By Monday evening, made miserable by a solitary bottle of wine, I reached the limit of my endurance and resolved that I had to go to Derby to find her. I had no idea where she lived, of course, which made things difficult. I had her mobile number, but I couldn't call her for fear of her refusing to speak to me and forbidding me to come; so I tried Don, who refused to tell me. He went into pompous mode again, assuming his role of unofficial guardian, and ordering me to leave well alone until Simone was ready to talk; again he told me I didn't know what I'd done, to which I snorted that that was precisely the reason why I wanted to go and see her; but he wouldn't listen. Marie was completely unavailable when I tried; whether this was a genuine or diplomatic absence I wasn't sure, but, I told myself, don't start becoming paranoid. Next stop was Jim Beam, and it was evident from his stuttering performance that he had been given orders not to tell me anything. Jim's sweet nature, though, dictated that he couldn't deny anybody for long, and after a few minutes I was scribbling down Simone's Derby address. Promising him a big kiss the next time we met, I said goodnight and began to make preparations.

Derby wasn't far, only about ninety minutes away, and I set off about eleven the next morning. It was a bright day, warm and effervescent, a velvety wind floating in the atmosphere, stroking itself up and down my arms and over my face. My mind was whirling as I drove distractedly up the dual carriageway. What was it about this woman which so entranced me? From the first moment I saw her I knew I wanted her. Why? It made no sense. I had never had any lesbian tendencies, and yet Simone, from the instant I saw her, had filled me with a lust the intensity of which I had never previously thought possible. As I came to know her, this lust deepened and ripened, blossoming into such a deep-seated devotion that I felt close to tears each time I was in her presence: I had become so emotionally charged that the mention of her name, the touch of her hand, the sight of her glorious profile would cause my heart to stop and my hands to tremble. In comparison to my almost schoolgirlish infatuation, she had an almost preternatural poise, an elegance and grace that came from within and manifested itself in her warm, compassionate treatment of everyone around her. She was one of those people who instantly brought excitement and happiness to a room, whose entrance brightened any gathering, whom everyone considered their friend.

None of this, though, really answered my question: why was I so obsessed with her? She treated me no differently from anyone else, granted no special favours, displayed no more affection, and yet my response to her had inflated far beyond the simple affection displayed by everyone else. Why had I, a thirty-seven year old woman, become so hopelessly infatuated with this young girl of twenty?

I suspected I knew the answer, but not yet: it was there inside me, but not in a form I could yet comprehend. There was a special connection between us: I felt it powerfully, and I had a notion that Simone did too. There was a particular resonance to our relationship, something which attracted us to one another, like magnetic north to south, without us being able to influence it in any way. The key was there somewhere, I felt, and it would unlock the door of understanding when it was ready.

But first, I had to find Simone. And I had to reconcile her.

Any of you who know Derby will sympathise with the next hour and twenty minutes, as I drove round the outer ring road several times, through the city centre in various directions and explored sundry business parks and residential areas. Derby is easy to get lost in and, once lost, impossible to extricate yourself from. I drove round and round, getting more frazzled and bad tempered with every set of traffic lights, less calm and composed with each roundabout. All the while I could think only of Simone, of what she might say when she saw me, of whether she would shun me or welcome me.

Finally, I found her street and parked about fifty yards or so from her flat. The car was hot and smelly and so, I feared, was I: hardly the sort of entrance I had hoped for. A sudden burst of nerves almost ruined my resolve at that moment, little barbs of doubt insinuating themselves in my psyche, pricking at my confidence. If I could have turned round, if it wouldn't have ruined my self-esteem, if it had been easier to accomplish without such evident loss of face, I think I would have done. But here in Derby, after having driven for nearly three hours in search of my love, there was no way I could back out.

Still, as I stood before her door I felt physically sick. My knees were trembling, my palms were clammy and puffy, and it felt as though a spear were probing at my chest. With a sickly, metallic taste in my mouth and fear ringing in my ears I rang the doorbell. After about twenty seconds - and it is amazing how long twenty seconds can take - I heard from within the sound of feet clumping down stairs, and the door swung open. The rest of my life, I thought, rested on the next few seconds.

"Margaret."

Simone looked amazing. I remember that, even in my terror, even in my moment of fear and doubt, the mere sight of her set amorous spirits pirouetting in my stomach. She was completely unmade-up, and her hair was tied in a bunch at the back; her face, luminous and unearthly in its beauty, glowed and shone, leaving me mesmerised.

I had been practicising this moment for three days, and I had no idea what to say.

"Hi."

She stood in the doorway, arm raised, holding the edge of the door above her head. That image of her is branded in my memory, unerasable, as livid now as it was at that very moment. If I close my eyes I can see every detail: the delicate hairs on her arm, white in the pale sun, even and regular in pattern; the texture of her skin, so densely smooth; her fingers crooked around the door, long and impossibly elegant, with the largest fingernails I had ever seen; the arm of her tee-shirt falling back to her shoulder and revealing her underarm to my prurient gaze; a picture of beauty, a picture to remember, a picture to cherish.

"I wanted to talk," I stammered, "about the other night 3;"

"Look, Margaret, it's a really bad time. Honestly. I'm not giving you the brush-off, really I'm not, but I can't right now. I'm helping Suzanne with her re-sits: she has her exam tomorrow. I promised to help her, I can't let her down."

Slowly, I could see doors shutting before me, futures dimming, dreams and plans breaking down in recrimination and sad certainty. Whatever she said, however she chose to dress it up, I was being given the brush-off; I was being despatched; I was unwanted. My lip trembled, my eye dimmed. I think Simone saw the effect she had had on me. She studied my face for a moment, that curious, inscrutable look she generally wore masking her true feelings. She seemed to be weighing things up, determining her course of action. I stood, a helpless bystander in my own drama, awaiting the next move, like an actor who has dried up on stage waiting for the prompter.

"Tomorrow," she said at length. "Meet me tomorrow. Suzanne has her exam at nine. Meet me in the University - you know where it is?"

I nodded. I had no idea, but as this lifeline dangled precariously before my nose I was scared to do anything which might upset it.

"Meet me in the refectory. You can't miss it. When you enter the main hall you can see it in front of you. I'll be there just after nine."

Again I nodded mutely. I was afraid if I opened my mouth I would cry.

"But hey, we're alright aren't we?" she said.

I smiled. Sheasked me if we were alright.

"Yeah," I managed to drag from my mouth, "we're cool. Tomorrow, then." Quickly, before the tears which I knew were about to flood from me showed themselves, I turned and fled back to the car. We were alright. Were we?

I found a cheap bed and breakfast for the night and bought some fresh clothes and a map of the town, ready for the morning. That night, cooped up in my tiny room, seemed to last forever, an aching eternity of hope and doubt, elation and despair. I swooped and soared through emotional peaks and troughs, convincing myself that things were fine, and then, before I had drawn breath, breaking down once more into pessimistic vacillation.

The next morning I set out early for Kedlestone and quickly found the University. It was the summer holiday, of course, and the place was mostly empty, with just a few nervous looking students, presumably those doing re-sits, ambling about in the early morning sunshine. The campus was large and crisp and attractive, a million miles away from the cramped, archaic place where I had studied fifteen years ago. I marvelled at the space, the attractive banks of grass and flower beds, the copious car parks and the array of interlinked buildings. Reaching the main entrance, I swung open the large, glass doors and stepped inside. After a basic reception area, the space broadened out into a huge concourse, with shops all down one side and a shallow bank of steps leading to an elevated hallway. On one side was the entrance to the library, a huge, multi-floor building with as many PC stations as books, and on the other the refectory, with a number of tables and chairs scattered all around it. I scanned them, but there was no sign of Simone. Fetching myself a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin, I sat near the hallway, where I could observe everyone as they came and went.

Simone was about ten minutes late. I saw her the instant she swept through the glass doors and into the concourse. She wore blue, three-quarter length trousers, her bare, slender ankles emphasising her trim and attractive body; and a simple, cotton tee shirt, cropped to reveal her midriff. Her hair was loose, swinging gently as she walked, silky and glinting in the light, and she wore a smile of calm assurance. My heart was somersaulting in my chest as she approached. Seeing me, she waved and headed over.

"Hiya," she said. "I'll get myself a tea and be right with you." She chatted briefly with the assistant behind the counter while she prepared the tea, and I tried to compose myself.

"Sorry about yesterday," she said, as she placed her tea on the table and drew up a chair next to me, "but Suzanne was in a real state. She's almost beside herself this morning, convinced she's going to fail."

"No problem," I replied. "My fault. Shouldn't have sprung myself on you like that, with no notice. It's just 3;"

"Oh, that's okay. I'm kinda glad you did."

"You are?"

"Yeah, I think we need to talk. About the other night."

"Yes, I think we do." There was silence for a moment. We both laughed.

"Well, one of us needs to say something 3;" she said eventually.

"I'm sorry," we said in unison. Again, we laughed. Again, there was a pause.

"I am really sorry," I continued. "I'm really, really sorry that I upset you."

"Yes, no, well," she said. "It's complicated. Yes, you did upset me, but it wasn't only you. I think I, like, took it out on you, because I was upset and annoyed anyway. It wasn't all your fault, and it didn't deserve what I did."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I doubt whether she did either.

"Can you tell me what it was I did? Or said?"

"Well, no, I don't want to go into details. It's not worth it; it doesn't matter. There's nothing to be gained by it." She paused, as though seeking the courage to continue. "But I will tell you one thing that annoys me. It's been bothering me for a while, now. I hope you're not upset about this, but I'm going to say it anyway."

I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, the residual noise thumping in my ears. I was on automatic pilot by now, barely conscious of what I was saying: it was as though I were on the outside, observing what was happening. Sometimes the emotional pitch of a moment becomes so great that you become almost disestablished from it: it's as though the intensity of it is too much to bear, and your mind takes evasive action. What was she going to tell me? What was it which annoyed her? Would it upset me? I thought, at that moment, that I was going to be sick, and a momentary dizziness overcame me; reality slid and melted away from me, then drifted back into focus again. Simone was toying with her tea, not looking at me.

"You have a really bad habit," she began, "of going on and on about your love life. In fairly extensive detail, I have to say. Unnecessary detail, in fact. All the gory details. And it, like, it doesn't offend me, but 3; it's stuff I don't need to know, d'you know what I mean?"

I stared at her in amazement. This was what upset her? This was what annoyed her about me? Dear God, I only did it because I thought that was what her generation did; I only talked about my experiences (invented, every damned one of them) because I didn't want to appear like some aged spinster. The irony of it struck me, and I laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked, immediately sounding prickly.

"I'm so sorry," I replied. "I had absolutely no idea. None at all." It was going to be difficult to explain this, without revealing that my stories were fabrications, and that I did it out of basic insecurity, neither of which I wished to admit to. "I guess I was trying to fit in."

"But we don't do that. We don't talk about sex all the time like that."

Not all the time, they didn't, but they did talk about it rather more often than they perhaps realised, in a more open and upfront way than they realised. Certainly, compared to my generation they were far more relaxed about discussing sexuality, but perhaps I had misjudged the extent of it.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "It really is my fault. I thought I was just joining in. I've gone over the top without realising it. I won't do it again." Simone looked embarrassed, as people generally do when their argument is accepted without demur: the whole argumentative flow is disrupted, the attack and parry, counter-attack and defence, the whole ritual is overturned, and it can be difficult to know how to pick up the threads of the conversation again. She smiled and reached out her hand; taking mine in hers, she nodded happily.

"No worries. It's over and done with, in the past." I would have been happy to leave it at t hat, happy to accept her reassurances: nothing, in fact, would have pleased me more. Yet, something didn't quite add up. I could detect a slight anxiety in her expression, and something gnawed at me. However irritating it might be to hear excessive details about my sex life, her reaction the other night was disproportionate. Having put up with it for the weeks we had known one another, it didn't seem probable that she would explode in the manner she did: not Simone, it wasn't in keeping with her nature. And what had she said at the start of the conversation: "I don't want to go into details." That meant there was more; that meant there was something else, something deeper, something more substantial than a dislike of hearing the prurient details. What had Don said? "There are things you don't know." Simone was not telling me the full story; she was concealing something from me. I stared at her face and saw, again, a flash of vulnerability that wasn't generally visible. I had seen it once before, at Rutland Water, when she had seemed close to becoming upset about something. About what? She was an enigma, with her emotions so deeply buried beneath her calm exterior, but the more I got to know Simone Clements, the more I sensed she was less at ease with herself than she liked to project.

"Over and done with," I repeated. I wanted to probe further, but I could tell from her eyes that her guard had gone up again. The shadow of vulnerability had disappeared from her face as quickly as it showed, as though it had never been there, and she once more presented her affable, genial self. I changed the subject to her friend Suzanne, enquiring politely about her re-sits, what subjects they were, how close she had been to passing and so on. Immediately, the defensive edge to Simone's demeanour disappeared.

"She'll be alright, though," she continued. "She worries too much, gets herself worked up too easily. She just needs someone to sit down, to hold her hand and talk her through things."

"And what about you," I said nervously, aware that I was treading on dangerous ground again. "Who do you turn to when you've got problems?"

"Oh, I don't have problems," she said airily.

"Yes you do," I replied. She looked up at me sharply, surprised that her parry of my question had been fired back at her. "We all do, sometimes."

"Well, I must just be very lucky," she replied, "because I don't."

"Or you don't talk about them."

"We all deal with things in our own ways." The pitch of her voice was rising, and I could see she was getting flustered. I had no desire to upset her again, but I knew she was concealing something. I had begun this conversation curious about what it was that Simone was concealing, anxious to know how it affected me, and how I affected it: I was approaching it out of my own self-interest. As the conversation turned and developed, though, I began to sense a whole new side to Simone. I began to glimpse a weakness, a vulnerability which was all the greater for the lengths she took to conceal it. I felt I had come close to uncovering a huge well of uncertainty in this most certain of individuals. And through it all, my love for her swelled. I was no longer curious, I was concerned; I didn't want to know, I wanted to help. I wanted her to let me into her life, because I suspected she had never let anyone in before; I wanted her to know the joy of sharing, and I wanted her to share with me.

"Yes we do deal with things in our own way, but we all need to talk about things sometimes."

"What are you getting at, Margaret?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Just making a point that we all need help sometimes."

"Are you suggesting that I need help now?"

"No. Why do you think that?"

Simone paused, conscious that I had bluffed her: by stating that I had made no such implication, I suggested that the inference was entirely hers, leaving open the question of why she might make such an inference. She made no effort to answer. I was getting nowhere, I could see that. Simone's defences were formidable, her resolve considerable. If she didn't want to open up, she wouldn't. Not here, anyway, not in her own setting. Here, she was in control, she could assert her authority. And here, I felt, lay the roots of her problems, the relics, the remnants of some past disputes which she had tried to bury within her. While she was in these surroundings, at once unsettling and familiar, I would never break through.

"You are always such a pillar of support for people. You're always there for everyone else." I continued. "I'm just curious about who or what supports Simone."

There was complete silence for a good thirty seconds. And then, to my utter astonishment, Simone burst into tears. Her face, alabaster-smooth, pale and perfect, crumpled into a heaving, sobbing grimace of misery, the suddenness of the transformation taking my breath away. Great, lung-filling gulps and animal sighs rent the air, as Simone's composure evaporated into plangent tearfulness. I pulled my chair beside her and reached out to her, drawing her sobbing head to my chest. I could feel the convulsions wracking her body as she flung her arms around me.

"If only," she said through her sobs. If only? If only what? Now wasn't the time to ask though. I stroked her hair, kissing the crown of her head gently and stroking my left hand up and down her back soothingly. My God, I thought, what have I done? What sores have I exposed? What pain have I provoked? Gradually, Simone's tears subsided, and for a moment she sat quietly in my grip, her head lodged against my breast. In spite of the pain I knew she must be feeling, I thought it a beautiful moment of calm.

"I'm sorry," she said, raising her head from my and wiping her hand against her tear-dimmed eyes. "I don't know what came over me. Guess I'm a bit overwrought, like Suzanne," she smiled, trying to make light of events. I grabbed her hand and held it tight.

"Who supports Simone?" I repeated. "I hope that one day you'll be able to tell me." She smiled and nodded, head bowed.

In that instant, our relationship turned on its axis. I had seen through the pretence. I had seen the real Simone, the living, crying, hurting Simone who was bottling up her emotions and hiding herself from the world behind the façade of "Simone, everyone's friend." And in that moment, at that revelation, my love for her multiplied a thousand-fold.

"Don't suppose now is a good time to tell you about the bloke I picked up in the B&B last night?" I joked.

She laughed. "Not at all a good time."

"Thought not."

"Did you?"

"What, pick someone up last night?"

"Yeah."

"Course not. What do you think?" I wanted to tell her that I spent last night in self-pitying misery, convincing myself that I had lost her. I wanted to tell her that I was too scared to sleep, too upset to think, too worried to dream. But I didn't. How could I?

"Have you ever been to the Peak District?" I asked.

"No, never. Stupid, isn't it. Half an hour or so from here, but I've never gone."

"Can I take you?"

"Why?"

"I think you'd like it. I think you'd appreciate it." I think you need it, I thought, I think you need the space, I think you need the perspective.

"Yeah, I suppose so," she replied noncommitally.

Seizing on her agreement, however tentative, I proceeded. "Great. Can we go tomorrow? Suzanne's last exam is tomorrow. You're free after you escort her to the exam room door. We can go then."

"Tomorrow?" she retorted in surprise. "What's the rush? I need to get things ready 3;"

"Rubbish. Just pack some clothes and a toothbrush and you're ready. Do you have a tent?"

"A tent? What for?"

"For sleeping in, of course. And sleeping bags?"

"No, none," she replied, confused.

I could see she was regaining her composure and was about to start querying things, so I bulldozed my way through her objections. I had made my mind up, and I wasn't going to accept any refusals. What Simone needed, I decided, was to get away from herself, to remove herself to somewhere where she wasn't everyone's rock, everyone's support, where she could just be Simone Clements.

"We can go tomorrow morning, and do a nice, gentle walk, then stay the night and do a longer walk on Saturday. I'll go into town this afternoon and buy a tent and sleeping bags."

"What about food?"

"Oh, there's a pub in the village. We can eat there."

"I've never been walking before."

"It's easy. You put one foot in front of the other." Before today, Simone would have won through with her objections, would have used rational argument to get her own way, but I was in no mood for compromise, and batted away every protest. I would not be gainsaid. Simone realised this, too, and relented. She smiled.

"Okay, okay," she said, "have it your way. We'll go camping in the Peak District. I must be mad."

"Fantastic. D'you want to come into town with me to buy the stuff?"

"No, I said I'd wait for Suzanne and buy her lunch. Then we've got to finish the revision for tomorrow's exam."

"I know, I know. I'll keep out of your way tonight. See you here tomorrow, though, nine o'clock sharp. For the start of a big adventure."

"Hmm," she replied, the last vestiges of her disquiet etching a faint, pained beauty on her face. "A big adventure 3;"

On to next story: Edale