"Well, then, you'd better give me a kiss."

And so I kissed her.

And I kissed her.

And fell in love again.

I ought to be describing the stars, the moonlight, the rustling wind, the compliant perfection of nature as the lovers embraced, setting the tone, creating the mood: but I can't, because I don't remember. All I remember, and this moment will be burned on my memory as I draw my final breath, is leaning over towards Simone and resting my forehead on her cheek for an instant; and then raising my head, looking into her eyes, her eyes, her beautiful, solemn, elusive eyes; and then stretching forward and brushing my nose against hers, my lips gentle on her mouth. A kiss, a rite, a moment in time, a moment of love.

And she kissed me.

And she kissed me, melded her lips to mine, embraced me, took me for her own. We lay on the rug and held one another, stroking, caressing, kissing, sharing. We felt each other's heartbeats and sensed our respective fears; we listened to our breaths, nervous and hopeful, and dreamed of the future; we tasted each other's excitement and gave thanks for the present.

I don't know how long we lay outside, but it may have been hours. Finally, shivering, we retreated to the tent and lay once more, entwined in a chaste lovers' embrace. And in the dawn we awoke. Together.

I couldn't have made love to Simone that night. It was too intense, I was overwhelmed by emotion. I had to allow my mind time to comprehend the enormity of what had happened before I unleashed my body on it: I had to deal with the mental kernel of our love before proceeding to its physical substance. In any case, when it happened, I wanted it to be perfect, not scrabbling about in a tiny tent with stones sticking into our ribs and insects crawling over our bodies. I had waited all this time, I could wait a while longer. But not much.

We drove home the next morning, strangely silent, neither of us completely at ease with this new twist in our relationship. As we approached home I was aware that my stomach was churning and my mouth was dry and sickly. Where to? Hers or mine? Together or apart? What is the etiquette when a thirty-seven year old woman drives a twenty year old girl into the country and seduces her, then brings her home? As ever, Simone had the answer.

"Can I have a bath at yours? I don't want to go home yet."

I think I saw yet another Simone that day, or at least another facet of her character. The Simone I first knew, with whom I fell in love, was cool and easily affectionate, an uplifting personality who drew out the best in everyone. While undoubtedly genuine, I came to realise that she exaggerated this aspect of her nature in order to conceal her own frailties: in providing the warmth of support to others she selflessly concealed the flimsy infrastructure propping up her own happiness. And when, on Mam Tor, it came crashing to the ground I saw the raw core of Simone, the tiny, fragile confidence of a woman bearing a crushing sense of guilt for a crime not of her making; I saw the loneliness of self-doubt and the blight of isolation.

But that day, as we stopped to buy milk and papers, then drove to my house, I saw the two elements, the public and the private, until now so assiduously kept apart, being inexorably drawn together; and I saw a new Simone, more at ease with herself, more assertive, begin to emerge: the genesis, I think, of her adult persona.

It was gone mid-day, and we were both hungry; as we frittered around the house, unloading our gear from the car and watering the neglected plants, Simone volunteered to concoct some lunch. While I was dubious, knowing of Simone's unproficiency in the kitchen, I readily agreed, showed her where the essentials were and headed for a brief, exhilaratingly hot shower. For some reason I welcomed that ten minutes alone, away from Simone; in the past three days we had never been out of each other's company, and it was as though we were on some rumbling bullet train careering towards a destination we were not entirely conscious of. As I stood beneath the energising gush of water I felt happier than I had ever done, but I was aware of a nervous apprehension, a distracted, almost torpid feeling of disconnection, as though I were not fully in control of my own actions.

I emerged from the shower genuinely reinvigorated, in mind as well as body, and slipped into my special silk dressing gown. It gave me a wonderfully louche feeling to be lounging around the house in my dressing gown in the middle of the day, with my new lover preparing lunch in the kitchen. As I stepped into the living room I was immediately aware of a distinctly acrid aroma, and my worst fears about Simone's cooking seemed about to be realised. Lunch, though, was fabulous: toasted cheese using a chunky, crusty loaf of coarse bread with slivers of fried onion, garlic, mushrooms, tomato and paprika; simple but full of flavour. We ate quietly, and there was a feeling of suspension in the air, of marking time, rather like when waiting to see somebody off at a train station: you know the moment is coming and yet time seems to slow down, pauses become embarrassing, the train seems never to arrive.

"This is fantastic," I said, waving my bread and retrieving a slice of onion which had fallen from my mouth.

"Hmm," Simone laughed. "More a reflection of hunger than the real quality of the food, I think."

"You could be right. Still, it's beautifully made."

"Yeah well, you haven't seen the kitchen yet."

"Well, I was wondering actually 3;"

"Yeah?"

"The burning?"

"Oh, yes, the burning. Sorry about that. I'm afraid I've burned your oven glove."

"My oven glove?"

"Yeah, sorry, there's a big hole in it." Simone was shuffling uneasily in her seat and I looked at her concerned face with amusement. I couldn't fathom why she would use an oven glove to make toasted cheese.

"How could you burn the oven glove?"

"Well, when I was frying up the onions and stuff in the pan, the handle got too hot to hold, so I used the oven glove. I guess I wasn't really concentrating on what I was doing. After a minute, I noticed my fingers were getting hot again, and I looked down and the glove was on fire."

"Jesus, how high did you have the gas? Full on?"

"Yeah, I always do. Things cook quicker that way."

"Including your fingers." I laughed and peered closely at her. "I think you've singed your eyebrows as well."

"I have not!" she retorted, shielding her eyes from me in mock embarrassment and returning my laugh with a delightful, throaty hoot.

"Don't they teach you cookery at school any more?"

"No chance. I did woodwork instead."

"Oh yeah? Very useful. I need a new bookcase. Build me something and I'll give you some cookery lessons in return." I took her hand and held it across the table, opening it palm-up and stroking my thumb across the backs of her fingers. She smiled and agreed, but in that instant of contact a frisson of suspense pervaded the atmosphere and the levity of the moment dissipated: despite our pledge the previous evening, we were still not entirely comfortable with our new relationship. That transition from friendship to love is difficult: in the early stages, when you are still a friend who has become a lover, you instinctively respond to gestures or words as you always would, as a friend, not as a lover, and the realisation of the inappropriateness of the response reinforces a sense of ambiguity, increases one's unease at the new order. Many relationships never reconcile these differences and founder before they have truly begun. I felt Simone flinch momentarily as I took her hand and knew that she had been talking to me as a friend, not a lover, and was therefore taken by surprise by the intimacy of my response.

"You'd better have that bath," I said, smiling. "I'll clear this stuff away."

The kitchen looked like the fulcrum of a chimps' tea party. How could anyone use so many implements for so small a meal, I wondered as I threw two pots, four wooden spoons and three knives into the sink. Suddenly, I felt terrible, as though I were going to be sick. For God's sake, woman, get a grip, I thought. You're thirty-seven, stop acting like a sixteen year old virgin going on a first date; but I couldn't help myself, because that was exactly how I felt. I had never been with another woman before, so in some respects I was a virgin, and I had built this romance into something so vital to me that the fear of failure was sickening. What if she doesn't like me? What if I don't turn her on? I'm old, how can she find me attractive? I assailed myself with doubts and fears, stoking the engines of defeat within my resolve. And I knew then that I had to act immediately, or the momentum would become too great and I would never overcome my doubts.

I stopped what I was doing and gathered a fresh towel from the airing cupboard. Standing before the bathroom door, I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes. I knocked on the door.

"Yeah?"

"I've got you a towel," I said.

"Great, bring it in."

Simone was seated in the bath, rolling the sponge up her arm. "This is a fabulous sponge," she said. "Really coarse, it scratches your skin."

"Opens the pores. Makes you feel fresher." She was beautiful. Her hair was wet and swept back, clinging to her scalp, focussing one's attention on her face. She was flushed from the heat of the water, her features vital and her skin soft and puffy, with a sheen of wetness. Down the bridge of her nose a silver streak glinted, the film of water reflecting the ceiling light and highlighting her most perfect feature. Her eyes, vulnerable and hopeful, expectant but afraid, filled me with love, an aching need to hold her. I felt slightly prurient looking at her breasts, but I was unable to stop myself; they were firm and upright, her tiny, perfectly round nipples, very dark brown, upturned deliciously and pointing proudly towards me.

"Let me do your back," I said and dropped to my knees beside the bath. I took the sponge and we locked gazes, each looking to the other for the confidence to continue, determining whether the mutual trust existed to permit us to submit to one another. We smiled our recognition that it did, and at that moment friendship ended and passion began.

She bent forward as I charged the sponge and I pulled it gently up her spine, tracing the line of vertebrae to her neck before squeezing and allowing the water to cascade down her back. I repeated the action three or four times, watching the water splay round her sides and back into the bath, gravity impelling it to look for the quickest route down. I turned the sponge round and used the coarse side on her skin, rubbing it hard against her back, making her moan with satisfaction. She bent further forward, her spine convex, her arms splayed out and hands resting between her knees on the bottom of the bath, revealing a side view of her small, plump breast; her skin, smooth and dense and finely textured like Canova's sublime Three Graces, glistened and I stooped to kiss her shoulder, resting my lips on the slightly elevated scapula. She turned and briefly dazzled me with a coy smile before staring forward once more into the bath water, and I kissed her shoulder again, leaning forward and stroking the sponge over her other shoulder and down her flank. Turning it to the smooth side, I filled and re-filled and re-filled it, at first letting the flow rush down from her shoulder in a giddy waterfall, and then gradually stroking the sponge down her side while slowly releasing the water, letting it roam over her peachy skin. I could feel the swell of her breast, the flare of her hip and I traced my tongue across her neck, feeling the prominent cervical vertebra at the top of her back. Simone shivered and I blew gently on her nape, making her giggle and squirm in the water. She turned towards me but before she could speak I planted my mouth on hers and drew her into a kiss. She responded immediately, her tongue sliding delicately against my lip, and I drew my free hand to her cheek, holding it in my palm, stroking downwards, my little finger hooked back and the nail tracing the line of her jaw. I brushed upwards against her ear and ran my fingers through her sopping, matted hair, fixing them against her skull and drawing her forcibly towards me. She turned in the bath to face me fully and I pulled her close, my arms enfolding her, cradling her to me; hers, in turn, draped around me, holding my waist, holding me tight. She sat up slightly in the bath, allowing our fronts to come together, her breasts mashing against the sodden fabric of my gown, and I could feel her nipples drilling into me. All of a sudden, a force was unleashed within us and we fell upon each other, gnawing, devouring, needing. My hands roamed over her body, smoothing, holding, gripping, squeezing; we alternately locked mouths in lingering, brutal embraces and drew free to plant wet, smothering kisses over each other's cheeks and eyes and nose; we stared, startle-eyed, at each other, raw desire gleaming in our frenzy-wide pupils. This was the most electrifying moment of my life, creating a visceral charge the like of which I had never experienced: kissing Simone's naked body was the single most erotic act I could ever envision.

"You're so beautiful," I whispered.

"I am?"

"Come to bed."

"Yes please," she said.

I wrapped her in the huge bathtowel and she seemed to shrink into it, my fragile, timid young lover. We floated through to the bedroom and I lay her on my bed, sliding next to her and lying side-by-side with the most beautiful girl in the world. She stared up at me, her arm folded over her breast, hand crooked backwards protectively like someone with Parkinson's, and she bit her lip apprehensively, blinking in trepidation. I kissed her lightly and laid my hand on her shoulder, running my fingernails down her arm to the elbow, where I gripped her loosely as my mouth slid from hers onto her chin, her jaw, her ear; she turned her head towards me and I drew my left hand across the back of her skull, holding her pale beauty, directing her mouth to mine once more and kissing afresh. My right hand slid from her elbow onto her stomach and rested against it, feeling the ebb and flow of her breath, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her touch. I longed to touch her breast, my fingers sidling towards it, lying in wait on the downy slopes, resting while my thumb struck out in exploration, rolling achingly slowly, gently over her reddened flesh. Looking down, her nipple, so small, so round, so brown, was hard and waiting to be touched, and so I touched. Sliding my thumb round, I ran it over her dainty areola, so beautifully formed, delicate and exquisitely textured; flicking across, I glanced against the nipple, then again, and again, and held it between my fingers, pressing slightly, rolling it, squeezing and teasing.

I undid the belt of my dressing gown and opened it wide, revealing myself to Simone for the first time. I was petrified, but proud. I rolled closer to her, my thigh resting on hers, our stomachs together, our breasts touching; manoeuvring slightly, I lowered my position until our nipples came together, tip to tip, and held my breast to hers, binding them together. And I thought back then. I thought back to that first time I saw her, when she bewitched me, entranced me, when she took my breath away and I vowed I would have her. The search for Simone, the seduction of Simone, had taken over my life, had become my lodestone and now she was mine and I hers. As I lowered my mouth to her breast I fought back a tear of happiness, secure in the knowledge that this was the happiest moment of my life.