A/N Thank you, thank you for all the wonderful reviews.

There wasn't much to tidy, but what little there was - Anthony tidied. He did rather more than that, he walked down to Sainsbury's bought a pack of yellow dusters and some Pledge. He lifted the files off the dining room table and allowed the thin mist of sickly, sweet polish to make it appear shiny and new. He made five neat folder towers at the end of the table. He put crisp new sheets on the bed. He'd long since given up ironing so he'd had to buy them from Oxford Street on the way home the previous Friday.

All the effort was for naught, because Edith would have no reason to come into the dining room. She would certainly have no reason to come into the bedroom, although the thought gave him a peculiar and not unpleasant pause. On the off chance she did see these rooms, he didn't want her to think he was a slob surrounded by nothing but his work and months of accumulated detritus. He wanted to be a man with a welcoming, clean flat. And fresh sheets.

The living room she would see. All the surfaces were cleaned. He straightened what few pieces of furniture there were and made a bookshelf of the fireplace. He'd purchased the first six books on the list she'd written for him and he wanted her to see that he was making progress. He was already halfway through Wolf Hall, which was placed with nonchalant precision in the middle of the coffee table. He tried, somewhat in vain, to fluff the cushions on the sofa but at the end of the exercise it still retained the dints and hovels of a place he'd fallen asleep far too many times.

Anthony surveyed the effort. It still looked like exactly what it was, temporary accommodation for a temporary situation. Except now it smelt of polish. He opened the sash window facing the street and saw Edith emerging from a taxi. She battled with an easel, a portfolio and a large black trunk. Stumbling over the kerb, she swore, "bugger." Even her cursing was diminutive. Her hair appeared blonde in the bright sunlight and was thrown in gentle waves across her face. She pushed it away.

Warmth spread through Anthony's chest and he chuckled. It was rude to carry on spying, he shouted down, "hello!"

Wide-eyed she looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. She cast her face back down to the pavement and waved in his direction, "yes, hello." She spoke through gritted teeth, "Didn't see you there." She righted herself and tried to pick up the easel and the trunk.

"Hang on, I'm coming down." He ignored her protests as he swept out of the living room. There was no earthly way she could transport all of that up the stairs. How she'd ever gotten everything into the cab was a mystery.

The sunshine belied the temperature. The chill bit through Anthony's jumper as he opened the front door and practically leapt down the small set of steps to the pavement. Edith leant on the black iron railings, she'd managed to move her paraphernalia away from the centre of the public walkway.

Anthony hopped from one foot to the other, "Jesus it's cold. Let me take these." He picked up the easel and tucked it under his arm and took the handle of the trunk in his other hand. It was heavy, he paused and set it down, "what, on God's earth, is in there?!"

"Supplies." She checked them off with her fingers, "chalks, pencils, oils, watercolours, pastels -" she tilted her head, "oh – felt tips."

"Felt tips? Why would you need felt tips?"

"You might want a felt tip portrait. I don't know. I came prepared." She waved him away, "I'll carry it."

He was quicker and grabbed the handle, his hand brushing hers, "you will not."

"It's fine. It's not 1920, a lady can carry her own bags. It was the easel that caused the problems. I -"

He interrupted, "well perhaps, but no lady of mine is carrying this bag up two flights of steps."

Edith squeezed her lips together as if swallowing a smile. Anthony played the sentence back, a strange and unusual – for him - verbal slip, "that is – you – I - don't laugh! You know what I mean."

"I think so – you're terribly old fashioned."

He took the trunk, rolling his eyes, "I've got it." He nodded towards the front door, "second floor, go on."

Anthony's concentration on the gentle sashay of Edith's hips meant he almost didn't notice that she was heading towards Mrs Patmore's door rather than his own.

"No- no – not that one!" Edith arched an eyebrow at the urgency in his voice, "the one straight ahead of you."

His heart thumped as she let herself into his flat. He told himself it was the two flights of stairs and the heavy box of supplies.

"Living room to the left." She nodded, peering into the kitchen and then the dining room, her lips curving into a small smile of approval. The cleaning had not gone to waste.

"Charming!"

The living room was Anthony's favourite, it was why he'd insisted on this flat over the new builds nearer to the tube station. It was the only space running from the front of the flat all the way to the back. Large picture windows at both ends and two smaller ones on the far wall. Light streamed in, which made the slightly greying walls appear a little closer to their original white. All the original features remained - ornate coving, ceiling roses framing the light fixtures, wooden sashes and the fireplace with its intricate carvings surrounding the year the building was completed, '1852'.

He huffed as he deposited the trunk next to the folded easel, "I know, feels like going straight back to the middle of the 19th century."

Edith's slender, pale fingers skimmed the top of the fireplace, flexing to dance across the spines of the books he'd purchased on her recommendation. A small silver watch glinted in the sun. Her wrist was beautiful, like a marble sculpture, with rivers of pale blue dancing through the skin where it met with the fleshy base of her palm.

She turned to face him and frowned, "I don't understand. Where – I mean, it's so –"

"What?"

His head turned to where she was pointing, the lumpy sofa, "that's the same one that's in your office."

"Observant. Yes, they both used to be in the office actually, but I needed a sofa here." He shrugged. The flat had to be furnished in a hurry, but he didn't need to go into all that.

"Your office is so cluttered. But this – " She shook her head, "It's empty. I'm surprised."

Anthony cleared his throat and told a half-truth, "most of my things are at the office." The rest were in Sevenoaks. Furniture, books, photographs – the paraphernalia of life – in the house which, until six months ago, he'd called home, although he'd thought of it less and less by that moniker in recent weeks.

The opportunity was available to explain, to set out the whole background. But the painting was a portrait of him as a professional; it didn't need to be encumbered by personal nonsense. Edith didn't need to know, he would tell her eventually, when the obvious moment presented itself.

"You'll have to do me some pictures. I'd quite like to buy the Eiffel Tower one that you sent."

"It's yours." She walked over to the easel and knelt on the floor beside it, she snapped the wood into position and started the assembly work.

"I'm happy to pay for it."

"This place needs it, and I want you to have it." Her hair fell in disarray about her head and she levered her hand through it, "I hate this thing, it's so stiff." Shifting forwards onto her knees Edith forced the legs of the easel into a standing position. Her pale pink blouse shifted around her neck and the v at the collar pointed towards the enticing promise of soft flesh held by – was that lace? Stop being such a letch, you old man.

He shook his head and forced his eyes back to her face, where they should be, "You get set up then and I'll do brunch."

Edith cocked an eyebrow, "you're going to cook brunch?"

"I'm not sure what I've done to deserve your skeptical tone. I can rustle up the basics. What would you like? Full English? Poached eggs? Bagels with cream cheese and smoked salmon? Or we could stick with the ubiquitous almond croissants?"

Her smile was beautiful, "that's rather more than the basics! You can poach an egg?" Anthony bowed his head slightly, inordinately delighted that perhaps his rudimentary kitchen skills might have compensated for his unhomely home. "Very impressive. Bagels please – toasted."

Nonchalantly he shrugged his left shoulder, "naturally."

She laughed, "Anthony?" He turned back to her as she slid the easel up to full height, "Then croissants."

"Anything you want." He meant that about much, much more than brunch, but she wouldn't know that.

They ate well. Edith was impressed and he was pleased. Beaming.

After he'd cleared the clutter from breakfast and dumped it in the kitchen sink, where it would likely still be eleven days from now, Anthony settled himself on the window seat, suddenly feeling extremely conspicuous. She was going to look at him, really look. Deep lines in his forehead, slightly sagging cheeks, a jawline fighting a losing battle with gravity, thinning hair. God, if he could have done this at 25, he was a sight to see then. Utter nonsense of course, Anthony never wished himself younger. The signs of age were markers of his experience, his achievements. He was no one at 25, now he was to be a High Court Judge.

He shifted uncomfortably and ran his fingers across his brow. If he could just have a few years back.

"Will this do?" He sat in his customary position, one leg tucked over the other. She was fixing a large sheet of paper to the easel. The nerves were getting the better of him and he filled the silence, "should I be in my suit? Wig and gown? What about the background?" He looked over his shoulder at the terracotta triangles and proud chimney stacks, with the occasional modern glass skylight breaking the Victorian lines. "Perhaps I should draw the blinds?"

Edith stood absolutely still, eyes fixed on the easel, "Edith?" He saw the tremble in her hand and the flush creeping up her neck, "Edith, what's wrong?"

She fisted her hand into the front of her jumper, "I-I don't -". She turned away, covering her eyes.

The dart he made across the room to stand in front of her was instant, she was upset and he couldn't bear the sight. Once he found himself there, looking down at her, he was slightly at a loss. Completely out of practice in the art of offering sympathy and comfort, although he'd managed quite well with this particular woman thus far. Her chest rose and fell heavily and he tried not to look at the enticing skin between her breasts again. Now was not a suitable time for such behaviour, if there ever was a suitable time.

Reluctantly he put his hand on her arm, he could feel heated, dewy skin beneath the cotton. Her head careened up to his face, eyes wide, as if surprised to find him there.

"Take some deep breaths Edith. Deeper than that please." He put his hand on his chest and took several gulps of air to show her. She was a meadow, lavender and peppermint in sepia and pastel tones. Her face was a bird in the middle of it all, sharp cheekbones and proud nose, wide eyes filled with expression. At this precise moment: blind panic.

He ran his hand down her arm, trying to keep his mind on the task at hand and stopped at her fingers. He prized the pencil away from their grip and put it on the mantelpiece. Her breathing steadied.

She whispered, "I'm a mess, sorry."

"Not at all. What set you off?"

She rubbed her eyes, "you did."

"Me?"

"All the talk of outfits and backgrounds. I hadn't thought about any of that. Then came the catastrophisation."

"Catastrophisation?"

She turned around and circled the room, "The fact I hadn't thought about it became I can't believe I didn't think about it. Which became I'm probably not going to be able to do this, which was then I'm definitely not going to be able to do this." She waved her hand about her head, "then I thought, well, if I can't do this, I'll probably never be able to do any painting again, which means I might as well never do anything because without that I'm nothing and nobody."

"So my very innocuous query about whether I should be wearing a suit became –"

"Me being worth nothing."

"Catastrophisation." He wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go. Kiss her head and whisper sweet comforts, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"That you have a nut painting your picture, how could you have done?"

He was relieved she would still paint it, that he hadn't scared her off, "you're not a nut. You're grieving." He looked down and found his hand wrapped around hers, thumb tracing the undulations of her knuckles. He let her go, "come on, follow me."

The galley kitchen was spotless. He rifled around in the cupboard and found two mugs. The only two he had which matched one another had accompanied brunch and now lay discarded and dirty in the sink. Of these two one had delicate roses painted across its cream surface. The other had 'Keep Calm and Carry On' across the side in bold white text on a red background; a Christmas present from Mrs Hughes. Edith grinned, "I suppose that one should be mine?"

"That would seem appropriate." Anthony put the kettle on and eschewed the pot in favour of efficiency, the teabag went straight into the mug along with two heaped teaspoons of sugar.

"I don't take sugar."

"I know, but it'll help you feel better."

"You're a doctor now as well as a judge?"

He poured the steaming water into the cups, watching the cloud of taste infuse through the clear liquid, "no, but I've seen enough experts give evidence about anxiety attacks to know that sugar will help, and you polished off all the almond croissants."

The silence of the kitchen was broken by the tinkling of stainless steel on china. Edith took the mug with a halfhearted smile and blew little ripples across its surface.

Anthony was troubled, "You really think that without painting you'd be nothing?" In the short time he'd known her, although painting was what had brought her to his door, they'd talked very little about it. As it turned out she was more, much more, than the extraordinary pictures to which he'd been so attracted.

Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, she took a sip of tea and settled her gaze at middle distance, "that's probably the catastrophisation talking, but, to a certain extent –" She looked down at her now half empty mug, "this is making me feel better." She continued, "To a certain extent, yes. Painting is my outlet, it's how I express myself, it's the only thing I've ever felt remotely good at. It's my contribution to the world and without it –" She exhaled, "I'm not sure where I'd fit." She drained the rest of the cup, "you probably feel the same about law."

"No." He answered quickly and truthfully. Usually he'd have lied to cover himself.

She tilted her head and frowned, "really?"

Anthony had spent every waking moment working towards his appointment to the High Court, to the detriment of everything else. If he thought about giving it all up tomorrow he felt nothing. Except that Edith wouldn't need to paint his picture. That thought caused a twist in his stomach unlike anything he'd felt in a long time.

"Really. I'd be bored with very little to do all day, but the idea doesn't worry me. It certainly doesn't set off even the remotest inkling of anxiety. I suppose I'm just lucky."

Edith tilted her head with a scowl, "are you?"

She might be the one having panic attacks in the middle of the day but he knew, as did she, who had the best of it. How funny that the 26 year old would have a better sense of self than the 50 something. It wouldn't do to dwell on it. This was the position he was in, this was who he was - he would go to the High Court and Edith would paint the picture, he didn't need to think about what would happen after that or what had gone before. Not today in any event, not yet.

Introspective thoughts swept aside, Anthony moved into action, "right. We need a plan."

Edith rinsed her mug and put it upside down on the draining board, "A plan?"

"Yes. You're right that a portrait is more than me sitting there and you sketching me. We need to think about clothing and background, everything, really." He could feel his voice humming low in his throat as he switched to a persuasive tone. He had a point to make and an idea to state. The barrister within was doing the talking now, "we are supremely intelligent individuals Edith. Here we have something neither of us understand. Of course, you can do the drawing, this we know." He took a beat, "but the rest of it – the question of what the portrait should be and what it involves – we need to do what we always do when we do not understand something –we become teachers, we learn." He looked her straight in the eye, "if we do that, if we learn – I don't think you'll panic anymore."

Edith's fingers fluttered across her mouth which curved into a smile, "you're really very, very good you know. If I'm ever accused of murder will you defend me?"

"I'm a Judge now, remember?" This was a silly counterfactual, of course, she wasn't going to kill anyone, or commit any sort of crime, but somehow it seemed important to continue, "But I'd give it all up to go back to the Bar and keep you from serving 15 to life." She laughed, Anthony was inordinately pleased, "so is that a yes then?"

"To letting you defend me when I kill –" she shrugged and chuckled, " - Mary, probably?"

He nodded, "That, and the portrait lessons."

"Oh – yes to those as well. Although you shouldn't have to help, I can do it all on my own."

No, no, that wasn't the idea at all and he already had an idea of the first lesson. An idea that would mean a whole day in her company. He groped for a persuasive point, "Nonsense. This is a collaboration. I need to learn as well. Besides, I already know what we need to do first."

"Oh?"

"A trip back to Cambridge – to see the competition."

She smiled; it went straight through him, to places it absolutely should not have gone.