The thing is, I think I've fallen in love. I don't really know: you know me, I don't believe in love, so how can I be in love? And so I'm totally, utterly confused. I know the exact point when it happened, sitting under a tree on a campsite in Derbyshire, but I don't know yet what it was that happened. See? Told you I was confused 3;

And you'll never believe who it is I may or may not have fallen in love with. Or maybe you will. Were the little signals there all along? Little hints? Well perhaps, but all in all I think you have to say it's a bit of a turn up. I have deliberately not re-read my last diary entries, mainly because they're too embarrassing, but also because everything that's happened since I wrote them has turned my life upside down, so I don't want to start muddying the waters by going back over old ground (mixed metaphors or what?! I'll never be a writer 3;) but from memory, last time I think I wrote about whether I could trust her or not.

Frankly, I still don't know the answer to that, and now I don't know whether I'm in love with her or not either.

Margaret, eh? Who can understand her? Woman of mystery, hidden depths, great kisser 3;

But I've let the cat out of the bag. Margaret then. Who'd have thought it? I'm sorry, I'm having difficulty thinking straight, so I know all of this sounds gibberish, but I need to get these thoughts down, as scrambled as they are, so that I can begin to understand what the bloody hell is happening to me.

Jesus, I think I'm in love. It's scary.

Okay, calm down, Simone, start at the beginning. Mind you, I'd prefer to start at the end, because I did some amazing things yesterday afternoon that I want to tell you about, right after I had a long, luxurious bath, with a handmaiden washing me 3; Oh God, I'm just so excited I can't think straight. Skittish Simone, now that's something you don't see every day 3; *L*

Right, start again. Derby. Terrible. Suzanne's exams, helping her out. Rotten bad temper, fallen out with Margaret the night before. Why? Look in the previous diary entry. Enough to say she was winding me up and I was winding myself up and we had a row and I stormed off in a petulant huff. That's that, then, I thought, that'll be the last I'll see of her, she's not going to put up with a childish display like that.

And then she turned up in Derby. Drove all the way. What's all that about? She needed to speak to me, she said. Well, not today, I told her, I need to be with Suzanne today. Make it tomorrow. If she was that set on speaking to me she would wait an extra day, I thought, and if not, well, obviously it isn't just me who can play the drama queen and make dramatic gestures. Part of me wanted her to sod off, but part of me was terrified she would. As I say, little hints 3;

But she said yes, she would wait. Christ.

Now we get to stuff I don't want to talk about, not yet. She upset me, started raking over things, probing where she wasn't welcome, you know what I mean, Steve and such, and I got really upset. I lost it, started crying in the middle of the refectory, blubbing my eyes out, making a complete spectacle of myself. But the damned woman wouldn't leave me alone. Kept banging on about it. "Who supports Simone?" she said, in that loud, very precise voice people use when they've thought of something clever they're pleased with, and want everyone to hear. "Who supports Simone?" I don't need anybody, there's nothing wrong with me, I shouted back, but even as I was saying it I was thinking of John, and Steve, and I knew that it was complete bollocks. Which made me worse: the damned woman was getting under my skin, and nobody is allowed to do that. And then she invited me camping in the Peaks. Camping!!! Never been camping in my life. Wouldn't know a tent peg from a camp stove. Though I suppose I'd find out pdq if I hit the wrong one with a hammer 3; *G* So of course I wouldn't go camping. My idea of hell, stuck on a bloody mountainside inside a piece of flimsy plastic, listening to the rain and avoiding the spiders. And so I said yes.

Now why would I do that? Partly to shut her up, of course. I was so embarrassed, making a scene in public, but I don't know, there's more than that. I was curious. Curious about why she was so interested. Not that I wanted her to be interested: Christ no, the exact opposite. I've spent the last three years making sure people aren't interested in me. But I was interested in why she was interested in me. Oh goddammit, Simone, admit it, I was interested in her, full stop.

And so I went camping. And great fun it was too. Walking is cool, not nearly as boring as I thought it would be. Knackers your legs though. She took me to the top of some valley or other, up to the start of the Dark Peak, where it gets really wild and dangerous. We didn't go any further, but she pointed it out, and said this amazing thing, which I can't forget:

"Heather and grass, and rocks and grouse, and nothing to find but your soul."

She was trying to tell me something, I knew that, but I didn't know what it was at the time. Later, I thought I did know and told her, and later still I realised I was totally wrong. And that's when that thing happened. When I fell in love, or whatever I've done. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The next afternoon, Saturday this would be, there we were on the top of a mountain, looking out. Mam Tor it's called, and it's really lovely. The world was green, and fresh, and happy and alive. And I was really happy, so calm and relaxed, no cares, no worries. But then I started thinking, damn it. I never learn. I was trying to understand why she had brought me here and I realised then what it must be. "I know why you brought me," I said, little Miss Smarty Pants. She was telling me to look outwards, I told her, to see the bigger picture. I was so pleased with myself for working it out I didn't see the jaws of the trap close on me.

"Who supports Simone?"

She started on this again. And I got upset again. As you do, when people constantly pick at your scabs and make them bleed. Bloody bitch, why wouldn't she leave it alone? But she kept on and on and on about it. What happened Simone, what are you hiding? What's hurting you?

And then I thought about what she'd said about the wilderness, and finding your soul: was that why you brought me, I asked her. To confront what I was hiding, to confront my fears? Yes, she said. Yes it is.

I don't know what it is about her. I don't trust her (I think) and yet I get this urge to confide in her. I nearly told her once before, a few weeks ago, and caught myself in time. No such luck this time. The whole story came tumbling out, the first time I've ever told anyone, the first time I've ever spoken it out loud. The first time, if I'm being honest, I've even told it to myself. I think about it all the time, but what I think about is the aftermath, not the event, the outcome, not what happened. And I don't want to talk about it again. But I told her then, and I cried and cried and cried. God, I thought I was going to explode. It was like everything I've concealed for three years came spewing out of me in one long, shattering stream, and I totally lost control.

But she held me in her arms. For hours. Letting me cry, cradling me, letting the tears subside, letting the pain out. I felt so calm then, so calm. It was beautiful, actually, liking getting over the worst hangover in the world. At first everything is painful, your head hurts, your eyes burn when you blink, your ears ache, your senses are totally shut down: colours don't work, sounds don't penetrate, it's liked your entombed in your own misery. And then, slowly, the mists rise and life comes back. At first you don't notice it, and then you do, you feel life gradually draining back into you, every minute you feel a bit more normal. It was just like that. I was so upset, totally over the top, off-my-head, screaming upset, and she just held me, and she was crying too, but we lay on the mountain until I felt better.

And then we came down.

And when I came down the mountain, back to the camp, I felt lighter: lightheaded, yes, but really lighter - in what? Spirit, I think. I left some baggage behind on the top of Mam Tor, I'm sure of it. I'm not going to say I have totally got over what happened, because clearly I haven't, since I can't write about it tonight, but I think it is the start. I felt wonderful afterwards, really wonderful, like I was refreshed. Everything seemed clearer and brighter and more beautiful, and I just wanted to love the world.

And Margaret.

I remember thinking that, as we lay on the rug that evening, watching the stars. That I loved her. In a platonic sense, obviously. I thought about her a lot as we lay there: what she had done for me, how she had brought me here to help me, and I wondered why she would do that. Why had she done such a thing? Such a thoughtful and selfless act. And I thought about her, about Margaret herself.

"Once and forever."

I couldn't get that phrase out of my mind. I played it over and over and over. She told me it when we were at Rutland Water: she had been in love, she said, once and forever. Just the once, and it was eternal. I thought it was so beautiful, so romantic. And I was a bit jealous of her, I suppose, because I didn't think I could ever feel something as intense as that. But as we sat there I began to think how sad it was. It was an unrequited love, and poor Margaret was pining for someone, someone she loved but couldn't or wouldn't tell. And then I thought, well she's got a damned cheek lecturing me about not sharing my problems and keeping everything to myself when she can't even tell the person she loves how she feels.

And then I realised.

She had been. All weekend. That's when it hit me. The weekend was as much about her as it was about me: it was for both of us to unburden ourselves. That was why she brought me.

To tell me she loved me.

I asked her: tell me about your once and forever love, have you done anything about it yet? No, not yet, she said, but I want to. I almost panicked. It was me, I was convinced.

I had no idea what to say or do, so I picked up my flute and started to play. I don't know why, but a tune came into my head. It was one that Margaret once told me she liked, Paddy Fahy's Reel, and I started to play it over and over again, my mind racing, trying to work out what the hell I was thinking.

Margaret. Margaret. She really was kind and thoughtful and generous. She wasn't at all like the image she painted of herself. Nothing like the slapper she pretended she was, nothing like as shallow and thoughtless. I was kind of overwhelmed by the notion that she loved me, and that she could read my problems, and that she cared enough to help. She had got through my defences, made me open up, which no-one has ever done. I wanted to. In the end, I wanted to tell her. Why?

I knew the answer. And so do you.

And then I noticed she was crying. I stopped playing and asked her what was wrong. My heart was throbbing with fear. "Simone," she said, "I have to tell you this now, or else I might never do it: Simone, I love you."

"I think I knew that," I said. " Once and forever. You'd better give me a kiss, then."

I was so scared. I've never given myself to anybody before, and I was terrified of what I was doing. Terrified of losing control of myself, terrified of losing my independence, having to rely on someone else. Having to trust someone else. I don't want to trust people. But she kissed me and it all melted away. We kissed all night, and hugged each other and stroked each other, and I think it is the most beautiful thing which has ever happened. Ever, in the whole world. To anyone. And so you see: I'm looking outward!! It's working already 3; *S*

But God, I've got so much to tell you and look at the time. It's three in the bloody morning, got to get some sleep. More tomorrow, including the juicy bits 3; *G*

Night night

Margaret's Simone