines of his trousers. It makes my mouth water with a need and hunger I'd not possessed until this moment.

"That's how much I want to be here again," He says, fucking me now with his fingers. When his thumb angles against my clitoris I have to grip the stool again. Oh dear god. He's going to make me orgasm here. On the stool with a box of dim sum visible out of the corner of my eye. With every ounce of strength that I have I use both hands to pull him out of my body.

"Not here, Aidan," I tell him, and then I smile. "Anywhere but here."

He smirks deliciously but then nods, "Deal. So, you want me to carry you in there again?" He gestures his head towards his bedroom.

***

"Stay," he says, still breathing hard.

His exertion is evident in the dampness of his chest and forehead, and in the short shallow movements of his warm body under my head. He strokes his hand absently over my hair as he cradles me against his chest. I feel content. I want to stay.

"I can't," I say. I feel a change in his breathing instantly and a tightening of his hand in my hair.

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"He's out of town you said. How would he even know?" His voice is still soft but it has an edge to it now.

"Aidan, please don't."

He says nothing else but his hand stops caressing my head and he drops it onto the bed. I sit up and turn to look down at him. He's sulking, his head turned to the side as he nibbles the inside of his mouth angrily. He looks like a moody teenager. It's kind of adorable.

"You know I can't stay," I explain. "I want to but I can't."

He turns his head to look at me and his expression softens immediately. He lets go of his fettered lip and reaches up to brush my chin with his thumb.

"I know you can't. I was being a fucking idiot."

I lean down and press my lips to his, closing my eyes to breathe in his scent. He lingers on my mouth a moment, brushing his lips across mine softly, then he presses a kiss to the side of my neck below my jaw. He likes it there I've noticed, in that warm place between my shoulder and my ear.

"You're not an idiot," I whisper with my eyes closed.

"You'll come tomorrow," he says against my ear, before placing a kiss there too. It isn't a question.

"Yes," I tell him. When he brings his mouth to mine again he growls low in the back of his throat, soft and animal-like. It's a sexually satisfied noise that kindles my insides. "I should really call a taxi."

His hand tightens on my neck for moments before he releases me. "Yeah, you should get out now before I tie you up and keep you here."

I smile. Not only is the idea arousing, but it would make this thing with him a whole lot easier.

He watches me silently as I dress in the growing darkness of his bedroom. I say dress, I mean pull on my single item of clothing —my green dress — which he'd hung considerately in his wardrobe while I was asleep earlier. Then I slip on my brown sandals which had fallen off by the pillar when he fucked me against it. I have no underwear to speak of. I hadn't worn a bra today (dissect that, Esther) and my knickers were now a shred of fabric Aidan was apparently keeping as his spoil.

He looks focussed as he watches me from the bed, arms folded behind his head and a soft warm look on his face. The sight of him there, drenched in sweat from our lovemaking bathed in witching hour light from the window above is something else. I wish I had an ounce of his ability so that I could capture him how I see him. Maybe I could write it down in words. He's breathtaking. I really want to stay.

As I wait for the taxi to arrive I sit back down next to him on the bed, and we sit in silence as I stroke the smattering of hair on his chest in soft circular motions. As I do this, he stares at every part of my face, his breathing soft and even, seemingly content with my ministrations across his hard warm body.

"You never wore white today," he remarks.

I smile. "I know. I did it on purpose. To annoy you." I'd pulled out a white shirt and light grey jeans before throwing them back in the drawer and taking out my favourite green dress from the wardrobe instead. I told myself it was to annoy him, but I wondered how much of it was because I knew I looked good in it. Suggestively demure, the Karen Millen showed off my figure better than any item of clothing I owned. The first time I wore it Oliver bent me over the desk in his office and fucked me in it. He'd called it my 'fuck me-dress' ever since. Since it'd had a similar effect on Aidan, I could hardly disagree.

"You did annoy me. I wanted to rip it off you the second you walked through the door," he smirks as he skims a finger down along the low dipping collar section that covers my breasts and pulls on the fabric.

I can feel myself slipping again, my breathing shortening at the proximity of his fingers to the tender needy parts of my body. I take his hand in mine to stop its progress.

"Do you have anything else similar you can wear tomorrow?" He asks meeting my eyes. The heat there is scorching.

"I'm not sure. Maybe... yes."

"Or come naked. Do you have a long coat?"

"Ok, I'm leaving now," I say rolling my eyes as I go to stand. His hand grabs me back and pulls me down onto his chest again. His mouth is soft and gentle; the softest it's been all day. I'm not sure what it means that just as I'm about to leave him he treats me like a delicate fragile thing. Does it mean anything? The sound of his intercom is loud and sobering.

"Ok go, now. Before I get a fucking rope," he grumbles. I stand and walk towards the door, turning back to him before I go through it.

"I really love the painting, Aidan," I tell him. "I know you said it was cold and empty but it doesn't feel like that to me. It's beautiful. That you see me like that..." I trail.

He smiles but it's sad. "I don't have anything close to enough talent to paint you as I see you, Eloise. But I'm glad you like it. I really wanted you to like it."

***

The phone in the living room is ringing. I can hear its loud obnoxious screech from the landing as I fumble to get the right key in the lock. It'll be Oliver. Mum and Gabby are the only other people who would call but the tingling in my chest tells me it's him. My husband.

"Bloody stupid bunch of too many keys," I snap at the inanimate jangling object in my hand. We have six keys for our flat. Six. We have a doorman who opens the building door for us, which should mean we have fewer keys than the average house, not more. But no, we have a key for the front door, the garage door —even though we don't even have a car here—a key for the gym in the basement, a key for the garbage chute, a key for the front door of the house, and then because why not, a key for the safe in Oliver's office. The safe had come with the place, like the dressing room and park views. I have no idea what he keeps in it. His Rolex he wears, his wedding ring he wears, and he never really handles money because he hated the smell of it. A fact I'd always found amusing; a banker who hates the smell of money - there was an irony in that which made my head hurt.

I fall into the flat and bolt for the phone. God knows how many times he's called.

"Hello!" I pant, dropping the leaden weight of keys on the side table.

"Where have you been?" His voice isn't suspicious, just curious.

"Sorry babe, I was shopping. I heard the phone ringing when I got out the lift but couldn't get the bloody door open," I rush out. "We really do need to rationalise the keys, you know?"

"You've been shopping all day?" Ok, now he sounds suspicious, probably because he knows how much I hate shopping. Thankfully, I'd rehearsed in the taxi what I was going to tell him.

"God, no. I shopped, then I went and got a massage, then I had lunch and wandered around the library for a bit to kill time before my facial. I just walked home, it's such a nice night."

"So you look gorgeous now then?" He asks with a smile in his voice.

"Compared to how I normally look you mean?" I tease. "Yes, I guess I do."

"What did you buy with my money then?" He asks lightly. He's joking of course but I'd normally bristle at that comment. Tonight I have neither the energy nor the right to bristle.

"A couple of dresses, some new underwear, and some infallible night cream that's supposed to strip away the years while I sleep."

Oliver groans. "Christ, that's all I need. You looking even younger."

I giggle. "Oh, I wouldn't worry, babe. I'm sure its snake oil." As my breathing finally returns to normal, I sit down on the couch and slip off my sandals, bending down to rub the ache on the side of my foot. Not sure why it aches considering I'd barely put any weight on it this afternoon. Harlot. "So how was the flight? How's Singapore?"

"I'll tell you when I get there. I'm in fucking Zurich waiting for the connection," he groans. "I'll need to sleep for a week when I get back."

"I'm sorry you had to go," I say because I can't think of anything else to make him feel better.

"I miss you."

Something rattles around my chest. Something fluttery and sharp. "Me too. It's only a few days though right?"

He groans again, "I hope so. It's bullshit though. Unnecessary. Bloody idiots," He grumbles.

I'm tempted to ask who the idiots are but I know what he tells me will mean nothing to me. All I gather is that someone was supposed to do something with a lot of money but did something else instead and now there was a whole lot less money than there was at the start. Oliver's visit to Singapore was to try and reverse that. I'm not stupid, I understand what he does for a living its the lack of interest I have in it That's the problem.

"I don't want to talk about it anyway, El. Distract me, baby. What are you wearing?" He asks, voice low. Oh... phone sex. We hadn't done this for a while. A long time. I was pregnant the last time we did this.

"The fuck-me dress," I tell him.

Oliver curses. "Seriously? What underwear?"

I swallow. My underwear was in scraps in Aidan's pocket.

"No bra, white lace knickers," I say quietly. What was another lie on top of all the others?

"Fucking hell are you trying to kill me?" He hisses.

I close my eyes and lean back into the sofa as I slip my hand under the skirt of my dress. I imagine the outline of Aidan's body and the way the fading light hits the peaks and ridges of his torso, the way it makes his large eyes seem like dark shimmering pools. My body misses his already. Not a good sign. It aches from him but still, I want more.

"No, I'm not trying to kill you," I say. "I felt miserable today and I wanted to wear something to make me feel better."

"I'm sorry sweetheart. I promise I'll sort this as soon as I can and get back to you."

My eyes flit open as the idea comes to me. Who the hell was I these days? This underhanded lying female out to deceive and manipulate? Is that really who I am now?

"Don't worry about it, babe. It's your job. I knew it when I married you, didn't I? Anyway, I'm going to bury myself in these chapters for the next few days. It'll be a good distraction until you get back," I sit up slowly. An even better distraction was about twenty-odd blocks away. I'm really doing this then.

"Yes true, you'll get loads done without me about."

"I was even thinking I might go upstate for a few days. Just me and the computer."

"What, alone?" he sounds confused.

"Well, you're always saying how nice it is up there and how we should go for the weekend for some peace and quiet."

"Yeah, us both. Together. You can't go on your own El," he explains.

"Oliver, believe it or not, I used to hold down a job, a flat, and a car before I met you. I'm certain I've retained the ability to exist without you for a few days."

"You know what I mean," he sighs. "What's wrong with the apartment? It's quiet, man-free, no terrible singing in the shower to distract you. I thought you'd be in heaven right now," he chuckles.

Heaven. The image of Aidan's head between my legs, the sensation of his tongue licking the entire length of my most intimate place. Him flipping me into my stomach and doing the same from behind. I literally have to bite down on my tongue to stop the moan from escaping. Harlot.

"It's quiet but it's not quiet, quiet. I'd get so much done up there. There'd be no distractions." The ease with which the lies and subterfuge keep coming is surprising.

"So, you would get the train up? Where would you go?"

"I'll have a look tonight. See if I can get a cabin for a few days by a lake or something. There are lakes up there right?"

"Yeah there are lakes up there," he chuckles, clearly coming around to the idea. Well, that was far easier than I'd expected. Far easier than it should have been. "Yes, maybe it would be good for you. What about your appointment with Esther? It's Thursday right?"

"Yes. I'll be back before then don't worry." I couldn't miss it. I actually had a lot I needed to talk to her about.

"Well, I want to know where you are - a landline where I can call you if you're going to be 'off-grid'."

My body tenses, maybe this isn't going to be so easy. "Babe the idea of 'off-grid' is just that. They aren't supposed to have landlines."

"Then make sure you go somewhere that they do. You think I'm going to let my wife travel to god knows where on her own without any method of communication? No fucking chance," he states.

I always wonder what Oliver is thinking about when he refers to me as "his wife" in conversations he's having with me. Is it to remind me that I'm his wife or himself? Or is it for some other purpose I'm unaware of?

"I'll have my mobile," I tell him. "I'll find a reception somewhere to call you."

"Good, and email me the details of where you're going?" He's silent a minute before he remembers something and makes a little startled noise. "Oh, I meant to say, I bought that magazine, the one with the Aidan Foley interview." The sound of Aidan's name coming from Oliver's mouth catches me off guard, it makes my teeth and jaw tense up and my body buzz oddly.

"You did?" I sit forward in the chair gripping the phone tight in my right hand.

"Yeah, at the airport, it caught my eye. Did you know he was an orphan?" Oliver says the word 'orphan' like you might say the word 'alien' — with intrigue and shock.

My throat closes up. "No, how would I know that?" Too defensive Eloise.

"I don't know. But yeah pretty awful childhood by the sounds of it. Mum shot in front of him when he was a toddler — Belfast in the eighties for you — dad drank himself to death a few years later. Sad reading actually, feel kinda sorry for the guy now. Probably explains why he's such a moody aggressive bastard," Oliver says.

I can't breathe properly because my throat and chest feel clogged with something bitter and thick, tears hovering at the sides of my eyes.

Strangely, of all the things Oliver's just told me, the only thing I seem capable of focusing on is the thought that Aidan would hate Oliver to feel sorry for him. He'd hate anyone feeling sorry for him I think but especially someone like Oliver.

"That's awful..." I manage. "I can't imagine what that must have been like..."

"Nic mentioned he had a sad childhood but she never went into any detail about it. Everyone else was just being polite I suppose. More than I can say for him, but never mind."

The desire to defend Aidan rears its head but then I remember that I can't. That if I did then I may as well just tell Oliver that I spent the entire afternoon in bed with him.

I just feel very tired all of a sudden and very sad.

"I should buy the magazine," I mutter.

"Pretty depressing reading baby, dunno if I'd bother. Ok, we're actually about to board; I'll let you know when I land. Speak tomorrow — we'll finish that phone sex, huh?" he says the last part quietly but that's not why I barely even hear him.

Aidan's mother was killed in front of him. His dad dead too. The knowledge feels weighty. It's information that makes me feel differently about some things but not about others. It helps make sense of some things too.

"Ok. Have a good flight, speak soon, love you," I say. The words are flat and robotic as they leave my mouth but Oliver doesn't appear to notice. He just tells me he loves me and hangs up.

I lie in the dark for a very long time after I finally get into bed, sleep not forthcoming despite my tired aching body begging my head for rest. All I can think about is Aidan as a little boy seeing his mother killed, shot dead. The experience that had no doubt shaped his entire view of the world. How could anyone be happy after experiencing something like that as a child? How could anyone grow up knowing what happiness felt like when that sort of memory weighed down their every thought?

The urge to get out of bed and dress and go to him is almost overwhelming. I want to hold him and comfort him and tell him that I was sorry even though it was years too late. I want to call him and tell him the same. Except I'm certain he doesn't need that anymore.  There were glimpses of happiness in him now, I'd seen it. He'd somehow found a way out of his childhood misery. He'd survived. Or perhaps he was just very good at masking the sadness that still lived in him? As I was.

No matter how hard I try, I can't get the image of him as a heartbroken little boy out of my mind. A sad, scared little boy.

The realisation is blinding, a bright harsh light in the darkness of my thoughts. The image from his video. The aged photograph in his studio I'd seen that day which had made me sick. That was him as a child. Aidan was the little boy staring down the camera at us, at me. Asking whoever was looking to love and protect him.

Then the tears come.

Hard and heavy.

I'm not just crying for Aidan but for Oliver and myself and for the tiny little body that I hadn't loved enough to bring into the world. The tiny little body that I'd had to deliver without a heartbeat. The tiny life Oliver and I had buried in a small white coffin in a frozen graveyard two weeks before Christmas.

The tears are hot and wet and shake my body from the inside out. By the time I feel my eyes begin to close from exhaustion, my pillow is damp and cold and so I throw it from the bed and pull Oliver's under my head instead. The smell of him lingers over it, flooding up my nose comforting me. As too does the memory of Aidan's touch, which echoes over my body and clutches at me tight.

In seconds I fall into a deep, deep sleep.