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sneaked up on me with flowers and chocolates and stuff. While spontaneity was not his middle name, dependability was: he was always there.
    And being older he seemed rather suave and sophisticated. And attractive, even if not exciting, which was a plus point after Fergal: I’d
had
excitement. In fact James had practically had ‘Good Husband Material, Ready to Settle Down’ stamped on his forehead.
    I don’t know what was stamped on my forehead, but it must have been misleading.
    He was, in many ways, terribly conventional, and I think, looking back, that he thought
I
was too. I was so quiet and stay-at-home (or stay-at-digs) after Fergal.
    On this reflection the car door was suddenly wrenched open, and I would have fallen out if I hadn’t still been wearing my seat belt.
    ‘Are you going to sit in the car all night daydreaming about your ex-boyfriend, or are you coming into the house?’ demanded James with icy sarcasm.
    Oh dear.
    Over his shoulder I observed something like a giant animated white hearth rug leap the area railing and bound off into outer darkness.
    ‘Bess is out, James,’ I said helpfully.
    Fergal: November, 1998
        
‘ROCCO ROCKS ART WORLD.’
    Sun
        
‘Is this the face of New Renaissance Man?’
    Sunday Times
    The painting is four foot square.
    Step back, she swims out at you from the green depths.
    Step forward, she vanishes.
    The lady vanishes.
    The gallery is crowded, thanks to the papers who have finally made the link between Fergal Rocco (infamous) singer/songwriter, and Rocco the painter.
    At least most of the art critics have been kind. The gallery’s been quietly selling my work since I left the Royal College of Art, so there’s none of this ‘pop singer thinks he can paint’ stuff. That would have really pissed me off.
    There are two things I’m serious about: my painting and my music.
    There used to be three …
    ‘Oh, Fergal, you’re so clever,’ Nerissa sighs, lifting a face like a cream-skinned, innocent flower. ‘All these hidden talents.’
    She’s small, pretty and curvaceous, and, judging from her short, select list of former conquests, finds fame in a man a powerful aphrodisiac. Nineteen going on immoral, and about as determined to get what she wants as Scarlett O’Hara. Sounds like her too, when she’s trying to get round me, all that fake ‘lil’ ol’ me’ stuff.
    Daddy’s bought her everything she’s ever wanted – so far. He’d jib a bit at me, though, even if I were for sale, which I’m not – just available for a short loan.
    She’s about the same age Tish was last time I saw her …
    Tish.
    Swimming out of the green paint like a mermaid; walking hesitantly into the gallery as if summoned by my subconscious.
    For a minute I really
do
think she’s a figment of my imagination as she pauses in the doorway, gazing around. Her eyes seem dazzled by the lights, then they slide over the painting near me and meet mine, and it’s as if we are falling into each other all over again.
    Someone coming in behind her touches her elbow to get past, breaking the contact, then she turns on her heel and is gone.
    I only realise I’ve taken a stride forward when Nerissa’s weight on my arm brings me up like a sheet anchor.
    ‘What is it? Where are you going?’
    I realise I’ve been holding my breath as though I’ve been swimming underwater for a long distance. ‘Nowhere,’ I sigh. ‘I’m going nowhere.’
    Nerissa’s eyes flick from the painted girl behind me back to the empty doorway. She’s never going to be acclaimed as Intellectual of the Year, but she has her own sharp instinct to guide her.
    ‘That was the one – the girl in the picture, wasn’t it?’
    ‘The girl in the picture doesn’t exist.’
    The lady vanishes.
    Again.
    She was the one.

Chapter 3: Painted Out
    Oh God! What on earth made me call in to see Fergal’s exhibition? And how could I have known he would be there, days after the show opened?
    It was pure (or impure)