It was impossible to know someone just by looking at them. A perfect stranger. Beautiful, but unfamiliar. Surely he was beautiful to her because she did not know him? All evening they had been unable to keep their hands off each other. Only a few seconds ago Emma had felt his mouth on hers. A line from one of Rupert Brooke's poems popped into her head, 'how could I see you while I kissed you?' She could not even see him while she looked at him. She could continue to stare into his pale blue eyes beneath dark eyebrows, but she'd grow none the wiser. She still wanted him, though. His surface. She had no idea what lay beneath. Dating. The best way to get to know people for who they were not. She loved him for who he was not. No meeting of minds, hearts and souls. A meeting between complete strangers. How was it possible to get on so well with a total stranger? She had listened intently to his every word, stared into his eyes to the point of drowning, laughed at all his jokes. Not because this was expected of her. It had taken her no effort at all. He was witty. He had made her laugh. She loved to see his blue eyes glistening with laughter, and to see his beautifully shaped hand being run through his dark hair to keep it from falling into his eyes. That smile. He had stolen pieces of her heart smile by smile without any effort on his side and any resistance on hers. How many pieces could he steal? How long till he succeeded in fragmenting her heart? She had to snap out of it. Stop thinking in metaphors. Those bloody butterflies' fault. It was purely skin-deep attraction. Amazing how overwhelming that could be. She had wanted to feel his hands on her. To her surprise she still wanted to, even though she could not breech the distance between them. If it really were impossible to know someone just by looking at them, then he probably had no idea who she was.
'I had a great time, Emma. See you soon!'� Christopher said.
'Me too. See you,'� she said and turned to open the car door. She hesitated, then turned to face him again, and in an impulse kissed him briefly on the lips before quickly getting out and walking away. As she crossed the street to the Victorian, red-bricked, terraced house with the blue front door, she wondered why she felt so strange. So sad, all of a sudden. As if she had lost something she had never even owned. She fumbled in the pockets of her oversized trench coat for her set of keys and watched Christopher's car drive out of sight.

Emma opened the blue front door with the number 64 painted on it in white, to the sound of a high-pitched female voice singing along to the radio. She was glad Florence could carry a tune. 'I DON'T NEED A MAN!'� was sung with gusto. Emma smiled. She threw her coat onto an armchair in the tidy sitting room and crossed the narrow hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. Florence was making all the Pussycat Dolls' moves as well as singing along. Emma had the chance to admire Florence's perfect body moving smoothly. She was petite, courtesy of her French ancestors. Florence Beaumont. The auburn curls that reached her tiny waist bounced up and down. Eventually, she noticed Emma's presence. She laughed self-consciously.
'How long have you been standing there, you voyeur?'�
'Long enough to see that you could easily be a Pussycat Doll.'�
'Very funny, Ems. Cup of tea?'�
'Yes please, I could murder one.'�
'Tough day?'� The mirth in Florence's eyes switched to concern. Emma sank down in one of the armchairs in the conservatory that cut the tiny square of garden in half. Florence put on the kettle and came to sit in the armchair facing her.
'Did the little sods give you a hard time?'� she asked Emma, who was massaging her own temples.
'No, they were very well-behaved actually. Not once did they mock my posh accent as I read out a paragraph from Pride and Prejudice. They didn't laugh either, though. Even though it was the part where Elizabeth turns down Mr. Collins. Which if you ask me, is hilarious. But I guess they're just too young to get it. What do twelve-year-olds know about unrequited love?'�
Florence kept looking at her expectantly. Emma could never hide anything from her. She sighed, then buried her face in her hands.
'It's Christopher, isn't it?'�
A sob was her answer. Florence got up and squeezed her tiny self in next to Emma. She lifted up Emma's chin and started to stroke her poker-straight, streaky blonde hair.
'You haven't heard from him all week, have you?'�
Emma shook her head.
'The bastard,'� Florence hissed.
When Emma cried, which was rather often and usually for no reason at all, she cried with her entire being. Florence kept on stroking her head until the worst sobs had died down.
'I thought you'd had a lovely third date?'�
'I thought so too,'� Emma managed to say. She wiped her nose on her sleeve.
'Don't do that! Here, take my handkerchief.'� Emma observed the white piece of cotton with laced edges. Florence was the only woman she knew to always carry a handkerchief in her pocket. It must have been a French thing. Obediently, she blew her nose.
'Thanks, Flo. Do you want it back?'�
'No, keep it. I've got loads of them.'�
'I know,'� she said, with a hint of a smile.
'Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humour. This Christopher person isn't worth all those tears, now is he?'�
'I just don't understand how everything changed from one moment to the next'�'� Emma's green eyes drifted off into the distance.
''�come to think of it, now I see why I felt the way I did after I said goodbye to him. I thought I was going to see him again, of course. But somehow I knew that I wouldn't. That it was the end of him. The end of us, before there even was an 'us.' The end of what we could have been.'�
Florence wiped away the big tear that rolled down Emma's cheek.
'Oh Ems, you know what your problem is? You're too romantic. Even when a guy's been treating you like shit, you're romantic about it! Yes, you've lost a chance. But people lose chances every day! That's life. It's not 'what all the people say' for nothing,'� Florence said, getting to her feet.
'But that's the thing, he did not treat me like shit. He'd been saying all the right things, he couldn't keep his hands off me!'�
Florence smirked.
'Of course he couldn't! You're bloody gorgeous! A man doesn't need to know your mind and see into your soul for him to want your body!'�
Emma smiled at her friend. That was one of the reasons she loved her so much. The fact that Florence ' beautiful, petite Florence, with creamy flawless skin and auburn curls and eyes that made you crave chocolate ' thought that she, Emma average, was gorgeous.
'He obviously doesn't want me, though, or I'd hear from him,'� she said, her smile fading from her lips.
'I think he was afraid of you,'� Florence said in her blunt manner. For a girl so elegant she could be very blunt.
'Afraid of me? Why?'�
'Because he must have seen there was more to you than just a pretty face, but he didn't dare to get to know you. It's just fear of commitment. It always is. Believe me, I know. I'm just like him!'�
Emma felt laughter bubbling up.
'No you're not! You never go on third dates!'�

That evening Emma was lying on the huge double bed in Florence's bedroom, having wrapped herself in the quilt that dated back to Florence's childhood. She was watching Florence get dressed in front of the full-length mirror on her wardrobe. At this moment Florence was trying on a little black dress with billowing skirt. She gave a little twirl for Emma, making the dress rustle.
'What d'you think?'�
'You're the spitting image of Audrey Hepburn. I say go with this one. Definitely.'�
'Isn't it too much for the second date?'�
Florence turned to face herself critically in the mirror.
'No, definitely not. After all, it's not just the second date. It's your last date! The last night he'll spend in your company. Florrie, sometimes I wonder why you even bother to go on a second date. Okay, so you're uncomfortable with one-night-stands, but why is a two-night-stand better? Or less 'uncomfortable' as you say? Enlighten me, because I don't get it.'�
Florence sat down on the edge of the bed. She slid her tiny, shapely feet into a pair of black ballerina pumps as she thought for a moment.
'Didn't I tell you this afternoon? I said it was fear of commitment, didn't I? You know, it's not fear actually. It's just a dislike of commitment. I don't allow myself to fall in love, because it's too much hassle. And you end up alone, anyway. Love doesn't last, so I see no point in making too much of an effort,'� Florence said matter-of-factly. Emma was staring at her.
'I can't understand that you're so'�.so blasé about it. As if you really don't care. You never get to know a guy. You only go out with gorgeous blokes, because all you do with them is sleep with them. That's so shallow! You date men who are exactly like you, non-committal. You're like a man yourself!'�
Florence laughed. When she did, she threw back her head, throwing her curls all over the place.
'No, it's not masculine. I'm just a modern woman. I live in the 21st century. It's perfectly normal. It's just that you're stuck in the Victorian age, Emma Morgan!'�
Emma bowed down her head in mock apology and said:
'I know, I know. I'm old-fashioned.'� She sat back up again and said in an accent even more posh than her own:
'I walk around this metropolitan thinking, why aren't the men wearing top hats and breeches, and the women dresses with crinolines and carrying parasols? What are these strange carriages without horses? Why is everything made of concrete and why is everything moving so fast that it makes my head spin?'�
Florence smiled and shook her head.
'That's what I love about you. Your romantic nature and your talent for self-mockery. You're so delightfully English.'�
'Yes, hence the freckles on my nose. But you, with your French blood coursing through your veins, you'd think you'd be the romantic soul! You do look romantic tonight. Where is your current victim taking you?'�
'Oh, some restaurant. Then we might go to a bar or a club and probably end up at his place.'�
'Yes, another thing I don't get. Why do you never take them home, invite them in for coffee?'�
Florence had sat down at her French antique dressing-table and was rummaging through her jewellery box. She chose a pearl necklace. As she clasped it round her slender neck she looked Emma in the eye.
'Because that's too personal. This is my home.'�
'Would you mind if I brought home a guy?'�
Florence smiled mischievously.
'Is that likely to happen?'�
'�It has happened in the past!'� Emma said, indignantly.
'I'm teasing you, Em. And of course I don't mind. It's your home too.'�
'Yes, though you decorated every last bit of it. Which makes sense, as you're such a talented interior decorator. And I love what you've done with the place. The oak, antique furniture and modern, whitewashed furniture, and the Farrow & Ball paint on the walls. All the flowers and candles, cushions, throws and quilts. It's very romantic, the way you decorate.'�
'You were my inspiration,'� Florence said, winking.
'Ha ha, very funny. I'm serious. I love it. Does Mr. What's-his-name know that you're such an independent, successful career woman?'�
'His name's Jonathan, and yes, he knows what I do for a living.'�
'And he's not intimidated?'�
'I don't know yet. I'll find out tonight. If so, it doesn't matter, because it ends tonight!'�
'Heartless woman, I'm proud to call myself your best friend,'� Emma said. Florence stuck her tongue out at her. At that moment the doorbell rang.
'That'll be him! Quick, where's my handbag?'�
'On the chair. Why the hurry? Aren't you supposed to keep him waiting?'�
Emma crawled out of the quilt and followed Florence downstairs. In front of the gilt-framed oval mirror in the hallway, Florence sprayed on her Chanel Nr. 5 and put on her scarlet lipstick.
'I don't like to keep people waiting, because I don't like to be kept waiting,'� she said.
Emma handed Florence her coat, and then opened the door to Jonathan.
'Hello, you must be Emma,'� the tall, rugged-looking young man said. His dark hair was rather long and he had very broad shoulders. In every aspect he was the opposite of Florence. Emma realised she was gaping at him. She shook the hand he offered her.
'Nice to meet you,'� she said. Florence had to stand on tiptoe and Jonathan had to bow his head so they could kiss each other.
'Have a nice time! Make sure she's back by midnight or she'll change into a pumpkin!'� Emma couldn't resist calling after them as they walked to Jonathan's Mercedes. They really did look like the stuff fairy-tales were made of. What a pity. Another man she would never get to know.

That night Emma spent in front of the telly, wearing her oversized pyjamas and bathrobe. Lots of the clothes she owned had been bought one size too large. It felt more comfortable of course, but it also made her feel as if she were thin. She wasn't fat, not by far, but next to Florence anyone looked big. On this Friday night, when she should have been out enjoying herself, she was staying in, trying to distract herself from dwelling on Christopher. To this purpose she was watching her DVD collection of Friends and had on her lap a huge tub of chocolate ice cream. She didn't care that she was acting very clichéd, because stuffing herself with chocolate ice cream and watching Friends really did make her feel a bit happier. Though it did not really make her forget. No amount of Friends and ice cream could do that for her. She had to do it herself. Why was it so difficult to forget, to leave it in the past and to just not care? She always dwelled on things so. But why did she always have to let go of everything she tried to hold on to? Perhaps Florence was right. Perhaps she shouldn't get attached to someone in the first place. To have no hopes, no expectations. That way she would never get disappointed. But then she would only be consorting with strangers. She would be a stranger to herself. If only she were able to get physical with a man she didn't know, whose mind she wouldn't try to read, whose soul she wouldn't try to see in his eyes. If she did not get attached, she would not have to let go. No'�she could not love without attachment. To love another by letting them be. Leaving them free. She had to be in control. To know the ending before the beginning. She now had the exact same feeling she used to have as a child whenever she saw a film in which the male and female lead did not end up together. She remembered one time in particular. She was about nine years old and had been staying at her aunt's place in the country for a few days. She couldn't sleep after she'd seen the film, she had such an inexplicably nagging, uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, making her uncomfortable, keeping her wide awake. She just couldn't accept that circumstances had kept the man and woman apart even though they loved each other. It just didn't feel right. Her aunt had heard her twisting and turning in bed, and had come in and asked what was the matter. Emma had explained in her child-like way. What happened next had made a lasting impression on her. Holding her aunt's hand they had walked to the brook that ran at the end of the garden. It had wonderfully large stones and rocks to skip on. Emma's aunt, Laura, her father's sister, held an empty matchbox in her hands. She crouched down in the grass, handed the matchbox to Emma and told her to open it and put the images in her head and the nasty feelings they triggered into the box, slide the lid shut and throw it into the brook. 'Just let it drift off,'� Laura had said. Such a simple act, but it had worked wonders. The relief she had felt. If only it really were this simple. If she could really get rid of this feeling by pretending to get rid of it. By making it almost tangible and then to discard it. Just to let go. To willingly lose without grieving for the loss. But she was weak, self-indulgent. Full of self-pity. She was feeling so sorry for herself. No man was ever going to love her. She would never find a man to love. At the age of nine it had been a film that caused the unease and sadness. She had vowed something like that would never happen to her. But it had. She had been forced to let down the little girl she once was, the little girl she sometimes still was. Everything she had ever started had ended unhappily. Well, it had just come to an end, sometimes prematurely, and this made her so unhappy. That she tried and failed time and again.

The next morning Emma woke with a headache. Not just any headache. It was more like a migraine. She drew the heavy red curtains apart and slid the sash-window open to air her room. In a swift movement she took off her stained pyjamas and threw them into the laundry basket. After a long, hot shower she felt slightly more alive, but she took an aspirin anyway. She slipped into her skinny black jeans and a grey sweater dress, and went downstairs while combing her wet, tangled hair. In the kitchen she put on the kettle and continued to brush her hair. She was doing so very gently, because of her already aching head. Then the brush got stuck in a particularly nasty knot.
'Shall I do that for you?'� a male voice asked out of the blue. Emma nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned around, the hairbrush dangling beside her left ear. There, at the kitchen table, with a mug in his hands and the Saturday Times spread out in front of him, sat a man who was definitely not Jonathan. She closed her eyes and opened them again. He was still sitting there, looking at her with a slightly bemused expression on his face. And what a face. She could swear she knew that face. She must have seen him before. He had a very memorable face. A face that deserved to be remembered, to be photographed, filmed, printed on posters and in magazines. She had to have that face in a frame on her bedside-table. His eyes instantly knocked all the breath out of her lungs. She had always had a thing for blue-eyed boys. She loved all shades of blue. But these eyes piercing into her far outshone all the blue eyes she had ever seen. It almost hurt her own eyes to keep looking into his, but she couldn't tear them away. She was gobsmacked. It was as though he could see right to the bottom of her heart, into the corners of her mind and the core of her soul. He had to have X-ray vision, like Superman. He was like a kind of Superman. Surely he couldn't be real? With that shape of mouth, those lips, the kind you just had to taste, to touch. That perfectly straight nose, perfectly sized as well. Such a manly chin, unshaven, though his stubble was hardly visible because it was only slightly darker than his light-blonde, dishevelled hair that even stood on end in places. And then his broad shoulders, toned as well as tanned arms, and not to mention his chest'�bare and smooth but for a bit of blonde fuzz. Superman got to his feet. He seemed to be moving in slow motion. Emma felt her heart pounding and her skin was breaking out in a sweat. At last he stood in front of her, towering over her. He reached out his hand to the side of her face. Her knees were so weak, she had to grab hold of the kitchen surface to keep standing.
'I'll try not to hurt you. Should only take a second'�There, you're free,'� Superman said, handing her the brush. He smiled. He actually bared his teeth, so Emma could see the one flaw he had; one crooked tooth in the bottom row. Thank God he wasn't perfect. Though those teeth were awfully white and gleaming. Oh no, it couldn't be true. Could it? Yes, there was no doubt about it. That really was a dimple in his right cheek. She was feeling faint and dizzy. Her head hurt like hell and now it was spinning as well.
'Are you okay? You look a bit pale. I didn't hurt you, did I?'� the unidentified male a.k.a. Superman asked. He looked genuinely concerned.
'I've got a migraine,'� she explained.
'You poor thing. Sit down, please, and let me make you a cup of tea.'� He ushered her to the table and started opening kitchen cupboards and drawers at random. Emma observed his movements, nursing her head.
'There you are,'� he said eventually, handing her a steaming mug.
'Who are you?'� she blurted out. The gorgeous being sitting down in front of her laughed. At the sound of his laugh she felt a shiver running down her spine as well as a warm glow spreading inside her chest, funnily enough. Never before had a guy had such an instantaneous physical effect on her. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. How could he be so adorable and sexy at the same time?
'I'm sorry! I'm surprised you didn't scream or call the police. My name's Jesse. Jesse Lewis,'� he said, holding out his hand to her. He was actually offering her his hand. And a beautiful hand at that. Much more elegant than Christopher's, probably due to the longer fingers. Why was she comparing him to Christopher? She shouldn't still be thinking of him. Not with this personification of perfection before her. She took hold of his hand, but to her astonishment he didn't shake her hand. He just held it in his for a few seconds, looking her in the eye, as if trying to probe her surface. What did he say his name was? Jesse. Such a sexy name. Yes, he really looked like a Jesse. Wait a minute. Jesse Lewis. She knew that name. She had definitely heard it before. Seen it in print even. Only recently. But where?
'Will you excuse me for a minute?'� she said, getting to her feet and heading straight for the sitting room. She lunged at the pile of tabloids and glossy magazines on the side-table and started leafing through a couple. Then, suddenly, there it was. There he was, staring back at her in black-and-white, his chin cupped in his hand, smiling, a lock of pale hair falling seductively over his left eye. Underneath the picture it said in bold: 'Jesse Lewis, 28. Promising actor. At the age of 18 he embarked upon a career in modelling. After graduating drama school, at 23, he starred in a number of plays, some of which even made it to the West End. In his spare time he likes to write songs, and he is the lead singer of his own band.'�
Emma's hands were shaking. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. This was not a big deal. She was not going to faint. She closed the magazine, put it back on the pile and walked back into the kitchen. He turned around at the sound of her shuffling feet, his eyebrows raised. She smiled nervously.
'Sorry, I thought I heard the phone ring,'� was her desperate attempt at an excuse.
'I didn't hear anything,'� he said. He just kept looking at her, with that bemused look in his blue eyes. She sat back down at the table, on the chair next to him. How could she resist? She didn't care that she was making a fool of herself. Gorgeous men had that effect on her.
'I didn't either, to tell you the truth. I've only just realised who you are. I remembered seeing your picture in a magazine, and I just looked it up. I had to know for sure,'� she confessed, her heart still hammering away against her chest.
'So you didn't recognise me straightaway? That's a first,'� he said.
'Really?'� Emma asked. When she saw the mischievous glint in his eyes, she said; 'You're teasing me.'�
'Obviously.'�
'So people don't always recognise you?'�
'No, I'm far from famous. I get this all the time. People look at me, and I can see them thinking 'Where have I seen him before? He looks so familiar,' but they never remember my name or why I seem familiar to them. It's hilarious. I hope it will always stay like this.'� He winked at her.
'You don't mean that,'� she said, smiling, resting her chin in her hand. She drank in the blue of his eyes and traced his perfect features with her eyes, wishing she could trace them with her fingers, or even better, her mouth.
'In a way I do. Of course I want more fame, because that means more work. But in order to get more fame, I'll have to get more work, which isn't easy. And fame is not all it's cracked up to be, so I'm told.'�
'It's so shallow, isn't it? People coming up to you, harassing you, thinking they know you. It must be horrible. I always feel terribly self-conscious and awkward meeting someone famous. Not that it happens all the time! I wouldn't know how to act.'�
'You seem to be fine now.'�
'That's because you're not really famous! Not yet anyway. I'm sure you soon will be! Then I can tell everyone that I found you sitting at my kitchen-table, half-naked.'�
Jesse was laughing. She had made him laugh.
'You're funny,'� he said, as if he'd never expected her to be.
'Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment. But I still don't know why you are sitting at my kitchen-table, half-naked.'�
He laughed again, but this time he also blushed. It was unbelievable. Now she had made him blush!
'You don't need to tell me. Is Florence still asleep by the way?'�
'Yes, she is. Well, she was when I went downstairs. I was going to give her breakfast-in-bed, but then you came and I had to stop you from ruining your hair.'� Another one of those smiles. She had to force herself to take her eyes off those dimples in his cheek. Why was such real beauty allowed to exist? It should have been forbidden. Well, he was forbidden territory to her. Hopefully Florence would stay asleep for a while longer.
'So where did Florence pick you up?'� she asked, smiling.
'Pick me up?!'� Jesse exclaimed, pretending to be offended. Then his face broke into a smile again.
'I guess you could put it that way. Do you really want to know?'�
Emma considered for a moment. She was trying very hard not to think about Florence and Jesse together. On the other hand, she wanted him to keep on talking, so eventually she said:
'I really want to know.'�
'Promise you won't sell this to the tabloids?'� Jesse asked, tongue-in-cheek.
'Here goes. I had a gig last night, with my band, in a club in Soho. We did a few of our songs and the crowd seemed to enjoy it. All of a sudden my eye fell on this tiny woman dancing with a really tall, broad-shouldered guy next to her. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was mesmerising. I was having trouble remembering the words to the song I wrote myself. I tried to catch her eye, and when I finally did I believe I actually stopped singing for a few seconds. Luckily nobody noticed. That would have been really embarrassing.'� He smiled a shy, lop-sided smile that made Emma's heart skip a beat.
'I couldn't wait for the final song to end. When it finally had, I went to the bar to get my mates and I some drinks. I was scanning the crowd, hoping to see that beautiful girl again. Then I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned around and there she was. There was no sight of the guy she'd been with. And as they say, one thing led to another'�'�
He rubbed the back of his neck, apparently feeling a little self-conscious. Not only was he gorgeous, successful, and very sexy, but he was also modest, which made him even sexier. Oh, why had Florence found him? Why did she have to bring him home, of all the guys she could have chosen. It was so unlike her. Admittedly, had it not been for Florence, she would never have met Jesse. With all her might she was fighting to keep poisonous doses of envy from being pumped through her veins. But surely by now her blood had turned green? Her eyes were still focused on the reason for her envy. He was staring out the window, probably reliving last night, judging by the lazy grin on his face. Only now did she notice the bags beneath his otherwise beautiful eyes. He was no Superman. He was perfectly human. When he caught Emma still gazing at him, he cast down his eyes and his cheeks reddened.
'I'm sorry. Listen to me going on about Florence. I sound just like a love-struck teenage girl.'�
Emma couldn't help laughing at this. She couldn't stop smiling at him. His charm was too contagious.
'So have you had some breakfast yet?'� she asked.
'No, just some coffee.'�
'I'll make us some toast.'�

When they were just about to eat their breakfast, Florence appeared in the kitchen, with damp curls and wearing her bathrobe.
'Morning dears,'� she greeted them cheerfully. Emma immediately jumped to her feet.
'Sit down, I'll make you a cup of tea and some toast. We were going to eat first and then bring you breakfast-in-bed.'�
'Oh that's so sweet of you!'�
Florence sat down next to Jesse. As she did so one damp curl fell in front of her eyes, so Jesse gently tucked it behind her ear. At the sight of that loving gesture Emma's stomach churned. While she was making Florence's breakfast, the two of them didn't speak. They just sat there looking at each other. It had better not be more than a one-night-stand. She handed Florence her tea and toast and took her own breakfast into the sitting room, even though Florence and Jesse objected. It was too early in the morning for touchy-feely people.
That afternoon Emma was trying to keep her balance standing on a ladder leant against a tall bookcase. Her arm was stretched out reaching for a leather-bound book on the topmost shelf. It was not just any book. It wasn't all the way up there for no apparent reason. She finally grabbed hold of it and climbed down the ladder. She held it in her hands and beheld it almost reverentially. It was a beautiful dark-blue leather. With her forefinger she traced the golden letters that spelled Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice. She looked at the man standing in front of her, impatiently shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
'Are you sure this is the one?'� she asked him. The rather unattractive-looking man actually rolled her eyes at her.
'Yes, Mr. Eliot personally informed me you could supply me with a first edition dating back to the 1830's. So, how much is it?'�
'I'll have to ask Mr. Eliot. If you'll excuse me, sir.'�
Hugging the precious and in her eyes priceless book to her chest, Emma disappeared through a door behind the counter, into the tiny back room where 'Mr. Eliot' was sitting at a desk strewn with papers and books. He looked up as she came in and pushed his black-rimmed glasses back up his rather large nose. His eyes were immediately drawn to the book.
'Ah, Mr. Norris is here. He wants to know the price?'�
Emma nodded. How could he even think about selling this book?
'It's 850 Pounds. And tell him that's a bargain.'�
Emma was staring at him.
'Do I really have to sell this gorgeous, extraordinary, original copy of my all-time favourite book to that unpleasant man?'�
Mr. Eliot, manager of The Bookish Place, but known to Emma simply as William, laughed a brief but loud laugh. His round blue eyes smiled at her from behind his glasses as he raked his fingers through his sleek brown hair.
'I'm sorry, Emmy. You'll have to grin and bear it.'�
Not infected by his good mood, she grimaced at him, baring her teeth.
'Exactly. Just like that,'� William said with little snorts of laughter escaping him.
Emma sent him one angry look, turned on her heels and stormed out of the room. Her boss could be so annoying. So condescending. And then to think he wasn't a day older than her twenty-six years. Not to mention the fact that they had grown up together.
'I love you too!'� she heard him call after her.
Reluctantly, she sold the book she had been lusting after to the impatient, unkind customer. Her heart ached as she wrapped the book in bubble wrap and brown paper, put it in a paper bag and handed it over, watching it disappear from the shop, out of her reach. She was still staring out of the window when she felt a hand being placed on her shoulder. She turned to face William. Real concern was etched on his kind, freckled face this time.
'I didn't know it meant that much to you,'� he said.
Emma smiled at him and laid her hand on his.
'Never mind, Will. I'll get over it. It's just a book,'� she said, with a wink. He visibly sighed with relief. Emma could never stay mad at him for long. He was like a brother to her. Exasperating though he could be, she loved him. She also loved the bookshop he managed for his father, a tiny shop in an old building in a narrow street leading off Charing Cross Road. It was packed full of old books and as a result smelled rather musty. Emma loved that smell though. Ever since her college years she'd been helping out the Eliots in the shop on Saturdays. These days she taught English at a local secondary school, but only part-time, so she could use the extra income.

At the end of this particular Saturday she was sweeping the muddy floor. She looked at the umbrellas passing by outside. Soon she would have to venture out in the rain. Take the tube home. During rush hour. The only part of Saturday she dreaded.
'Are you done with that?'� William asked. He poked his head round an isle of books, dark eyebrows raised.
'Yes, I am.'�
'I've got something for you.'�
Emma put the broom back in the cupboard and walked to the counter. William came towards her, keeping his arms behind his back.
'I've been looking everywhere for this. I knew I had it somewhere, but I forgot about it for years. It's not an original edition, but it's still really old.'�
He presented her with a book bound in brown calf, with no title on the cover or the spine. She opened it carefully and turned the first yellowed page with tiny brown spots to read that it was an edition of Pride and Prejudice from 1865. Her face glowed when she looked at William. He beamed back at her. She placed the book carefully on the counter and threw her arms around his neck, kissing each cheek.
'Thanks so much, Will, you don't know how much I appreciate this,'� she gushed.
'Don't mention it. You deserve it. Working here all these years, being paid minimum wages. You're an absolute star. Want to grab a bite to eat?'�
'Why not? Let me get my coat.'�
Huddled close together underneath William's large black umbrella, they locked up The Bookish Place and ventured out into rainy London in search of food.

Later that evening when Emma let herself into the house, she was greeted with the pleasing sounds of piano chords and a male, gravely voice singing. She stood still in the hallway, unravelling her scarf, listening with her eyes closed. He was still here? William's friendly familiar face had distracted her all afternoon and evening, but now'�if her eyes hadn't been green already, they'd be so now, as she opened the door and they witnessed the scene before her. Jesse was sitting at the piano, playing and singing simultaneously an unfamiliar song. It sounded rather jazzy. His head was turned in Florence's direction, who was sitting in the armchair next to the fireplace, the right corner of her mouth curled upwards, her eyes shining. Emma had to cough to get them to notice her. Jesse swivelled round on the piano stool and smiled fully at her, and Florence jumped to her feet and hugged Emma.
'There you are! What kept you?'�
'Will and I went to grab a pizza after closing time.'�
'Oh good, I though you might have been stuck in traffic. Did you have a nice time? How is Will by the way?'�
Florence seemed eager to talk to her. She ushered Emma to the sofa.
'A very nice time. And Will's fine. He's lovely. You'll never believe what he gave me.'�
'What? Tell me!'�
'I'll show you.'�
Emma took the book from her bag and put it in Florence's small hands. She stroked the cover in awe.
'Wow. That's gorgeous. How kind of him!'�
'Can I see?'� asked Jesse, obviously feeling a little left out of the conversation.
'Yes of course, Jesse. Here you are,'� Emma said, placing the book in his hands. He leafed through it quickly at first, then more carefully after Emma sent him a worried look. He then stuck his nose in the middle of the book and sniffed it.
'Smells delicious,'� he stated, closing the book and handing it back to Emma. She wanted to hug him. Florence laughed.
'What's so funny? I always smell books, especially old ones,'� Emma told her.
'Florence doesn't care about books the way we do,'� Jesse said to Emma, winking. She wished he wouldn't wink at her like that.
'I do care!'� Florence objected. 'I think these leather-bound books look gorgeous lined in a row in a bookcase, especially one that reaches to the ceiling, and is painted white, against a Duck-Egg blue wall.'�
'Listen to the designer speak,'� Jesse whispered to Emma, shielding his mouth with his hand. Another one of those winks. Did he mean to do it, or did it happen inadvertently? Florence had heard though.
'I'm an aesthete, so sue me.'� She got up from the sofa.
'Didn't you have to catch a bus?'� she asked Jesse, who was still laughing with Emma. The mirth was instantly wiped from his face.
'Ye-es I do,'� he said hesitantly. Reluctantly he got to his feet. Emma got up also.
'Emma, it's been great meeting you. I hope to see you again soon. And again, I apologise for this morning, freaking you out like that,'� the one and only Jesse Lewis said.
'Oh don't apologise. See you soon, hopefully.'� She smiled, but hardly dared look him in the eye now that he was standing so close to her. He grabbed hold of her shoulders and kissed her cheeks. As he left the room with Florence, she sank down onto the sofa, pressing her hand against her pounding heart. He'd kissed her! Damn him, why did he make her feel like a teenager? She quickly went to stand in front of the mirror over the fireplace to check that her hair wasn't lank and her face hadn't broken out in spots all of a sudden.
'Finally! I thought he would never leave,'� Florence said, throwing herself on the sofa and switching on the telly with the remote. Emma's mouth dropped open.
'You're having me on. Surely you didn't want him to leave?'�
'Of course I did. I've been trying to get him to leave all bloody day. He's like a puppy, and you know I can't stand puppies,'� Florence said, keeping her eyes fixed on the telly. Emma sat down on the piano-stool, where only moments before he had been sitting.
'You can't be serious, Flo. Really. Have you seen him at all?'� She was dumbfounded. How could Florence be so unaffected by him?
'Oh I suppose he's handsome and all that. But he's not the only one. He thinks he is, but he doesn't fool me.'�
How could her best friend see him in such a completely different way?
'But he's anything but arrogant! I thought he was very modest about his talents. Have you talked with him at all?'�
'Yes, we talked. Well, he talked. I've never known a guy to talk so much. So unmanly.'�
'So you're not going to see him again?'�
'Not if I can avoid it.'�
At those words Emma felt both disgust and relief. The disgust she felt was not relieving, but the relief certainly was disgusting. She couldn't believe Florence could treat him this way, this kind, talented, gorgeous man who was quite blatantly in love with her. On the other hand, she wouldn't have to be jealous anymore. She'd never have to see them together again. Meaning that she would never see him again. This was not such a relief. She had to see him again. She'd rather see him be in love with Florence ' and who could blame him? ' than not see him at all. So she told Florence honestly;
'I wish you would.'�
Florence switched her gaze to Emma and really looked her in the eye this time.
'Do you like him?'�
Emma could only nod her head.
'He is quite likable I suppose. I just don't want him to fall in love with me.'�
'If he isn't already,'� Emma added with a sarcastic undertone to her voice. Florence knitted her brow.
'You're not jealous, are you?'� Florence asked forthrightly. She never swept anything under the carpet. Emma rather regretted this. Her entire face flushed red instantly at this hitting of the nail on its head.
'Oh Emma, please don't be! It's so pointless. And there's really no need for green-eyed monsters. You know me. I don't fall in love.'�
'Not even with him? I'm sure you'll live to regret it. When he's a world famous, Oscar-winning actor. Or a singer/songwriter with platinum records on his wall.'�
Florence laughed when she saw Emma wasn't being serious. Her cheeks were still red, but she was smiling. Florence got up and went to give her a hug. She then held her at arm's length and said; 'We will never let Jesse, or any other man, come between us, will we, Ems?'�

In the week that passed there was hardly any contact between Florence and Jesse. At least none that Emma knew of. It was all the more surprising when on Friday a bouquet of bright-coloured flowers was delivered while Florence was working. Emma carried the flowers to the kitchen and started to arrange them in a crystal glass vase. A white card was attached to a pink rose. Her curiosity got the better of her, so she read; 'Dear Florence, when can I see you again? Love, Jesse.'� She shook her head. Poor guy. How was he to know romantic gestures meant nothing to Florence? He would never win her in this way. Her heart ached for him. She of all people knew about unrequited love. Her eye fell on the mobile number he had written beneath his name. Would she dare to? She would be acting out of love for both Florence and Jesse. She wouldn't ask anything from him for herself. Well, besides friendship. She couldn't bear to see his heart get broken. Purposefully, she grabbed her mobile and punched in his number. He answered immediately, probably hoping it would be Florence.
'Hello?'� It was so good to hear his voice.
'Hi Jesse, it's Emma. Remember me? Florence's friend.'�
'Emma! Hi there! Of course I remember you! How are you?'�
How kind he was. He didn't sound at all disappointed. Or he was doing a good job of hiding it.
'I'm great! You?'�
'I'm okay. A bit nervous.'�
'About a certain mutual acquaintance?'� Emma quipped. Jesse laughed.
'You could say that again.'�
'That's why I called actually. Excuse my boldness, but your flowers to Florence ' ha ha, nice alliteration ' were just delivered and I accidentally read your card.'�
'Accidentally?'� Jesse asked, with laughter in his voice.
'Yes, very accidentally, of course,'� Emma replied, tongue-in-cheek. Another laugh on the other end of the line. She continued, still smiling; 'I thought I'd call you to warn you about Florence.'�
'Warn me? Why, am I in danger?'�
'I should think you're in danger of falling in love with someone who doesn't fall in love.'�
Silence on the other end of the line this time.
'Jesse?'�
'Still here. Sorry. So she doesn't fall in love? Period?'�
'Period. At least that's what she says. And I have to admit that she's never had a proper relationship.'�
'Never?'�
'Never ever.'�
'Oh.'�
'Not to discourage you or anything.'�
'No?'�
'No, of course not. The reason I'm calling is because I want to help you out. By telling you what Florence is like. So. She's not at all romantic. No point in sending her flowers. Not that she's cold-hearted, but she just doesn't like soppiness. The true reason why she doesn't do falling in love is because she's afraid to open up to someone and then get hurt. That's why she never lets her guard down. So. The best way to get her to open up to you is by just wanting to be her friend. Or in your case, by pretending to just want to be her friend. You're listening carefully?'�
'Very carefully.'�
'Good. So you have to make clear to her that you're not interested in her 'romantically' and then see her a lot, take her out or hang here with us. Because we do really like you!'�
'Well, at least that's something. Now, what to do about the flowers?'�
'Oh don't worry your pretty little head about it, I'll pretend I bought them. You just call Florence one of these days and ask her out, and if she says no, tell her you don't have any intentions. Besides friendship. Trust me, she'll love you for it.'�
'Okay, I will. Thanks a million, Emma. This really means a lot to me. Hope to see you soon!'�
'You're very welcome. See you soon! Bye!'�

Another Saturday had arrived and found Emma unpacking boxes stuffed full of copies of the latest best-seller. The Bookish Place mostly sold second-hand books, but they couldn't avoid filling at least one bookcase with new, modern novels. The brightly-coloured paperbacks rather stood out in the shop. Emma was completely focussed on arranging the paperbacks and a few hardcovers on the shelves in a neat but also stylish way. She was still deciding between chronological order and colour-coordination.
'I say go for colour, not chronology,'� William whispered in her ear, having suddenly appeared next to her, his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking critically at the display.
'Really?'� Emma asked, turning her head to look at him. He was still standing very close to her, so she could count the freckles on his aristocratic nose. He looked at her, flinched, and took a step backward. Why did he flinch? Was she so unsightly? She didn't have a spot on her nose, did she? Instinctively, her finger moved up to her nose. No, today was a blissful spot-free day.
'Yes, go for colour, really,'� William said again, his voice sounding unnaturally low. And why were his cheeks so red?
'Are you alright, Will?'�
'Yes, why would anything be the matter?'� he rejoined, not looking her in the eye.
'You're acting funny.'�
'Funny? Me? Where did you get that impression?'� He was still avoiding her gaze.
'You gave me that impression. You're being evasive, why?'�
'You're seeing ghosts. Besides, there's a customer. He looks a little lost,'� William said, evasively. He pointed toward the entrance. Emma turned around and at the sight of that light-blonde head of hair her breath got caught in her throat. A pair of beautiful blue eyes roamed around the shop in a few seconds until they alighted on her. Breathe in, breathe out. Act normal.
'Jesse! Hi! How nice to see you! What are you doing here?'�
She hastened toward him, leaving a nonplussed William. Emma only had eyes for Jesse. Men usually thought her green eyes a little mysterious, hidden depths and all that, but there was no mystery in her eyes at this moment. They were filled to the brim with blatant admiration, if not adoration. He was finally standing before her, his delicious-looking lips curved into a smile, the dimples appearing in his cheeks. Face to face. Her moderately pretty face looking up at his divine face with angelic features. It was great to see him on neutral territory. No Florence this time.
'You work here?'� he asked, shapely eyebrows raised in surprise.
'I do. I'm a shop-assistant. This is a coincidence! Fancy that, running into each other here! What are the odds?'�
She had to be calm and take care not to make her voice sound too deliriously cheerful. She couldn't help feeling deliriously happy that he'd shown up on the doorstep, and had actually crossed the threshold.
'A huge coincidence! Isn't it true that it's really rare to run into the same person twice in London? It's happened to me before, though. But that was with a stranger, and that you're not.'�
Emma felt her cheeks burning. If only he didn't make her feel ten years younger. If she weren't careful, she'd metamorphose back into the shy, ugly duckling she had been once. She was feeling rather tongue-tied. For want of anything else to ask, she asked; 'So, are you looking for anything in particular?'�
'Well, as a matter of fact, I am. I'm looking for a book about interior design. I'd like to know more about Florence's career.'�
Emma's face fell instantly at the sound of her best friend's name. He wanted to know more about her career? What kind of a man was he? Thoughtful about everything? She forced a smile on her face.
'That's kind of you, to take that interest.'�
'What interests Florence, interests me,'� Jesse said, his face the image of sincere devotion. Emma decided to pretend she hadn't seen that look on his face.
'I'm afraid we don't have any books on that subject. You'll only find fiction in here. Sorry.'�
'Oh that's okay. Plenty of bookshops around here!'�
'Yes, plenty of competition,'� Emma joked. Jesse laughed silently. Then a prolonged silence between them, their eyes locked. Could this be their first awkward moment? Or second, keeping in mind when they met, which had been pretty embarrassing on her part. The recollection of that moment joined to the present made her blush and cast down her eyes. Jesse shifted his gaze away from her and onto William.
'Who's that guy staring at us?'� he asked.
Emma quickly turned her head. William was indeed eyeing them intently.
'Oh, that's William Eliot. He's the manager. His father owns the shop. I've known him forever. Come, I'll introduce you. He looks as if he's curious!'�
She walked toward Will, with Jesse in tow.
'Will, this is Jesse. He's trying to win Florence's heart. Jesse, meet William, my oldest friend.'�
The two equally tall men shook hands. William's rather brooding face cleared up suddenly and his mouth curved into a genuinely welcoming smile.
'Very nice to meet you, Jesse. I wish you the best of luck with your task ahead,'� he said. Jesse laughed a brief, loud laugh. How many different laughs did he have?
'Not you too! Am I really reaching for the moon?'�
William pretended to consider this a moment, but then he nodded his head decidedly, smiling knowingly. Emma left them chatting for a while as she assisted some customers. They seemed to be getting along well. When the shop was temporarily empty of customers she joined them again. William casually put his arm around her shoulder and said;
'Jesse and I have just made plans for the four of us to get together some time. How would you like that?'�
'Oh, I'd like that very much! What a good idea!'�
She smiled at the two most important men in her life, besides her father. One she knew better than she knew herself, and the other she wanted to wrap up and put into her pocket, to devour him later. Jesse shook hands with William, saying; 'So, we'll be in touch. Hope to see you soon! And you too, Emma. Nice to see you again.'�
He leant in toward her and kissed her cheeks. The touch of his lips instantly turned them red. As he left the shop, both William and Emma stared after him. Then instantaneously they looked at each other, which made laughter bubble up and burst out. When it had subsided, William said;
'What a nice bloke. I'd never have thought, at first sight. He's far too good-looking.'�
'He is. Nice and far too good-looking,'� Emma sighed.
'Ah, a customer!'� William exclaimed at the sight of a woman entering, and hurried toward her, leaving Emma alone with her infatuation.

When Emma arrived home that evening, she found a note on the kitchen table that said in florid handwriting; 'Have gone out with Jesse. Don't wait up for me. Flo.'� So he had taken her advice. This should have pleased her. While she spent another Saturday night in front of the telly, she tried very hard not to think of the great time Florence and Jesse were probably having. Of course she couldn't resist waiting up, in the hope of catching one glimpse of Jesse. She was in luck. She was lying sprawled out on the sofa watching reruns of Oprah, when she heard footsteps and laughter approaching and then the key turning in the lock.
'She was insane!'� she heard Florence say, then laugh hysterically. Emma quickly sat up and ran her fingers through her hair at the sound of Jesse's voice;
'I know. She wouldn't let go! I had no idea I had a stalker. It must mean I'm finally becoming famous!'�
He was laughing too. When Emma appeared in the hallway they stopped laughing abruptly.
'You're still up? I told you not to wait up,'� Florence said.
'I couldn't sleep. Or didn't feel like going to sleep. Looks like you two had a good time.'�
'Yeah we did. It was hilarious. You should've been there! We were in this club and there was this girl who noticed me dancing with Jesse, when she comes up to us, roughly pushes me aside and starts dancing against him. She was really pissed! I had to physically tear them apart, well I mean, tear her away from poor Jesse. He didn't know where to look! You should've seen his face!'�
Emma gave a half-hearted smile in Jesse's direction. She couldn't bear to look at him. He was looking scruffy and languid, with lank hair falling into his red-rimmed eyes that kept blinking to get used to the bright light in the hallway. His suede jacket smelled of booze and cigarette smoke. He looked quite the worse for wear. Frankly, he looked too much like he'd had a thoroughly enjoyable time.
'I'll make us some coffee and then you're crashing on our sofa because you've had far too much to drink,'� Florence said to Jesse.
'I could get a taxi,'� he offered.
'No, too much hassle. You're here now, having insisted on walking me home. So you're staying. Now, for that cup of strong black coffee to sober us up.'�
Florence stumbled into the kitchen, leaving Jesse and Emma in another awkward staring contest.
'I haven't had that much to drink, really,'� Jesse broke the silence eventually. As if he had to justify himself to her! She wasn't his mother.
'You look as though you did,'� she blurted out, feeling as awful as he looked. Well, perhaps 'awful' was too strong a word to apply to him. As awful as he was capable of looking. Or perhaps she hadn't seen the worst yet. He still looked good enough to eat, even though she was feeling a bit queasy. Probably due to a heady mixture of unwanted butterflies and envy. She yawned. Jesse rubbed the back of his neck, which apparently he did whenever he felt ill at ease, which happened to be always in her company. He cleared his throat, his voice still sounding groggy as he said;
'Listen Emma, I'm really very grateful to you. Florence has really opened up to me. I feel I'm actually getting to know her now, for who she really is. I don't know what I'd have done without you.'�
Such earnest eyes filled to the brim with gratitude. Or was it fatigue and residue fumes of alcohol? She couldn't tell. She was too tired. Too much in the grip of love to see clearly. He certainly wasn't seeing clearly. He wiped his eyes dry with his sleeve.
'Sorry, my eyes sting,'� he answered to Emma's inquiring eyes. She couldn't bear to look at him, yet she couldn't tear her eyes away from him. There was no getting round him. He filled the room, crowding her vision. She was blind to everything else. Her eyes hurt from focussing on him. Did she really see what was right in front of her? Or did she not see him because he was right in front of her? Was he actually blocking her vision? She was seeing double now. He was not the perfect half-god she'd thought he was. He was a struggling actor, an amateurish musician. He was drunk, if not stoned, and in love with a girl who didn't love him back, and about whom she had given him false hope. She had told him to hope where there was no hope. In doing so she had done herself the exact same favour. If he weren't perfect, if he weren't the personification of her ideal, then why did she love him so much more than before she'd been faced with his flaws? How could she love him hopelessly and completely, when he loved Florence? Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the love of her life to not love her in return. And then to know that he was in her shoes. At least she thought he saw Florence as the love of his life, else he wouldn't be pretending to just be her friend right now. She knew what he was going through. She was pretending to be just his friend. Her eyes were stinging too.
'Don't thank me, Jesse,'� she said. After all, she hadn't done him a favour. She said goodnight and went upstairs.

As the weeks passed Emma grew accustomed to the sound of the door being slammed shut and stumbling and laughter in the hallway in the middle of the night. She also got used to the sight of Jesse vast asleep on the sofa in the sitting room. Many a morning did she stand on the threshold, watching how the sunlight was streaked across his serene, almost child-like face. His long legs covered in blonde hairs always dangled over one arm of the sofa, and his head usually rested in what must have been an uncomfortable position. After gazing at him for a while she usually made him a mug of coffee. She would put it on the side-table next to the sofa and sit down in an armchair, reading the paper, waiting for Jesse to slowly wake up. As the strong scent of the coffee entered his nostrils, he'd stretch out his long limbs, yawn, sit up, scratch his head and smile sheepishly at Emma. She'd ask him about his night out with Florence. He would tell her everything. Every little detail that made him still hope. This time he asked Emma;
'Why don't you join us next time?'�
'I'm not much of a party freak,'� she said.
'Oh come on, Emmy. I'm sure you'll love it. Just come along once and see what you think.'�
'From what I've heard from you, I don't think I'm missing out on a lot.'�
Jesse pulled a disappointed face. Then he pouted his lips for dramatic effect. Emma laughed.
'But you're here all alone.'�
Was he feeling sorry for her? She did not need his pity.
'Not all the time. I go out with my friends, to the cinema, a pub or a restaurant. I just don't go clubbing all night. It's so exhausting. It's exhausting just thinking about it. Just looking at you. Aren't you exhausted?'�
He nodded his head. He really did look haggard.
'Okay, so no clubbing for you. Well'�why don't we go out to dinner, the three of us? See a film first, or afterwards, whatever,'� he proposed.
'Yes, that would be fun.'�
Jesse smiled half-heartedly. His eyes lacked their usual lustre and his complexion was rather dull. His left cheek bore the imprint of the fibre the sofa was made of. He just would not give up, would he?
'But then we'll have to invite your friend, what was his name again? Will?'�
'William? Oh! You're right! A while back you came up with that idea, didn't you? When you two met, in the bookshop. How awful of us to forget. Though I think William's forgotten also. Never mind. I'll invite him. Shall we say next weekend, Saturday? Oh, and I'd like to make us a home-cooked supper. I think it would do you and Florence good to stay at home for once!'� Jesse was leaning forward, supporting his head with his hands.
'Good idea,'� he mumbled in assent.

On the night of the home-cooked supper Emma was rummaging through Florence's wardrobe for something decent to wear. She stroked the fabric of the tiny-sized dresses. She'd have been spoilt for choice, had she been a size four. On second thoughts, she'd better stick to borrowing accessories. After much deliberation, and having tried on several of her own outfits hurriedly, tearing zips and ruining tights in the process, she decided to go for black, after all the most slimming. Better to be safe than sorry. She put on her old skinny black jeans, a black A-line sweater dress, with Florence's silver belt and long-beaded necklace. She dared to wear the only pair of high heels in her possession. She still had half an hour to practice walking on them without wobbling. She'd put on more make-up than usual, including daring red lipstick. Her hair was sleek and shiny, her fringe no longer falling into her eyes, having been to the outrageously expensive hairdresser around the corner. Satisfied with her appearance for once, she went back to the kitchen to do some last-minute preparations. She closed the curtains, lit the candles, and put on some background music. Norah Jones of course. She was just checking on the lasagne in the oven, when the doorbell rang. As fast as she could she wobbled to the door, opening it to let William in. His eyes were like saucers as he looked at Emma.
'Why are you gaping at me?'� she asked, unable to suppress a smile.
'Just look at you! Wow! You clean up nicely.'�
He kissed her on the cheek and handed her a bottle of wine.
'Thanks a lot, Will.'�
She led him to the kitchen.
'Where are the others?'� he asked, sitting down at the carefully laid table.
'Late,'� Emma said. She poured two glasses of wine.
'We're not going to wait for them?'�
'They've got fifteen minutes until the lasagne's ready.'�
She sat down opposite William and handed him his glass.
'Cheers!'�
'Cheers, Emma.'�
A sip followed by a silence during which Emma kept looking at Will, while he cast down his eyes. Was she making him nervous?
'So Will, how are you?'� she broke the silence which had been rather uncomfortable to her surprise.
'How I am? We were together all day!'�
'Yes, but I still don't know how you are. Or you may be feeling differently now compared to this afternoon,'� she teased.
'No, I feel pretty much the same.'�
'Which is?'�
William was saved by the bell. Emma's heart pounded as she let Jesse in. He immediately kissed both her cheeks and handed her a bunch of flowers.
'Jesse, I thought I'd told you Florence doesn't like flowers.'�
'They're for you.'�
She didn't know what to say.
'For making us supper and for being such a good friend.'�
He went to hang up his jacket.
'Is Florence here yet?'�
'No, she had to work late today. This new project is really demanding. Rich people, you know what they're like.'�
They went into the kitchen, where Emma started to arrange the flowers and William and Jesse chatted about their day. The lasagne was done, but still no Florence.
'We can wait five more minutes,'� Emma told the boys.
At that moment Florence appeared in the kitchen.
'Hi guys! Sorry I'm late. Awful day at work. Nothing's good enough for that woman! I can't believe I sacrificed my Saturday for her.'�
For someone who'd been working all day, Florence looked remarkably unsoiled. Her make-up was still immaculate and she smelled, as always, of Chanel Nr. 5. She shrugged off her blazer, revealing a crispy white blouse, tight-fitting, with the top buttons undone. The two men gazed admiringly at her pearl necklace. Or more likely at the modest cleavage on display just below it. She sat down next to William, opposite Jesse. As she continued to complain about her day, Emma filled the plates with generous portions of lasagne. As soon as Jesse's plate was full he took a spoonful and while still chewing, said;
'Mmm'�.delicious! I think this is the first of many home-cooked suppers to follow!'�
Emma blushed slightly.
'I'm glad you like it.'�
'Manners, Jesse!'� Florence teased. He retaliated by kicking the leg of her chair.

The remainder of the supper was cosy and comfortable. They talked about nothing in particular. This gave Emma plenty of opportunity to observe Jesse, pretending to listen to his every word. The others didn't seem to notice she was quieter than usual. She was happy. This was enough. To be able to see him. The way he ate, drank, talked, laughed, smiled and winked. How he looked at her, at William, at Florence. Actually, she'd rather not see the way he looked at Florence. She suspected that when doing so, he looked remarkably like her, the way she was looking at him. Oh but just to look at him. The way he was. Right at that moment. If she could only make it last. In spite of the pink glasses she was wearing, she noticed that when occasionally her gaze drifted to William, his eyes were on her. They must have been for a while before she locked eyes with his, because every time she did, he cast down his eyes or switched his gaze quickly to either Florence or Jesse. This was rather disconcerting. Surely she was imagining things? Best to ignore it.

After a few glasses of wine, jokes flew from one side of the table to the other. Top buttons on trousers were undone after the tiramisu for pudding. By midnight Florence and Emma were sitting curled up on the sofa, having kicked off their shoes, sipping from steaming mugs of coffee. William and Jesse were standing in front of the bookcase, apparently inspecting the content and having a riveting conversation about books. Jesse stifled a yawn. Florence had put on her album of French chansons rather loudly, and was singing along even louder. Emma, of course, was watching the way Jesse was listening to William. Then William turned his head, looked at her and then quickly back at Jesse. Shortly afterwards he said he had to go to the loo. Jesse picked up the empty coffee mugs and took them into the kitchen. They were acting highly suspicious. This called for investigation. She left a rather inebriated Florence singing out of tune with her eyes closed, and sneakily shuffled in the direction of the kitchen. Just outside the door she stood still, because she could hear Will's and Jesse's voices.
'Really? Are you really in love with her?'� Jesse asked.
Silence. Then again Jesse's voice.
'How long have you been in love with her?'�
'I can't really say. It sort of crept up on me,'� William replied.
Oh no, it couldn't be true. William in love with Florence as well?
'I've known her for ages. Ever since we were children. I can't imagine life without her.'�
Not Florence then. But that meant'�.No, impossible.
'But I don't want Emma to find out, because I'm afraid it would ruin our friendship.'�
'What if she feels the same about you?'� she heard Jesse ask.
'She doesn't. Have you seen the way she looks at you?'�
Silence. Then Jesse's voice.
'You're not suggesting'�'�
'She's in love with you. Trust me. I know her!'�
'Damn. That complicates things. I thought we were friends. She's been helping me to win over Florence! That doesn't make sense.'�
'Women don't make sense, pal.'�
'Listen Will, I'm sorry. If this is really the case. I know what you're going through. Except that Florence doesn't fall in love with anyone. She's the odd one out here. The only one who doesn't get hurt.'�
'Yes, life's cruelly unfair. You can't choose who you love. We'll have to live with our unrequited loves, you, me, and Emma.'�
'No, I'm sorry. I'm not giving up. I feel I'm really getting somewhere with Florrie. It just takes time. But I've got stores of patience left.'�
'You're going to need it!'�
Emma had heard enough. She took refuge in the downstairs loo and had a hearty cry. She blew her nose, and spoiled her make-up, which forced her to run upstairs and re-apply it, to make all the signs of crying disappear. When she went back into the sitting room, she found William and Jesse standing in front of the sofa, looking at a sleeping beauty called Florence, who was snoring. Jesse turned to face Emma.
'She's just like a child, isn't she? Only a short while ago she was singing her heart out, and now she's knocked out! Shall we carry her to bed?'�
Emma nodded. The two men lifted Florence up as if she weighed no more than a feather, which she probably did. She followed them upstairs. After they'd carefully laid her on the bed, William said;
'We'll leave you to undress her,'� with a gleam of fun in his eyes.
'Okay. Thanks guys.'�
'I had a great time, Ems. I hope you did too?'� Jesse asked, placing his hand on her shoulder.
'I did. Thanks for coming.'�
They kissed goodnight and when Jesse had gone downstairs, William brushed his lips against Emma's so briefly and lightly that she wasn't sure it really happened. He whispered in her ear; 'You look gorgeous tonight,'� and then hurried downstairs. She heard him leave with Jesse. Very gently she stripped Florence of her working clothes, which by now did not smell very fresh anymore. Having tucked her in, she undressed herself, cleaning her face and teeth, and lay down beside Florence, whose make-up would probably soil the sheets. But who cared? Full of conflicting emotions, it took a while before she joined Florence in a blissful oblivion.

On a Wednesday night two weeks later, Emma groped her way downstairs in the pitch-black darkness. She somehow managed not to trip. Holding her hands against the wall she tip-toed to the kitchen. There she switched on a tiny shaded lamp that spread out a soft yellow light sparingly. Enough to reveal the shape of a human body sitting at the kitchen table. Emma jumped with fright. Her heart started to pound in her chest. The human shape turned in her direction. It was only Jesse. Emma sighed from relief, though her heart did not stop pounding.
'Hi Emma!'� he said rather too loudly, shattering the silence.
'Hey Jesse, you gave me quite a fright there.'�
'Did I? I'm sorry. Sitting here in the dark. You can't sleep either?'�
'No. So I thought I'd make myself some hot chocolate. You care for some?'�
'I do! Thanks.'�
'Why can't you sleep? Is the sofa too uncomfortable? You usually sleep just fine on it.'�
'I haven't been sleeping on the sofa,'� he said matter-of-factly. Emma stopped stirring the milk in a pan on the hob and turned around.
'You haven't?'� she asked, incredulously.
'Where did you sleep then? Or lay awake, I should say. In the attic? With all the mice?'�
Jesse smiled mysteriously. At least she thought so, but perhaps the dim light distorted his features.
'I was lying in Florence's bed,'� he finally revealed.
A slightly sour and burnt smell filled her nostrils. She turned back to the hob and switched it off, to stop the milk from boiling over. So this was it. It had happened. It had been bound to happen. She had seen it coming. He'd finally won Florence over. Conquered her. By doing so he had defeated Emma. No, she had never been fighting. What would have been the point? He was too blinded by love. Too far gone on Florence for him to see her for who she was. But then, did she see him for who he was? Or was she just as blind as he was? She was really groping through the darkness. A mental shake, followed by a deep breath, and she could face him again. She warmed up some new milk and filled two large mugs with hot chocolate. She handed Jesse his mug, sat down opposite him and said, with a quarter of sincerity and three quarters of white lie;
'I'm so happy for you!'�
Of course she knew that he was on to her, but she had to pretend she had not eavesdropped on his chat with William. How could he see her for who she was? She never got the chance to be herself around him. How long could she continue to live this lie?

Much to her own surprise, she lived her lie a lot shorter than she had anticipated. For about one month now she had been witness to happiness, while she herself was barred from it. She was sitting on a stool at the counter in The Bookish Place, staring out the condensed window. It was raining, of course. Such a dreary, bleak winter's day. How glad she was about this dismal Winter. She felt wintry. She even looked it. These days she made no effort on her appearance. Her hair hung like rat's tails by the side of her pale, haggard-looking face. She could still smile, but her smiles did not quite reach up to her eyes. William came to stand next to her, not looking very cheerful either. She had never spoken to him, never asked him about his feelings for her. She loved him, could not do without him, but she just did not care. Even though he, of all people, was the only one who knew exactly how she felt. They would be able to sympathise with each other. It was just that'�the reaching-out part was so very difficult. She did not want him to know that she knew about his love for her, and her love for Jesse. She did not want to embarrass him, least of all hurt him. Thus the smouldering continued.

In the tube home, squeezed in between a rather overweight man and a very tall man, whose armpit her nose was nearly pressed into, she dreaded coming home to find Florence and Jesse on the sofa, arms and legs entwined. She'd been unable to speak to either of them. She could not speak to both of them at the same time. They were welded together. Continuously. How suffocating. Just seeing them glued together like that made her feel restless. She left them alone as much as possible. Though she could not always avoid being sociable. She had to keep up the pretence. But why had Florence suddenly fallen in love? What had changed her? Well, Jesse had, obviously. He had that impact on the women around him. Her temples were throbbing and the smell of stale sweat was nauseating. She closed her eyes and held in her breath. Clapham Common. At last. It was a struggle to get through the sliding doors, but when she finally stood on the platform she inhaled a lungful of exhaust fumes. Very refreshing. Above ground the air was not much cleaner than underground. She could not remember the way fresh air smelled. She was slowly suffocating. Lungs full of smog, her arteries clogged with envy, a stomach swarming with repressed emotions. Time to go away, to get out of the city for a while. She would go and stay with her parents in Carlisle. It was ages since she'd seen them.

Heartened a little by her resolve, she walked home at a brisk pace. As she went inside the house, she dumped her bag in the hallway and mentally and emotionally prepared herself to face Florence in Jesse's arms. She opened the door to the sitting room and stood face to face with Jesse. His eyes were red and his cheeks tear-stained. To her astonishment he immediately threw himself into her arms and cried against her shoulder, covering it in snot. What could have happened? What awful thing would prompt a man to tears? When he'd calmed down a little, Emma held him at arm's length to look into his face, and asked;
'Did your audition go that badly?'�
He shook his head.
'What happened then? You know you can tell me anything.'�
He nodded. She ushered him to the sofa. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and cleared his throat. He sighed deeply and then blurted out;
'Florence dumped me. We were supposed to go out to dinner this evening, so I came to pick her up. She was all dressed up, looking gorgeous, but she'd never been so distant. She said she wasn't going out with me, but with some bloke called Simon. She'd met him at work. He's an architect. Probably with heaps of money and plenty of arrogance to go round. I was flabbergasted, as you probably can imagine. I asked her why. She said she'd warned me, that I knew she didn't fall in love, not ever. It was never going to last, and she was sorry if I'd thought otherwise. But she was not to blame. It was just the way she was.'�
The colour was drained from his face and his voice sounded bitter. What could she say? The usual, she supposed.
'I'm so sorry, Jesse. I'd hoped she had really changed. I thought if one man could do it, it would be you. You plunge headlong into everything you care about, no holding back. It's very risky. But I love that about you. One of the many things I love about you,'� she ended up saying, smiling. His honesty had lured her out of her shell. Jesse buried his head in his hands. Then he looked up again and his eyes were full of compassion. He took hold of her hands.
'Oh Emma, why can't I return the favour? You've always been so good to me. Why did I not fall in love with you?'�
She swallowed the lump in her throat and shrugged her shoulders. Now was not the time for sentimentality. She was stronger than this.
'I don't know. You just didn't. And it doesn't matter. At least now I don't have to be jealous anymore. That's such a relief!'�
He laughed through his tears and she felt uplifted. He had never looked more beautiful, fragile as he was now. Why would she need him to love her in return? This was enough. She would never have to argue with him about money or children, he would never have to hurt her. They would never have to get on each other's nerves and expect the world of each other. No boredom and disillusionment in store for them. She could see past the attraction. It was only one-sided anyway. Even if mutual, it always petered out. Her crush on him was only temporary. Her love for him was not. So, no happy end for her. She was not unhappy about her unhappy end, though. Who could decide whether it was happy or unhappy anyway? It didn't have to be either. And who said this was the end?

THE END

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