I wonder how they spent their weekends. Eloise and him. What did the grinning fucker do with her at the weekend? Take her to fancy restaurants? What the fuck did they talk about? Where Eloise didn't seem like the materialistic type, he seemed like he might be cold. Stand-offish.

Though what the fuck did I know. She married him. Guess that meant she can at least have a normal conversation with him without the emotional avalanche I'd almost smothered her with yesterday.

Still, I bet he's fucking boring. Did that mean he had a massive cock then? Brilliant.

I know what I'd do with her if I got to spend the weekend with her. I'd spent long enough fantasising about it. Depending on which version we were in, I'd wake her up by kissing her neck and whispering in her ear, then I'd position myself between her legs and slide inside her, where I'd proceed to make love to her slowly without coming for at least an hour. Yeah, right, mate.

This would give me time to savour every inch of her with my hands and my mouth until she begged me to stop.

I groan aloud as the image plays out in my mind. Afterwards, I'd let her lie in bed whilst I made her breakfast. Then we'd shower together, get dressed and go to the park, or if she didn't want to go out we'd curl up on the couch where she'd lie with her head on my lap and read. I imagine Sunday would be much the same.

The loss I feel when I vacate my fantasy weekend with Eloise is fucking pathetic.

As it was, I'd be spending Saturday and Sunday alone. Because she couldn't "do" weekends she'd said as she left yesterday. She'd looked apologetic about it too. Whereas I'd just felt like an idiot for forgetting and my resentment for Oliver Alford had been refreshed.

Around 2pm I decide to do a bit of exercise to try and take my mind off her. Or off them to be precise. It would also serve to sweat some of the alcohol out of my system. Probably counterintuitive since I'll likely think about her the entire time and as I very much plan on getting pissed later.

Turns out I was right.

A run and some arm work do fuck all to get the image of her and him out of my head. Their weekend playing through my mind like a terrible soap I can't unsee no matter which channel I tune my brain to.

Later, as I'm about to head upstairs to the studio, my mobile goes off. I'm going to ignore it like I always do, but on the off-chance it's her I pull it out of my back pocket and check the screen. It's not her but my spirits lift a little anyway.

"Hey, how are you?" I ask as I walk back to the sofa and flop myself down.

"Hey you," she says, her voice soft and familiar — I never know quite how much I miss my sister's voice until I hear it. "I'm good, you? How's New York? I thought you would have called me before now? Tell me how the opening went. I texted you, did you not get it?" Her tone is accusing and I feel my spirit descend, shot through by guilt. I should have called her.

"I meant to, I've just been really busy setting everything up. There's been a shit ton of interviews, the opening," I explain, weasel-like. "It's going good though. Great actually."

"I know. I looked it up online," she says. She sounds proud. "I'm glad to hear it — so when're you back again?"

For some reason, I look at the large digital clock on the wall in the kitchen, which tells me nothing. "I'm due back in London on the 20th."

"So did you sell anything?" She sounds like she's eating something now. Quavers most likely.

"Yeah, pretty much everything."

"Oh my god, Aidan! I told you! Why do you sound so bloody miserable then?"

I scrub my hand over my mouth and through my hair. "Cause it's just the way I sound, Niamh."

"Aye, you're a miserable bugger. Even when you're doing well."

I sigh. "I guess, maybe it's cause I just expect it's all going to disappear tomorrow, I don't know." But that didn't sound right. I shouldn't be here as it is. If it disappeared tomorrow I'd go back to taking pictures of bands and continue drinking myself into an early grave. Nothing would change — not a fucking thing.

"It's not going to disappear tomorrow, Aidan," Niamh states, confidently. "And so what if it did? You'd be alright. You always land on your feet." There's no resentment there but I know what she means. I did have a tendency to luck out on most things. Not that it felt that way at the time mind you, but when I took a step back, or when Niamh helpfully reminded me, it's almost like my cynicism and bitterness is misplaced. 

"Wait a minute, all of them? You sold them all? Not the ones of me Aidan? You said you wouldn't?" Her voice is shrill, high pitched.

"Did I? Fuck, I forgot. Sorry." I smile.

"You better be joking me you little shit or I'm gonna plant you one when I see you."Niamh still called me 'little' even though I was easily a foot taller. I think I've been a foot taller than her since the age of eight.

"Course I am," I chuckle. "Shame 'cause I'm sure they'd have gone for thousands and I need the bloody money."

"Don't tell me you've spent your prize money already? On that brown shite I'll bet too," she grumbles. Her tone is judgmental and harsh. Like it should be.

"So how's the little man?" I ask, changing the subject.

She sighs. "Tiring. Mental. Reminds me of you. Hang on, I'll get him." I hear her cover the phone with her hand so it muffles her slightly. "Rory! Your uncle Aidan is on the phone from America, come in and say hello!"

"Niamh, your phone bill is gonna be fucking extortionate. Let me phone you back."

She makes a disgusted noise through her nose. "It's one phone call, Aidan. I can afford to phone my little brother once a bloody fortnight for God's sake."

I roll my eyes wondering if that's true. Niamh downplayed her problems like no one I'd ever known. Most of them were men or money related, and I'd never been much use to her on either. After I won The Morley I'd offered to send her and Rory half the prize money and her response was to stop talking to me for a month. Her pride wouldn't allow her little brother to help support her financially.

Since her waste of space ex-husband had left her to shack up with some ex-friend of hers, her pride had only hardened and her determination to do everything on her own had gotten even more entrenched. "Here he is," she says and I hear movement on the other end of the phone. His tiny voice comes hesitantly over the line a second later.

"Uncle Aidan? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me. How you doing, buddy?" I sit forward on my thighs.

"I was playing golf in the garden and Rex keeps chasing the ball and trying to eat it!" He giggles uncontrollably. It's infectious and I'm laughing too.

"So you're playing golf like the other Rory? You as good as him then?"

"Yes," he answers immediately.

I smile. "You'll need to play me some time."

"I'll beat you, uncle Aidan."

"I don't doubt it. Are you behaving yourself for your mum?"

His silence speaks volumes. "Rory?"

"Yes... I am."

"You sure?"

A pause. "No."

I sigh. "Why not? You know you need to be good for your mum, don't you? We've talked about this. You know she gets upset when you don't behave?"

"I know." Now he sounds guilty. "Uncle Aidan are you really in 'merica?"

"Yeah, I am. I'm in New York City." I glance up out the window at the heavy grey sky outside. 

"What's it like?"

"Very big and very loud and all the taxis are all yellow."

"Yellow taxis!!? Really?" He sounds awed. "Are you there to take pictures of the taxis?"

"No, not the taxis."

'Then what?"

I see Eloise smile at me from the window ledge and I sit back in the couch and let out a sigh. "I'll tell you about it one day, buddy. Put your mum back on will ya? And listen — be good ok? If you're good I'll bring you a present back from New York for your birthday. And if you're not your mum will tell me and I'll give it someone else ok?"

He makes a squeak of disbelief. "I will be good," he threatens. "When are you coming to see us?" What he actually means is when am I bringing his present.

"Soon mate, soon. Now go back to your golf and don't let Rex eat any of the balls, yeah?

"I will beat you at it when you come!" He shouts. "Bye, Uncle Aidan! And remember my present,"

Niamh sighs as she comes back on. "He won't shut up about you coming with his present now."

"Ach he'll forget about it as soon as he goes back outside. So how are you doing? How're things? Heard from him?"

"I'm fine. He's still living over on Gibson Street with that two-faced bitch. Saw her in Tesco the other day and she looks fat, so he's probably knocked her up as well. Got his eye on the next one as we speak I'll bet." She mutters, bitterly.

"I meant has he sent you any money, Niamh." I honestly couldn't give a toss about Tommy fucking O'brien's love life. I was just glad it didn't involve my sister anymore.

"I don't want his fucking money, Aidan. He can shove it up his arse."

I sigh. "You're a nurse, Niamh, not a bloody millionaire. Can you just let me send you something then?"

"I told you not to mention that again didn't I? I'm fine. We're fine. I don't need my little brother to send me money, Aidan. Worry about yourself for a change. Your liver being a good bloody start." She mutters something under her breath that I can't hear entirely but I hear the word, 'Da' there somewhere.

"I'd have thought you'd rather use the money for you and Rory than have me drink it away?" It's a low blow, but it's worth a shot.

"Don't you dare emotionally blackmail me you little shite," she snipes. "Buy your flat in London with it. Go to India and find yourself or whatever it is you artist types do. I don't want it. Now drop it, Aidan, I mean it." There's finality in her tone and because I don't want her to stop speaking to me for another month I say nothing more. I do however decide that I'll put a chunk in an account for Rory. She might not want it but in twelve years when he turned eighteen at least, he'd have the means of escape auntie Roisin had given me.

"Yeah ok, fine," I say. "Listen tell Auntie Breda and uncle Liam I was asking for them. Mairead too if you're feeling brave. I better let you get off but I'll call you in a few days. And if you need something, anything, call me. I'll try and get over and see you all when I'm back home."

"I'd like that Aidan. I miss you you know?" Her voice is softer now. Warm. I did know.

"I know. Me too," I tell her, meaning it. Niamh and I had always been close. Likely as there were only two years between us. Mairead had moved out before the worst of it happened with our Da and so the shared experience of that just didn't exist between us. Niamh and I dealt with his shite. Which we'd handled not too badly for a thirteen and fourteen-year-old. Niamh had been the one to find him on the bathroom floor that day, dead from a massive stroke. Sometimes I wondered if the fact that we'd both saw the lifeless bodies of our parents was what really bonded us. 

After I hang up with her I head upstairs. My sketchpad is still exactly where I left it yesterday — face down on the window ledge. When I turn it over my shoulders relax a fraction and I let out a relieved breath. It isn't nearly as bad as I thought. As I remembered it being. The soft line of her jaw leads fluidly down to her neck, long and graceful. I'd captured the way her hands had clasped lovingly around the book that wasn't Enduring Love. The book she'd almost lost herself talking about. Turns out I love listening to her talking as much as I love everything else about her. When she'd started speaking about it in that soft, melodic voice, in that clipped English accent that made my cock groan, I never wanted her to stop. I could have easily listened to her talk for hours.

I tilt my head to study the sketch harder. I'd actually managed to get her mouth right too. How come it had it looked so fucking awful yesterday? I don't understand.

I take a seat and start to work on some of the shadows, in-filling them with a darker pencil, drawing over the loose wisps of hair which had fallen about her face. Her eyes were shit though. Maybe because she was too far away. I needed her to be closer on Monday. Aye, I bet you do, mate. Or maybe I'd photograph her and work from those. I needed to film her too but she wasn't likely to agree to that. She'd wonder why the fuck I wanted to film her since she hated video installations — mine more than any other — and would happily go the rest of her life without looking at another one.

I'm bombarded by the image of her lying naked on my bed, tangled up in just the plain white sheet. That might actually have happened if I hadn't stopped her yesterday. Was she seriously about to strip naked for me? It looked like it. Why the fuck had I stopped her? Because I'm an artist, not a pervert. Yet the thought of seeing her entire unclothed body still causes a deep vibration between my legs. 

Overall, yesterday had gone okay. I'd learned a few things I didn't know before it. I'd learnt she was a farmer's daughter. A fact that had been almost mind-boggling to me though I don't really know why. I mean it wasn't like she'd just appeared one day, fully formed. I guess on reflection it makes a sort of sense. She was wholesome and warm with a delicate, innocent sort of beauty. And that she'd grown up in the countryside made complete sense. I could see her amidst flowers and wheat fields, the landscape turning golden and green and back again around her.

I'd learned she thought I was a talented photographer. (I'd also learnt she still had no clue she'd spent four weeks modelling for me thirteen years ago.)

Yes, it had gone okay. Only two days until she came back. They'd fly in.

***

They don't.

Every waking hour drags by. Torturing me, teasing me, forcing me to imagine what she might be doing at each moment, with her husband. It's unhealthy — I know that. It's also portentous. The shape of things to come. How I'd spend my time when this was all over.

I spend the rest of Saturday ignoring Pat's phone calls until about seven pm when he'd text to say that if I meet him in the pub he'll tell me what Eloise said about me when he'd spoken with her today. I frown at the phone angrily for several minutes until I realise that he's talking about when he spoke to her about the advance — which was apparently £1500 — and not because he'd just randomly called her for a catch-up.

It makes me very uncomfortable to think of him talking to her about money. Money she'd be paying me. Money for something I was more than happy to do for nothing. But it doesn't work like that — I know that.

In any case, I suspect he's talking shit. I suspect she mentioned nothing to him about me whatsoever. She probably hadn't given me a second thought after she left the loft yesterday. Or if she had it was probably to consider how much of a wanker I was, given she'd asked me one question about my life and I'd bitten her head off like a bull terrier on her period.

Sunday is much the same except it's raining hard outside. This means I can't go for a run. Well, I mean I could, but fuck that. Only nutters went jogging in all weathers. Instead, I do some pull-ups on the bar until my arms feel like they're going to fall off and some push-ups on the floor until the sweat pours out of me and my throat and lungs burn.

I make a conscious decision not to go near the studio either. Instead, I wait until later when the rain softens and put on my waterproof and leave the loft for some fresh air. Or some rain heavy air — which personally I've always liked. After the rain, you could smell the earth without the layers of living heaped on top of it. The smell of the air after it had been raining heavily was in fact the only thing good about the British weather.

After buying a take-out coffee from the place next door, I remember about the record/bookshop two blocks away that I'd been wanting to visit since I got here. Once inside, I lose myself in the process of browsing; picking up old vinyl, reading the backs before putting them back down again. I've been in there about an hour when I spot it in the 'rares, losts, and founds' section. An original pressing of Nick Drake's first album complete with the Pink Island label — I think my heart stops for a fraction of a second. Fucking hell. I'd been looking for one of these for over ten years. In every record shop in every city, I'd ever visited.

Had it just been here the whole time? I'd seen it online before but had refused point-blank to pay some touting prick a fortune for it. This place wants $700 which is reasonable since I've seen it before for over a grand. The record isn't in it so I need to go check with the guy in the beanie hat behind the cash desk that it's in mint condition - which it is.

At first, I offer him $600, which he thinks about but eventually refuses so I tell him to forget it. Since the place is close to empty I don't mind having him think I'm walking away. I only manage a few steps when he shouts me back and we settle on $625. Smug, I slide it carefully into the inside of my waterproof like it's a precious jewel and go upstairs to look for the book.

Margaret Atwood is quite well known apparently. I find about six books of hers, some with weird names, some with even weirder covers, before finally stumbling upon the one that Eloise loves so much. It's on a lower shelf and there are three copies of it, two editions, each edition with different covers. For some reason, I decide on the most modernist-looking cover even though it's in a slightly worse condition than the others.

By contrast, the second-hand copy of the book by Eloise's exquisite writer costs me just $4. It makes the Drake album feel like a ridiculous, wasteful luxury, and so it immediately starts to feel hot and heavy in my pocket.

As soon as I get home I take off my wet shoes, socks, and jacket and grab a bottle of beer from the fridge. I'm not born of the school of thought that believes rare vinyl are meant to be kept in their sleeves in pristine condition. Music was made to be heard — Drake even more so than most. The fact that this place had come complete with a state-of-the-art record player had been the single thing that sold me on it. I never even looked at the studio space or the size of the bedroom or the proximity to the subway. I'd spotted the record player and integrated sound system and told Pat to pay the deposit. Pretentious prick. 

As the first bars of 'Time Has Told Me' floats through the loft, I take a seat on the couch and flip open Eloise's book. The fact that she loved it so much had intrigued me. But then, everything about her intrigued me. And since I'd spent thirteen years knowing nothing about her except her name, I was going to devour this piece of information along with anything else she deemed fit to feed me. A few pages in I get exactly the point she was making yesterday. The writer did have a particularly elegant way with words. Sparse, cleanly descriptive sentences which direct me through a dystopian world which separated women into classes depending on their use to society. Fucking hell it's dark. Addictive and absorbing, but very dark.

So absorbing in fact that I lose the entire night to it. I forget to eat, forget to get drunk and I don't even make it to bed.

I wake up on the sofa at 10:40 am on Monday morning with a sore neck and the finished book on the floor beside me. Fuck sake, I need to shower and eat something. She'll be here soon.

***

The intercom goes just before 12 pm. She's early again.

"It's me," she chirps.

"You're early again."

"I always am. It's a quality,"

"No, it's a pain in the arse," I smile.

"So... you'd rather I was late?"

"Well, at least once. Just to keep things exciting."

"Oh, I'm not a very exciting person," she says. I can hear the smile in her voice. "Are you planning on letting me in?"

I glance across at the large window. "Actually no, I'm coming down. Wait there." Just before I hang up I hear her make a small surprised noise.

I grab my camera and a light jacket and stuff both into my rucksack which I sling onto my back. Then I grab my sunglasses, wallet, and keys from the kitchen counter and leave the loft.

The sun is shining today and since I'd spent most of the weekend cooped up indoors I need some fresh air. Also, the idea of getting some photos of her outside in the sunshine is too good an opportunity to miss. The sunlight will be a pain in the arse to deal with, but I'd sort that out later.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach the front door of the building a few minutes later to find her sitting on the step with her back to me, head resting in her hands as she watches the world go by. Her hair is down today, loose about her shoulders in soft strawberry blonde waves which fall down her back. When she hears me open the door she turns and stands. She's wearing a sleeveless white silk top with small pink flowers dotted randomly on it, through which I can see the faint trace of her bra. Pink too. I drink in the sight of her for a moment or two as she stares at me.

Fuck I'd missed her face. I'd missed the way she brushed invisible strands of hair away from it like she is doing right at this moment. I'd missed the soft curve of her elegant mouth when she smiles. 

"We're going out?" She asks, puzzled.

I smile, before sliding on my sunglasses to look up at the sky. Blue and clear for miles. Yes, we are most definitely going out.

"We are. It's photography day. And there's nothing like natural light to highlight every single flaw." I say as I descend the steps.

"You want to take photos of me? Outside? In front of people?"

I nod slowly. "Don't look so worried. I'm not gonna ask you to take your clothes off this time."

"Oh, well that's a shame," she mutters, looking unimpressed with my attempt at a joke. "So where are we going?"

"Not sure, let's see what happens. Come on." I start off north along East 24th street, going a few steps before glancing back to make sure she's following me. When I do, I see her looking down at my feet with a smile.

"You're walking too fast," she says, skipping a little to bring herself to my side.

"Am I?"

"Yes. You're a lot taller than me, meaning your legs are longer, meaning I need to walk faster to keep up."

I frown. "I'm not that much taller, and I only have the one walk, but I'll try and adjust it for you."

When we finally catch the same pace I glance around at her. Her head is pulled back, expression relaxed as she looks straight ahead. She's put her sunglasses on — brown and sort of retro and they rest snuggly on her pert little nose. Her lips look plump and wet. I lick my lips. 

"Have a nice weekend?" I ask her. With your grinning cunt of a husband?

"Yes, thanks," she nods. "Well, Oliver had to go into work on Saturday so I went down to the gallery to see your show. It was really busy." She twists her head and smiles at me.

My mouth almost drops open. "You went to see my stuff?"

"Yes. Oh and I never threw up this time you'll be glad to know." She drops her eyes from mine. Did she seriously spend her free Saturday looking at my work?

"Yeah, that is a result," I say, still stunned. "Well, I'm flattered you went down there."

"Why? I'm paying for a piece of your art with my hard-earned cash, and we both know I paid no attention the first time around." She flashes me an apologetic smile. "Sensible to get a good look at where my money's going."

"Oh well, I could have told you that. Fast cars, hot women and alcohol," I smirk.

She rolls her eyes. "And there was me thinking you had a little more substance than that."

"You did? What the fuck gave you that idea?"

"No idea... I never have been a great judge of character."

"Well, I'm sure you have other talents?"

"Perhaps," she replies. Is that a blush? "So what about you? Was your weekend productive?"

I pretend to think about it. "What's productive mean?"

She smiles and shakes her head.

We walk for a few moments in silence before we come to a crossing, where she stops so close to me that I can feel the hairs of her arm graze against mine. She's hot from the sun and the fact that at this moment her skin is directly on mine makes my cock stir restlessly. When the light for the pedestrian crossing comes on we go to move, Eloise stepping out first, completely oblivious to the taxi driving at speed towards the kerb. Hasn't he seen the fucking walk sign? My instinct roars and I yank her back against me just as the taxi comes screeching to a stop a foot or so away from us.

"Are you fucking mental???" I howl at the guy in the yellow heap of junk in front of me. At the same time as my blood boils with rage, my body struggles to cope with the feel of her warm little body against mine. It kindles something far more than my restless cock, far deeper and far harder to ignore. How is it that she fits so perfectly and feels so much better against my body than I thought possible? How is that even fucking fair?

The taxi driver gestures his apology, but it does nothing to calm any part of me down. If she wasn't in my arms I'd go over and punch his fucking head in. Then again, if she wasn't in my arms I doubt I'd have cared so much about him hitting me.

After holding her tighter than necessary for longer than necessary, I take a deep breath and swallow hard, before releasing my grip on her. An action I'm pretty sure will go down as one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

As she peels herself out of my arms and stands straight she turns and looks up at me. She looks stunned, terrified probably. Fucking taxi-driving nutter.

"You ok?" I ask her.

She stares at me a long time, breathing hard, eyes wide and face flushed, before tucking an unseen hair behind her ear.

"I'm... yes. Fine, thanks..." she lets out a breath before turning away from me to begin crossing the road. This time I'm the one to hurry after her.

We walk for a few moments in silence again, this one heavier, warmer, and more important than the one before.

Finally, she turns to me and speaks, "So...... any idea where we're going yet?"

"Not a fucking clue..." I tell her.

Twenty minutes later we arrive in Washington Square Park. It's ridiculously busy. The heat and the sun bringing everyone out into any available piece of unbuilt upon land.

In that way, New Yorkers and Britons were very much alike. As we near the large arch Eloise turns to me, "It's so busy Aidan, you really want to take pictures of me here?" She sounds wary.

"The northwest corner is quieter. It's where the all the perverts and flashers hang out," I smile.

"Oh, how delightful," she giggles. "So, you come here a lot? For your work?" She asks me.

"No. I walked through it once. I was desperate for somewhere quiet outside — some greenery. I was certain there wasn't anywhere in this city, but there's a spot right in the middle by the Hangman's Elm where you can't even hear traffic. It's like you're in the country."

"The Hangman's elm?"

"Apparently they used to hang people from it. Not sure that's true though."

"You want to take my picture by a hanging tree?" She almost laughs. When I turn to her she's slid her sunglasses up onto the top of her head. Since we've gotten into the more dense section of the park the sunlight isn't quite as intense. Yes, this would definitely be better to shoot in.

"It's quieter there. I want you to feel comfortable, and I want to see you in a nature context."

She snorts, adorably. "I'm not going to be any better in a nature context, trust me."

I stop walking. "What do you mean?"

She shrugs. "Just, that well I know Friday didn't go well. I know I'm a terrible model. I always was."

I frown."What makes you think Friday didn't go well?"

"It was pretty obvious. You seemed annoyed. You hated the sketch — I'm a terrible model." She explains all of these things as facts, as though they are all separate incidents with one connected cause: her.

I stare at her for a long time. Her breathing is soft and even, her mouth parted slightly as she gazes up at me with apologetic eyes. She's only a foot or so away so that if I took one step forward I'd be pressing against her.

Finally, I shake my head. "That's not why I was annoyed."

She looks confused. "It wasn't?"

"No." How do I tell her that it was me and my complete inability to do her justice that pissed me off? That even after all these years I still can't do it. How do I tell her that it's close to impossible to capture perfection?

"What, so you're saying I'm not the worst subject you've ever had?" She asks, stunned. There's a break in the clouds overhead suddenly and the sunlight floods down over her hair and her eyes, bathing her in a soft warm glow.

I shake my head slowly. "Not even close."

"Well that's a relief," she says in a small voice which is a little breathless.

Something propels my body forward then. Not a full step, just an inch, maybe two, so that I can make out the flecks of silver in her eyes. When I reach my hand up towards the sunglasses perched on her head, her whole body stills and her breath catches in her throat causing her to make a little soft gasping sound. Very gently, I remove the glasses from her head.

"Don't move," I instruct, before slowly stepping back and dropping to my knees to open the rucksack and retrieve my camera.

As I remove the screencap I glance up at her. She's standing stock still, looking down at me, her hands resting by her sides. The sunlight falls over her still, highlighting her strawberry blonde hair so it looks like it's made of sunshine itself. Her lips are bright red and stand out against her pale skin.

I've literally never seen her look more perfect than she does in this moment. She belongs outside, among trees and sunshine and living things. Yes. The farmer's daughter thing completely makes sense now. She's a fucking goddess. My angled spot on the ground, kneeling at her feet, feels very fucking apt suddenly. I shoot a couple of shots of her staring straight down the camera. But as I do I notice that she isn't looking down the lens — she's looking at me.

"Should I smile?" She asks beginning to fidget slightly.

"Sure, if you like." I continue clicking away as she brings her hand up and brushes her hair behind her ear.

"Then maybe you should say something funny or it won't look genuine."

I lower the camera and frown slightly. "That's a lot of pressure. How do you normally smile for photos?"

She thinks about this. "Well, normally I'm not being shot by a professional photographer for a piece of art he's making. It's making me nervous."

"Ah, so that makes it my responsibility to make you smile? Got you," I nod. Unexpectedly, her mouth curls up into a smile. "Well, that was easy. Hold that thought. Just think about that, whatever it was that just made you smile."

"Will do," she smiles wider.

I stand and change my angle as she continues to smile at me.

"What was it anyway?" I ask her, as I fiddle with the setting of the camera to lower the exposure a fraction. "What made you smile? Maybe I'll use it going forward."

"Ummmm. That time it was your accent."

I give her a look. "You were laughing at my accent?"

She giggles then shakes her head, "Not laughing, laughing, just," she shrugs, "the way you pronounce certain words."

"Is that right..." I tut. 

"I like it! It's just... some words sound funny that's all."

"Which ones?" I raise an eyebrow trying to keep my face serious.

"Lots. But that time it was "responsibility." She says it in a fake northern Irish accent so fucking awful I laugh out loud.

"Accents definitely aren't one of those talents we talked about," I chuckle.

She laughs. "It's definitely better when you say it — it's actually really cute."

"Cute?"

"Crap. That's right, men hate women calling them cute don't they? I mean... it's very... masculine and strong," she says this in a voice a few octaves lower. When she pulls herself up tall imitating a muscled man I laugh out loud. Shaking my head I hook the camera strap around my neck and zip up my bag before walking ahead into the park leaving her trailing behind.

"Aww, you're not annoyed are you?" She rushes to my side. "I love your accent. I actually find it very pleasant, very soothing. I wasn't mocking you."

I twist my head to look at her and raise an eyebrow. "I'm not annoyed, but you'll pay for calling me cute, Mrs Alford."

She smiles that incapacitating smile of hers. "Your threats don't scare me, Mr Foley," she says. "And it's Ellie — no one calls me Mrs Alford. Mrs Alford is my mother-in-law's name."

Interesting. What did it mean that she didn't like being called her married name? Did it mean anything? Had I not told her the very same thing about 'Mr Foley' the day she'd come to the loft. Yeah, it likely meant nothing.

"Well Ellie, you should still be afraid. Because I always follow through on my threats."

Ellie. I liked it. Why didn't it occur to me that she might have a nickname? A name that people close to her called her. A name that she now wants me to know her by. Ellie. It suits her perfectly.

As we walk deeper through the busy park it gets noticeably less busy — the ratio of people directly in correlation to the amount of sunshine beating down on the park floor.

Two hours later I easily have over a hundred shots of her in various lights, backdrops and from numerous angles. We made it to the Hangman's elm and she sat under it, stood against it, and leaned against it. She even hit her head against it when I told her it wasn't working for me. She repeated that it was because she was a terrible model, which again I refuted.

Eventually, we find a spot near the northern gate on the top of a small mound with a nice view of the rest of the crowded park. The sun has retreated slightly so the lighting isn't so hard to deal with here either. I lie my jacket on the dusty worn grass and tell her to sit as comfortably as possible and pretend I'm not here. To which I think she mutters the reply "as if" under her breath but I can't be sure. I'm certain I get a few breathtaking shots of her with her hair whipping about her face and a mixture of trees and skyline behind her but I can't be sure of how good they are until I see them at home.

When we're finished shooting I leave her sitting on my jacket on the hill to go get us two cold drinks. When I return, I find her staring down the hill at something utterly transfixed. She looks like a statue. Inert and posed and so very still. As I come up towards her silently from her blind spot, I follow her eyes down the slope to see what has her so engrossed. It's a family of three. A mother clapping her hands as the father and their child — a little boy of about two — play with a large multicoloured ball. The dad rolls it to the child and the child rolls it back, eliciting more proud excited clapping from the mother.

As I glance back at Eloise I see her chest heaving slightly with staggered breaths. At first, it looks like she's laughing but as I take a few steps closer I realise I'm wrong. She's not laughing at all. She's crying. Soft silent sobs which make her look no less graceful from where I'm standing. They also make me want to go to her and demand to know what's wrong. With as little movement as possible, I lower the drinks to the grass and lift my camera to take a few last shots of her. I know I shouldn't, I know its unfair to do it without her knowledge, but there is something about her in this moment that touches something so deep inside me, I know I'd regret not at least trying to capture her in it.

As I bend down to pick up the cold drinks again, she senses my presence and whips her head around to me. She brings her hand up to her face and dips it under her sunglasses to wipe at her eyes.

"Allergies," she says finally with a soft shake of her head.

I nod slowly as I stretch out the hand which is holding the iced mango kiwi concoction, keeping my gaze fixed firmly on hers. As she reaches out to take it from me her small, feminine fingers overlap mine, fitting snuggly inside my own.

"Is there anything I can do?" I ask, my voice soft, imploring. Slowly, somewhere inside, parts of things begin slotting together; like pieces of a puzzle which are slowly, gradually becoming clear to make a full picture. I'm still missing some pieces but there were almost enough parts visible now to make out what it was supposed to look like.

At that moment, a dark shadow passes overhead but I ignore it, entirely unable to look away from her.

Slowly her mouth opens and she forms her lips into a word. I literally see her try it on inside her mouth and in her head to see how it sounds.

"Actually yes, there is," she whispers.

"Tell me."

I'd do it. Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, I'd do it. I was certain I'd do anything for her. It was an irrefutable truth engrained deep inside me — it had always been true.

"You can let go of this," she smiles. "I'm dehydrating."

I release my grip on the cold drink. She holds my eye as she brings the drink to her mouth and sucks hard, her perfect pink mouth forming a delicate 'O' around the bright green straw.

When I finally manage to turn my gaze away from her I look back down the hill at the young family of three. They're packing up their ball and picnic blanket and putting a hooded blue raincoat on their small son. When the thunder roars loudly above us an instant later, I realise why.