For the second time today, I awaken with a pounding headache, but this time I am not alone. Andrea has come to wake me up, and she sits on the bed next to me, brushing my errant forelock out of my eyes.

"How are you feeling?" she whispers so sweetly that I want to cry all over again.

"I'm fine," I reply coldly. I am completely unable to deal with the easy affection she is offering me.

She jerks her hand back then, and I hate myself for being the reason she does that.

"I wish you would talk to me, Miranda. You can trust me, and I will always listen without judging you," she sighs, "please don't shut me out."

"I don't have anything I wish to discuss with you." I hear the hostility in my tone, and watch her recoil at the sound. She stands up and walks to the door, turning to look at me, her eyes sad. For a split second, she looks like she is about to say something. As her eyes meet my icy glare, her shoulders slump in defeat. She changes her mind and leaves.

I close my eyes, angry at myself for the way I have spoken to her. It is not her fault that I feel the way that I do, and yet I know I am punishing her for it. She is right. I am pushing her away.

The house is empty when I walk out of the bedroom in search of her, and so I assume that she has gone for a walk after all, without inviting me. I cannot blame her for not wanting to be in my presence, when I have behaved so atrociously toward her.

I make myself a coffee and take it into the living room, browsing the bookcase there. There is a photo album, and before I can talk myself out of it I have lifted it down from the shelf. I sit on the couch and open it up, curious about what I will find.

There are pictures of Andrea when she is young, with a smaller boy who looks a lot like her. He has the same dark brown hair, though his is short with a natural curly bounce to it. His eyes are the exact same colour and display the same warmth I have come to expect from her. The neat writing underneath tells me his name is James, and I assume he must be a brother.

I see her grow up as I flick through the pages, and then there are pictures of her graduating, standing with her parents, wearing her gown, looking so happy.

The pride I can see on her face, as she graduates from her Journalism degree, makes me feel a twinge of guilt. I have allowed her to stay on as my assistant in a bid to keep her in my life, but I know that this is not what she grew up wanting to do. She grew up with grand dreams of becoming a journalist, and yet I have selfishly held her back. I hope that maybe she will start writing again one day.

The picture next to it is one of her friends, and the label tells me this is Lily. I look closely at what I assume to be her parents, and I feel my heart start to beat harder.

I had assumed that her Mother would have a similar skin tone to her, just like her father does, but no. The woman has a pale complexion, and her hair is platinum blonde. At a squint, she could almost be me, before my hair turned white. The style is certainly the same, and she is dressed very fashionably, as is Lily.

Is this the woman that Andrea had a relationship with?

I turn the pages, absorbing picture after picture, and then I find one that makes bile rise in my throat. It is a candid shot of her and the woman I assume to be Lily's mother. They seem completely unaware of the camera pointing in their direction, and they are kissing, completely lost in the moment.

I slam the album closed and put it back on the shelf, unable to go any further in case the next photo rips my heart in half.

Andrea has told me that her heart belongs to someone else, and she had dated Lily's mother to get over another woman. Lily's mother looks like me, or maybe I look like her, I don't know, but I can feel hope flaring in my chest. Is it possible that Andrea feels the same way I do?

Unrequited love. That had been the interpretation that she offered me when we talked about the Tremayne painting. Is it possible that she has those feelings for me?

My hope fades as quickly as it had bloomed. I have never seen any evidence of Andrea having feelings for me in the three years that I have known her. I am letting my foolishness get the better of me. If I carry on like this I will end up so hurt, I fear that I won't recover.

I have to snap out of this before I lose what we have. Her friendship is worth everything to me and I know I can't go back to life without her in it. I can not keep tormenting myself with impossible dreams. I know that this will make me punish Andrea, and push her away. She is not at fault, and if I don't get this under control then I will lose her.

I need to distract myself so I find a book to read, and settle on the sofa. I realise I am just staring at the pages and not absorbing the words; completely getting lost in my thoughts.

I hear the door bang, and look up, noting that the light is starting to fade already. How long have I been sitting here? I put the book back and go in search of Andrea, determined to put this new awkwardness behind us.

She is at the kitchen sink, and I gasp as I see the red washing from her pale hands. She is rubbing at her skin, and the colour of the water as it circles the drain of the white ceramic sink makes me want to vomit.

"Andrea? What have you done?" I rush over, and take hold of her hands, inspecting them for the gaping wound I am expecting to find. I look at her, and I know my confusion shows when she starts talking.

"It's paint. I had to move some of the paint tins in the shed to make room for more logs. I must have gotten some on me," she tells me sheepishly and I get a distinct impression that she is not telling me the truth.

"Where are the logs?" I ask, not so subtly pointing out the flaw in her little tale.

"I like to chop wood because it helps me think, and it's calming. I know we don't need them yet," she gestures to the living room, "there are still plenty in the cupboard."

There are, I know. She brought in quite a few last night and added them to an already rather full cupboard. Somehow I don't think this is the reason though.

"Hmmm" I reply, not wanting to confront her when I have no proof, just a feeling that she is being dishonest.

She finishes washing her hands, and dries them off quickly. She turns to lean against the sink and watches me cautiously.

"Are you feeling better?" she asks me nervously, no doubt expecting another outburst of vitriol to be thrown her way.

I don't want to lie and I don't want to hide from her anymore. I can't bear that I keep hurting her, so I try to be as honest as I can be.

"I'm overwhelmed with the events from the last few days," I look down, ashamed at my admission. I have always been so fiercely strong and to admit that I am struggling is a somewhat disconcerting thing for me to do. I know she assumes I mean being removed from Runway, and I don't correct her. If she knew I was struggling with my feelings for her, she would run for the hills and I would lose her completely.

Andrea surprises me then, by stepping closer, watching me carefully. She reaches out and wraps her arms around my shoulders, tugging me gently against her body. I can feel myself freeze at the unexpected gesture, and then my hands are somehow finding their way around her waist and I relax.

I don't recognise myself, as I bury my face into the side of her neck, subtly inhaling. She smells vaguely of jasmine, which I have noticed before. I think it is from the body wash she uses, but there is something else so uniquely her and it envelops me in a blanket of comfort.

"Everything will be ok, Miranda, I promise," she whispers, as her hand runs soothingly down my back. She steps backwards, taking me with her until she is leaning against the sink. I sigh as I feel myself melt into her.

I have never experienced anything like the sensation of being held by her. She is like the sun; warm and comforting, but underneath that, I can feel her strength. I feel like I am walking a tightrope, high in the air and she is my safety net, ready to catch me when I undoubtedly fall.

I tighten my arms around her and she responds by holding me tighter with one arm as the other hand snakes up and cradles the back of my head. Soft lips find my forehead, and I hear her sigh too. We stay like that, in silence, and I am so perfectly comforted by her embrace.

Eventually, I loosen my arms and take a step backwards and she smiles at me shyly.

"Movie?" she suggests, hesitantly.

"Perfect," I tell her, "I'll meet you there, I just want to call the girls."

"Of course. When you're ready, it's the other door in the living room. I'll meet you there. Do you want wine?"

"That would be lovely," I reply, "see you in a moment."

I call my daughters and I can hear the relief in their voices when I tell them that I am ok. They ask after Andrea, and I know they are curious about what we are doing. They are 11 years old and incredibly perceptive. They know it is strange for me to go away with anyone, especially an assistant. They know I don't have friends, unless you count Nigel, and until I know what went on at Runway, I'm not sure I can anymore.

I promise I will Skype them tomorrow, and show them the house. They asked if Andrea could join me and I agree. I am sure that she will accommodate their request. One of the things that first endeared her to me was her attitude towards my daughters. She is wonderful with them and they love her.

I say my goodbyes and walk into the living room, and see she has left the door open. It is dark when I step inside, but I can see it is a proper home theatre. Andrea is sitting on what almost looks like a bed, with a back and arms like a sofa. There are comfortable looking reclining armchairs in a row behind and to either side of where she is. Next to each chair is a small table, with a lamp and I can see a bottle of wine and two glasses, already filled to the brim.

She looks slightly scared when she sees me, "I thought we could spread out and relax if you don't mind sharing with me?"

I look at the bed she is lounging on and gulp. How can I watch a movie in such close proximity to her? She misunderstands my hesitance, and her smile drops.

"Or you can choose a chair?" she offers reluctantly, gesturing to the reclining armchairs on either side of her.

"No, no, this is fine," I assure her, as I walk around to the front of the bed, and climb on next to her. There are big fluffy pillows behind, and room to stretch out our legs in front of us. I lean back and get comfortable, and thank her when she grabs a fleece blanket from the chair next to her, offering it to me. She drapes it over our legs and picks up the remote.

She switches on the screen, and I realise just how huge it is. It is nearly as big as the wall in front of us, and I almost wish the girls were here. They are sure to love this room. I hunger for a future that would involve family holidays, all of us staying here, watching a movie together. As I watch, my heart feeling warm, she makes a nest in the corner and snuggles into the fluffy pillows. She looks adorable.

We spend some time scrolling through the app she has and eventually settle on some romantic comedy I have never seen. She starts the movie playing, and we begin to watch, but now and then I catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn to look at her but she is always resolutely staring at the screen, and I wonder what she is thinking. The next time I see her look at me, I startle her by turning around too quickly for her to turn away from me.

"What is it?" I ask her, as I realise that she looks embarrassed.

She shrugs shyly, looking at me from under her eyelashes and hesitates, but then she lifts her arm and rests it along the back of the bed.

"Want to cuddle?" she asks me, and my heart starts pounding again. Honestly, this woman is going to give me a heart attack one day, because my heart works so much harder in her presence.

She wants to cuddle? With me? I can see her start to regret her decision, so before she can retract her offer, I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile, even as I feel myself tremble slightly at the prospect of being in her arms.

"Why not?" I ask rhetorically. I scoot over to join her in the corner, where she has made her nest. I lean against her tucking my head under her chin, and I realise I can hear her heart again. I think it is my new favourite sound. She drops her arm around me and pulls me slightly closer.

We both turn back to the movie, but now it is impossible to concentrate, and I find myself not really watching but just enjoying being so close to her. Her fingers are tracing random patterns against my side, and I have to stop myself squirming when I feel my desire building.

Being touched by her, even innocently, is like delicious torture, and I tune out from the movie altogether. Instead, in my mind, a scene of my own is playing out. A fantasy. I picture her touching me, kissing me, loving me.

Her hand moves upwards and starts rhythmically stroking the outside of my arm, and now I can feel myself getting wetter. Just when I don't think I can stand any more of her treacherous fingers tracing patterns on my skin, she brings her hand up even higher. It slips into the hair at the base of my neck, and I hear myself gasp quietly.

Andrea hears me too.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to maul you," she starts to apologise and tries to move her hand away, but I stop her with my own.

"I like it," I whisper, feeling shy about admitting this to her, and I squeeze her hand, before letting go. I don't put my hand back where it was though and instead, I curl around her more and drape it over her waist.

She resumes tracing her random patterns on my neck, and then her fingers start winding into my hair and she tugs slightly, before going back to tracing her patterns again. Oh, how I want her hands in my hair, holding me close as she kisses me. I cannot think of a single time in my 51 years, where I have felt more aroused than I do right now.

Does she know what she is doing to me? Is it deliberate? Is she trying to make me feel like this or is it innocent?

I try an experiment of my own and allow my fingers to dance across her stomach, revelling in the twitch of her muscles, just under the skin. She wriggles, and I delight in the fact that I have made her do so. I run them over the soft fabric again, and she inhales sharply. Feeling braver now, I slip them under the hem of her t-shirt and revel in the goosebumps I can feel appearing on her skin. I grin to myself and continue to stroke her soft flesh. I feel her lips touching my head again but they linger there for a long moment before she moves back again.

Unless I am very mistaken, and I admit that I could be, she is just as aroused as I am. I feel almost giddy as I watch her press her thighs together, as she wriggles in her seat.

"You're a minx," she says softly, and I am surprised she has acknowledged what is happening.

"As are you, Andrea," I reply, pinching her tummy, and the resulting giggle sets my heart on fire.

She picks up a glass of wine and hands it to me, and takes a drink of her own before putting them both back down.

We somehow make it through the rest of the movie, but I can barely sit still. I almost consider excusing myself, to bring myself some quick relief in the bathroom, feeling wanton for even considering it. I realise though, that if this is really what I think it is, what I hope it is, then I don't want to cheat. The only person I want to put me out of this sweet torture is Andrea.

The only pleasure I want to feel is at her hands.