Sliding over the Surface

By R.A. Gaffney

sliding over the surface explores themes of obsession, guilt and the corrosive power of jealousy. a story of a doomed love affair and the discovery that even our smallest actions may have devastating consequences. the scene is divided between glasgow and cornwall in the late nineteen seventies. in her final year of study at glasgow university, raine maitland embarks on an affair with her married tutor with a careless disregard for consequences. raine's tutor; dr philip nichols, is increasingly obsessed by his young lover. when she tries to end the affair he becomes dangerously unbalanced; also, his wife has a secret of her own. when nichols discovers his lab assistant has invented a simple yet ingenious timing device, he finally sees a way to rid himself of his wife. as raine travels south for the summer, nichols secretly follows her. finding she is there with her new love; tom and haunted by his wife's murder, nichols finally loses control. he abducts raine, believing as she does, that no one knows the identity of her married lover. raine's flatmate; nell, has always known her secret. in a race against time, her friends have to convince police that nichols is a murderer and their friend is in terrible danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.A. Gaffney
• Release date: Feb 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458191588

R.A. Gaffney

R. A. Gaffney is the pen name of Helen McNaught.about the author:Helen (call me elaine my mother always did) McNaught started travelling after leaving Glasgow university and never really stopped. she has had jobs too numerous to mention, from picking grapes in France, to travelling Australia as a pharmacy sales rep. she was based in Australia for thirty years where she built her dream house and got a proper job. her background lies mainly in sales and marketing, with forays into media; writing, directing and appearing in television ads in Australia. she is married to the love of her life whom she met at age fifteen. they have one dog, no children and still believe life is an adventure. The are at present living in the UK.

Book preview

Chapter 2

Raine Maitland walked to class on the first day of the new semester, with her friend, Eileen. As they approached University Avenue, they were astonished to see a great hole in the ground where a derelict building had been standing only last week.

Wow, look how quickly they demolish something that has been rooted there for over a hundred years. Eileen remarked.

Permanence is an illusion, Raine said dreamily, shaking her head.

From their geology studies, both knew even solid bedrock might contain a weakness that made nonsense of the simple faith we place in the earth beneath our feet.

Raine had always been introspective, translating knowledge of the natural world into her emotional life by seeing symbols everywhere. She was a natural philosopher, and felt everything on the planet connected in some way. There were so many repeating patterns.

The religious called this evidence of the creation, that one mind had conceived all life. Science had differing views, but for the moment, the scientists were uppermost in her mind. Hardly surprising, considering her surroundings.

Raine was beginning the third year of her BSc in geology at university, and she arrived back in town after the summer break with a sense of new beginnings. She was hungry for adventure and fresh experience, and this year was determined to find it.

Geology fascinated her, a science so all-encompassing as to take in the movement of continents or see a world in a grain of sand. In mineralogy, they handled many samples, each with names more beautiful than the last, named by a poet rather than a scientist, she felt. These often murmured drowsily through her head as she lay in bed at night, her crystalline litany: chrysoberyl, chalcedony, chrysoprase, almandite, adularia…

In this way, Raine imbued what was essentially a hunk of mineral, with a sense of beauty and mystery. She craved that extra dimension; by injecting emotion into inanimate objects, she would then feel the rush of enthusiasm needed to capture her interest.

Paleontology was Raine’s current favourite. To hold in her hand the imprint of an animal many millions of years old fired her imagination. Sometimes she felt as if the rest of the world had evolved and she still had gills, was breathing a different air. She didn’t want to be left behind, but even to herself, Raine acknowledged some of her thoughts and values were out of fashion. She had a personal code of honour with all the high idealism of youth, and knew she would be laughed out of the room if she ever mentioned it. Luckily, she was sensible enough to keep these ideas to herself.

This year would be different she resolved, walking briskly along the rain-soaked avenue with Eileen, who also seemed lost in thought, this year she would begin to live. She laughed, as two crows flying overhead seemed to croak in agreement.

What do we have, first up? Eileen asked, I’ve forgotten my schedule.

It’s Paleo, with Dr Nickie.

Oh well, that’s not too bad, Eileen smiled, she enjoyed paleontology too.

Their lecturer was Dr Philip Nichols, a Maryhill boy made good. He lived and breathed his subject, managing to transmit that enthusiasm to his students.

They thought Dr Nichols less hidebound than his older colleagues, and Raine found him rather attractive in his way. Of course, it helped that he was from Glasgow; he sounded like most of his students and often slipped into the vernacular in a joking way in lectures, so naturally they responded to him. Yes, they all liked Dr Nickie, especially as he did not subscribe to the Professor’s view, that there was ‘No room for women in geology’.

Women were here to stay, it was nineteen seventy eight after all, yet there were still only a dozen or so for every hundred men.

Raine and her friends had all read ‘The Female Eunuch’ and ‘The Dialectic of Sex’, and felt it a duty to choose subjects from male-only preserves. Everything was changing, especially stereotypes, and in this brave, new world they were ready to take their rightful place.

I wonder if men could become obsolete, Eileen said, watching the flow of predominantly male traffic come through the gates, Now that we can have test tube babies.

I hope that day never comes, Raine laughed.

This was the year Punk Rock had peaked, the Yorkshire Ripper was on the rampage, and terrorism had become a global experience, yet to the girls, their world seemed a safe place.

Eileen and Raine aspired to equal pay for women, yet saw no contradiction, in longing for Chris Reeve to carry them away. Superannuation and Superman, nothing seemed impossible, and for the first time, they felt a woman could have it all.

I think we can achieve anything we put our minds to, Raine. Look at Golda Meir or Mrs. Gandhi Eileen cried, Who have achieved positions of ultimate power. And there’s a rumour Margaret Thatcher will challenge Ted Heath for the Tory leadership. Imagine a woman as Prime Minister!

I’d vote for her, even if she is a Tory, Raine said. I know the Prof said we’d all be capitalists after graduation, not that I believe it of course, still, anything for the sisterhood.

Well, here we are again, Eileen sighed, as they climbed the stairs to the lecture hall. Another year begins.

The Faculty of Geology at Glasgow University is in the oldest part of a sprawling complex: fifteenth century cloisters, with a quadrangle and towers that must surely have seemed to pierce the sky six hundred years ago. The lecture rooms were steeply timbered amphitheatres, with long, latticed windows, the rooms bright with pearly, northern light. A sense of history had drawn Raine here in the first place, and she had placed Glasgow before any of the newer redbrick universities available on her preference list.

She loved it there, and before term started, found a flat and, thanks to Eileen’s introduction, a new friend to share.

Raine’s new flat mate, Nell, also studied geology, but was one year ahead. Raine liked her immediately, sensing a kindred spirit. She had never met anyone like Nell, so free in her outlook on life and she envied that. They could talk about anything, even taboo subjects.

Nell had a libido that gave her no rest, and was getting over a broken heart the only way she knew how, by dating other men; lots of other men. She had caught her first true love cheating, and that had cured her of love for a while.

When they went out last night, one of their male companions had said, Do you know? I’ve been looking and looking, and damn me if I can decide which of you two is the prettiest.

The girls had smiled at the compliment, and perhaps this was the secret of their growing friendship. They were a perfect foil for each other.

Raine was blonde, Nell brunette, feminine, hiding her intelligence, whereas Raine was more abrasive, hated boring pick up lines and didn’t suffer fools gladly, to her, hiding her intelligence amounted to a sin, to Nell, if they looked great and she fancied them that was enough.

Raine was bored with men that year, feeling they cared little about the person who lived behind the pretty face. She had become cynical in the last few years. Men seemed to want a physical relationship before she even knew them, which she quickly realised was not a recipe for lasting contentment, for her anyway. She understood that everyone finds a different road to happiness.

When her first love moved to Australia two years ago, they had resolved to meet as soon as she finished her education. Now, in his sparse correspondence, she could see that something greater than distance separated them. They no longer talked of her coming to Australia. Both had redefined the relationship, and there was a growing perception that it had all been rather wonderful, but they had been too young. It was time to move on.

At first, Raine felt she would never recover, she always had a problem letting go of the past, and had not been ready for another deep relationship. Her ‘don’t tie me down’ attitude only made her more attractive to men, and for a while she had enjoyed the dating game, keeping it light and carefree, yet a new sense of dissatisfaction was creeping in. She was no longer prepared to sleep with a man just for fun.

Nell couldn’t understand; You’re a dreamer, with your head in the clouds as usual Raine. Why complain when you’ve got half the faculty running after you? I might be jealous if the other half weren’t after me, she laughed.

Nell was a realist and grounded Raine’s more emotional nature, yet Raine’s insight told her all Nell really wanted was love. She found it difficult to see how drowning in men was going to help Nell find ‘the one’, especially in such a crowd, but envied her friend’s guilt-free enjoyment of everything on offer.

Why can’t I be more like you, Nell? she often said. I’m afraid I’ll never shake off the Catholic yoke. I know the beast is longing to get out, but somehow when it comes to it, I see the Little Sisters of no Mercy frowning at me, and back down he pops.

Next day, Raine was intrigued to find an unsigned poem in her pigeonhole. Soon, they were arriving on a weekly basis. This was something new, and it disarmed her, appealing to a romantic nature that loved mysteries, the very qualities her mystery lover would exploit.

She felt the writer had a beautiful soul; it shone through the verse, touching her in that secret, vulnerable place never displayed, and speaking to her directly. The subjects varied, they were not all love poems, yet no poetry had ever affected her so deeply. It was as if the writer knew her intimately, and she found herself half in love already. Here was everything she dreamed of in those long, lonely nights of twisted sheets and restless limbs; her recurring dream of the dark stranger riding the midnight mare, whose face is never seen.

Raine wasn’t looking for an affair. She disliked seductions, preferring spontaneity, and so-called ‘ladies men’ always left her cold. This was something different. This was romance.

Curled up on the couch in the evening, afloat on a sea of cushions, Nell and Raine would speculate madly on the identity of the poet.

I can’t see anyone in our faculty writing them, can you? Nell said. I mean, some of them are really nice guys, but none of them strike me as the poetic type. Perhaps the mystery man is doing an Arts degree, or Drama. You know, tights, frilly shirt, declaims a lot, she giggled.

Their guesses became laughable, but there was no doubt, Raine was hooked. Checking her pigeonhole, she suffered when there was nothing there. She had almost written him off, then felt suddenly buoyed up by the arrival of a new poem with a cryptic note attached. It read: meet me on Sunday at ten am, by the Dali Christ. She knew immediately what it meant.

Dali’s Christ of St John of the Cross, was one of her favourite paintings in the Glasgow Art Gallery.

As you walk along the upper floor, it hangs at the end of the corridor, above a flight of stairs and she found this placement wonderful.

If you are not familiar with Dali’s work, it represents Christ nailed to the cross. As a subject this sounds stale, yet it is the perspective that is so original. The viewer is above, looking down upon the crucified Christ hanging suspended in space. Behind and above the cross, is utter darkness, and you think, where is the art in black paint on canvas? Yet Dali has managed to capture the absence of light. His darkness is soft and three-dimensional, it has depth.

The staircase falling away emphasised the feeling of vertigo, of looking down from a great height, and despite not being very religious, Raine had never forgotten it. There had been a small reproduction at school, but she had passed it every day with barely a glance, another ‘holy’ picture. The original painting made an enormous impression on her. The impact of the real thing when you have only known a poor imitation will always leave a mark.

She liked to think there was a kind of osmosis occurring as she absorbed the art on display, and would leave the gallery feeling uplifted in a way she found difficult to explain to herself and others.

Glasgow can be a cold city, but the Art Gallery was warm and cost nothing to enter. This is where Raine came between lectures when she could steal time, but she had not told anyone, not even her friends. She was shy of expressing how art made her feel, had not even analysed it herself yet. This was a pastime she had discovered for herself, making it doubly precious in her eyes, a secret pleasure for her alone.

At home that night, Nell advised caution. How does this man know so much about you, has he been following you around? she asked. He sounds rather creepy to me.

Nell, I knew you’d react like this. He’s a poet; I bet he’s shy. He must have seen me at the Gallery looking at the Dali. The type of man who hangs around art galleries sounds exactly my cup of tea.

You’re not going are you? I mean he could knock you on the head and drag you off somewhere.

My God, you sound like my mother. I’m meeting him in a public place. What can happen?

Promise me you won’t leave the gallery Raine. Perhaps I could go with you, just in case?

No thank you. I don’t want you peering around corners and giggling Nell, this could be the man of my dreams and I don’t want you to spoil it.

Despite her confident exterior, Nell had a point, and she became increasingly nervous about the meeting the closer it came.

Sunday morning’s a strange time for a first date, don’t you think? Nell pointed out, No one has a first date on a Sunday morning. There’s something odd about this Raine, I really think I ought to go.

Nell seemed to have the ability to pinpoint her own fears, but somehow Raine felt she ought to defend the unknown admirer. No darling, honestly I’ll be fine. I’ll just go along and hopefully everything will be clear when I meet him. He’s chosen a place he knows I’m comfortable with, and safe. That was thoughtful, wasn’t it? she insisted.

Yet as the time drew near, she was nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof, though Maggie the Cat would have handled this more easily than Raine was. A cat is a predator, yet that’s not how she felt. I’m more like the mouse, she thought, smiling. She was excited and scared at the same time, wishing it was Sunday and hoping it never came.

God I feel sick, she thought.

Chapter 3

All sorts of ideas run through my head when I’m in the garden. It’s a good place to think. Underneath one of the leaves on the rose bush, I find a white cocoon and that sets off another chain of thought.

Have you ever considered the secret life of the chrysalis? Imagine awakening from a deep sleep to a different form.

I sometimes wonder if troubled dreams haunt the changeling, alone within its private universe. Does the butterfly mourn the caterpillar as she unfurls the glory of her wings to the first dawn, or does the caterpillar understand its fate and long for it as the adolescent longs for adulthood?

How can our minds encompass such a transformation except by relating it to our own lives and those around us? Regard the child, the adolescent, the adult and such metamorphoses do not seem so alien. After all, how does the cynical forty-eight year old view the naiveté of youth? Anyone who has lived with an adolescent could be forgiven for thinking them quite another species.

I know I should crush the cocoon, instead I place it carefully among the foliage of the hedge that borders the garden, looking furtively over my shoulder to make sure I am unobserved. Philip finds my passion for insects peculiar, strange really, when you consider his enthusiasm for their long dead ancestors imprinted on cold stone.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the Lepidoptera, especially as their transformation from caterpillar to butterfly or moth still seems nothing short of miraculous to me. One day, when I was ten years old, walking back to the changing rooms after gym, I saw a butterfly lying on the path transfixed by someone’s spike. It had a hole in its wing and lay there dying, its one good wing flapping sadly in an act of faith I found strangely poignant. Odd, the things you remember. Sometimes I feel like that butterfly; crushed by random circumstance. What happens to us?

I am reminded of Wordsworth’s poem extolling his early childhood, full of shining visions ‘trailing clouds of glory’ which tarnish as the real world encroaches.

I remember when I first married Philip. I had graduated with an Honours degree in entomology and felt I had the world at my feet.

Such pretty feet he said. He loved to caress them, gently kneading the soles, holding them between his hands and kissing each one as if it were precious treasure.

The smell of the roses triggers another memory.

I came home one evening to find our bed covered in yellow rose petals. They lay like a thick, velvet duvet on the sheets, releasing their fragrance as we crushed them with our bodies, their scent mingling with our musk.

How I cherished the darkness. I was shy then, and found it easier to lose myself if the lights were out. There is closeness, as the eyes cannot be seen, or the expression and this would undo the ties we place on our tongue. We would speak of things never uttered in daylight, and these I would remember next day with a secret smile. The touch of skin on skin has greater intensity and in our golden days, we were blinded by passion rather than obscurity.

My new husband threw those petals over me in the bath afterwards, and I felt like Cleopatra, I felt adored. Yes, there was a time when I too was fresh-faced, and new life brimmed in my eyes.

I remember his eyes were gentle, and full of wonder as he cradled our newborn son’s head, and I thought I could die of this love so deep, so painful I felt it in my womb. I still do when I look at my sons; mother love is life’s one constant.

Where do they go, those feelings, our ‘clouds of glory’, why does it inevitably rain on our parade?

How we become lost in life’s petty trivia: the dentist’s bill, school fees, mortgage rates, punishing workloads so deadly to passion.

Listening to feminists, I often wonder what we, as women have gained. The right to kill ourselves with overwork it seems. Many of the more militant types all seem to be single, childless women, yet I look around at all the gaunt, haggard women in full-time employment with children to care for and a home to run. Germaine bloody Greer has a lot to answer for, much as I applaud her views. We can have it all sisters, but look at the price. Passion is the first item jettisoned when weariness takes over, and its attainment then becomes incredibly difficult. Without passion there can be no excellence and lacking excellence, how can women hope to take their place in the world, or create anything of value?

Sometimes I think, and I feel a traitor when I do, but sometimes in a weak moment I think our mothers had it so much easier. Then I remember there are women in the world who are little better than slaves in thrall to men, and I feel humble and ungrateful. My friend Jane is more militant than I am, she has more time and energy being childless, but thank God for her, we have much in common. Our marriages are at the same point, non-stop arguments and non-existent sex. Who was it who said; first the wedding ring then the suffering?

I always thought men were gagging for it, instead I was. He was always ‘tired’, but could easily be persuaded. That was part of the fun.

In the early days we were so good together, even up to our early forties things were great physically, and then my father died. Instead of being the instigator I became passive, I would think, it’s here if you want it but I don’t need the rejection right now. I don’t think I mentioned that Philip refuses sex if he isn’t in the mood. I found the mourning process dampened me down more than anything ever had, and for the first time I lost my libido.

The trouble is, he never asked, and now it comes down to pride. Two years since we had any sort of sex, it seems not to bother him. Me? It bothers me all right, oh yes.

I feel ugly, unattractive, something no one wants; I no longer feel like a woman. I never thought I needed a man for validation, but I do, unashamedly I do. When I am feeling particularly insecure I imagine he is having an affair, something’s up, I feel it. He is different, distant, absent without leave, preoccupied but not with me. Sudden changes of routine, unexplained areas of time. Oh, you know, ‘Gone for a walk’ or ‘Bumped into an old colleague’, the sort of thing it is hard to refute, too tired for sex, impatient of any emotional demands, as I said, absent without leave. Yet last night, knowing I was utterly spent, he asked for sex. He has never asked except with his body, as if he wanted to prove something. Oh, I will never understand him.

I imagine scenarios, punishing myself with lurid visions of adultery. Is he having an affair? Yet in saner moments I remember he has always been self-contained. Perhaps it is me who has changed?

My choice has to be to trust completely, otherwise I cannot continue. Therefore, I make the choice to trust, with the proviso that if betrayed, then God help him, just God help him I think, as I snip off another dead head and add it to the pile.

I never thought love would become a memory and pray he never becomes my enemy. Philip would be a dark enemy indeed. His moods seem blacker these days. Sometimes I think I ought to have an affair, but something holds me back. Instinctively I know this would signal the end and wonder, perhaps I am the untrustworthy one?

There are so many petty irritations in marriage. For example, Philip came out to the garden earlier to ask me something, and damn me if our upstairs neighbour, Sheila, didn’t collar him, ‘To ask his advice’ about her creeper. I’m talking window boxes here.

I remember the scene: her voice grates on me. She laughs like a hyena, as she looks eagerly up into his face, flattering him. What do you think? she asks constantly, the emphasis on you. He laps it up. Everything he says seems to be the cleverest or the funniest thing she has ever heard. She brays merrily at his smallest pleasantry until he feels ten feet tall. Before he knows it he is offering his manly advice and then, quite by accident he is doing the job for her; upstairs. The poor dear is worried her window box is loose. I wouldn’t want it to fall on anyone’s head she laughs merrily, as if she has said something witty.

Wish it would fall on yours, I mutter to myself, watching them disappear inside.

Sometimes it’s hard to have a husband who is so attractive to women. Philip has always had more than his share of smitten females in tow. I had my own admirers in those days; we made a very attractive couple. It’s something we always laughed about in private, we never paid these others any attention; he only had eyes for me. I know that sounds trite, but I never caught Philip sizing up another woman. Other men’s eyes wandered, but never his. If some twittering female latched on to him at a ‘do’, he would send me a pleading look and I would go and rescue him. In this way, over the years we built trust. How could this disappear so quickly?

These days I often find Philip’s eyes move towards any attractive women in a gathering, he no longer asks to be rescued. In fact, he has become something of a ladies man in the last year or two, as if he finally lost his shyness. This would be a cause for joy, if I still felt I was the centre of his world. Instead I feel jealous and insecure, and I hate it. I hate being in this position. Oh, you may think it foolish to be jealous of a woman like Sheila, with her strident voice and a build like a Bulgarian peasant, yet it is difficult to watch womanly wiles obviously used, and your man falling for them so readily while you are plodding along by yourself. Yes, I have to be honest; there is a definite twinge of annoyance. I could use some help, but it will look so petty if I say so.

The Bulgarian never asks for my advice. Oh, she’ll talk to me if I speak to her first, but she never instigates a conversation with me; only Philip. I know how petty this seems, but when there is dissatisfaction in a marriage, these small slights take on a greater significance. If he is not paying you the kind of attention a woman needs, you are jealous seeing others get what you feel is your right. He’ll do anything for friends or neighbours; they all think he’s wonderful. Oh you’re so lucky, they trill.

If only they knew.

I just wish we hadn’t quarreled about it, it seems so petty now.

Chapter 4

Raine arrived early at the Art Gallery; it was quiet on a Sunday morning. Most people were warm in bed with a pot of tea and the Sunday papers, just as she had left Nell. She smiled as she thought of her new flat mate; how easy she was to get along with.

Raine had lived at home during her first two years at Uni, and this was her initial attempt at living with someone other than her family. She woke up every morning with a sense of new life unfolding, as if she stood on the threshold of destiny. They sat in the evenings after bathing, in their pyjamas, eating chocolate and talking of their splendid future and how they would always be friends. She had never been happier.

Her home life had always been stormy, with constant arguments and shouting matches with her mother, who seemed to thrive on quarrels. Now, living with Nell, she realised there was a better way, she did not have to live always on the edge of conflict with her defences up. For the first time, she lived in harmony with those around her, and this calmer environment suited her temperament. She felt reborn, freshly minted. She hated endless rows, and felt sorry for her father who had retired behind his newspaper years ago, because now, he would bear the brunt of her mother’s temper. Who else could she quarrel with?

Raine checked her watch for the tenth time and seeing there was still fifteen minutes to go, wandered through the Impressionist room for something to do. There was a big Seurat there she liked, and no one painted the shimmer of a noontide heat as he did, it banished the Scottish chill just to look at it.

She did not pretend to know much about art. The language of the art critic was impenetrable to her, often mannered and pretentious and she had abandoned it as a bad job. This left her free to surrender to her emotions as a more reliable guide and to enjoy herself without too much analysis. She often played a game as she walked through the Gallery, one of which she would never tire: if I could have one painting to hang on my wall, which would it be?

Many paintings disturbed her; she felt their power yet knew she would be uncomfortable with them in her home. Imagine waking up to ‘The Scream’ on your bedroom wall every morning. In the end, Raine’s credo was that ‘her’ picture should give joy every time she looked at it. Yet how could she choose?

Raine felt moved by works where she could tell the artist stood naked before her, rather than the subject. Yes, art is beauty, but she thought art must also show courage if it is to be great. She would agonise for hours over her choice, which varied with mood. Oh, to be rich, she sighed.

‘Art is for the people’, was the only communist tenet she had ever absorbed. Its truth resonated deeply within her; she really did not have a political bone in her body. In the end, she decided it was acceptable to have good art for yourself if you left it to the Gallery in your will, or lent it now and then. Conscience salved, she laughed; impossible but delicious dream. As she walked through the Gallery, she felt from the crown to the toe, top full of beauty, pain, joy and sorrow, and she would absorb all she could. Such pleasure she never tired of, yet today her thoughts kept intruding.

She felt sick and apprehensive.

You know; the way you used to feel when you were a young child on school sports day, lining up on the starting line waiting for the whistle, suddenly, desperately needing to pee, hoping and praying that you don’t fall over your feet or come last, anything but that.

Also, what if this was a seriously ugly man? She knew it was shallow, but believed that love begins with the eye before it ever reaches the heart or the soul. She was thinking of flight, when she caught sight of a familiar figure on one of the benches in the corridor. Great, she would sit with him and look at the comings and goings. If her poet looked too weird, so what, he would think she was with someone.

Philip Nichols held his face up gratefully to the morning sun, inhaling deep breaths of the cool air, freshly scented with grass clippings. He shook off the quarrel as a dog shakes water from its coat. Bright shafts of light filtered through the trees that lined the pathway leading to the Gallery, making golden pools to splash around his feet. He missed nothing, his emotions finely tuned. Music sounded in his ear; a string quartet was warming up for a free concert. It seemed a pity to go inside on such a morning. Everything he saw appealed to the senses, as though someone had painted the world in brighter colours as he slept. Nichols was nervous as a boy going on his first date, butterflies; at his age? He had never felt so alive. Would she turn up; even worse would she reject him when she did? He was even prey to the same insecurities, it amused him to discover.

Oh thou child of joy, he murmured, catching sight of a familiar face.

Nichols knew the minute their lips touched, there would be no going back. She tasted honey-sweet, heart-touchingly young, and as he kissed her, it was as if he absorbed some of that youth. He was filled with a sense of new vitality, and recklessly he bared his heart, telling her everything; his sorry marriage, how sterile his life had become, this dread he carried around of dying slowly, by inches.

I know this is wrong, but I can’t get you out of my mind. Can you understand how empty my life has become? he said, holding her hand tightly, as if confession was painful. Since I started writing again, seeing the joy on your face, why, it’s as if I’ve come alive again.

Her response was immediate, sympathetic, and this spurred him to confess to the obsession that gripped him; how she filled every waking moment. I almost think I’m going mad. I’m losing focus, concentration, even the ability to function in the real world. Can you understand what you’ve done to me Raine? I’m a mess, completely at your mercy, I’m afraid, he smiled ruefully; turning her hand over, he uncurled her fingers and gently kissed the soft, vulnerable palm of her hand.

Raine shivered at his touch and again their lips met.

Time seemed to stand still, the world slowed down around them. A real kiss, slow, deep and satisfying, he had not had in years. He could not believe his luck.

Raine recognised the feeling of anticipation she had carried around had heralded this. It was as if something clicked into place in her mind, a sense of destiny gripped her. She felt it was for this moment and no other she had been waiting. She had hardly spoken; it was as if her throat had closed up with emotion.

Wordlessly, she led him by the hand and they took a taxi to a friend’s flat. She was looking after it while they were on holiday. Nichols had little memory of that journey, it passed in a dream or madness. They kissed, and it was all he could do to keep his hands off her, his heart hammered so loudly he thought she must hear it. For a fearful minute he wondered if he was having a heart attack.

The front door closed behind them and somehow they were naked. She was beautiful in that effortless way youth has which needs no artifice; beauty to drive you to madness, to caress, to cuddle, to suck, to squeeze, to bring you to your knees.

Nichols was her willing slave.

You could have knocked Nell down with a feather when she saw who Raine met at the gallery.

Oh, she know her friend would be furious if she found out, but let’s face it, Nell wouldn’t have missed it for quids. She had seen the poems and they really knocked her out. To tell the truth she was a little jealous; who wouldn’t be?

Eileen reckoned it was Tom, one of her flat mates, and he was always asking about Raine, yet Nell