What the fuck am I doing?

What the fuck did I just do? She kissed me. She kissed me and it wasn't a mistake. She wanted it. Maybe even wanted me. I'm a fucking idiot.

As I take the steps down from the studio in two leaps and bound across the loft the words I'd said to her as she left echo through my head. Close the door on the way out make the most noise. What a total prick.

By the door, I notice that the jacket I offered her is gone. I'm glad - the thought of her cold and wet again unsettles me. I take the stairs down the building faster than I was aware was even possible - though a fireman's pole would be ideal about now. She'd never get a taxi this quickly in the rain. Not in this place.

In my bare feet, I run through the entrance hall towards the front door and out onto the street. As my bare feet hit the ground I feel nothing. The cold hard rain on the souls of my feet doesn't even penetrate the surface. I can't see her. I scour the wet bodies looking for my green hooded waterproof but see nothing to my left or right. She must have walked for a bit. But in which direction?

I descend the steps and look a little further down the street - but she'd go uptown surely - in the direction of her place, which I knew was near 5th Avenue. This was madness. I couldn't walk anywhere without shoes. I mean I would, but I wouldn't get that far.

A few passers-by begin to stare at me like I'm insane which I completely ignore before I curse under my breath and turn to mount the stairs back up. As I reach the door of the building it dawns on me what I've done. All of it. I almost kick the door in frustration, which without shoes would be just what I fucking deserve. At the last second, I manage to stop myself breaking my foot. Yeah, I was a fucking idiot alright. Thankfully, not so much of an idiot to have left my phone upstairs too. Reaching into my back pocket I retrieve my iPhone and dial Pat's number. He lifts on the second ring.

"Oh, so you are still alive? Nice of you to check in."

"I don't need to check in," I tell him. "Where are you?"

"Actually on my way over to see you, why? Did you miss me?"

"Yeah, like a kick in the balls. Please tell me you have the spare key to the loft on you?"

"Yeah because I was sure I was going to need to use it to find your cold dead body,"

"You wish. How far away are you?"

"Ten minutes."

"See you in ten then." I hang up.

I sit on the inside of the doorway in an attempt to shield myself from the downpour that I can't feel anyway. All I can feel is loss and rage, underpinned by the smell of her skin and the taste of her mouth, which is still swimming around my tongue. She wasn't coming back here. She looked serious about that. But then, she'd looked serious when she said she hadn't wanted anything as much as my tongue in her mouth too. And what had I done about that particular revelation? Fuck all. Nothing. I'd acted like a prick. Then I'd told her to close the door on the way out.

The rage washes over me again. Anger only at myself. At my inertia. Twice now, I'd done nothing and let her walk out of my life. Once was unfortunate - an unavoidable accident. Twice was just blind fucking stupidity.

I bring up her number in my phone and stare at it for a long time. If I called and she didn't answer, what then? If I called and she did answer, what then? Tell her everything? That I did know her. That I'd known her for 13 years. That she'd been in my mind and my memories and my fucking soul since I'd laid eyes on her. That had to mean that you knew someone. Okay, I didn't know her birthday, or her favourite food, or which spice girl she'd liked the most, but I knew every inch of her form. I knew where every freckle was on her face, every eyelash placement, the shape of her fucking earlobe. I

'd memorised her.

She was the most ingrained memory I had. The only one I thought about in order to remember it. All the others I avoided because I wanted to forget them. That's what I should have told her. So why hadn't I? Because I was a coward. Because I was afraid of her reaction. Which would be what exactly? The romantic dreamy reaction I'd always hoped for only happened in films, and if we were in a film I'd have found her down here on the street and we'd have kissed in the rain before going upstairs to have sex to some shitty R&B song. I hated R&B.

"You look like a fucking homeless person." Pat's voice cuts through the vomit-inducing R&B soundtrack playing through my head. I brush a hand through my damp hair and stand. "Why don't you have shoes on? Are you pissed?" He cocks his head to the side, studying me.

"I wish. But I'll be making it a bloody priority as soon as I get upstairs," I glower.

He nods. "And why aren't you upstairs right now though? Why are you sitting in the rain?"

"For the fucking thrill of it, Pat, why the fuck do you think? Cause I locked myself out, and cause apparently no one else lives in this fucking building but me. Or if they do they don't leave and enter it by the front door."

He nods, reaching into his jacket pocket to pull out a set of copper and silver keys which I grab from him and open the door with. I decide to take the stairs back up and Pat follows me, huffing and panting all the way up. Pat's a lot smaller than me, so in theory, it should be a lot easier for him to carry himself up three flights of stairs. Makes me think that what he's probably doing is trying to advertise the fact that he's pissed at having made the pointless journey of coming all the way over here and not finding me dead. The door to the loft is still wide open, though a cursory glance around tells me I haven't been burgled. I'm sure if I had then they'd have come out through the front door to let me in on their way out. My vinyl, camera and laptop - the only things I really give a shit about - are all in exactly the same place.

Pat shuts the door and takes off his black waterproof, shaking it out by the door before hanging it up on the spot where my jacket normally hung. The one Eloise was now wearing. I grab the bottle of Bushmills I left out after making the hot whiskeys, as well as two glasses from the cupboard above my head and walk over to the couch. Eloise's dent on the soft grey cushion is still visible and I sit down on it as Pat comes to sit across from me on the couch to my right.

"So... the photos from Descript got emailed over yesterday - I need to get back to her today. So you need to decide today. I have them on my phone if you want a look?" I draw him a glare as I open the bottle, pouring us two generous sized glasses. "I'll take that as a not right now thanks Pat then," he says with an eye roll, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

I slide his glass over to him before lifting my own and slouching back in the couch, resting my head back on the soft frame. The whisky is hot, smooth and gratifying as it goes down my throat.

"So, how's Eloise's piece going?" He asks as he reaches for the glass.

I feel my face contort. "Eloise's piece? Since when do you know her as Eloise?"

He shrugs. "Since we had coffee and got to know each other,"

I feel my fist curl around the glass. "What you on about? When?" I glower.

"I told you. Saturday. I met her to discuss the advance." Bullshit. He never told me he met her. Eloise also hadn't mentioned it earlier. Why did the idea of her spending time with him piss me off so much?

"You said you spoke to her. You never told me you met her?"

"Didn't I?" He shrugs again which enrages me further. "Calm down man, Jesus Christ. No need to give me the death glare. We met for coffee, talked mainly about you. I'm not looking to get into her married knickers for fuck sake. That's your thing," he smirks. I feel like he has something of mine. He spent time with her. Time I no longer had with her.

"What did you talk about?" I ask.

"What?"

"You said you spoke about me mainly. What was said?" I gesture with my hand for him to explain. Perhaps if I knew what he'd told her I could figure out what was going through her mind right now.

"I didn't minute it, man. Just about you, your work. She'd just been to The Weston. She was excited about the piece. Said she liked your work, but I think mainly she liked you." He fixes me with a pointed stare.

"She said that to you?"

Pat nods. "Yeah. I know, I was surprised too. Seemed genuine about it though so who was I to argue?"

I'm not sure what to do with that information so I drop my eyes from Pat's and stare into my glass.

"What else? What else did you tell her about me?" I ask, lifting my eyes to him again.

"Don't worry, nothing about your 13-year-old obsession.  That pleasure's all yours. We just talked about how I knew you, how we met, that kind of stuff.  She was interested in you, wanted to know more about you."

She was interested in me. She kissed me. It had actually happened. Less than an hour ago, right here. I glance down at the seat of the sofa where she'd sat as I slid my tongue inside her. Turns out her mouth had been everything I'd dreamt it'd be.

"She kissed me." The words almost fall out of my mouth into the air. I bring the glass to my mouth and drink again, closing my eyes as the whisky burns its way down.

"Seriously?" He says.  Though to be honest, he only sounds a little surprised. "See? Told you she liked you. Congratulations." He smiles and raises his glass.

"Yeah, then she left and said she wasn't coming back."

"Guess that makes sense." 

"What does?" When I frown at him he sits forward, leaning on his knees.

"Makes sense she'd run. Think about it, Aidan."

"It's all I've been thinking about since it happened, Pat."  Well, that and the feel of her tongue on mine. And how warm her mouth was. And how I imagine it's as warm as she'd be between her legs. "She kissed me and now she isn't coming back because she kissed me. Sorta speaks volumes don't you think?"

He sighs. "Volumes about what? She's married and she kissed another guy - how would you feel? All I know is that she spent the entire time talking about you on Saturday, Aidan. Not your work, you. She wanted to know you. She also asked me not to tell you she'd been so nosy. Said she'd upset you by asking you about your childhood the day before or something." The guilt and anger flares in my stomach. Guilt for making her feel she couldn't ask me herself, and for forcing her to go to Pat to find out about me. Anger at him for getting to spend Saturday with her. "And now you're telling me she kissed you? This fantasy woman you've been in love with for over a decade who wasn't even aware of your existence until Thursday? Aidan, that's the sort of shit you'd have sold your aunt Roisin for, mate. Cheer the fuck up will you?" He shakes his head and sips at the contents of his glass. I think over his words. Words he'd delivered with the kind of passion I rarely see in Patrick, to be honest.

"Maybe you didn't hear me right, Pat. She's not coming back."

"So figure out a way to change that." He shrugs as he says it like it's the most simple thing in the world.

We're both silent a long time. Just the sound of him slurping at his whiskey filling the space.

"So, what, now you're encouraging this? Me and her?" I ask him, finally. "Last week you were telling me getting involved with her was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. What changed exactly?"

He stares at me a moment and then nods, brushing a hand through his cropped black hair. He looks serious, and Pat was rarely serious about anything. When he looked serious I knew he was about to tell me something I probably didn't want to hear.

"Yeah, but then I spoke to her. And I think you're right - I don't think she is that happy, man." He shakes his head.  "I'm not saying it's her husband that's making her unhappy, or that getting involved with you is going to change anything. But I do know one thing for certain."

"Yeah, what's that?" I ask.

"She would make you happy," he says, simply.  "And you know what? You deserve to be happy. Even if it's just temporary and even if you're even more miserable after. You deserve to be happy, Aidan. Even for a little bit."

I say nothing right away. In fact, I feel quite moved by the statement. And he's right. His argument was based on fact and I couldn't argue with it. Eloise would make me happy. Of that, I had no fucking doubt. Being with her was the kind of happiness I'd only ever really dreamt about. Being without her was, well, my life as I know it right now. There is, in fact, a very good chance she's the only thing that had even the slightest chance at making me happy.

Not that I really know what happy is.  What it means.  Because I've no real memory of ever being happy. I've just a memory of not being miserable, and it was before that hot day in July when I'd felt her hand turn cold in mine.  Eloise made me forget all the reasons not to be happy.

"Maybe," I say. "But it doesn't matter now. She's not coming back. I've to finish the piece and have you call her when it's done."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe she said that because it felt like the right thing for a married woman to say? The right thing to do after what she'd just done?" I say nothing. "I'm gonna bet it's not really what she wants."

"That your theory is it?" I mutter, slinging back the last of my whiskey. Yet, I feel slightly uplifted by his words. They have hope in them.

"Yeah. It is. And you know what you do to prove or disprove theories don't you?"

I raise my eyebrows, curious.

"Test them." He grins as he reaches forward to refill our glasses.

***

For the next few days, I not only lose myself upstairs in her image, but also in the hopeful possibility that Patrick might be right. That she ran away because the only alternative was to stay. He's certainly right about one thing: I need to test the theory.

But how the fuck do I do that when she isn't coming back?

The photos I took at the park on Monday are blown up and arranged on the wall in a sort of collage come shrine as I continue working on her commission. I hadn't set eyes on her since Monday but in reality, I haven't stopped looking at her. Her piece is starting to take shape, though. I can see it growing and filling out, coming to life slowly from the floor of the studio. I'd used only one colour against the white. Mars Black. Seemed apt to how I felt since she'd left. Dark. Cold. Alone. 

I still don't know exactly what it's gonna look like, but the foundations are certainly there, the bones of it slowly forming and solidifying. Whenever I circle it, I  see her in some of the angles, but then the light would hit it from a new perspective and she would disappear.

I decide to leave it to sleep for a few days.

***

The moment I walk up to the glass door, I can see immediately that the place is mobbed. Why the fuck had Nicole asked me to come down if she'd known it was gonna be like this? It's easily as busy as the opening, maybe even busier. Sighing, I push open the door and squeeze my way inside the place, scanning the crowd for the overly tanned, overly toothed face of Nicole.

"Aidan," I hear from somewhere behind me.

I turn around to face not Nicole, but her attractive assistant who's name has escaped me. It's the same one who called me that day to tell me Eloise wanted to talk with me.

She sashays toward me, long dark hair skirting down her shoulders and bare arms. She's the sort of woman you see in women's magazines holding expensive handbags at the opening of exclusive members-only clubs.

"Isn't it amazing? We thought we were going to have to turn people away." She glances around the bustling gallery.

"Yeah, wasn't expecting to see another soul here today, to be honest." I run a hand over my face and mouth, as I try and decide whether any of these people are actually enjoying my stuff. Mainly they look confused. Better than bored. Nicole's assistant hits my arm playfully, smiling a glorious white smile at me.

"Are you insane? We've had a steady stream every day since you opened. Lot's of it word of mouth, mainly. People love your work, Aidan."

"If you say so," I smile.

She frowns, but there's warmth in it. "I do say so. The kind of emotion you put into a photo of a broken building or a cloudy sky is just jaw-dropping. I've never seen a photographer be able to capture that kind of feeling in architecture shots," she tells me with a soft tilt of her mouth. She sounds sincere at least. But then, they all do.

"Thank you," I smile, wishing I could at least remember her fucking name. "Listen, I'm actually here to speak to Nicole. She's expecting me I think. Think you could manoeuvre me in the right direction?"

She smiles back and nods before taking hold of my elbow to steer me toward the back of the gallery. A few heads turn in my direction as we move through the place, and just as we reach the back someone actually asks for my autograph.

Confused, I shrug and take the thing she wants me to sign. As I turn it to get a quick look at what it is, everything suddenly makes sense.

The reason the place is so busy and how this girl even knows who I am. The magazine is folded open to a picture of me looking veritably pissed off at whoever is taking the picture. Beside the photo is the article written by the pretty french journalist from Descript. I'd totally forgotten it was out today.

After signing the magazine but refusing a selfie, I let Nicole's assistant direct me through a low-ceilinged corridor behind the main wall of the gallery to Nicole's office. Because the walls are glass, I can see she's on the phone and whomever she's talking to is at least partially funny because she's laughing loudly. I stand behind her assistant as she knocks on the door and waves at Nicole through the glass. Nicole stands and waves me inside and her assistant opens the door onto Nicole's voice swooning down the phone. It makes my ears burn.

"Stop it. Ok, yes, see you later. Yes! Okay, I really do have to go. Okay, Bye." She's still laughing as she replaces the receiver. "Thanks, Sasha, Aidan, soo great to see you," she drawls as she flounces around the desk toward me.

She places her hands on my shoulders and kisses me on both cheeks, the overwhelming scent of her perfume teasing the faint echoes of the mild hangover I'd managed to ignore all morning. As she moves away I take a seat in the designer chair opposite her desk and turn to smile my thanks at who I now know to be Sasha. She gives me that look and smiles, before slipping silently out of the room.

"So, I read your article in Descript this morning," Nicole says with a nod. Her expression is sort of sad, pitiful. Great. "Incredibly revealing Aidan. Really."

"Is it? I haven't read it yet. Probably all lies," I smile, stroking a hand over my beard. "Glad it seems to be helping your numbers though." I gesture my head toward the Gallery.

"They were great before, but yes, today has been non-stop."

"Well, that's something, at least. So, what did you want to talk to me about?" I'm already regretting coming down here.

"Yes!" She claps her hands together in that way she does. "So most of the buyers have paid holding deposits, some have even paid in full and no one has rescinded any offers -  which is all good news," she informs me.

I nod in agreement, wondering why she couldn't just have told me this over the phone.

"But Jordan and I were speaking and we wondered if maybe we had valued the pieces a little low considering your popularity."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "I'm a virtual unknown in New York. Your words when we spoke in London. I think the prices were reasonable."

"Yes, we did say that when we spoke, but there has been something explosive about this show. I think mainly it's you; the critics loved you at the opening and the reviews have reflected that."  I'll need to take her word for it because I hadn't read a single one. "And well, we wanted to know how you felt about letting it run a little longer? Maybe even have a second exhibition of sorts. There were lots of pieces you chose not to feature I understand?"

"Yeah, for legitimate reasons."

She nods, disappointed. "I see. Patrick said you were working on something new right now? Is this something you'd be looking to exhibit at some point?"

"Absolutely not." As the words leave my mouth I realise that not only do I not want to exhibit it, I don't want Eloise's husband to have it either.

"Of course," she says with a tight smile. "Well, in any case, the offer to extend the show stands. I don't know if there's anything I could do to persuade you to stay around a little longer? Maybe work on a few pieces exclusively for us?" She leans back in her chair and gives me the oddest look. I take my time before responding. Mainly because I don't know how to. Is she propositioning me? Surely not. She means money. She has to mean money.

"To be honest Nicole, I don't think there is. My aunt has been ill for a few years now which was one of the reasons I had to think long and hard about coming over here in the first place. She had to convince me herself in the end. I've enjoyed it, but staying on really isn't something I've considered." I can think of only one reason to stay and she wasn't coming back.

Nicole purses her lips and sits forward, templing her fingers underneath her chin. "I understand. I just wanted to make it clear how serious we are about you. I've also spoken with some contacts on the west coast who are interested in talking with you, they'll be at dinner tonight. Maybe LA would be a little more tempting?"

"Dinner?" I ask, confused.

"Yes. Tonight? At our place? You'd forgotten?" Her voice is high, panicked almost. I had, in fact, forgotten. Fuck. Eloise was going to be there. With him. How could I have forgotten that? Where the fuck was my head? Oh, I know. Stuck on the repeat of a wet day, a warm kiss, and the words 'Please don't kid yourself this means that you know me.'

"To be honest, Nicole, I had. I've been working constantly this week. It went right out my head, Sorry." I scrub a hand over my face as I let out a breath.

"But you can still make it? Oh, I hope so, you're the guest of honour." She smiles brightly.

Eloise is going to be there. How could I not go? Either way, I'm a fucking masochist. Or is it sadist? I could go and watch her play the happy couple with her grinning cunt of a husband. Or I could not go and likely never set eyes on her again

"Yeah," I nod.  "I'll be there."

She claps her hands again. "Perfect! And please bring someone along. I've set a place for you and a date. We've brought in a renowned chef from one of our favourite vegan restaurants uptown, Buxus, I don't know if you know it but it's fabulous." Again, I'll need to take her word for it. Though I can't imagine a vegan restaurant could ever get me as excited as Nicole seems to be about it. Instead, I rack my brain for who the fuck I can possibly bring as my 'date'. There'd been two women since I'd got here that I'd spent the night with but never called back. Plus Laurel. I doubt any of them would be happy about me calling to ask if they fancied being my dinner date in order to test out Patrick's theory.

Suddenly the glass behind is rapped with a set of fingers and both Nicole and I turn. Sasha smiles apologetically before opening the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, Nicole, but Jeff Forbes is here and wondered if you were around and had a minute.  I told him you were with someone but I'd come check." The look she gives me isn't apologetic.

"Jeff Forbes? Seriously? Oh." Immediately she begins to fluster. She brushes her hand through her hair and stands. "Aidan, Jeff is from The New York Times. He called a few days ago and said he may pop in to see the exhibition. Would you like to come out and I can introduce you?"

I stand up from the stupid chair and shake my head. "Couldn't think of anything worse, to be honest. Pat needs to prep me for hours before he lets me talk to normal people. Weeks for newspaper people." I smile hoping it cushions the disappointment for her. Her face falls for a second but then she nods and comes back around the desk. "I might skip out the back way actually if you have one of those?"

"Sure we do, Sasha would you mind showing Aidan to the fire exit? Ok, so we'll see you later tonight? Dinner is at 8 pm so if you arrive anywhere from 7:15 pm onwards that will be just fine. We do aperitifs and cocktails first," she tells me with what I'd call a friendly smile of warning. In other words, don't you dare be late to my vegan extravaganza you fucking philistine.

Nodding, I follow Sasha out of Nicole's office and to the right down a stark white corridor towards the rear of the Gallery. When we reach the high gloss black fire door she pushes down on the handle and opens it out onto a sunny alleyway far cleaner than most alleyways I'd seen.

"I thought only celebrities used backdoors. Is that what you are now?" Sasha smiles at me.

"Apparently in New York, that's exactly what I am," I nod. "Bieber better watch his fucking arse." This makes her laugh. As she smiles and brushes a hand gently through her thick ebony hair the idea hits me. I turn my whole body around to face her and slide my hands into my pockets and smile back. It's as genuine a smile I have without actually being genuine. It's the one I use for social purposes and for asking women out who I didn't particularly want to go out with but needed to for necessity reasons.

"Listen, Sasha, this is probably off the mark a little - maybe even borderline unprofessional - so just say no if you don't fancy it, yeah?" Sasha's eyes widen and her mouth drops open a little. "I don't suppose you'd fancy coming to dinner with me tonight? It's one of those dinner parties where everyone brings someone and the only person I know in this city is my friend Pat and I really hate the noises he makes when he eats. I want to throttle him and I don't think I'd get away with that at this particular dinner party." I give her a knowing look and her mouth tilts up.

"Are you asking me out on a date?" She asks.

"No," I shake my head. "Definitely not. Because I hate that word: 'date'. So no. But I am asking you to accompany me to your boss's dinner party to sit next to me and make me look better."

She giggles and looks down at her feet, shy suddenly. Chances are this is the same game I'm playing. But there's also the chance that it isn't. And it's this that causes a tiny sliver of guilt to crawl up my spine. Using this girl for my own selfish gains is a dick move. I know this.  But it was worth it to at least have a chance at teasing out a reaction from Eloise tonight. Of course, it could all backfire in my fucking face, but my reasoning is that I'll be in no worse a position than I'm in right now. When Sasha looks back up at me she's decided something.

"I'd love to come with you. But I'm not sure that was a compliment you just gave me?" She quirks a brow.

"Oh, it was. Trust me. You will definitely make me look better, by sitting next to me." I nod. "I'll try not to embarrass you but I can't promise anything."

She laughs again. "Sounds fun."

"I will try and make it a little fun," I say with a low laugh.

We agree to meet for a drink in a bar a block away from Nicole's place at 6:30 pm, which she assures me sells Guinness.

As I take the subway back to the loft I run over all the things I'll say to her when I see her tonight. Things I should have said on Monday before she left. Things which of course I won't be able to say because there will be other people there. Her husband being one of them.

This is a fucking ridiculous idea. So ridiculous that by the time I arrive home I'm close to calling Nicole to tell her I can't make it after all. But as I take the stairs to the studio and cross slowly to the wall displaying the forty-odd photos of her in various lights, poses, and moods, my mind is made up.

I'm going to this fucking dinner.

***

"So, how long have you worked for Nicole?" I ask her as I lift the Guinness. My inability to make small talk had already caused a couple of awkwardly extended silences and she'd only arrived ten minutes ago. Which was why I didn't 'date'. Which is exactly why I'm the kind of dick that sleeps with women and never calls them. Sasha is drinking a white-wine spritzer out of a tall glass, which she sips at daintily.

"About a year roughly, before that I worked at another Gallery uptown, but the owner was a complete sleaze. I really liked the idea of working for a woman," she tells me in her light slightly southern accent. I'd learned she wasn't a New York native. She'd moved here from Atlanta three years ago.

"And is it everything you hoped?"

She pauses for a moment, considering her response. "Mainly yes. Nicole and I get along. She's fair and good to talk to. Jordan... I don't know. He can be a little..." she searches for the right words, running her mauve coloured nail around the rim of her glass. "Oh never mind, it's rude to gossip." I can't decide if she wants me to press her on it so she can gossip, but since I don't care enough about either Jordan or Nicole, I don't bother. Instead, I merely nod and let another awkward silence fill the air. I thought women were supposed to talk more than men? Why isn't she talking? It occurs to me then that silences with Eloise had never felt awkward, not once. There had been silences when I'd been with her sure, but I'd felt relaxed and comfortable in every single one of them. I'd gotten the impression she had too.

"So what about this dinner party then? You know any of the people going? You ever been to Nicole's for dinner before?" I ask her, trying to appear interested. Then I realise I just wasted three whole questions in one go there.

She nods so that her dangling silver earrings bounce distractingly against her neck. She looks good, attractive in that obvious, intimidating kind of way some women are. I don't feel intimidated but I can imagine that if I was the kind of guy who approached women in bars then I'd probably avoid Sasha. She looks like the kinda woman who'd shoot you down with a withering stare and a flick of her perfectly straightened hair. She looks like the kind of woman who usually dated stockbrokers or high powered lawyers and had decided to slum it tonight. Since she'd arrived I'd seen every guy who passed give her, then me, the kind of look that told me I was punching way above my weight. Tall and statuesque with dark almond-shaped eyes and a full mouth which tonight was tinted with bright red lipstick. Not really my type, to be honest. I only have one type. Vaguely I wonder what she'd look like wearing red lipstick.

"Yes, I've been to Nicole's dinner parties once or twice. They're sort of a monthly thing. But it always felt a little like being at work so I started making up excuses to not go. That's bad right?" She asks me. I half shrug half shake my head. "But no, I don't really know who's going tonight. They know so many people. Sometimes it's people from Jordan's bank, sometimes it's some art circle folk, sometimes it's whichever artist is showing." She gives me a pointed smile.  "But they take these parties quite seriously."

I groan. "Sounds fucking horrendous. No wonder you've only been to a few."

She laughs and nods. "But the Alfords are going tonight which should be interesting."  The sound of their names being said like that does something weird to my insides. Like Eloise didn't have her own identity. Like they were a single, unified, thing. The Alfords.

"Interesting? How come?" I try and ensure my tone sounds anything but interested. I lift my pint and sip.

"Oh, just from what I've heard from Nicole. And what I've seen of Oliver..." she looks down, fiddling with her glass. "Of course, you met Eloise Alford, didn't you? Didn't she come to see you? How did she seem to you?"

I narrow my eyes. What the fuck was she on about? How did she seem to her? "Fine?"

"Yeah, I thought so too," she nods, but there's a hint of something like pity in her eyes. What am I missing here?  "I mean I think she is now. God, I need to stop this. I'm blaming the wine, and you."

"For what?" I want to know what she's on about but sitting here gossiping about Eloise didn't sit well with me.

"My mouth. Gossiping. Nothing," she shakes her head.  "Tonight won't be interesting at all. It'll be dull, despite what you promised."

"What did I promise?" I ask as I gulp down the last of my Guinness.

"You promised me it would be fun, remember?"

"I said I'd try.  My fun normally involves a bottle of whiskey and some very loud music. I doubt either of those will be forthcoming at Nicole and Jordan Weston's upper east side apartment."

"Townhouse. They have an Upper East Side townhouse," She informs me.

I roll my eyes. "Course they fucking do."

Sasha giggles and stands up from the table. "I just have to use the ladies room and then we can go," she says, before sashaying her way through the crowded bar to the delight of every guy in the room.

Like them, I watch her go, her tight black dress showing off long lithe tanned legs and an incredibly sexy body. A moment later I lose interest however and pull my phone out of my pocket. There's a text from Pat saying his phone hasn't stopped ringing all day on the back of the Descript article. I can't really think of an appropriate response to that because all I can think about is the fact that I'm going to see her in less than an hour. She may even be there when I get there.

As the night had gone on my body seemed to have been slowly, gradually coiling, tightening, readying itself in preparation. Like I was going into battle or something. Would I have to fight for her? I was prepared to, but it's not a fight I have any hope of winning, not really.

I wish I knew what had been going through her head the last few days. Did she want to see me? Or was it all just guilt and regret about what she'd done?

"Ready," Sasha says from above me. When I look up, I find her cheeks looking a bit flushed and her lipstick re-done.

I slide my chair back and stand. "Let's go do this."

Nicole and Jordan's townhouse is about a block away from the bar. It's a typical New York townhouse - a three-storey brownstone with steps up to the door. It must be worth millions. I know nothing about New York property prices but the whole street smelled of money. Jordan was an investment banker for one of the largest banks in the world and he'd bought his wife an art gallery as an anniversary present so I'm probably not too far off the mark. Sasha makes polite (if a little superficial chat) on the walk there whilst teetering impressively on what must be six-inch heels. 

As we stop in front of it, I gaze up at the front door wondering if Eloise is inside yet. Then I wonder what would happen if I walked up to her and demanded we go back to mine to finish what we started five days ago on my couch. The sadistic side of me wouldn't mind finding out. It wouldn't mind seeing the look on her smug bastard husband's face either. It's only then that it occurs to me that she might have told him what happened, and in which case, Sasha was right - The Alford's being here tonight would be very fucking interesting indeed.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here," she says with a soft laugh.

"Been waiting to use that one for a while have you?"

"Sort of, yeah," she admits.  "Come on then, you in front - you're the guest of honour after all."

When I reach the top of the stairs, I brush a hand through my hair and straighten my jacket before reaching out to ring the large copper doorbell which I hear echo through the house. Sasha clutches her small bag tight against her, smiling flirtatiously at me as I meet her eye.

I should have come alone. Why didn't I just come alone? I've no more time to evaluate the size of this particular fuck-up because one half of the double front door is flung wide open and I'm greeted by a smiling, overly made up Nicole wearing a floor-length red dress. She looks like she's going to a film premiere.

Yeah, she takes these things seriously alright. My dark corded jeans, white shirt, and black blazer suddenly make me feel like I've turned up wearing just boxers.

"Aidan! You're here," she says standing back to let us in, moving to kiss Sasha on both cheeks before doing the same with me.  I hand her the token bottle of red which she fawns over for a minute before passing it to a waiter standing by the door, who then offers to take my jacket.  I decline. "Sasha darling, don't you look wonderful! And what a cute couple you two make!"

I decide to ignore that particular comment entirely and leave the two of them to exchange pleasantries while I cast my eye about Nicole's house. It's done up in lots of white and black and as I glance up the stairs I see the decoration continues the same up there. I gather it's to highlight some of the colourful pieces of art I see dotted around the walls, none of which I recognise.  Nicole points out some of the pieces as she leads us both down the wide hallway toward the back of the house.  Through the large archway ahead is a huge dining room, a wall of glass highlighting a lit patio area, and beyond that a reasonable-sized, well-landscaped garden.  Yeah, this place was worth millions all right.

My stomach rolls in anticipation and I clear my throat as I glance casually around the room. I don't see her. Or him. But my body doesn't relax in the slightest. It's a large room, the massive black wood dining table - set to within an inch of its life - dominating the space.  I lift a glass of champagne from the waiter just inside the door and immediately drown half of it.

"Everyone, everyone, can I have your attention please," Nicole says to the busy room. I glance around the space once more to confirm that she isn't here, which does nothing to settle the anxiety in my throat, my chest. As the room quietens Nicole moves to pull me into her slightly, her hand tight on my elbow as she guides me to face everyone.  "Everyone we are so honoured he took some time out of his hugely busy schedule to come here tonight: this is the remarkably talented, remarkably charming, soon-to-be-massive star of the New York art world, Aidan Foley."

I look at her in bewilderment as the weirdest thing happens. They start to applaud. I smile, lifting my hand into a wave as each one of them smile back me with their sincere American smiles. For a moment, I worry that she wants me to give a fucking speech or something so I lift my champagne instead and tip back the rest of it.

"I'll introduce you to everyone once everyone's here," she whispers and I nod, relieved. "What can I get you to drink? We have everything," she says without a trace of irony.

"Red wine is fine," I say, handing my empty champagne glass back to the waiter. "Cheers, mate."

"Perfect, French or Italian?" Asks Nicole.

Seriously? "Prefer Spanish," I joke but she doesn't get it. " But Italian is fine"

She nods, eager, and wanders away from me to catch the attention of another waiter.  As I wait, I lift another glass of champagne and look around for Sasha.  She's across the room talking to Jordan from a great height, towering over him in her heels. As I begin toward her, I'm descended on by a small group who tell me they're 'friends of Jordy and Nic'.

After congratulating me first on the show - which all but one of them have seen - then on the Morley, they want to talk to me about the "intimate insight" featured in Descript today. Had everyone in this fucking place read it? Did Nicole give everyone a copy as they came through the door? I say very little, instead redirecting the conversation to them and how the article had made them feel before Nicole appears from behind me. I've never been happier to see her.

"Here you go, Aidan."  She hands me a generous glass of dark red wine in an abstract, hand-crafted wine glass no doubt worth more than my entire outfit. I smile my thanks and lift it to my nose to have a sniff. I'm not a wine expert but I normally know from the smell whether it's bound to give me a fuck off hangover or not. According to this one, tomorrow was a fucking write-off.

As I swallow a huge gulp, Sasha comes to stand by my side sipping on a glass of champagne in that dainty way she did. As Nicole takes over the conversation for a moment in her professional-hostess element, I look over at the table.

Eighteen places. On my survey of the room, I'd counted sixteen guests including myself and Sasha. Since Nicole has organised this thing with all the precision of a military commander I'd bet all I have on the fact that those two extra places were for the last two guests still to arrive. There won't be a single empty place at Nicole Westons dining table. They were coming. She was coming.

Then, as if by divine intervention, the loud chiming of the doorbell echoes around the room. It causes my breath to catch in my throat and a tight ripple of anticipation to move over my stomach.

"Oh, that'll be Oliver and Eloise," Nicole announces before flouncing back out the door we just came in.

The same thing happens as happened when Sasha did it. That same weird kick of rage at the mention of their name. When I glance at Sasha she's smiling as she raises her eyebrows at me. She chooses that moment to take a step closer and bring her mouth to my ear.

"I told you she takes this seriously though didn't I?" She whispers.  "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"It's insanity..." I mutter as I lift my glass to my mouth and look towards the door. The tightening in every muscle is almost unbearable.

Then, over Sasha's shoulder, I see her.

The whole room seems to quieten as they walk in but I'm sure it's just my imagination. She's cut her hair. Gone are the long strawberry blonde waves that just four days ago fell down her back. It's cut just above her shoulder and styled in loose delicate-looking waves. It gives her a vintage, old-Hollywood kind of look. She's dressed in a tight, floor-length, metallic silver dress which hugs her body on every curve. I almost groan out loud at the sight of her in it. In fact, if I didn't know better I'd say she wore it just to fucking torture me. My cock starts to throb and stiffen as I gaze at the soft silky fabric skimming over her perfect arse.

As the wanker steers her into the room with his hand on the small of her back, she turns her body away from me and I see that the back of the dress is non-existent. Open to reveal an expanse of smooth, flawless, pale skin. Yes, that dress was designed to torture me, and every other guy in the room by looks of it. Eloise nods at Nicole before turning to look around the large room.

The instant she sees me something happens to her entire body.  Her whole body stiffens; her eyes widening, her mouth falling open, her breath freezing in her throat. I can almost hear the soft gasp of shock from here. So she didn't know I was coming. Would she have come if she did?

Didn't matter. Here she was, looking like that. Making no effort to hide my appraisal, I tilt my mouth up into a lazy smile, which she considers returning before her gaze moves to my 'date'.

The next look that comes over her face tells me everything I need to know.

Her luminous blue eyes narrow and darken, her nostrils flaring, and her delectable mouth forms into a hard line. Because I want to see her reaction - and because I'm a cunt - I lean closer to Sasha and bring my mouth to her ear. I don't take my eyes from Eloise as I do.

"Attractive looking couple," I whisper, which it pains me to admit is actually true. His expensive grey suit and moneyed good looks compliment her and that fucking dress perfectly. "Bet they're fucking miserable."

As Sasha giggles softly, covering her hand with her mouth, Eloise straightens her spine and presses her body closer into her husband's. Then, with a look of pure intent, she slides her hand around his waist and turns her back on me to rest her head on his shoulder. The smirk falls from my face and jaw clenches hard, my body roaring with envy. It didn't matter. I know what I need to know. The fact that she was actually playing this game with me meant something. Meant a lot actually. For one thing, it meant that Pat was right. Again.

Yes, tonight would be interesting.

Guess it was time to prove a fucking theory.