Just building the scene a little more...

It was after Camille had practically run towards the shack on the beach, wrapped her arms around Richard, laughingly kissed him as she pulled him down on to the bed and made love to him, that she had turned to him and said, "Did you really miss me?"

She was lying in the crook of his shoulder, his arm curled around her body, and up into her hair which his hand was stroking absentmindedly. The earlier haze of sex was still hanging over both of them and Richard felt totally at peace. Nevertheless he looked perplexed by her question. "Of course I did. Why would you need to ask something like that?"

Camille looked abashed that she could still be so unsure of herself with him, felt the need to analyse everything that he did. "It's just the first time you've ever written anything like that and I was wondering if you actually meant it or if you just thought it would be nice for me to read."

He mulled her question over a bit. "A bit of both I suppose. I mean, I felt it and then I thought that I should probably tell you. Does it matter? I have said it to you before..."

"Yes, but you haven't ever written it Richard." The calm that had hung between them only moments before was now threatening to change into something more ominous; she tried to lighten the mood, and ran her fingers lightly over his chest to calm him down. "What did you miss about me?"

He shrugged "I don't know," then glanced at her, saw the look that she was giving him and realised that she had been hoping for something a little more romantic. He tried again, "I suppose just everything." Her eyes willed him to go on. He was feeling self conscious now, "um, just little things, you know, like um, your swim things being hung out to dry everywhere, or the way you kiss me to stop me rambling on about something, or the fact that my razor blade is blunt because you've used it to do your legs." He felt her shift uncomfortably in his arms and looked at her fondly, "yes Camille I actually know that you do that..." She gave an embarrassed sort of smile, knew that she'd been caught out by him and wriggled her way closer, content in the knowledge that as long as he could feel her bare skin on his then he could probably forgive her anything.

He sighed and ploughed on, even though he didn't particularly want to. "I know it sounds stupid but I suppose I just miss the things that make me realise I'm not on my own any more. I just miss you and I'm sorry that I don't tell you all of this stuff or write it down. I just never think that it matters. Does that bother you?" He was worried that he had upset her.

Despite the grin on face she answered, "I don't know." And she genuinely didn't. Their relationship was like nothing like any she had experienced before. She loved it when he was open with her, knew that he found it an effort to talk to her about his feelings, and he was getting better at it, but the fact still remained that the other men in her life had always been more open, more candid with their emotions – they had never had to be prompted to share anything. She found it hard to understand his reticence to talk to her about how he felt, was still unsure if she needed more reassurance from him about their togetherness than his words gave her – how hard was it to write something down for God's sake, to send a text to tell her he missed her not because he thought that it was the right thing to do!

They had already had an awkward conversation about using kisses at the end of text messages. She had felt pathetic asking him why he didn't do it, asking him to start. But it had made her feel that she belonged to him more, happier that their relationship was adhering to the normal conventions of romance. Pathetic really that a single letter of the alphabet could make her feel more in love, but there it was. He of course had scoffed at this, had said that while she wanted them to stay under the radar they shouldn't be sending texts, but had done it anyway to make her happy. After all, they had already cleared their relationship with the commissioner, so if the others found out it wouldn't be the end of the world.

As if reading her thoughts he asked, "would you like me to write you a love letter to prove to you that I'm not completely dead inside?"

She picked up one of the pillows and hit him with it. "Don't be ridiculous." Then said to herself that if he were to write her a love letter she didn't want it to be because she had asked him to do it. Surely he must know that, idiot though he was?

She got lost in her own world for a moment imagining him inundating her with letters, flowers, candle lit dinners, all the trimmings of a Hollywood romance and came to with a jolt to find him facing her.

"What's really bothering you Camille?"

She didn't want to lie. He probably wouldn't have noticed if she had done, his emotions weren't that in tune with hers yet and she knew that was going to be a long learning curve between them, but she wanted to get this off her chest. "I don't know." She paused. "I think it's Maman. I think she knows"

"About us?" She nodded. "And that's a problem?" He went along with her decision even though he couldn't understand her reticence to tell her mother about them.

"I'm not sure. Not exactly. But if she does know, then what must she think of us? Of me?" The words had come out of her mouth in a rush before she had had a chance to temper them into something more tactful. She hadn't even meant them in the way that she knew he would take them. She looked at him quickly trying to assess the damage that they had just done. Too late. She could see that they had hit home. His jaw had slackened and his eyes were dull. He looked numb.

"Are you embarrassed by me?" His voice was quiet and he felt slightly sick.

"Oh God Richard, that's not what I meant."

"Right." He was nodding his head, putting a brave face on. Then trying to get out of bed, "I think, um...I think I need a shower." But he was caught in the sheet and his legs didn't seem to work properly.

"Richard, please...let me explain." She was scrambling at him, had caught his hand, trying desperately to stop him from getting out of bed. He had managed to swing his legs out from the tangled mess of linen and instead of wrenching his hand away from her, sat on the edge with his back towards her, waiting patiently for her to continue.

"I just meant that you are not the type of man I usually go for." She saw his back sag again and realised that she had just made things worse. "Oh God I'm not explaining this very well." She sighed, impatient with herself and tried again, "Maman is more used to me being with someone a little more open, more relaxed; someone who likes dancing for example, or will kiss me or hold my hand in front of her and not get embarrassed." He was still nodding his head forlornly. "When she finds out about us, she's going to wonder how on earth I fell in love with you."

"Yes it's a mystery to us all." His voice was hard and he made to get up again. She kept hold of him and slid across the bed, her legs dangling off the edge next to his.

"Richard please, I'm saying this from her point of view, not mine. I fell in love with you. That's all that matters to me. You're all that matters to me. My other relationships don't matter; they never mattered because they were never right for me. You are right for me. It's just a case of explaining that to my mother and trying to make her understand that everything she has known about me for the past twenty years is wrong. That's why I don't want to tell her. I don't want her to give me one of those ridiculous looks that says: "well you know best," when she's thinking the opposite, because I know that I do know best. Because I have you."

She had climbed into his lap. Her naked limbs folded up against his chest, her hands clinging on to his neck, her forehead against his cheek. He remained resolutely still, staring ahead. She was imploring him: "I'm sorry I hurt you, I didn't mean to. Don't...don't leave me. I just want you to hold me. Please Richard."

He sighed. Braced her shoulders against one arm and looped his other underneath her legs. He picked her up and placed her back on to the bed, kissed her forehead and walked around to the other side, the side where his clothes were. "No...Richard, please." She was pleading with him, thought that he was leaving her there alone. To her utter relief, he climbed back into bed next to her.

They sat side by side in silence, each one not daring to reach out for the other, too afraid of being rejected. He had been amazed when he had first discovered that under all that bravado, Camille was terrified of being left alone, he had been even more astounded to discover that it had related directly to him. He had no idea how to tell her that he would never leave her, that she could have committed every crime or sin possible and that he would love just the same, but every time he tried to tell her that, his words failed him, just as they were doing now.

He stared at the rumpled sheet for a while, gathering his thoughts, frantically trying to think of something to say that would make her understand. When he finally spoke, he was talking to his lap, looking embarrassed. "I don't actually mind dancing, you know." She looked at him in amazement, but before she could ask him any questions he continued "just not to your music."

She could have cried with the sheer fact that he wasn't angry or hurt or upset, or any of the other emotions that she knew she would be feeling right now if the tables had been turned. But knew that would flummox him completely, so instead asked, "what type of music?"

"Oh I don't know. I mean I tried the clubbing thing a couple of times a while ago, well a long time ago now. It's not really dancing though is it, more just jumping around and I am definitely too old to do that now – not that it was ever really my thing." He glared at her as she stifled a snigger, the thought of him enjoying a night out, even when he was 20 was simply too much to bear. He continued, "And from what I've seen of Caribbean music it's just basically people grinding against each other on the dance floor with their clothes on, not something any middle aged white man should be taking part in."

She couldn't contain her laughter at this as she added "I don't know, you seemed to enjoy the first part earlier..."

He ignored her, before she made him lose his train of thought completely and decided to cut to the chase. "Jazz. I like jazz. It's got a good rhythm and it's easy to dance to. So I suppose, you know, that...that would be my thing now."

That caught her attention. "You never told me," her mind was racing and she was already imagining them on a night out.

"No. Well, I never really realised how desperate you were to go dancing. There also don't appear to be any jazz clubs on the island, well not any I think we should probably frequent – I've already checked."

"You checked? Did you want to take me on a date?" He looked ridiculously pleased with himself, as he nodded. She moved closer and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled shyly at her. She moved to his lips and kissed him lingeringly before mischievously planting a kiss on the end of his nose. He stared at her, not quite believing that something so innocent was capable of giving him so much pleasure, and gave her a delighted smile. He looked so sweet that she giggled and kissed him again.

When Camille eventually broke the kiss, Richard felt the loss of her lips against his keenly. He tried to pull her closer again, when she looked at him and said defiantly, "We should dance now."

"Here?"

You have music don't you?

"I suppose so but...what are you doing?" Camille was already out of bed and rummaging through his CD's.

"You know that you are ridiculously out of touch with these things," she said waving them at him," before selecting one and putting it on. "Why don't you own an Ipod?" She started swaying to the music.

She had danced her way back over to the bed; a grin plastered on her face and was reaching out for his hands, dragging a protesting Richard to his feet.

"Camille, we're both naked!"

She teased, "oh my goodness, you're right, quick don't look while I try and find some shoes..."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "That's not funny. What if someone comes in and sees us like this?" She wasn't sure who on earth would want to barge in on them, and they had been naked for almost the entire evening already without anything embarrassing happening, so she decided to take no notice of his last comment.

He was still complaining as he gathered her left hand in his right, pulling her close to his chest and placing his other arm on her back, while she wrapped her free arm around his neck. They stood like that letting the music wash over them dancing cheek to cheek in time to the music.

"This is not what I had in mind when I said I didn't mind dancing Camille," he whispered into her ear.

"Why not?" she feigned innocence.

He inhaled deeply, breathing in the smell of her hair, "One: this isn't really dancing. And two: I can't concentrate when you're naked." She giggled, as his hand trailed down to the small of her back, tantalisingly close to the cleft of her bottom. She could already feel the reason for his lapse in concentration pressing against her. "And this is a very sentimental track for our first dance."

"I thought it was a classic?"

"It is" he replied. "It just seems a shame that we won't see it through to the end," and with that his left hand finally lost its pretence at propriety as it roamed down further still and he pulled her back to bed.