I want to be exactly as you see me.

What the hell had he meant by that? Was he talking about the portrait? He was, but he wasn't. He didn't know.

Everything he thought crowded in Anthony's brain, which seemed somehow too small to contain it all, to fathom what was happening to him. Sublime confusion.

She smelt so good and her fingers felt so good. And she thought of him and when she did he wasn't wearing robes. To her, he wasn't a judicial clone.

The needles of cold in the air were a welcome relief. He'd come extremely close to kissing her, the heat on his skin still lingered.

Edith pulled her coat tighter around her and danced on the balls of her feet, "I thought I'd feel ten times worse having seen the other pictures, but I don't. Thank you for making me come here and talking me down off a the ledge when we were inside."

"I didn't make you come here."

"You did. You fed me and joked with me and walked me through Cambridge distracting me with the sights and sounds. Like a blindfolded, nervous filly, you got me here and I feel better and I'm grateful."

"You give me all the credit, you deserve some too. You knew you risked an anxiety attack but you went in there anyway."

She smiled at the sky, "I did, didn't I? And a big decision is made." He arched an eyebrow in query, "no robes for you."

He laughed, "Although a nude might be an innovation too far!"

"I-" She looked plainly at him and dissolved into pearls of laughter. A sign of relief, he suspected, that her hard task was over, rather than anything else. Or maybe she found him funny. Or, maybe she found the thought of him in the nude funny. How quickly his thoughts carried him from joy to despair.

They walked over the Bridge of Sighs, "is there anyone you want to see whilst we're here?"

"I thought about it last night actually. I don't think there's anyone left. All my friends are based everywhere but Cambridge and, of the two supervisors I still speak to, one has gone to Yale and the other to St Andrews." She looked wistful, "nothing left here but the memories." They went into first court, "you?"

His eyes glanced up to Len's rooms. The man who'd taught him everything of value about the law and a great many things of value about life. A mentor and a friend. Back then Len's rooms were small with a leaky ceiling, now he looked over first court. Anthony only knew where they were because they were the rooms of the Director of Studies in law, he'd hadn't visited Len since he ascended to the top of the pile at John's or, indeed, the whole University when he took the Regius Professorship.

"There's Leonard Griffin."

"That name is familiar."

"He's the one cutting you the cheque for the portrait." Her eyes sparked with recognition and she nodded. "Head of Law at John's. He was in his first year teaching when I came up, we were close when I was an undergraduate and a little after Cambridge as well."

She balled up her hands and blew a stream of warm air between them, "We should go and see him then, we're here aren't we?"

"I don't - we're not really friends any more. I haven't been as good with it as I should have been."

That was an understatement. Len had made numerous overtures to keep up their friendship through the years. Anthony had seen him at speaking events, judges' evenings at the Inns of Court and alumni events - the networking circuit that every ambitious barrister and well-respected law lecturer travelled. But the casual offers in between; the invitation for a swift half at the Cittie of Yorke, a last minute dinner - he'd even missed the man's last two weddings - all those casual offers had been eschewed.

"You didn't fall out?"

"No, not at all."

"Then we should go and see him. He was your friend once, he still is."

He looked to the windows of the office again and shook his head, "I don't think-"

"Please Anthony? If we don't go up there you'll regret it when we get back to London and –" She fisted her hands together and twinned her fingers into a cage, "I want you to look back on this day and remember only good things."

An unexpectedly persuasive point. He didn't want to think about this day in anything other than glowing terms either. And she was absolutely right that he would regret it because he'd regretted every other lost meeting with Len.

So they marched up the stairs and to the office. To his surprise Anthony was hoping that someone answered. Someone did. Len Griffin, glass in hand, mop of brown hair in disarray. Frowning at first and then smiling two rows of white teeth.

"Good God, the prodigal student returns."

"Hello Len."

The Professor looked down at Anthony's hand and shook his head before enveloping him into a large hug with several hearty pats on the back, "it's good to see you. It's been far too long."

Anthony flushed with embarrassment, it had been too long and that was no one's fault but his own. Why had he let Edith drag him up here to see Len? It made no sense, all those years without really seeing one another but he allowed Edith to encourage a renewal of the connection. But on seeing Len's smile and feeling his warm embrace he was enormously grateful that Edith had ignored his protestations.

Len caught sight of Edith shielded behind Anthony and stood slightly back, "hello there."

"Hello." Edith pushed past Anthony with a scowl and held out her hand.

Len continued, "Ever so sorry. I'm so addled by the return of my old friend here at the hundredth time of asking that I didn't see you there."

"Leonard Griffin, this is Edith Crawley. She's painting the portrait."

"Of course, Ms Crawley." He bowed slightly and held Edith's hand longer than was necessary, "a pleasure." He spoke warmly, flirtatiously and Anthony was suddenly insanely, stupidly jealous. Annoyed with himself for bringing Edith up here. He wanted to hide her behind him, usher her down the stairs, to the car and all the way back to London. Throwing her into the path of a charming, handsome Cambridge fellow, who was also a renowned ladies' man seemed inordinately stupid. He could only come out on the losing end of an inevitable comparison.

Len gestured to the inexplicably long chaise longue running along one side of the room, "sit, both of you." They did, and Edith winked at him as they did. He'd been nervous and she knew it and she was telling him – see? It's fine. Had he been jealous of Len a moment ago? He was losing his mind, as if Edith would be taken in by an overt, audacious flirt. As if it was his place to muse about what Edith might and might not be taken in by.

The chaise had followed Len from room to room for his whole career. Anthony bent to Edith's ear, she'd sat close enough that notes of lavender played to his nose, "I used to sit on this seat during supervisions."

She leant back into him, a long line of pale neck flaunting itself in his peripheral vision. There were two beauty spots situated a little below her ear. Just the right location for a kiss, almost a wordless invitation.

Humor laced her voice and she teased, "practically an antique then."

His mind was drawn away from the temptation and abruptly back to their whispered conversation. He knew she was joking, and he laughed but it was hollow. He loathed that she had noticed their age difference, as if by some miracle, she might not have done so. A particularly ridiculous thought given that they were sitting in the rooms of the Regius Professor, who had been a lowly fellow when Anthony was an undergraduate.

There was a pressure on his elbow. Anthony looked down to find Edith's pale fingers curved around it. Looking up to her eyes his brow furrowed. She whispered, "I didn't mean -"

"Will one of you answer me!" Edith turned to face Len and Anthony followed more slowly. Len waved a weighty crystal glass in their direction, the light caught on the precise cuts weaving an intricate pattern on the sides. Anthony wanted to smash it over Len's head for interrupting.

"Drink? I know you will, Strallan, but, Edith?"

"Oh, why not!"

"Good." Len drew out the sound of the vowels. Glasses and amber liquid were distributed.

Anthony laughed at Edith's face as she took a sip. It scrunched up in displeasure and she coughed.

"Not a fan?"

"I don't know what came over me. I've always found this stuff vile."

"It's an acquired taste, I could train you."

Edith guffawed, "train me?!"

Anthony raised his hands in surrender, "only to drink whiskey."

"Damn right." She was exceptionally pretty when she smiled.

Len cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Anthony. He took the glass from Edith and poured the contents on top of what little remained in his own, "Coffee?"

"Probably safer."

Again, leaning far closer than he needed to, Anthony explained, "Len used to give us whiskey during supervisions. Called it 'thinking juice'. We all had terrible habits by the end of Tripos."

The kettle shook as it reached boiling point and the Professor poured Edith's coffee. "Whiskey is the fuel of the English Bar." He handed her the steaming mug, "I mean look at Strallan here, if it wasn't for the whiskey he'd still be a two-bit criminal barrister scraping around for work like everyone else. Instead -" he finished the speech with a dramatic hand gesture in Anthony's direction, "High Court Judge."

Anthony rolled his eyes, "Oh yes, it was all the whiskey's doing. I personally can take no credit." He held the glass in the air and toasted the room, "Rampant alcoholism has made me the man I am today!"

Edith laughed and knocked her shoulder against his. For a brief moment Anthony could have sworn her hand was on his thigh. But then it was gone and he wondered if it had happened at all. He looked at his leg and back up to Len who arched an eyebrow and cleared his throat, "Talking of credit, what about the judgment in R v Brown?"

The seat dipped slightly as Edith scooted back and rested her head on the wall. She shut her eyes.

"I don't think Edith wants to be subjected to a conversation about the merits of sentencing deductions."

"Actually, I was going to use the opportunity to doze."

And doze she did. Sometime around Len's second outburst about the ineffectiveness of prison sentences Edith's head lolled onto Anthony's shoulder. Her hair brushing at his chin. He stopped mid-sentence. To his disappointment, she awoke with a start. He resisted the urge to tap the top of her head and tell her to go back to sleep.

"God, I actually did doze off didn't I?"

Len chuckled, "I thought that was the plan."

"It must have been the whiskey."

The Professor exhaled sharply, "please, you barely had half a swig."

"Don't worry Edith, you're not the first person to fall asleep in Len's office and you won't be the last."

"The implication being that my supervisions are boring." He arched a sardonic eyebrow, "How clever and witty you are, Strallan."

Edith stood and Anthony mirrored her. Len remained seated, his eyes flicking between them.

"I'm going to go and sketch."

"Really?"

"I'm well rested, well fed and in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I'm feeling inspired and I happen to have a sketchpad."

She'd remembered what he said about Cambridge, about inspiration and she was going to give her sketching a go. His cheeks felt warm. Probably the whiskey. The corners of her lips flickered towards her eyes. She turned to Len and held out her hand, "it was lovely to meet you."

"And you. Best of luck trying to capture Strallan's best side, it's a difficult task."

"Hardly." She cleared her throat and headed for the door, "I'll be out on the terrace at the Backs."

"I'll go with you."

She shook her head, "no - stay." She waved him back into the centre of the room, "Catch up some more. Finish that argument about prison. I'm not going far."

With that her figure disappeared behind the door. It rattled in the frame. The blue paint was peeling where the gold handle met the wood.

The clack of the decanter being returned to the desk broke Anthony from his contemplation of the door. He turned back to the room, grey in the dimming light. It was just him and Len, as though thirty years hadn't passed. More liquor was poured and, just as she'd advised, they finished their argument.

And several more whiskeys.

Anthony was disheveled and lounging on the chaise where Edith had sat an hour earlier. He was tipsy. Len handed him another glass. He should stop after this, it was never a good idea to go past a third glass. Or was this already the fourth? He sipped and didn't care. Len sat uncomfortably close to him on the chaise and practically whispered into his ear, "enough shop talk."

Anthony shuffled away, "I feel like we're about to have an intimate moment."

"We are not." Len's words slurred and he gestured at Anthony with his glass. Tsunamis threatened to tip over the edges, "But you are about to tell me about your intimate moments with the delectable Ms Crawley."

"I beg your pardon?!"

Len shuffled towards him again, "Oh, come on. You must have heard that Jane left me? I haven't been with a woman since she went. I need to live vicariously Strallan, so tell me –" He arched and eyebrow and swirled his liquor before taking another gulp, "- how is she?"

It must be the booze talking. Not Len's choice of subject – that was just Len through and through. For all his good points, and he had many, he had a problematic relationship with the opposite sex. Talking about women, thinking about women and being with women was Len's vice. Maud hated him. The feeling was mutual. His flirtatious mannerisms had never worked on her, and worse, she'd taken it for a lack of respect. A sign he would always be more interested in what was under her dress than inside her head, which probably wasn't an altogether inaccurate assessment.

So, Len's pointed question – asking how someone was in bed, expecting an answer with all the lurid details didn't surprise Anthony one jot. But the idea that he thought Edith would want to sleep with him – that she had in fact already done so. No one sober would have made that assumption. She was young and lovely. He was not.

"You're pissed."

"Yes. Tell me Strallan."

"For God's sake Len, I'm not sleeping with her or doing anything else with her – are you mad? She's twenty-something with her whole life ahead of her and I'm a crusty, old –" He shook his head in resignation, "very old, judge."

"You're lying."

"I am not lying."

"If there's one thing I know it's men and women. You look at her like the cat that's got the cream." Len stood up and rolled his eyes, "I used to tell you everything about the women I had been with."

"Yes, whether I wanted to know or not." Anthony tried to construct a mental picture of how he looked at Edith. Perfectly properly, he was sure. "I am not withholding information Len. There is absolutely nothing going on between Edith Crawley and I." An extremely salient point occurred to him then, why hadn't he thought of it earlier? "In case you've forgotten, I am married."

Len grunted, "Maud." He poured another drink, "well, as I have proven on numerous occasions, marriage is no bar to relations with other women. In fact, sometimes it's positively an incentive – and I've met Maud."

Defending Maud came instinctively, although it was half-hearted. Anthony shook his head and sounded a mediocre chastisement, "Len, please."

"And, last I heard, she left you again."

Of course he would know that, they had too many acquaintances in common – the brilliant legal scholar, the leading criminal judge and his top criminal barrister wife. These circles were small. Len's matter-of-fact tone, yet the subtle emphasis on she, left, you and again made him feel discomforted about it in a way he hadn't done in some time. At this point it all seemed so familiar that he thought he'd lost the ability to be embarrassed. The third time she'd gone in three years.

When Maud proposed to him, he didn't imagine that she'd be unhappy – the whole situation was her idea after all. But she kept leaving and for longer and longer. The first time for two months, the second for four and this time, it had been nearly six. One day he'd come back from court to an empty house and a note asking him to vacate for a while because she 'needed time to herself' or variations on the theme.

They bought the London flat two weeks before she left him for the first time. The note suggested he go there. It occurred to him during their second separation that was the reason they'd bought it. She'd pushed for it – a central London investment property – but then let him choose what they bought and delayed renting it out to anyone.

"Yes, well, we're still married and she's shown no signs of wanting to end it permanently."

"Other than leaving you three times?" He bounced off the chaise and took great strides across the room, warming up for an argument - Anthony knew the signs, "anyway, sod her, what about you? You don't honestly want her back?"

The complexity of that question made Anthony's stomach twist in several different directions which did not make a happy resting place for the whiskey. He mentally charted the distance to the nearest rubbish bin.

His answer was pathetic and it sounded pathetic, "she's my wife."

"Well, that answer is absolute bollocks."

Anthony sounded a warning, "Len."

"And Edith?"

The weight of the glass was heavy in Anthony's hand and it took all his fortitude not to hurl it at the wall or the fireplace or Len's head, "for the last time, there is nothing going on between Edith and I."

Regarding his former student for a moment the Professor sucked in a breath, "Ah – I am mistaken. You're the cat that wants the cream." He smacked his lips together and clucked at the back of his throat, "So, no sex?"

"None. And your cat metaphor is unhelpful and inaccurate. I do not have or want the cream." Len chuckled and Anthony scowled, "Nothing has happened. Nothing is going on."

He scoffed the words back to him, "nothing going on." Len took the glass from Anthony's hand as if he knew the threat it posed and looked him dead in the eye, "I would say that for an extraordinary clever man, you are exceedingly stupid. You are, in fact, in relation to things like this - Maud is a case in bloody point, but I don't think even you are that stupid – in fact, I know you're not."

Len was, as ever, right. Anthony had spent the day with Edith and it was wonderful. He was excited yesterday waiting for the day to come and the excitement grew again at the prospect of seeing her again after he'd finished with Len. He'd bought art supplies and cooked for her – baked, no less, something he hadn't done in the better part of fifteen years. She'd gone into two handmade jewelry shops on the walk to John's and he'd gone in with her. He'd cooed over earrings and necklaces and imagined her wearing them. Them, and nothing else at all, just glints of silver on cream skin.

Something was going on, of course it was.

Ignoring his lurching stomach he tried to bat the conclusion away. This was all so juvenile. He was married and a judge. There was no need to think about this. It was moot anyway. Edith had said it – they were friends. He could have a friend. She wouldn't want anything more – he didn't need anything more.

"Len, can we talk about something else? You and Jane – why did she leave you?"

It was easy to push Len off the thorny topic of Anthony's life and onto his own. It poured out of him – the sad tale of how he lost the only woman he'd ever loved.

Anthony listened, although he didn't hear. His whole concentration was tied up with not thinking about Edith.