Chapter 3

Dawn woke me, so it was fairly late, maybe eight; we were still in the same positions we'd dropped off to sleep in. Sometime during the night as I slept my mind had come to a conclusion. A terrible, terrifying, wonderful conclusion. I was in love with this woman. Her scent, the feel of her body against mine was just right. Whatever she looked like, I knew the essential Bella, and I wanted her. Not for a week, or a month, or three months, or even three years. I knew she was different. The question was ... different enough to put up with me when I'd lost the interest of every girlfriend over the last thirty years? I sighed.

Bella sighed too, and wriggled against me. It felt so good. Andy junior was awake too, poking out of my boxers. She moved up to kiss my cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Then her thigh met Andy junior and her eyes widened. "Oh!" Then, "I'm sorry, Andrew, I've been very unfair to you, haven't I?"

"Worth every minute," I said.

She buried her face in the angle between my neck and shoulder and breathed deeply.

"I love your smell," she said.

I stroked her back, struggling not to move to her front.

"Gotta go," she said; was it resignation in her voice? "Would you like some porridge?"

"Yes please," trying to keep the yearning out of my voice.

I gave her a few minutes before going through to shower myself and dress. By the time I was done she was putting breakfast on the table. I watched her and realised I could see her clearly. But how could I describe her? If I say 'she had a square face' that doesn't convey much. I suppose I could say 'she had a strong jaw', but that would make her ... masculine? Which she wasn't. Her face was lovely; not, perhaps, stunningly beautiful, but a pleasure to behold. A straight nose, captivating eyes, full lips; all framed by a helmet of auburn hair. Green eyes? I wasn't sure. I hadn't realised how small she was; maybe five foot three; her presence was such that she seemed taller. If I say 'not a waif – muscled from an active life and a demanding profession' would that suggest she was ... butch? Because she wasn't that either. Mind you, I wasn't – am not – an unbiased observer.

"Am I seeing the real Bella?" She turned to look at me when I spoke.

"I don't know," she replied seriously, "I can only say I'm not consciously trying to ... project ... a particular image," she frowned, but then a smile lit up her face. "You're the first person," she stopped and fiddled with a loaf of bread on the counter-top, "the first person I haven't felt the need to ... I don't really know what to say. Some people I didn't want to see me as a ... target. Others needed to see me as a competent professional and not be distracted by, um, gender. My father needed to see me as his sweet, innocent daughter who was also his little princess." She put bread in the toaster and came and sat down. Looking in my eyes, she went on, "I don't feel I need to pretend. I feel safe! Heavens, I slept in your arms last night and," she blushed, "I'm still a virgin this morning."

I wasn't sure how I felt about that but any tension between us was defused by the 'clunk' of the toaster and Bella got up again to collect the toast and put it in a toast-rack on the table.

"I need to make a couple of phone calls and then go into March. Will you come with me? It's not very exciting, I'm afraid."

"I'll come with you if you like. I'm sure I can find something to do."

"Good!"

Once she'd made her calls, dressed and so on, and we'd driven the five miles into March (no, it really is a place, not just a month, though I'm not surprised if you've never heard of it) it was mid-morning, so we had a cup of coffee while we waited for her appointment with the solicitor. I ended up at the library, where I'd arranged to meet Bella when she'd finished. When she found me, much later, she was clearly fuming.

"Let's go home," she said through gritted teeth.

It's not often I've encountered someone radiating anger. I was very happy the emotion wasn't directed at me. Over sandwiches, she told me the tale, the essence of which was summed up in her first few words; "That toe-rag is giving me the run-round."

Apparently the original will was made out by an older solicitor, known personally to Zeke, appointing Bella and the solicitor as executors of the will. The original solicitor had retired and his young replacement was claiming some problem with the wording of the will making probate a problem. He said he was unable for some reason to give her a copy of the will.

"When Dad died, his pensions and attendance allowance, which enabled me to give up my job to care for him, came to an end. His money is tied up until I get probate and I have no income." She dissolved into tears.

"So he thinks he's got you over a barrel?" I thought it was fairly obvious the chap was after something, either Bella herself, the value of the estate, or both. "Did you ... influence him about the way you look?"

She looked at me, mouth open. "I didn't think..."

"Perhaps it would be good if I came with you next time ... in leathers," I suggested. "Why not ring and see if you can make an appointment for tomorrow?"

Her expression lightened and something like a smile spread across her face. "I like it!" She stood and left the room; when she returned, some time later, it was with a leather jacket and trousers and a helmet. "These were my mother's," she said soberly, "Dad never got rid of them. The stuff she was wearing when she died was ruined, of course ... The helmet is probably past its use-by date, but it will satisfy the letter of the law..."

"Can you do 'biker chick'?" I raised an eyebrow in query.

She seemed to blur momentarily, then ... without altering her basic features, became ... older? Harder? Her face seemed weathered, lined. How did she do that?

"Perfect!"

She smiled, a hawkish, predatory smile. I would not have thought it of her.

The hospital bed was collected half-way through the afternoon. Unsurprisingly, its removal left a prominent space, but it wasn't just the physical space. I helped Bella shift furniture around; chairs that had been squeezed into the bedrooms, a coffee-table from the loft. It helped, but I wondered if the ... sense of absence ... would fade with time.

Bella cooked; steak and mushroom pie, roast potatoes, parsnip, carrot and cabbage.

"This is really good," I paused to savour a mouthful. "I'm not keen on food that's more style than substance."

Her face lit with pleasure at the praise. "Dad felt the same," then, as a shadow passed over her expression, "but at the end, he..." she trailed off. Then, pasting a determined smile on her face, "sorry, I don't want to unload my problems onto you."

"Bella," I reached out to touch her hand, "I hardly knew your father, but from what I saw, we could have been friends. I think he must have been a very special person. You're his daughter. There'd be something wrong if his passing didn't affect you."

She turned her hand over and grasped mine, squeezing. She had quite a grip and I winced. I watched the tears rolling down her cheeks before standing, drawing her away from the table and into the lounge. There was a small two-place sofa and I sat, intending that she'd sit next to me, but she folded herself into my lap, rested her head against my chest, and sobbed. I just held her, trying to puzzle out my feelings. I was torn; Bella was obviously distressed by losing her father, yet I didn't want the moment to end. Should I really find pleasure as a result of another's unhappiness? Perhaps pleasure was the wrong word, though. I wondered what the right word was. In the end, I could only decide that holding her close as I was ... felt ... right. I wasn't happy because she was unhappy, I was content because she was in my arms. I'd only known her a few days, but I loved her already.