Watching his hands move on the piano is hypnotising. There's no other word for it. They're strong, and certain with each note, but the sound that it makes, the most soft and sad but glorious melody, played in perfect rhythm... I feel as though hours could pass whilst he plays those opening chords; sat here, straddled on his lap at the piano bench, I wouldn't even notice – I wouldn't want to change the moment, not even in the slightest way. Until he starts to sing, and it's like a lullaby. He sings just as he lives: gentle, kind, purposeful, like a lover telling a story.

Some things are too personal,

Too intimate to spill.

And gentlemen don't speak of them,

And this one never will.

He's an effortless gentleman – my gentleman, through and through. In his mannerisms and morals, his smile and his steadfast chivalry. As he sings, letting out each steady and tender note with ease, I feel his changing breath, close to my neck, and goose bumps rise eagerly and my heart beats faster when he sings of those intimate things, and kisses my collarbone. My heart always beats faster around him.

I wasn't very conversational.

Except to say that you're sensational...

"I'll say it a thousand times over," he interjects like a lively lounge pianist, grinning when I kiss his nose, "sensational." He murmurs.

Friends now regard me with indulgent smiles,

But when I start to speak, they run for miles.

I'm the luckiest girl alive, I know it. I feel his eyes on me with every line, and it makes me feel seen. He makes me feel like I deserve to be seen, for everything that I am.

Let me tell you about her...

Hush now, I've said too much...

He's singing just above a whisper. He's not sure if I'm awake still. I am, and he lets out his little low chuckle when I peck his neck to let him know.

There's something indescribable I can't quite catch.

Let me tell you about her.

The way she makes me feel...

His hands are still in position, poised at the piano, but the notes have stopped, and he's gone solo, carrying the tune and holding my gaze.

Then draw a curtain on this scene

I shan't... re-veal

He finishes quietly, almost too quiet to hear, and now the only sound to be heard is the sound of our breathing, uneven but in sync. His lips are an inch away from mine, if that.

"That's beautiful," I whisper.

"You're the muse," he says.

*********************

Eric's piano is black and glossy, and in the living room corner where most people keep their TV. I remember when our lessons first started, and I'd beg him to play something, anything, and he'd 'Evangeline, we've got work to cover' his way out of it. Then Lea would saunter it, the gracious beauty queen, wrap her arms around him, and say something like, "Come on, bubs, I'm sure you have time for one song before you start. How can you say no to that face?" Then she'd nudge me, and I'd pull my best sad kitty face until he gave in and played Vienna by Billy Joel. Slow down, you crazy child, you're so ambitious for a juvenile, but then if you're so smart, then tell me why are you still so afraid?

Even then, in those early days when I hadn't the faintest idea of where I'd be today, I liked to pretend that he was singing to me. And now...

Now if I ask him to play something, he'll look at me with enlivened eyes for a moment or two before playing something beautiful or infectiously fun or brilliantly clever and calling me the muse.

When he finished playing today, pulling me right up against him, with his chest to mine, and calling me the muse, the moment was perfect, is perfect, and yet I can't shake the urge to ask the question I worry will ruin it.

"Eric?"

"Hm?" He's tracing a path between the freckles on my arm like constellations.

"I want to ask... a question." I sit back and let him see my face; let myself see his. He raises one thick eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.

"If it's a shit question or you don't want to answer, tell me, okay?" He laughs and shakes his head, but I mean it, and look him in the eyes until I get my confirmation.

"Okay, Evie. What's the question, my love?"

"Have you ever told anybody about me? About us?" He takes a deep breath, but responds sooner than I expected,

"A few, key people know. People I trust."

My head doesn't know how to feel about it. I don't know what I wanted or expected him to say. My heart, though, likes what it hears. Something about knowing that he's told someone, a few people, makes things feel all the more real. I hadn't doubted that they were, but the childish voice in the back of my head taunts the doubts and sings ha-ha he loves me.

He's laid his head on my chest and I feel his face move into a smile,

"What?" I ask, and I can't help smiling back.

"No, nothing, just... My mum called this morning about my birthday thing next month and was asking if she'd need to make any 'extra arrangements' in case I had a lady friend I'd like to bring, and I just..."

He's laughing about it, shaking his head, and rationally I know he's not suggesting what I think he is, is he? I let out a little laugh too, though it comes out shakier and less nonchalant than I intended, and I think he caught it – shit, of course he did. He's lifting his head slowly, and he's staring at me like I've said something genius. I can see his mind ticking and if he says it, the words I want him to say, I might just faint right here.

"Evie...?" Fuck, my heart is pounding. Is this what a proposal feels like?

"Yeah?"

"Do you... want to come?" Oh my God. I bite my lip before I answer, and I can hardly contain what's bubbling,

"But, Eric, I don't want you to feel like you have to ask me! And I don't want to ruin your family time if it's just family time! And what if-"

"Evie. Evie!" He's giddy when he interrupts my rambling, "love, I'm serious! God, I'm stupid to not have thought of it already, It's just, I suppose I'm so used to keeping everything so hidden away here..." He looks me right in the eyes, holding my waist in both hands, and I couldn't hide the blush if I tried.

"My gorgeous Evie," my God, he's saying it, he's saying it, "there's nothing I want more than to spend my birthday with you. Say yes. Say you'll come."

"But-"

"Say yes, Evie."

"Okay! Yes." I accept, and I hate that I'm giggling but I can't stop. "But I don't even know what I'm saying yes to!"

He grabs both of my thighs, firmly, wrapping them around his torso, and I squeal and hold tight as he stands from the piano bench and sits us both down on the little green sofa.

"I know I haven't been the most open about my family..."

I nod, because he hasn't, but I don't say anything more. I want him to say as little or as much as he feels comfortable saying.

"Evie my family is..." He sighs, like he can't find the words, and starts again, "every year for my birthday, we go away to our place in The Cotswolds."

I gulp as I nod again. I've heard of The Cotswolds, or read about it, rather– Royalty's Holiday Getaway. Eric's family have a place ...there?

"We spend a week or so there, doing inane things like going to the races, and art auctions, and playing polo and poker with people I don't really like and... shit, I'm not selling this very well, am I?"

I laugh and shake my head shyly. From the little he's said, Eric's world is very, very different to mine. I'm not sure how I'd fit in.

"Okay, let me try again. There's a cottage with more rooms than anyone really knows what to do with, and it's got the most beautiful lake that I can take you out on. And, there's our little village just for shopping, with some lovely spots, I hear. And there's a big casino night on the night of my birthday, d'you know how to play poker?"

I shake my head again.

"Alright, I can teach you. And Mum flies in this amazing Japanese chef, you'll love him, and I'm not sure if they'll have Elton over again, God, I hope not, but he's fine sober, so that should be fun, and then th-"

"Eric?"

"Yes, love?" I have a thousand questions – what do you mean take me out on the lake? Is it your shopping village? What do people wear to the races? – but the only one that matters, the one I really want to ask is,

"What about your family?"

He sighs, and I realise that those were the details he was hoping to bury beneath polo and poker.

"My family is... hard to describe, my love. They're not quite as sweet as yours, for a start, heh. Uh, my mother's a little detached, I suppose, from reality. Dad, too, but, uh, he's got something kinder about him. My brother and sister haven't totally lost touch, you might actually like them. It's all a bit clueless, really, I..." He's rubbing his temples now, and, fuck, the last thing I wanted to do was stress him out.

"Eric, I'd love to spend your birthday with you. Wherever we are. Whoever else is there. I can't wait," I grin, hoping my excitement is just a little infectious. He smiles back at me, and kisses my nose lightly,

"You're wonderful, you know that?"

God knows I love this man... but what exactly have I just agreed to?

*********************

It's been less than 1 minute since I left Eric's, but I've already fallen down a rabbit hole googling the Macklins, and holy shit. His father is some kind of financier, and 7th on the list of the richest people in Britain, directly below his grandfather and great-grandfather, the bloody Viscount. I finally have the answer to one of my thousand questions when I find an article tying the Macklins to 300 acres of property across London and 500 across England, including a shopping centre in the Cotswold District. So, it is their shopping village.

His mum seems to come from money too, but not as old as his dad's. She started at her father's 100-year-old law firm, a rising CEO, then married Eric's dad and the fell off the map, until she resurfaced as Mrs. Macklin at Ascot and Wimbledon. It's all so... picture perfect. Every photo is posed to perfection, without a hair out of a place or a wrinkle in sight. Eric understands every word at the opera, and knows which one the pudding spoon is - I knew he came from wealth, but now that I'm looking at a photo of him and his younger brother on the Duchess of Cornwall's lap, I'm suspecting he underplayed his family's status. Jesus... the Macklins are a big deal. I don't know if I'm cut out for all this.

But, God, the idea of waking up next to him; sipping champagne on his birthday eve, kissing him and tasting the sweetness on his lips... Finding out who he is – meeting the people who made him who he is. I'm scared, that's certain, but I'm excited, and as I open the little gate to my house and walk up the pathway, I bite my lip to hide the grin.

"Angie." Mum opens the door before I even knock. Fuck. My grin drops like a kid caught with her hand in the sweetie jar. Was she watching? Did she see me leave Eric's?

"Where've you been? We thought you'd be back by 4." I glance down at my phone – it's 5:13.

"I stopped at Babe's on the way back." I say, without missing a beat. I can't tell what she knows. "Is everything okay?"

"Angie!" Auggie calls out from behind Mum, dissipating the tension. "Walt, she's here! Come on, Ang!" She grabs my hand, and pulls me into the house, past Mum and her suspicious, knitted eyebrows and into the living room. Walt's crouched over in the corner.

"Aug, what the fuck is this?" She's beaming from ear to ear and it's freaking me out.

"You might want to watch your language there, Evangeline," Walt finally stands up, and a Cavalier pup no bigger than a baseball, with floppy brown ears, cocks it head, and blinks with big, shy eyes.

"Say hello to Erys."