Forty

Dearest reader

I hope you are well. This is a very long, very slow, slow-burn. (If you aren't in the mood for that, try this list of stories.) It will take a long time to get to any sexy stuff and, when you get there, it won't necessarily be the kind of sexy stuff you were expecting, especially if you've read my other work.

It's also my love letter to local radio and the Bristol music scene circa 2003-2008. I have taken lots of liberties with both. This is not an especially accurate representation of either. There's a link to a playlist of as much of the music as I could find on my profile.

For context and back story, you might want to read I have seen love, I have touched love and I have made love, but that's entirely optional. This will stand alone.

There is also a companion piece to this, Twenty, told from Poppy's point of view that covers much of the same time frame.

Happy reading.

Love t x

_______________________________

With Her Wheels, April 2005

"Well, er, it's basically like Trish said really. We was working together, the two of us like, at Kwikfit and customers, ladies 'specially, was asking us to do more than what we usually did there. More complex stuff than tyre changes and whatnot. So we 'ad this ideal of setting up on our own. Then Nicci found this place for us, an', er, decided she wanted a change, didn't you Nic?"

Leigh looks over my recorder to Nicci, who nods in agreement. I keep the inviting smile on my face, but inwardly wince. That kind of natural exchange, where non-verbals are crucial, will absolutely not work on the radio, sadly. Hopefully, I'll be able to edit out the question.

"An' actually we never meant to be, like, all women or nofin', it just turned out that way basically."

"It must be a lot politer around here, just women working, right?" I ask.

That got a laugh from all three of them.

"Oh no," breaks in Trish, "me and Leigh can curse a right blue streak an' all, especially when we bugger summat up."

Again, I despair inside. I can't use "bugger". While Leigh and Nicci concur, I mentally weigh up asking Trish to say that again, and switch "mess" for "bugger", but decide it'll make them all too self-conscious. I might be able to cut it out anyway.

The conversation carries on as they talk eagerly about their successful first three years as a women-centric garage. They have relaxed now, no longer really conscious of the microphone, just chatting easily in their office as they might at the end of a day, I suppose. This is going to make a great feature, exactly the kind of piece I love making: a good news success story, the antithesis of the usual doom and gloom of radio bulletins. Trish and Leigh speak in a beautiful Bristol burr, soft and littered with lilting els; Nicci, more elegant, more feminine, is slightly posher, as befits her front-of-house role and past experience as an estate agent. Her voice will be distinct for listeners, but it will be hard to tell the two mechanics apart. I'll need to record brief captions to distinguish them.

"Did you say there were three mechanics here?" I ask during a lull in the chat.

"Oh yeah, Ram been with us for a year now?" Trish side-eyes Nicci at this, who nods to confirm. "She's our sparky. These modern cars, with their computers an' all, not somefing I trained to deal wiv - did you Leigh?"

"Nah." Leigh crosses her arms over her ample chest and leans back in her chair. "I can 'andle ignition issues an' lights an' stuff like that, but basically Ram's the girl for the complex wiring jobs on these modern models."

"She's also the one who runs the course with the local college, for teens," Nicci leans into the microphone, her initial aversion to it long gone. "We do a basic vehicle maintenance course for girls, and in September we're taking on two young ladies as formal apprentices."

"That sounds wonderful!" I gush. "Can we get her in? Is that okay with you?" I wondered if the reason she wasn't here was because the three partners didn't want anyone else in the limelight.

There's an embarrassed silence, as the three shoot looks at each other.

"Well..." Leigh starts.

Nicci is quickly on her feet. "She might talk to you," she says, "let me go and ask her. Now we've met you and we can put in a good word for you. Just... hang on." With that enigmatic utterance she leaves the office. Through the glass partition she walks across the small workspace - they've only really got space for three cars to be worked on at once - and disappears behind a campervan. My curiosity is well and truly piqued. I look at Leigh willing her to go on.

"Basically, Ram don't like the media." She pronounces it more like "me de ya". "But, y'know, you seem sound to me... Nicci'llput in a good word for ya, don't worry."

Oh okay. So it wasn't a case of them not wanting this Ram to talk to me, but the other way around.

"Why not?" I ask, deeply intrigued. I can't imagine why a mechanic would dislike the media.

Leigh and Trish shift uncomfortably, clearing their throats and looking anywhere but at me. I know that they aren't related, but dressed in their blue, oil-stained overalls, with their dark, close-cropped hair, stocky, powerful-looking bodies, they could be sisters. And like sisters, they seem to have closed ranks.

"Lemme just..." Trish jerks her head towards the door Nicci left by, then stands and leaves.

"Er..." Leigh stands up hastily, "jus' gotta go to the loo."

Suddenly, I'm by myself in the office. I flick back to the beginning of the track on the mini-disc recorder, slip my headphones on; might as well double check the quality. Yep, levels are good, but as I suspected, telling the difference between Leigh and Trish's voices is going to be hard.

Pulling them off, I hear Nicci's voice, cajoling and calming, coming back over the forecourt, accompanied by the click of her heels and the steadier thump of a pair of boots.

I put on my softest smile, and try not to look intimidating, which isn't hard given I'm barely five foot and I'm sitting down.

The woman who walks in behind Nicci radiates resentment. She's also stunning, but is desperately trying to distract from it. Her head is shaved up the sides, with short, spiky dreadlocks on top, bars through her eyebrows, a big septum ring, and a vast array of metal in her ears. But none of these can distract from the gorgeousness of her dark skin, which glows, now with anger, her sharp cheekbones, or her dark eyes, which glower at me.

"Hi," I say brightly, "I'm Liz Bradford. Thanks so much for agreeing to talk to me." I stretch out my hand.

She seems to almost sneer in distaste, but then, grudgingly, gives me a firm if brief shake. She doesn't introduce herself.

I get the sense that this woman will not want to talk about herself. Everything about her posture and dress - collar turned up over a tight neck-scarf, sleeves rolled all the way down and buttoned up, huge DMs with the steel toes poking through the worn leather - scream her discomfort. I pick my words carefully.

"I was wondering if you could tell me something about what the girls do on the courses?"

There's a miniscule drop in the height of her shoulders. "Yeah, sure. Well, we start with the basics: how to check the oil, the water, the tyre pressure." Her voice is not what I was expecting at all. There is no trace of the Brizzle burr, rather RP, but flatter, betraying nothing of who she is or where she comes from. There's an almost musical, sing-song rhythm to it which I can't place at all. "Then the most common issues: how to deal with a flat battery, so we teach the participants how to jump start a car, and also how to change a wheel. We'll also cover road safety; how to behave if you break down and so on. If I get a really keen group, I'll also show them how to check and change brake pads." She's fluent and confident: I imagine she must make a great instructor, young girls instantly feeling at ease with her.

"And how do the participants take to it?"

"There's a lot of trepidation and nervousness at first - they are young women, so they've not often had the opportunity to look under the bonnet of a car before. There's a lot of learned helplessness to combat initially. Jump-starting a car is what I find gives them a lot of confidence. That moment of them realising that they have the power within them to fix a problem always brings a smile to their faces. It helps that it's a team effort too - helps with the bonding."

I nod encouragingly, hoping she'll go on. The contrast of her voice with Trish and Leigh's, and even Nicci's, is striking. It'll sound great on the feature. I am more and more intrigued by this woman Ram: her vocabulary screams University-level education, so what is she doing here?

"Whose idea was it to start these?"

"Mine."

I pause, hoping she'll say more. She doesn't.

"And I understand that you're offering apprenticeships this year. How long will it take for those young women to complete them?"

And she's off, talking about City & Guilds qualifications, schedules, release days, potential timescales. It seems that if she is not the focus of the question, she is more than willing to elaborate on her answers.

I try again. "You're incredibly well informed: did it take a lot to learn all of this?"

"No."

Bollocks.

I try to switch back to neutral topics. "What are some of the challenges that the new apprentices are likely to face with today's cars?"

"Well, it'll be interesting to see what impact hybrids have: they are so new to the market that most drivers will have service agreements with dealers, but we are starting to see a few. So, no doubt those young people we start training this year will deal with them at some point in the future. I also really hope that electric cars will soon become commercially viable. The challenge with them will be that there is less for us to do with them from a mechanical perspective, so it will all be down to our ability to service the electrical components and onboard computers: that will require a whole new set of skills for the future generation of mechanics."

From what Trish and Leigh said, this is Ram's area of expertise (and, from the sounds of it, enthusiasm). Not wanting to risk her shutting down again, I decide to ask more impersonal questions.

"Does With Her Wheels have the expertise to offer such guidance?"

"I'd like to think so," she says.

Inwardly I cross my fingers, and outwardly I smile and nod encouragingly. I've been told my smile is my best feature. The benefits of a wide mouth and good teeth.

"I mean, we go on courses whenever we can and keep up to date with the latest publications."

I'd be willing to bet that when she says "we" here she means "I", but I don't interrupt.

"We've built up a reputation locally, I think, for being a garage that can handle more complex electronic problems, so it would be great to continue to build on that. Certainly, when it comes to the apprenticeships, we've ensured that there is a focus on that area."

Okay, that'll do. I've got enough. I make a show of clicking off the microphone. "Thanks so much Ram! You were great. A natural even." I'm not even lying; she was really fluent and clear, no mumbling at all.

However, my praise just brings a frown from her. "Good? Great. Good luck with the piece." And at that, she strides off.

I try to inwardly shrug to myself as she marches across the forecourt. Not the first reluctant interviewee I've had, and almost certainly won't be the last. But it never feels good to make somebody uncomfortable. I hate it, in fact.

I bite my lip and breathe in deeply. This has been a good day on the whole, and the finished piece will be positive and uplifting.

But still.

Ashton Court Mansion

My skin starts to experience that tell-tale tingle, the warm buzz building inside. I flash a smile to Paula beside me as her hand trails down my arm, making me shiver deliciously. She's feeling it too.

I return the favour, stepping in close to trail my fingernails up the nape of her neck. She sighs, then turns towards me, lightly massaging my scalp with one hand, while the other traces circles near my elbow.

We're coming up.

My bestie and I rock slowly from side to side, face to face, enjoying the slow rush of the half we dropped twenty minutes ago over the gentle pulse of the trance music.

I don't know how long we stay swaying softly, before a blare of horns brings us from our reverie.

Blinking, I step sideways, as our hands drop away from each other. On stage, the eight piece party band named Babyhead, whom our friends Steve and Carol have booked for their wedding-slash-leaving party, have taken the stage.

As the music pumps up, my blood gets going, the drug starts working, especially when Paula offers me a bottle of water and the other half an E.

It's a great night.

Later, as Rick and I snuggle up, waiting for our pre-booked taxi, I see the band loading out. It's not just their amps and kit: it looks like they brought the entire PA with them. As they stack it into a long wheel-base van, I realise one of the crew seems familiar. Her name is on the tip of my tongue, when the taxi appears and the moment is past.

June 2005 - Redland

I'm doing a final check around the house, making sure that the windows are all closed, lights are off, and so on, when Rick comes back in.

"Van won't start."

"What?"

"The van won't start."

"Shit," I groan. "Do you think it's the battery?"

"Hopefully." He grabs the keys to the Honda. "I'll try and jump start it. If you're done here, come and give me a hand."

Glumly, I stick on my coat and follow him out.

Twenty minutes later, it's clear that whatever it is won't be fixed by jump leads.

"Bollocks." Rick looks at me sheepishly. It was his job to sort the van; I'd blagged him his ticket. "I guess we're in the tent."

I sigh. I'd been so looking forward to Glastonbury in the van. I'd managed to get a site vehicle pass so that we could actually drive in and camp backstage at the festival radio. They were like gold dust. I didn't fancy getting the Honda onsite - or rather trying to get it offsite through the inevitable mud. The T4 was at least four wheel drive. So we'd need to park in the carpark then trudge in with everything. Might mean multiple trips, unless we could beg for a ride from the radio quad and trailer.

"Oh, hang on!" I say, digging out my Nokia. "I'll try With Her Wheels."

Nicci is on it like Gromit. "Liz, for you, lover, we'll do a house call. We've had so much interest since that story you did, we're thinking of taking on another mechanic. What's the issue?"

"Not starting at all. We've tried a jump start, but it hasn't worked. It was fine last week, but we haven't used it since."

"Okay. I'll get Ram out to you."

"Great! Thanks so much!" Hmmmm, should be interesting!

Rick's a bit sceptical. "What if we get it going, but then it won't start once we want to come back?"

"The site will be full of engineers, and at worst, we'll call the RAC. We've both booked Monday off. It'll be fine."

Ram turns up shortly, wrapped up warm.

"Hey, Liz right?" She actually smiles at me.

"Hey Ram, thanks so much for coming, we really appreciate it." My smile is totally genuine. "This is Rick."

"Hiya, thanks so much."

"No problem." Ram shakes his hand firmly, then sticks her head straight into the engine. "Can you try turning her over for me?"

Rick jumps into the driver's seat and tries to start.

"Hmmm. Okay, leave it a minute." Ram pulls something - a voltmeter maybe, but what do I know? - out from her tool belt and starts measuring things. Then she goes and rummages in the boot of her car.

"Could be the solenoid," she says, "often is with T4s. Good vehicle though. Luckily, we had some in stock so I brought them. Let's try swapping a new one in."

She starts taking things out and makes easy conversation about the car.

"So you didn't fancy a splitty then?"

"Pshh!!" I exhale. "We'd love one, but we'd never afford it. Besides, I don't think we'd get one through the Glastonbury mud. There's a reason we went for a four wheel drive model."

"Oh, you're off to the festival are you? But I didn't think it started until Thursday?"

"Friday, actually, but gates open to the public tomorrow. We're on the crew at the festival radio, so we can get in earlier. That's why this means a lot, you coming out now."

"Ah, it's okay. Nice to be out. Kind of jealous of you being off to the festival."

"Have you ever been?"

"No. I tried to get tickets but no joy. One day. The line up this year looks great."

"Yeah? Who would you like to see?"

I don't know who I expect her to name - The White Stripes? M. I. A. maybe? - but I'm surprised by the list of names - Babel, Bucky, Big Joan, North Sea Navigator, The Dirty Whites, Whalebone Polly - whom I've never heard of. I say as much.

"Oh they're all local bands." Her voice sounds strained as she says this, her arms working to tighten something. "They are on the small stages, I think. I mean, I've seen them all before But I'd love to go and support."

My reaction is to feel both stunned and sheepish: I'm a local journalist and I've never heard of these bands. Okay, so music isn't my beat, and BBC Bristol rarely plays anything cutting edge, but still. When I think of the local scene, maybe Massive Attack, Portishead and Roni Size are who come to mind. I silently berate myself.

"Oh! Do you think any of them would be up for coming on the festival radio for a live session?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "Here, Rick, try now."

He turns the key and the van splutters into life.

"Oh thank you." I offer a high five. She pauses a beat, but doesn't leave me hanging. "What do we owe you?" I've plenty of cash on me, ready for the festival.

"Nah, don't worry about it. Nicci would have my hide if she knew I'd charged you. The part doesn't cost much anyway."

I debate just stuffing a few twenties in her pocket, but decide it's not worth offending her. I'll get something delivered to the garage as a thank you.

"Aw, thanks Ram, you didn't need to do that."

"Yeah, thanks a million," Rick adds, coming round, as she closes up the hatch.

"Just doing my job!"

"Listen, how well do you know those bands?"

"Um, well pretty well with some of them."

"If I gave you my number, could you pass it on to some of them? If they are interested in a live session, they should give me a call. It's pretty low fi, but should be fun."

"Yeah, okay."

She takes my number and we offer more thank yous, before waving goodbye and heading off to Pilton.

One year later, June 2006 - The Junction

The noise coming from the pub sounds raw and grating. Woody and I smile at each other, then start to stuff our earplugs in. The bass is shaking my ribs.

Pulling open the door, I'm immediately struck by a fug of sweat, smoke and heat. A pile of pogoing bodies fills the small space between the stage and the bar. A woman stalks the raised platform, growling into a telephone while a drum and bass beat propels the guitarist along at screaming speed.

I'm mesmerised.

A tap on the shoulder brings me to myself. I hold up two fingers to the long-haired beardy bloke next to the table displaying handmade CDs. He accepts a tenner from me and stamps our proffered hands.

As we shuffle bar-wards, the song comes to an end. Surprising myself, I join in the scream of approbation.

Woody leans over the bar to yell an order, as the band launch into another number almost straight away, the bassist scraping the strings in a way that sounds like steel on concrete.

"I'm your friend, I can help you..." The singer snarls, yet nothing about her lines sound reassuring.

This is nothing like what I'd normally listen to, but I find myself captivated. It's the energy, the drive, the passion. Like everyone else, I'm flexing at the waist, bouncing on the soles of my feet, though in my case this is to try to see over the mostly male crowd.

Woody passes me a bottle of Thatchers, and I take a grateful swig. He's already got the microphone out to record.

This is perfect.

About a week ago, I was passed an email from Huw Stephens' producer over at Radio 1, wanting a piece on the local music scene. I jumped on it and recruited my festival radio pal Woody to help me out. With Glastonbury having a fallow year, I knew he'd be bored and at a loose end. We'd looked through the gig listings in Venue, and had spent most of the weeks out at gigs. So far we'd been entranced by Whalebone Polly, charmed by Jane Taylor and stunned by SJ Esau. Seeing as they all have a more mellow mood, we figured we owed it to listeners to explore the grittier side of the scene. We'd gone along to a hip hop set last night to check out local crew Se Fire, and they'd given us some leads and recommendations. But Woody wanted something heavier, something with riffs. So when we spotted an all day noisefest at The Junction it seemed like a good shout. And I reckon our instinct has paid off.

The song - and sadly the set comes to a close - to raucous applause. Somebody (I can't see who over all the raised arms and a giant with a ginger afro) jumps on stage and yells, "Give it up for Big Joan!", which turns the volume back up to eleven.

"We'll be back in ten. If you haven't bought their amazing album yet, come grab it from the merch stall by the door."

I'm pretty tempted actually. Maybe later. Right now, Woody and I need to get to work.

"Come on," I say to him - the volume having dropped sufficiently that we don't need to yell at each other, "let's go see if we can speak to whoever that compere was."

The crowd has thinned, as people pile out the back or head to the merch stall, and we ease our way through, my smile seemingly enough to part a passage for us. The crowd is mainly male, mainly young, very white and very, very hairy.

Which is why I'm very surprised to find a short-haired black woman with a massive tattoo of interlinking female venus symbols on the side of her neck. Her bright, rainbow coloured waistcoat is a striking contrast to the leather and denim of the crowd milling about.

"It's you!" Woody and I both shout at her, then look at each other in surprise. Neither of us knew that the other knew Ram.

"Hey!" she says, "What's up Woody!" They clasp hands in front, then do a half-hug. She then turns to me, slightly puzzled. The gears are clearly turning - she recognises me, but can't place me out of context.

"Liz, from BBC Bristol. You also fixed my campervan."

"Of course! Hi, how are you?"

"I'm great, thanks. How do you two know each other?"

"Oh," shouts Woody, "I'm the one who takes the students over to Ram's garage for courses."

"Yep," says Ram, "the students love it when you act all clueless!"

Makes sense I think to myself: Woody's a learning support mentor at a local school. They start chatting about work, but that's not what we're here for. So as soon as I can without being downright rude, I interrupt.

"Loved that band!" I say, "What are they called? Are they local?"

"Yeah. Big Joan. They're awesome. Yeah, they are pretty local. Well, the boys are. Annette's German though. They could easily have headlined as they've a pretty strong following, but they agreed to play early to help get people in for the less well known bands. The next duo have only played live twice. Excuse me, actually, I need to get back."

She gestures behind her: Big Joan have packed up and two guys are starting to load their gear on, including what looks like the metal cylinder from a washing machine and a Fisher Price toy.

"Oh, are you helping out?"

She smirks at me. "I'm the engineer and co-promoter!"

With that she climbs up and starts showing the newcomers where to plug in.

Not wanting to be in the way, we pull back. We chat to the guy on the door, who isn't very forthcoming and keeps telling us to "talk to Ram". Members of Big Joan are more loquacious and more than willing to recommend a bunch of bands and entreat us to stick around.

Then Ram comes on the mic. "Right, Bristol, get back here! You're in for a treat. Playing only their third gig but already sounding like pros, please make some noise for.... Fuck Buttons!"

Woody and I immediately burst out laughing, which is thankfully masked by the cheers of the crowd. With a name like that we'd never be able to include them in the radio piece. They'll never find an audience with that moniker.

After five minutes of fuzzy, distorted noise, I decide I wouldn't particularly want to anyway. Though, sometimes, there's the edge of a melody under there that just might hook me in before it squeals away, drowned in decay.

After another ten minutes, Woody and I decide to duck out and grab some food at the Carribean take away opposite.

When we get back, some heavy rocking riffs are ringing out and a mini-mosh pit has formed in front of the stage. Three very hairy blokes are bent over their instruments, while a short haired guy mans the microphone.

"Hell yeah!" Woody approves and dives in.

I find a free stool and observe. From here, and now I know to look for her, I can make out Ram by the sound desk. She's clearly into the tunes, from the way her head is moving, while a frown occasionally crosses her face as hints of feedback threaten to dominate, though she quickly snuffs those frequencies out.

After Gonga finish their set, and between bands, we mingle, interviewing musicians and audience members. Again and again the phrase "talk to Ram" gets repeated; she is clearly well-respected and well-known in the local scene.

A band from Exeter called An Emergency play, fast and frantic, then a woman called Emily Breeze, snarling over growling guitars. Rocktastic. She's local too, so we snag an interview.

By now, after several ciders, I'm starting to feel a bit half-cut and wonder whether we shouldn't call it a night.

But I still really want to speak to Ram. It's what everyone has told us to do. That's if we can persuade her too.

Then this fat disco drum beat hits.

You know your boyfriend's got a big dick!

Your fucking boyfriend's got a big fucking dick!

So much for trying not to be afraid of it!

The bass bangs in, demanding, infectious, and I can't stop myself squishing, squeezing and forcing my way to the front. Slightly numbed by alcohol, I am immune to the elbows and find myself pogoing up and down next to the giant with the ginger afro. The four sweaty, shirtless men on stage hold my attention effortlessly for the next half an hour. They are captivating, full of raw, angry energy. I shuck my jacket and chuck it on a pile on the front of the stage and shake myself like a cocktail. Soon, I'm shouting along with the rest of the crowd:

Are you resisting arrest? Are you resisting arrest? Are you resisting arrest?

I can't quite understand what's got into me. I love to dance, but usually to house or techno. When I've gone to gigs before, it's usually been to see acoustic artists or sing-songwriter types. This kind of aggressive punk has never previously appealed to me.

All too soon, for me at least, it's over.

Then Ram is up on stage, so close to me I could almost touch her. She grins at me briefly. I must look a sweaty mess; not my best.

"Give up for three hos, two mexicans and a tin of spanners!" she yells.

Even as I clap and cheer the band, I'm groaning inwardly. What is it with these bands and their radio unfriendly names? Do none of them want any exposure?

"A big thanks to Bob and the Junction for having us! We'll be back in a month or so. Add your name to the mailing list by the door if you want a reminder. Or find us on myspace: Ear Worms Music. Make some noise for all the bands one last time!"

Another huge cheer from the hundred and fifty or so people crammed in here. I clap, but don't yell. As my voice is my livelihood, I really can't risk straining it.

I try to catch Ram's eye afterwards, but she grabs her drink and heads out the back. I grab my jacket and follow her.

There's a small beer garden out the back, full of smokers. She high fives a few.

"Hey Ram!" I call.

She doesn't seem to hear, but keeps walking.

"Ram!"

She turns around.

"Oh, hey!" She stands her bottle on a table and pulls out a baggy from a pocket, before starting to skin up.

"That was an epic gig. Did you organise it all?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"How often do you do shows?"

"As a promoter? Once a month or so. It depends. Sometimes an out-of-town band gets in touch wanting a gig as part of a tour, and if I like the stuff they have on myspace I might put something else on."

She pauses to lick along the edge of the paper, sealing the joint.

"Cool! How did you get into it?"

"By accident really. I've been doing sound at a couple of venues for a while now and people in the crowd keep asking me how to get gigs and shoving demo CDs in my hands. Heard a few I liked, so decided to put on some shows myself, getting bands with a bit of a following to headline and the new bands in the support slots." She sparks up and takes a drag. "Stevie - the bloke on the door - was a real regular who I roped into helping out with admissions so I'm free to do sound and compere. It's fun."

She offers me the joint, which I accept, though I only take a couple of puffs before handing it back. It's very mild stuff, thankfully.

"What you got coming up?"

She takes another drag. "There's a surf band from Manchester called The V. Cs coming down as part of a tour in a few weeks. I'll put them on at the Croft: more space, plus I do the sound there a lot so they cut me a deal." She offers me the joint again and I take another hit, brushing her fingers as I do. "Much more poppy than the bands tonight. But You and the Atom Bomb have agreed to play as have Safetyword, so it'll be epic."

I hand back the joint.

"How do they know to get in touch with you?"

She shrugs, breathing out a thin plume of smoke. "Word of mouth. Myspace. Internet chatrooms. I go on a few to plug the gigs - Drowned in Sound, Plan B - so I guess people see us there. But I only put on bands I like. I'm not doing it for the money."

She takes a final drag, then stubs out the roach.

I decide to take the plunge. "I'm doing a piece for Radio 1 - Huw Stephens' show - on the Bristol music scene. Could I grab a few words from you?"

"Mmmmm. Why? I'm just a promoter."

"Don't do yourself down. Besides, that makes you kind of neutral: you can big up the bands you like, whereas if it comes from the bands themselves it sounds a bit fake."

"Hmmm. I'm not so sure."

"Pretty please. You sounded so good on the last piece. You've a great voice for radio!"

"Something wrong with my face?" She scowls.

"What! No, I just meant that-"

"It's okay," she waves her hand at me and half-laughs. "I'm just messing with you."

"Phew!"

"Okay, alright, I'll do it. Here?"

"Yeah... just let me go and grab Woody. Don't leave, please?"

She picks up her drink and takes a swig.

"Don't be long."

I'm in a slight panic as I locate Woody and drag him back with me to the garden. Thankfully Ram is still there, now chatting to some of the musicians. I'm torn between butting in, and waiting patiently, not wanting to spook her, or for the moment to pass, but luckily she sees us hovering.

"I'll come and help you load out in a sec guys," she says, then wanders over.

I decide to just launch straight in.

"So, which are the Bristol bands to look out for right now?"

"Well, probably the bands with the biggest buzz about them right now are Gravenhurst, who have signed to Warp Records, and Rose Kemp, who just signed to One Little Indian. She's recording her second album right now down in Toybox. SJ Esau has got an album coming out with Anticon and he's amazing. Rumour has it Fortune Drive are close to a deal, which would be well deserved as they are really rocking. But there is so much talent out there - The Liftmen, Caroline Martin, Babel, Countryside, Team Brick, The Naturals - I could go on and on, really."

"What about promoters?"

"There's a really strong Do-It-Yourself aesthetic here in Bristol, with lots of people getting together to put on shows, from the Choke Collective, to Local Kid, Tin Hut or Fact Fans. Some will put on regular shows, others pop up, often in cool places - the crypt of a church, a book shop basement, a scout hut, a skate park. The Bristol crowd are really open to new things and new arrangements."

I have such a strong sense of deja vu and can't work out why, before it dawns on me, again, what a natural she is. She's speaking so clearly, with no hesitations, false starts, repairing or repetitions most people put into their speech. She's even answering in full sentences, so I can edit out my questions.

She's perfect.

A couple more questions - during which she gives me loads more leads to follow up if I need more - and we're done.

Woody shakes her hand, and then it's my turn, and on impulse I stretch up to try to plant a kiss on her cheek as I take her hand, but she flinches away from me.

Ooops, clearly overstepping.

"Thanks lover! You were brilliant!" I grin up at her, trying to pretend that nothing happened, and then we're gone.

The Croft

I'm dripping with sweat. The bands have been fantastic and I've danced my little butt off. The mainly male crowd was happy to give me space by the front, especially as I was here on my own. I tried to get Rick to come, but he cried off, as did everyone else I asked. That's the problem with your 30s - everyone has kids now and doesn't want to do anything midweek.

I barely got to see Ram either. It's a small venue, but she was behind the sound desk all night.

"Thanks lover!" I yell to her, grabbing my jacket. She'd stuck it behind the sound desk for me: "Won't get covered in beer that way."

"Are you off?"

"Yeah, I'd better. Not in until 10 tomorrow, but I want to get a run in first." I lost a load of weight two years ago, and I've been keen not to put it back on. "I'll grab a taxi."

"Hang on, I'll come out with you."

I'm glad she does. Stokes Croft at this time of night is more than a little sketchy. The drunks of Turbo Island are in good voice, and we both get leered at by some geezer heading into the massage parlour three doors down. Charming.

"How are you getting back?" I ask.

She pulls out her baccy and starts skinning up. "The band are crashing with me tonight before they head down to Exeter tomorrow. I'll ride back with them in their van. If you want to wait we could drop you?"

"Thanks sweet but... TAXI!" I yell as one comes up. "Great gig Ram! See you soon."

She watches and waves as we drive off.

The Folk House

"You alright lover?"

"Ram!" I exclaim. "How are you?"

"I'm great, thanks. Are you here on your own?"

"Yes. I asked Rick if he wanted to come, but he wasn't keen."

We're in the short queue for a Fact Fans show. The Cedar, Caroline Martin and David Thomas Broughton.

"Are you doing the sound tonight?"

"No, they've in-house here. Rich is good. No, I'm coming along to listen and support. I love Caroline's music and I've heard great things about The Cedar and David Thomas Broughton so... How about you? Are you working?"

"No, no, no. Purely pleasure tonight. Partly your fault."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you were so passionate in that interview that it sort of spurred me to start checking out live music more. This is like the ninth gig I've been to since."

She nods at me with approval, her lips pursed together. She's looking the most feminine I've seen her, for all she's in jeans and sleeveless vest, but she's wearing pretty green eyeliner and touches of glitter. Her earrings and piercings sparkle.

"Want to get a table together?" I offer. "Or are you meeting people?"

"I was meant to be. But she's just cancelled on me. So, yeah that would be great."

"Well, you grab us a table," I say as we enter, "I'll get the drinks. What can I buy you?"

"You don't need to do that Liz."

"No, please let me, I feel like I owe you."

"Rubbish, " she says, "you sent us that huge hamper after I fixed your van."

"No, not for the van." I rest my hand on her arm and she pulls back immediately. I'm momentarily thrown, but fall back on all my broadcasting experience and recover. "I mean how brilliant an interviewee you've been. I insist. What can I get you?"

"Okay, thanks. A bottled cider. But ask them to leave the top on. I'll open it."

Slightly puzzled, I frown. "Okay."

I buy the drinks then head down. She's grabbed us a table by the front. Good seats.

"So, Liz, where are you from?"

"Well, London - Ealing to be precise - originally, but then my parents decided to up sticks and move my brother and me out to Pembrokeshire when I was little. They'd had enough of the city and my brother had asthma problems: they thought the countryside might be better for him. They ran a Bed and Breakfast there."

"Ran? Are they-" She leaves her question hanging.

"No, it's okay. They are still with us. They retired and moved to Spain about eight years ago. My brother Simon runs the B&B and a campsite there now, along with his wife Myfanwy - isn't that such a great name? - and my three niblings."

"What?"

"Niblings? Nieces and nephews!"

"Oh, right. Do you speak Welsh?"

"-ish... I mean, enough to be polite. Or very rude. But not really. They weren't pushing it then like they are now, and Pembrokeshire was full of English hippies when we arrived: nobody spoke it. I can say Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch though."

"Is that that town with the really long name?"

"Exactly!"

I'm about to ask her about herself, but then I realise that the reason she's peppering me with questions might be so she doesn't have to talk about herself. Anyway, she's quickly in with the next question.

"Yeah, because you really don't sound Welsh."

"Well, I'm not, bach. Though I do lapse into it back in the Haven now in a minute, look you." My exaggerated accent brings first surprise then a smile from her. "But, I've travelled around a fair bit for Uni and then work. That tends to rub away accents."

"Where did you study then?"

"Warwick: I really wanted to be on a campus University and they had a really good ranking. I loved it, but it wasn't the kind of place to hang around after graduation. So I went home and managed to get myself a job at the Western Telegraph. There was this government scheme sponsoring paid work experience and I was really lucky to get my start there. Then I went into Radio but not really speaking Welsh meant moving to England. Eventually, I managed to get work at the BBC and ended up here. Any time there's a story in Bradford-upon-Avon I get sent to cover it so they can cut to Liz Bradford in Bradford. Any humour in that has long since paled."

A hush steals over the large crowd, as a slight, short-haired woman takes her place on stage, supported by a violinist. Caroline Martin.

The gig is brilliant. The Cedar have the catchiest tunes, but Caroline's stage presence is mesmeric - you could hear a pin drop when she performs - while David Thomas Broughton blows me away. Using some kind of pedal, he creates layer upon layer of sound, before singing over the top.

"How does he do that?" I whisper to Ram between songs.

"Loop station," she replies. "Everyone's using them now - Jim Moray, Team Brick, Stanton Delaplane, Cajita. Some better than others. He's really using it well."

All too soon it seems the spell is broken and the evening is over.

"That was amazing," I exhale, "I want to go buy stuff!"

"Yeah, it was great. I'm going to go chat to Anna." She indicates one of the promoters.

"Maybe see you around?"

"Well, which way are you going? Maybe I can give you a lift?"

"That's okay - I've got my bike. Bye Liz."

I stand quickly, to give her a proper farewell hug, but I'm too slow. She's gone.

I feel a pit in my stomach: I'd really felt we were connecting, forming a friendship, but it's like there's a distance there she doesn't want to bridge.

Slightly saddened, I head over to the merchandise stall to talk to the bands and buy CDs.

When I get home, Rick's out. He's left me a note to say he's gone to a beer festival. This annoys me, as he had pleaded tiredness as a reason not to join me at the gig. I sigh.

Fixing myself a mug of herbal tea, I decide to stick on one of my new purchases and chill for a bit before bed.

As I put on I Had A Hundred More Reasons To Stay By the Fire, my eyes alight on my much neglected and rather dusty acoustic in the corner of the room. On impulse, I pick it up and turn on the electric tuner. It's been ages, years perhaps, but thankfully the batteries still work, and I tune up.

Listening to Caroline's sparse arrangements, I try to pick out her melodies. I've long lost the calluses on my fingers, and I'm very out of practice, but it quickly comes back. Those hours spent as a teenager were not in vain.

BBC Radio Bristol

Good luck today Liz! Not that you'll need it. Love you P x

Re-reading Paula's text helps steady me. I'm feeling uncharacteristically nervous, so I pause to collect myself as I put my phone away. My nerves are jangling, but they shouldn't be. It's just Tim, the station director: I've had loads of meetings with him. On reflection, I realise it's that I really don't want to screw up this pitch. I've had ideas knocked back before, of course, but rarely ones I've felt so passionate about - there are none as zealous as a recent convert. I mean, it's not like I've made promises to anyone. Indeed, apart from a couple of colleagues I'd bounced a "hypothetical idea" off, I haven't mentioned this to anyone.

11:15. Time to go in.

Grabbing the CD and pendrive of MP3s I'd made, I head to Tim's office.

"Liz, hi, take a seat. What did you want to see me about?"

"Hi Tim, thanks for making time for me. I'll get straight to it." My bum has barely touched the seat before I launch into my rehearsed spiel. "There is a brilliant and blossoming music scene here in Bristol, and the surrounding area, and I think BBC Bristol should be doing more to support and promote it. My idea would be to playlist a different track by a local artist each week, launching it with a special segment on Monday drive time with an interview with the artist. A regular feature. At the moment, our playlist is nearly identical to that of Heart fm and not too dissimilar to Radio 2, so we're hardly offering our listeners anything unique or different at the moment: our listeners select BBC Bristol as they want local features and local news. I don't think it's a stretch to imagine they'd want local music too. Here's a CD of the first four artists I want to feature. The first track is an example of the trail for the feature, which I'm calling "Best of the West" for now. Can I play it?"

He nods but I wouldn't have waited. I slip the CD into the stereo and hit play. I've deliberately picked tracks I think our largely middle-aged and older audience won't object to. Hence it's the hooky riff of The Doubtful Guest's "Moment of the Year" that rings out, before fading behind my intro: "Bringing you the brightest and boldest of music from Bristol and the surrounding area". There's a smooth segue to Janet Taylor's "Hit the Ground" before my upbeat overdub comes back: "Bringing you news, reviews and interviews with local legends and up-and-coming artists." Beth Rowley warbles a high note. "This is the Best of the West. Monday's on Drive Time." A flare of stadium-style rock - the end of a Fortune Drive track - brings the clip to a close.

Tim's face is impassive, not giving anything away. He nods. "That's a well put together clip Liz. Leave it with me. I'll put it to John and his producer." That's good news - John is a music fan himself, so I'm hoping he'll be up for it. "I'll get back to you."

Knowing when it's not worth pushing further, I get up to go.

"Thanks Tim."

The Louisiana

Bucky had me laughing until my sides hurt and my cheeks ached. Now, Kid Carpet is rocking out on a FisherPrice toy guitar and joy is bubbling up inside me like a kettle about to boil over. With a massive grin plastered on my face I'm bouncing away at the front next to the gentle ginger-haired giant I now know to be named Big Jeff, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

Spinning round so fast my ponytail slaps me in the face, I spot Ram. Wanting to share my delight with her, I fling myself forward, only to have her grab my wrists before I can wrap my arms around her.

The moment seems to hang there. In the glow from the stage lights I see first fright, then shock, then guilt flicker over her face.

She spins me, as if we were dancing, then clasps both of our hands between us.

"Good to see you Liz," she yells over the crowd's rapturous cheers. Then she moves off.

I nod and swallow and grin. What the hell was that reaction about?

The rest of the set is great, but I can't recapture my earlier innocent joy.

Afterwards, she's nowhere to be seen.

On the forums

Tim and John have given the "Best of the West" feature the green light, with a four month trial. I've already got the first two interviews recorded and edited, with Bath's country outfit The Doubtful Guest, and Bristol's Jane Taylor. I'm over the moon.

Now I need to get the word out. To do that I need to venture into dangerous waters.

Internet forums.

With not that much to do on the Saturday News Ed shift, I've created identical profiles (LizBattheBBC) on the two music forums I found that seem dedicated to the Bristol music scene. As far as I can tell, one seems to be mostly for metal bands, so probably won't be that useful, but the other appears to appeal to a wider range of styles and musicians. I spot other users on there whose usernames seem to match various bands. Hopefully they'll be welcoming!

I read through my draft post one last time:

Hi all!

BBC Radio Bristol are launching a new feature on local music. Each week, we'll interview a local band or artist on Monday drive time, then one of their tracks will feature on our playlist for the rest of the week. We'll have a dedicated slot on our website for the archive of past interviewers listeners can check out.

All styles and genres are welcome, though tracks and band names must not contain swearing.

If you are a musician from Bristol or the surrounding area and would like to be considered for inclusion in the feature, please email liz dot bradford at bbc dot co dot uk (I've added spaces/words to avoid spam - please replace them before you email).

Tune in to the very first broadcast featuring The Doubtful Guest next Monday at 5.30pm on 94.9fm.

Love Liz x

Here goes!

I hit 'post'. Then I try to get on with some other work. A new Banksy has suddenly gone up and I've done a load of vox pops getting local reactions to it, which I need to edit to go alongside the official message from the Council condemning street art. The vast majority of interviewees were in favour of the piece, but BBC impartiality rules require me to find counter points, which is far trickier, and ridiculous. Surely the official position is the counterargument? Hmmm.

By the time I've put the piece together, I feel justified in taking a look at the forum to see if there's been any response.

I'm pretty shocked. There are loads. Pretty much all negative. Some are slagging of The Doubtful Guest, which is sad, but there are lots of others dissing the BBC and some hideously misogynistic and racist ones making bad jokes about what BBC might stand for.

My stomach is dropping and my shoulders slumping, until I come across a post by a user called Ramstone:

You bunch of fucking whiny pricks! Liz is trying to do something to support you and you limp dicks are pissing on it? She's the one who got Big Joan and Emily Breeze played on Huw Stephens, you twats. Anything that helps get more people along to gigs and buying records locally should be welcomed.

As for you Fretshredder and Twotherimins, fuck off you fucking racist, sexist keyboard warriors. Feel pretty brave slagging off a woman from behind your screens, don't you? Well, I'll be down The Fleece tomorrow for Angel Tech if you've got the guts to say this stuff out loud. I know who you are: I'd threaten to make you sound like shit the next time you play The Croft but having heard you nobody would notice. And if you think I'm fixing your band van for free again you've got another thing coming.

Liz, this sounds like a great feature: thanks for organising it. I really hope it's a success, as should everyone else here. Please ignore these trolls, they are just insecure little boys.

This is followed by a bunch of apologies so abject I can practically hear the pleading. Clearly, Ram's good opinion carries a lot of weight locally. Well, that makes sense: if you are a musician, the last person you want to piss off is the sound engineer.

Well, I know where I'm going to be tomorrow night.

The next day

"Hey Rick, I'm going down to the Fleece to see a band. Do you want to come?" While I would have welcomed him joining me at previous gigs, I'm actually secretly hoping he'll continue his run of form of declining so I can, hopefully, have a proper chat with Ram.

"Again?" He makes no effort to hide the derision in his voice.

"Yeah." I try to sound reasonable. "I told you about the new feature, right? So I need to keep abreast of the scene."

"This is, what, the third gig this week?"

"So?"

"Well, can we afford all this?"

"Huh? We're talking about five or six quid tickets Rick. Hardly breaking the bank. Anyway, it's my money." We own the house together, and the cars, but we've no kids so we've both got substantial savings and separate bank accounts. This isn't about money. "Why are you worried about money?"

He shrugs and takes a sip of his tea.

"What's this really about Rick?"

"Well, it's like we hardly see each other now, you're always out."

"You could come with me. I'm not excluding you! I'd welcome some company." I try hard to hide my exasperation. I've always invited him. "You spend half the weekends of the year playing cricket Rick!"

"Oh come on, that's not the same! You knew that when we got together!" He stands up and I realise I've touched a nerve.

"Yeah, and in the eight years we've been together I've never complained, so I think that it's a bit rich you moaning now I'm developing my own interests."

I never do make it down to gig, a fact that smarts. Instead I find myself being almost guilt-tripped into "make up" sex as Rick calls it, even though I don't feel like "making up" at all. But he does bring up the fact that we haven't had sex for two months - something I feel is hardly my fault.

So instead of dancing down at The Fleece, I find myself clutching Rick's back as he thrusts between me on the sofa, trying to find the angle that might help me get close to an orgasm.

Eventually, I give up.

"Just fuck me Rick!" I groan.

"What about you?"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to."

He stops then. "Why not?"

"I can't. Too tense."

"Okay... how about if I prop myself up and you use your hand."

This is something we've done before.

"Rick, putting me under pressure to have an orgasm is hardly going to help me relax enough to have one. Just finish. I'll enjoy that."

"No, I can't."

"Oh, don't be silly. There's no point in us both feeling frustrated."

"So you are feeling frustrated?"

"Rick! Argh."

And so round two of our row breaks out. It's entirely pointless.

Rick ends up throwing his clothes back on and "going out for a walk".

I can't help but look at the clock reading 9:26 and wondering how quickly I could make it to the gig to see Ram. But I know it would just cause another row.

So I sigh and stay home, pacing around, unable to focus on anything - a book, the TV, my guitar - my chest aching and my stomach in knots. Irritated beyond belief, I log onto the forum and send Ramstone a direct message:

Thanks for sticking up for me. I really appreciate it. I really wanted to come down to The Fleece tonight but irritatingly I couldn't. Can I buy you lunch sometime?

Liz x

I include my phone number, even though I'm fairly sure she has it.

Eventually, Rick gets back. I'm already in bed, trying to read. He smells of the pub.

With a little encouragement, he fucks me from behind, spooning, and comes quickly. I make all the right noises.

"I love you." I whisper. There's an empty feeling inside me. Eight years. Is this the end?

"I love you too," he says.

The Lounge

Finally, after a couple of abortive efforts, Ram and I have managed to find a free moment for lunch together. No doubt she was out at some gigs at the weekend, but with Rick insisting I join him for a dull evening down the pub with his cricket pals on Friday and Paula and Mike having their leaving do on Saturday, there was no chance of me getting out (not that I would have missed their last night in Bristol, boo hoo) and Sunday was a write off. We'd been up until dawn.

The Lounge is just a couple of streets away from Broadcasting House, and around the corner from With Her Wheels. A perfect mid-point for us. I've just grabbed a table, when she walks in.

She's wearing a waistcoat and jeans, her bare arms glistening slightly with sweat, intricate bracelet tattoos banding her biceps. For once the British summer has actually attempted to meet the expectations of the season. Her chiselled face scans the room looking for me, as I wave.

"Hey!"

"Hey yourself Ram! Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for inviting me."

I hesitate. I've overstepped before.

"Look Ram, is it okay if I hug you?"

"Yeah, sure." Her voice is affecting a cool that doesn't match her eyes. She grabs my right hand in hers and leans down into me. Our hands are sandwiched between us, there's the briefest of touches of shoulders and arms, a whiff of diesel and Calvin Klein, and it's over.

Not what I would ever classify as a hug. I try to affect pleasure.

"Aw thanks Ram. This is on me by the way. What would you like?"

"That's very kind Liz, but you don't need to."

"I know, but I feel like I do, you know? I really appreciated how you stuck up for me on the forum. And even before that, you are introducing me to so much great music." I reach forward and just catch myself before I touch her arm. It's what I would do with anyone, but I don't need to see her stiffen in anticipation to know that stopping was the right decision.

We order. Again she asks for the bottle of mineral water to be brought unopened. I want to ask but she beats me to it with a question about why I asked for the burger without the bun.

"I can't eat wheat anymore. Messes with my stomach and my sleep," I explain. "Tannins too - so no black tea or red wine."

"Oh God, that sucks! I couldn't live without tea."

"Yeah. I survive. Meant I lost loads of weight though! Took me a while to work out what the issue was, so I was just avoiding food in general for a while. Sorry, this isn't very interesting! Did you catch the first Best in the West the other day?"

"Yeah, I did. We have BBC Bristol on in the garage these days - can't think why!"

We share a laugh.

"And...?" I prompt.

"It's a great feature. I'm not much into country, but I see why you went with The Doubtful Guest. Unlikely to freak out the listeners and that song is pretty catchy."

"Well, I partly wanted to pick your brains. I've Jane Taylor, Beth Rowley and Fortune Drive lined up for the next three weeks, but who else should I do after that? It can't be too out there - no Fuck Buttons - but also needs to be people who are serious. You know, bands and artists who are genuinely trying to make a go of it, not weekend warriors."

"Well, there's Rose Kemp - though she's not from Bristol originally, not sure if that matters - Kid Carpet, whom you've seen, and Angel Tech-"

"I'm so sorry I missed them the other night: I really wanted to come down to see you too but Rick and I got into a row."

She looks at me calmly, inviting me silently to elaborate.

Fuck it, why not. It's not like I have any friends I can talk to about this. That thought suddenly brings me up cold.

"Sorry, Liz, it's none of my business."

"No," again I have to fight my instinct to reassure her by putting my hand on her arm. "I was just... I just realised that I don't have anyone else I can really talk to about this. The mutual friends that introduced us moved to Australia last year; my best friend just had her leaving do last weekend - she's off to a Deputy Head post in a school in Manchester. I get on fine with my colleagues, but since Debbie went off to BBC Somerset, I'm not close enough to any to share this. Wow, that's a sad thought."

"Family?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose, but, well, they know Rick pretty well - we've been together eight years - and I don't want to paint either of us as the villain here. Because neither of us is, really. It's just... it's just... we've got comfortable, but there's nothing there anymore. No spark. We don't have the same interests. Now Paula, Mike, Steve and Carol have gone, we don't even really have any mutual friends. He spends half the weekends of the year playing cricket."

"Is he not into music? I thought he went to Glastonbury with you?"

"Only because I can blag him a free ticket. He likes watching the headliners. But the truth is, we don't even spend much time together at the festival."

"Oh."

"God." I'm suddenly overwhelmed with ennui. I think my relationship is ending and I don't feel sad about it, just tired and, well, bored. "We own the house and cars together. God, it's going to be such a drag moving out."

I look at her.

"Sorry."

"No, no. Let me know if I can help."

"Thanks. Just listening is helping. It's like I've known all of this for ages, but hadn't let myself acknowledge it until just now. Until I said it out loud. God, I must seem so callous. Eight years we've been together, and I don't even seem upset."

Our food arrives.

"Thanks," I say to the waitress.

"I'm sure it'll hit you later," Ram says.

Then, with a deliberate movement, she puts her hand on mine.

I wonder what it cost her to do that? Strangely, that is what brings me closest to tears.

"You know," I say, struggling to keep my voice from cracking, "I can be a good listener too."

She cocks her head quizzically.

"If you ever want to talk about that."

"About what?" she asks, withdrawing her hand.

I suppress a sigh. Just like that, her walls are back up. "Oh, anything," I reply, trying to be airy, then switch the subject. "I like your tattoos."

"Thanks," she flexes a little. "They're new. Not this one." She points to her neck.

"Yeah, I spotted that one before. It's pretty bold."

"Well, yeah, there's not many girls in the local music scene, so the guys can be total sharks. This helps warn them not to bother trying."

Suddenly, her meaning, the meaning behind the interlinked venus symbols hits me. She must see it in my face as she chuckles.

"You just got it, huh?"

"God, yes! Some journalist I am!" I laugh at myself.

"Is it a prob-"

"No, no, don't be silly. No, it's cool, totally cool." I take a gulp of water, suddenly feeling hot. "I actually played guitar and sang at a civil ceremony last year, back home in Pembrokeshire. The mums of my sister-in-law. There's actually a bit of a lesbian colony there. Myf was born there. It started out as this ultra-feminist, no-men allowed compound in the late 70s, but they've chilled a lot. Having lots of sons will change your attitude I guess."

She laughs with me.

"I didn't know you were a musician," she says.

I shake my head as I swallow the bite I've just taken before replying. "That's stretching it. I'm a campfire guitarist. Teenage years spending summer evenings on beaches around a driftwood fire getting stoned."

"Sounds idyllic!"

"Oh, it really was! Then all the free parties in old quarries and hidden dells. Generators in the back of vans, straw bales for seats. A very well-spent youth. How about you?"

"Not much to tell. School, A Levels, Uni, dropped out, moved here, got a job."

She looks me in the eye. I take a breath and quickly shove some food in my mouth to stop the questions that are automatically lining up on my tongue from slipping out. It seems to me that there's at least one tale to tell in there, but as that's more than she's ever said about herself, I won't push. The thought comes to me that this may be some kind of test: can she tell me what she feels comfortable telling me, without me pushing for more?

My mouthful finished, I nod. "Well, it's a great job. How is everyone? How are the apprentices doing?"

She visibly relaxes as she regales me with anecdotes of near mishaps and strange customers. As I've noticed before, she can tell a good tale. Her voice is rich and warm, still almost accentless, and although I follow her stories carefully, back-channelling and prompting as appropriate, it's the cadences and tones I'm really listening to.

All too soon, we're done, and we both need to get back. I'm asking for the bill, when Ram returns to an earlier subject. One I'd successfully forgotten about.

"So, what are you going to do?"

"Sorry? About what?"

"About you and Rick."

I deflate, like a punctured balloon. I'd successfully forgotten about this. "I don't know. Eight years is a long time to chuck away just because the spark has gone. I think we owe it to each other to try to revive it."

She nods. I don't know why her approval is necessary, but having it helps.

"Well, look, if it comes to it, I've got space to stay should you need somewhere temporary for a while."

"Aw, thanks Ram. Good to know."

"Anyway, thanks for lunch. I'd better go."

This time, she initiates the hug, again with our arms between us, leaning over the table.

One day, I hope I get to know her enough to find out why.

3 weeks later - The Lounge again

"I think it's over," I say into my salad.

"What? The feature? Surely they wouldn't pull the plug after just a few episodes?" Ram asks.

"Oh, no, that's got another 3 months before the pilot period is up... No, I meant between me and Rick."

Ram's shoulders slump, her pretty mouth downturned. "I'm sorry Liz." Her hand reaches out to cover mine with a squeeze.

"Thanks." I don't think I'm going to cry. I've cried enough. I did crack and spill it all out to Paula over the phone with copious tears at the weekend while Rick was off at a match. She's made me promise to come up and visit soon, and so I've booked a ticket. But the back of my throat still catches. "I mean, I really tried, you know? Romantic meals, dressing sexily, make up, wine. But... nothing. No gratitude, no passion, no attention. I need to feel desired, Ram." And with that my voice really does crack.

"If it helps, you are extremely desirable."

A hot flush runs through me. That's actually something I'd never considered. "Really?" I ask, then mentally kick myself. This isn't a road I particularly want to go down.

"Sure," she takes a sip of her ginger beer, straight from the bottle, "I mean, anyone who has seen you smile once would naturally desire to see that again and be the cause."

I treat her to a wide mouthed grin. "Aw, thanks." And thanks for not making that strange, I add in my head.

"So, what are you going to do?"

I sigh. "Well there are three options: he moves out and I take over the mortgage then buy him out; I move out and he takes over the mortgage and buys me out; we sell and split it. It's probably fifty-fifty on who put in what: I put down most of the deposit because I was earning a lot more when we bought it, but he's in the private sector and promotions come quicker, so he's earning more now and paid for the kitchen refurb and new sofa a couple of years ago. To be honest, he'd find it easier financially to take over the mortgage than I would." I can feel my eyes pricking slightly. "I'm not sure I'd want to stay there anyway. It's too big: four bedrooms. At the time, I just kind of assumed we'd get married and have kids one day. Now... well it's probably too late for that for me." I dab my eyes with my napkin. "I'll just have to be the cool aunt." I try to smile, but I don't think it'll reach my eyes.

"That's ridiculous," Ram says, "you're young, you've plenty of time. Or you could just go solo."

A thought comes to me. "How old do you think I am Ram?"

She pauses mid chew, examines me, swallows. "Mmmmm. I'd say twenty nine?"

I snort, derisively. "Stop trying to butter me up you flatterer."

"More?"

"Yeah, keep going!"

"Thirty-two?"

"Higher."

"What? Really? No way!"

"Aw, you're sweet." I pause. "I'm thirty-eight, Ram."

Her eyes bulge a little at this. Aww bless, so she wasn't just lying to make me feel better. Either that or she's a great actress.

"Yep. So there's only a couple more years left in these ovaries, if that. It's fine, really. I made my peace with not being a mother a couple of years ago." I shrug. "Just doesn't mean I want to stay in the house being reminded of it, you know?"

"Totally," she nods. "Though you could always... no, forget it."

"What?"

"No, no, I was going to be flippant. Sorry. Well, remember if you need somewhere to stay..."

"Thank you. Though honestly, that wasn't why I brought this up. It's just like I said, there aren't really many people I can talk to about this face to face these days. A sad indictment of my social life. But anyway, there's no rush for me to move out. It's not awful living there. I'm not in danger or anything. It's just like living with a slightly petulant little brother. I'll look around, see if I can find somewhere near work. If I do move out, I'll need to get back on the housing ladder reasonably quickly, given the way house prices are going. But thank you. I'll keep your offer in mind."

Moving in - September 2006

"Hey! Welcome!" Ram gives me a huge smile as she opens the door. "Let me get that." She takes the bag from me.

"Thanks."

"Come in!"

I step into the porch, noting the wooden pigeon-holes for post. The building, a Regency terrace has, like most, been split into flats, clearly. Then Ram stands in the wide stairwell and smiles at me. Such a change from the grumpy girl, the sullen, reluctant interviewee I first met.

"So, do you want to see your bedroom first or the rest of the flat?"

"Um... well, these bags are for the bedroom, so shall we dump those there?"

"Yep, absolutely!" She pushes open a small door to her right and ducks through. I'm short enough that I don't need to as I follow.

What I find is a cosy-looking, but tiny bedroom, so small there is no space at the side of the double bed. In fact, the bed may have been built in. There's a shelf and cupboard behind it, and a chest of drawers under the sash window. Hobbit-sized. Suits me.

There's a bathroom attached and a small space opposite, under the curve of the stairs with a cupboard and clothes rail.

"This is lovely, Ram, thank you."

"We'll have to share the bathroom. Is that okay?"

"Of course, no worries at all. What time do you get up, usually?"

"6:30. But I tend to shower in the evening, so in the morning, I just need to use the loo and do my teeth, though I can always brush them in the kitchen."

I nod. "I'm sure that'll be fine. I tend to get up at 6:15, then go for a run. So you'll probably be done in the bathroom by the time I'm back."

"Cool, cool." She nods, and seems nervous.

"So why don't you show me the rest of the flat."

"Okay, yeah."

She leads me back out the door and into the stairwell, then opens a much larger door opposite.

"Wait," I say, "this stairwell is for the other tenants, right?"

"Yeah, the flat is split. That's one of the reasons why the rent is so low."

I had been wondering how she managed to afford to live in such a plush area. Handy for work too, for both of us. I knew she cycled in, but I would be easily able to walk to Broadcasting House from here.

The kitchen and dining room she leads me into is astounding.

"Good grief!" I exclaim, "this is amazing!"

It's high ceilinged and huge, four times the size of the bedroom, everything beautifully appointed in pale wood, with a large gas cooker, a double sink and copious work surfaces.

I can cook. Nothing special. Growing up helping to run a Bed & Breakfast means you have kitchen skills thrust upon you. This kitchen cries out for me to go gourmet just to do it justice.

"Isn't it just!"

"I mean, wow, just wow," I gush.

"So eloquent. I can see why you're on the radio."

"Cos I talk gurt pretty," I burr back in my best Brizzle. I look out the big French windows on a raised decked area. I nod towards it. "Is that stoners' corner?"

"Nah, I don't smoke here," she says.

"Why not?"

She looks at me with a bit of smirk and gestures at herself. "Built, black, gay woman living opposite a Primary school? Smoking weed outside? Yeah, the neighbours would have a field day. I don't want the attention."

"Fair enough," I nod.

"Is that a problem for you?" she asks.

"What? Oh, no. I don't smoke. I used to. I'm a dab hand at rolling a spliff. If somebody's offering one around at a party, I'll take a toke, but I don't smoke it regularly myself."

She nods, satisfied, then gestures at another door. "The sitting room is through here."

I follow her into an equally huge and impressive room, with decorative plasterwork around the light-fittings in the high ceiling and an ornate picture rail ringing the room. There's a cast iron stove in the large fireplace next to a good stack of wood, and rugs in front.

"I bet that goes down well with all the girls you bring back here," I joke.

She doesn't react.

I take in the rest of the room. Large windows in one wall let in lots of light, shining down onto a sofa, an armchair and a futon. Built-in bookshelves are loaded with books, CDs and vinyl. In the corner is a free standing punch bag. The walls are covered with gig posters, many signed I notice. A year ago, I wouldn't have known any of the names on them, but now there are plenty that I recognise.

"No TV?" I say, slightly surprised.

Ram shrugs. "No. We can get one if you like."

"No, I don't watch that much anyway."

There's an old fashioned roll-top desk in the corner, with a door behind it.

"Is that your room then?"

"What?"

"Behind the door."

"Oh. No, er, that just goes out to the stairwell, though I don't use it. Right, cup of coffee? Or shall I help you bring things in?"

"Yeah, that would be great.... So, hang on, Ram, where do you sleep?"

"I'll be on the futon." With that she strides out of the room.

I blink and shake my head and follow hot on her heels. She's pulling her boots on.

"So where did you park?"

"Ram! Am I in your bedroom?"

"Nah, not really." She grabs a set of keys. "Here these are for you. It's too small for me. I usually sleep on the futon."

"Ram, be serious! Have you just given me your room?" I follow her out the door.

"Where did you park?"

"Just to the right. Ram! Answer me! Is that your room?"

"Will you make a big fuss if I say yes and then immediately feel like you need to look for somewhere else to live?"

"Well... maybe..."

"Then, no, it's not my room."

"Ram!"

"Liz, stop worrying. I'm happy to have you move in. You said you were planning to buy somewhere and get back on the housing ladder, so it's not going to be forever, right?"

"No, but-"

"Stop worrying. You can stay as long as you like. It'll be good for me to have some company."

"Well, thank you." I follow her out of the door. "Actually, I'm away this weekend as it happens - I'm going up to visit my best friend in Manchester."

"Manchester?" There's an odd inflection in Ram's voice as she waits by the door to the campervan. I got lucky with parking.

"Yeah. Do you know it?" I say, unlocking the door.

But she doesn't reply, instead slings my big festival rucksack on her back, grabs a box of books and heads indoors.

I sigh and curse myself inwardly. I still need to learn to keep questions to myself where Ram is concerned.

Paula's massage

"I've told you what he said, right? That he 'couldn't be doing with all the fuss of a wedding' - that was his reason for not wanting to get married." I'd thought I'd cried all my tears, but the pricking of my eyes and the lump in my chest suggests otherwise.

Paula nods at me, her mouth turned down at the corners. I have told her this many times before, but she's been my best friend since day one of sixth form, and she knows how to listen.

"I just... I just wish I'd been enough for him to want to deal with that. I just want to feel desired enough that somebody will get past their hang ups."

A tissue appears in front of me in Paula's hand just as the tears start to spill. I take it gratefully, and blot my cheeks, then grab another from her to blow my nose. "Sorry," I say, "I'm not being much fun."

She waves away my apology. "It's what I'm here for, Liz." The two of us are sitting on her sofa, knees tucked up, under a blanket I remember her buying at Glastonbury back when we were students. After eating, her husband Mike wisely withdrew to his man cave. Probably gaming. We're in their new rental in Eccles, not far from the school she's now Deputy Head at.

Sniffing, I reach for the herbal tea she's put by my side and blow the steam off. The spicy smell of ginger tingles in my airways, and underneath there's the aroma of something else that is quite familiar.

I take a cautious sip, then narrow my eyes at her as she tries to look innocent.

"Paula, have you slipped me a mickey?"

"Maaaaybeeee."

I frown at her. This isn't unheard of - the extra slug of apple brandy in the cider, the marijuana in the brownies. She's always been the wild one, the one to suggest skinny dipping or strip poker or dropping that extra pill. I've usually been content to sit on the side and laugh, though I do love a dance.

Still, this makes me uneasy. Odd, because I've usually found her antics amusing before.

"What is it?" I say suspiciously. "Is there a twist?"

"Just a teensie, weensie bit of 'shroom. Thought we could both do with unwinding. I've had a hell of a week, and you've had a hell of a year and I thought we should chill a little."

Mushrooms! God, it's been years. Never my favourite. Loudon Wainwright was wrong. "Babe, this'll knock me out!" I'd swapped shifts to have an early start, early finish, then grabbed a train at 2:30 up to Manchester Piccadilly. I'd managed to snooze a little on the way up, but that 5am start was going to take its toll. I'd stopped drinking after a single cider with supper.

"That's okay. I'm knackered too. We can just snuggle and watch something. We'll go out and go mad tomorrow night."

She starts telling me about her plans for us - some retail therapy, then dinner out, then clubbing. "We'll start at Fifth, then see where the night takes us. I've scored us some Mitsus. Going to be epic."

It does sound like a lot of fun, but the thought of dancing to DJs seems a little alien to me. I wonder if I can persuade her into going to Night & Day first, though it depends who's playing.

I take another sip, without really thinking about it, but then put the mug far away from me. I've probably only drunk a third.

Stifling a yawn, I realise my vision is sparkling a little at the edges. Ocular migraine? I get those occasionally. Or is it the mushrooms? A teensy bit my foot.

Before I know it, Paula's fingers are in my hair and I'm getting a scalp massage. Purring, I lean into her and soon the effects of her gentle massage, nails trailing down the nape of my neck, the early start and the mushrooms have me drifting off.

* * *

I come round, with my nose in Paula's cleavage. Looking up, my movement jolts her awake.

She smiles at me and kisses me on the nose.

"What time is it?"

She looks at her watch. "It's only 9:30."

"Mmmm. Maybe bed? Thanks for the lovely massage."

"You're welcome."

We sit up and stretch. I notice her wince as she tries to extend her arm. She contorts her shoulders, trying an eagle pose, and grimaces.

"Is your shoulder hurting?" I feel a bit guilty. Falling asleep on her wouldn't have helped, and I know she's struggled with it after a cycling accident years ago.

"Yeah. It's been a real problem lately. Fucking laptops at work, hunched over all the time. Not good."

"Can you not speak to your health and safety rep? Get a decent desk and ergonomic chair?"

"That's what Mike said." She rolls her shoulders, but I can see the pain on her face. "But, I'm so new.... I don't want to get a rep as a whining woman."

"Well you can at least get a separate keyboard and mouse you goose." I sigh and look at her. "Would you like a massage?"

She holds her hands in front of her like a little girl wanting a pony ride and rocks from side to side, fluttering her eyes. "Would you mind? I know you're tired."

"No. It's fine. Anyway, if I go to bed too early I'll just wake up stupidly early too. Come on."

"Yay!" She claps her hands.

She carries our mugs to the kitchen, then leads me upstairs by the hand.

Mike comes out of the bathroom as we pass. "Okay?" He asks.

"Yep! Liz is going to give me a massage!" Paula giggles. She leans in and kisses him. "20 minutes?" I hear her whisper.

Inside, she strips off and puts on some Future Sounds of London, classic post-club chill out. "I've got some massage oil here somewhere." She is utterly unself-conscious about her body. With her standing there topless in front of me, I have a sudden vivid sparkly memory of her wandering the top floor of the Hatchett in chaps and nipple clamps at Spank. Rick didn't know where to look. We never made it there again: wasn't really my thing anyway. Carol enjoyed it, as I recall.

Passing me the oil, she peels off her trousers, flinging them onto a chair and lies down in her skimpy thong. She smiles back at me. "What a treat! I've missed your massages!"

Years ago, I did a piece on a GP surgery offering massage therapy for a health segment. It intrigued me and I signed up for a course, needing something to do at weekends while Rick was away playing cricket. The skills I'd learned had proved very popular with my friends ever since.

Paula wolf-whistles me as I shed my cardigan, as the long sleeves will get in the way, leaving me in a vest top.

I roll my eyes, then move to straddle her thighs. She flinches. "What are you wearing?"

"Just jeans," I reply.

"They're scratchy! Can you take them off?"

I sigh, but do as bid, staggering a little as I pull them off which gets Paula giggling.

"Stop laughing, or I'll make this painful!" I threaten.

"Is that a promise?"

I shake my head at her silliness. Instead, I slide back on the bed, her hot thighs between mine and pour some oil onto my hands to warm it.

She moans as I lean into her lower back. I start gently, but firmly, feeling the tension and knots in her oblique muscles. It's her shoulders that pain her, but it's the drag on them from lower down that pulls them taunt and causes the old tear to ache. Pressing with the heels of my palms, I spread the knots out, from the spine outward. I know she's super ticklish, so I ignore her internals, for now at least, and move slowly up her spine, working her dorsals. Her skin glows gold in the soft light and ripples magically under my manipulations. Down low there's a thin, white tan line, but, I notice, none up top. Souvenir from the summer in the south of France, I assume.

The oil smells of jasmine and dances along the edge of my eyes.

As time ticks on, the tension eases from her further, but her purring persists. I have the sensation of stroking a huge cat. I'd really should have made her lie the other way around, with her head at the foot of the bed, so I could have stood to work her trapezius and deltoids. As it is, I have to lean right over her to reach. I huff a strand of hair out of my face. Digging my heels in deep to penetrate to her rhomboids, I push back and inadvertently almost hump her bum. I swear she's pushing back into me.

Paula's really groaning now.

The door to the bedroom creeks open. I look over my shoulder to see Mike coming in.

"Hey Liz," he says, his voice low, "want me to help?"

"Um..." I start to say, feeling a little uncomfortable.

"I'll get her feet." He moves behind me, his weight on the bed, and one of her thighs rises under me. As I run my hands over her shoulders, her arms tuck in under her and the sounds coming from her increase in intensity.

Okay, it's perhaps time for me to stop. Mike can take over if he likes.

Stopping a massage cold is bad etiquette, so I lightly run my palms over her shoulders, the nape of her neck, then my fingertips dance down her spine slowly. I rub her gently as her bum arches up.

"There you go. I'll leave you two to it, shall I?" I arch my eyebrow at Mike as I carefully dismount, not wanting to give him an eyeful.

Paula rolls over and stretches her arms up. "You didn't do my front," she pouts.

"Tag, you're it Mike," I say.

"Mmmmmm," purrs Paula, "tag teams. There's an idea. You know, you don't have to go."

"Ha ha, funny! Enjoy yourselves, you two." I grab up my jeans and cardie.

Mike has stripped off his shirt and is lying next to Paula on their bed, stroking her inner thighs. She's writhing as he kisses her neck, her eyes on me.

"You two are outrageous!" I laugh as I leave, "wait 'til I'm out of the room, would you?" Inwardly, I'm jealous: they've been together for fifteen years and are still hot for each other.

If only I could find something like that.

* * *

"Are they really Mitsus, do you think? Or some chancer just using the symbol?" I ask as I drop my half, washed down with vodka and tonic.

"Guess we'll find out," Paula purrs into my ear before she swallows hers.

I've forgotten the name of this place, but it's playing some sick techno. Just the job. I've been loving the live music lately, but I haven't had a good, full-on dance-a-thon for some time. And I haven't dropped E since Paula's leaving do.

"Go on, say you'll think about it?" Paula says as she sways with me, arms around my shoulders in the calm before the build. "Moving to Manchester? Living with us? I want my bestie back. I should never have left you."

She's been banging this drum all day, trying to persuade me to up sticks and move to Manchester and apply for a job at the BBC there, or even commercial radio.

"I'll think about it," has been my mantra. And I will. It doesn't hurt to look. But... I don't know.

"So you and Mike can use my massages for foreplay again?" I smirk back, as the build begins.

"You needn't check out after the foreplay, babe," Paula teases, before the drop comes and we're jumping up, arms aloft, screaming.

Hip to hip, we shimmy and sway, big fish, little fish, deal the cards, pose and pout, scrape the sky, riding the waves of synths and troughs of drums and the throbs of bass. Then the buzz comes, slowly, like a tingle on the skin, the rippling heat in the dermis, the ache in the chest, the euphoria expanding as pupils are dilating, neurons firing.

We're coming up, we're coming up, we're coming up.

We're there.

Paula is gorgeous, smile glowing in the UV, eyes bright and white and wide, pupils sucking in the light. Her arms drape around me once more, fingernails on skin leaving trails of sublime sensations. I run my own hands up through my tresses, scraping my scalp as shivers of paradise thrum through me. Wanting to share, my hands find her hair, moving and massaging, as she straddles my thigh, swaying and grinding, her forehead pressed to mine and her hands, oh her hands, her hands are the hands of healing, the hands of heaven, igniting and lighting my skin with their perfect pressure as they stroke and explore my back and neck and scalp and sides.

I zone out, fly off, soaring with the glitches and tweaks of the breaks and beats, wrapped safely in Paula's arms, our bodies locked together. Her hands cup my cheeks and I open my eyes to see her face close to mine, her eyes glazed with pleasure, her lips parted. She's so beautiful and takes such good care of me. Yes, maybe, yes, we could, yes, perhaps, and her lips brush my forehead, bringing such delicious tingles there and everywhere.

My hands find their way up her sumptuous, silky, sexy body, riding her sides, brushing her breasts, curving up her face and guiding her head down to me.

"Woooo! Yeah, get it on girls!" a guy practically screams in her face. "Fucking sexy!"

The bubble of bliss pops, dispelled, replaced instantly by the crush of the comedown. Curling my lip, I break away and tug Paula after me by the hand. No, I will not be a show for some bloke's excitement.

"What?" Paula asks, clinging to me even as the E keeps her in its clutches.

"Time to get a drink, sweetie, " I say, "we need a change of scene."

"Hmmmm, is it bedtime?"

"No. Time for a coke, I think. Need sugar!"

If it's worn off already, no way they were real Mitsus.

* * *

On the train back to Bristol I suddenly wonder how much of the weekend was a joke, how much was down to the drugs, and how much was possibly Paula being serious. Serious about me moving in. And why she would want me to.

And I don't know how to feel about it if she was.

And maybe that's precisely why she would mask any motive with a joke, or allow drugs to give her deniability. Because if I don't know how I would respond, then she definitely doesn't.

Packed lunch

"Hey Liz. What are you making?" Ram asks, walking into the kitchen with her empty mug.

"I'm making my packed lunch for the week. Or well, for as long as it lasts, anyway. Quinoa salad with roasted vegetables and halloumi."

"Okay, I didn't get the first or last words," she says, coming over for a closer look.

"Quinoa? It's an Andean grain. Very good for you. I can't eat couscous anymore, but you can basically use quinoa in the same way."

"Okay. And what's this white stuff?" she asks, pointing.

"Halloumi. It's a cheese. Very salty. You can roast or grill it and it comes out like bacon."

"Nice. Wow, well it looks delicious." She admires my trays, one of diced sweet potato and carrot, drizzled with olive oil and thyme, which needs to cook longer, then the other of red onion and yellow pepper. The halloumi will join those once I've diced it. Later, I'll throw in dried apricots and sweetcorn.

"Well, do you want me to make extra? You take some for a packed lunch?"

"No, I don't want to put you to any trouble."

"It's not. It's just a question of making more, that's all. Come on. What do you usually have?"

She shrugs. "A crappy sandwich from the Texaco down the road usually."

"Well then! This will be healthier and cheaper."

She smiles, "tastier too I imagine. Oh go on then - but at least let me help?"

I tell her what to do, and she gets straight to it. No grumbling.

Rick didn't help me make our packed lunch once in eight years.

Meeting Mikayla

Walking into the Fleece, my hand stamped, I do a double take as I spot Ram behind the sound desk. I hadn't realised she was working tonight. To be fair, I didn't know for sure I'd be coming down here either, but the band, Red Top Matches, were quite persuasive and put me on the guestlist.

Oh, my job is so hard sometimes!

I wave at Ram but she's deep in conversation with a dark haired girl, who's stood on the step to the sound booth, so I make my way to the bar.

For a Tuesday night, twenty minutes before the first set starts, there's quite a crowd. Maybe eighty or so. Kind of impressive. Quite a few of the gigs that I've been to lately have had crowds of thirty or less. Electric Six plays over the sound system, though mostly drowned out by the chatter of the crowd, and the atmosphere is excitable and expectant.

Grabbing a cider, I try to work out who the bands are. I could go back to the Green room and see if any are there, but most likely, as they are all local, they are out here chatting to friends who've come along to support. I can't see anyone obvious. I'll ask Ram.

Threading my way through the crowd, I note Ram is still chatting to the pretty brunette whose hair, I can now see, is shaved at the sides and long at the back, almost like a mullet.

Ram's leaning towards her, turning her head so the girl can speak into her ear.

"Hey Ram!" I call up, once I get there.

"Hey Liz!" She waves down, then shouts something like, "I didn't know you were coming."

"What are you doing here?"

She shakes her head. Points to her ears, then leans down.

I speak into her ear, catching her sweet scent of sweat and leather. "I didn't know you were working. And who's your friend?"

I twist my head to catch her reply. "Richie's ill, so they called me in as cover."

She doesn't answer the other question, so I take the initiative.

"Hi," I shout to the girl, "sorry for interrupting. I'm Liz."

"Hi!" She offers a hand, which I take, then she leans in. "I'm..." I don't quite catch it: it sounds like Taylor.

"Taylor?" I say.

"No, Mi-kay-la, like Mikayla Strachan."

"Got it. Sorry to interrupt."

"No worries. Didn't mean to monopolise your girlfriend."

I shake my head. "No, just my flatmate."

She looks at me, puzzled. Maybe she knows there's only one bedroom.

"Sorry," I shout, "I'm reviewing tonight. I need to find the bands."

I turn to ask Ram, but Mikayla taps me on the shoulder. "Here's one!" She points to a cute guy standing just next to us. He looks startled to be suddenly singled out. "His name's Ted. He's the drummer."

"Thanks!" I yell to her. "Hey," I stand on tiptoes to reach his ear, "Ted right? I'm Liz, from the BBC."

His eyes widen a little and he smiles, bringing dimples to his cheeks. His teeth are slightly crooked, but he's actually quite good-looking, if far too young for me. Possibly barely out of his teens.

"Nice to meet you Liz!" He shifts his beer to his left hand in order to offer me his.

"You're in the band?" Kings of Leon are now blasting out.

He says something, but I can't make it out. I grab him by the arm, and pull him back to the corridor leading to the Green Room.

Once through the swing doors, the noise drops. Here, away from the stage lights, I realise he has the palest gray eyes, really striking.

"Sorry," I say, "I just couldn't hear you at all."

"No, that's cool. So, are you friends with Mikalya?"

"No. Ram - the engineer - is my flatmate. Why, are you?"

"Yeah, Mikayla's on my Masters course. I invited my coursemates down to watch us play, so..." He shrugs. "I don't know her that well."

"She seems nice. So, are you in Red Top Matches?"

He laughs. It lights up his face. "They're the headliners, right? No, I'm just the drummer in one of the support bands. We're up first."

"What are you called?"

He rubs his hand over his face and shifts on his feet. His embarrassment is quite endearing. "Errrr... look it wasn't my idea, okay? The drummers rarely get a say in these things. We're called The Definite Article."

"Grammar jokes? Not bad. I've heard far worse band names."

"Yeah? Like 'Free Beer'? Always looks good on the posters."

I laugh with him, putting my hand on his arm. "So, how long has the band been together?"

"Oh, well, about a year and a half really. We all met here at Uni and we're keeping it going. It's just a bit of fun. I mean, I'm hoping to join the Civil Service next year, and I'll be working stupid hours then, so... best make the most of it while I can! I mean, if Jimmy gets the job he's just applied for, he'll be off, so this may well end up being our swansong."

"What are you studying?" I should be trying to find the headliners, grab a soundbite or two, but there's no rush. I can always catch them afterwards.

"International Relations." He seems kind of bashful about it.

"You on Priory Road?"

"Yeah," he looks puzzled for a second, then the penny drops. "Of course, that's just around the corner from the BBC, isn't it?"

I smile. Not just book smart though.

"Sorry, I'm just a bit star-struck, I'm not usually this..." He shakes his hand, obviously kind of lost for words.

Star-struck? That's new. I meet listeners all the time, and they are always impressed, but it's not like I'm a TV star. Plus he really doesn't strike me as part of BBC Bristol's demographic. "You're a listener?" I ask, my eyebrows raised.

"You're Late Night Liz, right? Radio Avalon?"

"Oh my God!" Now it's my turn to be shocked. He's talking about the Glastonbury Festival Radio station. "I don't think I've ever met a listener to that except at the festival!"

"Yeah, I've been listening to you for years. My parents run a Greek street food stall there every year, and I work the counter. We always have Radio Avalon on. Now I can hear you properly, I recognised your voice." He gives me a big grin.

"Are you Greek? Is Ted short for Theodopulus?"

He laughs, bringing out his dimples and sounding so genuine. "No, Edward!" He smiles at me. "My God, I can't believe I'm meeting you. It's so strange! You've been such a feature of my summers. I... um... no, no..."

"What?" I say, intrigued.

"No, it's a bit weird."

"Oh come on, you have to tell me. I've never met a fan before!"

"Okay, okay. Um, well, I actually lost my virginity to you."

I raise my eyebrows at this. "I'm sure I'd remember, Ted."

"I mean we were listening- oh, wait you knew that." He laughs. "Yeah, so this girl Beccy was working on the stall with me, it was just us, you were playing romantic music as we were closing up, Suzanne Vega and Sandy Denny I think, and, well, yeah.... Thanks! You get the picture! That was the Thursday night and I had the best weekend ever, kind of thanks to you!"

"That's brilliant. Well, I'm happy to have helped! Have I been your wing-woman since?"

"Um, yes, actually!"

The double doors open and a dark-haired guy sticks his head through. "There you are Ted. We're on in five... maybe less now."

"Lovely to meet you Ted. Have a good gig," I say.

"Thanks. Great to meet you at long last Liz. Please tell me you'll be at Glastonbury this year?"

"Yeah, definitely. You?"

"Wouldn't miss it!"

As I follow them through to the main room, a guy introduces himself as Marty, from the headliners.

We watch the openers, The Definite Article, together. Blues rock with a couple of covers thrown in. Fun. Tight. Could do with a better singer. My eyes are most often drawn to their drummer, Ted, smiling away behind the kit. He's not showy or particularly flamboyant, happy it seems to provide a solid rhythm for the guitarist to showboat over.

I'm a little sad I don't get to chat to him again before the end of the evening.

Feist

Honey, honey out on the sea

In the doldrums thinking of me

"Who are we listening to?" Ram asks as she helps herself to a slice of veggie moussaka. Eating together at the weekend has quickly become our thing, her with a beer, me with cider. This is a Sheppey's, crisp and dry.

"Feist. The album is called The Reminder."

"It's good. I like it. Chill but catchy."

"That's what I thought." I'd been browsing at the Fopp in town and had picked up five CDs for twenty quid, a bargain really.

"Kind of make-out music," Ram says absently, then does that thing that I think is a blush, though with her colouring it's very hard to tell. Her chin dipping a bit is the major tell, but if I look closely at her lips they are often very tight.

To try to put her at ease, I laugh. "Yeah, it would work well for that," I say. I take a bite and swallow, the crunch of the celery a delicious counterpoint to the cumin-flavoured aubergine. "Don't hate me, but back in my Uni days Enya was always my go to for a make-out session."

"Why would I hate you?"

"Well," I shrug and swig my cider, "Enya; hardly trendy. But playing it on vinyl meant you only got twenty minutes or so before you had to flip sides. It was a good way of breaking things off if I wanted to."

"CDs were a real gamechanger, huh?" She laughs.

"Oh yeah. Sadly, most boyfriends couldn't keep up with the extended play time."

She laughs at that, a real laugh, rich and throaty. She has two laughs, I've noticed, the deep for-show laugh, a posing laugh, a parody of performed masculinity. She uses it a lot with bands. Then there's a lesser-heard real one, which is far more feminine. It's the laugh I'd like to hear more of.

"Yeah, Rick was never into just snogging. For him a kiss was for foreplay or for farewell. Sex is great, but I kind of miss those teenage days, before you're at the sex-stage, where it's making out and hands under shirts."

A wistful, but then immediately pained look comes in her eye. "The Grays - Macy or David," she says, "that was my go-to music at Uni for a make out session."

Neurons fire at that, making connections. My mouth opens automatically, but I am able to bite back every question I have queuing up before they sally forth. She's never spoken about Uni before. I force myself to take another bite of food instead.

Ram's not really looking at me when, by some miracle, she carries on talking. "I wasn't out and was paranoid about getting caught by somebody coming into whichever room we were in. So playing music to cover the noises was a good trick. There were also lots of make-out sessions with us keeping all our clothes on." She smiles sadly. "God I miss that."

The silence hangs. I dare not ask a question. But I don't want her to feel unacknowledged.

So I try for empathy: "Yeah, me too."

I'd meant it like missing Uni, but then I suddenly realise it might sound like I'm missing making out. Which I suddenly realise that I do. I do miss making out. Kissing. Snogging. Inhaling somebody's scent, feeling their weight, their hands, their breath on me. That closeness and intimacy.

Ram clears her throat and leans forward. "Well... it doesn't have to be in the past."

She's looking at me and... was that a proposition? Is she suggesting we could.... make out?

As if she hasn't seen the confusion on my face, she swallows her mouthful and adds. "You're a very attractive woman, I'm sure you'd have no shortage of people wanting to make out with you."

People? So she thinks I'm very attractive? My stomach feels weird. Are those butterflies or is that queasiness at the thought? The physical characteristics of fear and attraction are so very similar.

"Ditto," I manage to get back, then immediately, and uncontrollably blush, "I mean, I'm sure there are plenty of women out there that wouldn't mind a make out session with you."

She grimaces. "Yeah, well, maybe. All academic, as make out sessions aren't on the table for me."

"Sofa would be more comfortable than the table, surely?"

That laugh again. The real one.

"No really," I say, "why not?"

The silence drags on so long, I'm worried I've ruined the moment. If there was any sexual tension building up between us, that has gone. There's just tension now.

Eventually, she sighs and takes a swig of her beer. "I just can't. I can't relax enough. I'm just not comfortable with it. It brings back memories."

This time I'm on guard against myself and stop the questions coming. I really want to know what it reminds her of. Making out with her Uni girlfriend? Or something else?

But I need to let her know I'm here for her. The way she's been there for me.

"You don't have to tell me anything. But I'm here if you want to."

She nods. "Thanks," she says. She takes another sip of beer. "But I wasn't joking, you know. There's loads of people interested in you."

"What?"

"Seriously. Since you've been coming to gigs, loads of guys and a couple of girls have asked whether you're single."

"Like who?" I sit up straight, intrigued. I mean, it's always nice to know you're desirable.

And so she tells me, and we laugh and giggle and groan and blatantly objectify a bunch of the music scene's high-fliers and low-lifes who, according to Ram, I could have my pick of.

Later, lying in bed, I realise how, yet again, Ram had so skillfully diverted the conversation from herself and hidden away whatever trauma haunts her. Still she stays an enigma, a tantalising, teasing enigma.

And as I drift off, it occurs to me to wonder whether Ram was in fact propositioning me and how I don't know how to feel about that. At all.

Oh, it's you!

Walking up Gloucester Road, I've already got a good feeling about this story before I've even started. "The Community Kitchen" is a newly opened café near the arches. Not normally something we'd deem newsworthy, but in this case there's a twist, as my pal Carol always used to say. Or rather several. According to the impressive press release they've sent out, customers here pay what they want, all profits go to a local homeless shelter, and the raw materials for the kitchen are donated - or freecycled - from local supermarkets.

I had to cover the courts this morning - never my favourite task - in order to persuade the News Ed to let me run a piece on this too.

Traffic is nose to tail on the Gloucester road and there's plenty of pedestrians too. Early evening rush hour. I'm glad I took the bus down to the courts and decided to walk from there; I'd never have found anywhere to park a pool car. Huge groups of school kids in chequered skirts and maroon blazers hog the pavement, shrieking and calling to each other. Up ahead, three twenty-somethings of indeterminate sex, sporting festival hair and harem trousers, amble along at a much more leisurely pace. Posters proclaim forthcoming events and protests, gigs and raves. I catch one for a Laid Blak gig, another for Aspects, a third for Fuzz Against Junk, and chuckle to myself - a few months ago all of those would have meant nothing to me.

I'm at the cafe before I even realise it. I can't remember what it was before, but it looks cheap and cheerful, hand-painted signs dominating and announcing that customers should "pay what you feel" and that "korma for karma" is available.

Inside, paper lanterns hang from the ceiling, Tibetan prayer flags strung between them, while a large graffiti mural of the Bristolsaurus is taking shape on one wall. It's quite a deep, though narrow space, the chairs and tables all of the same style, which surprises me as I was expecting a real mismatch.

There's a queue at the counter, a right mix of people: school kids, a bunch of builders, two mums in dungarees with babies in slings. At the table right by the entrance, two guys who look like they've been sleeping rough are digging into plates piled high with rice and curry. Above them a poster proclaims which businesses have donated that week - The Whole Food Market, The Sweet Mart, Tescos, Sainsburys, Reg the Veg - quite a blend of corporate and independent.

I get out my new mp3 recorder (my minidisc having finally gone the way of the UHERs - don't miss those heavy buggers) and grab some ambient sounds to bed in the eventual piece.

Making sure my BBC lanyard is clearly visible, I start vox popping the people in the queue. Getting people while they are waiting for something else is often the best time to get them to speak, I find. Also, if I establish a connection with them now, hopefully they won't mind me interrupting them later to get their verdict on the food and ethos of the place.

"Excuse," I say to one of the mums, "Liz Bradford from BBC Radio. Can I ask if you've been here before?"

"Yes.."

And so it goes. Most are willing to talk, my smile being enough to entice even the shy schoolboys to have a chat.

Eventually, I make it to the front and encounter a wide smile and a pair of striking pale eyes.

"Oh, it's you!" Ted and I say together.

He has a lovely laugh I decide. God, if only I was ten years younger...

"What can I get you, Liz of my late nights?" he asks.

"One interview please, with a side of backstory?"

He laughs again, loud, full of delight, as if my rubbish witticism was pure gold. "I'd love to. How much of a rush are you in?"

"None at all."

"Well, let me get you some food while you wait?"

"Sure, what would you recommend for a vegetarian that can't eat wheat?"

"Hmmmm. Rice and veggie korma sound good?"

It tastes as good as it sounds. I grab one of the few free tables and start scarfing it down, but then slow as I realise what a taste sensation it is, a fabulous mix of sweet and savoury, notes of cardamom popping up amongst the almond and fenugreek. I don't want to take up space, but almost as soon as I have finished, Ted pops up to invite me back into the staff area.

"Planet will cover the counter for a bit, so let me show you around."

He leads me into the oddly equipped kitchen, full of steam and scent.

"This is Crystal, she's our head chef," he says, introducing me to a large, cheerful looking lady. "Crystal, this is Liz, from BBC Radio Bristol, here to do a piece on us."

"Aw Gawd, don't make it too good, will ya? We're run off our feet as it is!"

"Lovely to meet you," I say, "can I ask you a few questions?"

"You can ask!" she laughs.

"What's your name and what's your role?" I lead with.

"I'm Crystal Lopez, and I'm the Head Chef 'ere at The Community Kitchen."

"What have you been cooking today, Crystal?"

"Well, we had a load of chicken from Tescos, and Reg the Veg donated a load of seasonal veg, so I've been making korma, served with rice from the SweetMart. But there's also muffins, an apple crumble, some pies - I'm particularly proud of the sweet potato and okra one - and a mezze platter. But it'll be something different tomorrow!"

"Brilliant, thanks! Have you had any media training! That was a great answer!"

She laughs at that and points at Ted. "That's this one's fault. 'E's been priming us all to name drop the donors and keep 'em happy. We 'ad the Evening Post up 'ere yesterday n'all."

I talk to the other two kitchen staff, one of whom is homeless and the other a volunteer, before Ted takes me into the office.

"So, what's your role in all this Ted? Are you the manager?"

"Well, no I'm one of the directors," he looks kind of bashful admitting this, "basically, some friends and I started this food distribution programme at Uni, as part of the SCA - that's Student Community Action," he helpfully supplies, though I did know that, "and we had so much surplus, so we wondered if we could use that to start a café. We spoke to the donors, and they were happy with that, so then it was just a case of putting together a business plan and finding a location. Kieran's actually the manager - he's here full time - I just cover his day off. We're salaried, though it's minimum wage. Profits are going to go to the Jamaica Street homeless shelter. We're looking at trying to offer work and training to residents there... we're getting a lot of customers from there! Crystal's looking into it."

We record an interview back there; he is, as I thought he would be, articulate and well-spoken. Slightly posh, which might alienate some of our listeners. I don't think he means to be, but he has a mildly condescending air to him.

"So, will I see you again?" he asks as I go.

"Well," I say, "if I'm in the area, I'm sure I'll pop in for more food and to support the cause."

Somehow, that doesn't seem to be the answer he was after. He looks slightly crestfallen, like a lonely puppy. I give him a warm hug goodbye and cheek kiss to make up for it, which brings his smile back straightaway.

Boys. They are so simple sometimes.

Piercings

It's one of those delightful sunny Autumn days, an Indian Summer as the tabloids love to call it, and I'm stretching on the decking, enjoying the warmth of the evening sun on my skin.

"Hey Liz," Ram says, as she steps out from the kitchen to join me, two glasses of iced water in her hands. "Want a drink?"

"Thanks, lover. What time is the gig?"

"Oh, I doubt the first band will start until 8:30. No rush."

I nod. Good. With weather this lovely, I'm in no hurry to be inside, as excited as I am to hear Joe Volk play. We've both been playing his album a lot.

"Nice piercing, looks good on you."

I'm in lycra running shorts and sports bra. My belly button, complete with sparkly half-hoop is on display.

"Oh, thanks. Have you not seen it before?"

She shakes her head. "Don't think so? Got any more," she adds with a grin.

"No. Just in the ears. How about you?"

"No, just these." She gestures at her face. She never wears much of a range of jewellery, pretty much the same bars through her eyebrows, the same heavy-looking septum ring.

"What?" she asks.

I blush - she must have seen me staring.

"You don't like them?" she asks.

Oh shit. I don't want to lie but I don't want to hurt her feelings. "Well, I wouldn't wear them, but you make them work for you. Especially the eyebrow bars. They look cool."

"So, you don't like this then, huh?" she says, tapping her nose ring.

I shrug. "It doesn't matter what I think, does it Ram? It's how it makes you feel."

"Hmmmm. True."

* * *

Walking through the courtyard into the Folk House, I see a familiar figure in the queue. There's something about his stance, and his artfully tousled hair that allows me to recognise him from the back. When he turns his head to talk to the girl next to him, allowing me to see his profile, I know I'm right in recognising Ted.

I step forward and run my finger down his spine. He spins and smiles.

"Hello lover," I say, "nice to see you again so soon."

"Hey! Liz! Wow! Great to see you."

"Likewise. Here to see Joe Volk?"

"I guess so. Mikayla suggested it."

He gestures to the dark-haired girl next to him, who looks familiar. Ram's smiling at her and they must have exchanged some words, and I realise she's the same girl who was there at the Fleece.

"Nice to see you again," I say, as she leans in for cheeks kisses.

"Likewise," she says.

We pay, chat to the Tin Hut promoter Tony, briefly, and find a table. Ram and Mikayla go to get drinks.

"So, I'm mildly miffed you didn't invite me along," Ted says, "I mean, that's kind of why I made sure you had my mobile number."

Oooooo, is he flirting with me? He's way too young... but a little love affair, a short fling, shouldn't hurt. Might help me soothe the bruises of the breakup with Rick.

"Sorry, I'm just here for the music. Joe Volk has my heart," I deadpan.

"Who?" He actually looks around, bless him.

"The headliner. Joe Volk? Who I presume you've come to see?"

"Nah. I just came because Mikayla told me you'd be here."

I make no effort to hide my smile: he's so refreshingly upfront, no games, no hiding what he's after.

"Have you ever not got what you want?" I ask.

"I wanted a pink tutu when I was four, so I could be like Angelina Ballerina, but my mum wouldn't get one for me."

He's so serious when he says this, that I can't help but laugh.

"Don't mock me," he says, hand on heart, as if hurt, "the pain was real."

"Sorry, I was laughing in sympathy."

"I doubt that." His smile really is lovely. He's so cute. It really does feel like cradle snatching though.

"Seriously though, when did you last fail at something Ted?"

He looks puzzled, as if he isn't quite sure what I'm asking.

"Indulge me, Ted, please. I'm curious. I want to know how hard you'll work for something you want or whether you're used to everything just falling in your lap." Or everyone, I think to myself.

"Er.... well, I had to take my driving test three times. Though, the first time it was cancelled because of snow, and the second time because the indicator wand snapped off in my hand just before we started. So it wasn't like I failed, but it did mean I had to wait an extra three months before I passed. Does that count?"

"Barely," I laugh.

Ram and Mikayla finally return with drinks. I wonder why they lingered so long over getting them. I really can't imagine. Not.

The conversation turns to Ted and Mikayla's International Relations course. They both have the same ambition: to get into the European Civil Service based in Brussels. But it is super competitive, with several rounds of exams and aptitude tests before they even get to face to face interviews. Mikayla, it turns out, studied Law with French at University, even spending a year abroad in Strasbourg. Ted was here at Bristol for his bachelor degree, in Economics, but did French and German for A Level and has been keeping his languages up at exchange events.

Ah, well, so a short term fling is still a possibility, but that's all it will be, if he plans to be away next year.

I briefly wonder about what's between Ram and Mikayla. Is this a date for them too? Or are they friends trying to play matchmaker for Ted and me? And if they are on a date, how will that work out with Mikayla also planning a future elsewhere?

I'm playing the tease, touching Ted when I can, smiling, laughing, but refusing to compliment him, letting him fish without giving him a bite, but graciously absorbing all the flattery he flings my way. I wonder how much of his interest has to do with what I do, as a broadcaster, rather than who I am and what I look like. If I was his age, and on his course, would he give me a second glance?

Do I care? Surely, if he was just after my looks, rather than my status, that would be even more shallow, right?

The music starts, the always lovely Rachael Dadd singing her beautiful, bucolic melodies, and so the conversation shuts down. This is not the music and not the venue to chat through performers.

But neither Ted nor I miss the furtive and occasionally blatant glances we shoot each other. I grin back regularly. Especially when Rachael sings my favourite song of hers, "No sleep in the meadow":

You have charmed the blood in my veins, boy

She really could be headlining. Has headlined. I get the promoter's logic - put the visiting out-of-town act on between two well-known local performers, to ensure people get there early and stay until the end. But it still angers me a little that the only female musician is on first.

In the break between performers, it's Ted's turn to head to the bar to get drinks. He gallantly waves off my offer to assist.

"He's single, you know," Mikayla informs me.

"Not for long," says Ram.

"If he's very, very lucky," I reply.

Mikayla looks impressed. "Seriously good attitude, Liz. I swear, it's kind of gross how some of the girls swoon over him in the seminars. I mean, it helps that he's a genuinely nice guy. You know he's taking the Feminism in International Relations unit? Only guy on the course! But yeah, it's refreshing to see somebody not just fall at his feet."

"Well, it probably helps that he was still in nappies when I lost my virginity."

Ram chuckles as Mikayla's mouth hangs open. "What!? What the hell is your secret? You look so young!?"

"Oh bless you, you're so sweet."

I really, really want to turn this back on them and ask if this is a double date, but don't dare.

"Does Ted, er, know how much older you are?" Mikayla asks.

"Well, he said he's been listening to me on Avalon FM at Glastonbury for the last decade, so presumably he knows I'm at least a decade older. He might not realise I'm thirty eight."

"Thirty eight! Fuck, I thought you meant thirty three or something." Mikayla says.

"Oi! I was sixteen when I lost my virginity. I mean, rural life gets dull at times, but I wasn't that desperate!"

"What did I miss?" asks Ted, returning with the drinks.

"Liz was just saying how she wasn't that desperate," Ram supplies. I can't decide whether it's a helpful or unhelpful comment. But the way Ted's face falls is just comical and sets Mikayla off laughing. I take pity on him.

"The context was talking about being a teeanger in West Wales."

"Oh." He definitely brightens, and smiles at me over his pint.

He really does have very lovely eyes. And dimples.

We hush ourselves as the next act, Vijay Kishore, takes the stage. His voice is just sublime and has me hanging on every word. After he finishes, I dash over to speak to him and grab a quick interview. Sadly, he's from Birmingham, otherwise I'd have loved to have included him in the feature (Rachael and Joe have already been lined up for later episodes). Still, I'll keep the interview in the bank, and play it in advance of his next gig here in the West Country. I might even see if I can find somebody at the BBC in Birmingham I can nudge in his direction.

Joe Volk is predictably lovely, though having him follow Vijay was perhaps a mistake - his voice is warm and mellow, but doesn't have the fireworks of Vijay's. But his phrasing is sublime and his lyrics just lie beyond my comprehension, giving the sense of something deeper.

"Wow," says Ted afterwards, once we've gathered coats and said goodbye to the staff, "I never realised that there was such talent in Bristol. I'm kind of kicking myself that I haven't been to more gigs here. I didn't even know this place existed, but I must have walked down Park Street a hundred times and not noticed."

"Hey," I reply, "I've lived in Bristol for nine years, yet only really found the local music scene this summer, thanks to Ram here."

"I'm parked down this way," Mikayla says, "shall I give you all a lift?"

"Where do you live?" I ask.

"Westbury-on-Trym."

"Oooo, fancy!" I say.

"I'm back with my parents this year. It's their car too."

Ted climbs in the back with me, which is interesting.

"So," he says, keeping his voice lower than the music Mikayla is playing, "any other gigs you'd recommend going to?"

"Oh lots: tune in to the Best in the West next week to find out."

He laughs. Clearly he enjoys being teased. "Any I might find you at?"

"Well," I say, "I'm planning on being at The Cube this Saturday."

"The cinema?"

"Yeah. Bronnt Industries Kapital are doing a live soundtrack set."

"Are they any good?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?"

I catch his grin in the streetlight.

"No," he admits, "how are you going to get there?"

"I'll probably walk. It's not far."

"Can I walk with you?"

"Sure thing," I say.

"Ted," Mikayla calls, "this is you."

"Oh yeah, thanks. Well, thank you all, I've had a lovely evening. See you tomorrow Mikayla, nice to meet you again Ram. Liz, see you Saturday." He leans in and kisses me on both cheeks. He smells nice, fresh, and slightly spicy. "Bye."

"Bye Ted."

He shuts the door and Mikayla pulls off, as I take in where we are.

"He lives in Goldney?" I ask. This is only five minutes from Ram's flat.

"Yeah. He's a resident tutor there, so he gets really cheap rent."

"Ah."

In next to no time, Mikayla is dropping us off. "Thanks so much," I say, as I climb out, "lovely to meet you properly."

I wait for Ram to get out. She takes her time. I'm not sure, but it looks like she leans over and kisses Mikayla on the cheek before she does.

Maybe it was a double date.

An opportunity

Swallowing and wiping my hands on my skirt, I knock on the door to Tim's office.

"Come in."

I push open the door. "Hi Liz, have a seat."

"Thanks. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry, it's all good news." I must be unsuccessful at hiding my nerves then.

"Oh, great."

"So, the latest RAJAR figures are in and, interestingly, there seems to be a spike of listeners in the Monday drive time slot, just before Best in the West airs. In fact, John's been following that package with some local music and managing to sustain that growth in listenership right through to the end of drive time."

"Brilliant! That's great! So, you'll be extending the feature then?"

He chuckles. "Yes, I think that's a given."

"Thank you! That's fantastic." I start to stand up, my mind already running through the list of artists I haven't yet featured but really wanted to.

"Hang on Liz! I haven't finished."

I slowly lower myself back down.

"Supporting local bands really fits with the public service remit and, seeing as it's proving popular with the listeners, it would be good to lean into it."

I nod, wondering what's coming next.

"So, given that you have been our point person on this, I want you to present a new magazine style show on local music. A two hour version of Best in the West."

I am thirty eight. I squeal like an eight-year-old at Christmas.

"Oh my God Tim, I could hug you right now! That's so exciting! When can we start? Who will produce? What's the slot?"

He laughs kindly. "No hugs please. Union rules." But he looks very touched. I guess it isn't very often he gets to give good news, so he's enjoying the moment almost as much as I am. "As to the slot, I was thinking 8pm to 10pm, before Bags; what do you think? Any thoughts on the day? I want to avoid clashing with Star's Bristol Uncovered, but otherwise I'm open to suggestions."

I think for a moment. "Mid-week? Wednesday? Listeners are starting to think about what they'd like to do that weekend, which is when most concerts will be, so if we're looking ahead..." I let my suggestion hang there.

Tim purses his lips, then nods in agreement. "Yes, sounds good. Let me talk to the schedule committee. I can't imagine Steve will sulk about getting a night off mid-week, but best he hears it from me rather than the rumour mill, so keep quiet for now. Once I've spoken to him, you can sound out producers, though obviously Rebecca will now be available then."

"Cool. So, you're thinking interviews, live guests, first plays, previews of shows coming up, live sessions?"

"Well, this isn't Maida Vale. But yes, if artists can perform with what we have here, then sure, do live sessions. We'll need to talk to legal about rights to the recordings, but I'm sure we can work something out."

"Fantastic." I pause for a moment, just trying to think whether I have any other questions, when an idea pops into my head. "Could I have a co-presenter? Somebody from the local scene? It would help give it more credibility. I mean, I think I've got a reasonable rep, but I've only been involved for a few months."

"Mmmmmm. It's a possibility. Again, we'd need to talk to HR. Did you have somebody in mind?"

"Ramona Kato. She's a local sound engineer and promoter. Very well liked and respected on the scene. Absolute natural in front of a microphone."

He looks doubtful. Don't say it, I think, don't say it. I know what he's thinking: wouldn't it be better to get a male voice, as most music fans are men and it would help with credibility?

"She'd be a real asset with the live sessions, being a techie and all," I add quickly.

"Okay, bring her in and record a test show. We'd want to do that anyway. We'll see how she sounds."

The Cube

I see Ted before he sees me, standing there just inside the door, sipping a drink and looking nervous.

Mischievously, I wait to let a couple of other people pass me, then use them to shield me from his view. I successfully manage to sneak behind him, and run my finger down his spine.

"Wotcha, lover!"

"Liz! Lovely to see you." His big smile brings out his dimples. He goes in for a hug and a double kiss. He smells lovely and his warmth after the chill of the evening air is very welcome. I'm struck by the sudden thought of how wonderful it is to be around somebody for whom physical touch is not a complicated issue.

"You too Ted!" I say as brightly as I can, my mouth somewhat muffled by his scarf.

"I love your hat," he says. It's a soft top-hat, bedecked with band badges. A charity shop find. I like to think it's jaunty.

"Thank you! Ram was teasing me about it." I don't tell him she said it made me look like I was trying to pass as a teenager.

"It looks cool. Listen, I hope this doesn't come across as presumptuous, but I've bought you a ticket. I wanted to make sure we were sitting together."

"Aw, that's sweet of you. But you know it's not allocated seating, right? So I can just sit on the other side."

His face falls.

"I'm teasing!" I step to one side to let more people pass. "That was very sweet of you Ted. Let me pay you back."

"No, it's okay, don't worry."

I won't push it. He's a student. I'm not rich, but I earn a very good salary, enough to keep paying the mortgage on my old house with Rick while it's on the market and pay rent to Ram. But I'll let him have his pride.

"That's kind of you. Let me get the next drink though, okay?"

"If you like."

We find our way to the bar and grab drinks, then look for somewhere to stand in the packed lobby of the single screen arthouse cinema.

I'm just debating suggesting we head out to the garden, when I hear a "Hey Liz!" Miles comes over and starts chatting, soon joined by other gig goers I know. I introduce Ted, but I can see all this male attention is making him look a little angsty.

"Nice to see you all," I say, when the doors open and people start threading through to the auditorium, "enjoy the show."

It's a good one. Not something I'd normally listen to, but the hypnotic, mildly menacing soundtrack fits the imagery of the selected silent clips well.

"Wow, that was different," says Ted as we file out.

"Yeah!" I say, "I'm just discovering this world too."

"So," he says, once we're out. "Can I walk you back? Maybe get a drink on the way home somewhere?"

"Sure," I say.

"So, where are you from Ted?" I ask.

"Rye, down in Sussex. How about you?"

"Ealing, originally, then..."

We go back and forth, learning about ourselves, though skirting carefully our age difference. It's the normal dance of flirtation, but after the one-sided nature of my conversations with Ram, it's a bit of a relief. Not that Ram and I flirt, of course.

He's good at it too, paying attention to my answers, asking follow ups, never hogging the floor too long. Maybe I'm being too cynical. Maybe he actually is like this. When he starts talking about Cynthia Enloe and Judith Stiehm, whom I've never heard of, I remember he's taking the optional feminism unit with Mikayla, and I realise that perhaps this really is who he is.

When I ask if his parents were feminists, he replies, "Oh, it was my English teacher actually. Ms Ewing. She was great. I remember when one of the boys in the class protested at why we should be talking about feminism, she asked him whether he thought women should have the right to vote. Obviously, he said yes. Then she asked the class if anyone disagreed. Clearly, none of us did. Then she said, "Well, then you're all feminists. The only question is to what degree." That really stuck with me."

We pass several pubs on our way up Park Row and the Triangle to Clifton, but I'm not really interested in stopping.

So when Ted asks if I want to stop to get a drink, I tease him a little.

"Yeah, sure, but not here."

"Did you have somewhere in mind then?" he asks.

"My place," I say.

That momentarily has him lost for words.

"Or we can stop here instead, if you prefer," I say, pointing to a pub down the road.

"No, no, your place sounds great," he's quick to say.

"Oh, sorry. Did you think I was inviting you back?"

The downcast look on his face is so comical, I have to laugh.

"Sorry, Ted. I couldn't resist."

And then, under a street light, I turn to him, stand on tip toes and pull his head down to me for a kiss.

His lips are cracked, but gentle, his breath sweet and his tongue teases rather than thrusts. Not the greatest first kiss, but pretty good, an eight out of ten maybe. It's getting my blood pumping alright.

As I pull his body towards me, I can feel that it's certainly getting a reaction from him. Blood pumping in all the right places there too.

He really does smell quite delicious.

When I pull away, my calves no longer wanting to take the strain of bridging the height gap between us, he stands there for a moment, eyes closed, seeming to savour it.

"Wow," he finally says, "you're a great kisser."

We never get those drinks; instead, after a long time snogging on the porch, in the hallway, in the bedroom, my mouth almost rubbed raw by the end, the remains of my lipstick smeared over his, we finally fall, naked, onto the double bed.

"God, you're so gorgeous," he gasps into my stomach, kissing me there as my hands explore his firm, muscular shoulders.

"Do I need a condom?" he asks.

God, I haven't done this in so long. I'd completely forgotten. I've got a coil in, but you know, better to be safe. "Probably best," I moan.

We writhe and clutch at each other more, his hands finding their way up my slippery thighs.

"Um... do you have any?" he asks.

"No. You?"

"No. I really didn't think I'd get anywhere. Should have come prepared!"

"Bollocks," I say, "couldn't you have been more cocky?"

"I'm pretty cocky now," he says, sitting up, so I can see his erection, sticking straight out from his tuft of hair.

I reach for it, feel it throb in my hand. My insides are clenching and squirming with desire, almost spasming already. His fingers find my cleft, and with surprising delicacy, he slips a finger inside.

"Mmmm," I say. Then, as his thumb seeks my clit but just finds my urethra, I whisper, "a little higher. That's it. Not too hard."

Ooooh. He's quite good at that. Lightly making a ring with my thumb and forefinger, I stroke the soft, silky head of his cock.

"I've got an IUD in. I won't get pregnant," I gasp, "I had the same sexual partner for the last eight years. I'm pretty sure I'm clean. You?"

"Ahhhhh... oh God. Um.... I've been single since... ah.... July... but she was on the pill... I had a test two years ago, all negative."

Fuck I'm so horny.

"But, it's okay," he gasps, "we don't have to... I wasn't expecting... besides, if you keep doing that..."

"Doing what?" I say innocently. His fingers in me have almost stopped moving, as I start moving my own even faster. "This?"

"Yeah..."

"How about if I do this?" I shuffle closer to him, so my boobs are under the head of his cock. I bend his penis down, so the end of it, leaking goo, is rubbing against my nipple. No idea why guys like this so much, but Rick always accepted this as an alternative to swallowing. "Or this?" I say, bring my free hand up to my other nipple, which I start to tug and pull, while gazing up at him adoringly, biting my bottom lip.

He looks stunned and very turned on. I guess University girls don't have much game in this area.

He seems to suddenly realise he's not returning the favour and starts to move his finger in me again and clumsily brush my clit with his thumb.

"Let go, Ted, cum for me," I say, as seductively as I can. The lactic acid is starting to build up in my arm. I don't want this to go on for too long. "Cum for me. Right here."

With a groan, he lets loose a glob of white cum over my nipple, the heat of it searing for a brief moment. A second spurt hits my other boob, and then a puddle of semen is pooling and rapidly cooling in my cleavage.

I moan, half meaning it.

"Oh God, Liz, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I say, quite turned on now. His finger is actually doing good work, finding a great spot inside me. "Keep going."

His cum is running down my sternum to my belly button, though most is between my breasts.

I let go of his cock, and gently move his thumb out of the way, furiously frigging myself with two fingers either side of my clit and finding instantly the perfect pressure to clench down on his finger and... "Fuck yes, Ted, uh, uh, uh, UH!"

I slump back onto the bed, twisting my arm and wrist to try to relieve the strain. "Mmm," I say, "that was a good one."

He cleans me up with tissues and then fetches me a warm flannel from the bathroom. I watch his tender attention, slightly bemused. Are all young men like this? I wonder. It's been so long since I was last single.

Then, in another surprise, he climbs in behind me, covers us with the duvet and spoons me, gently kissing my neck and shoulders, stroking my sides, and telling me how gorgeous I am.

In a further surprise, he's still there in the morning.

Testing, testing

"So it's just like the sound desks you're used to, only simpler as all we are worrying about is the three microphones and lines in. I mean, maybe we'll do some live sessions at some point but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it." I'm showing Ram broadcast studio 2, which we'll be using, trying to get her comfortable.

The BBC is not the most diverse workplace and with her height and hairstyle, she'd stand out anywhere. It's funny, I'm so used to seeing her at home, or at gigs, where she's known and respected and valued, that I've come to see her as confident and commanding: out in the open plan office, she'd been a different creature, her shoulders hunched, her hands held in front of her.

Now it's just us, and we're talking tech, I can see her starting to relax.

"Hmmmm," she muses, reaching out and running her hands over it. "Yeah that'll be fine if it's just a couple of singers and an acoustic, but if we want a full band, it would be better to use a separate mixer, run a line out into the aux input here. There's not much in terms of graphic equaliser here, and the monitoring output is limited to these headphones, which won't stretch far."

I smile at her. I'm glad she's already picturing that. "Yeah, but we are limited by space. We might be able to put bands next door in Studio 1, but I think full drum kits are going to be beyond us."

"So no booking Soeza then?"

I laugh. They are a band known for performing with two drum kits. "Probably not."

I let her play with it a bit more. "The key thing is to remember to mute microphones when we're playing a track."

She nods at me.

"So," I continue, "I was thinking we could take it for a test drive."

"Yeah? Oh, now?"

"If that's okay. I've got a stack of CDs, and I've written a script - though we can ad lib of course - and even brought my guitar. We can pretend I'm a guest."

"Okay. Yeah. Sure."

"Great! We'll record it, listen back, get some feedback and then do a proper demo."

"What, so this isn't going to be a demo?"

"No, think of it like a technical rehearsal - you ever done any theatre?"

"Yeah, actually, that's how I started with sound engineering."

Oh, I'm so desperate to ask more, to follow up and find out. But that's not why we're here.

We get set up, load the first CDs, I go and grab my guitar. Then I press play on the programme jingle and we're go.

"Welcome to Best in the West, with me, Liz Bradford..." I side eye Ram.

".. and me, Ramona Kato. Tonight we've a live set from none other than luscious lovely Liz," I nearly guffaw at Ram's easy ad libbing, "news and previews of upcoming concerts in Bristol and the surrounding area. But first..."

As I suspected, she's a natural.

* * *

Later, I ask her if she's ever done radio before.

"I had an Afrobeat show on Fuse at University with my friend Charity." Her face had started smiling, but it's frowning by the end of that phrase. I don't push.

"Well, you sounded great. We'll listen back, but there's not a lot I would change. You got the concept of back-announcing straightaway, and I thought we had a good patter. Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes," this brings back the smile, "yes I did. Thanks for asking."

"Great! So, I was thinking next week for the demo then, if Tim agrees which I'm sure he will, you need to meet with HR to work out a contract."

"Wait, so I'll be paid?"

"Oh yes!" I grin. "I mean, you won't be able to quit your day job, but this is the BBC not student radio: they have to compensate you."

"Cool!"

* * *

Much later, I google Fuse. Turns out it's Manchester Uni's student radio station.

Ted

Ted gazes up at me from between my thighs, his eyes hungry and full of desire. His tongue is circling my clit, causing me to convulse. Too much, too soon, too direct. I'd been enjoying it when he was tongue-fucking me, but now he wants me to climax. It seems like a point of pride to him to try to get me off orally, something nobody has ever managed, but in his dedication, he's doing the opposite, pushing too hard.

I reach down and grab his shoulders.

"Fuck me, please," I hiss.

Disappointment and desire war in his eyes, but he acquiesces. He always does. He is so eager to please.

I reach down a hand to line up his condom-clad cock, not quite fully hard, but definitely stiff enough, as he shuffles forward on his knees. He slips inside easily, the saliva he's left behind lubing me up, and I sigh as he fills me.

He grabs the top of the bed above my head for leverage, and my hip with his other hand, as his young, strong body stretches above me, my toy-boy Adonis.

"I love your hips, they are so sexy," he purrs as he thrusts into me, "and your shoulders, so smooth, so sleek."

A flush builds in me. I pull him down for a kiss, tasting my tanginess on his lips and breath. I reach down a hand between us as he pumps his waist, sliding a finger either side of my clit. Pushing him up - and I can never concentrate when I'm being kissed - I try to focus on my orgasm, firmly swishing my fingers from side to side, brushing my clit with the surrounding skin, picking up the pace as Ted pounds into me. I close my eyes and try to think only of the pressure building just below my belly button, warm and throbbing. I start to gasp.

"God you look so sexy," Ted whispers at me. He likes to talk, tell me how good-looking I am. It's kind of sweet, but at times like this I wish he'd shut up.

He's setting a good rhythm though, and the buzz is building now to where it might just burst if he can keep this up. My nipples feel like they could cut glass and I feel his fingers, stroking them lightly. Yes, just like that, I think, and then as I move my fingers more firmly, more furiously, I convulse, my insides shaking and snapping back into place, the pressure rebounding and bouncing inside me as I cum.

"Fuck, Ted." I feel him pulse and throb within me, a sudden hotter heat, fading almost instantly, as he collapses onto me, then seeks my mouth for a kiss.

"Mmmm," I moan into his mouth. "A simi," I say with a smile, gasping for air, "good work gorgeous."

He really is a most excellent lover.

But what are we? This is the sixth time we've ended up in bed together. Is this just a fling? And for how long?

He kisses me again, then carefully pulls out, before tying off the condom and wrapping it in tissue.

Not terribly sexy. We've both made appointments with our doctors to get tested so we can do away with them. I tell myself that it's nothing to do with Ted, or how long we might or might not be together for. I'd need to do it anyway.

After we've cleaned up and dressed, he makes us both a mug of tea in his shared student kitchen. Ginger for me, which he'd bought especially on my account. "So," he says, "my sister Elaine's staying next weekend. She's considering applying for Bristol and wants to visit to check it out."

"Okay." So he's telling me he's not available then. Fine. No biggie. "What does she want to study?"

"She's thinking Psychology or perhaps English. She actually wants to be a teacher, but needs to do her degree first before doing her PGCE."

"Right." My God, I'm shagging a guy whose little sister is still in her teens. Wow. I'm old enough to be both their parents, just.

"Anyway, I was wondering if there were any good gigs on we could take her to in the evening?"

We?

"I'm sorry, you want me to meet your sister?" I ask.

"Um, yeah. Why wouldn't I?" He seems genuinely confused. "I mean, you're amazing. Why wouldn't I want to introduce you to people?"

I blink at him in surprise. Then smile. That brings out his dimples in return.

Pretty soon, our clothes are back on the floor and he's tearing open another condom packet.

First show

The weather tonight, cloudy with light rain, highs of 9 degrees. Should be sunny tomorrow.

I listen to the end of Kate's bulletin on the headphones, then hit the show intro.

"Wednesdays, 8 'til 10, with live music, news and interviews, it's the very Best of the West live with Liz Bradford and Ramona Kato." It's frantic and frilly and a little silly, but I hope it sounds fun. I've already asked various musos to make their own versions.

"Evening all, I'm Liz Bradford."

"And I'm Ramona Kato."

"This is Best of the West."

"And this is "She's everywhere" by Strangelove."

Ram mutes the mics and fades down the bed as I hit play.

Her grin is massive.

Saturday night autumn 2006

"Liz? What do you think?" Ramona stands shyly in the doorway to the sitting room. She's been in the bathroom for a while getting ready.

My fingers still themselves on the guitar strings. "My God girl, you look stunning! She's going to love it!"

It's no empty platitude. She really does look amazing. And nothing like the Ramona I'm used to. For starters, she's in a dress, something I have never seen her in, a figure-hugging black wrap with gold patterning. It's gorgeous on her, flaunting her sculpted arms. A long gold chain dangles about her neck, with matching chains hanging from her ear-rings. She's taken out her septum ring and put small sparkly hoops in her eyebrows. Gold eyeshadow and lipstick completes and compliments the look. In high heels, she's even taller than ever. It's a stunning transformation.

"Really? You think so? I haven't worn a dress or heels for years."

"Ramona, you are gorgeous in overalls, but this is just beautiful. Where are you headed?"

"Whiteladies - Mikayla's coming from Westbury, so it's kind of a midpoint."

Mikayla? The name rings a bell. "Ted's coursemate, right? The brunette with the mullet?"

Ramona laughs. "Yeah, that's right. Except she's gone blonde and pixie cut now. She was also at that Local Kid gig - the one with Men Diamler and Bella Emerson?"

"Oh yeah. She seemed sweet."

"She really, really is," Ramona's grin is a mile wide.

"So, where did you meet her?" Immediately, I regret asking. I can see Ramona start to shut down.

But then something odd happens. It's as if she's a flag that suddenly unfurls, snapping in the wind. She seemingly straightens.

"We met at University. But she was a year behind and had a year abroad too. She's now here at Bristol doing a Masters. I'm hoping we can get back to where we were."

And back together, I think to myself. "Great," I say out loud, "have a wonderful time."

"Thanks," she says. She has this odd, bashful air to her I've never heard from her before. "You meeting Ted?"

"Yeah. We're going to the Unplugged at the Lansdown. Roger Tarry's playing. Is it okay if he stays over here afterwards?"

"Of course. You know you don't have to ask!"

"Thanks!" Single beds in student halls lose their charm quickly. I slide my fingers down the guitar strings again. My calluses are starting to come back, I've been playing a lot more lately. Need to trim my nails though.

She grabs her jacket and a handbag - something I didn't know she owned - and turns to go. "Oh wait, I forgot. Speaking of people staying: next Saturday I said I could put up a band from France called Crevecoeur. Would you be able to stay at Ted's that night? I'll take your room, they can have the big room?"

Single bed it is then! "Oh no, a night with my sexy young toyboy! Woe is me! How will I cope?" I throw my hand over my forehead in mock distress. "Yeah, I'll ask him. Where are they playing?"

"In one of the halls of residence, weirdly enough. I need to find out whether we can go or if it's a private thing."

"Oh, is it not your gig?" Now not having heard about it makes more sense, as I'm often involved these days.

"Nah, just helping out."

"You're too kind, putting up all these waifs and strays."

She smiles at me. "Just... karma." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Stands still for a moment. Then nods at me and goes out the door.

My fingers return to the strings and Little Plastic Castle.

That night, 12:30am

The slamming door jolts me awake. Ted sits bolt upright next to me.

I hear keys in the lock and tense. His hand is on my shoulder, a reassuring presence.

I hear a door open, but it's not the one that leads here. The kitchen door slams.

"Was that...?" Ted starts.

"Yeah," I blow out a breath as my heart rate starts to come down. I'm going to be twitchy for a while now. "Damn. Ram's date clearly didn't go well."

"Ram had a date?" Like me, Ted is extremely curious about my enigmatic host and co-presenter. We've had fun making up preposterous back stories for her - she's actually from Wakanda; she's on a witness protection programme; she's an undercover police officer - but I try not to share anything real with him, so I silently curse myself.

He lies back down and wraps his arms around me. He's a very tactile person. One of the many things I appreciate about him.

Thump. Thump. Duh-da. Thump. Duh-da.

He props himself back up on an elbow and leans over me, listening.

"Is she...?" he begins.

"Yeah," I reply, "she's using the punchbag."

"Oh." He lies back down. "Must have gone really badly then."

"Yeah." I breathe out. My mind is racing. What the hell happened? Or did she just invest so much hope in this that the lack of a kiss represents an intense failure?

The thumping continues. Maybe I should go and check on her?

"Do you think you should go and see if she's okay?" Ted asks.

I roll over and kiss him. "Keep being a good guy, Ted."

I shuffle down the bed and pull on my dressing gown, slip my feet into my slippers. Then, tying the sash, I unlock the door to my half of the flat and try the kitchen door. She hasn't locked it.

I flick on the lights and stumble in the sudden glare.

The thumps are louder here, and between them I hear something else. Sobbing.

"Ram?" I call gently, wary of both her and our neighbours. "Ram, honey, it's me, Liz. Are you okay?"

The thumping stops. I hear footsteps coming closer and the door to the living room opens.

She has clearly been crying, her eyes swollen, and her dress is torn. She's barefoot and there's a large bandage around her right knee, under the ripped hem.

"Oh my God, Ram, what happened? Are you okay?"

Without thinking, I walk towards her, arms out, wanting to embrace her, to hold her and offer comfort.

Her thrust out hands bring me to a standstill. "I'm okay. I'm fine. Sorry to disturb you Liz."

"Liar. You are clearly not fine," I say, taking her state in. This close, and with my eyes now more adjusted to the light, I can see what looks like a large lump on her lip. "Sorry, Ram, but you really look like you need a hug right now."

To my shock, she nods and swallows, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. "Yes," her voice cracks, "yes, I really do."

I step forward again, but she steps back, gasping, "no, no, no", and I stop.

"Here, um, maybe, if... just turn around Liz," she says.

Confused, I comply. She steps up behind me, sobbing. Then her arms go carefully around me, her hands covering mine. I can feel her shaking into my back, feel her tears falling on my neck as she leans right over me, her warm weight pressing into me. Her arms tighten and I stand there, fighting the urge to reach up and stroke her head or to cover her hands with mine, to give comfort, but to do so will have the opposite effect.

Instead, as she weeps I whisper to her how she's safe, how she's loved, how wonderful she is, how she doesn't deserve this.

Eventually, she allows me to make her some tea. I sneak in to tell Ted what's going on while she uses the bathroom.

Then we sit at the kitchen table with mugs of chamomile while she tells me the horror of her evening.

"We'd gone to a pub for a drink after the meal. It was lovely, we were laughing, it was all going well. Then this big group on a pub crawl comes in. We didn't pay much attention, but this one girl, Poppy, comes over to talk to us. Turns out she's Mikayla's hairdresser. Seemed nice enough, but had clearly had a few."

She sips her tea. Her eyes look hollow.

"Next thing we know, this guy comes over and he's all over Poppy, but she's not into it. He brings her a drink, tries to pry her away from us, I warn him off, as sweetly as I can, but he gets shirty with me."

She takes a breath. She's almost been gabbling, speaking so fast, desperate to get the story out. I offer my hand, palm up and she takes it. "I thought we'd managed it, because he moves back to the rest of their group and Poppy tells us how he's been after her all evening, not taking no for an answer. Mikayla starts to convince her to let us take her home in a taxi, but then he comes back." She pauses and rolls her eyes. "With two friends 'for you lovely ladies'," she mimics the insufferable swagger of every wannabe bar-room Casanova, "and three shot glasses."

She's shaking now, squeezing my fingers painfully. "I tell him 'no thanks' and he tells me that it's not up to me. Mikayla backs me, of course, and we stop Poppy from drinking the one he's pressing on her. This is when I start to get really suspicious, especially as Poppy's eyes aren't looking right. I tell him to drink it if he's so keen and he makes some excuse. I insist. He refuses. So I get up in his face and accuse him loudly of drugging the shots. He tries to grab me by the throat, but I dislocate his thumb and put him in a chokehold."

"Fuck, Ram!"

"Yeah," she lets go of my hands and shakes hers out, the adrenaline that's obviously still coursing through her needing an outlet. "He gets in a punch before he goes down and his 'friends' scarper. The police come and nearly arrest me, but Mikayla starts quoting the law at them, chapter and verse, and by now it's pretty obvious that Poppy has been slipped something. The police aren't really interested, and neither's the landlord, but this woman from the main group comes over and starts haranguing them, so they search the guy and find a few empty vials on him, and then agree to take samples from the shots he'd tried to thrust on us. So, that's how our date ended. I went to the police station to make a statement; Mikayla took Poppy to the hospital in a taxi."

"Shit, Ram, that's fucking awful."

"I know."

"But how brilliant you were there."

She looks at me oddly, so I press on. "If you hadn't been, who knows what would have happened! I doubt I'd have had the presence of mind. I'd have probably done the shot. You saved her."

She nods at this.

"I know it's not the ending to the evening that you wanted, Ram, but you should feel good about yourself. You're a hero."

Her knuckles turn white where she grips the edge of the table. "Yeah." She exhales heavily. "Yeah." She grimaces at me. "I'm not mad about the date, or about saving Poppy. I'm mad about the response from the police, from the barman. I'm mad that there are fuckers like that in the world."

I nod. I wholeheartedly agree.

She reaches out to take my hands and looks me straight in the eye. "Promise me something Liz. Promise me that you will never accept a drink from somebody that you do not trust one hundred percent. Please?"

She's so serious my mouth drops. Closing it, I nod my assent.

"Promise me?"

"Yes, Ram, I promise." It's not something I've thought twice about before, and I get a sudden flash of waking up one morning at Uni in my final year wondering whose bed I was in and why.

"I really don't want you to learn that the hard way."

I wonder if it may have been too late for that.

I stay up with her longer until I start yawning and she insists I go to bed. Ted stirs as I crawl in with him and wraps me up. It's so nice to feel so snug and secure, I just wish Ram would have let me do the same for her.

My last thought as I drift off is how she always drinks from a bottle or can, and then only one she's opened herself.

The following weekend, 12:32 am

"Oh my God! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!"

The scream wakes me, panicking, suddenly at once both alert and disorientated, my heart going a million miles an hour.

"Ah! Ah! Ah! Ahhhhhhh!"

I scrabble for my dressing gown, but then pause, my chest heaving. I breathe. I listen.

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Oooooooooooooooo fuck Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!"

They are sounds of pleasure. Coming from across the hall. Through two doors.

Ram's brought somebody home. That's a first. I glance at the clock: 12:32 am.

I try to get back to sleep, but what with the adrenaline now flooding my system and the sounds of shagging coming from the sitting room, this isn't easy. They must be keeping the whole building up.

Crap, I wonder if she can hear me and Ted?

2am comes and goes and the voice stays in a state of ecstasy. I try ear plugs, I try reading, I try playing some calming tracks on my ipod, but nothing quite covers up the sound.

Finally, they stop. Then, just as I'm dozing off, they come through to my half of the flat to use the bathroom and wake me up again. Yeah, I really need to start looking properly for my own place. Must get on to Rick and nag him to make a decision.

Then, just when I think I'll be able to nod off, they start up again.

Despite my frustration, I can't help but be impressed. I mean, I've always thought that long sex sessions were overrated and just a recipe for soreness, but I admire their stamina.

I groan, and shove my head under my pillow.

10:30am, the next day

Feeling like a zombie, I drag myself to the kitchen in search of coffee.

"Um, hi Liz." There's a familiar looking blonde girl sitting in one of the chairs eating toast.

"Oh, hi. Morning." Her name's on the tip of my tongue.

"Sorry, am I in your way?" She's whispering.

"No... carry on. Um... I'm just going to make coffee, do you..?" Her name suddenly comes to me. Mikayla.

"Thank you, no." She holds up a mug to show me.

"Cool. Did you change your hair?" I start filling the kettle.

"Yeah. I wasn't always a blonde," she says in a stage whisper.

"That's it!" I drop my voice in response to her putting her finger to her lips. "Is Ram around?"

"Yeah. She's sleeping. I had the bed so... I don't think she got much sleep."

Join the club, I think.

"Okay if I use the bathroom?"

"Yeah, yeah, go for it."

I decide to carry my coffee back to bed. Read for a bit. I cross the hall and nearly bump into Mikayla coming out of the bathroom.

"I hope it's okay, me being here?"

"Sure." I'd rather she wasn't here to be honest, but it's Ram's flat. I can't really kick out her.... What is she? "So are you and Ram...?" My mind can't quite supply the right word.

I wasn't expecting her to start crying. Despite my undead state, instinct takes over and I find myself hugging her, stroking her back one handed as she sobs into my shoulder, as I try again not to spill my coffee. I guide her over the end of the bed, so we can sit down and I can put my mug on the chest of drawers.

"I'm sorry," she cries, still managing to keep her voice low, "it's just... God... I was hoping... I don't know, I don't know what I was hoping. It wasn't fair, and I shouldn't have come back last night. We can't be together."

I can't help myself. "It sounded like you were pretty compatible last night."

She grimaces and shakes her head. "That's just it. She still won't let me touch her. I need to be able to give too, you know? I can't be a pillow princess, it's just not me." She sniffles. "And... and... it's just, before she was... well, she would switch, but she was mostly femme, a world away from this stone butch she's become since, well, since, you know?"

I really, really don't know.

"Maybe if that was all I'd ever known with her, I could cope with it, do you know what I mean? But I just can't help but remember what she was like before it all happened."

"Before what happened?" I whisper.

She blinks back tears and looks at me then. "Shit, you mean you don't know?"

"No. What happened to Ram?"

"Fuck. She hasn't told you?" She pauses and bites her lip. Wipes her eyes. "Well, I don't think it's for me to tell you... Wait, do you even know who I am?"

"Um... Mikayla?"

"Yeah, but do you even know who I am to her? Has she even mentioned me to you?"

I try my best to cover for Ram. "Yeah, she's spoken about you, said you met at University, mentioned she was meeting you..."

"Fuck, she hasn't, has she?" She stands up and digs the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. I notice red marks on her wrists. "God, this was such a mistake! But I had to try. Mum and Dad will be so sad."

She looks at me. "I'm her wife."

I'm so stunned you could knock me over with a feather duster, as my Gran used to say.

"What? Her wife?"

She sniffs and shrugs, slumping back down on the bed.

"Yeah. Well, civil partner. I mean, it's not 'real'," she makes air quotes with her fingers, "it was just because she was having visa problems and this seemed like an easy fix. A way to allow her to stay."

I'm growing more and more puzzled. Visa issues? So Ram isn't British? I'd figured she was second generation at least, given her lack of accent. Who the hell is my flatmate, exactly?

"But," she carries on, "we had to make it look real to convince immigration. My family was all there, my dad gave me away, some of her school friends came, her ex, my ex. And my parents knew it wasn't real, knew we weren't real, but they love her, you know, like another daughter, and they so hoped it might help her." She shakes her head. "But that night in the hotel, she couldn't let me touch her, even though she wanted to, she wanted to try for me, but it brought on..." she sobs, "it brought on... a panic attack, and all... all we did was sit opposite each other and cry."

Compassion compels me and I'm cuddling her again, as she sobs into her hands. I've only met this girl a few times before, but I have a heart.

"Well, she's over that now, right?" I ask, remembering the sounds of passion from the night before.

That just increases the tears and she shakes her head vehemently. Apparently, that was not the right thing to say. I wince at my lack of tact. Blame it on the sleepless night.

"I had a great time last night. Many, many times. But she still wouldn't let me touch her. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I let her make me come one more time, she would. But she couldn't. I could tell she wanted to, but she couldn't. Just like all the other times."

Shit. I don't know what to say. My body goes hot at the thought. This is definitely TMI. "God, I'm so sorry," I mumble.

She flashes a weak smile at me. "Yeah." I reach for the tissue box and offer her one. She wipes her eyes and blows her nose. Figuring she is okay now, I detach myself. "Thanks for the hug."

"You're welcome. Least I could do."

"No, you need to do more."

"Huh?"

"Can you be here for Ram later?"

I nod. "Sure. I was meant to be meeting Ted later, but I can cancel."

"Thanks. It's just she's going to be upset that I'm not here when she wakes up."

"Really?" But I know this. Deep down, I know this.

"Yeah." She rubs her face. "Ram's been wanting for us to get back together. I thought I'd give it one more try but..." she shakes her head. "Maybe if I was different, less of a top, maybe if I hadn't known her before... But I can't. I can't have a relationship like that."

"I get it. I couldn't either." I'm not just saying that.

She stands up slowly, as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"I mean, I'll still always be there for her. But we need to stop holding a candle for each other. Time to blow it out." She sighs and hugs herself. "Time to move on."

She turns to look at me. I give her a sad smile.

"With that... I'll get out of your hair."

"You don't need to go yet, if you don't feel..."

"No, no, thank you, but no, I need to move. Go for a run or something. Clear my head."

"Okay... um..." I begin, "I'll do my best. Does she have other friends she could talk to about this though?"

"Not really. Not here. I can call Nicci, let her know. She'll be gutted too."

I blink in surprise. "You know Nicci?"

"Yeah, she's my aunt. It's how Ram got the job there."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh!" So many things drop into place now.

"Anyway, thanks. See you.... Maybe."

"Yeah."

And with that, she's gone.

Leaving me with so many questions. What happened to Ram? Why does Ram need a visa? Where is she from? Who, exactly, is my flatmate?

So I stay in that day, telling Ted I can't meet him, hovering around the flat like a ghost, waiting for Ram's reaction.

But I think she knows, knows even before the phone call comes that it's over. Again.

"I'm here if you need me," I tell her.

"Thanks," she says.

So we sit together and watch a film on her laptop. And neither of us talks about it at all.

Just dropping in

I'm walking back from Cotham school, a location so close to the BBC that, given the time it would take to find somewhere to park, on foot is actually the fastest mode of transport. They've got a gamelan for their music department, an amazing and massive music system from Indonesia, and I'd gone to do a piece on it and make some recordings. I'm not convinced it'll make for great radio actually - it would be better as a TV piece. That way you would get a true sense of the sheer scale of the collective of different instruments that make it up. I mean, it sounded great and their Head of Music was good value, as were some of the students. But it is one of those things that needs to be seen too. Perhaps a website piece, if I can't convince TV to go for it?

My route almost takes me past With Her Wheels and, without really thinking about it, I find myself walking that way.

Suddenly, I'm outside. I've really no reason to be there, yet I'm going in anyway.

"Liz, lover! How are you?" Nicci greets me enthusiastically from the front desk, getting up.

"I'm great thanks, Nicci, how about you?"

"Just beaming, just beaming." She wraps me in a big hug, which is lovely, though odd as we barely know each other. In fact, I wasn't sure she'd remember me from that piece, over a year ago now. Just used to Ram's lack of touch, I guess. "Our Ram on the radio! She sounds so good. And you're to thank for it, you diamond girl."

I blush at this. "She's a natural! It would be criminal not to put her in front of a microphone."

"Well, it made my month hearing her on the BBC, I can tell you. Me and Trish are so made up about it. You should see how the apprentices are treating her - they don't know whether to take the piss or ask for her autograph!"

I laugh.

"Anyway, what can I do for you?" Nicci asks. "Campervan playing up?"

"No, no, it's all good, thanks. Honestly, I haven't been using it much, living so close to work. No, I was just passing and thought I'd just drop in to say 'hi'. Is Ram about?"

"Yeah...." Nicci looks at me oddly, "do you want me to see if she's free? She's trying to sort the transmission on a Peugeot."

Suddenly, it strikes me how strange this is. Why would I come into a friend's place of work to just say 'hi'? When have I done that? I never walked into Carol's dental practice just for a chat, and only went to the schools Paula worked at when invited for an event. Christ, I never even went into Rick's office, and he was my boyfriend for eight years. I really can't explain why I'm here.

"No, no," I say, pausing Nicci as she's about to open the door from the office to the forecourt, "don't bother her if she's in the middle of something. It was just that I was passing... and... anyway, it was great to see you Nicci. Tell Ram I popped by."

"Yeah, I will." Nicci's looking at me oddly, which isn't surprising given how strange I'm being, evaluating me somehow. "Listen, me and Trish have been meaning to get Ram over for a roast soon. Why don't you come too?"

"Aw thanks. I'm a pain to cook for though, being veggie."

"Ah, that's no bother. We'll think of something. What do you normally have instead?"

"Well, I could make a nut roast to bring?"

"Sounds great. I'll talk to Ram, and we'll set something up."

The bell behind me rings and the door opens as a young man walks in. "That would be great, Nicci, thanks. See you soon then."

"Bye, Liz. Hiya, Jason, got your keys here..."

I slip out as she deals with her customer, though I feel her eyes watching me as I leave. Probably wondering what the hell I was doing. Her and me both.

Vegetarian - November 2006

"My God, that is delicious," Ram says, her eyes closing as she savours the soup. "What did you say was in it?"

"Fennel and celeriac, with a hint of orange zest."

"Oh yeah, I can totally taste that."

"Well, the least I can do. You putting me up like this, letting me take your bed."

"Drop it will you-"

"-I'm looking at some flats next week-"

"-lalala, not listening." Ram actually covers her ears with her hands.

I roll my eyes. "You're such a child!"

She grins. "Seriously though, stop worrying. I'm not. I'm happy you're here. Especially if you cook like this." She takes another mouthful. "God, I could eat this forever. Why haven't you made it before?"

"Well, it's an autumn soup," I explain, "fennel is in season until around now, which is when celeriac and citrus comes in too. Otherwise the food miles are just too much."

"Huh."

There's a companionable pause as we eat together. We were out late last night at a gig, and we've both been for a run this morning, so we've totally earned this lazy Sunday. Cooking, laundry, reading the papers. I've been teaching Ram how to do the cryptic crossword. I can tell she's going to be better at it than me soon.

"Is that why you're a vegetarian then, for environmental reasons?" she asks.

"Yeah, partly. I mean, it started just because I ended up moving in with some vegans in my second year. We cooked communally to save money and then it just became a habit. I backslid on dairy products - need my cheese - but then I started reading all the stats about water and land use and it just made sense."

She nods at me.

I try a stab in the dark. "You know, I've enjoyed all your cooking. But if you want to cook some childhood dishes for me sometime, that would be great."

She snorts. "I don't think roast goat or meat stew in banana leaves would be your thing." She cocks her head to one side. "Was Rick vegetarian?"

"No." I say. "I mean, he was mostly, day to day, but whenever we went out for dinner he'd make a big thing of ordering a steak or a burger. Annoyed the hell out of me."

She chuckles.

"Ted's going veggie though," I add.

"Really?"

"Yeah. He says he's just going to finish what's in his freezer, but then he's not buying any more."

"Wow. Is he doing that for you?"

I blush. "Maybe. I mean he asked about my reasons and really seemed to take them on board. But... I guess he only really listened because it was me. Maybe."

Her spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl. Somehow, I want Ted to be going veggie for me.

Ram tears off some bread to polish off the last bits. "So, it's going well then? With Ted?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm under no illusions though."

"Why not?"

"Well. The age gap. I'm fifteen years older than him."

"So?" she captures my eyes with her deep, dark ones, a strange expression in them. "You're quite the catch for anyone, Liz. Don't sell yourself short."

While I blush, she pauses and seems to consider something. "Do you like polenta?"

"Um, yeah. I guess it depends what you eat it with. It doesn't have a very strong flavour on its own."

She nods. "True. Well, I could make some kawunga some time. It's a bit like polenta. It's made out of maize flour. We basically had some with every meal when I was growing up."

Oh, we've come back to that conversation. "Okay, yeah, sure. What did you call it?"

"Kawunga." She pronounces it slowly, picking out the syllables for me.

"Kaw-un-ga," I try.

She smiles at me.

I decide to push my luck a little more. "What language is that?"

"Luganda." Her face clouds.

Time to change the subject. I'll look that up later.

"So, any thoughts about guests on the show for next month?"

"Oh well, I was wondering about getting Rasha in, and also Jimmy Goodrich..."

It's a lazy, lovely afternoon, bright winter sunshine flooding the kitchen as we chat and plan and keep each other company. I'm almost disappointed when Ted texts telling me he's finished his shift at the Community Kitchen and is on his way over.

Almost.

It's not until I'm back at work on Monday that I get to google Luganda and find out it's the majority language of Uganda.

Girlfriend?

"Hey Kieran! What's up?" Ted does some kind of trying-to-be-street handshake and shoulder bump with this guy at the party he's brought me to.

"Hey Ted. Good to see you!" The guy replies.

"This is my girlfriend Liz." A little buzz of surprise runs through me. Only a little; I've been sort of expecting it. "Liz, Kieran and I were in halls together. He's the brainchild behind the Community Kitchen."

"Nice to meet you," I say, leaning in for a single cheek kiss, "it's an amazing thing you started down there."

"Have you been?"

"Yes, a few times. Crystal's a genius."

"Liz is the one who did that piece on the radio," Ted shouts over the sounds of Run DMC. God, with this soundtrack, I could be back at one of my Uni parties, twenty years ago.

"Oh wow, thanks. So, shit, you work for the BBC?" Kieran asks.

"Yeah, I'm a broadcast journalist. Mostly for radio, occasionally TV."

Kieran looks between us, mouth hanging open. I get this sometimes. People can't quite believe that the voices on the radio and the faces on TV belong to real people that you can actually meet in real life.

"Mate! Punching above your weight or what?" Kieran says, offering Ted a high five, which he accepts, somewhat sheepishly. "Shit Liz, what are you doing slumming it with this guy? Nah, I'm joking, he's awesome."

"Oh, I know," I say, hugging Ted around his waist as his arm slips comfortably around my shoulders. I smile up at him, "he's quite the catch."

As we move away to grab drinks, squeezing between revellers who are mostly a good decade or more younger than me, I say, "so, girlfriend?"

"Well, yeah?" says Ted, "I mean. If you'll have me?"

"Do you ever not get what you want?" I ask. I'm trying to play it cool, but inside I'm glowing and falling.

His grey eyes grin as his dimples appear. "I don't understand the question," he says innocently.

Chuckling, I pull him down for a kiss.

"Where can we find a room?" I whisper to his lips.

What are you doing for Christmas?

"That does sound like fun. Send me the link. Do they run them all year...? Oh right? Well maybe I'll sign up for one. Maybe we can all do one together? Yeah..... Well, send me the link. Okay... Okay... I will... I'll be there... Have a lovely time. Love to Dad. Bye!"

I hang up on my Mum. God, I need to get her signed up to Skype, it would save so much money. I wander across the communal hall to the kitchen. Nearly three months I've been here, and I've yet to meet any of the other tenants that share this stairwell. I'm beginning to think it's all a tax-swizz or something.

"Hey Ram!" I shout. I can hear music from the sitting room/her bedroom. "Do you want a cup of tea before we head out?"

I hear her shout something indistinct, but can't make it out.

"Sorry, what was that?" I call at her door.

It opens on her smiling face. "I said 'I've already got one, but the kettle's still warm.' Pour yourself one and come and join me."

"Okay."

I pour water over a ginger tea bag and head in, settling myself on the sofa. She's got lamps and fairy lights on, rather than the overhead, but hasn't lit the fire. Well, we're due to go out soon, anyway.

"What are we listening to?"

"Er..." She looks at the CD cover. "Foals it would seem. From Oxford. Jimmy from Suitable Case For Treatment sent me a compilation of Oxford bands who are looking for gigs further afield."

Despite doing the show with me, Ram is still maintaining her own online identity and often gets sent stuff via that, I realise.

"Suitable Case For Treatment? Were they the band that sounded like Tom Waits fronting King Crimson?"

She chuckles and nods. "Yeah. Good description."

"It wasn't mine. Miles said it, I think. I liked them. Didn't think I would, but they had such presence."

"Absolutely."

I take a sip of my tea and a sudden thought, obviously prompted by my recent conversation with my mother, forces its way from my mouth. "What are you doing for Christmas, Ram?"

She blinks at me. "Um... not much. You?"

"Come to Wales with me."

"Err.... really?"

"Yeah. If they aren't booked up, you can have one of the guest rooms. Or you can either share a room with me, or sleep in the campervan."

"I don't want to impose... it's your family time."

"And friends. Paula's going to be there - she and I go way back - I haven't seen her since September. How long can you take off? I've got the 24th to the 28th off. I was going to drive up Christmas Eve. Come on," I say, leaning forward, "it'll be traffic jams all the way, keep me company on the road."

"God, you're really selling it to me," but she's smiling. "What about Ted?"

"It's a bit soon for Christmas at each other's family's, don't you think?" I wrinkle my nose. "Anyway, he'd already promised his family he'd go to them, and I'd already agreed I'd go to Wales this year. We're doing New Year together."

"Okay." She leans back in the chair, tucking her legs under her, cradling her mug of tea. "I'll think about it."

"Please do," I smile back, blowing the steam off mine.

So you speak Swahili?

"Hey!" I open the door to Ted, and receive his kiss graciously.

"Hey," he says, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in for a hug. He smells great, spicy, freshly showered, but still manly, that waft of pheromones. "I missed you," he says into my hair.

"We only said goodbye two hours ago!" I say, looking up at him in disbelief.

"And? I still missed you."

He'd stayed the night, and we'd made lazy love, lying side by side, legs almost scissoring, in the morning, then just cuddling, before Ram asked us if we were coming for a run. I'd gone with her - up to the observatory and round the zoo, back past Clifton college - but Ted didn't have his running gear, so had gone home for a change of clothes and a shower, but Ram had insisted he come back for brunch.

"Come in you big softie," I say, kissing him again.

"Morning Ted."

"Morning Ram." They high five. "Smells delicious. Can I help?"

"Nah, just sit. Pour yourself some orange juice, or make yourself tea or coffee if you prefer."

"Orange juice sounds great... oh wow, is this freshly squeezed?"

"Yep. Thank Liz for that."

"Thanks beautiful!"

We chit chat for a bit while Ram scrambles and salts the eggs, and when they are done, she starts pulling ramekins from the oven. Garlic mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, halloumi strips, veggie sausages, kawunga, plus baked beans from the microwave.

"Oh wow, Ram, this looks amazing."

"Help yourself," she says.

We tuck in. The eggs are buttery and peppery, just perfect. This girl can cook.

"Oh," says Ted, "I thought that was mashed potato, but it's not... is that... ugali?"

"No," I say, "it's kawunga. Like a corn porridge dumpling, kind of."

"No," says Ram, "he's right too, Liz. It is ugali. That's the Swahili name."

"Okay," says Ted, "do you speak Swahili, Ram?"

"Yes, do you?"

My head shoots up at this. I want to know more, but I also kind of want to kick Ted under the table to want him not to press.

I needn't have worried. Ram has deftly deflected the question back on Ted.

"A little. Like enough to be polite. To ask for directions. Wapi duka? Wapi choo? Wapi matatu? Asante sana, kwaheri, and so on."

"Where did you learn?" Ram asks.

So Ted tells her about his time volunteering in a school by Lake Naivasha in Kenya, and helping out installing sanitation works, during his gap year. I'd heard some of this before, but not everything, so I listen and slip into interviewer mode to tease out more.

And once again, I note with awe and frustration, how easily and cleverly Ram dodged revealing anything real about herself.

I find myself wondering just how many languages my flatmate speaks.

A call from Mikayla

"Hello, Liz speaking!"

"Hi, Liz, it's Mikayla," says the voice on the line, "I got your number off Nicci."

"Oh hello! Merry Christmas! How's term going?"

"Yeah, really good thanks."

We natter a bit, briefly outlining our respective Christmas plans. I've only seen her the once since that morning a month ago. She thanks me repeatedly for taking Ram to Wales with me for Christmas.

Then, she gets round to the real reason she rang.

"Are you going to be around on the 28th? Have you got plans?"

"I don't think so. We get back from Wales the day before. Can't see me wanting to do much. Why?"

"Can you be in? For Ram? I have to take her out for dinner - it's our first anniversary, so we're going to go out, be public, put photos on Facebook and so on. But I imagine she'll be pretty upset afterwards."

"Of course," I say, a lump forming in my throat, "oh my God Mikayla, you are such a good friend, she is so lucky."

"Thanks." She sounds hollow when she says it.

"What about you Mikayla? Will you have people at home for you?"

She brightens up at this. "Oh yeah, don't worry. My family will all be there. I've got... I've got people. But, you know Liz, Ram really doesn't: you and me, the girls at the garage, we're just about all she has."

That's a thought that nags at me long after she hangs up.

Christmas 2006

"Here you go, cariad, get that down you." Myfanwy ladles me out a mug of hot spiced cider.

"There's lovely, bach," I say, "give us another for Ram, I'm sure she's mangling for a drink."

"Where's she to?"

"She's reading to Rhian like."

My sister-in-law looks mildly concerned, given how her youngest, Rhian, has been monopolising my friend, treating her like her personal audio book generator. "Is she okay?"

"Oh yes, she's fine. They are all cwtched up on Rhian's bed."

"There's tidy. Well, you do tell her she needn't stay in there all day. She's meant to be on holiday too."

Grinning, I carry our two mugs through to Rhian's bedroom.

I hear Ram before I get there. "Which one am I reading next, then?"

"Yr un yma." Rhian, like her brothers, is perfectly bilingual.

"No, that one is in Welsh, sweetie. I can't read it. Pick an English one."

"I can read it for you, Rhian," I say. I don't really speak Welsh, but I know how to read it, understand the pronunciation rules. For any tricky words, I just do what I do on air when faced with an unpronounceable foreign name - take them at a canter and sound confident.

Rhian looks up at me from Ram's lap, her thumb in her mouth. She shakes her head at me. "No, Aunty Liz, Ram's reading. Ram's tidy like."

"It's true," Ram says with a smile. She spots the mug in my hand. "Is that for me?" She frowns. I suddenly realise it's not a bottle.

"Yes, but you don't have to drink it. But I promise it's fine, just hot cider."

She smiles. "Give it here."

"How did you get so good with kids?"

She takes a sip. "I've got lots of younger siblings. Lots of younger cousins too."

She's never spoken about her family before. Ever. She has no photos of them up at home. She never gets phone calls from them or letters that I've seen. No Christmas cards, though some came from friends whom I've never met. Dora. Tara and Fran.

But before I can ask, I'm beaten to the punch.

"Read this one, Ram," Rhian wafts a book at my friend, nearly, but not quite, knocking the mug out of her hand.

"Carefull, cariad," Ram says. She's picked that word up quickly. "Just let me put this down here." She places the mug on a shelf. "What have we got? The Gruffalo? Okay then?"

"Can't we give Ram a break, Rhian? Let me read you some?"

"No," says Rhian. The lack of tact of young children always amuses me.

"Ouch," says Ram, "feeling jealous, Liz?" She grins up at me from Rhian's bed, surrounded by soft toys, my five year old niece snuggling up to her chest.

Yes. But not of her, I suddenly realise.

"Come and join us in the kitchen when you've read that one," I say, then leave them to it.

Behind me, Ram's rich voice rings out.

"A mouse took a stroll through the deep dark wood.

A fox saw the mouse and the mouse looked good."

* * *

"Thanks for the lift, Dad," I say.

"A pleasure. I'll be back for you at 10ish. Ram, don't let her get too drunk. She's got to help wrap stocking presents when she gets back."

I groan.

"Family tradition!" He laughs and pulls away from the pub cark.

"What's that?" Ram asks.

"Oh, we'll be roped into wrapping presents for the kids' stockings when we get back. Probably be up 'til 2 doing it. Depends how quickly they can persuade the little darlings to go to sleep."

We walk across the car park to the pub. "Now," I say, "please take Paula with a pinch of salt. She's very full on. No filter either."

"Noted." She glances up at the pub sign. "What kind of den of sin are you taking me to Liz? Do I need a suitcase and a trunk? My mother didn't sew these jeans, you know?"

Laughing, I enter the pub as she holds the door open for me.

Paula was clearly looking out for me, as she's hugging me and squealing before I've taken two steps into the crowded bar. "Liz! Liz, Liz, Liz! I've missed you!"

"Shouldn't have bloody left me then, you crazy bint!"

"I should have shoved you in a suitcase and taken you with me. Kidnapped you!"

"Might've been a struggle getting a teaching job with a criminal record!" I pull back from the hug, still keeping my arms on her waist to look at my lovely friend. It's only been a few months, and maybe it's just the company I've been keeping lately, but she does look older. I'm sure I do too.

"My God, Liz, what's your secret? You look so young!"

"Flatterer!" I realise I'm being rude and detach myself, to introduce Ram. "Ram, this crazy minx is Paula. Paula, this is my wonderful flatmate and co-host."

"Yes, so good to meet you at last. But I've been listening to the show, so kind of feel like I know you."

"Thanks, it's great to meet you too."

Luckily, Paula paid attention to my texts and doesn't attempt her usual two-kiss and a hug introduction, but settles for shaking hands. With her studded leather jacket, and her bars and nose ring in (which I suddenly realise she wasn't wearing earlier), Ram doesn't exactly look cuddly either.

"Come on," Paula says, "Mike's holding the table for us. We'd never get one otherwise."

We navigate our way through the crowd. Luckily, there's nobody I recognise, as I don't particularly want to waste my precious time with Paula doing the whole "How are you? Haven't seen you in ages," dance with people I won't then see again for years. I give Mike a big hug and introduce him to Ram.

Again, Paula has taken note of my instructions, as she hasn't attempted to buy us drinks.

"I'll get them," says Ram, "do you two need a top up?"

"No thanks," says Mike.

"Ram, please can I have a slow, comfortable, screw against the wall?" Paula purrs.

Ram blinks.

I whack Paula on the shoulder. "Behave! It's a drink, Ram. Sloe gin, southern comfort, vodka and orange? Right?"

Paula nods.

"Oh, okay," Ram says, still puzzled.

"Can I get a cider please, Ram? Westons if they have it."

"Sure. Back in a minute."

I ask Paula about work and she starts telling me a hysterical story about how she'd had to intervene with a group of Year 11 girls who'd decided to intimidate an NQT by flirting with him.

"So, I told him he had to discipline them, not let them ride roughshod over him. So, the next lesson, I'm in observing the class, and one of them is talking inappropriately, and he follows the sanctions ladder and issues her with a demerit. At which point she flicks her hair back, tuts and says, really loudly, "no blowjob for you later.""

I shriek with shock. I can't imagine ever saying anything like that to one of my teachers.

"And of course, the class just descends into hilarity, but I manage to keep it together and escort her out. I just manage to get her to my office, send her in, and then stand in the corridor and stuff my fist in my mouth to stop myself from laughing. Hands down, it was the funniest come back I've ever heard. But of course I couldn't let her see that. The little madam."

Ram makes it back with the drinks as I'm wiping away my tears. "Aw, thanks lover. I owe you."

She scoffs. "No you don't."

"Thank you, Ram," Paula says brightly, "so... I have to say I'm pretty jealous. I've been trying to get this one to swing both ways for a while. How did you manage it?"

"Paula!" I groan, "stop it. You have not! And, no Ram and I are just good friends. And no that isn't a euphemism," I say, seeing her eyebrows go up.

"Good. Because Ram, really you're both far too beautiful and far too young for this old tart."

Ram looks as amused as I feel indignant. "Hmmm," she says, after sipping her drink, "well if you think I'm too young, you should see the gorgeous child she's shagging at the moment."

I squeak in outrage. "Oi! I didn't invite you so you two could tag team me!"

"More's the pity," quips Paula, which has Ram snorting. "So come on, how old is he? At least in his teens I hope?"

I have in fact told Paula about Ted, of course. I tell her about most things. But she's enjoying my discomfort.

"Shut up," I retort, "he's twenty three and a master's student."

"So, technically young enough to be your son then?" says Mike.

"Yes, okay, I'm cradle snatching. But he's lovely and attentive and enthusiastic. I'm under no illusions about where we might, or might not, be headed, but I'm not embarrassed and I refuse to apologise for the fact that I'm having sex with a guy in his twenties."

"Right, that's it, you're bringing him to my birthday party next month. I demand to meet him," Paula says, raising her drink as if to punctuate her point.

"Okay, I'll see what I can do."

First anniversary

I'm waiting in the kitchen, strumming my guitar, sitting so I can see out the window, hoping to catch the moment Ram gets back.

There's ice-cream in the freezer. I've got hot chocolate ready, plus actual chocolate, rum, cider, whiskey. Whatever she fancies.

I've rented some nonsense action movies that will require zero thought, or, if she prefers, I've printed off some cryptic crosswords to keep her mind occupied.

Red brake lights out the window, then, a minute later, Ram's tall figure moving up the path.

I wait. Her keys in the lock.

"Hey Ram," I say, "I'm kind of at a loose end. Keep me company?"

"Sure," she says, barely concealing the pain in her voice.

I try not to feel offended that she won't tell me what's going on with her, that she doesn't want me to know the truth. I try to just be there for her.

New Year's Eve

The Community Kitchen is heaving. All of the staff are there, Crystal's boyfriend on the decks. Loads of regulars too. Certainly more unkempt guys with body odour issues. Almost like I'm back at a gig at The Junction.

Kind of another reason why I don't take the pill Crystal offers. I'm sure these guys are all lovely, but I don't feel safe enough to be out of it. Plus, I'm not sure what Ted's attitude to drugs is. He hasn't said anything when he's seen Ram smoke a spliff, but I've never seen him take anything.

The DJ drops Panjabi MC, and suddenly we're all bouncing, everyone trying to do their best impression of Indian dancing. Ted appears at my side, his smile a mile wide, an unopened bottle of cider in his hand. They are keeping the booze locked up in the staff office, for obvious reasons.

"Thanks babe!"

We clink, swig and dance.

The music segues into Shaggy's "It wasn't me" and Ted lets out a groan.

"What's up?" I say into his ear.

He starts saying something, but I can't hear him so he pulls me back towards the office.

"I hate that song. The lyrics piss me off. And I hate how popular it is. It's a song about being caught cheating and then gas-lighting your girlfriend about it."

"It's just a song, Ted," I say, shrugging, "surely nobody takes it seriously?"

"I don't know. You'd be amazed at the influence popular culture has on mindsets and even the behaviour of political leaders. You watch. I bet you in a decade or so we'll end up with politicians that just lie to our faces, then lie about lying. And people will love it."

I laugh. As if. People aren't that stupid.

At midnight, we kiss and grind amongst the crowds, then stagger back to his flat to make love.

Friends

Pushing through the crowds at The Cube waiting for Arctic Circle's set to start, I see lots of faces I recognise: Steve, Ruth, Joe, Tony, Sam, Adam, Miles, Amy, Cristina, Dave. People I didn't know a year ago, but now, when I see them at gigs like this, they come to chat to me, ask who's guesting next, tell me how they enjoyed the last show, inquire over Ram's next promotion, joke about something silly from the forum. I've been invited to birthdays and housewarmings, asked if I want to share a chalet at the next ATP or a ride to Glastonbury.

When Mike and Paula left, so soon after Steve and Carol, then Rick and I split, I wondered what had happened to my social life, where it had gone. Wondered whether it was time to move on myself, perhaps head back to Wales.

Now, I'm so glad I didn't.

And it's not just friends. It's work too. Our show is going great, and I'm also putting in extra time, writing reviews for the BBC website, and putting together packages that I'm pitching to network. Radio 2 have played a few, as have Radio 4. After a few years of feeling like I was stagnating, my stock at the BBC seems like it's rising.

Ram and Ted are talking, heads close in order to be heard. They both spot me at the same time, and smile and wave, the almost mirror-like quality of their movements making me grin even more than I would have anyway. With a warm glow in my stomach, I weave my way over to them to find that not only have they saved me a seat between them, but they have a drink already waiting for me.

Paula's birthday

"I thought we'd be out with your colleagues?" I say, as Ted and I trail Mike and Paula into a Piccadilly bar, Paula pulling me by the hand. Bless Ted, he hadn't realised that there was an area outside London with the same name.

"Oh, I did the work thing yesterday. But I can't get off my face with work colleagues, especially not as Deputy Head. Besides, it would have been super dull."

Soon shots are lining up in front of us.

"Pace yourself," I whisper to Ted. I discreetly empty some of mine into the fake plant beside us.

Turns out to be good advice, as Paula gets drunker and wilder as the night goes on. Poor Ted is a bit taken aback by how flirtatious she is, and all her ridiculous jokes about foursomes.

"I don't know how her husband puts up with it," Ted says in my ear, as we dance.

"It's just her way. Her mum was like that too - I think it's how she thinks she needs to interact with guys. Hasn't done her career any harm."

I don't think he's convinced, especially when we finally make it back to their house and Paula starts doing a striptease on the stairs, stopping us from going up.

Blushing, Ted makes a break for the downstairs bathroom, while Paula laughs hysterically and threatens to, "steal his girlfriend if he doesn't come out."

"Ignore her," I call, "I haven't got the right equipment for her."

For once, by the end of the weekend, I feel guiltily glad that she and Mike moved to Manchester. I think she might be best in small doses.

Michelle

"... -t sure, let me ask. But I hope we can fix something up. I'll ask now." Ram walks in, phone held to her ear. "It would be great to see you... You too.... Speak soon... Bye!"

I raise my eyes expectantly. "Do you need me to stay at Ted's again?"

She laughs. "Am I that transparent?"

"I'm getting used to the pattern! Just as well Ted found that futon."

It had been two weeks ago when Ted invited me back to his room in Halls, saying he had a surprise. Despite Goldney hall being gorgeous, I wasn't too keen on spending time there. At least as a tutor his room was en suite and larger, but wandering into the shared kitchen to find it full of eighteen and nineteen year olds was making me feel like the cougar I was, and not in a good way.

"Check it out! It's perfect, but somebody on the terrace was just throwing it out!" he said proudly, gesticulating to the futon he had opened on the floor. "No more needing to share a single when you stay over."

"Great!" I wasn't feigning enthusiasm. Ted's hardly huge and I'm pretty tiny, but single mattresses are not conducive to a good night's sleep. "What did you do with your bed?"

"Oh, I gave it to James. He's going to shove it together with his and make a double. His girlfriend's over all the time."

I put my hands on my hips and turned to him slowly. "And why didn't we do that?"

"You want to fall down the middle of the mattresses all the time?" he said smugly.

"Umm, you ever heard of mattress covers and bungee cords?"

His face fell so fast it was comical, and I had to laugh.

"It's a good thought babe," I said, trailing my finger down his stomach. "So, I guess we need to test it out, right?"

His shirt had come off a second later, the rest of his clothes following soon after, as I pushed him down onto it.

I smile fondly at the memory.

"Yep, got to look after those old bones of yours Liz." I threw a tea towel at Ramona's head, which she caught easily.

"So, which band is staying over this time?" I asked.

"Not a band actually, my old school friend Michelle. She's coming to town for an interview."

"Oh great! Where?" I'm suddenly excited. An old school friend! Is this a chance to find out more about my enigmatic flatmate and friend?

"KPMG. Down by Temple Meads."

"Oh, what's she going to do?"

"Er... she's in insurance, I think. Not sure. I haven't seen her for a while. Excuse me, going to call her back. Thanks Liz, appreciate it."

And with that, she disappears back into her room.

Worthy FM

Shouldering open the heavy door to the building, I pause and check the post briefly. Bank statement, loyalty card promotion. Yeah, nothing exciting. Emails and texts are all very well, but I miss the days of letters. Maybe I'll write to Carol? Australia is the wrong timezone for Skype and texts.

There's a bill for Ramona, addressed, like all of them, to "R Kato and M Ashby". I presume that's Mikalya Ashby, but have never asked. Not for the first time I worry that, in respecting Ramona's privacy, I simply come across as uninterested. The truth is that I burn with curiosity about it, practically itching with it, especially on Sundays... when I'm not waking up at Ted's. It's bearable during the week, as we don't see each other much, maybe eating together once or twice, and obviously during Best in the West. But in order to grab material for that we've often had to split up and cover different gigs during the week. Her karate, my time with Ted, and my house-hunting take up much of our early evenings. But I'm hoping to catch her in this evening, especially as she doesn't train on Tuesdays.

I have both good and good/bad news I want to share.

The kitchen door is unlocked, though, naturally, I get my keys out and lock it first before Ram's voice calls "it's open!" and I realise what I have done. Another near semi-regular ritual or ours.

"Hey lover!" I say, "glad you're here!"

She raises her eyebrows at me. After all, it's me who's not here that much, often going straight to Ted's from work. That boy can cook and he also has this habit of somehow having just got out of the shower when I arrive, and greeting me at the door just wrapped in a towel, droplets of water still clinging to his chest, begging me to lick them off...

Oh, got distracted there. "Post for you."

"Thanks. I don't know why they bother," she opens the envelope and sticks the letter straight into a file in the cupboard, barely looking at it, "I mean, they could just email it. Everything is paid by direct debit anyway. Are you staying? I was just about to start cooking; do you want to eat with me?"

"Yes, please, if that's no trouble. Can I help?"

"I was going to do a stir fry, so do you want to chop and marinate the tofu and mushrooms?"

"Sure."

"Rice or noodles?"

"Not bothered. Whichever is easier. Let me just put my bags away."

I take my stuff through to my hobbit hole and wash my hands. When I get back, Ram is already cutting a carrot into batons, with a courgette lined up for similar treatment. Haunting cello and e-bow comes from the stereo.

"Is this Crippled Black Phoenix?" I ask.

"Yeah. I think I might be slightly obsessed by this track: Whissendine."

"It is brilliant. You did an interview with them, right?" I take the second half of the tofu block out of the tupperware and start to dice it.

Ram nods, as she starts shredding cabbage. "Yeah, just sitting on it until the next tour is announced."

"I wonder if they would agree to an acoustic session? Perhaps just Joe and Chipper?" A generous helping of soy sauce covers the tofu, along with flakes of chilli.

"Nah, that would piss Justin off too much. Joe might be the singer and lyricist, but Justin sees the band as his baby."

Ram obviously decided on rice as she turns down the heat on it.

I take a lemon out of the fruit bowl and roll it on the chopping board, before cutting it in half, juicing it and pouring that over the tofu. Mushrooms next.

"So, Ram, I have good news and good slash bad news, which do you want first?"

She looks at me sideways, puzzled. "Good slash bad news? What does that mean?"

"Well, it's both kind of good and kind of bad."

"What, like, good for one person and bad for another."

"No, I'd say there's good and bad aspects for both."

"Okay," Ram mods, seeming to get it, "so now you have to tell me about that one first."

I sigh. This isn't going to be easy. But I put on my best smile. "I've had my offer accepted on the flat in Cotham. The estate agent thinks we should be able to complete by March as there's no chain either side." I reach for the mushrooms to cut up.

"Congratulations Liz! That's great news." Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "Which one is this?"

"It's just off Hampton Road, the Cotham end. Really near to With Her Wheels. I'm thinking dinner at mine may have to become part of your regular routine, I hope."

Her smile seems more real now. "I'd like that."

"So would I Ram! That's why this is good slash bad news - it's a lovely apartment, and it'll be good to get back on the housing-ladder, but I've loved living with you and I'm going to really miss that. I'm not looking forward to not having you as a flatmate." I really want to hug her now, but have to settle for intense eye contact instead.

A hiss from the stove distracts us, and she turns the rice down further.

"You know," I continue, speaking slightly to her shoulder, "it's got two bedrooms, so should you ever want to..." I leave the offer hanging in the air.

"Thanks." She leans over to grab the bowl of tofu and mushrooms from me. "But what about Ted? Surely you'll want him to move in? You won't want me as a third wheel."

"Well, maybe. It's early days." I put on my best cheeky grin. "We are straight after all. It can take a while."

She chuckles.

"No, in all seriousness, you'd still be most welcome. Besides, he's committed as a Hall tutor until the end of June, at the earliest. And then, who knows. He wants to apply for the European Fast Stream.... So that would mean moving to either Brussels or Strasbourg if he's successful."

There's a sizzle and pop as the tofu lands in the hot wok.

I suddenly feel very glum. The thought of losing my lovely flatmate and potentially my hot, young toy boy. Why was I so keen to buy again? Why tie myself down? What is it that keeps me here in this city? Not too late to pull out of the purchase I suppose, keep my capital liquid, maybe move to the continent with Ted too.

"So if that was the good-for you-slash-bad-for-me news, what's the good news?"

"No... it was bad news for me too. I'm going to really miss living with you, Ram."

"So you said. Now what's the good news?"

"No, I meant it." I feel she's being flippant, dismissing my feelings defensively. "Ram? You must know how much you mean to me? Right?"

She stirs the vegetables. Then she turns and nods silently. "Yes. Yes, I do. Sorry. I'm not that great at friendships. I really appreciate you too, Liz."

She moves behind me and hugs me from behind. I can't wrap my arms around her like this, especially as she has her hands over mine, but it feels so much closer than one of her fleeting half-hugs.

We stay like that for a while, until Ram decides it's time to take the stir-fry off the heat and strain the rice.

"So," she says, as we sit down together at the table, steaming bowls between us. "Are you going to tell me the good news?"

"Oh yeah!" I put down the fork full of food I had ready and grab the edge of the table. This is going to be so exciting. I watch Ramona react to me and let her finish chewing her mouthful before I say, "you're going to Glastonbury."

"What? Are you serious? How?"

"I've got you on the staff at Worthy FM - that's what the radio station is going to be called now."

"Yeah!" she squeals. Actually squeals. This is the most girlish I've ever seen her behave and it's absolutely adorable. Her bright white smile is a mile wide. "Liz, you're amazing!" She leans over to give me a double high five, both hands at once. I have to resist the desire to grab them and not let go.

"I just got the confirmation email today from Phil, the station manager. I knew Dave couldn't do it this year so they'd need somebody with technical knowledge as well as broadcast skills, so I recommended you. I got Nicci and Tim to write recommendation letters for you."

"Oh my God, Liz!"

"Yeah. I didn't want to say anything just in case..."

"Wow, wow, wow! I can't believe it!"

I smile. I was happy before, but her joy is just so infectious. "Make sure you book the time off with the garage now. We'll head down on the Tuesday. Get on site and set up before the hordes descend. You'll want the Monday after off too - at least!"

"Are you taking the campervan?"

"Of course. You can ride with us, but you'll want your own tent as Ted is staying with me."

"Oh cool, he's going to be there too?"

"Yep. Obviously, he normally camps with the traders, but our area is pretty relaxed about letting non-radio partners in. In fact, you might be able to borrow his tent if you like. Shall I ask him?"

"Yeah cool. Or I can, next time I see him." She gives a little shiver of excitement, then picks up her fork to load it with food. "Thanks loads Liz - you've made my year."

"A complete pleasure, lover," I reply.

Applying

"Hey Liz!"

"Hey Mikayla." I detach myself from my kiss with Ted. He's meeting me at the back gate to the BBC. "How are you?"

"Good thanks. But I've got to ride. Need to make it to the nursery before five. But I thought I'd say hi when Ted said he was meeting you."

"Thanks! Let's all try to get together soon," I say.

She waves and cycles off.

"Nursery?" I say to Ted, puzzled. "I didn't know she had a kid."

"No, she doesn't," he says, wrapping a warming arm around my waist as we walk, "it's her new girlfriend's daughter, I gather."

"Right." Immediately, I wonder if Ram knows. "So, did you two just have a seminar together or something?"

"What? Oh, no, we were prepping for the next round of interviews for the EFT."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We've both got through to the fourth round, and this will be face-to-face."

"Well done!"

"I know. I was hoping we would get to go to Brussels, but no, it's being held in London next month. We've both been researching it, but it turns out Mikayla knows two people from Uni who did it, one successfully, another unsuccessfully, so we've been going through their feedback and roleplaying the interviews. There's a written test, a group scenario, a reflection - that's the bit her friend messed up - a presentation, a language aptitude test, and a one-to-one interview."

"Wow. Well, I'm sure you'll both be brilliant," I say uneasily.

"Thanks. Well, it's the group task that might be my downfall. I think I get what I need to do. It's all about consensus building. I'm not worried about the language test or the rest of it."

"You'll be great," I say, as we wait at the traffic lights.

"Thanks, gorgeous," he says, as he kisses me.

The lights change and we cross. "Your place or mine?"

"Let's go to yours," I say.

Ten minutes later, we're in the shower, lathering each other up. His fingers work the shampoo into my scalp in a way that causes my spine to shiver and my nipples to harden. His cock is hard and slippery with soap. I wash that off, then slowly squat, licking the length of his penis, teasing my tongue around the tip as his hands still work in my hair. Holding his hair flat against his firm groin, I take as much as I can in my mouth, sucking slowly. I can hear him moan over the drumming of the water on the tiles.

He's a gentleman. He never pushes. None of that arrogant forcing of my head further than is comfortable. One of the many things I appreciate about him.

Eventually, he pulls me up, kissing me hungrily.

"You can finish," I tell him.

"Uh-uh." He shakes his head, kissing me again. "I mean... I'm sure I will. But you first. Let's get out."

He turns off the water and passes me a towel.

I love how the water clings to his supple skin.

Soon, we're a tangle of limbs, rocking together, his mouth kissing my neck, his cock thrusting inside me as I hook my legs around his to find that perfect angle, then clench and pull and...

"Oh God, Ted!" I gasp, my chest on fire, my nipples hurting as they press into his chest. Like a low throb, a heavy bass line, the orgasm pulses through me, once, twice, thrice. "You beautiful man." I squeeze out a fourth throb.

Then his mouth is on mine, kissing me passionately, as he hooks one of my legs up on his elbow, thrusting deeper, almost but not quite touching my cervix. My fingers dig into his back, and it's his turn to gasp and shudder, the hot, satisfying spurt of him inside adding that perfect extra edge of pleasure to my own glow.

After, we lie under the sheets, spooning and stroking and kissing, until we get too hungry.

Then, after eating, we go again.

Things we take for granted

I've nearly filled in the volunteer form. I've already ensured that I can get ten days off from work - I'll spend a couple of nights with my parents in Spain, then a week as a volunteer on this English immersion course, also in Spain. My parents put me onto it - they've done it twice and are going to come too for a third time. Apparently it's a lot of fun, and as it's all expenses paid (bar the flights) it's basically a free holiday. Seeing as I'll be paying for the flights anyway, it seems win-win.

Then a thought occurs to me.

"Ram?"

"Yeah?" She's cooking at the stove. It smells delicious.

"Have you got holiday plans this summer?"

She shakes her head and makes a face.

"Well, do you think you could get some time off at the end of July? Come to Spain with me?"

"Thanks, that's a nice offer. But, no."

"Why not?" I'm kind of hurt. She didn't even want to know the plan. "You won't have to pay for anything apart from flights, the rest is covered. It's this..."

"Liz, stop. Sorry. Please. It's... I can't leave the country."

"What?"

"Well, I can in theory. But, I'm too paranoid that if I do, they won't let me back in. And then I don't know where I'd be. Sorry."

"Ram..." but then I see the look on her face, and realise how much this hurts her, this missing out on rights and abilities I take for granted. The security I have.

She, on the other hand, relies on the good nature and good will of her ex-girlfriend and the pretence of a fake civil partnership. And she doesn't even know I know this.

I move out in three weeks, assuming there are no delays. I really don't want to lose touch with Ram - I don't want her to just become a work colleague I see a couple of times a week. I want her to remain special and to do things together.

"Well, how about coming with me and Ted to Wales for the May bank holiday weekend? Rhian and the boys would love to see you."

She nods at me and smiles. "Yeah, that'll be really nice."

"Great. I'll text Simon now, get him to save you a room. Ted and I can kip in the camper."

Mr Wolf's

My phone rings."Hey Ram? What's up?" I say.

"Get in a taxi now, to Mr Wolf's. I can't say why, just get here now?"

"Um, okay!" But she's already hung up.

I start scrolling for my favourite taxi service.

"Everything okay?" Ted asks, looking concerned.

"I think so. Ram just said we need to get a taxi to Mr Wolf's. I mean... I guess she's okay. Hello? Yes, can I get a taxi from Goldney hall to Mr Wolf's noodle bar please. Um, I'm not sure of the address, but it's just off Baldwin Street I think. Yeah, as soon as you can. Liz Bradford... Yes, that's right! Oh lovely, thanks! See you soon."

I look at Ted. "Better get some clothes on babe."

* * *

"Digging the tunes, Ram, but what was the urgency?" I ask, two hours and a bowl of noodles later. I have to say, there are real advantages to having gigs in places that serve food. It should happen more often.

"Just wait," she says. "Richie told me what happened in the soundcheck." She nods to the engineer.

I don't know why they would need a soundcheck. So far it's just been a DJ playing Joy Division. Okay, so the DJ is Geoff Barrow, but he isn't even scratching.

But then a familiar looking man takes the stage and picks up a guitar. Then Geoff joins him on bass.

"Can anyone here sing?" Geoff asks.

There's a gasp from the audience, as a woman makes her way to the stage.

"What's going on?" Ted whispers.

"That's Beth Gibbons," I hiss, "We're going to hear Portishead play!"

Please could you stay awhile to share my grief

They could play to thousands, tens of thousands. There's maybe fifty people here.

Her vocals and lyrics bring out the shivers.

Moving out

"Seems like there's more stuff than when you moved in," Ram huffs as she follows me up the stairs with another box.

"Well, there is. I got the stuff I left at my old house - I didn't bring everything to yours," I reply.

"Where do you want this?" Ted calls from behind her.

"What is it?" I can't see.

"A floor lamp."

"Oh, sitting room please."

I was nearly able to purchase this two bedroom flat outright once Rick had finished buying me out. As it is, I'll be paying a tiny mortgage which I'll clear in a decade. Fantastic. Plus, there's off-street parking for the campervan, while it's walking distance to work. Not bad views from the sitting room either, even if the second bedroom looks out onto the bins.

"What about furniture though?" Ram asks.

"Oh there's a pile of flatpack furniture awaiting assembly." I'd just splurged at IKEA - couldn't be bothered to argue with Rick over whose was whose. Their delivery had arrived earlier.

"Sounds like a job for a boyfriend to me," Ram calls back over her shoulder to Ted, who groans.

"I thought it was something best friends might do, especially in return for food and beer?" I retort.

Perching my box against the wall with my hip, I get the front door open, and use the box to hold it there. "Welcome to chez Liz!"

"Chez Lez? That's my place isn't it?"

"That was awful Ram."

"Nah, laughing at my bad jokes is the price you pay for my help."

"Get in there!" I say.

"Best friends, huh?" Ram says, as she goes past, her smile lighting up her eyes.

Looking after Ram

One of the best and worst things about hosting Best in the West is the fact that it gives me an excuse to spend ages on the local music forum. Obviously, on one level it's research, finding out about gigs, about new bands, planned albums and tours.

But it's also a great time waster! Right now I'm scrolling through the perennially popular band name thread, giggling over the the downright ridiculous (dogs and dogs and dogs and dogs and dogs) and occasionally obscene (Pricktaster) suggestions therein. I mean, it really isn't work by any stretch of the imagination. Daily Mail readers would be up in arms about me spending my license fee payers' money in this way.

But it is so much fun! Especially on a Friday.

Then I notice something odd. Ramstone has posted. Weird, Ram never normally posts at this time of day - she's usually far too covered in grease and tyre dust to want to get her hands anywhere near a keyboard.

I click through to the messaging function and drop her a quick note.

Alright lover, just seen you on the board. Everything okay?

I flick over to my BBC email and just check there's nothing needing doing. I've already edited, scripted and cued up the packages I had to put together for Saturday's shows. All I find is a confirmation from Mog Fry that she'll be able to do the live session the following week. I drop her a quick thank you, then tab back to the message board.

Hey Liz

Nah, I'm not great. Full of cold. Might be flu. Nicci sent me home yesterday. Bored, so I thought I'd come on here.

I immediately reply.

I finish here in two hours. I'll be over. What do you need? Have you got enough food? What can I pick up for you?

I text Ted: "Ram's ill babe. I want to go and check on her. Is it okay if I skip the party... but still come over later?" Ted's only 5 minutes walk from Ram's flat, afterall. I'm hoping he won't mind a booty call. I was meant to go to some house party with people from his undergraduate days, whom I've met a couple of times now. I'm not bothered about missing it.

Ram's replied: Honestly, Liz, there's no need. Besides, I don't want you getting this. I know how crappy it is for you doing your job with a cold.

She's not wrong, but still. No arguing, I'm coming.

Ted's replied too: "Aw, poor Ram. You're such a good friend. Do you want me to come too? The party will be no fun if I haven't got you there to show off."

That makes me smile: "That's sweet. But no. Maybe I'll make it to the party, but later, like 10ish? Okay? X"

His text comes back so quickly. This generation, it's like this technology is their birthright. I trained in touch-typing, but that just doesn't translate to the Nokia keypad.

"Sure beautiful! Give my best to Ram. Hope she feels better soon. Love you x"

My heart catches. Still. It's been a month since he first said it, but every time he adds it to a text or mouths it to me in a crowd or whispers it into my ear in bed it makes me feel like a teenager, the most special person in the world, full of fear and disbelief.

"Love you too. X" I reply.

I'll be thirty-nine this year. His twenty-fourth birthday is next month. This can't last, surely? Yet I already find myself more infatuated than I ever did with Rick, or Ben before him, or Dylan before him. Ted's gorgeous grey eyes, his boundless generosity, his optimism and enthusiasm, his dimples and, yes, his youth.

Brring

The phone next to me rings. Back to work. "BBC Bristol, Liz Bradford speaking..."

* * *

I get a strange sense of nostalgia, walking up St Paul's Rd towards Ram's flat. It was only a month ago I lived here, and it's not like I haven't been back since. Ted and I had Sunday lunch with her last weekend. But it's this particular walk, this route from work, at this time of day, seeing familiar faces on their own foot commute, that brings back those happy months I lived there. The warmth of the flat, the warmth of her welcome.

Rather than turning at the roundabout, I decide to head straight on, past the utilitarian Union building. I want to pick her up some goodies from the 7 o'clock shop at the end of the terrace. And as I pass Twentieth Century flicks, I have another flash of inspiration: I'll get her something to watch. Ram's a reader, but sometimes when you're ill, you just don't have the energy to focus. I duck into the low-ceiled tunnels of the indy rental shop.

"Hey Lulu!" I say to the girl behind the counter. "I didn't know you worked here." I know her as the girlfriend of one of Fortune Drive and also occasional reviewer/front of house girl for gigs around town.

"Hey Liz! Yep, been working here since I was a student. How are you?"

"Yeah, great thanks. But Ram's ill, so I thought I'd grab her something light-weight and cheerful to buck her up. What would you suggest?"

"Hmmmm." Lulu turns to her buzz-cut colleague. "Mel, what do you think? Liz here has got a sick lesbian friend - what would you recommend?"

"Oh, do I know her?" Her accent sounds mid-Atlantic.

"Ram?" Lulu says, "sometimes does the sound down at the Fleece? Well, that's how I know her. Tall? Black? Venus tattoo on her neck?"

Mel shakes her head. "Sounds like I'd have remembered her." She looks at me then, "sorry, it's not the hugest scene here in Bristol - I figured if it was somebody I knew, I might know her taste."

"Yeah, pretty sure Ram doesn't date, so... Anyway, I was thinking something light-hearted, fun. Not too long either."

"How about a series?" Mel suggests, "that way she can just stop after an episode or binge all the way through. Takes less focus than a film."

"Er, yeah, maybe." I hadn't thought about that. "But not sure if she'll be well enough to return it."

"Oh don't worry, rentals on series are for 4 days, not over-night," Lulu says.

"Oh, cool, that sounds good then."

Lulu looks at Mel who grins back. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Uh-huh!"

Then in unison they cry, "Sugar Rush!"

"Oh it's perfect," Mel says leaning over, while Lulu goes to get it from the shelves behind, "it's a coming-of-age queer romance in Brighton, but really funny, really sweet. It's about friendship too."

"Here you go," Lulu says, handing a slim DVD boxset over, "Season 1, 10 episodes. That'll be four pounds please."

* * *

I grab the spare key from its hiding place in the bike shed, and let myself in.

"Ram? It's Liz? Are you in here?" The kitchen and sitting room are empty, so I drop the groceries I bought and cross the hall to the bedroom.

"Ram? It's Liz? Are you okay?"

"Liz?" Her usual rich tones sound raw and croaky, like a crow. "You didn't need to come?"

"Rubbish," I say, striding forward.

Ram is a pitiful sight, bundled up in the duvet, surrounded by a detritus of tissues, books, her laptop closed on the covers beside her. I may have just woken her up.

I grab the bin and start putting the tissues in while Ram protests, then step into the bathroom to wash my hands.

When I come back, I feel her forehead, which is hot and clammy. "Hmmmmm, have you taken anything lately?"

"No," she wheezes. I really don't like the sound of her chest. I can see her pillowcase is stained with snot and sweat.

"Right, I'm running you a bath. The steam might help loosen you up a bit and it'll feel good to feel clean. Do you want food before or after? I've got soup, or I can make you a jacket potato? But first, you're taking some paracetamol. No arguing!"

She doesn't seem to have the energy to protest. "Can you call Nicci to tell her you're here?" she manages to say after taking the pills. "She was going to come over after work too. Not sure I can cope with both of you."

"Will do. Now drink the rest of the water. You need the fluids."

Phone held in the crook of my shoulder as I grab fresh linen out of the drawers, I call Nicci and say she can stand down.

"God love you, Liz," she says, "tell her to rest well and that I'll be by on Sunday."

"Will do, have a good weekend."

I find some bubble bath to add to the water, and drop in some olbas oil too, for good measure. It's nearly ready. I leave a mug of honey, lemon and ginger beside the bath.

"Come on, Ram, bath's ready. Do you need help?" I'm not sure how I'll feel about that, or she will, given how much she hates intimate touch. Will it trigger a panic attack if I have to help her undress?

It's not an issue, as she manages. I leave the bathroom door open, telling her to call me if she needs anything, while I busy myself with stripping and remaking the bed, then sticking on a load of laundry in the kitchen. I do the bit of washing up that's there as well. There's no need to do food prep - the soup won't take long to heat at all.

Slipping back across the hall, I call gently to Ram. "You okay, Ram? Do you need anything?"

Her voice when it comes now sounds choked, rather than croaked. "I'm okay, thanks."

She sounds far from it.

* * *

Afterwards, Ram in clean pyjamas and fed, I persuade her to watch "Sugar Rush" with me in the sitting room. With fairy lights twinkling, the fire lit and her laptop up on the coffee table to play it, this could almost be romantic. I've made us both another honey, lemon and ginger - pre-arming myself against catching whatever she's got.

It's a sweet story, funny and yet honest. From Ram's chuckles, I'm guessing she's enjoying it.

Until she's not.

We're on episode 3, and Kim is considering something very ill-advised in order to get with her crush, Sugar. Pretty abhorrent really.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" Ram is scrambling to get away, literally crawling on all fours having fallen off the sofa.

I lean forward and try to find the pause button.

"Turn it off!" comes her strained sob.

I give up and just shut the lid of the laptop as she makes it to her feet and staggers to the door.

Untangling my legs from the blanket, I follow her to find her retching into the kitchen sink, before slumping, crying, weeping to the floor.

Every instinct has me wanting to go to her, but the feral fear in her eyes as she scuttles back from me, like some wounded cat, warns me off. As weak as she is, she looks ready to lash out. In the too bright lights of the kitchen, her eyes are wide, the whites standing out, the pupils wide. Her skin, normally a rich, warm brown, is blanched and pale.

Kneeling on the floor, I find myself crying and reaching out to her. "Ram, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry." My mantra repeats as she hugs herself and rocks herself and trembles and ignores my offered hand.

* * *

Eventually, she is able to take herself to bed. She doesn't object as I watch over her as she brushes her teeth, and climbs into bed. She refuses the pill I offer her, but does take the packet and pops one out herself. She says nothing when I say I'm going to stay overnight, nor when I place a bowl near her in the bed.

Once I've washed out the sink and turned off the lights, I drag cushions and blankets from the sofa into her bedroom and make myself a bed.

"Ram? Honey? Is this okay? I'm going to be right here if you need me."

A grunt comes from her that I take to be agreement.

I text Ted: Babe, I'm so sorry, but Ram really isn't well at all. I'm going to stay overnight to look after her. I'll see you tomorrow. Promise. Putting my phone on silent. Love you x

As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I hear a hushed, broken, "thank you," come from Ram.

"Any time, sweetie," I say.

* * *

Breakfast cleared away, Ram sitting at the kitchen table, looking and feeling better, I retake my seat opposite her. I can't take it anymore, my curiosity is killing me. Besides, I rationalise to myself, I can't help her if I don't know.

"Ram," I ask, "what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Her eyes hold mine. I know she knows what I mean. She's so frustrating.

"I mean," thinking furiously, trying to be precise, unequivocal, "why did you end up here in Bristol?"

She holds my gaze. I see her jaw working.

"You mean, you really don't know?"

"No!"

"Mikayla didn't tell you?"

"No!"

"You haven't Googled me?"

"No!"

"Really?"

I shake my head emphatically. "No. You made it clear you didn't want me too. So I haven't."

"Huh."

"But... I want to support you Ram. I want to be there for you."

"You are. You're a great friend, Liz."

"Okay." I'm practically shaking. She must see it. But what right do I have to know? But I need to know. I do. I have to. If this half-formed feeling, this pale future I'm imagining is to have any chance of solidifying, I need to know Ram. To know how she came to be who she is.

She nods, as if to herself.

"Well, what do you think happened?"

I blink.

"Come on, Liz. You're smart. I'm sure you have your theories. Let's hear them."

I close my eyes. Where to start.

"So." I open my eyes and see Ram's face. Grim. Determined. Trusting. She nods, ever so slightly. "You met Mikayla at University. You fell in love."

She nods. There is a flash of pain over her face, a tightening of her jaw and brow. She shakes slightly, and perhaps not because of whatever bug she has. This is still so hard for her, even though it must have been three years ago now.

"Then something happened. And it changed you, and how you feel about yourself. And Mikayla tried to support you, but couldn't cope with that change."

She nods again. Her eyes glisten.

"Sorry, sorry, we don't have to do this." I stand up and flap my arms, unsure what to do. "This is hurting you, and you're not well, I'm sorry. I shouldn't-"

"-No, it's okay. You should know this. Go on."

I stand there, unsure. What right do I have?

Ram extends her hand to me, as if it's me that needs comfort and reassurance, as if it's me being forced to relive this pain.

Slowly sitting back down, I take it, lightly, knowing what this costs her. Her palm is clammy and I can feel her trembling.

She nods. "Go on," she repeats.

I swallow. "So, that something happened." I have my suspicions, but I won't name them. Always opening bottles herself. The way she reacted last year after that guy tried to slip them rohypnol. Her response to Sugar Rush last night. Not being able to bear being touched. Yeah, I think I know. "And you dropped out of Uni because of it?"

She holds my hand and my gaze. Her fingers are slippery with sweat. I'm not sure if it's the virus or incipient panic.

"Go on." Her voice is shaky.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" She hisses. "I'll tell you if I'm not, otherwise just go on!"

"Mikayla brought you back here. You probably lived with her parents to start with. She had to go back to Uni. Her aunt, Nicci, got you the job in the garage, then her Dad offered you the lease for this flat cheap, right?"

She nods again.

"But, whatever had happened had changed you and Mikayla, as much as she cares for you, loves you even, she can't live with that change. But she stands by you still."

I gather my thoughts. I think I know what happened. But that'll be the end of the conversation and there are other things I want to know.

"You're from Uganda. I'm guessing your family haven't been supportive."

"Ha!" The word bursts from her, laced with bitterness I can almost taste. "That's an understatement!" I can tell she's barely holding back tears.

Biting my tongue, I wait.

She swallows. Gets herself under control. "They've cut me off. Said I need to repent and embrace Jesus before they will speak to me. None of my brothers and sisters have been in touch. I've tried adding the older ones on myspace and facebook: they've all refused. That's why I dropped out of Uni. Without their financial support, I couldn't pay the fees."

"Oh my God, Ram, I'm so sorry."

"Why? You've been nothing but supportive."

"I know but..." I want to continue, but her face is closed. She doesn't want to talk about her family. The pain is too fresh, too new. And I think, what must that be like? Every time her birthday, or their birthdays, come around, to hear nothing, to not be acknowledged? Mother's day? Father's day? Christmas?

Every time she's sick, there's nobody to hold her.

No wonder she hits that punch bag so hard.

I offer my other hand, and she takes it, squeezing.

Time to dig up some older pain then.

I pick up the thread once more. "When you dropped out of the University, you lost your student visa and your right to reside in the UK. So Mikayla stepped up with a civil ceremony."

She nods. They must have been among the first.

"God, she's such a good friend."

Ram's composure crumples. "Yes, yes she is." Her shoulders shake with sobs. I want to go to her, but she has my hands in an iron grip, pinned to the table: I stand, but find I can't move.

We stay like that for sometime: Ram crying, me standing there, holding her hands, wanting so much to do more.

"Thank you, Ram," I say at last, "thank you for allowing me to know."

Through red-rimmed eyes that still shine, she looks at me and my heart goes out to her. She's imprisoned there, trapped by her past, a past that still eats at her, twists her, controls her.

"I'd say go Google me," she says, at last, "but you won't find the truth. That's what really hurts me, you know?" She releases one of my hands to wipe her eyes, and I sit back down, clinging to her other hand with both of mine, trying, desperately, to show my support, my care, my compassion through this tiny touch alone. "That nobody really believed me."

My lip smarts from the pain as I bite it.

"Even Mikayla. I could see the doubt in her eyes, the wonder at times. She stood by me, held my hand, stayed by my side, but..."

She shakes her head, shudders, then with icy eyes and the coldest voice I have ever heard she tells me. "I was raped."

Despite my guesses, I gasp. It's what I thought, what I feared.

"Drugged and raped. I could see what he was doing to me, hear but... I couldn't move."

Oh no. It's so much worse. I think about the scene in Sugar Rush that made her freak out. Makes perfect sense now.

"He was clever. He made it look like we were making out, made it seem, to everyone at the party, that it was mutual. They all swore to this later. And he was strong, and I was less.... bulky then, so he'd made it look like we were walking arm in arm to the bedroom."

"I was awake for the whole fucking thing. It was... hideous."

She hangs her head and tears fall onto the table. Guilt rips at me. Me and my fucking curiousity, making her relive this again.

"That's why... That's why I can't let people touch me. He could... he could see I was aware and was revelling in my inability to stop him, boasting, bragging about it while he was raping me."

"I went straight to the police the next day, got a rape kit, had blood drawn. They found traces of Ketamine and other substances in my system. Made sense: he was a student vet."

"But, he was white, good-looking and rich. The fact that I was a lesbian in a committed relationship was the only thing that convinced the CPS to take it to trial, but then he had all these eye-witnesses, spewed this bullshit about me having a crisis of sexuality and wanting to sleep with me to find out what it was like, then claiming I'd raped him to avoid my girlfriend dumping me... and the fucking jury bought it. He didn't deny giving me Ketamine, but claimed we'd taken it afterwards, consensually. Got a caution for that and an official warning from the University."

"Fuck, Ram that is awful."

"Oh, it gets worse."

A shiver of dread runs over me. How could it?

"He then sued me for defamation."

"Fuck!"

"Yeah. Didn't succeed, but it meant I lost my anonymity, got outed, and he made sure my name got in the press. By then, I'd changed my look," she sees my eyebrows go up, "I used to look very feminine. I became convinced that the first jury didn't believe I was really a lesbian, that I didn't look like one, which is why they bought his story. Not surprising, as I was still in the closet. I turned up for the second trial with a shaved head, dungarees, DMs and this tattoo on my neck."

"Wow."

"Yeah." Her voice is full of rage. "Worked though. He dropped the charges. Lying fucker told the press we had 'settled' out of court. I've been tempted to settle him, I can tell you."

She puffs out her lips. Then sucks in a breath. I watch her get herself under control.

"Next girl he tried it on, she was from a posh family. The jury believed her and the expert witnesses her family were able to pay to appear."

"So he's inside now?"

She blows out air. "Yeah." She rolls her shoulders, closes her eyes, breathes in. Opens them and looks me in the eye. "Should make me feel better." There's a pause. When she speaks, I can hear the strain in her voice, the effort it takes to stop it from cracking. "But it really doesn't."

I've never wanted to hug somebody more in my life.

"You're so brave, Ram. So incredible."

"Thanks." Her voice is so small. "But I miss intimacy. I can't.... I can't be touched. I can't bear it. I panic."

I nod. This much is obvious.

"Poor Mikayla, she tried so hard." She sniffs. "I'm glad she's happy. Glad she's found somebody. Maybe we can properly be friends now."

"Ram? Can I... would you... would you let me hug you?"

It's awkward. It always is. She holds one hand between us, controlling the space. I keep my other hand lightly between her shoulder blades.

She squeezes me. I bury my face in her armpit to try to avoid her breasts. Her smell, almost like warm leather, fills my sinuses. It's such a comforting smell, but I don't know why I'm the one seeking it, when I should be the one giving it.

"Thank you, Ram," I say, my voice muffled, "thank you for trusting me with this."

"I do. I do trust you Liz."

* * *

I stay with her for the rest of the weekend. Ted comes and joins us for supper and, after Ram goes to bed, I initiate love-making on the futon in the sitting room in front of the fire.

Afterwards we cuddle, Ted spooning me and stroking me gently.

"I didn't think you'd want to," he whispers. We'd been very quiet.

I turn in his arms and kiss him, deeply.

"I wanted to remind myself that there are good men in this world," I whisper, the firelight dancing in his grey eyes. I haven't told him what Ram told me. That's not my secret to share. But he is a pretty smart cookie. He'll have worked it out. He's also noticed her dislike of contact.

"I wanted to enjoy touching you, having you inside me," I say, "I don't ever want to take it for granted. It's just so precious."

* * *

On Sunday, Nicci and Trish come by with more food. Ram's feeling somewhat better and we all walk to the Suspension Bridge. The bright sunshine is a stark contrast to the bare trees. I find myself longing for spring. All four of us do our best to make Ram feel included, taking turns to walk with her.

But there's no hiding it. We are two couples and a singleton. Ram is alone.

And that's so, so sad.

Best in the West

"That was Santa Dog with "Belle de Jour", named after the classic Bridget Bardot film, of course, and Rowena from the band will be joining us live in the studio next Wednesday at 8pm here, on BBC Radio Bristol 94.9fm."

Ram takes over from me seamlessly. "That's right Liz, but now, joining us live in the studio are Mog and Jon from the Wraiths. Thanks for coming. Tell us about the album."

I let her lead the interview. With three voices it's already complex enough - no need to muddy the mix with mine.

She's got it anyway, asking interesting questions, making them sound bright and engaged. And I do love listening to her voice, so rich and warm.

My heart burns with pride. The same woman that was lying broken and sobbing on her kitchen floor five days ago is now the smooth, savvy radio pro.

I can't help but smile.

Move in with me? (March 2007)

Ram stares down into her bottle, like so many drinkers before her, wondering if the answer might be in there.

It won't be.

"Mikayla seems happy," I say. Mikayla and her new girlfriend have just left. Poppy is the most stunning woman I've ever seen in the flesh, luminous, yet so down to earth too. Neither fact will have made things easier for Ram so no wonder she asked me to come along too. Moral support, although she didn't say this.

It was great to see Mikayla so loved up but hearing her choice cut me, unexpectedly. Like, she's not even waiting to find out whether she was successful in the application or not. She's turning it down and staying here next year to be with Poppy.

Makes me wonder what Ted will decide if he gets the offer.

Ram sighs and picks at the label. "Yeah. Yeah she does. I'm glad."

"Really?"

The hurt in her eyes is obvious. "Well, no, clearly not. But I'm pleased for her."

"Were you still hoping that the two of you might-"

She cuts me off with a wave of her hand. "No. No. Not really. But it's still hard to see her all loved up like that. I mean, I'm happy for her but...." she shrugs.

"It's okay. I get it. I've been there. You don't need to say it."

"Thanks."

"Any time." I don't know what she's thanking me for. But I mean it.

She takes a swig of her cider (I've been tempting her over to my tastes) and sighs. "I think I need to move out. It's her dad's flat. I'm too much in her orbit. It's bad enough that I work with her aunt. Besides, then they can have the flat. It's right opposite that school - it would be perfect for them."

"You could move in with me."

"Really?"

"Yeah, of course. Isn't that what you were asking?"

"No," she says, sitting up, "seriously, I wasn't fishing. I was just talking out loud."

"Well, then I'm insulted!" I say, mock seriously. "Look Ram, I enjoyed living with you before. I'd be happy to live with you again. In fact, I'd be deeply offended if you went anywhere else."

"Aw thanks, but I mean... what about Ted?"

"What about Ted?" I say. "He likes you." I try hard to not think about where Ted will be in four months.

"Yeah... but won't you want him to move in once his contract is up with Goldney?"

If he's even still here, I think to myself. Out loud, I say, "Yeah, it's on the cards, certainly, but so what? There's two bedrooms and two bathrooms. You take one, Ted and I take the other. He's used to living with other people. As far as I'm concerned it's not an issue."

She wipes her eyes. "Okay. Okay. Thanks Liz. I'll let Julie and Dan know."

Schedule

"Liz, thanks for coming. Take a seat."

"Thanks Tim."

The office rumour mill has no inside scoop about what this meeting will be about, so naturally I'm nervous. I wasn't the naughtiest kid at school, but still it feels like being summoned to the headteacher's office, and even at thirty eight, that sensation never quite loses its power. Has there been a complaint? Is there a problem with Best in the West? Does he need to reassign me?

He's all smiles, clearly trying to put me at ease.

"So, Liz, first of all, congratulations on Best in the West. Six months in, I think we can all say it's been a success. Listener feedback and figures are great, buoyant even. I'm impressed. Technically speaking, it's an excellent show too."

That's just like him: he cares about the feel of a show, the polish, not just the results. Of course, it's great to be praised for both.

"Thanks Tim. That's... thank you." I breathe out. "Of course, a lot of it is down to Ram. Her presence, her fluidity, her knowledge of the local scene. She's such a great addition."

"Indeed, she's quite the find. But don't be too quick to pass on praise, Liz. A lot of it is down to you. Most of it, I would say. I suppose often we can't see what's obvious to others when we're too close to something, but let me tell you that, as a regular listener, it's your voice, your warmth, your passion that really makes the show."

I'm blushing now and I try to interrupt him.

"No, no, let me finish. You have a wonderful manner on air. You can practically hear the smile. I find it odd you've never had your own show before."

"Well, it wasn't something I was maybe actively seeking. I mean, I've always enjoyed it whenever I've had the opportunity to cover somebody." Indeed, along with Kate, I've been one of the station's utility girls for the last few years, taking over drive time or breakfast shows to cover sick or holidaying presenters.

"And you do it very well. Which brings me to the purpose of this meeting."

My skin flushes hot. Am I being offered my own show?!

"You may have heard that John plans to retire this summer. I'm not necessarily offering you his slot. However, I'd like you in the mix and on the schedule somewhere. Possibly, given your interest in more esoteric music, perhaps late night when you could control the playlist? What are your thoughts?"

My mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. Not the time to lose the power of speech. Lean into that! "Well, this is a great moment to be lost for words! Thank you Tim, that means so much to me. Am I interested? Of course I am. I've adored being a journalist, going out and finding stories and sharing them with the public, but, yes, I think perhaps it's time to try something new, and building my own audience, rather than just borrowing somebody else's for a bit, would definitely be something I'd love to do. Yes! Yes please!"

He chuckles at that. Is it my imagination, or does he have a soft spot for me? "Well, good. I can't give any cast iron guarantees at this stage. The scheduling committee will need to approve changes and you may need to face a board. I'm going to try to avoid that, and get you on a talent contract, but we'll see. Anyway, keep this between us for now. But you'll be hearing from me."

"Thanks Tim. I'll keep mum."

Before I leave the office, I stand and close my eyes. "Just putting on my poker face," I say. Once I feel that the excitement isn't written on my skin in block capitals, I head back to my desk.

Um....

"Liz," Ram knocks on my door as I'm putting on my make-up. Just a professional look, nothing special. I may be on the Radio, but I do have to talk to colleagues and the public, so sexist double-standards still reign supreme. I'm always slightly envious of how quickly Ram gets ready in the morning, changing her facial jewellery occasionally only if she feels like it, not bothering with make-up or outfits at all, and still always looking gorgeous.

"Yeah, what's up Ram?"

"Well, um...." she pauses. This is unlike her. She's rarely lost for words.

Putting down my mascara, I turn to face her properly. "What do you need, Ram?"

"Okay, so it's a weird one.... Can you add Mikalya to the utility bills and council tax? I'll pay any extra."

She's right, that is a weird one. "Did something happen with her and Poppy?"

"No, no, they're still happy. In fact, they are all going to move into my old flat next week."

"You're kidding? No way! Good for them! So why do-"

"I need it to look like we still live together. I want to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain. I'll be able to in December, because it'll have been two years, but we need to be able to demonstrate that we live together and intend to continue living together, so...."

"Yeah, of course. Mikayla's on board with this, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah. She is." There's a pause.

"What?"

Ram sighs. "Poppy got quite upset about it apparently."

I make a sympathetic face. "I can understand that. Mikayla clearly still has feelings for you, and who can blame her? You still have feelings for her. Poppy's so young, isn't she? Mikalya's her first girlfriend, the first time she's cohabited with anyone. I get why she feels insecure."

"I know. I'm not mad with her. I'm mad with... well, my family. The situation. The fact that he is still fucking up people's lives years after it happened. It sucks so badly."

I really want to give her a hug, and I try not to show it. That would just rub salt in the wound: once more show her the affection she's missing through no fault of her own.

"I'll give Mikalya a call and get her details. Maybe Poppy too. Perhaps I can get a coffee with her one day. I could probably do with a haircut too."

"Thanks Liz. I've left out your packed lunch for you."

"Oh thank you, sweetie." So, good to have her back living with me. She'd been making lunches for me way more than I had back in the autumn; it had made me lazy. "I promise I'll make them next week."

"Yeah, right!" she chuckles. "Have a good day."

"You too Ram."

Babel

Well, we built this house with sand and straw

I live one foot out the door

Grinning, I bounce and shimmy to Babel's brilliant folk rock. Pete, Fortune Drive's preferred engineer, calls them the best band in Bristol. He may well have a point. They are so tight, so dynamic, and in Danny they have a gruff yet charismatic front man. With Daisy on drums now, their groove is irresistible.

You wear my heart on your sleeve

Ted grabs my hand and spins me round, his dimples deep and cute with his smile. I'm going to shag him so hard tonight. And tomorrow. Nothing planned for the weekend but to stay in bed with my boyfriend.

Mikayla smiles next to me, Poppy wrapped in her arms. Nice that they've come out, with Mikayla's parents taking little Lauren for the night.

As the end of the song comes and we raise our hands to applaud, I reflect on how my life is pretty damn sweet right now. I have a gorgeous, wonderful boyfriend who loves and adores me, and whose desire for me seems inexhaustible. I have friends, I have fun, and I will soon have my own show. Personally and professionally, I can barely think of a time when things have been going better for me.

The heavy drone of the twelve string brings a recognition roar from the crowd. It seems to pan and flange in a great swooping sound. I spin around and through a parting in the packed crowds, I catch sight of Ram behind the desk. She's smiling - clearly it's something she's had a hand in.

Now, if only I could find a way to seeing her happy, my life would be pretty complete.

Results

My phone rings, but I'm on a work line. It's Ted.

Unfortunately, I can't end the other call in time and my mobile has gone to ansaphone by the time I do. I call him. He's clearly leaving a message, which kind of makes me smile.

I try again, but this time his line goes to message.

Oh well. I play his message back instead.

"Liz! Hey, guess you're at work. So excited! I got in! I got into the Fast Stream. They just called me! We're going to Brussels. Love you!"

My stomach flips. He's going. We're going.

Oh shit.

* * *

"No, I do love you," I say for like the twelfth time, "but my life is here Ted. My career. My house."

"So let out your house. Ram's already living there and she can sublet the other room for you. Look, you're super-talented, with loads of experience. You'll be able to get a job there easily. The BBC brand is so well known."

"But I don't speak French!"

"Oh you'll learn, you're smart. Besides, there will be loads of people who speak English."

I'm tempted. So tempted. This gorgeous, lovely, generous, passionate young man wants me to move abroad with him. To live with him. To share his life with him.

Yet, the timing is all wrong. An opportunity in my career, one I never even knew I wanted, is developing and I'm not sure I can pass it up. Or is that just inertia? Is it just that I'm scared of change?

"Come on Liz, come with me, please."

This was never meant to last. Surely, I was only ever a fling for him, an older woman to satisfy some kink, coloured cooler by my broadcasting past.

I'm fifteen years older than him. I'm too old for him.

But I don't want to let him go.

"Stay with me Ted. Put this off. Stay, find some work here. There's so much good you are doing with the Community Café. Surely, that's worth doing?"

"Liz, I get it. But this is my dream. It's what I want to do. Can you understand that?"

"Yes. Yes, I can." I kiss him. Truly. Sadly. Deeply. "That's why I can't come with you. My show is my dream, what I want to do. Can you understand that?"

But he really can't.

Wales

"Ted," I hiss, trying to keep my voice low, "can we not do this here, please? We'll talk when we're back in Bristol, okay?"

The shock in his face is the same shock I've been seeing all week: the dismayed disbelief that I haven't been swayed by his arguments, his logic, his passion. He just doesn't get it. The hurt in his grey eyes is obvious for all to see.

I walk through the kitchen, wanting to see if Myf wants help with the food prep, the bins, cleaning the oven, anything really to avoid another rerun of the same argument that's been spoiling our mini-break here in Wales.

He doesn't slam the door. I'll give him that. But as my eyes watch him stalk across the gravel through the windows my heart sinks.

Myf moves behind me and wraps her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my shoulder. "He's not used to not getting his way, is he bach?"

"No," I sigh, enjoying the affection. I haven't had enough of that this weekend.

"He's still growing, bach. Give him another five years and he might be tidy like."

She pulls me through to the kitchen and sets me up with a cup of tea. All of which means we get an excellent view of the triumphant moment when Ram and Harry's homemade bottle rocket makes its maiden flight to Rhian's ecstatic squeals and Dafydd's envious admiration.

"That one though," Myf says, nodding towards Ram, "she's ready now like. Somebody should snap her up now in a minute."

Well, there's obviously no way to disagree with that.

Telling Ram

Ram puts down a cider in front of me. I'm on the sofa in the sitting room of our flat, staring out of the window at the early summer sky.

"You look like you need one of these," she says.

"Thanks," I sigh. "I do."

She frowns at me. "Right, come on, are you going to tell me what's up?"

I thought I'd cried enough tears over this, but apparently not. "Ted's got the job offer, the one in Brussels. Like Mikayla did. Only he's taking it." My voice cracks. "He's going at the end of June," I sob out.

Ram shuffles round next to me and we awkwardly negotiate our way into a halfway hug, her cuddling me from behind. Not for the first time, but I wonder how she copes in karate classes.

Through my sniffles I find myself defending Ted, explaining how he was desperate for me to go with him, had tried everything to try to persuade me, how it was my choice to stay, how he'd always been upfront about what he wanted and where he would need to be for that.

"But finally, after fifteen years, I'm doing a show I love, a show I believe in, and we've both worked so hard to make that happen," I wipe away tears as I look up at her, "and I'm just not ready to walk away from that."

It had been close. If he'd proposed maybe that would have swayed me. But it hasn't even come up in conversation. Nobody, it seems, has ever wanted me enough to make me theirs.

And maybe that's what hurts the most; not even maybe, it is what hurts the most.

Ram spends some time trying to convince me to go with him, but to no avail, but she can't come up with any arguments Ted hasn't already tried. Though I'm touched that she is invested in my happiness.

"Besides," I say, "there's the age gap - fifteen years is a lot. What if he decides in five years he wants kids and I'm too old to conceive?"

To that, she has no answer.

"I'm so glad, Ram, that you're here. I'm so glad you're my flatmate."

"Me too," she says.

Slowly, gently, telegraphing every movement, I lean over and kiss Ram on the cheek. She stiffens, shudders, but doesn't pull away. And when I pull back, a smile breaks out on her face.

"Cheers." We clink and drink and smile at each other.

"So," I say, "who do you want to get in for an interview and live session next week?"

"Well, Robin Allender's got an album coming out next month," she says, "and Frànçois thinks he and the Atlas Mountains could manage a live session."

I nod and we sketch out our plans for the summer.

Glastonbury

"Hey, I'm from Radio Worthy here at the festival. Mind if I ask you two some questions? Where are you guys coming from?" Ram asks a couple who have put their bags down under fluttering flags to rearrange them.

"We're from Norfolk," the girl says.

"Quite a trip then! What are your names?"

"I'm Leighny and this is Andrew."

"And who are you most looking forward to see?"

I smile to myself, thinking how easily Ram is taking to this, then turn to the flood of festival goers coming in the North gate, by the cinema stage. We're grabbing soundbites for both Worthy FM and our show later. The BBC are here and, luckily, we've managed to persuade them to let us use their studio to broadcast Best in the West from the festival site tonight. With no officially scheduled music until Friday, Radio 1 and the TV won't be using it. We've got Rose Kemp joining us for an interview and live session as well as the Glitzy Bag Hags.

Over the space of a week, a tent town with a population of 170,000 people will spring up in the Somerset fields outside the village of Pilton. Nearly eighty stages will host something in the region of three thousand performances, of comedy, cinema, circus acts, dance, drama, poetry, puppetry, but mostly music. Jazz, classical, techno, rock, folk, world, indie, trance, pop, hip hop, choral, bhangra, swing, and every genre you could possibly imagine. Some campers will pitch in front of the Pyramid stage and barely move, watching all the headliners; others will hardly watch any performances, instead hanging out in the tepee field, or meditating in the healing fields, or attending workshops.

It's incredible and magical and smelly and muddy and chaotic and invigorating and for the last twenty years (bar the fallow ones) a major part of my life. I've been here as a steward, as a bar worker, once as a paying punter, once as a fence jumper, but mostly as a broadcaster for Radio Avalon, now rechristened Worthy FM.

The North gate is furthest from where we're camping, in the radio enclosure by the Kids fields. But it is where the bus arrives, so it often gives the best stories. Plus, I wanted to show Ram the true scale of the site. Last night, Woody and I took Ram up to the top of the sacred space, by the LOVE sign above the stone circle. Revellers with fire pois and sparklers and glowing juggling balls had lit up the night, as had streams of chinese lanterns rising into the sky. (I always worried that one would fall on a tent and start a campsite fire.) It was beautiful, but in the dark she hadn't been able to see the true size of the festival site.

Somewhere on site, Ted is working. I am trying to forget the name of his stall, though I know full well where it is. It's been in the same spot for the last eight years. Though I've never taken much note of it before, I could probably walk there blindfolded if needs be.

He was meant to be staying with me. He was meant to stay with me.

I can't remember a heartbreak that has hurt this badly since I was a teenager. But then, that's kind of what we had, a teenaged love, thoughtless, carefree, unrestrained, invincible. Until adulthood came and smashed it with its requirements and responsibilities and cold, hard, career-related logistics.

I shake myself. No time to get maudlin. It happened fast, it ended fast. This is a festival. Let's have fun.

"White mice! White mice! Any colour you like! White mice!" Somebody yells.

I grin. Glastonbury: it's mental.

"Taxi for Barry!" I yell.

Somebody picks it up and yells it across the campsite. "Taxi for Barry!"

I wonder how far that will get?

The music and performances won't start, officially, for another two days. The festival starts now.

I look across at my wonderful friend, Ramona, and decide to try to forget Ted and focus on ensuring she has the best week of her young life.

Thirty nine

"Surprise!" the crowd yells!

I shriek in shock, nearly losing my drink. We'd been tiptoeing upstairs at the Lansdown, me thinking that we were late for an unplugged gig, and not wanting to make a sound.

"Happy birthday to you..." the crowd begins. Paula comes forward and wraps me in a big hug.

I see colleagues and friends, musicians and gig goers: Miles and Adam, Ana and Amy, Mikayla and Poppy, Trish and Nicci, Tony, Steve, Kate and loads more familiar faces.

There's a cake and presents and a DJ.

"Ram, organised it all sweetie," Paula tells me later, though I obviously had worked that out already, "she's a diamond for sure."

Ted's not there. I wasn't expecting him to be, though I know he hasn't gone yet. I smile, but his absence hurts.

Still.

Aldea Inglés

"Here we are," Dad says, as he indicates and turns right, through large gates and up a tarmac, oak-lined drive, bordered by pretty chalets.

"It's gorgeous!"

"There'll be four to a chalet, dear," my Mum explains, "hopefully you'll share with somebody nice."

"Looks like we beat the bus," Dad says, as he parks.

Mum had explained how the rest of the volunteers and paying participants are bussed in from Madrid. However, as Mum and Dad live in Cantabria, they decided to drive. We stopped the night in Salamanca to do a little tourism, wandering the picturesque old town and marvelling at the University, the Plaza Mayor and Cathedral. I'll go back on the bus though, and fly home from Madrid.

The heat hits me as I step from the air conditioned car. I'm rarely here in summer - Rick's cricketing schedule always meant he wouldn't want to come with me then. Instead we'd visit for a week or so in late October or early March, which were often wet and windy. Having spent the last few days soaking up sun on the wild, green, northern beaches, trying to recover my long-lost surfing skills, I'm starting to see what I missed and to revel in that freedom.

"Hola María," my mother calls to a larger lady approaching us, "¿que tal?"

"Caroline! Mike! How lovely to see you again!" The woman, María, gives my mother two kisses, Spanish style, then does the same to my dad. She speaks English with a pronounced London accent. "This must be your daughter, Liz?"

"Yes, hi," I go for a handshake, but find myself being given two kisses too, "nice to meet you."

"María was the director when we came last time," Mum says, "she's fabulous. Who's the MC this time?"

"Jason. I think you were here with Mary last time, but Jason is a lot of fun. Canadian."

"Oh great," Mum replies.

"Well, you're early, I'm still not expecting the bus for another hour, so we might as well get you checked in." She leads us up to reception.

"How many are you expecting?" Dad asks.

"Oh, it should be almost a full house. Twenty four and twenty four."

"I'm sorry," I ask, "what does that mean?"

"So, we've got twenty four paying learners - nearly all Spanish, one from Portugal, one from the Czech Republic, though she lives in Spain. Then we've twenty four volunteers - three Irish, four New Zealanders, five Canadians, six Americans, and six Brits. A perfect match, and divisible by four, which always makes my life a lot easier when drawing up the schedule and the room allocations. It just makes the seating plan in the dining room slightly awkward as we usually sit in groups of four, but with Jason and myself in the mix, we'll need one table of six."

She gets us settled into our rooms. I'll be sharing a room with an English woman named Chas from Manchester. The chalets are light and airy, with high-ceiling sitting rooms and comfortable beds.

It's lovely, but I can't help feeling a pang. I was meant to be here with Ted. Mum and Dad have a room with a double bed. I could be sharing this with him. I feel myself getting irrationally angry. He was right: the sooner we broke it off, the sooner we would have gotten over it. But I feel robbed. Robbed of time I could have spent with him, memories we could have made together. I felt that way at Glastonbury, a little, but there I made memories with Ram.

I wish she was here. I get her reticence to travel. Well, intellectually I understand it. As a British and EU passport holder, actually no, I don't. I've never stood in a line at an airport passport control, worried, feeling fear in every fibre of my being that I won't be accepted, that I'll be turned back, rejected, denied, expelled. But I know that's what she fears.

After unpacking, I wander around the gorgeous grounds, taking in the sounds of cicadas and crickets, checking out the pool and tennis courts, then meandering my way back to the bar and reception, which sit side by side.

María is there pacing nervously.

"I guess this must be the hard bit," I say, "making conversation."

"Something like that," she says, "though God knows it shouldn't be. I've been doing this for three years!"

She is so stereotypically Spanish in appearance, dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin, it's a surprise every time she opens her mouth to hear flat, London vowels come out.

"So you lived in London then?" I ask.

She smiles. "Born and raised. Mum and Dad worked in hotels there, before Dad ran off with a Scottish colleague. I barely remember him, to be honest." She sighs sadly. "Then we moved back when I was a teenager. My grandmother was sick, so Mum wanted to move back to Madrid. But it meant I had to leave my heart behind."

"Your Dad?" I say.

"No!" she laughs, "my stepsister. My best friend. Plus, the way we left... it wasn't good. We've completely lost touch."

"Oh, that's so sad." I think briefly of Ram, so separated from her family, denied the comfort of siblings.

"Yeah." She jiggles, wiping her hands on her slacks. "Actually? It's why I'm so nervous. Oh God, I feel sick." She covers her hand with her mouth.

"Are you okay?" I ask, concerned.

"No." Her eyes are glistening. "Sorry, I'm not usually like this. It's just.... She might be on the bus."

"She might be? Your stepsister? You mean you don't know?"

"No! There's a volunteer on the manifest with the same first name - Jane - and the same date of birth - September 2nd, 1978. So, it could be her. The surname is different, but she could have gotten married?"

"My goodness, how exciting!" The fact that she's nearly a decade younger than me crosses my mind.

"Yes, but I'm terrified. What if it's not her? What if it is, but she's still angry with me?"

I want to ask why, but then there's the sound of a large engine as a coach comes up the drive, and María's moving away, clipboard in hand to stand in welcome.

The wait seems interminable. Mum and Dad come around the corner and join me.

Then the participants and volunteers - anglos, I'm learning that they are called - start streaming off the bus.

I watch, wondering if María's stepsister will indeed be there.

I don't have to wait long, as soon a stick thin blonde woman is clinging to María, crying and screaming her name. Everyone is shocked, especially as María quickly hustles her inside with no explanation.

"That's her stepsister," I explain, as loud as I can.

"I'm sorry, pardon me," comes a Canadian accent.

"Are you Jason?" I ask.

He nods.

"Hi, I'm Liz. María was explaining that there was a possibility her stepsister was on the bus as an anglo. I'm guessing that was the case. I think they must be having a bit of an emotional reunion."

"Okay, thanks," he says, relief clear in his eyes, he turns to the crowd. "Okay, everybody, welcome to Aldea Inglés. Can we all form a circle..."

* * *

"She was telling me that she lived in London, so I'm guessing they were stepsisters then, but then María's mum moved her back to Madrid, and I'm guessing Jane got left behind," I explain to my roommate, Chas as she unpacks.

She's a very good looking black woman with a huge smile. I find myself liking her immediately. It's funny, but I think just a year ago I wouldn't have noticed, but now I see the differences in skin tone, well between her and Ram, whose skin is much lighter and redder than Chas's glossy, bluish-black.

She seems lovely, but as the week goes on we barely see each other, as anglos are encouraged to spend all their time with the paying participants in one-to-one conversations, role plays and games. We have meals together a couple of times early on, but then Chas seems to get very close with an Irish woman called Fiona, and then I see her even less. The last three nights she doesn't even make it back to our room!

Luckily, that's about the only time I feel lonely, the only time I miss Ted's arms around me. The rest of the week is such exhausting fun, that there's no opportunity for me to be morose.

Next year, I think, next year, I need to bring Ram, come what may.

Sick

I'm dozing, propped up in bed, surrounded by crumpled tissues, when I hear keys on the landing and the door open.

Footsteps on the landing. Ram's head pokes through the open door. "How are you feeling Liz?"

I smile weakly. "Okay," I croak. "I must have picked up some bug in Spain. What are you doing here?"

"Lunch break! Trish said to take an extra half-hour and come back and check on you."

My smile threatens to wobble, so I nod my head. "That's sweet. Thanks for these." I pat the thermos next to me. Ram had filled it with honey, lemon and fresh ginger before she'd left that morning and left it by my bedside with a note. There was porridge in another thermos: I'd only managed half a bowl though. Not much appetite.

She sits next to me on the bed, and puts a hand on my forehead. It feels wonderfully cool. "Mmmmmm." She makes a concerned face. "Have you taken anything?"

"Paracetamol."

"When?"

"About 10, I think."

"Okay. Could you stomach some soup? Then take some more?"

My throat hurts, but I nod. I do need to eat, after all.

"Right, well I'll just open a window, get you some fresh air and then I'll get the soup on."

"Thank you." I blow my nose to cover my crying as she leaves.

Are you seeing anyone?

"Are you seeing anyone?" I ask. We're walking home from Broadcasting House, after the show. Rozi Plain was our live guest and she'd not disappointed.

"Huh? No. You know that. I can't deal with intimacy."

"What? Oh, no, I didn't mean romantically. I meant, a therapist."

"Oh. No."

"Have you? Seen a therapist?"

"Yeah, I did, initially. The University provided one, but then I moved here and... well.... I couldn't really afford it."

"And now?"

"Yeah..." she shrugs, "I guess I could. Landlady's pretty tightfisted, but I think I could make it work."

"Hey!"

She laughs.

"Seriously, Ram, if you're worried, I could reduce the rent."

"Don't be silly, I was joking, I earn enough. Yeah, you're right, I should see somebody."

"Good."

We walk on in silence.

"Ram? Did I just cross a line?"

"No." She slows and looks at me. "Thank you. You were right. I'm.... Just, thank you."

"Any time."

Bank holiday

"Ted wasn't right for you, cariad," Paula says.

"No, don't. Don't do him down. He's a lovely person, so kind and generous, look you," I say.

I'm slowly getting over him and, in fact, being here in Wales for the long weekend is helpful. It's not a place I associate with him, and the distraction of my niblings and my best friend has been helping. With Simon and Myfanwy busy with a full set of guests, Ram and I have taken the kids off their hands down to Newgale Beach. Ram is gamely directing the construction of a series of dams, putting the kids to work under the puffy clouds, while Paula and I chill behind the windbreaker. No need for a sunshade today.

"You're right, he was lovely.... And that's why he was wrong for you."

"Shut it, pen coc," I say indignantly, swatting her with my floppy hat. I didn't learn Welsh, but I sure as hell learnt the insults.

"Y lembo, that hurt!" She shows me the mark on her arm.

"Sorry, not sorry."

She giggles. "You're such a twmffat."

"Oi! You were the one saying I wasn't good enough for Ted."

"See that's why you are a twmffat. I wasn't saying that. I was saying he was too lovely for you, because he's still so naïve and hopeful. The world hasn't sucked the optimism out of him yet. He still believes he can change the world for the better." She sighs. "And I really hope he can."

She looks at me. "But he probably won't. And when he realises this he'll become snarky and cynical and probably turn into a proper cwd. Or turn to drink and depression. I've seen it too many times with NQTs: they bounce in as if they've just invented the term 'white saviour', thinking they are going to be a male version of Michelle Pfieffer. By the end of the year, they've either quit or joined the misanthropic moaner club." She nods to herself. "It might take Ted longer, but that's where he's headed."

"How the hell do you know that? You only met him once, and you were either off your face or hideously hungover the whole time."

"Ugh, his enthusiasm was what gave me a hangover. Seriously, he walked around like he'd just stepped out of Plato's cave and was coming back for the rest of us with a blue pill."

"Isn't it a red pill?"

"Whatever, sguthan. My point is, you probably did him a favour in the long run. A dose of disappointment, romantically, might be enough to vaccinate him against the shit the working world will shovel on top of him."

Yells of triumph come from the kids, as Ram's engineering works produce the cascade they'd been working towards.

"Ram, however," Paula continues, "that woman knows trauma, oes? She walks like a woman who knows how shitty the world is and is ready to hit it back."

I instantly envision Ram slamming her punchbag, and must look quite startled. Paula's quick to reassure me. "Oh don't worry, cariad, you haven't spilled any of her secrets. But I've been a teacher for fifteen years now. I can spot trauma from fifty yards. All teachers are basically counsellors - it comes with the territory."

I nod. "Yep. It's a damn good thing you do, Paula."

"Yep. I'm a fucking saint, look you."

We laugh and then are silent for a while, as we take in Ramona and the kids. It's a big beach, but it's the bank holiday and so there are crowds about. Curious kids that come to see what they are up to, don't get a second glance from Ramona, and I notice some are starting to help. But as a single man approaches, I notice Ramona stiffen and straighten and watch him walk past. He must feel her gaze on him and he seems to quicken his pace, eager to get past her.

"Is she seeing somebody?" Paula asks quietly, "a professional, I mean."

"Yes."

"Good. Because that girl is carrying a lot of rage."

I nod. "You're not wrong," I sigh.

This is heavy stuff for a holiday weekend. "Want to split a cider?" I ask. We've brought a cool box with us. Yes, I'm driving, but if I just have one then leave it a few hours before we head back, I should be fine.

"Not for me, thanks."

I side-eye her. "You okay? You feeling alright?"

She blushes. "I'm kind of off the booze at the minute."

"Oh yeah?"

She's silent, but I can see her squirming.

"Are you pregnant?"

She grimaces. "No." A pause. "But we're trying, so..."

"That's great babe, good luck." And I get it. I get why she didn't want to tell me. She didn't want to hurt me. And I smile and I pretend I'm okay.

Because I am.

I am okay; really.

I'm thirty nine. And single. And childless.

I'm fine.

Late night Liz

The jingle fades out, and I slide up my microphone. No bed for the intro.

"Whether you're just getting home, working late, studying hard or on the road, this is late night Liz," I say, "here with you from 11 to 1, Monday to Thursday, on BBC Radio Bristol 94.9fm, by your side and in your ear, linking you, connecting you, making you feel part of the family. Thanks for joining me, it's lovely to have you with me. Drop me a line on liz dot bradford at bbc dot co dot uk or text 81333 starting your message with "Bristol" and let me know where you're to and what you're about. I'd love to hear from you. Here's "Protection" by Massive Attack."

Cue track. Mute microphone.

And so begins my show.

Jane and María

Sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, I read through the email again. It's not particularly well written. But it's making me cry.

Hey Liz

So lovely to hear from you! Thanks for staying in touch. María and I are both really well thanks.

I have big news: I'm moving to Spain! I've given notice at my work and my flat. I can't wait. María has managed to find us a room to share with a friend of hers, but we're going to look for our own place. I'm going to do a TEFL training course this month, then hopefully find teaching work, though I may also just work with María. It's so exciting.

We've been to see Beatríz and we want to get down to see José soon.

Congratulations on your new show. I'll try to listen online.

María sends her love.

Big hugs

Jane x

"Hey, bad news?" Ram's soft voice comes from behind me. I turn towards her.

"Oh. No! Good news actually. You remember I told you about Jane and María?"

"The stepsisters? The ones who found each other again?"

"Yeah. I just had an email from Jane. She's quit her job and is moving to Madrid to start a new life there. She and María are going to get a place together."

"That's lovely." She's frowning. She's clearly confused as to why this has been making me upset.

I wipe my eyes. She offers me some kitchen roll. "Thanks."

I feel her arms go around me from behind. The one person hug. I know the rules: she can touch me, not the other way around. I've come to decide that I love them. They are selfish and one-sided, but I revel in them. The heat of her hands, the strength and security of her arms, the press of her chest into my back, her breath on my neck.

"It's just..." I begin, tears leaking from me again, "should I have gone? You know? She's just giving up her life here for somebody she loves. What's wrong with me? Why didn't I?"

I've not heard from Ted. It's probably for the best. But he was such a light in my life, even for so brief a period, it feels dark now without him.

Ram doesn't try to talk me round, doesn't try to tell me I'm being silly, doesn't try to tell me I'm better off without him. She just holds me as I cry.

"Better now?" she asks, eventually.

"Yes." I croak. "Thank you."

"Want to do the crossword?"

I laugh. "Sure."

Indian

Even though it takes Ram and the band a good thirty minutes to pack down, the adrenaline doesn't wear off quickly. It had been a monster of a night, and I'd barely stopped dancing. The Heavy, then Fortune Drive - who could have packed the place out by themselves - followed by Fleeing New York. Ram had set it up, but when the Croft had sold out she managed to move it to The Fleece. Luckily, Fortune Drive's manager runs that venue, so it was an easy switch, but she'd been worried that the news wouldn't get around in time, even rushing out a second batch of posters around town as well as spamming Myspace and Facebook.

The result was a sell out. After doing the bits I can do - carrying packed flight cases to vans - I stand chatting to Lulu, who has been selling merchandise, while Ram and the bands settle up. Everyone looks happy. Everyone looks young.

We've offered to put up Fleeing New York, but they've a gig in Brighton tomorrow, so decide to drive back to Southampton tonight.

"Well, done Ram!" I say as I stand next to her to wave the bands off. I hold up a hand for her and she high fives it, but then grabs it and pulls our hands between us, for one of her half-hugs.

"Thanks," she huffs into my hair, "and thanks for being here."

"Of course," I say, "I wouldn't miss it."

She skins up, then we start to walk back, the night chilly but dry.

She offers me a toke on the spliff, but I decline. "I'm already starving," I say, "don't need a case of the munchies!"

She chuckles. "I'm not surprised, the amount of dancing you did."

"Want to get something to eat?"

"Sure. How about an Indian?"

"Cool!" I'd been thinking of a bag of chips from a kebab shop, thinking of other times we'd gotten post gig snacks together.

"There's several on Park street," she suggests. "That's kind of half-way home, and there'll be taxis about if we can't be bothered walking after."

"Good plan."

It's late, but it's Friday, so it's busy, but they find us a table for two. Eager to get our food quickly, we order straight away.

"I'll take a chana daal and saag paneer. Mushroom rice okay with you, Ram?"

"Yep, great. Can I have a vegetable madras and an onion bhaji, but as a side not a starter. Do you have Cobra?" Ram asks.

"Of course Madam," the waiter says.

"Great. In a bottle please, and open it here."

"For me too please, and a bottle of water too," I add.

"Of course."

When he's gone, it suddenly occurs to me that I haven't seen Ram eat meat for a while. Or fish, for that matter.

"Ram, you know I don't mind if you eat meat in front of me. You don't have to avoid it for my sake."

She shrugs. "Well, I figured this way you can share a bit of mine."

I smile and point at her. "You're just after my saag paneer, aren't you?"

She grins. "Damn, you got me."

I laugh. "But, seriously Ram, don't feel uncomfortable eating meat or fish in front of me. I'm not judgy."

She squirms a little, seems to weigh up something in her head. Then she says, "actually, I've decided to go veggie."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's been five months now since I had any meat or fish."

"Wow! Cool. Er... how is that?" And why didn't you say anything earlier, I want to add.

"Yeah, it's great. Oh thanks!" The waiter has brought our drinks. "Thank you," she says, as he opens the bottles in front of us. "Cheers!"

We clink drinks and each take a sip.

"Actually, I just didn't want to say anything earlier in case I couldn't stick with it," she smiles shyly, "I was worried about what you'd think if I wimped out and went back to carnivorous ways."

"Aw, seriously, I'd never-"

"I know," she cuts me off, "it's just..." She shrugs. "I hate letting you down."

"I don't think you ever have."

She gives me a look of frank disbelief. Then, taking a breath, she slides her hand over to me, palm up.

It takes me a moment, but then I get it. Inhaling, I rest my hand, as lightly as I can, on top of hers. She squeezes it, and, when I try to pull mine away, thinking even this brief contact must be too much for her, she grips it harder.

"Anyway," she says, shaking slightly, "I think being veggie... well, I think I'll stick with it."

"Good for you Ram," I say, my voice slightly choked, "good for you."

Facebook

"Any plans for the weekend, Liz?" Sasha asks, from the hot desk in front.

"A couple of gigs. How about you?"

"Off to Brussels!" she says excitedly.

My stomach feels hollow. "Is that for work?" I ask, as neutrally as I can.

"Oh, no!" she says. "Just a weekend away. Tom snagged us flights for fifteen pounds each way, can you believe? Out Friday, back early on Monday!"

Her phone rings - "Hello, BBC Bristol, Sasha speaking..." - which puts an end to that conversation.

* * *

Later, I look up flights from Bristol to Brussels. Easyjet and Ryanair both run them. They are cheap.

My show is Monday to Thursday, 11 to 1am. I could fly out early Friday and be back late Monday.

We never really spoke about trying long-distance, whether it could be on the cards. I mean, with his job, Ted will be working flat-out during the week anyway, probably doing 8 'til 8 or something stupid. It's not like he'd have much time for a girlfriend then.

Jiggling my leg, I pull out my phone, but then realise he probably has a new, Belgian, phone number now. Which I don't have. Nor do I know his non-University email address.

* * *

I walk home in a strange state of excitement. There's a little skip in my step and I have to resist the temptation to run. Then I wonder why I'm resisting and break into a little jog.

Once inside, I power up my laptop, almost dancing with impatience. "Come on, come on," I find myself muttering under my breath.

Once up, I quickly log in to Facebook and scroll through my 'friends' to find Ted.

The picture brings me up short. His relationship status has my face collapsing into a sob as my stupidity and foolishness rushes up to smack me in the heart.

Of course he's not still single. Of course he's moved on. Of course somebody else saw him for the gem he is and snapped him up.

She looks gorgeous and young.

It takes me the three hours I have before I need to head back for show prep to pull myself together. I'm very glad that Ram wasn't home to see me.

I've got a favour to ask

"Thanks, Ram, this looks delish!"

"You're welcome."

She's just served me a full veggie breakfast - poached eggs, grilled halloumi, garlic mushrooms, beans, roasted tomatoes, and kawunga on the side for starch. It's growing on me, though I can never eat that much. I daren't: it would go right to my thighs. Ram's got me doing yoga twice a week with her these days, and I dance a lot at the gigs we go to, for all that I need to leave early for my show, but she runs twice the distance I do, plus works the weights and punch bag. I guess she needs the calories to burn.

"I'm so glad you moved in, Ram."

"What? Because you're too lazy to cook?"

"No! Though, yeah, I do appreciate your cooking. No, I mean... well, I doubt I'd ever see you otherwise. The show's hours aren't exactly sociable."

She nods, understanding. "I'm glad I moved in too."

We eat in companionable silence for a minute or two. It really is delicious.

"So, um, Liz? I've got a favour to ask."

"Of course. Whatever you need."

She smirks. "Careful. You don't know what I'm asking for yet."

"Ok-aaay. Go on."

She takes a breath and holds it. Closes her eyes and lets it out. I realise it's hard for her to ask for help. I wonder if she feels guilty for accepting so much support from Mikayla and her family, but being unable to give it back.

Her eyes open. "So. I've been seeing Grace. A therapist. It's been helpful."

"That's great! Good for you!"

"Thanks. Anyway, a suggestion she had was to try becoming more comfortable with non-sexual touching. She wondered if I could get past the panic with that, become okay with touching, just casually, it might be the first step to greater intimacy. And to be honest, being able to give friends a hug is a pretty good goal in itself. So," she inhales, "could you... I mean... would you touch me more? Sorry, is that too weird to say it like that?"

I smile. I really want to put her at ease. I extend my hand onto the table, palm up in front of her. An offer - it's there for her to take if she wants.

"Of course," I say, "I'd love to help you. Tell me what you need. What kind of touches?"

I can see the effort she has to expend, the control, to take my hand and squeeze it is already less than in the past. I think it's easier for her if she dominates, controls the touch.

"I don't know."

We sit in silence for a while, musing, holding hands.

"Maybe-"

"Perhaps-" we say together.

I smile at her. "Go on, Ram."

She swallows. "Maybe, if we're working close together, like washing and drying, or at a bar, or moving past me in the studio, you could, um, put your hand on my back? Like, just to signal that you're there?"

"Okay, I can do that."

"And, um, maybe when we sit next to each other, we could let our legs touch?"

"Sure," I smile back, "we can do that."

The relief in her face is obvious and suddenly she looks so young. And I suppose she is.

A thought comes to me. "Ram? I've always wondered... how do you manage with karate?"

She smiles. "Well, I don't let anyone touch me, obviously. That's kind of the point."

I blink. "Yeah. Okay. I guess. You must be pretty good then."

She nods and smiles. "Yeah, you could say that."

"How about the tattoos? How did you cope with the touching required for those?"

"I got really, really, really stoned."

I laugh.

After, as we wash up and dry together, I deliberately place my hand on her arm as I lean past her to place a pot on the rack.

She stiffens and I feel her fighting the urge to flinch.

"Okay?" I ask.

She smiles at me, and it feels genuine, not forced for my reassurance. "Yes," she says, "thank you."

"Anytime," I reply. And moving slowly, keeping eye contact, making my intent completely clear without words, I step up and brush a kiss lightly on her cheek at the corner of her smile. "Thank you for trusting me to help you."

In the studio

"... and playing this Friday at the Prom on Gloucester Road is Katey Brooks. Here she is with her song 'All of me.'" Ram hits play seconds before she finishes talking, as I fade out the bed then mute the mics.

"Okay if I pop to the loo?" I ask. I think I must be coming down with something, a UTI maybe. I can usually make it through a two hour show no problem. Mind you, now I have my own show straight after, Ram's the main presenter anyway. I'm just the producer these days.

"Sure. I'll play the trail after this, then go straight into Thought Forms."

"Cool. Alright, shift over." There's not a lot of space to get past - it's easier if she moves out the way first, like on an aeroplane.

Ram glances behind her. "You're pretty slim. You can get through that."

Not without touching her. Oh. Suddenly, I realise that's what she wants. She wants to test her boundaries. To push at them.

"Okay. Scooch in." She pulls her chair in, and I squeeze through the gap. I have to put my hands on her shoulders for balance, and I feel her tense slightly, but it's only momentarily.

Looking back as I leave, I see her smile.

Breakfast

Yawning, I make my way through to the kitchen in my running gear to put my porridge on a low heat.

I'm surprised to find Ram there. It's 10:30 am - she's usually at work at 8am.

"Ram? What you doing?"

"Morning. Just putting the porridge on to slow cook for us both. Then a run, yeah?"

She's in lycra, sleek and muscular.

I blink. Is it Saturday? Did I get confused over the day?

"Ram... um, why aren't you at work?"

"Oh, I've changed my hours. I'm not starting until later now. Come on, let's stretch off, I'll tell you about it as we jog."

* * *

"So," she says, her voice amazingly steady, despìte the fact we're running, "we were getting quite a few customers wondering if we could open later. Nurses, doctors, people from the BBC - thanks, several mentioned you'd recommended them - who work late shifts. Us closing at 5pm, and not opening until 8am wasn't helping them."

She pauses, as we switch to running single file to pass a woman with a pram.

"So, I jumped on it and suggested to Nicci that I start later and finish later, at 7pm. We're also going to open earlier too, so night shift staff can pick cars up from us."

"Will that... be enough... hours?"

"Well, it's less, true, but, I spoke to Matt at the Croft and he wants me to do more nights down there. At least three a week, regularly. So, I'll be heading straight down there after I finish at With Her Wheels. Not Wednesdays, obviously. Need to take a packed dinner!"

"I hope... it's not going... to be just you... working?" We used to run together when we lived in Clifton, but with my new hours we haven't been. I'm shocked at how out of breath I am. I'm slipping. Or just getting old. Stupid really to think I could keep up with a woman in her twenties.

"No, Charmaine's really keen to work later too. She hates mornings. So it'll be the two of us."

"Good... " I gasp, "I'd hate... to think of... you on your... own."

"Well, ditto."

I frown trying to grasp her meaning. When it hits me, I almost trip.

"So... wait.... did you... do this so... I wouldn't be... on my own?"

"Well, kind of... yeah. I mean it's selfish. I barely get to see you during the week. I thought this way we could have mornings together. Maybe lunch too, if you don't mind eating early."

"No... that sounds... great!"

I drop behind her once more, as we pass more people on the pavement, so she doesn't see how moved I am. Later, I'm able to pass off the tears as just my eyes watering from the chilly air.

Church

"Thanks again so much for the food Mikayla, it was delicious," I say, then I hug her goodbye, "all three of you seem really happy," I whisper into her ear, "I'm so glad."

"Thanks," she says, as she squeezes me back.

Ram has already said her goodbyes - a high five for Lauren, a handshake for Poppy, and one of her awkward half-hugs for Mikayla - and is waiting for me. I kind of felt like I needed to over-compensate.

We wave once more as we leave.

"Bye aunty Ram! Bye Liz!" Lauren's little voice pipes from the decking.

"Bye Lauren! Enjoy school!" We wave once more.

"That's the easiest school run in the history of the world!" I say, nodding towards the primary on the opposite side. It's ranked 'outstanding', and growing up here in Clifton will be a very different proposition for Lauren than Southmead. I can see why they decided to do it, even if it means that Lauren is sleeping in the alcove under the stairs that used to be where my clothing rail was.

"Mm-hmm." Ram replies. She's been quiet all through her visit, letting me carry the conversation. Mikayla was pretty astute ensuring I was invited too, I reflect. Ram still finds it hard seeing her and Poppy so happy together. It was bad enough the few times we've visited them at Mikayla's parents' house or met up with them in town: it must be doubly strange and hurtful seeing them in the flat she used to occupy.

"You okay Ram?" I ask. I brush the back of her hand with mine as we walk side by side. She jolts a little.

"Yeah," she sighs, crossing her arms instinctively.

But then, after we've walked a few more paces, she seems to realise what she did, and lets her hand hang loose a little. Then she tucks her hand into the pocket of her dungarees and sticks out her elbow.

I smile and hook my arm through hers.

"Oh, by the way, I've invited Anna and Amy over for lunch next Sunday, so make sure you're in." Part of my plan, long delayed, but never forgotten, to get more people into Ram's life. I've been slow and selective. Nicci and Trish, obviously. Woody. But, I figured if Ram's ever going to move on, knowing some girls in the local scene might help.

She nods. "Cool. I like Anna, and Amy seems nice. They live round here, right?"

"Just over there," I point, "that's what reminded me to mention it."

We turn left and cross a few roads, then end up heading up Pembroke Road. The conch-shaped cap of Bristol's brutalist Catholic cathedral rears up ahead.

"Are you religious at all, Ram?" I ask.

"Not any more. I went every Sunday as a kid, four, five hour services." A wistful note enters her voice. "I did actually enjoy it: the singing, the drumming, seeing friends, the food afterwards. It was a real community feel."

"I guess you stopped going when you left."

"No, not really. At boarding school we had to go three times a week."

"Really?" I'm a bit gobsmacked.

"Oh yeah. Short services before classes twice a week - in an actual church, mind you - the school had its own-"

"What?!"

"-yeah! Then a full on, hour-long service on Sundays, suits and ties mandatory."

"Wow."

We walk on and take a turn to cut over towards our flat.

"What about you?" she asks.

"Yeah... I remember going when I was a girl in Ealing. I can't remember if it was every week, but it seems like it was more often than not. But then, once we'd moved to Pembrokeshire my parents were too busy with the B&B, so we stopped. Plus, hardly anyone went. More Wiccas than Christians there."

We walk on, but I'm still intrigued. "So why did you stop? Science?"

"No... though partly I suppose. I certainly am very sceptical about most, if not all, of the bible. But I was going at University, an African church, until, you know, I outed myself and got a very cold shoulder from the church there. So I stopped."

I nod. "I did a story a few months ago about a church group here. They are very welcoming if, you know, you want to try again."

She looks at me and smiles, giving my arm a squeeze. "I'll think about it."

We walk on further.

"Would you come with me?" she asks.

"Maybe." I give her a smile. "I'll think about it."

One month later

Autumn has come around quick, but the sweat box that is the Croft back room soon has me stripping off layers.

There's been a buzz about this new band, Zun Zun Egui, and I'm looking forward to hearing them. Luckily, they aren't headlining (though it's a shame I'll miss The Girl FRom Headquarters), as I'll have to leave at 10 to make my show at 11. I could have got on the guestlist, naturally, but I didn't. It's only four pounds entry and I know from Ram the precarious fiscal balance of events like these, the barely break-even nature of them.

But Anna and Leigh on the door.... they're friends. I want to support their efforts to give a platform to new bands. Every little bit helps and, while I may be 'working' and researching for the show, it's not like it's a chore. If I really cared, I suppose I could claim entry on expenses.

Ram's here ahead of me, coming straight from work. I can see her leaning over the soundbooth, chatting to Miles, laughing, but despite the smile on her face, I can see the guarded feeling in her posture.

I approach in her eye line, let her see me coming. She smiles.

"Hey Miles," I say, distracting him. I give him a half hug as my other hand lands on Ram's bare bicep.

"Hello there Liz, nice to see you." He bites his beard in a familiar gesture, but while I face him, my focus is on the flesh beneath my palm. It is hot, but I feel no tension in the powerful muscles there. Is this progress?

"You too. Would you like a drink? I'm going to the bar."

"That's very kind of you. Another cider, if I may?" Miles says.

"Sure." My hand drops down to Ram's forearm. "Ram? Can I get you another?"

She smiles at me as she shakes her head, then leans in to be heard over the hubbub.

"No thanks Liz, I'm just enjoying this."

"Back in a bit," I grin back. Definitely progress.

Dating

"Was it a good gig last night?" Ram asks over breakfast.

"Yeah, it was great! Such a shame you couldn't make it. Rachael's brother Romanhead played on a unicycle - it was hilarious - and of course Smokehand were just awesome." I'd been at a circus themed night Fact Fans had put on, with acrobats and jugglers performing between bands, the whole evening hosted by a bearded 'lady'. But Ram had been called last minute to cover at the Fleece and she didn't want to say no. I don't quite get why she feels she needs to work so much.

"How was yours?" I ask, spooning up some porridge.

"Er... so so. I mean, I wasn't that grabbed by the bands and they'd brought their own engineer on tour, so I was just a glorified assistant anyway. Would've rather been with you."

I smirk back. "Yeah, I think some other people would've preferred you'd been there. One in particular was quite disappointed."

She raises her eyebrows at me, somewhat puzzled.

"Marit? The tall Norwegian? She was asking after you." I take another bite of breakfast.

"The performance poet?"

I nod and swallow my mouthful.

"Why?"

"She wanted to know if you were seeing anyone at the moment."

"Ah. Well, that's sweet of her. I hope you told her that I wasn't available."

"No, why would I? That's not my business."

Ram sighs.

"Come on, Ram, she seems really nice. Or is she not your type?"

"I know," she says, "she does seem lovely, but you know I can't."

"I thought that's what we were working on?"

"Yes, and you know how far away I am. If I can only just hug you, of all people, without panicking, so I'm hardly going to be able to kiss a stranger. Or more." Her voice is rising. I realise that this was entirely the wrong time to raise this topic.

"Sorry, Ram, you're right. I apologise."

"Why?" she almost spits, "it's not your fault I'm like this. And nobody is doing more to help me be otherwise." She sighs and rubs her temples.

"Yes, but I shouldn't be flippant and I shouldn't push."

"No, you should... not be flippant, but pushing is... well, I think it might not be what I want, but it could be what I need."

"Okay."

"You finished?"

I nod and she stacks our bowls and carries them to the sink.

"Anyway," she says, as she starts to run the water into the bowl, "it's all academic. I'm still in a civil partnership with Mikayla and need to keep up the pretence that that's real, at least until after I get citizenship. Not the time to be starting something new. Sadly."

The last word is so quiet and soft I almost miss it under the sound of running water.

She flicks a look back at me as I bring over my empty mug. "What about you?"

"What about me?" I say, grabbing the tea towel.

"Any guys out there catch your eye?"

"Oh. No. I mean, Steve was flirting heavily, as per usual, but no thanks."

"Well," she says, passing me a bowl to dry, "what about joining an online dating service?"

"No," I say, "look, I'm not going to claim I'm happy being single, or come out with some platitude about needing 'me time', but, you know, I'm not unhappy. I'm pretty fulfilled, you know? If the right person comes along then, sure, great, but... no, I'm not looking." I narrow my eyes at her. "You're not trying to set me up with somebody, are you?"

"No. I'm not like you! Trying to fix me up with Marit."

"Hey," I swat at her with the tea towel, "she came to me and asked after you! I wasn't trying to do anything."

"Okay, okay." She hands me another bowl. "Anyway, she's too tall for me. I'm not sure I have a type, exactly, but I think I prefer shorter women."

"Good to know," I say, putting the bowl back in the cupboard.

November

"What's this one, eleven across? I feel like I should know what it is?"

"Utter nothing when surrounded by bad habits. Five letters, last is 'e'," Ram reads.

We're trying something new. Not the crossword, which has long been a Sunday ritual for us. But how we're doing it.

Or rather, where.

In bed.

We're both in pyjamas, something I never normally wear, preferring to sleep nude, but sitting side by side, our legs and shoulders touching.

"What do you think it means?" I ask. "'Utter' or 'habits'?"

"Hmmm. Well, 'nothing' could be 'o'...?"

It's the next step, suggested by her therapist Grace. Ram's been getting much more relaxed with touches. She no longer flinches away if I surprise her with a hand on her arm or the small of her back. She still tenses if she doesn't see it coming, but she's able to manage her reactions, manage the panic.

Now it's about context and place. Can she cope with touches in a space connected to intimacy?

"Utter could be 'speak' or 'talk' or 'say'," I suggest, "nothing ending in 'e' though. Bad habits? That was Tony Blair's band, but I don't think that's relevant here."

"Feels weird he's gone. Feels like he was in charge my whole life."

I sigh. "Stop reminding me how old I am. I can remember Ted Heath."

"Who?"

"Exactly! You weren't even bloody born!"

We're silent, thinking. It's warm under the duvet, Ram a radiator at my side. These are thick, long-sleeved, rarely-worn pjs, for sick-day slobbing-out only.

"Pffft. If we're going to make a habit of this, I need thinner and shorter pyjamas, I'm baking."

"Sorry."

She shuffles away from me.

"No, no, that's not the point."

I briefly consider just chucking off the pyjamas and being naked, like I normally am. Woah, where did that idea come from? Way to freak her out!

"Hang on," I say and climb out.

Grabbing a sports bra and briefs from my underwear drawer, I head into the ensuite and quickly change. I pause in the doorway, not posing exactly but allowing her to see what I'm wearing. "Is this okay by you?" I ask.

There's a slightly glazed look to her face as she nods. Suddenly, I remember how hard I found it to read her features, her complexion, when we first met. Now I think I know her moods, but I can't parse this one.

I climb back in, shuffling until we are shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip again.

"Alright?" I ask. Her lips are parted and she's looking at me, rather than the crossword, taking in my face.

"Er... yeah."

"Good." Then it comes to me. "Voice!"

"Huh?"

"Bad habits. That could mean 'vice', you said nothing means 'o', so that's voice, meaning 'utter'."

"Oh, cool, well done." She pencils in the answer.

Listeners

"Late night Liz with you on BBC Bristol, keeping you company 'til one. Whoever you are, wherever you are, you'll find a welcome here..."

"... great to hear again from Sohail, on duty for the RAC, keeping motorists moving. Other breakdown services are available, but you're doing a great job Sohail. My lovely friend and flatmate, Ram, is a mechanic, and I have nothing but respect and gratitude for the pair of you and all grease monkeys everywhere. Proud to have you as a listener..."

"... Daisy's been back in touch with a tip for Steve from earlier, saying that white wine vinegar is the best way to beat limescale. Who knew! Thanks Daisy - keep those tips coming!..."

"... a sad but sweet note from Mark, whose beloved partner James passed away just last week. Our heart-felt condolences, Mark, from me and all our lovely listeners. Mark says that James was a big fan of Best in the West, enjoying the show right to the last. Mark, I'm so pleased Ram and I could bring some joy to you and James in the dark times. In memory of James, here's "Sing our last goodbye" by the incomparable Rose Kemp..."

"... Raekwon's rung in to warn about a nasty accident on the Portway, so please be careful if you're driving that way or, better yet, find an alternate route. Thanks for the warning Raekwon, and we hope nobody is hurt..."

"... so regular listeners to the show might recall the very moving story from Molly last week about her struggles with addiction. I've been stunned, staggered and nearly rendered speechless by the outpouring of offers of support and assistance that you have all sent in. I must confess, I got very choked up reading them all. You are wonderful people, truly the best of the west. You might be pleased to know that, with Molly's permission, I've put her in touch with a local AA group and also with a local counsellor and, well, there will be lots of hard work and tough times ahead, but we're with you Molly. We believe in you..."

Local radio is hard. It's not all playing your favourite music and chatting to guests. For some listeners - the elderly, the sick, the lonely - ours might be the only voices they hear all day. We make them feel connected to a wider imagined community, we link them in. We cost nothing. Young people might find that online, but for those without computers or the internet, the radio can be a social lifeline. In just a few short months, the same names appear on ansaphone messages and texts. Maybe they'd be messaging no matter who was on air. Or maybe they wouldn't.

Either way, for those people I have become the voice in the darkness, the listener, the granter of requests, the one who connects, who joins, who links.

From time to time it's a heavy weight, but one I wouldn't swap for anything.

Some nights, when I come off air, I feel drained, wrung out. On those nights, when I can barely raise a smile for Dave and Jackson on security as I leave, I have never felt so glad to see Ram waiting for me at the rear exit to walk me home.

Which she does, unfailingly.

When doves cry

"Hmmmm." Ram is standing in our sitting room, looking around.

"Hey Ram, how was your day yesterday?" I missed our run this morning for a dental appointment.

"Oh, yeah, good, busy, you?"

"Much the same. What are you doing?"

She's pacing off the room. "Oh, I'm trying to work out how many people we could fit in here."

"Who's staying this time?"

We've had a few bands and artists stop with us. I'd deliberately bought a sofa bed, just in case my parents decided to stop with us - it hasn't happened yet - and that's turned out to be useful.

"Band from London. Blanket."

I frown. That's unusual. We're only two hours or so from London (though I guess it depends which part) so bands usually drive straight back.

As so often is the case, she reads my mind. "They've got a Peppermint Patty gig in Cardiff the next day, so asked if there was a chance they could stay over."

"Okay, sure. How many are there?"

"There's six in the band."

I make a face. That'll be a squeeze.

"Why don't you sleep in with me? Then they can have your bed."

I can't quite interpret the look on her face. Panic? Excitement? I quickly reassure her. "If that's too much, I could sleep on the floor. Bring up the cushions from the campervan."

She's quiet for a bit. Then nods. "Yeah, okay. Yeah. That's... well, I don't want to tempt fate and say whether it'll work or not, but we can try. Maybe have the cushions just in case."

"Okay then. Right, I'm going to get some food on. Have you eaten?"

"Not yet. I was going to shove some jacket potatoes in."

"Sounds great. I'll do it."

She dashes past me into the kitchen. "Nope! I'll cook. You've just got in."

"I don't mind," I protest, following her into the kitchen, but she's already pricking potatoes with a fork while the oven warms.

"Neither do I. Baked beans and cheddar, or veggie chili and cream cheese?"

"Baked beans please. Okay, well I'll lay the table."

"No, chill out, relax. Or play me something on the guitar."

That takes me aback. "Really? You want me to play for you?"

"Yeah. Of course. You play beautifully. I love your voice too."

I'm really moved and stand there, slightly shocked, as she drizzles oil and salt over the spuds, before popping them in the microwave.

"Um.... wow, thanks," I manage to get out eventually, "er, any requests?"

"Whatever you fancy. Though I do love the way you sing that song "when doves cry." Who's it by?"

I smile. "Prince. You don't know him?"

She shakes her head. Our age-difference is showing again. "Play it to me, please?" She asks as she starts grating cheese.

Glowing a little inside, I go grab my guitar.

Dig if you will the picture

Of you and I engaged in a kiss

The sweat of your body covers me

Can you my darling

Can you picture this?

What a broadcaster does

Biting my lip, I stare at the email draft. It's been something I've been composing and redrafting, in my head and for real, for some time.

I've broadcast on births and deaths, about political and health scandals, elections, tragedies, war and peace. Words I have written, sentences I have spoken, have brought news and views to hundreds of thousands of listeners.

Yet, somehow, these words I write now, bearing news, seem to be the most consequential of all.

Or maybe not. Maybe they will mean nothing, achieve nothing, change nothing.

But sometimes the message exists for the messenger.

I re-read it one last time:

Subject: Your daughter, the BBC broadcaster

Dear Mr and Mrs Kato

Your daughter, Ramona Kato, is a radio presenter on BBC Radio Bristol. She's been on air for the last twelve months, and, due to rising audience figures, her show (The Best in the West) was recently renewed for another year. It broadcasts between 8pm and 10pm on Wednesday evenings. You can listen to it on the BBC website. If you can't listen live, there is an opportunity to 'listen again' and even an archive of past shows.

She is trusted, respected and beloved by her thousands of regular listeners. To those closest to her, she is the most loyal, most caring and kindest friend anyone could wish for. I count myself extremely lucky to know her.

You ought to be so proud.

Yours sincerely,

Liz Bradford

Breathing in, I hold the air in my lungs for a moment. Once more, for the hundredth time, I wonder whether this is wise.

In the end, all we ever do as broadcasters is send words out into the world, hoping that somebody, somewhere, is listening. Sometimes we are aiming for an open audience; sometimes we have a very specific one in mind.

Regardless, if we never speak at all, we aren't doing our jobs.

I hit "send".

Blankets

"Are you sure it's okay that I take your room, Ram?" The singer of Blanket, a very small, blonde woman asks. I've forgotten her name and now it would just be too embarrassing to ask her again. I flicked through the liner notes of their CD - which we've added to our ever growing collection - hoping it would be in there, but sadly it wasn't.

Ram reassures her that it's completely fine, though I do wonder if it is. She's smoked three spliffs this evening, which is something she never normally does. Over time, I've come to realise that, for Ram, cannabis is not about recreation, but about managing her panic about being in situations where she gets accidentally touched. Ironically, despite us re-meeting in the Junction, she hardly ever puts on nights there any more, partly because there's no separation for the engineer from the crowd, so she's constantly being jostled by jumping fans.

"Aw thanks so much," the blonde singer says. She leans in closer to both Ram and me and lowers her voice, "the guys are great, but sometimes... well, it's lovely to have my own space."

We nod. "I hear you," I say.

I pop my head into the sitting room, where the male members have colonised the sofa bed and floor space. Only one of them brought a roll mat with them, so we've given one of them the bed from the campervan that Ram was considering sleeping on. Guess she's definitely sharing with me. "You guys okay? Do you need anything?"

There's a chorus of, "We're good, thanks," and similar utterances.

"Okay, cool. I'm off to bed. See you in the morning," I say.

"Thank you so much! Good night!"

Ram's hanging around my bedroom door, looking tired. It's past 1 am. "You can go in, you know," I tease, "you don't have to wait for me!"

"Thanks." She offers me a smile. "Do you want to use the bathroom first?"

"I'm already done." I've done my teeth and cleaned off my makeup. "Just need to get in my pjs."

"Oh, okay. Mind if I go in?"

"Of course not!"

While she's in the small en suite, I strip off my jumper and leggings. The jumper goes on a chair, the leggings and socks underneath - they need to go in the laundry basket. My dress gets the sniff test and passes: it's okay for another wear, so rehang it. It wasn't a sweaty gig, but a sedate event at the Folk House with Jhassi Elliot and Robin Allender in support. Attendance was pretty good, I muse to myself as I flick through my wardrobe. One of my favourite dresses has fallen off the hanger, so I sort that out and discover, under it, a belt I'd been looking for.

So, I'm just standing there absently in my knickers when Ram comes out.

"Oh, shit, sorry Liz!" She spins and stares at the wall. "I figured you'd be changed by now."

"Sorry," I say, vaguely amused by her response to my bare breasts, "I got distracted."

I pull on a camisole - I usually sleep nude - and pick out a fresh pair of underwear, then grab my glass, the dirty clothes and head to the bathroom. I swap knickers and dump the laundry in the basket.

"Have you got water, Ram?" I call while filling my glass.

"Yeah, thanks."

Switching off the bathroom light, I walk around the bed, aware of Ram's eyes on me. It's chilly in the bedroom and my nipples are tenting my top.

I stick my glass on the bedside table, and climb in, careful not to touch Ram. I know she wants me to do that more, but honestly she looks so stressed I don't think it would help right now.

"You okay there, Ram?"

"Yep."

"It was a good night, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. Would have liked more people there."

"You say that every time!" I laugh.

"Well, that's because it's always true!"

She gets so invested in the artists she puts on, wanting the best for them. It's lovely, but it can't be healthy.

"Do you think we should have kept it upstairs?" she asks. The Folk House has two rooms, the bar - which can seat seventy or so comfortably - and the main hall, with a proper stage and room for around two hundred. But it's high-roofed, with floor-to-ceiling windows all down one side, which makes it feel cold and less intimate than the bar. And if you have any less than one fifty in there it feels empty. We sold one hundred and eleven tickets that evening.

"No way, it would have been much too crowded. Steve would have ended up turning people away." We split the door take fifty-fifty with the venue, but they do the front of house and provide the sound engineer, which makes our lives easier. If it had been local bands, turning fans away wouldn't have mattered too much, might have even augmented their reputation, but with out-of-towners like Blanket, the more money, the better. Plus, it isn't like people can go and see them any old week, unlike our two support acts who play around Bristol regularly.

"Hmmmm, yeah, I suppose you're right. It just always feels so 'dead' down there. No atmosphere."

"Are you kidding? When we went to see Rachael Unthank and Jim Moray there last month it was buzzing!"

"Yeah, because it was full!"

We'd been lucky we were on the guestlist. We wouldn't have got in otherwise. Their music was absolutely sublime.

"Do you think I should get my own PA?" she asks. "That way I could use other spaces. Like the Crypt or the Lansdown top room."

"Ram! You've got enough work on as it is. Don't make it harder for yourself. You don't want to be lugging equipment around town. You'd have to buy a van, for a start."

"Yeah," she sighs, "I suppose you're right."

"Though, I could put you on the insurance for the VW."

She turns her head on the pillow and looks at me. I roll over to face her, tucking my hands under the pillow to ensure I don't inadvertently touch her.

"Would you?" Her voice sounds surprised.

"Yeah. We're in this together, Ram. We're a team."

"Thanks." She smiles at me.

"I still don't think you should bother. I mean, for something you'll only use maybe five or six times a year, it seems like quite the outlay. Unless, you want to quit your day job and make promoting your main job."

"Nah, I couldn't do that. I love it there. They've all been so good to me. Plus, there's the apprentices."

I nod. She has two, Charmaine and Libby, and she's deeply proud of them.

"Well, then. Don't stretch yourself too thin." As well as working 1 to 7 every weekday, she does the show with me Wednesday evenings, works at the Croft three nights a week, is on call as sickness/holiday sound engineer cover with three other venues, and goes to karate training once a week and on Saturdays. And she still finds time to organise gigs once a month or so. It's no wonder she's never bothered to get a TV - when would she watch it?

Next to me, Ram lets out a yawn. "Shall I hit the light?" I ask.

"Yeah. Thanks for everything, Liz."

"You're welcome," I say, and I roll over to turn off the light. "Love you. Sleep well."

The room goes dark.

There's a brief, pregnant pause. "Love you too," Ram says back.

Smiling, I nod off.

In the morning, Ram's already up before I wake.

Do more dancing

"Oh don't worry about drying that, Ram, leave it to drain."

"It's okay, I've got it," she says, reaching past me and brushing my shoulder with her arm as she does so.

"Alright, if you insist." I stick the last pan on the draining board, then tip out the washing-up water from the bowl.

I look around for the tea towel to dry my hands, but of course Ram's holding it. I stick out my hands.

"Ram, can you pass me that?"

But instead she steps forward and covers my hands with the tea towel, gently patting them dry. Her touch is firm and assured and above all affectionate. My breath catches and my eyes lock on her face, but her eyes are fixed on my fingers. There is such tenderness written there and suddenly I see how well she takes care of me.

God, if only she were a guy.

We've been playing an album by the band This is the Kit, and the track stops just as she finishes. I'm suddenly aware of the silence in the kitchen.

Then gentle banjo music begins, a rippling arpeggio inviting my hips to sway.

Aren't we more the same, than we realise

Without thinking, I'm taking her hands, guiding one to my shoulder, and extending our arms.

Much more fragile, than we'd like

My feet begin to move, as her eyes find mine and my hand lands lightly on her hip. Together we begin to dance.

She's stiff at first. I can feel the tension under my hands.

We don't appreciate do we, the good in you, the good you do

As the song continues, Kate's soft, English voice filling the room, she begins to relax and we move closer, gently two-stepping around in a slow circle. I can feel her breath on my forehead, her smell of warm leather and the heat of her hand in mine.

You've got music on your lips

Got good movement to your hips

You know what we should do

Do more dancing, me and you

And in the final minute, she pulls me closer still, so that my arm passes right around her back and then we are dancing close, my head laid on her chest, her chin resting lightly on the top of my head.

I close my eyes and let the moment and the music carry me.

As it finishes, we slowly, almost reluctantly it seems, pull apart.

Ram is crying.

"Oh, Ram, I'm sorry-"

"-no," she sniffs, clutching at my hands as she wipes her eyes with the back of her other arm, "it was lovely. It was perfect. And it gives me hope too. I could do it. I could let you into my space."

I squeeze her hand back. I want to hug her, but also don't want to push it.

She lets go, to grab some kitchen roll and blow her nose.

"So," I say, "I guess this means we need to do more dancing."

She nods at me. "Definitely!"

As she wipes her nose, it suddenly occurs to me that I haven't seen her wear her septum ring for ages.

Massage for Ram

"And then... and then Ms. Phipps said-"

"-Aunty Liz, I've got a new-"

"-that we could go to the dolmen and-"

"-bike for my birthday. It's got gears and-"

I'm trying to hold a Skype call with my niblings, but Harry and Dafydd are just talking over each other with boisterous enthusiasm, while little Rhian sucks her thumb and stares seriously into the webcam. She's a little old for that, surely? All I can do is nod and smile and say "uh-huh" and "wow" occasionally.

Eventually, Myfanwy my sister-in-law comes and ushers the boys off with a flurry of waves and garbled ends to anecdotes.

Rhian pops her thumb out of her mouth at long last. "Is Aunty Ram coming for Christmas?"

"Well, I don't know, cariad," I smile back, "it's still a ways off, look you. But I'll ask her."

Rhian nods at this, as if somehow satisfied by my answer. "We've got a hamster in our class. It's called Alfred."

"Really? Do you get to take it home?"

She shakes her head. "It's brown and white."

"Oh there's tidy. Are you enjoying school?"

"Yeah," she says, before replacing her thumb in her mouth, looking at something I can't see and then running off.

"Okay, bye!" I call.

I wait in front of the screen for a minute in case either Myfanwy or Simon comes back, but no. I close the window and send them both a quick email asking what their feelings are about Christmas and what I should get the kids. Still a while away, but it never hurts to get organised.

Shutting the lid of my laptop, I head out to the kitchen to give the lentil chili in the slow cooker a stir.

I nearly get a fright when I pass the sitting room and see Ram lying on the floor.

"Oh my God, Ram!" I clutch my chest. "You gave me a shock! Are you okay?"

"No," she groans.

"Did you fall? Let me help you up." She normally works until 7, so I wasn't expecting her back. She must have come in while I was Skyping.

"No, I'm okay. I didn't fall. I've hurt my back, and I thought lying on the floorboards here might help. There's not really space in my room."

"How did you do that? Have you pulled a muscle or something?"

"Probably." She lifts her right arm and winces as she flexes it in various positions. "Fucking heavy radiator."

"Weren't you using the winch?"

"Yeah, but I had to take the weight at the end to get it under the hood."

"Oh God, Ram, you've got to take care of yourself."

"I know."

"Have you taken anything?" I ask.

"Yeah, I've had some nurofen."

"Okay, well that's something. Hang on, I'll be back in a second."

I pop into the kitchen and stir the lentils. I wonder whether to put rice on now or not, but decide against it. It's only 6pm. We don't tend to eat until later.

Then I go grab some towels, and rummage around in the freezer, digging out the cool packs I normally use with the campervan to spare the battery.

"Right, roll over," I say, as I come back into the sitting room.

"Why?" Ram groans.

"Need to get some ice on the strain, Ram, bring the inflammation down."

"Don't want to."

"Come on, you're the fitness expert, you know I'm right, roll over onto this towel."

With much grumbling she does. Then immediately gets up again, wincing.

"What are you doing?"

"It's too uncomfortable, lying on my boobs like that."

"Fine, well go and lie on your bed then," I say, slightly exasperated.

"Yes ma'am."

"You're going to need to get your jacket off, or it'll get soaked," I say as I follow her through to her room.

Again, more whingeing, but eventually, with much swearing and some assistance from me, we manage it.

"Right, put your head at the foot of the bed."

"Why?" she asks.

"Because I'm going to give you a massage in a minute and that way I'll be able to kneel on the floor to get at your shoulders, rather than having to straddle you. Now where does it hurt?"

"My right shoulder blade. But Liz, do y- argh, that's cold!" Whatever she was about to say is cut off as I gently slip the towel-wrapped ice pack under her vest top, onto her shoulder blade.

"Yep, that's the idea. Go to try to bring the swelling down. Now, stay still and try to relax."

"I'm not sure about this." Her voice is muffled, her face half buried in the duvet.

"Look, are you going to go to a physio? Would you visit a masseuse? We both know the answer. This is me touching you, okay, it's no different from dancing."

She makes a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Look, Ram, if you're worried, I do know what I'm doing. I've done a course on this." Okay, it wasn't a course for treating injuries, but the course leader did cover that, saying that as we weren't trained to deal with pulled or damaged muscles, we shouldn't touch them, but instead treat the areas around the strain to avoid those other muscles tightening up and stressing the injury further. "I'm not going to touch the damaged part, okay? Just work around it. I'm going to start with your neck and head."

Sticking a pillow on the floor, I kneel on it in front of her. No oil - I don't want to get her hair greasy - but I rub my hands together to warm them back up after touching the ice pack.

I've never touched her hair with my hands before. I was expecting it to be coarse and wiry, and yes, the tips of her short dreads are, but the back of her head, shorn short, is soft and downy. Her tiny, silky curls there compress like a sponge as I firmly pulse my fingers through, then spring back.

She has her eyes closed and a slight smile on her face.

"Does that feel okay?" I ask.

"Mmmm-hmmmmm."

I chuckle. "I'll take that as a yes. Tell me if anything hurts though. That's not the point of this."

I use my knuckles down the side of her neck, my fingers on her jaw, and push my palm against the back of her skull. The massage lasts a while. I only lightly touch the top of her right shoulder, though I do spend a bit of time on her biceps, their weight heavy in my hands, which cannot wrap all the way around her arm at their thickest point. Her left shoulder gets some attention, as I push in gently towards her spine, seeking to slacken the muscles, easing the tension on the tear. I have to run my hands under her vest top to achieve this, her skin warm and smooth and slightly lighter in colour there, more caramel than coffee.

Ram moans softly throughout, but in pleasure rather than pain.

Keeping a hand flat on her back for contact, I shuffle round the bed to work on her lower back. I roll up her vest top for this, sliding both hands over firm, supple muscles. Her skin really is beautiful, both visually and sensually. I find myself involuntarily adding my own sounds of appreciation to those she's making.

"Sorry," I say, "I'm panting because this is hard work, not because I'm soundtracking a porno."

I can feel the chuckle spreading through her, under my hands and then it bursts from her. I stop moving my hands, but just leave them resting on her back.

She rolls onto her uninjured side, so she's facing me, my hands brushing her sleek stomach before I pull them away.

Her eyes are heavy, half-lidded, but she's smiling at me.

I grab the pillow from the floor and slip it under her head.

"Have a nap sweetheart," I say. "I'll get some food on."

Money

"Hey," Ram calls as I unlock the door. "Kettle's just boiled. Do you want tea?"

"Yes please lovely. One of those fennel ones please."

"Okay!"

I'm bursting, so head to the loo as soon as I've hung my coat up. Then, because the weather outside is absolutely foul, I strip off my soaked socks and leggings, pull on some fresh ones and stand my damp boots by the radiator to try to dry them out. My hair is a disaster. I need to call Poppy and book another appointment. Trying to tame the birdsnest the wind has made of it is another opportunity to count the grey hairs. I'll be forty next year. Forty and single.

Slightly depressed, I traipse through to the kitchen. Ram's smile warms me as does the smell of soup and kawunga.

"Thanks sweetie," I say as she passes me the tea. I make sure to touch her hand as she does. "No karate today?"

"No, I still don't think my back is quite right, best not to risk it."

I nod. "Very sensible. I can give you another massage later if you like?"

She pauses. Clearly, she still needs to prepare herself for contact like that. "Well. Yeah. If you don't mind."

I glance down at the pile of papers she has spread out on the kitchen counter. "What are you working on?"

She sighs. "Money. I'm trying to work out if I can afford to go back to University to complete my course."

My blood runs cold. "What? Manchester?" I can barely croak the words out.

"No. Here: I've spoken to- hey, Liz, are you okay? You're as white as- sit down!"

She's up and by my side, taking the mug from me and guiding me onto a chair. I feel light-headed and, as soon as she touches me, my chest constricts and I burst into tears.

"Liz? Honey, what's the matter?" She pulls another chair next to me so her arms are around my shoulders, her side pressed into me.

"Sorry," I sob, leaning back into her, "it was just the sudden selfish thought of you leaving... I couldn't bear it."

"Oh darling, I wouldn't."

And I'm crying now, her arms wrapped around me, over mine, cuddling me.

Eventually, I find my composure and my words. "It's just... you've come to mean so much to me, Ram."

"You mean so much to me too, Liz." Ram's words are muffled in my hair.

We stay cuddling for some time.

* * *

"I've spoken to the University of Bristol," Ram says later, over soup, "and I can transfer my credits from my first two years, which I completed, so I'd only have two more years to go."

I nod, relieved.

"But it's a lot of money. I think I can apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain next month and, then, apply for citizenship - but that might not be sorted by September. If I wait, and go back as a UK student, the fees will be so much less."

"But doesn't the University have the right to decide who is a "home" student and who isn't? I mean, if you showed them that you are applying for UK citizenship, they might consider letting you in on home fees?" I'd helped her with the application earlier in the year and have been testing her on some of the more bizarre questions on the 'life in the UK' quiz.

"Yeah, but I'll miss out on loan and grant applications. Plus, it's a full time course, so I'd have to quit With Her Wheels, at least during term time." She pulls a face. It's not just the money. Those are her surrogate family. We were at Trish and Nicci's just last weekend. We'll be with them for New Year's. "So, I was just trying to work out if my savings would stretch to two years' worth of rent and bills."

"Oh, didn't you read the small print on your rental contract?" I ask. There is no rental contract.

She raises an eyebrow at me.

"There's a 99% student discount."

She starts to open her mouth and I forestall her. "Ram, shut up, I'm not going to keep charging you rent if you're a student! Don't be ridiculous," I realise I'm nearly shouting, that earlier tension finding an outlet, and I reign myself in, leaning forward to take her hand. "Ram, I love you, and it would be the greatest thing I could do to support you in this. I can easily - easily Ram - pay for this place on my salary, so you really, really don't need to worry about money."

She's crying.

"Ram, I'm warning you, I'm going to hug you in five seconds unless you tell me I shouldn't. Okay?"

She nods. "Okay."

Slowly, I move in, my hands carefully sliding up her arms to her shoulders, then crossing over her back. Her legs are closed, so I have to stand slightly to one side, my cheek slides next to hers, her tears mingling with mine.

"This is your home, for as long as you want," I say.

She swallows and nods, seemingly lost for words.

St Paul's

"Thank you for coming," says the pastor at the door, offering her hand, "always wonderful to see new faces."

"Thank you for having us, it was a lovely service," I say.

"Do you mean that, or are you just being diplomatic?" she asks, then laughs at her own joke.

"She meant it. It was really nice," Ram answers for me, "I liked what you said about how love prospers through forgiveness. That was... that was good to hear."

"I'm glad," she looks at Ram with what I imagine is a very practised eye. Who knows what she has seen? "I hope it was helpful."

Ram very deliberately takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine. "It was. Liz here doesn't need any forgiveness, but I need to learn how to do it, how to let go."

The pastor nods, but does not smile at this. "I've seen you around," she says, looking Ram in the eye. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here Tuesday and Thursday 9 'til 6."

Ram nods. "Thanks. Have a lovely day."

We stroll away, still hand in hand, in no hurry. It's cold, but dry. We're going to the Lounge for brunch.

I smile up at her, but don't say anything, not wanting to break this moment.

"That was... nice," she says, eventually, "kind of reminded me... it sort of.... It was very different but... in a way, it also felt... like home."

I give her hand a squeeze.

"I noticed that they're doing a Christmas concert on December 22nd, the night before we drive to Pembrokeshire. If you're not working, that might be nice," I say.

"Yeah," she says, holding the door of the Lounge open for me, "it would."

Email

There was no reply. But that shouldn't stop me.

Subject: Your daughter, the mechanic

Dear Mr and Mrs Kato

As well as broadcasting on BBC Radio Bristol, your daughter Ramona earns her way in the world as a mechanic. The garage is called With Her Wheels and it has an excellent reputation locally, being popular with nurses and doctors at the local hospital.

She is working there to raise money to pay for herself to go back to University to complete her degree. But it is not just a means to an end for her. She enjoys her work. In particular, she loves mentoring young mechanics. She has two apprentices working under her, Charmaine and Libby. She's deeply proud of them, speaking about them with the affection one might normally have for daughters. She also organises visits from local schools: groups of girls visit to learn about vehicle maintenance and gain confidence around engines. It's something she set up on her own initiative and something she receives no pay for.

She has friends here in Bristol who love her dearly, and surrogate families too. But she would love to hear from her own.

You should be very proud of her.

Yours sincerely

Liz Bradford

Congratulations

I'm just turning down the pasta aisle when I see Rick.

Part of me is surprised it hasn't happened before, actually. Obviously, I have seen him since the break up, to finalise finances and pick up stuff from the house. But I haven't actually bumped into him around town before.

He looks older. Weird, it's only been a year and change.

"Hi Rick," I say.

The double-take is actually quite funny. "Liz! Hi! Sorry, didn't recognise you with the new hair style. It looks great."

"Thanks. How have you been?"

"Good thanks. You?"

"Yeah, pretty good."

A tall, blonde woman moves next to him. Younger than me. Also pregnant.

It's a bit like when somebody slips ice cubes down your back. Except, this feels like it's inside my skin. And it is very, very sharp.

I plaster on my best smile.

"Hi," she says, offering her hand. The ring is very obvious and very big. "I'm Susan."

"Hi, I'm Liz, and I take it that congratulations are in order?"

The glow that lights her could float a hot air balloon. "Thank you, that's so kind."

"When are you due?" I ask, not really wanting to know, but for some reason desperate to have it confirmed.

"Not until February. Might be a valentine!"

A polite cough from behind from another shopper whose passage we're blocking gives me the excuse I suddenly urgently need.

"Well, lovely to meet you," I say as cheerfully as I can, "good luck with it all!"

Abandoning the trolley in the crisps aisle, I manage to make it to the customer toilets before the tears come.

It's not Rick I'm crying about. Of that I'm certain. There were no stirrings of desire or jealousy in me over him. It's my motherhood I'm mourning.

Ride a Black Swan

"So, normally, I'd drop half a pill at one of these," I say to Ram as we walk down the Stapleton Road. I can feel the bass from here. "But I won't if you don't want me to."

"Why wouldn't I want you to?"

"Well..." Mmmm how to put this? Because I'm worried she'll be too worried about me being out of it to relax herself? Because of how touchy-feely I'll get? Yeah, that's probably it. "Well, because I can get quite handsy when I'm coming up. I don't want to invade your space."

We're close now. I can see the queue, puffs of steam rising from them in the cold air, smell both the smoke from the traditional garden bonfire and the dozens of spliffs.

"Okay. Thanks for warning me. But, it's something I'm trying to work on, so don't let me stop you."

"Okay cool."

The music coming out, rapid, squelchy, swinging, is already getting me in the mood. The queue is moving quickly. We're on the guestlist, but we don't want to act like divas and swan up to the front.

The Black Swan is quite possibly the grimmest, shittiest club venue in Bristol. It is gross. Bare, skanky and falling apart in places, tucked against the M32 motorway. I've been to raves in better appointed warehouses than this. Ram was dubious from the start, and I can see from her defensive stance, that nothing she's seeing is changing her mind.

But I'm so up for this. I've been loving the live music scene, but raving's in my blood. It was my youth, my formative years - free parties and illegal raves, the Glade at Glastonbury, Tribal Gathering and trips to the Ministry of Sound. It's been a while. Paula, Carol and I used to come down here occasionally, when we felt like having a late one. Unlike the city centre clubs, the Black Swan goes until dawn.

We get to the front, check our names with the doorman and then our coats. Ram's all in black and denim - a "don't fuck with me" outfit if ever I saw one - but I've glammed it up, a sequined tutu over technicolour leggings, and a dayglo yellow vest over white tank top. My newly cut and dyed bright red hair fights perfectly. I've glitter on my face, sparkly hair accessories and bug-eyed goggles perched on my head. Clubbing gear.

Already, Tribe of Frog's psy-trance has me jiggling up and down. But business first. Then boogie.

We're here because a while back I was playing tunes between bands at one of Ram's gigs, Konono No 1 at Fiddlers, supported by Mankala. I wouldn't call it DJing, exactly, though I was using CD decks and cross-fading. Given who the headliners were I was trying to play African tracks or tracks with an African connection, so I went Fela Kuti into Rokia Troare into One Giant Leap into William Onyeabor. Midway through, a guy had introduced himself as a promoter with Tribe of Frog, wondering if we'd be interested in playing an African music set in the third room at one of their nights.

Ram and I were both a bit skeptical. I mean, for starters neither of us actually DJ. Secondly, it seemed more likely that he was just hoping to get access to Ram's mailing list and get us to plug the night on our show. Can't blame him for that. In fact, I'm starting to get lots of offers to compere stages at festivals - Harbourside, dot to dot, VENN - which I'm accepting, as it's great publicity for my show. These things work both ways. I'm less sure that there would be a crossover between BBC Bristol listeners and ravers... but then again, I'm both, so maybe I shouldn't scoff so easily.

Besides, even if we end up deciding not to do this, I am so up for it tonight.

"Let's look around," I yell into Ram's ear.

She nods and gestures for me to lead on.

The main room is pumping, arms aloft, full of bouncing bodies. Graffiti around the room glows in the UV lights, and the ceiling is hung with streamers and animal sculptures, a veritable Wonderland. I'm keen to get in there and dance, but want to give Ram the tour.

We grab two bottles of water from the bar, then head across the bare concourse to a more sparsely populated second room, the DJ spewing out drum n'bass like acid for fuel, lasers cutting through the dry ice smoke as ravers make the most of the spare space to throw energetic shapes. I can't help but lean into the groove and throw my hands up and dance from side to side. Turning to face Ram, her wide smile glowing under the lights, I motion to her to join me, but she seems unsure what to do. The rhythm is infectious, as she is nodding her head and tapping her feet, while I bounce around back and forth in front of her.

Eventually, she leans in. "Is this the room?"

I shake my head and point upwards.

She makes a "shall we go?" gesture, and I dance on ahead, leading her up.

The third room, smaller still, and freezing cold, is playing gabba. Not my bag. And neither does it seem to be that of anyone else, as the place is deserted. I mean, maybe some speedheads might try it later. But perhaps this is why they want to try something new.

Ram pulls a face and points down. I nod and follow her. At the bottom, she hesitates, so I grab her by the hand and lead her out into the grubby, unkempt patch of lawn that passes for a beer garden.

The cold is a shock, so I march her straight over to the obligatory bonfire.

"Alright?" I ask.

"Yeah," she replies, "a bit different."

"You've seriously never been to a night like this then?"

"Nope, not at all."

"Anyway, this is the garden which, as you can smell, is the chill out space for stoners. Did you bring any?"

"Yep. Actually, that's not a bad plan."

"Okay, while you skin up, I'm going to see if I can score some E."

It takes me all of two minutes to find a helpful woman who points out a sweet looking Asian girl, who happily pulls out a pill packet from her bra and slips me one for a fiver.

Ram's only just sparking up when I get back.

"Sorted!" I say.

"Wow, that was quick." She takes a drag. "Want some?"

Something's coming over me, and I haven't even dropped the pill. "Ever done blowback?"

She shakes her head, which surprises me, but then I recall she's not a social smoker.

"Okay, so take a drag and then blow it out in a thin stream," I say.

I watch her as she inhales, then I take her head in my hands and lean down with my mouth open, pausing my lips centimetres for hers. I see her eyes open in shock and I'm covered in a cloud of cannabis smoke. I try to suck in as much as I can, but she's unpractised and much of it escapes.

I laugh. "You're meant to blow into my mouth, doofus."

"That's quite intimate," she says, "here just take a drag normally."

Shrugging, I take the spliff. "Yeah, true." It's good stuff, with a nice mellow flavour. "Just used to it from growing up. We'd always do it to make our money go further." I blow out. "Of course Paula would always stick her tongue out at the worst possible moment and make me laugh, the silly bint."

Passing back the joint, I take a sip of my water. "So, I'm going to take half of this, if that's okay with you Ram?"

She takes a toke and nods. "You're a grown woman, Liz." Smoke wreathes her head.

"Cool." I snap the pill in half, tuck the remaining bit into my bra, and swallow the other. "Kind of assuming you don't want the other half... though you're welcome to it."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"You ever tried it?"

"No."

"Might help you know. Not here. But maybe at home. It's called the 'love drug' for a reason. Might help with intimacy issues."

Suddenly, a familiar dub trumpet and piano riff rings out. "Tune!"

I'm not the only member of the garden group that yells it. "Come on Ram, we've got to dance to this!"

I drag her into the second room, just in time for the drum drop.

Black tarantula

Don't play with my style I might sting ya

The room is fuller now, the crowd dancing like scarecrows, flinging out arms and legs, pogoing around. I spot the tall, familiar form of smiley Adam at the back, where there's a bit of space and pull Ram over. As usual, a massive grin is plastered on his face and he nods with recognition at us and backs up a bit to give us space. We form a triangle with Ram, who looks kind of bemused as Adam and I skank at mad speeds, trying to race the bass. But she's nodding her head and her shoulders have got a little bit of a bounce to them.

The transition is smooth, and a familiar da-duh, der da-duh starts cutting through, the beat not changing, but a cheer goes up, which I join, knowing what's coming next.

If you were in my heart, I'd surely not break you

Lip-synching the lyrics, the light flashing on me, I face Ram, playing imaginary drums with my fingers.

If you were beside me and my love would take you

I'll keep you in safety forever protect you

I'll hide you away from the world you rejected

While I try to keep including Ram, I start losing myself in the music, closing my eyes and focusing on the beat.

Summer breeze, makes me feel high

The beat drops out, and I swap with the backing, smiling at Ram. She leans in.

"I love the way you dance," she says into my ear.

My grin grows. The beat drops, and I wave my arms about. She's loosening up too, starting to actually move her feet.

Then, I start to feel it. I'm too hot. I slip off the vest, stick it to the side. My skin prickles, buzzes, fuzzes. It wants to be touched, stroked.

I start to ignore the high-hat and snare, focus instead on the bass, a slower beat, less frantic. Rather than bouncing and flicking my wrists, I'm now swaying sensually, rubbing my hands over myself, up my sides, my arms, my neck, over my face and my head. Pulses of humming prickles waft up and down my skin, as I buzz chilli.

This is great. I dig the other half out of my bra and drop it. This rush is so smooth, so mellow, I want more.

Without really realising what I'm doing, I twist myself up against Ram, my bum against her thighs. I pull her arms around me, wanting her touch, wanting the security, the safety she provides. I want to be embraced, to be held, to be stroked. This feels so good, so right.

Suddenly, my eyes blink open, the buzz is gone. Shit, who are these people, where's Ram? I step forward and her arms fall away. Fuck! She was holding me. Oh no, I must have totally freaked her out!

"Shit, Ram, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Under the UV lights her expression looks menacing, as she leans towards me, her hand coming up as if to strike. Oh my God, she hates me! No! I've messed up.

I back away, unsure where to go. I stagger to the door leading outside, but strange shapes loom and I bolt away.

"Liz!" she yells my name, sounding angry. Fuck!

I turn and dash for the coat collection.

"Liz, where are you going?" She's screaming at me over the music.

"I'm sorry, Ram, I'm so sorry."

My coat on, I push past the clubbers coming in. Shit, she's following me, oh no. I stagger out into the December air, the cold like a slap in the face, the sudden drop in volume stunning too, my ears ringing now with a high-pitched whine I hadn't noticed before. Fuck! I'm going deaf! Shit, this is so fucked up.

No, wait, no, this is a comedown, my rational brain starts screaming at me, you've been here before, as I turn to wave at a taxi.

Then Ram grabs my wrist and pulls me to her, wrapping me up in her strong arms from behind. "Liz, calm down, what's wrong?"

My words won't come, I'm crying, shivering, and then she turns me to her and buries my face in her chest, letting me cry my hot tears into her shirt.

"I'm sorry," I sob, "I was touching you, and you hate that."

"Shhhh, it's okay, it's okay - taxi!"

She holds me in the taxi home, stroking my hair.

"I'm so sorry," I say, as we climb out, "it was the fear. I haven't had it for years."

"The what?"

"It can be a side-effect of ecstasy - sudden paranoia. I was feeling so good, so safe, I took the other half too quickly, forgot my limits."

"Are you okay now?" she asks, as she opens our door for us.

"Getting there."

Ram makes us some tea, and I try to drink it but get the shakes, so she puts me to bed, climbing in with me and keeping me safe.

More dancing

"Liz, can we do more dancing?" Ram asks.

"Really? Are you sure?" I'm surprised, especially after last night's debacle.

"Yeah. Absolutely. It was helping. And... well, dancing is one of the things I used to love and really miss."

"Oh, okay. Sure." I put down the Sunday supplement I'd been flicking through. "What do you want to dance to?"

"I was thinking something slow. Maybe 7 Hertz?"

"Sure."

Violins and clarinet fill the room. It's all instrumental and improvised; we'd been to see them when they'd played Bristol not that long ago. They were mesmeric.

Ram takes my hand, guides it to her waist, while holding my other out. We try to match the music, following the beat of the double bass, Ram leading, sometimes twirling me. We tread on each other's feet a couple of times.

"Sorry," she says, after the second time, "I never used to lead."

"No?"

She shakes her head. "I was rarely the top."

I don't know what that means.

"But now you are?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says.

"Are you okay with that? What does it mean for you?"

She muses as we waltz. Somehow if she's not thinking about what she's doing, she's better at it.

"I guess it means that, if I'm ever to be physically intimate with somebody, then I need to be, for want of a better word, the 'man' in the relationship."

Something in me burns. I imagine her, on top of me, between my legs, inside me. I blink it away.

"Sorry, too much info?" she asks.

"No! I asked, after all."

The music slows and I close the gap between us without thinking, passing my hand around her back, bringing our bodies into contact. My left hand is still in her right, but close to our bodies now. I'm leaning my head on her shoulder, my flushed face turned away.

I'm suddenly aware of how close my hand is to her toned bum. Of how my breasts are nestled under hers, her boobs cushioning me.

We sway together gently like this for an entire song.

"You know you didn't do anything wrong at the Black Swan, right?" Ram whispers into my hair.

I turn my face to her, looking up, her mouth just about level with my forehead, her kind eyes just above.

"Thanks," I say, "I'm glad. Because I would miss dancing with you if it wasn't okay."

"It's more than okay," she says.

Christmas 2007

"Come see my new room!" Harry is tugging at Ram's hand, trying to get her to move, while Rhian talks Ram through the pile of pictures she's painted at school. We only got here fifteen minutes ago - long enough for a cup of tea, but not long enough to unpack the van - and my niblings have been fighting over Ram's attention ever since. My parents have barely had a chance to speak to her.

"Rhian, let's go and see Harry's room, then we can take your pictures into your room and decide where we should hang them, okay?"

Rhian seems to think about this, weighing its pros and cons seriously for a moment, before giving the nod of approval.

"We had all this last week," Mum says, "they'll settle down in a bit."

"Have fun!" I say.

"Well, I guess this means you're unpacking on your own," Ram calls back as she leaves. The other adults laugh.

"I'll give you a hand," says Simon, getting up, "come on, let's get you two settled. Dafydd, come and help."

There are a lot of cars outside: I had to park in the campsite. "Busy for the season, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he agrees, "we're completely full. Almost regretting giving Harry his own room, as it's one less to let."

"I could have slept in the campervan, Si. Besides," I say to my oldest nephew, "Dafydd needs his own space now, right?"

Dafydd nods emphatically in response.

"No, don't be silly!" Simon says, "very glad you could both make it."

I open the door and we grab our bags, Simon taking my big festival rucksack and Ram's hold all. I pass Dafydd the bag of presents. "Can you stick those under the tree for me?"

"Alright! Thanks Aunty Liz!" he says enthusiastically, then dashes off ahead, while I lock up and grab the remaining bags.

"This old thing still running okay?"

"Yeah. Ram keeps her ticking over."

Simon leads me across the crunching gravel drive, our breath coming in puffs of mist, then left up the stairs, to the guest rooms.

"I saved the first one for you," he says, as he opens it, then passes me the key, "Mum and Dad are over in the family side."

He drops Ram's bag on the floor and my rucksack on the double bed.

The double bed. Oh.

He sees my hesitation and is clearly puzzled by it. "Okay?"

"Yeah," I say slowly, "is Ram sleeping here too?" Maybe I've misunderstood.

He furrows his brows, clearly confused. "Yes. Why wouldn't she?"

"Er.... we're just good friends, flatmates."

His mouth forms a thin line. "This isn't the seventies, Liz. And if you are worried about Mum and Dad, they've changed a lot you know."

"We don't share a room at home! We're not a couple, Simon."

"Why ever not?"

I laugh at his cheek. "Well, because... she's fourteen years younger than me!"

His turn to laugh. "And what's that got to do with the price of butter? Ted was even younger, wasn't he? Right, I'll leave you to get settled... unless you want me to carry your bags back to the campervan after all?"

He's gone, closing the door behind him, before I have a chance to respond.

I slump back on the bed, sinking into the soft duvet. We were up at 5am this morning to try to beat the traffic heading westwards over the Severn Crossing, and if I lie here too long it'll catch up on me.

In my hazy, dozy state, it occurs to me that my objection to being with Ram had everything to do with her being too young for me, and nothing to do with her being female.

When did that happen?

* * *

The day passes in a gently choreographed chaos of food and games and booze, the kids taking Ram and I out for a wander in the woods, meaning we miss some food prep. The noise and distractions allow me to go on auto-pilot, nodding and smiling and responding when necessary, but mostly musing.

What do I feel for Ram? And is that even relevant? I mean, it takes two to tango and she's never, ever made a pass at me, or suggested for a moment that she might be interested in me romantically.

Myf's parents Megan and Bethan are a lesbian couple - they'll be joining us for Boxing Day. I sang at their wedding. I've known them since I was eight. That two women can love and live together has been my reality for most of my life.

And am I in love? Like most straight girls, I can appreciate beauty in a woman, for sure. But sexual attraction? Never.

It doesn't disgust me. Not in the slightest. I'm sure I could have sex with a woman and enjoy it. But would I crave it? Would I need it? Long for it, the way I yearned for Ted's eyes to flash with desire, for Rick's hair under my hands, for Dylan's sly grin, or Ben's buff body?

Can there be love without sex? Might that work? Might that be what Ram, with all her intimacy issues, actually needs? To have a friend, a companion, someone to depend on, somebody to care for and love, and be loved by in return, somebody to share a life with? After the passion has gone, the spark burned out, is that not what we all want in life?

As I wait to take my turn in the inevitable game of charades, I realise that there's no rush. Ram's not going anywhere soon.

And neither am I.

* * *

Myfawny comes down, into the sitting room, where Nat King Cole is playing and the remains of a box of Quality Street chocolates are strewn about amongst the empty champagne and port glasses.

"I think they're finally asleep," she says.

"Right," Simon hauls himself to his feet and heads out of the room, while Myfawny starts bringing out wrapping paper, scissors, ribbons and sellotape from the cupboard.

"Anyone want more tea? Or brandy?" she asks. "This could take a while."

"Ginger tea please," I say.

"For me too please," Ram adds.

"Just normal please, love, for your dad too," Mum says, "Mike? Leave that dear; time to play Santa."

"What?" my dad calls from the sofa, where he's watching some rom-com, the big softie.

"Time to wrap the pressies, Da," Simon says, staggering back in with three huge bags. "Right, Liz and Ram, do you want to take Rhian's? Mum and Dad, you do Harry's?"

He passes over the relevant bags and we get stuck into sticking and wrapping. We get a system going; Ram cuts pieces of paper to size, and I wrap the presents with ribbon and tape.

"Need help with that sellotape, sis?" Simon asks.

"Can't find the end...." I mutter, "my nails are too short."

"Oh really," says Myf, "why's that then?"

"It's for playing the guitar," I say, puzzled, "helps with the fingering."

"I'm sure it does, cariad," Myf chuckles. Clearly, this is some kind of joke that I don't get, as Ram starts laughing silently.

"You do stick to stereotypes do you, Ram?" Myf continues, "Liz, you can't let her do all the scissoring, look you."

Okay, I got that one. "Myf!" I hiss, shocked, as Simon chuckles. Thankfully, Mum and Dad seem to be too busy with their own pile to notice. Either that, or it just went over their head.

"Right, no more booze for you!" I say.

"I don't let her near me with scissors," Ram deadpans, "Liz hasn't had enough practice."

"What's so funny?" Dad inquires as Simon and Myfawny start snickering like Muttley.

Which, naturally has us all laughing like mad again.

How did you know?

"What?" Ram asks.

"Huh, oh, no, nothing."

She squints at me, clearly not believing me. I sip my cider nervously.

She's not wrong. I want to ask somebody how they knew that they were gay. I mean, I could ask Mikayla, or Anna and Amy. But then they would want to know why I was asking, then leap to conclusions... which, to be fair, probably wouldn't be wrong.

And then it would get back to Ram.

Who would also leap to conclusions.

And then she'd probably be annoyed I hadn't asked her.

I should ask her.

No, I shouldn't ask her.

"You want to ask me something, don't you?"

Shit. That girl can damn well read my mind.

"You can ask me, Liz. I know I'm not always forthcoming but... well Grace thinks I should work on that." She takes a sip of her own drink. Then shrugs. "I can always decide not to answer you."

I sigh heavily. Then breathe in. "Okay," I say, "okay, so, don't read into this..." Her eyebrows go up. Shit, now she's definitely going to read into this. "But like... look I grew up with friends who had lesbian mums, you know, like Myfawny."

She smiles. She thought Megan and Bethan were absolutely hilarious.

"But, I never had lesbian friends in my peer group. Colleagues, yes, but you know, it's not something you discuss in the canteen."

"Liz, are you about to ask me how lesbians have sex?" Her voice has a dangerous, sexy purr.

"What? No! I just want to... you know since I've become friends with you, and Mikayla and Poppy, and Anna and Amy, and Nicci and Trish..."

"They aren't your peer group babe. We're all way younger than you. You're ancient!"

"Hey! I'm not. What about Nicci and Trish? They're older than me!"

She waggles her hand in the so-so gesture. "Alright, I'll give you that one."

I stick my tongue out at her. She giggles.

"No, what I guess I was curious about-" she smiles - damn, stupid word to use - "is, like, how you all knew you were lesbians?"

She leaves me hanging. Of course she does. She takes a long unhurried sip of her beer and stays quiet, knowing it'll be driving me nuts.

Then she nods. "Okay. Well, I can't speak for anyone apart from myself. Well, and maybe a couple of others. But here's how I knew."

And so she tells me.

Afterwards, I have to wipe a tear away. God that's so beautiful. I take a sip of cider to try to cover my crying. "So, what happened then?" I ask.

"Well, Fran and Tara stayed together. They were already going to Exeter together. They came out in their first year and have been living together ever since. They are in Germany now. Aachen. Fran's parents own a logistics business and she works in the branch office there; Tara teaches English. They are hoping Germany will follow the Netherlands and legalise gay marriage soon. Otherwise, they might just pop over the border and get married in Mastricht. Hopefully, I'll be able to get a visa and travel as I'd love to join them," she says.

"That's sweet," I say, a genuine smile on my face. Who doesn't love a happy ending? "But you know that's not what I meant."

"No?"

I sigh. She's so frustrating. "I meant between you and Dora."

"Oh, right." This time it's her turn to sigh.

"Well, we were together for the rest of the school year. We kept it low key. Tara and Fran knew, but that was it. The four of us wanted to go interrailing together but I couldn't get the visas for all the different countries in time. We did all go and stay in Dora's parents' holiday home in Majorca for two weeks. That was lovely. That felt like being a real couple."

Clearly, it's a painful memory, even if it's a happy one. She takes a long swig of her drink.

"But then she came out to Uganda with me. As a friend, of course. No way my parents would accept us as a couple and I was way too scared. It was awful. Being so close yet being unable to touch each other. Her Uni had an earlier start date, so she had to fly back first. I wanted to go with her but my parents were paying and wouldn't let me. So I couldn't even kiss her goodbye at the airport." She wipes away tears and has to pause for a moment.

I so desperately want to wrap her in my arms right now.

"That was the beginning of the end really. She saw then how hard it would be to be with me. The... well, we tried the long distance thing, but it didn't last long. We'd broken up by Christmas. She came to see me when, you know, the thing happened, but I was with Mikayla and she didn't want to get in the way. Still, it was good to have her support."

"Are you still in touch?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Facebook. She's back in Bavaria now. She's seeing somebody, a guy judging by the photos. We message occasionally, but I don't like talking about myself much, as you know."

I fight back a laugh at that admission. I lean over, and slowly, seeking permission with my eyes, take her hand, and squeeze lightly. Her skin feels so good on mine.

"I'm glad you had such a lovely first time. I'm glad you shared it with me."

She smiles. I grin back.

"You know," she says, "it's actually mine and Mikayla's second anniversary today?"

"Really?" I hadn't forgotten. But I pretend I didn't know.

"Yeah."

"Do you want to tell me about her?"

She looks puzzled for a moment. "You know Mikayla."

"Yes. But I know her as a student, as a trainee solicitor, and as Poppy's girlfriend. I don't know what she was to you. You don't have to tell me. But if you do, I'm always ready to listen to you."

She smiles sadly, and looks like she might cry. I realise that she's stopped being so stoical; she's been letting me in a lot more.

"She's so brave, Mikayla is. She always was. Still is. I was trying to hide, but she saw me, sought me out and was so open. It was so attractive to me. And she'll fight anyone for those she loves. It was funny though, for all her boldness, she was still a virgin, and I was the more experienced one, sexually speaking. I was her first."

"I bet you were wonderful." And I mean it. I can almost imagine it.

She laughs. "This one time, we were at a hockey club party and..."

We spend the evening swapping stories of University and school and my sweet, gorgeous, talented flatmate moves ever further into the foreground of my life with every anecdote.

New Year's Eve

"How do I look?" Ram asks me from the doorway.

"Gorgeous, as usual," I say.

She sighs. "Liz, you didn't even look at me!"

Turning, I look up. Well, I was right. She is stunning. Patterned, tight fitting flares and platforms make her legs look even longer than usual. Up top a white, striped shirt with a broad collar contrasts beautifully with her skin. Over it she has her faux-fur lined rainbow waistcoat. I have a sudden fond memory of the first time I saw her wearing that.

She recently shaved her dreadlocks off, deciding they were too greasy, and has bought a big afro wig. She looks like she just walked off the Soul Train line, with a big bead necklace swinging down her front.

I move closer, my mascara brush held loosely and forgotten in my hand.

Up close, I notice other details. The gold highlighter on her eyelids, the subtle use of blusher, the large hoop earrings - mine, which she's borrowing - the glitter at the edge of her eyes. I spot a stray eyelash on her cheek and reach up to brush it away. My hand lingers on her head, my skin tingling at the touch of her, as I take her beauty in. Her wide, brown, beautiful eyes; her high cheekbones; her nose, straight and narrow. She's left her septum ring out. Again. I can't remember the last time I saw her wear it. She's put on gold-tinted lipstick, her mouth, smiling, so wide and kissable.

My friend, so beautiful, so loveable.

"Liz?" she asks.

"God, you're gorgeous," I whisper, somewhat awed.

"Thanks. You look beautiful too," she says, "you always do."

Her words thrill me in a way that's so familiar. Oh. Yes, that's what I'm feeling. That joy when attraction is reciprocated. Okay.

"Liz?" she says gently, sounding confused, "what are you doing?"

What am I doing? I realise I've put my other hand on her arm, still awkwardly holding my mascara brush between my fingers, and I'm pulling her head down to me as I tilt mine to meet hers.

"Oh," I stammer, "you had an eyelash. I was checking there weren't more." I'm lying. I was going to kiss her.

Oh my God, I was going to kiss her.

"Right.... Thanks." Ram sounds distinctly unconvinced. "Anyway, ready when you are."

"Great," I say, turning back to my dressing table, "give me five minutes."

We have a busy night ahead of us. Not the time to be making life-altering, friendship-shattering decisions.

First, we're off to an early dinner with Anna and Amy. They wanted us to join them at the Shilling, but we already had other plans, so this is a compromise. Then we're going up for the party at Julie and Dan's for an hour or so; all of Ram's friends from With Her Wheels will be there, plus Mikayla and Poppy of course. I have a taxi booked for 10:30 to get me to the BBC for my show. I could have put in a pre-record - my contract allows it - but I don't want to abandon my listeners, especially as I wasn't there for Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Then, Ram will come and pick me up in the camper and we'll head over to Woody's, where he promised a party would still be going on. If we get seriously plastered, we've put sleeping bags and blankets in the van, plus water, make-up remover and painkillers, and plan to sleep it off in there.

I look at myself in the mirror. The last months of my thirties and I'm starting to get wrinkles on my upper lip, to go with my crows' feet and laughter lines. Poppy's haircut did take years off me, true, and I suppose there is an impish attractiveness to me with my blue eyes, big smile and narrow chin.

Standing up, I check I haven't gotten anything on my outfit. I'm wearing a long sleeved, black lace top, open at the neck. It's slightly see-through, so I have a black vest underneath. My skirt is black, but inlaid with sequins and mini-mirrors: smart but sparkly at the same time. My red high-heels match my hair. Pulling on a long, sparkly, sequined red coat - a festival purchase, of course - I figure I pass muster.

"Okay, lover," I call, "I'm ready."

* * *

"That was "Cloudy Orange" by the Liftmen - a cracking live band, catch them if you can! You're listening to Late Night Liz here on BBC Radio Bristol, here with you to see out 2007 and welcome in 2008. I'm very excited to be here, sharing this with you, by your side and in your ear.

"I'm not the only one working of course. The wonderful Sohail is on patrol, currently on his way to help some stranded would-be party goers on the A406. Sohail, you are a saint, you hear me, a saint I say! My very best wishes to you and your lovely wife Noor. May 2008 bring you many blessings!

"Our pal Raekwon is also working - who else do you think got me to the studio on time? Yep, it's our favourite taxi driver. I can't advertise for him, sadly, as this is the BBC - indeed other taxi drivers are available - but if you catch him driving your cab, count yourself lucky!

"We'll be talking to everyone's favourite surrogate Grandma, Daisy, after this. Sohail and Raekwon, here's one for you, and all your colleagues on the road tonight, "Travelling" by Male. It's 11:27pm, New Year's Eve 2007. Enjoy!"

Muting my mic, I bring up the fader on channel 2.

The door cracks open. Ram's massive afro wig pokes around it. "Okay to come in?"

"Ram! Of course! Come in!" I'm beyond thrilled, and I'm smiling so much it almost hurts. "How wonderful! But why are you here?"

"Honestly?" she says, sliding into the seat next to me and instinctively grabbing a second set of headphones, "I just didn't want to be away from you."

The lump in my throat grows. I stretch out a hand to her, blinking back tears. She takes it and squeezes. I can't talk. The words are stuck.

Shit, I'm so in love with this woman.

I can't speak.

This isn't the longest song in the world, only thirty seconds left.

"Ram," I squeak, "I can't... you need to..." I gesture to the microphone, then rummage with my other hand in my handbag for a tissue. I haven't let go of her hand.

"Sorry, Liz, I shouldn't have come-"

"-no!" I shake my head emphatically. I blow my nose then point frantically at the microphone.

Smiling at me, Ram slides up the fader. "And gatecrashing Late Night Liz's show, it's Ramona Kato here on BBC Bristol. Now, I believe we've got the delightful Daisy on line 1."

I nod at her, and she unmutes channel 5.

"Daisy my dear, how are you?"

"Getting by, getting by," Daisy croaks on the line, "is Liz okay?"

The lump is still there, sitting just above my heart, but I can talk. I lean into the microphone.

"Right here Daisy, by your side and in your ear," I say.

"And in our hearts," Ram adds.

The lump grows and tears trickle down my face.

Mercifully, Daisy takes that as her cue. "Amen to that Ramonal, amen to that. I'm so glad you are there too, Ramonal. The pair of you remind me so much of two gurt lovely girls I had staying with me in the '50s. Winnifred and Susan, they were called. Susan was on the run from an abusive father. Winnifred was from Jamaical, but could 'pass' as we used to say, back in the day. They went to Canadal, if I recall. I used to get Christmas cards from them for many, many years. Lovely girls."

I've got myself together enough by now to nudge her back on topic. "Now Daisy, you were going to share an unusual New Year's Eve tradition with us."

"That's right, dear, that's right. Well, you mightn't know this, but after the Turks invaded Cyprus in... oh, when was that? Anyway, whenever that was, quite a few Cypriot refugees came to Bristol, mind. And a lovely young woman named Despinal ended up staying with me for a while. She introduced me to the Greek tradition of smashing a pomegranate on your doorstep at the stroke of midnight, would you believe?"

"Crickey, that must make a mess," says Ram, smiling at me as her fingers thread through mine.

"It sure did, it sure did. Of course, my ma come from Cork, and she used to bang bread that had been blessed by the priest on the walls to drive the devil out and bring in good luck. So, it takes all sorts!"

"It does indeed," I say, "Daisy, thank you so much for joining us and sharing your colourful tales with us. I'm sure all the listeners will agree with me that they make us all richer in spirit. It's 11:33pm, 27 minutes until the New Year, here on BBC Radio Bristol. Late Night Liz with you 'til one. Now, I couldn't find a song about a pomegranate, but I thought I'd stay with the fruit theme, so here's "Blueberry Hill" by Fats Domino."

Ram mutes our mics as I slide up the fader on the CD channel.

I don't trust myself to look at her, so busy myself with swapping CDs over in the other player and cueing up the next track, then checking the inbox and text messages.

"Are you okay, Liz?" she asks.

I breathe in, then face her. "It's made my year you being here, Ram, but if I talk about it I'll cry..." too late the last word comes out as a sob.

Ram offers me a tissue.

I jab my finger at the microphone again, as I attempt to wipe my eyes.

Smirking, Ram unmutes the microphone. "Choice tunes here on BBC Bristol, Ramona Kato hijacking Late Night Liz's show once more and we've had many, many messages from listeners all over the world, not just here in the West Country. Mark's listening in from Melbourne, Australia - Happy New Year Mark, you must be in 2008 already - where he's gone to visit his stepson and family. Brenda and Bill have also already seen in the new year in Malaga, Spain, swallowing their twelve grapes as per Spanish tradition, and here in Bristol we've heard from Molly, Jean, Karen, Dave...."

I watch her, my beautiful, wonderful friend as she smoothly shares messages from listeners, strengthening the ties in this, our imagined community. She really is a marvel.

She glances at me, raising an eyebrow and I nod.

The handover is instant, founded on the understanding and rapport we've been building for over a year.

"What lovely messages, Ram, and what lovely listeners we have, one big, beautiful family of friends, in Bristol, Bath and beyond. 11:47pm, start charging your glasses and get ready to party. Speaking of which, for listeners Mary Smith and Mary McDonald and all the Marys out there, this is "Mary Party" by Bucky."

I hit play and Ram mutes the mic. Somehow, she's taken my hand again.

I smile at her, trying to say with my face and eyes what's in my heart and what I cannot express in words.

She pulls me to her, lifting my hand so I need to stand, then tugging me into her lap. I let out a breathless laugh and feel a hot flush flash through me that has nothing to do with the actual heat of her body, under me, behind me, around me.

"I brought you something," she says, leaning down to her bag.

Only 30 seconds left on the song - it's a short one.

She pulls out a mini-bottle of champagne, a single serving, like on aeroplanes, and two plastic wine glasses. She came prepared. Maybe she was always planning this? "Thought you'd need something to toast the New Year, right?"

I want to kiss her so badly. Instead, I shift sideways slightly, so I can pass an arm around her neck.

She looks up at me, our eyes almost level.

"Is this okay?" I ask.

She nods and swallows. "Yes."

The song ends and I unmute the mic.

"Bucky on BBC Radio Bristol, Late Night Liz here, seeing you through to the New Year, by your side and in your ear. Nearly there! Only a few minutes left of 2007 and, do you know what listeners? I'll be sad to see it go.

"Because," I say, turning to look Ram in the eye, pulling the arm of the microphone out so that the fuzzy head is right by us, "like many of you, far too many of you I suspect, it's been a year of disappointments and heartbreak. I had my heart broken this year. I cried many, many tears. Yet, here I am, happier and stronger than ever. And it's thanks to you."

I'm speaking to the listeners directly. And I'm speaking to Ram.

"You've encouraged me, you've supported me, you've seen me through new experiences and hard choices, and you being there for me has meant the world to me."

Her brown eyes are locked on mine as our broadcast plays in homes across the city and internet listeners around the world. Not those at parties. Not those with lots of friends and no cares. No. To those who can't be with those they love. Those who cannot love the way they would like to. Those who otherwise would be lonely.

I'm speaking to them; but mostly I'm speaking to her.

"And I've tried to be there for you, in every way I can. And I've loved it - it's made me feel so good about myself, it's made me feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. So thank you. Thank you so much for letting me be there for you, for telling me what you need, for sharing your hopes and your dreams and your woes and your pain with me."

Tears are running down our faces.

"So, with four minutes until midnight, will you join me, wherever you are, whoever you are, in singing "Auld Lang Syne"." As Ram's eyebrows raise, I hit play on the instrumental track I'd recorded and slowly slide up the fader. "In the car, in the bar, inside or outside, young or old, shy or bold, in a whisper or nice and loud, join me now."

I start to sing.

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot

In the days of auld lang syne?

On the chorus, Ram joins me in harmony.

For auld lang syne, my dear

For auld lang syne

We'll drink a cup of kindness yet

For the sake of auld lang syne

I stare into her eyes as we sing. Her voice is beautiful, deep and rich. I've heard her sing in church, so I knew she could carry a tune, but I hadn't realised how well her voice complemented mine.

Three minutes to midnight. Voices and bodies entwined together.

Two more minutes to midnight. Our slow harmonies, bittersweet melodies combining over the airwaves. I don't care if nobody is listening - though I am fairly sure many are - as I have all the audience I want right here.

One minute to midnight and the song fades. I push up the fader on channel 7, with the live feed from Trafalgar square.

"Thank you for singing that with us, listeners," I say softly, as I skip the CD on a track, then pause it, before turning back to face Ram. She has the bottle ready to pop. "I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did. Thirty seconds until 2008. I hope the New Year brings you as much joy and happiness and love as I feel it will bring me."

Her smile is massive.

"Let's go live to Trafalgar square for the countdown and the bongs of Big Ben from the palace of Westminster. I hope you have some lips to kiss and," I say, staring into Ram's eyes, "if you don't, you can have mine."

Sounds of the crowd swell in our headphones. The countdown comes, thousands of voices, calling out. Ram and I add ours softly into the mix.

"Three, two, one. Happy New Year!"

Ram pops the cork as the chimes of the bells ring out over the airwaves and I kiss her.

Her lips are so soft and so warm, I want to melt. She tastes of mints and lipgloss, and smells divine. I can't believe I'm doing this. It's so wrong but so right, so stupid and so wonderful.

I've never wanted a woman, but I've never loved anyone more than I love her.

Ram pulls away as the twelfth note rings out.

"Happy New Year listeners. Late Night Liz here seeing you into 2008. I tell you, there's fireworks going off outside, and there's fireworks going off inside too, so let's have some on the airwaves. Here's "Rocket's tail" by Kate Bush."

I hit play and Ram mutes the mics.

"That's was so-"

Whatever Ram was going to say is silenced as I kiss her again, my hand going to her face. This is a longer song. We've got three minutes and I want to impress something on her before it's done. Her mouth moves in response to mine.

I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure if this was what I wanted. I know now it is.

I wasn't sure if she'd let me. So far, so good.

Not for the first time with Ram, I find myself holding my tongue, literally. Just lips locked with lips, wet mouths moving.

Then her tongue ventures out to find mine and I groan with pleasure and relief. It's not enough, I want more. I want to run my hands over her whole body, to touch her, to feel her, to know her secret places.

I can't.

I daren't.

But she could touch me. Without breaking our kiss, without stopping the way I welcome her tongue with mine, I start unbuttoning my lace top.

And now, shoot it into the night.

Ram breaks the kiss and looks at me.

"Liz? What are you doing?"

My stomach plummets. Shit! I read this wrong. She doesn't want me.

"Don't... don't you want me?"

The fear must show on my face. She kisses me once more, gently, softly, and slides her hand up, under the vest and top I'm wearing, to cup my breast.

My heart soars as I inhale sharply. Just that touch, just this, her palm covering my nipple, thumb stroking my cleavage lightly, has me melting.

"Yes, of course I want you Liz. I've always wanted you." My heart skips with joy. "But don't you have a show to do?" she asks, kindly.

"Fuck, shit, yes."

1 minute 11 seconds on the track.

"Liz, this is me. I'm not going to have sex with you in the studio. But we've all year and beyond. I'm really not going anywhere."

She kisses me lightly on the nose and smiles.

Then she picks me up bodily with just her arms, and deposits me back in my chair. My mouth falls open. "Now, do your show," she says.

Nodding, I go onto autopilot and quickly swap CDs. Just in time to lower the fader and unmute the microphone.

"Kate Bush welcoming in the new year with a bang on BBC Bristol. Happy 2008 everyone. Late night Liz here with super special guest Ramona Kato. Drop us a text on 81333 or email at liz dot bradford at bbc dot co dot uk to tell us how your night is going and your resolutions for the new year. Ram, have you got any new year's resolutions?"

She passes me a glass of bubbly.

"Happy new year Liz and listeners. Cheers!" We touch glasses. "New year's resolutions you say? Well, I think I'm going to keep doing the things I do well, that bring me joy, and keep working to improve on the things that I don't do so well and bring me pain. I'm going to keep seeing my therapist, keep trying to work through my trauma."

She reaches for my hand and I put down my glass to take it with both of mine. "Keep trying to make sure that my past doesn't stop me from having the future I want. And if there are any listeners out there who, like me, have had trouble in the past, my strong advice is to talk to people. Friends, family and professionals. Don't keep it bottled up. I've shared my pain this year, with people close to me and with a therapist, and it's been the best thing I could have done."

She looks straight into my eyes. "I'm not where I want to be, yet, mentally speaking, but I have hopes that I can be." A brief pause. "What about you, Liz? Any new year's resolutions?"

I have to shake myself slightly. I kind of feel like I've already achieved my main one. "Well Ram, listeners, I want to tell those I love how I feel about them more often."

"That sounds like a great resolution Liz."

"I know. So, Ram? I love you."

"Liz, I love you too."

I nod towards the microphone. "Listeners," I say.

Ram joins in with me as we say, "we love you."

"Late night Liz here, by your side and in your ear, and shortly we'll hear from our listeners. Get in touch on text 81333 and liz dot bradford at bbc dot co dot uk to tell us your resolutions. We'll be sharing your messages after this, "You said something" by West Country legend, PJ Harvey."

My mouth is on hers almost before the track starts playing. She's so warm. She smells so good.

Shit! Did we mute the microphone?

I pull back and glance at the mixing desk. Yes, yellow light on. Ram must have done it.

She smiles at me, having seen where my eyes went. "Maybe I should go? I kind of feel like I'm being a distraction!"

"Please don't!" I say.

She laughs. Her real one. "Just teasing, Liz! Come on, let's look at the messages."

The inbox is full and they are still flooding in. I cue several on screen, ready to read out and note names down of others to give shout outs too. Then I get to the following:

That was the most romantic thing I've ever heard. We were all singing with you. You sound so good together! Please tell me that was a kiss at the end? Love you both. From everyone at the Ashbys.

Oh. Right. I think we just came out live on air.

Flicking through a few more quickly, Ram nudges my arm and shows me her phone.

Get in girl! About bloody time. N and L x

"That's from Nicci and Trish."

"Yeah." I point to the text from, I assume, Mikayla.

"Maybe check your phone too?" Ram says.

I do. And as the hour ticks past and we play more songs and read out listeners' messages, the mobile network finally catches up and my phone lights up.

Many are just "Happy New Year" texts from friends - Paula, Debbie, Leigh, Anna - which I reply to quickly. But others are from those who were clearly listening online.

From my mum: That was such a beautiful way to bring in the new year darling. You are so talented at this. And you are both so good together. Happy new year, love mum and dad x

From Myfanwy: Hywwwwwwwwwwwwl! Oh my God! Liz! Finally! I'm crying! Happy new year cariad. Please tell me you kissed her?!?!?

From Carol, who must be listening online in Australia: Oh my days babe! That was beautiful. I was singing with you both. Clearly, we need to have a skype session soon as it sounds like you have LOTS to tell me! Happy new year - sounds like it will be! xoxox

Many listeners picked up on it too. Daisy, of course, rings in to leave an ansaphone message - I don't think she has a mobile or email:

"Happy new year Liz and Ramonal. I been wondering about the pair of you for a while, and I'm gurt chuffed to be right about it an' all. My love to you my dears."

Most of the messages are sweet, and Ram's touch is a comfort, but inside I'm reeling. I'm just beginning to explore and understand my feelings for her. I want time and privacy for us to work out what we are and what we can be. I'm not gay.

Instead, caught by surprise and caught up in the moment, I've basically shared my feelings with what seems to be our closest friends and family plus half the city. I've just come out, but I'm not sure I was ever in the closet.

That I'm in love with Ram is not in doubt.

But I'm not sure we can be what we need to be for each other, and it really would have been better to try to work things out away from the public eye.

* * *

"So..." I say, as we get in the door to the flat. We went to Woody's, but just for an hour. Despite taking a preparatory siesta, I feel out on my feet.

"So...?" Ram says, hand on my arm.

I'm not sure what to do. I've never been here before. "Tea?" I suggest.

"Mmmm. I'm pretty tired and I can tell you are. How about we just go to bed?"

"Yeah. Good call." I stand there a little longer, swaying slightly. I'm not drunk, just...

Ram steps closer to me and cups the back of my head, kissing me lightly. "I meant together."

The tension that I didn't realise I was carrying suddenly releases. "I'd like that. Your place or mine?"

She giggles. "Well, you have the en suite."

Despite that, she goes to what I think of as 'her' bathroom to do her teeth and remove makeup.

As I do mine, I wonder what to wear in bed. Normally, I sleep naked, though I do now have pyjamas for when we do the crossword together or, more recently, when we've shared a bed.

But that's not really me.

I strip and dump my clothes in the laundry hamper. I consider whether to have a quick shower, but just settle for a quick splash at the sink with soap and a flannel. I'd be happy just curling up and cuddling, but feel the need to be prepared.

My heart is racing. I've been so focused on emotions, I haven't even thought about the physical side of things.

Quickly, I cross the bedroom and burrow under the covers, the cool sheets making me shiver. Should have put the electric blanket on.

What if she won't let me touch her? What if she will, but it grosses me out, or I'm really bad at it? Which would be worse?

Ram walks into the room in her dressing gown, her wig off, her jewellery removed, her shorn head making her seem smaller. Younger. She looks nervous.

"You okay gorgeous?" I ask.

"Not really. I'm worried."

"Don't be. We can just sleep together. Maybe kiss? But no touching. Well, you can touch me, but I won't... how about, no hands under clothes? If it's covered, no touching?"

She nods. "Yeah, that... well, let's try."

She moves to the bed, sits on the edge. I hold out my hand to her. She takes it, brings it to her lips, kisses it.

"Ram? I love you. I've never loved a woman like this. I have zero expectations, okay? And I think I love you because you're you, not because it's some latent homosexuality in me coming out. It's just because it's you. And I've only ever known you like this, but I still love you. So... so I think it's going to be okay, even if we can't, you know?"

Her eyes are shining. She reaches out to stroke my face. "Thank you Liz. You know, that's why, despite trying not to, I fell in love with you too? Because you're so caring, so kind, so compassionate. I love your talent and your verve and your body, but most of all I love your heart."

She leans over and kisses me and I realise that that little speech of hers has made my thighs very damp indeed.

She kisses me until we're both smiling so much it stops being possible. Then she stands up and takes off her dressing gown. She's got long trousered pyjamas on, but her top is sleeveless, revealing her impressive arms. Oh good, something I can touch.

"Um, Ram? Should I put some pyjamas on?"

"Why? What are you wearing?"

"Well, what I usually wear in bed," I say, as seductively as I can, "nothing."

Her eyes and nostrils widen. She licks her lips, then bites her bottom one. It's so arousing watching her watching me. The sheet is getting damp under me.

"But I can put pyjamas on if you prefer?"

"No. No, I don't. You are so fucking hot Liz Bradford."

"Really?"

She nods, then takes the edge of the duvet. "May I?" she asks.

I nod back, watching her eyes, watching me, drinking me in, widening still further as she pulls back the duvet, revealing me in my nakedness.

"Fuck," she breathes out reverently.

God, just the way her eyes rake over me is turning me on so much.

"Um, Ramona?" I say eventually, "it's kind of cold."

"Sorry!"

She slips under the covers and slips her arms around me, under my neck and around my waist, pulling me tight into her. Then her mouth descends on mine.

Gorgeous, deep kisses. An old conversation, about enjoying make out sessions, comes back to me. Slow mouths, gentle stroking. I keep my fingers on her arm, her hand, but hers explore my shoulders, my upper chest, my sides. It's glorious, torturous. I find myself panting with desire.

"I want you so much, Liz," she whispers. Her voice makes me tingle.

"Yes, please," I say.

Her fingers stray slowly over my breasts, not rushing, moving slowly, teasingly. My nipples strain at their skin, tight and hard, but she doesn't touch them.

Yet.

She kisses down my neck, lightly nipping at the skin with her lips, little licks, finding my pulse point. I'm flushed and panting, twisting, trying to force my breast fully into her hand, but she's having none of it, teasing me.

I'm loving this and hating this, aching for her, needing something inside, tears are threatening to leak from my eyes and I find myself almost on the point of orgasm.

"Please, Ram, please," I moan, "please, I feel so empty, I need you inside, enough of the teasing, I need you."

And I mean it. I really do. I knew I could enjoy this, and I really am, yet I want it to happen now, in case I suddenly stop, unless the freight train of worry and self-doubt brings this crashing down.

Instead, her lips brush across my nipple as her fingers slide up my thigh, gathering the slickness there. They slip inside so easily, her thumb just edging my clit, just as her tongue runs over my breast.

And that's all it takes. Just that. Her fingers inside me, her mouth on my chest, and I'm cumming.

"Fuck Ram!"

It's so intense, radiating out not from my abdomen, but from my chest, pulsing into my limbs and rolling back. It's almost like my heart is having an orgasm. I dig my fingers into her arm and shoulders and yell her name.

"Ram!"

* * *

In the morning, I can't stop smiling, can't stop taking her hand, touching her back, touching all the places I know it's safe to touch.

We sit together and sip our morning tea on the sofa, wrapped in robes and blankets, while Nina Simone helps us welcome in the new year.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's new life for me

And I'm feeling good.

"Ram?"

"Hmmm?"

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Over and over I tell her this. I'm not scared she doesn't know. I'm not scared that I don't mean it. I just adore the feel of the words in my mouth. They seem to taste of her.

After I've showered, she strips me slowly, unwrapping me delicately, taking her time. She guides me to sit on the edge of the bed, then kneels in front of me.

"Ram?" I say, as she begins to kiss up my thigh, "I've never come that way."

She raises her eyebrows at me. "Really?"

"No. But please don't see that as a challenge, okay?"

"Do I look like a man to you? Sex isn't a competition."

That makes me laugh, and then her tongue touches my labia and my chuckle turns to a gasp. With my skin cool from the shower, her mouth is shockingly hot. She licks lightly, tracing each lip like a pen drawing a petal, dancing around my blossoming bud. My nectar drips.

I grip the duvet to stop myself from touching her, my chest heaving, my breath coming in gasps.

I get closer than I ever have, but I don't come, but she doesn't stay there long. Instead she's pushing me back, holding my wrists together with one hand above my head, her other hand thrusting fingers inside me, finding the perfect spot. Her lips descend on mine, her breath tangy.

Squirming, panting, arching my back, as her lips move slowly down my body to my breasts, I orgasm, shuddering into a messy, squishy climax.

She slips behind me, cuddling me, stroking me, kissing my neck as I twitch and sigh.

"What about you?" I ask, looking back over my shoulder.

"Don't worry," she says.

"Well, I know I can't touch you," I say, "But you can, right? Have you got a vibrator or something?"

She leans over and kisses me on the forehead.

"No, don't worry about it," she says, "right, my turn in the shower."

I sit up as she moves to the door. "Seriously Ram, go for it. It won't make me feel inadequate. I understand. But you must have needs, right?"

She sighs. "Liz, making love to you has made me incredibly horny. You are fucking gorgeous. But..." her smile vanishes and she breathes in, steeling herself.

"But what?"

She breathes in and out, in and out, eyes closed. But I won't be denied. She needs to tell me this, whatever it is.

She seems to know this. She looks at me, and says, "I haven't had an orgasm since it happened. I can't be touched or touch myself there without having a panic attack."

I don't know why I'm the one crying, naked, with my head in her lap while she strokes and soothes me.

Where do we go from here?

"Yes Mum... Yes, I'll tell her.... No, I think it's probably best not to... Can we.... It's very new, we're still working things out, okay? But, in a good way.... Yes.... Yes.... Soon... I'm sure."

I look at Ram and try not to smile. She's grinning. At least she's finding it funny. I've already had Poppy calling me and squealing. I probably should have taken Ram's approach, which was just to ignore calls, but, well, she can get away with that kind of thing.

I can't. So now my mum is gushing at me.

"Yes... Look, can I... Good idea... I'll call soon, I promise. Love you. Love to Dad and Si and Myf and the niblings.... Yes, Happy New Year. Love you.... Bye!"

I puff out my cheeks, as Ram comes to sit next to me. She wraps her arms around me and leans her head on my shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Pretty good. Am I doing okay?"

"Wasn't that what I asked?"

"No, I meant am I doing okay on my first day as a lesbian?"

She laughs. A real one. "Well, given the restrictions I'm making you operate under, I'd say you're doing very well." She kisses me lightly. It feels so normal. I can't believe it. "Are you though? A lesbian?"

I shake my head. "I mean... I guess that's what anyone seeing us would think, right? But I've never fancied a woman before, certainly never loved one before."

"When did you know?"

"Oh," I say, "tough question. I mean, I've cared for you for a long, long time, admired you for even longer, since we first met actually. You blew me away that day, you were such a surprise. But loved you? Well, I think I must have been in love with you when we were talking about money that time - I mean that's the only thing that can explain how I reacted. But maybe it was before that too. I mean, I definitely felt stuff when we were dancing."

I look at her, seeing the love in her eyes.

"What about you?" I say, taking her hand, a safe touch, "are you going to tell me when you knew?"

"Yeah, kind of the same I think. I always liked you. Always thought you were cool and sexy. But never let myself get too close - I didn't want to be that cliché of the gay girl that falls for her straight best friend. So I didn't let myself admit my feelings for you until I knew you had them for me. Then, when I looked, I realised I'd been in love with you for ages."

"Awwww! That's so sweet," I kiss her.

"I know. We're so sappy aren't we?"

I giggle. Sappy is a word I'd never normally use to describe Ram, ever.

"So, when did you know? When did I let the cat out of the bag?" I ask.

"Oh, come on? Asking how I knew I was gay? Could you have been any more obvious?"

I cringe and laugh. "Yeeeeaahh. I think that was definitely me sending out signals, right?"

"Uh huh." She squeezes me. It feels so good to be in her arms. "So, I take it your mum was very positive?"

"Understatement of the year! She wants to come and stay, get to know you better. I think I've managed to put her off for a bit, but consider yourself warned."

I look up at her. "Ram, I think.... I think it might be good to be more open with my family about... well you know... so that they know, so that if they see you flinch or avoid affection, they know why."

I can see her face start to close up and I can see her fighting it. I can see she's trying so hard.

She swallows. "Okay. Can I think about that?"

"Of course, of course. I mean, it might be a while until we see them next."

"Sorry," she says, "it's just... I got so hurt by the way people I thought were my friends treated me after... you know... I'm still working out that others can be accepting."

"It's okay."

"It's not. I need to do better."

"Well," I say, "that was your resolution, right? To keep seeing your therapist? So..."

"Yeah, definitely. I might see if Grace can see me more often."

"Good. Because, you know, I do want to give back to you? Right? You know I want that? When you're ready." The thought worries the hell out of me, but I certainly want to want it.

She nods and smiles at me.

"Can we at least share the same bed from now on?" I ask.

"I'd really like that," she says, sounding quite choked up.

"Me too," I say.

"However - and I know that this is kind of a bit late given last night - can we not announce this yet? The thing is, I was all set to put in the application for indefinite leave to remain this week... But that's dependent on my partnership with Mikayla. I need to meet my immigration solicitor and see where I would stand if my circumstances have changed..."

"Of course, of course."

"And I'm so sorry, really I am," she's starting to cry and I'm worried I will too.

"It's okay, Ram, it's okay."

"It's not," she half sobs, "I want... I want to shout this from the rooftops, I want to be proud of us, but... it's so fucked up..."

"You're right. But we'll work through it. You're so worth it."

"Am I?"

"Yes!" And, as I lean in and kiss her, I realise I mean it. I've been complacent, placid, passive in love in the past, waiting, expecting my boyfriend to make decisions. It was Dylan that asked me out. I followed Ben to Bristol. I was waiting for Rick to ask me to marry him, to want to have kids. I let Ted slip through my fingers.

This time, this love, I'm going to fight for it with everything I have. I wonder if the fact that we are two women, that there is no man, will the dynamic be different? I have no clue - this is all so new.

"Go and have your shower, Ram, babe," I say, eventually, "I'll put some food on. Anything you fancy?"

"Whatever you want. There's some potato gratin and nut roast left, isn't there?"

"Yeah. Shall I heat that up?"

"Sounds good."

As I bustle in the kitchen, pulling the food out of the fridge, I hear her footsteps in the hall.

"Liz?" she says softly.

"Yes, gorgeous?"

I turn and watch as she slowly steps out from the hall into the doorway.

She's naked.

Her body is beautiful, nut brown on her torso, slightly darker on her limbs. Sparse, tight curls sit in the v at the top of her toned legs, beneath her flat, ribbed stomach. Her breasts, much larger than mine, bounce gently, but sit high, seemingly firm, her nipples almost unbelievably black.

"..."

She smiles at me.

I close my mouth, which is suddenly very dry.

"Liz? I'm going to shower now."

"Uh huh? Okay." My voice sounds very far away to me.

A thin trickle travels down my thigh.

"Love you."

"Uh huh. Okay."

It takes me a while to realise that she's gone.

I shake myself and get on with making us a late lunch.

Paula's birthday

"Hi James, I'm Liz, nice to meet you."

I'm squeezed into a chair between Paul and James, a portly looking Maths teacher.

"This is a bit different from last year," I say to Paula, when everyone's seated and ordering drinks.

"Yeah, well, can't have a mad night out with, well, you know."

She'd almost been embarrassed earlier at the house, telling me her great news, that she was nine weeks pregnant. Obviously, she's not showing yet, so hasn't told most staff members, though if they clock her not drinking the smarter ones might work it out. Hence why this year her birthday was going to be a bit more sedate and I was invited out with work colleagues. Or rather, they were invited out with me.

It's a lovely meal, and her work colleagues are entertaining enough. I find myself slipping into interview style, teasing out anecdotes and stories from them.

"You see," Paula jokes at one point, "lovely people in Manchester. You should have moved up here."

"Yes, you should," says a very earnest English teacher sitting opposite, "Manchester is such a great place."

"Absolutely, it totally is," I agree diplomatically, "but I have too many ties to Bristol."

But I find myself missing Ram something fierce. I'm only going to be away from her for one night, but the thought of not having her arms around me this evening is already cause for sadness.

I send her several texts under the table:

Miss you so much. Love you x

"Who you messaging?" Paula asks.

"Ram," I say, dreamily.

"Everything okay with her?"

Paula and I have exchanged texts several times since New Year's Eve, but there wasn't really the chance to update her on the change in my romantic life, and certainly doing so over dinner with her colleagues doesn't seem like the right time. But to not say anything seems like a betrayal. In fact, it almost hurts me to reply: "Great. I'll tell you later though."

I'd asked Ram to come with me, but she and Manchester have bad associations, especially in January. In fact, she's going over to Nicci and Trish's tonight, which I'm pleased about. I feel awful being away from her.

Looking around the room, I'm pleased she didn't come, actually. She would have been uncomfortable.

Later, in the back of the taxi home, Mike sitting up front, Paula and I in the back with our arms linked, she asks me for my news.

"So, come on, spill? What were you going to say about Ram?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, okay. So... she and I are a couple. Like, in love, a couple."

"But.... you don't like women?" she says, her voice strangely high-pitched.

"I know!" I say, "but I really like her. I was pretty surprised, but there it is."

A car's headlights shine through the window and, as I look at Paula, I swear I see tears.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes," she replies, unconvincingly, "sorry - hormones - pregnancy."

"You're crying?"

"Would you believe they are happy tears?" she asks. "Please?"

"Okay," I say, as she hugs me, entirely unconvinced.

Meeting with the immigration solicitor

"Okay, so, hypothetically speaking of course," Donald says, his soft Scottish accent still making me smile, "if you and Ms Ashby were to dissolve your civil partnership when you were enrolled as a full-time student, securing a student visa would be straightforward. The University is, naturally, very proficient at providing all the necessary paperwork, as it's very much in their interests."

I can see Ram and Mikayla both relax at this.

"What about Ms Kato's ability to work?" I ask. We've passed off my presence as that of a concerned BBC representative. I've nothing to do with HR, of course, but Donald doesn't need to know that.

"Yes, well usually a student visa does not include the right to work. However, the BBC may be able to help you to apply for a waiver. Essentially, what the BBC will have to demonstrate is that nobody else can do what Ms Kato is doing. If they can demonstrate that she is the main attraction of the broadcast, that should be possible. Her mechanic work, however, will not be covered and is, frankly, unlikely to be."

A cold gnawing sets into the pit of my stomach, but interestingly Ram doesn't seem bothered.

We thank Donald for his advice, and take our leave.

* * *

"Thanks so much Mikayla," Ram says once we're outside.

"Of course," she replies brightly, "whatever you need. Don't rush this decision on my account. I'm just sorry I haven't completed my training yet and couldn't represent you myself. Maybe in the future though."

"Thank you," Ram repeats. Then she seems to steel herself and opens her arms.

I hear Mikayla's breath hitch a little, then she slowly steps inside Ram's embrace, wrapping her own around her ex. Her face is turned away from Ram, resting on Ram's shoulder, but I can see the tears there.

Without thinking, I step in and add my arms to the embrace there, on the pavement. I kiss Mikayla's cheek.

"You're a wonderful person, Mikayla," I tell her, "I'm so proud to know you. We're both so lucky to have you in our lives."

She's sobbing hard now, and I can feel Ram shaking too. This must be so hard for them. I can't help but imagine what kind of regrets and 'what ifs' are swirling in their heads right now. And I can't help but feel so guilty to be so happy that it didn't work out for them. Maybe, in another reality, the three of us are sitting in a Brussels café, with Ted next to me.

And maybe I'd be happy. I'm not sure I'd want to swap that present for this one though.

And anyway, where would that leave Poppy and Lauren?

I have to tell her.

"Mikayla," I say, as she sniffs and quietens, "it's no better for us than it was for you. Nothing has changed for Ram since that last time between the two of you."

We're in the street. I'm trying not to be too explicit. She pulls back and looks between the two of us. Her face falls.

"That's... that's not what I want..." she begins.

"I know," I say quickly, "that's not..."

Ram interrupts. "What Liz is trying to tell you is that you made the right choice, Mikayla. As always, you were the one brave enough to do what needed to be done."

She nods, and withdraws, pulling a tissue packet from her pocket. She offers us some, but both of us take a packet from our own pockets and show her.

We all laugh.

"Guess we all came prepared," Mikayla says.

"Yep!" I reply.

Mikayla blows her nose. "You know it's not that I'm not over the moon for you both, right?"

Ram rubs Mikayla's arm and squeezes gently. "Of course," I say.

"And I definitely don't think of Poppy and Lauren as a consolation prize."

"You'd better not," Ram chuckles.

"It's just... well, we all deserve better, you know?"

I do. I really do.

Hand in hand, Ram and I watch and wave as she walks away. She seems small for a few steps, shoulders curved in. Then, she seems to straighten, pull her back upright, lift her head.

There she is. One of the bravest women we know.

* * *

"You mustn't worry about money, Ram," I say as we walk home, "honestly, you don't need to pay for anything."

"I don't want to be a kept woman though," she says.

"But I want to keep you," I say slyly.

"Well, good!" She kisses me. "But honestly, it should be fine. I can still contribute. I've got enough saved for the fees, just about. But I'll still have money coming in. I can work at With Her Wheels in the holidays. Maybe even evenings."

"How though?"

"Oh, they'll pay me cash in hand. That's what they did when I first started. Same with the sound engineer work - that's all cash in hand too."

I hadn't realised. I shake my head.

"So, I can still pay rent. Some, anyway."

"Well, in that case," I say, "I'm going to put you on the mortgage."

She looks at me with shock. "What?"

"What's yours is mine, Ram," I say, squeezing her hand.

The smile on her face is worth more than any money in the world.

Talking it out (spring 2008)

"I would run my hands over your arms," I whisper.

"Mmmmm?" Ram murmurs into my neck. She's kissing me lightly there. Her hand trails over my stomach.

"I love your arms," I continue, "they are so smooth, so strong, they make me shiver when you wrap them around me, they make me feel safe, and sexy."

"Uh huh," she says into my throat. One of her hands is gripping my hip now. She loves that spot on me, I've noticed. I love that she loves it. The other hand is cupping my head, her fingers in my hair.

"I love stroking them, feeling your skin, running my hands up to your shoulders, feeling the muscles there. I love how relaxed you are now, there's no tension in them. That makes me feel so good, knowing that you feel so good."

"Hmmmm." Her mouth is in the valley between my boobs now. Her voice reaches my heart through two different paths.

"I love the rest of you too," I gasp, starting to pant now. Her leg is heavy across mine. "I love looking at you. You're so beautiful, so gorgeous, you make me melt with the way you look at me."

Her tongue flicks out and licks around the edge of my areola.

I shudder under her.

"But, I don't want to touch the rest. I wouldn't. Your arms, your shoulders, your neck, it's enough," I say, panting now, arching into her, pulling on the silk scarves that tie my hands to the headboard. My idea. She trusts me, but I don't trust myself and I don't want to ruin anything, or worry about ruining anything. This gives me that safety net. "More than enough," I say, "stroking you there, it turns me on so much. I love it, I love you, your body, your soul."

My breath is ragged now. She has my nipple between her lips, and her hand tracing patterns over my thighs. Her knee pushes my legs slowly apart.

It was Grace's idea. Well, not the restraints, but the idea of talking through intimacy. Experiencing it in our imagination and seeing if doing so could make Ram more relaxed, reduce the panic.

We've been doing this for weeks now. At first it was just funny, and often our attempts at making our lovemaking more mutual would just result in us descending into hysterics. Which, in its own way, kind of helped - it made the situation more fun, less serious.

"I should record this! Play this on the show!" Ram had sputtered through her tears of laughter.

"Don't you dare! You'll give Daisy a heart attack. Poor Sohail might crash." Which had just made us laugh harder, imagining what my listeners might make of my attempts at audio porn.

But the last few times... Well, once we'd stopped finding it funny, then me narrating my fantasies has certainly added a certain something.

It's all still in our imagination though. I haven't touched her front or below her waist. In bed she wears a sports bra and long-legged pyjamas.

I continue, my voice made breathy by my arousal. "I'd be using my palm, using my fingertips. I'd wrap my fingers in yours, then follow the curves of your sinews in your arms. I'd run my fingertips up the nape of your neck. Oh my God, I love your neck."

She's stroking mine. It's divine.

"And, I'll be kissing you. Your skin tastes wonderful. And breathing you in. Your smell is heavenly," I say, "but I'd only be kissing your arms, your shoulders, your neck, your mouth."

"Urrrr," she groans into my stomach. Her hand is cupping my pussy now, pulsing very lightly. Her other hand has come around to caress my breast, her thumb brushing over my stiff nipple, still slippery where she sucked it.

"Ahhhh," I moan, as she slips a finger into me, "I'd be gripping your head now, moaning your name, Ramona, my love. I'd have my ankles linked over yours, stroking your calves with my feet," something, I am in fact doing.

"Mmmmmm," she groans, "what if I wanted more?"

She has three fingers inside me, I think, opening and closing like a flower. I'm struggling to concentrate.

"I wouldn't," I gasp, "I wouldn't. I'd want to so much, but it's enough."

"What if I wanted more?" she says, her breath hot on my belly button, her groin hot on my leg. She bites on my piercing and tugs it lightly.

This is new. She hasn't asked me to describe touching her elsewhere before.

"I'd run a finger, a single finger, just one, down your spine. I'd stop in the middle of your baaaack." The last word becomes a cry of pleasure as she kisses my clit.

"I'd take your hand," she says, "I'd put it on my breast."

"I'd be so wet," I whisper back, "I'd feel so loved, so trusted, and I'd be so wet. I'd be leaking for you. It would feel so good, the weight of your breast in my hand. Oh!"

Her tongue traces careful figures of eight around my hood, as her fingers stroke me inside.

"I wouldn't move," I pant, "I'd keep my hand soft, let you press it to you if you wanted, let you move against it. I'd love the feel of your nipple in my palm, the silkiness of your skin and I'd be burning up, I'd be floating, I'd be in heaven."

The heat of her mouth on my pussy as she covers my clit with her lips has my eyelids fluttering back. She moans into me, the vibrations thrilling me.

"And I'd be kissing you and - ah - ah - ah - touching you and - ah - ah - ah - and loving you, Ramona ah ah ah!!!"

I come apart, a long, gorgeous, glorious orgasm as she moans into me. Her fingers flex and pump into me as I contract. I pull on my restraints as the flush rushes across my chest and I scream her name.

"Oh God, Ram, that was amazing," I pant, "I love you."

"I love you too," she says, slipping up my body, cradling my head and kissing me. Her weight between my legs feels heavy and wonderful, her own groin hot on my thigh. She kisses me deeply, smelling of sex and passion.

"Are you okay?" I ask, worried that we may have overstepped with our fantasising.

"Yeah," she says, sitting up, subtly rocking on my thigh, "that really turned me on."

"Oh yeah?"

"God yeah. I'm so wet right now." Her voice is smoky and gorgeous.

I stay still, wondering if she realises what she's doing.

"Are you horny?" I ask.

In response, she looks me in the eye and growls.

Her bra-clad breasts bounce back and forth.

"I love looking at your breasts," I whisper, "I remember the feel of them, the weight of them, when you put my hands on them."

"Mmmmm," she moans, "yes."

"I remember how good it felt when your nipple stiffened in my palm."

"What if I untied you now?" I can feel how slippery my thigh is under her, her underwear damp.

"I wouldn't do anything. I'd just lie here and watch you, marveling at you and how amazing you are, how lucky I am."

"I'd take your hands and I would put them on my breasts."

"I would groan with pleasure," I say, my eyes on hers, which are hooded. "I would love the feeling of them. I'd just cup them, just hold them. I wouldn't grab. I wouldn't squeeze."

She moans and moves one of her hands to my breast.

My breath hitches and a whimper escapes me.

"I might want you too," she whispers.

"I wouldn't. I would let you take the lead. I wouldn't touch anywhere until you told me it was okay."

She pinches my nipple lightly, the way she knows I like. "I'd want you to do this to me."

"Would you ask me to?"

"I would," her rocking has become harder, really grinding into my thigh now, I almost feel it might bruise, "I'd say, 'Liz, play with my nipple'."

"And I would," I say, "very lightly, very gently, just stroking the edge of it, with my thumb, and loving the feel of it, and being made to feel so special, so loved."

She groans, pushing into me. Her other hand is playing with her own breasts now, pulling at them under her bra.

"I'd just be transported by the feel of you," I say, my hands tied behind above my head, watching her, sweaty and shining in the lamplight, writhing above me, "the sight of you, the smell of you. I'd love how stiff your nipple was, how soft your breast was."

She squeezes my thigh, crushing it between hers. Her fingers dig into my breast, almost roughly. Her muscles stand out, straining.

She spasms on top of me, once, twice, thrice, then gasps my name, "Liz!"

"Oh God Ram, I love you, I love you so much!"

"I love you," she sighs, as she collapses onto my chest, embracing me, crushing me with her weight.

I'm so happy, I can barely speak. "Kiss me, please."

She props herself up, and I can see her face is wet with tears, and she kisses me and it's all okay.

Grace

"Thanks so much," I say to Grace as I stand and put on my coat. I don't come to every session Ram has, but once a month we have a joint one. It's always extremely helpful.

"Yes, thank you," Ram adds. She takes a few deep breaths before she stands herself. It's been a tough one for her.

"A pleasure. It's so great to see you making progress, Ramona," Grace says. "Listen, before you go, I have some news."

I move over next to Ram, and take her hand.

Grace looks at Ramona. "I'm going to be starting a new job in September. So I'll be closing this practice at the end of July."

My stomach drops a bit and I feel Ram's hand tighten on mine. This is a blow.

"You're doing really well, Ramona, but I think you would probably still benefit from some support, so I've emailed you a list of recommended trauma therapists locally. Perhaps if you have some meetings with some of them over the next few months, while I'm still here, I can advise you a little and then also have a handover meeting with them?"

I watch Ram. She swallows and nods. I give her hand a light squeeze.

"I'll still be available by email and I'll give you my personal number." Grace smiles at us both. "I really hope you'll keep in touch, both of you, and let me know how you get on? Plus, I'll keep listening of course!"

Ram smiles at that.

"Oh, so you're staying in Bristol, are you?" I ask.

"Thornbury, actually. I'm... well, I'm going to work in the big secondary school there. I've been feeling for a while that, with so many of the people I work with, if only I could have met them when they were younger, intervened earlier, caught them before the real damage was done, it would have made such a difference, you know?"

The pain in her voice is palpable. God knows what she has heard. She's obviously never discussed other patients with us, but things that Poppy has let slip make me think she's one of them.

"Oh, good for you!" I say, "so you won't be Grace anymore then, you'll be Miss Allison!"

"Actually," she says with a smile, "I've just completed a PhD in Educational Psychology. I'll be Dr Allison."

"That's wonderful!" I say.

"Congratulations!" Ram adds.

Then I watch as Ram goes and gives Grace a full on, proper, congratulatory hug, both arms around her body. I'm so proud of her.

Crossword

"Okay Liz, come on babe, we should be able to get this one."

"Which?"

Ram removes her hand from my breast, where she's been cupping it gently, and points at six across. "What happens on Lesbos - naughty island - during a haircut? Nine letters. Begins with T."

Her hand returns to my breast and begins, once more, lightly stroking it with her finger. It's lovely. She has a wonderful touch.

We no longer do the crossword side by side. I sit naked between her legs. Our Sunday ritual. She'll tease and stroke me and turn me on, keeping me simmering just low enough that I can - most of the time - focus on the clues and contribute to solutions.

If we take too long though, I'll end up a moist, mewling mess under her hands.

"Surely it's to do with Sappho or lesbianism, right?" she says, "should be easy for us, right?"

"Mmmm hmmmm," I nod.

But more than her touch, this distracts me.

It's been something that I've been wondering about for a while. Am I a lesbian? Also, related: does it matter?

I've never been with a woman before. The idea had never really, seriously crossed my mind.

I love Ram. I do. I miss her massively when she's not with me. She lights me up when she's there.

But I worry... I worry that I'm playing at this, acting a role and that when the first flush of love fades, I might not be able to be what she needs. That this might just be a real life version of "Kissing Jessica Stein". And that would be awful.

Ram's toes stroke my bare calf.

She can turn me on. My God, how she can turn me on. But the experience for me, so far, not being able to touch her, hasn't felt any different really from pre-sex fumblings with early boyfriends. Far, far more proficient and practised, of course. But kissing, stroking, fingers - I shudder a little as Ram gently teases my nipple with her thumb - it's nothing new. Fabulous, wonderful, but not new.

I don't feel like a lesbian.

Does it matter?

Ram pushes the duvet down and sticks her pyjama clad legs out.

"Hey," I say, suddenly brought out of my reverie, "it's cold!" I start tugging the duvet back up.

"Sorry, I was just getting hot," she says.

"You're always hot," I tease back.

"Not like that," she says, "well, a little... but you're like a radiator."

"Sorry. Shall I move?"

"No."

Her hands stroke my shoulders, bringing a blissful shiver.

"Lean forward a minute," she whispers.

I do and hear a rustling behind me.

"Okay, lean back." She sounds unsure.

I do, and immediately a cold thrill runs through me as her hot skin makes contact with mine. She topless. I am touching her breasts. I've never done this.

Okay, fine, it's not with my hands. But my skin has never made contact with the bare skin of her breasts before.

Her nipples poke into my back.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says softly, "you?"

"Oh God yeah!" I fail entirely to keep the thirst out of my voice.

Okay, starting to feel more like a lesbian now.

"Got it," she says, "haircut is 'trim', naughty means 'bad', island is 'is', so the whole thing is 'tribadism'." She moves her hands to put the solution in.

"God, well done, I wouldn't have got that. What does it even mean?" I say, genuinely impressed.

"Tribadism? It's just the posh word for 'tribbing'," she says, which clears up nothing.

"Okay... and what's tribbing?"

She chuckles. "Sometimes I forget that you are such a baby gay. Hmmmm," she moves the crossword to one side and starts kissing my neck, "let me show you."

With my hands bound to the headboard, she teases me slowly and languorously with finger and tongue, before lifting up my left leg and pressing her damp pyjamas against my soaking slit.

I gasp as she grinds, her bare breasts jiggling inches from my face.

"This... my love," she moans, "is... tribbing..."

I recover enough from my own orgasm to witness hers hit her like a body blow, her stomach muscles convulsing, her breasts shaking. It's beautiful and powerful and so new.

Okay, I'm starting to feel a little more like a lesbian now.

Forty

"Happy birthday, babe," Ram says, handing me a little blue box, tied up with a pink ribbon.

"Thank you," I say. I'm still rather blissed out by the epic awakening Ram gave me this morning, teasing me to the edge of orgasm again and again before finally letting the dam break free, literally. So far, being forty feels pretty great!

"I, um, I hope this is okay," she says.

"Ram?" I say nervously, "it's not a ring, is it?" We'd agreed that neither could propose to the other while she was still in a civil partnership with Mikayla, and that can't change until Ram starts back at University again in October. I'm hoping we can maybe pop the question before New Year. Or maybe on New Year's Eve itself. Live on air maybe?

I'll be miffed if she beats me to it.

"No, it's not. It's something else." She bites her lip, nervous.

Intrigued, I carefully pull on the ribbon. The box opens easily. Inside there's a receipt and a little card. It's from the Bristol Centre for Reproductive Medicine. Ram has paid for treatment with donor sperm.

"Ramona Kato what have you done!?" I shout.

"Happy birthday?" she says, grinning awkwardly.

"What? Seriously, what?"

She takes my hands. "I want to have a child with you. I want your child. I've paid for you to have a sperm donor treatment. I want you to get pregnant and have a baby."

"Sweetie, don't you think this is something we should discuss first? I mean, you're about to go back to University for two years, and then you need to sort your immigration status, we need to get married-"

"-exactly! There's always going to be a reason not to, something else we need to do first. But you're forty, Liz. If not now, then when?"

"Well, you could carry?"

She shakes her head sadly and sighs. "Maybe. But if I still freak out at the thought of being touched there, how am I going to cope with birth and all the check ups and even the idea of somebody's sperm being inside me?"

We've been together nearly seven months now, and I touched her breasts with my hands for the first time last week. I still haven't touched her below the waist.

"Besides," she says, "I want your baby. I want a child that came from you."

Tears run down my cheeks. "Okay," I say, my voice threatening to crack. "Okay."

"Thank you," she says, kissing my tears.

I wrap my hands around her neck, feeling so loved, so lucky.

"Happy birthday," she whispers.

Email

I've never had any reply. My emails don't bounce back or get marked as undeliverable, so as far as I can tell they are getting through. So I keep writing them.

The job of the broadcaster is to tell the story. It's not up to us whether anyone listens.

I've written emails detailing Ram's return to University. About our relationship. About her divorce from Mikayla, which Dan and Julie, Mikayla's parents, celebrated with a big party at their house, followed by a triple proposal. Triple, because after Mikayla had dropped to one knee in front of Poppy and all their friends and family, Ram and I had both tried to propose to each other, in private, shut in a bedroom, kneeling and weeping and laughing together. We couldn't wait.

We didn't tell anyone at the time. We didn't want to rob Poppy of her moment. But I wrote to Ram's parents about it.

And now I'm writing again.

Subject: You are about to be grandparents.

Dear Mr and Mrs Kato

I hope you are both well. I wanted to reiterate my invitation to you to my wedding to your daughter, the wonderful Ramona, on Saturday 6th June. The ceremony will be at St Paul's Church in Clifton at 3pm, followed by a reception on the Thekla. Hundreds of friends and family will be present to celebrate your daughter. I hope you can be present too.

We're honeymooning at Glastonbury Festival two weeks later, so will not be going anywhere immediately after the wedding itself, so if you can come it would be an ideal time to get to know each other. Please let me know.

In other news, I am pleased to tell you that you are going to be grandparents. I'm pregnant! So far, things are going smoothly. I'm 10 weeks in. The baby is due in September, right before Ramona begins her final year at University. I'll be taking maternity leave, but then our plan is for me to return to work and for Ramona to stay home with the baby once she has finished her course. We'll see how that goes. She's very excited by it all, and is already making plans to redecorate our second bedroom over the summer holidays in preparation, though I suspect the little one will be co-sleeping with us for some time.

I don't know if you have other grandchildren, but I'll try to send you photos when this one arrives. How much of a part you want to play in his or her life is up to you; the door is always open. I live in hope.

Best wishes

Your future daughter-in-law

Liz Bradford

Meeting with Poppy

"Fanks for meetin' me Liz," Poppy says.

"You don't need to thank me, Poppy," I say, surprised, "it's always a pleasure to see you."

Though I do have to admit that this is odd, the two of us meeting for coffee. We're in the café next to the new salon she works at on Whiteladies, an easy walk for her from Ram's old flat in Clifton. Her home now with Mikayla and Lauren. Normally, when I see her socially, we're with Ram and Mikayla, and usually little Lauren too. The only other time I see her just the two of us is when I go for a haircut with her.

We sip our drinks and chat. I ask after Lauren, and we talk about what she might need for the beach when they come to Wales for the long May weekend.

But I know this isn't why we're here.

"So, Poppy, was there something you wanted to ask?"

She fiddles with her tea spoon. "Yeah." She clears her throat. "So, like, I were won'ring if when you an' Ram get married, could... could Mikayla give Ram away?"

I blink, slightly startled.

"Um, yeah. But I'll need to talk to Ram. I mean, that's not a decision I can make for her. But I think.... I think Ram would be really touched."

"Oh, fanks, but, um.... Can you not say I said anyfing?"

That strikes me as odd. "Mikayla's surely not scared of asking, is she?"

"No but... like.... I'm sure she'd be 'appy to, but, like, this ain't for 'er, not really." She looks down, a blush on her cheeks. "It's more for me. I need to see it. I fink... I fink I need to see Mikayla give Ram away."

Her eyes are red and as my arms go around her and gather her to me, she lets out a sob.

"Mikayla loves you, Poppy. You aren't second best. She'd choose you in a heartbeat over anyone."

"I know, I know," she cries, "I know it's stupid. But, like, I fink I just need to see it, then I can really believe it."

As I reassure her that she's not stupid - I know her lack of GCSEs, let alone a degree or A levels is an embarrassment to her - it occurs to me that maybe she's not the only one that would like to see Mikayla symbolically give Ram away.

First touch

"Can I do that for you?" Ram asks, as I smooth lotion over my swelling belly. Nearly five months and I'm starting to show. I'm definitely thicker around the middle.

I smile at her in the mirror. "It's okay, I can manage." I'm teasing. I want her to.

I see the desire written in her eyes, in her smile, in her posture. I feel that tingle, that throbbing response to her hungry look.

Luckily, it's a Sunday and neither of us is in any rush to be anywhere.

"Please?" she purrs, kissing the nape of my neck. A thrill runs through me. God, I love her voice.

I sigh and roll my eyes, as if it's the biggest imposition ever. "Oh go on then."

She slips her arms around me, under mine, and I squirt the lotion into her palms. She slowly, delicately, begins to massage my belly, her strong, supple fingers moving across my hips and domed abdomen.

Soon, I'm leaning against the bathroom counter as her hands wander north and south, and soon after I'm gasping and panting her name as slippery fingers tease my nipples and clit.

And then my eyes go wide as she takes one of my hands from the counter, her palm over the back of my hand, her fingers linked through mine, and slips it down the front of her pyjamas.

I stop breathing for a second and look her reflection in the eye. She's biting her lip, but she nods.

I can feel the tickle of her hair, feel the wetness on her upper thighs, her hand pressing mine into her. I'm passive, I don't push, don't move, leave her in control.

We've been here before. Several times. We rushed, last year, and it left her huddled and crying, her head on my lap, my arm bruised from where she'd smacked me away in her panic. More recently, we've tried gentle, non sexual touches - me helping to dry her after a bath, or simply resting my hand in her lap lightly, over clothes, for a moment.

Then, she folds my index finger down and back and in with hers. I suck in air as the heat of her hits me, the sumptuous slipperiness, and I fight to keep my eyes open.

I see the tension rising in her reflection, feel it in the grip she has on my hip. So I spin, causing my hand and hers to pull out, and take her face in my fingers, kissing her deeply.

She sobs with joy as I kiss the tears away, smelling the mingling scent of lotion and her gorgeous arousal on her cheeks.

We aren't there yet. But we'll get there.

"Tie me, baby," I gasp, "tie me to the bed and fuck me."

She complies and fucks my pussy with hers. She leans right over my belly, our baby, so her breasts hang above my mouth and I kiss them as she cums.

Wedding

The music starts, and I take a deep breath, then move forward with my dad. We're not calling it "giving away", but I'm not about to deny my dad the chance to walk his only daughter down the aisle.

Except we're not walking down the aisle. I'm walking to the right, under the arched walkway, between the pews and the outside wall. Ram, I know, will be walking down the left hand walkway, escorted by Mikayla. Rhian, the little traitor, insisted on being Ram's bridesmaid and so is following them, but lovely Lauren luckily agreed to be mine with no fuss at all. Dafydd and Harry are happy to be ring bearers.

The baby choses this moment to start kicking my stomach. As if I wasn't nervous enough already. It's only been a week since I first felt movement, this odd fluttering inside, the strange pressure. So magical, and so weird.

I catch fleeting glimpses of Ram and Mikayla on the other side, between the flower displays and the arches, but so many guests are turned towards me, distracting me. Colleagues. Friends. Gig goers. Listeners. Musicians. We've five bands and two DJs playing at the reception later. None are accepting payment. Neither is the venue.

Dad and I reach the end and turn.

And there she is!

My heart swells and my mouth drops as I drink her tall form in. Swathed in white and gold, with a scarf around her head, she looks glamorous and glorious, cool and confident.

My wonderful wife to be.

My father kisses her on the cheek, while I wrap Mikayla in a heartfelt hug.

"Thank you," I whisper.

She nods and grins. She smiles happily, then reaches back to take Poppy's hand, who has been waiting at the front with Mikayla's parents and my family.

Fingers entwined, Ram and I turn to face the priest.

"Dearly beloved..."

Ram, ever the radio pro, makes it through her vows with barely a hitch. Even though tears are running down both our faces, her voice stays clear and rich and resonant.

"Liz, I vow to love you with everything I can give and to always strive to do better and love you deeper. I vow to desire you, to want you, to need you, from now until my last breath. I vow to be your partner, your co-parent, your colleague, your friend and your lover. I vow to always do more dancing. I vow to be there for you, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, early mornings and late nights, by your side and in your ear and in your heart."

Her stealing my line like that makes me smile.

I have to flap my hands in my face and take some deep breaths before I can say mine.

"Ram, I vow to never stop marvelling at the wonder of your love, to revel in it, delight in it, to celebrate it. I vow to take what you can give with thanks and thirst and gratitude. I vow to give you a home, a family, a place to belong, a house, a hearth and a heart to call your own. I vow to be yours, your love and your wife, now and for the rest of my life."

We may be in church, but our friends and family might well have been a festival crowd such is the noise they make when we both kiss the bride.

Epilogues

Graduation - June 2010

"Is it your son or daughter graduating?" the lady sitting next to me asks.

I smile, wondering what her reaction will be. "My wife actually."

There's surprise, but no disgust. "Is she a mature student then?"

I grin back. "Yes." Though possibly not as mature as she's thinking. No amount of time will erase the age gap after all. "How about you? Son or daughter?"

My row companion is immediately far more comfortable extolling her son's accomplishments and planned future.

I nod and smile, thinking how, thanks to Ram, one day that lady might be me. The futures my wife has made possible for me seem so bright.

Any further conversation is put on hold by the beginning of the graduation ceremony. I check my phone surreptitiously in case Poppy's messaged: she's looking after our baby this afternoon. Just a photo of little Hope sleeping. I smile tenderly.

Held in that phallic landmark, the Wills' Memorial building, the ceremony is at once both old fashioned and modern, but the main hall is nowhere near as big width-wise as the tower is high. Seating is limited. As an undergraduate, Ramona has an allocation of just two tickets.

Obviously, I'm one of her guests, but it was touching how many other people wanted to come. Myf was up for driving over from Wales; Dan and Julie both wanted to come (we're heading there for a party afterwards), as did Nicci, Trish, Leigh, Charmaine and Libby from the garage.

But really, there was only one other person who could come with me.

I hear a sniff next to me and fumble in my pocket for a tissue. When I hold one up for Mikayla she just smiles at me and shows me the clump of tissues ready in her hands. We both came prepared. I link my hand with hers and give it a squeeze.

As the names of the graduands edge ever closer to K, Mikayla leans into me and whispers, "you did this, Liz."

I shake my head and turn and kiss her wet cheek. "No, we did this," I whisper, "partly. But mostly, she did this."

As if on cue, the Pro-Chancellor calls "Ramona Kato" and we cheer loudly enough for her to spot us in the crowd and beam at us as she accepts her degree.

Olympics - July 27th 2012

"Evie's down, at last," Ram says, coming into the sitting room of Mikayla and Poppy's new house, "is the video monitor working?" Even now, the richness of her voice is like a balm.

"Perfectly," I say, pointing to the screen in front of me.

There on the tiny monitor is the perfect sleeping form of our second child, Evie. Our second little miracle.

Our first miracle, our two year old daughter Hope is currently colouring in the corner, directed and distracted by Amina, who we're sponsoring. Mikayla placed her with us, finding her through her refugee work. She's from Syria and is just starting to come out of her shell.

"Lauren," Poppy, six months pregnant with her second child, calls, "'s 'bout to start. Mikayla, darling? You coming?"

As we still don't have a TV, Poppy and Mikayla, Hope's godparents, have invited us around to watch the opening ceremony of the London Olympics on their widescreen.

"Yep, just coming. Who wants snacks?" Mikayla says, as she and Lauren enter with various bowls. Amina deposits Hope climbs into my lap. I smile at the shy girl as I kiss Hope's head and delight in her smell.

On the screen, the helicopter hovers above the stadium. The commentators are discussing Danny Boyle's background as a film director. Great swathes of blue material swoop down over the crowd.

Lauren squeezes in next to us on the sofa.

The crowd cheers and a countdown begins.

Suddenly, the camera goes underwater. Interesting.

As we follow the breakneck journey of the camera down the length of the Thames, I find my mind distracted from the glitching videos by the thumping, pulsing soundtrack behind it. Something brushes at my mind.

Next to me, Ram starts chuckling.

"What?" I whisper.

She leans in, the heat of her breath on my neck getting me hot, still, after all these years. "Do you remember that first gig, at the Junction, the time we remet?"

"Of course." How could I forget?

"Remember that band you said would never make it on account of their name?"

I frown, trying to think who she's talking about.

"That was them. That first tune. It was Olympians by Fuck Buttons."

"Mum!" Lauren yells, "Aunty Ram said a bad word!"

As Bradley Wiggins rings the bell, Ram and I convulse in laughter.

On the ferry - August 2014

I look around the crowded ferry lounge. Unsurprisingly, Ram's is the only black face. There are lots of families around, and I can hear French and Spanish being spoken, but this is not a diverse crowd.

Good.

Hope and Evie are part of the pack running around the soft play area. We can see them perfectly from where we are sitting.

I line up the words in my head, rehearse them a little. My Lugandan is pretty rudimentary, but I've been learning.

Ramona has always spoken to the kids in her native tongue. She was shy about it at first but then Myfanwy told her to be proud about it, otherwise the girls would grow up seeing it as something shameful. Whereas now, Hope loves that we have a secret family code, a language nobody else we know understands.

Though it also hurts me that this is the case.

But it definitely comes in useful, especially at times like this.

Nobody in the lounge, most likely nobody on the whole ship, will understand my words.

"Ram, my heart," I say in Lugandan, my grammar awkward, my meaning clear, "I want you to take off my clothes. Here. Now."

She looks at me startled. I hold my finger to my lips.

"Ram, I want you to make me naked. Tie my hands. On my knees." A woman across from us looks at me, puzzled, probably trying to guess the language.

I see the slight change in the tone of Ram's skin, the pressure of her lips, that I've long learned is her blush, build.

"I kiss your lips. Your low lips. I move my tongue. I lick. I kiss." I say, as sexily as I can while still finding the right words.

I can do this now. She can let me. We don't actually need to tie me up anymore. But sometimes it's fun.

"You move my head. Your toy. I lick. I kiss. I taste. I love. So wet for you." Prepositional verbs always trip me up, so I keep it simple.

There's maybe a dozen strangers in earshot. None know what I'm saying.

Ram's eyes are dilated. Her nostrils are wide. In a minute she's going to start squirming. With two young girls, and all the panic and pressure of packing for the trip, it's been four days since we last made love.

"I keep going. Long. Slow. In. Out. In. Out. Slow. Around. My lips on your lips."

I don't have the grammar or the vocabulary for complexity. But simple works.

She's squirming now. It's very slight, but I can see it.

"I lick you. I kiss it. My tongue moves. My lips move. Again. And again. And again. You taste of honey."

Her gasp comes, soft, barely there.

I switch to English. "Do you want to go back to the cabin, darling? Have a little rest? I can watch the girls." I make my voice as innocent as I can, for the benefit of the other passengers.

Her eyes are half hooded. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly.

She leans in, her desire hot and wet against my ear. "When we get to your parents, I'm going to do that to you."

A shiver runs through me. I can't wait.

She stands and checks she has her key card, then leans down and kisses me, hard, passionately, breathlessly.

The woman opposite tuts, and looks away.

Before Ram goes, I grab her hand, her right one, and bring it to my lips. I take the tips of her fingers just inside my mouth and wet them with my tongue while I gaze into her eyes.

There in the ferry lounge, she moans in anticipation.

"Use fingers. Use me," I say in Lugandan. "Okutogaatoga." I've probably got that one wrong.

When Hope calls me over to see the dolphins swimming alongside the ship five minutes later, I'm mildly annoyed to be distracted from my mental image of what Ram is doing to herself down in our cabin.

Email - September 2014

Subject: Your daughter, the British and EU citizen

Dear Mr and Mrs Kato

I hope you are well. I've attached a couple of photos for you. The first is your daughter and I, and our daughters (your granddaughters) together at Ramona's naturalisation ceremony. She is now a British citizen!

It took longer than she'd originally planned. Her degree and motherhood and moving to a bigger house and settling the kids into nursery kind of got in the way. It wasn't cheap either! But she finally did it.

It was a lovely ceremony - as you can see everyone dressed for the occasion. It was held at the Lord Mayor's ceremonial residence and afterwards we had a picnic in the grounds with invited guests - my parents came and lots of our dear friends.

Ramona is going back to University, again, in September, this time to do a PGCE course to train to be a Secondary Science teacher. The idea of having a job that gave her school holidays off is very attractive, funnily enough! She will also be a natural at it. God save anyone who messes around in her classes!

The second photo is of all of us at my parents' house in Cantabria, Northern Spain. Yes, I finally got her to go abroad with me. She had a great time, it was lovely, but she was so stressed coming home, so worried that, despite her burgundy passport, they somehow wouldn't let her back into the UK. The relief on her face when we cleared customers was almost comical.

Sadly, given your government passing a law that made homosexuality a crime punishable by death earlier this year, we won't be visiting Uganda. As ever, you are always welcome to visit the UK and make yourselves part of our lives.

In the meantime, my daughters and I will continue to give your daughter the love and affection she so definitely deserves. I live in hope that you will one day join us. Until then, I will continue to tell you your daughter's story.

Best wishes

Liz Bradford-Kato

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Massive thanks to my editors and beta-readers Mykymyk2, Toesucker1 and DawnDuckie (go and read her stories). All the remaining flaws are my fault. Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed Forty, then maybe leave a comment and then perhaps check out these slow burn stories.

Liz will return in "Happiness".