Had no idea where this was going but I think it will be a short journey through the most difficult, most hurtful, personal moments of a love affair.

Leading, of course, to something not quite as brutal as we were served. Leading to redemption.

Thanks, as ever for reading and or reviewing.


Her eyes gazed at the face … the face she had lost, she had craved … she had thought she would never see again.

But here he was.

And she hated herself for still loving that face.

She hated herself for being the cause: for being the road that had driven a good, honest, innocent, loving man to his death; to the orphaning of his son; to an end undeserved; a life unfulfilled.

She hated herself for the regret and the guilt and the loss of her own simple, peaceful lifestyle and she hated that after all this time trying to forget and forge herself a new role, a new world, a new life, that she should be feeling the same thrill, the same emotional overload, the same overwhelming love ... as she looked at the face of Harry Pearce.

And she hated herself because while she pleaded, begged and cried for the lives of those she had cherished, she knew the decisions he was forced into, the arguments he made, were right.

Her anger would vent at him but it was at her own feet that the true disdain lay.

Her family was gone.

And she had caused it.

Her life was gone… her life in the sun; her life of semi reality; her life of make believe.

The hurt of it all was overwhelming.

Everyday she had thought of him.

She had conjured up his eyes, his smile, his smell.

As the warm Mediterranean waters had enveloped her, she had lost herself in the touch of his chilled lips on the coldest, lonliest of mornings besides the Thames.

And as she looked at him now, she knew she loved him … still.

She always would.

And for that she didn't deserve to be happy. For that, George had died. For that, Nico was fatherless. For that, she deserved this agony of pain.

For that she deserved nothing but what befell her.