Carrying three ice cream cones is a similar art to carrying three drinks away from a bar. You take one in each hand and clasp the third between both sets of fingertips. It's precarious, especially in the afore-mentioned bar, when you're likely to be jostled by some clumsy, testosterone-driven idiot halfway to your table. Yes, you know who you are, Cyril Norcup, and you weren't laughing so loud at my beer-stained blouse when my stiletto heel punctured your brothel creepers, now were you?

Anyway, by the time I'd covered half the distance back to the embankment and our makeshift camp, cold trickles of ice cream were already melting over my hands. Even more annoying than this sticky discomfort was the way it reminded me of one of my Niles-dreams from the previous night. I'd woken up from that one blushing like a Novice.

I'm not normally the blushing sort.

I picked my way through the gathering festival crowd, trying to avoid dripping ice cream on anybody (at least, anybody bigger than me) and was
almost at our blanket when I had to stop short and just stare. Maggie, sporting a tiny bikini top and not much more, was leaning in close to a
clearly uncomfortable Niles. As I stood there and watched, she threw caution to the wind and kissed him soundly.

And they call us Brits 'reserved'. Clearly, nobody had thought to explain this to Maggie.

I was trying to ignore the sudden ache in my chest when Niles pulled away. He looked about as pleased with the kiss as he might have been, had he found himself with an armful of spitting cobra. I sighed in relief, before admonishing myself for such an obviously inappropriate reaction. It was none of my business who Niles chose or chose not to make tongue sarnies with.

I moved in closer, intrigued as to how a trained psychiatrist might deal with such an awkward situation, then hovered a few feet away from the blanket, camouflaged by the gathering hordes. The dripping ice cream was forgotten as I heard Maggie demanding to know what was wrong with her, and Niles tell her that he was in love with someone else.

With me.

Well, that was it. The ache in my chest came back, accompanied by a ringing in my ears (although I'll concede that might have been feedback from the band on stage). I plummeted down, away from the cliff edge I'd been trying to avoid for the last twenty-four hours. Years of pretence flew into focus in my head; images sharpening and words resonating with new clarity. In that bright moment of epiphany, it all made sense; all the comments, the looks, the times we'd shared.

A memory popped into my mind. Niles had once declared himself to me passionately, as we'd danced an inflamed tango. I'd accused him of putting on an act, because it had been safer than any other reaction. How deeply had that hurt him? And that was only one incident in more than six years filled with them.

Even our everyday interaction was cast in a new and suggestive light by this revelation; the way Niles would always leap to my assistance in his brother's apartment, happily spending half an hour folding laundry or washing dishes with me. The way he always placed himself close to me when we were both in the living room.

And of course, the way he had enthusiastically volunteered to drive me to a music festival he wouldn't have *dreamed* of attending without me.

So. Niles Crane was in love with me. And I don't mind admitting, the thought scared me half to death.

I turned from the blanket, needing some space. Privacy. Oh all right, I ran away. The three ice cream cones were tossed into a dustbin as I fled. I rinsed my hands at a drinking water station and wiped them on my jeans, trying not to dwell on the fact that they were shaking noticably.

The next thing I knew, I was right over on the other side of the field, near the dance tent. Figuring I'd never be found in such a place, I ducked inside and claimed a patch of ground near the edge. A group of dancers in the centre of the tent were gyrating spasmodically to the overly loud and repetitive pulses being emitted by the man on stage surrounded by racks of equipment. It was surprisingly cool in there. The air conditioning felt very welcome.

I brought my knees up to my chest and hugged them, as my thoughts raced. The moment of epiphany had clarified by then into cold, dull facts. I stopped thinking about Niles and his feelings, and began to concentrate on mine. My recent jealousy became fairly easy to explain. The same went for the overtly hormonal reaction I'd had to seeing Niles for the first time in close-fitting blue jeans. Yes, yes, and the second time, and the third time, and so on. I wasn't even going to *think* about the flash of underwear I'd been treated to, the previous night.

Oops. Too late.

Then there were the dreams, including those which involved ice cream (and the one with the tutu and cricket bat, my treacherous mind chimed in.) All in all, I had to confess that it wasn't really rocket science, interpreting the signals. I might have been fairly circumspect about the feelings he stirred in me, especially prior to his divorce, but the lengthy catalogue of shared incidents from our past could no longer be shrouded in innocence.

You see ... I'd known, and I'd made a conscious effort to ignore.

I'm not the kind of person who analyses attraction. Love. All that business. If there's a spark, then that's enough for me. It's got me into trouble before now. Usually I fall too hard. This was the first time in my life that I'd fallen, and yet still held myself back. I'd ignored the spark, had done for years.

I sat there, chewing my lip and trying to formulate a plan. 'Should I confront Niles?' I asked myself. 'Tell him that I know about his feelings, but claim not to share them?' That wouldn't be entirely true, I forced myself to confess, and I wasn't happy with the idea of lying to him outright. 'Of course,' my thoughts continued, 'I could pretend nothing has happened - that might be the easiest option.' But the confirmation I'd heard from Niles' own lips made the charade infinitely more difficult than it had been before. I wasn't sure of my ability to perpetuate it, in the light of his irritatingly unequivocal statement. He'd picked a fine time to discover the joys of brevity.

Most frightening of all was the possibility that I tell Niles the truth. Should I reveal that my feelings for him were every bit as inappropriate as his were for me? How might we try to fit *that* with my employment situation and all the other differences? I certainly had no idea.

I hadn't reached a conclusion by the time I dragged myself to my feet and staggered back out into the sunshine. I simply didn't know what to do. What I *did* know, however, was that I'd been gone for nearly an hour and I had no right to subject my friends to that kind of worry. Sighing, I got my bearings and began to head back towards the Jazz Stage.

I wondered whether some nice festival-goer might offer me a blindfold and a cigarette before I arrived.