I don't own LwD - maybe Santa will give me the show for Christmas? But actually, I much prefer your amazing comments, PMs and stories. This community has to be one of the highlights of 2008 for me. Thank you. And this time a special one for Lanter, who lent me a phrase for this chapter.

When we left Casey last chapter she was re-living the nightmare of her awkward and unfulfilling marriage and dwelling on the blessings of Derek's constant friendship.

Chapter Eleven - Grown Up Games

First it is night. Then, in the seeming space of seconds, it is day. I wonder if that's why they call it 'the speed of light...'

I am deep under my crisp sheets, snuggled against my extra-large pillow, dreaming oddly comforting dreams in my soft pyjamas. Then it is bright mid-morning and I am blinking at my billowing curtains, my head feeling concussed from late night indulgence, the fantasy smile turning into a panicked rush to the bathroom.

Late. I, Casey McDonald, am going to be late for Callum. And I'm never late. I may be too late. Yes. Too late for the things that mean most in life…. Maybe. (Oh Casey, get over yourself, this is the wine from last night talking.) But LATE for an appointment? Never.

Derek will be dropping him over any minute now – so that, unbeknownst to him, we can spend the day concocting insufferable and hazardous de-Theodorisation plans, whilst indulging in everything from triple chocolate fudge sundaes to double pepperoni stuffed crust pizza. (Callum's perpetual thinness in recent years means that I'm prone to abandon my usual cautious healthy eating dictums in favour or all out calorific mayhem).

And while we eat and weave knightish webs of truth involving him, Derek's going to "check out" the new school where he'll be Head of Mathematics this fall. I feel nervous on his behalf.

--

I'm half way through my shower when the doorbell goes.

I towel off frantically, wrap myself in a bathrobe and make it to my bedroom. Then I hear the key in the lock (why I had given Derek one, I have no idea, but it seemed like a good idea six years ago when he helped move me and my considerable mountain of books into the apartment. That was the day he decided to write something to me on the flyleaf of every single book of mine while I was cooking us lunch. I only discovered slowly, over the next few weeks. By then he was long gone).

'Caaa-seeey?' Callum can't contain his excitement.

'I'm in here. The bedroom…NO! Don't come in!' I throw my weight against the bedroom door just in time (it doesn't have a latch). Okay. Now I can almost hear the two of them thinking how to have a little fun with me.

'Aren't you dressed, Case?' Derek sounds sombre, not like his usual self, which both reassures and upsets me. Then to his son, 'Move yourself, pal and let her get dressed.'

I feel Callum let go of the handle and I hear him shuffle back, moaning, 'Da-ad'. But he never disobeys when he knows his father is serious.

There's a pause.

Relieved, I let go of the doorknob and turn to get my clothes on, stomach churning anew at the thought of facing Derek in my apartment after all these awkward changes and last night's illuminating conversation with Joachim.

BAM! They both fall through into the room and on top of me, knocking me off balance and onto the bed where I collide, clumsily, with my nearest bedpost. At least I have tied my robe up, so my dignity is safe, but my wet hair falls out of its towel and splashes us all.

They are both hysterical with laughter.

'Gottcha!' They yell.

'Der-ek!' I scream. 'What if I'd been naked, you ridiculous idiot!'

'Yeah, that would really have scarred Callum for life, wouldn't it son?' Derek says casually as Callum giggles, 'She called you an idiot!'

But Derek's eyes… oh! How his eyes are holding mine, searching my features with the same hungry mixture of mockery, mischief and desire that used to light them back when we lived together; challenging me to... to do what? I'm never quite sure.

I rub my bruised shoulder. He looks sideways at me, muttering that he can rub it for me if I want him to. I stare him down. Then, stupid me, I start to blush.

Callum, predictably, is now ignoring us and sitting at my dressing table dipping his finger into my face cream, dropping little blobs of it on the mirror to see how they roll down. Sometimes he acts the same at eleven as he did at five. But I'm still cross with his father and have no time to take him on too.

'How can they let you teach children, let alone be in charge of a department! You're a total imbecile.' I grumble in Derek's direction. But their laughter is so infectious, so genuine, that I cannot hold back my own.

I feel a sudden rush of love for my mother, who saw right through all the external clutter to the heart of George and his dysfunctionally perfect little family.

'Ew, Callum! Did you just fart in my bedroom? Get out!'

I bundle them out and they go obediently this time. I shut the door again and hear the television go on.

Six minutes later I join them, wearing a knee-length dark blue summer top over faded jeans, and a pair of comfortable canvas shoes, my hair gathered in a clip but still damp across my bare shoulders. Without makeup as I am this morning, I look almost as I did at eighteen. I am not proud of this; just aware of it. Nostalgia plays a large enough role in Derek's and my life already, without our strangely Peter Pan looks as constant reminder.

They are lounging on my sofa watching a rerun of an episode of Family Guy – a programme made, in my opinion, for idle student minds and frustrated cynical men having mid-life crises. Callum keeps laughing and watching, coyly glancing at his dad when there's a particularly rude exchange, but Derek's eyes rise towards me as if I exert a near-magnetic pull; and I feel he's willing me to look at him.

When I do, he mouths 'Sorry.'

I raise my eyebrows; shrug the shoulder that is slowly showing its bruise.

Nevertheless, I can't help feeling contented for a minute, watching the relaxed, proprietary way in which his legs are stretched across my tiny living room; and the fact that they've dug out biscuits from my cupboards and raided my fridge for soda and milk.

All the things about Derek that drove me so insane with annoyance when we were teenagers now leave me inarticulate with longing. Somewhere deep down I know that this is the complicated problem at the centre of so many women's lives, this mysterious attraction to men's most annoying habits when those men do not live with us. If I had known what being an adult would be like, I would have frozen time right there when we were seventeen, his laughter enveloping me, the ice cream in my hair. But then, I would never have known Callum.

As I step over Derek's legs on my way to the kitchen (I haven't had breakfast and my head is still throbbing from last night's wine), he reaches out and clasps my wrist, pulling me backwards till I am sitting awkwardly next to him.

'I'm sorry', he whispers again. 'Didn't realise you were so close to the door.'

He pulls me against him with one arm. Almost without thinking, he raises my wrist to his lips and brushes a kiss against the underside. I take this strangely erotic gesture as an apology; but perhaps it's something else.

The feeling is indescribable and I suppress a groan.

Callum glances at us, makes a silly face and goes back to his programme, where the character called Stewie (whom I find utterly diabolical and disgusting) is scoffing pancakes, salivating and making lascivious faces at someone's bosom.

'You aren't forgiven', I murmur.

I can feel Derek's breathing, his ribs, the sharp rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his t-shirt.

Suddenly, I want to hit him. Not some girly slap, but to really pound him with my fists till he aches all over the way I do.

I want to turn and press my mouth to his and put my arms behind his back and never let him go.

Why does he keep doing this?

He's married. I'm…. nothing to him except… kind of family.

He had years to ask me to be something else.

And of course, I had years to ask him. But it never seemed like the right moment, and I didn't trust myself enough after that wasted courage in the tent.

This sort of tension now is wrong, and confusing, and well nigh unbearable when it occurs in Callum's presence. He's only young, but he's a clever boy, used to reading people's emotions. He's known his father and me all his life, and has often questioned me about Derek's other girlfriends, watching carefully to see my reaction if he tells me of particularly amorous moments. But mostly, he's just seemed to enjoy being with both of us, to feast on our sparks and the chemistry we exude. It's never really mattered before, since I was single and technically Derek often was as well. Perhaps we got too comfortable. Now he's at an age when he's sure to sense the more than fraternal tenderness with which Derek sometimes touches me and I sometimes respond. Wrong. All wrong.

I wrench my voice out from the depths where it is hiding. 'Don't you have an appointment to go to at the school?'

Dropping my wrist, Derek gets up in one fluid move, ruffles Callum's hair and heads out of the room.

But then, just before the front door slams, I hear him call, 'Casey?'

So, as always, I jump up and go to the hallway where he's now standing, half in and half out of my apartment.

'D'you want your key back?' He asks gruffly.

I shake my head, unable to speak, tears rising in my throat.

'Good.' He says, letting out a breath that I didn't know he was holding. 'See you in the evening, then... and Spacey - don't lose my little boy.' Then he's gone.

--

A short walk, two aspirins and an hour later, Callum and I are excitedly discussing fossils, flora and fauna as we queue to look at a special exhibit in the Biodome.

Three hours, four aspirins and a bus-ride later, we are in Park Mont Royal, having a picnic (our second lunch), feeding several oversize squirrels, and making serious plans as he fills me in on his observations from the last twenty-four hours and hands over the 'loot' – a letter from none other than Daddy Salter-Kress, addressed to Derek – which Callum has 'borrowed' from Derek's desk. He talks non-stop as usual.

'Dad always says that I should "stop depending on others to get me stuff that I want – I'm old enough to be independent and at my age he was looking after a baby sister". Yeah, right. So I just went in and took it while he was getting something for Theodora. She's sick, he says, with a headache and staying in bed all day. But you know I did see three empty wine bottles in the bin this morning – perhaps she got drunk after I went to bed – wouldn't that be funny if she married dad to get over some drinking problem!' Ouch. I raise my eyebrows at this conjecture and shake my head.

'Improbable, my dear Watson. Now tell me about the letter. When did it arrive?'

'I don't think Dad's even replied to this letter yet, since it only came this morning. I guess that means we'll have to put it back before he notices.' He stops for air and to see if I can reassure him about getting it back to its rightful owner. I nod. I am too excited to indulge in my usual stern lecture on taking things that don't belong to you, and this letter, which I've been scanning as Callum talks, is very intriguing.

'Come on', I say to Callum, who has finished his icecream finally, 'Let's go show this to Shuli and see what she can make of it.' I reach down my hand and pull him to his feet.

'Yay!' He replies. Then in a wheedling voice, 'Don't tell her you gave me ice-cream, okay? Maybe she'll treat us to some more.'

'Callum, you crazy kid! I'm the one that knows you had ice-cream already and I'm saying a big fat NO to another one…' But we're both grinning like fools forty minutes later when Shuli finally comes out of her home-office and says, 'Oh I'm just finishing up for the day, d'you guys want to go grab an ice-cream? This heat is unbearable!'

And then her eyes go wide in surprise when I wave the Salter-Kress letter under her nose. She reads it quickly, and shudders.

'I think it's time I told you the stuff I left out yesterday', she hisses to me, 'but not in front of junior.'

Meanwhile Callum can't contain himself any longer. 'Why're you guys whispering? What d'you think dad did in England, Aunt Shuli? Why's this old man writing to him like this? Casey? It's clear he was arrested, right? What d'you think he did? Oh, I wonder if he's a spy!'

We're still standing on the sidewalk just outside Shuli's and my apartments, and all three of us jump when a cool voice says, 'You talkin' about me?'

Duh! Sorry for ending it there. My boy now has chicken-pox and once again writing long chapters is fraught with difficulty. But I know how patient you are and I will be forgiven! More 'evidence' in the next chapter.