"But I don't want to work on Saturday."

Edith bit back a sarcastic retort, "yes, Daisy, I know. No one wants to work on Saturday unless they have to, I'm just asking you to swap with me, I'll do your next Saturday shift."

The slight brunette eyed her with suspicion and more than a little confusion. When Edith had first started working at the cafe she'd thought Daisy was simple - stupid, actually. Time had taught her that it wasn't stupidity but a complete lack of social awareness. So Edith's request for a favour, to be paid in kind, seemed to be sailing right over Daisy's head.

"But it's your day to work."

"I know." Edith tried to relax her jaw, "but something has come up and I'm taking a trip, it couldn't be avoided."

It absolutely could be avoided. She could text Anthony this very second and tell him she couldn't get cover at work. She could take herself up to Cambridge, do the research for the portrait on her own. She very much doubted that Anthony had taken his clients to the library with him when he had to do some legal study. But then again he probably never grappled with an acute attraction to any of his clients. Edith felt a child-like excitement at the prospect of spending the day in Cambridge with him. She'd have to quit if Daisy didn't agree.

"A favour Daisy, I'm asking you a favour. Please?"

Her voice still laced with suspicion she agreed.

"Get off, what are you doing?!" Daisy pushed her way out of Edith's bear hug and frowned before busying herself at the bar.

Practically skipping to the staff room Edith text Anthony, "All sorted for Cambridge."

The response was immediate (only a teenager would care about something like that, but, in spite if herself, she did care, she positively beamed at the empty room), "Fantastic. See you at mine, 9am."

"What has you smiling like the Cheshire cat?"

Thomas leaned in the doorway. When they'd first met he'd put Edith in mind of the villain in a silent movie. Spindly limbs, menacing features, sardonic expressions. Creepy, basically. He evoked it now, black trousers, black jacket, slicked black hair, pale, almost translucent skin and narrowed eyes focused directly on her. Where once she had recoiled, Edith saw it now for what it was: armour against the world. Thomas hadn't found it easy to be gay in a northern mining village.

They met when Edith joined the writing staff on a small indie art magazine just after she moved to London. She reviewed art shows. Thomas was appalled that they were letting someone without an art qualification do such an important job. He'd been disdainful, sarcastic and critical from the outset. Then she'd reviewed one of his shows in glowing terms. He carried on jibing, naturally, that was part of the armour too, but somehow she became a 'friend' and then a 'good friend' and then a 'best friend'.

When they rowed about his demeanour and his constant sniping Thomas pointed out that he needed those characteristics to survive. He was the first one to call her out: she had her own means of keeping the outside world away. Almost exactly the opposite to him, she shrunk away. Browns and greys and pale pinks with timid smiles and small conversation. Perhaps that was why they got on so well; he was outrageous where she was quiet and she was thoughtful where he was inconsiderate. They levelled one another out.

"Jesus, Thomas, you scared me. How did you get down here?"

"The stairs."

"Ha-bloody-ha. I meant past Daisy."

"Yes, because it takes a crack criminal mastermind to get past Daisy."

Edith rolled up her apron and transferred that night's tips into her purse, "why are you here?"

He sighed, "to walk you home. It's dark."

"Because no woman should be on London's mean streets –" she feigned a wide-eyed, frightened expression and gasped, "after dark."

"I'm being a gentleman, I was passing the restaurant and thought you might appreciate it. Shoot me why don't you? Anyway –" He tapped his foot dramatically, "stop avoiding the original question."

"Original question?"

He stepped into her personal space and loomed over her with a tone so suspicious it was almost comic, "Cheshire cat smile – explain."

"I was chosen to paint that portrait I told you about." That wasn't untrue, albeit the smile was more a result of the subject of the portrait than the portrait itself.

"Holy shit." The words fell from his mouth slowly as his jaw dropped. No one had faith in her abilities, except Anthony, apparently. She didn't know whether the thought made her happy or sad.

They walked up the stairs, "no need to be so surprised."

Thomas grabbed her hand outside the restaurant, "hey, that's not funny. I'm not surprised, you're talented and I'm proud of you." He pulled her into a hug. They never hugged. His spindly limbs twisted awkwardly around her and her face mashed into his chest. It was over quickly. He cleared his throat, "let's not do that again."

"Never ever." Edith smiled.

"I thought it might have been about a boy."

"A boy?"

"Yes - your Cheshire Cat smile. Goofy. It seems like the sort that might be a product of the opposite sex. I should know I've -"

He stopped dead mid-sentence and emitted what could only be described as a 'gay gasp'. He pointed in her direction, wagging the finger up and down. She'd betrayed herself, as she always did. Pale skin gave way to hues of pink. Treacherous blushes.

Thomas accused, "there is a boy."

Brixton's crowded pavements forced them apart. Banished smokers, idle drunks and the odd pavement shisha bar protected her from having to have the conversation. But the walk home was a good twenty minutes and Thomas was nothing if not persistent. Sure enough as they found each other again he looped his arm through hers and hissed in her ear, "stop running away and give me details. Dirty details. I haven't had sex in weeks."

Trying and failing to pull her arm away Edith shook her head, "there's been no sex. This is me we're talking about."

When Edith had first told Thomas about her derisory sexual experiences he'd actually doubled over laughing, gasping for air at how pathetic it all was. The second year at Cambridge had seen her finally rid of the pesky virginity. She'd sat next to Steve in her sixteenth century witchcraft lectures. Steve was nice which seemed to be a sufficient qualification to be her boyfriend. They had six months of clumsy, completely unsatisfactory sex. She wasn't sure if she broke up with him or if it had been the other way round, but it ended, without fireworks, rather like it had started, and gone on. After Magdalene May Ball Edith made her first and last attempt at a one-night stand. She wasn't sure what resulted even counted as sex. It was so brief it almost seemed never to have happened. She'd had left Cambridge with the sense that perhaps sex wasn't for her. There had been dates since then, possibilities since then, but no one had come close to enticing her back into a remotely intimate situation. Until Anthony. She'd wanted to jump Anthony since the first time she set eyes on him.

"Who is he then?"

It was so cliché, she mumbled the answer, "the judge."

"Who?"

Edith pushed her forehead into his shoulder and looked away with a laugh, "Oh, I'm ridiculous. The judge, it's the judge I'm painting."

"Course it is!"

She threw her arm up in the air, "I know – I know. I wait years to be attracted to someone and it's literally the most inappropriate person possible."

He pulled them across the road between distant beaming headlights and dimming red brake lights, "hang on, did you say - attracted?"

They probably heard Edith's whimsical sigh in Kennington, "yes. He is the single most attractive man I've ever seen."

"After me."

She nodded at Thomas with a serious frown, "goes without saying." The sentimental declarations continued apace, "he's tall, with beautiful hair and his eyes – God, they're blue. His voice is sort of breathless, except when he wants something or he's trying to persuade – being judicial. Then it drops lower and goes straight through me, like I'm butter and he's a knife. That was cheesy – but that's exactly how I feel, he could make me do anything when he speaks that way. And he likes my paintings, really likes them. Oh, and I made him a list of books which he hadn't read and he's actually reading them. I put Twilight on it, just to see how far I could push him. Thomas, he read it, he actually read it! Then he spent an entire lunch ranting about young women and relationship perceptions if 'Bella and Edward' were seen as the norm." Suddenly horribly self-conscious she stopped talking and shrugged, "I like him."

"Christ Ede, apparently."

"Nothing is happening. Nothing will happen." She spoke the last sentence to herself, dousing her optimism was a necessary evil; otherwise disappointment would overwhelm her when the inevitable happened, or didn't happen.

"He sounds perfect."

"He's not. In a lot of ways, he's not. He's twice my age and wedded to his work like no one I've ever met. For him the last twenty years have just been the law. I'm a novelty – a diversion. He'll be done with me when the portrait is painted and he's a High Court Judge and concentrating on the next chapter of his professional life." Where on earth did that come from? She knew the answer though. It had been on her mind ever since they'd first met. The little voice in the corner, quiet but constant, it had been easy to ignore but it kept whispering nonetheless – this man cannot let anything new in; you are new and you will not get in.

Thomas didn't seem to notice the problem, "still sounds perfect, even if it's temporary, at least you'll finally, finally get some."

She thumped him on the shoulder, "I'm not going to –" she air quoted with an eye roll, " - 'get some' – he's not remotely interested in me in that way." Actually, now she thought about it, there was much about Anthony which reminded her of how she had been. Was he even interested in sex? She thought of all the times he'd touched her, brief moments of contact, which charged her with more sensation than she'd ever experienced. He seemed completely unaffected. When he'd nursed her through her anxiety attack without any judgment, with only affection and kindness, she could have pledged herself to him for all eternity. For him, it was routine, as though she was some witness in a case, just another person with another problem.

All of those thoughts were redundant any way. Her crush was unreciprocated. No, she wasn't going to 'get some', perhaps she'd get a friend for a while. She should just enjoy the sensation whilst she had it; a crush was nice, another friend was good.

She thought about Saturday and Cambridge and she hoped her Friday shift would go quickly. The voice and any thoughts about Anthony's accessibility and, certainly about his sexuality or lack there of, were crowded out by excited anticipation and Thomas's gentle mocking about how a fifty year old was far more her speed than a twenty year old.

Friday was mercifully quick. She woke up at silly o'clock on Saturday and tried to arrange her hair into some semblance of order. She retrieved her battered make up bag from a cupboard in the corner of the room and briefly considered putting on some blush and mascara. She stopped herself, she never wore make up. She hadn't worn any in front of Anthony so far, why would she start now? She repeated a mantra: this is not a date. This is not even approaching a date.

The bag was returned to the cupboard and she shrugged at her plain face in the mirror, waves of mousey not-blonde, not-brown hair framed her face. It had been a long time since she'd wished for Mary's bone structure or Sybil's eyes. She wasn't going to start now. She felt guilty for even allowing the thought in – Sybil was dead, she lived. Today, of all days, she planned on living, not spending her time wishing to change things she could not.

She wrapped up warm. Big navy winter coat, grey woollen hat. Leather boots. The weather in London was cold, it would drop at least two degrees in Cambridge and there was the threat of snow. No one ever thought of March as a cold month, but it was, this one in particular. That said, it was warm inside her flat and positively boiling inside the factory once she got downstairs. She had gone beetroot red and a sheen of sweat caused a slight frizz at the edges of her hair.

"You're a hot mess Crawley."

"Yes, quite literally, thank you. Do you never switch these bloody machines off?"

Thomas shrugged. He wasn't wearing a shirt, his muscles were so defined that they were almost frightening, "urgent print run."

"Well, I'm off. I'll see you tonight."

"Or not." He gave her a salacious wink. She was grateful for the heat in the building then, it hid her blushes. He called out as she slid open the door to the flat, "seriously Ede, have fun, don't think too much, just have fun. You seem happy."

Biting the inside of her cheek, she nodded. She was happy. Happy and excited. Usually she would overthink it, analyse it to death until she'd taken out her phone and text an apology and an excuse. But for the first time in a long time she felt normal and she wasn't going to sabotage herself.

One tube change and a short walk and she was at Anthony's front door buzzing his flat, utterly incandescent at the prospect of the day ahead.