And that, as they say, was that.

I spent most of the rest of the evening, trying to decide which had hurt the most; believing my feelings for Daphne were unrequited, or knowing that they *were* requited but that she chose not to do anything about it.

I kept coming to the conclusion that this hurt more.

Still, my parents raised me to be nothing if not a gentleman. Daphne had made her decision, based - finally - on all the facts, and I couldn't argue with it, despite the urge I had to grab her by the hands, fall to the ground before her and beg her to reconsider. As attractive as the option seemed, all I'd achieve would be to alienate her further. I decided that I'd put her through enough.

And anyway, I was through begging in my relationships. I'd tossed away my cushioned "Wheedle-Eaze" kneeling-mat along with my wedding band. Never again would I string more than two 'pleases' together.

Okay, maybe three in exceptional circumstances. But my record of nineteen would stand until I died. I had *sworn* it.

I continually noted both Michael and Maggie shooting looks at Daphne and I, obviously trying to decide what had passed between us during our talk. I'm surprised they didn't come to the readily apparent conclusion much sooner than they seemed to. Fortunately, nobody made any comment. I was grateful for this. I couldn't have coped with anyone wanting to talk about things; not then.

I'm not sure what time it was, but it was three bottles of the paint-stripping champagne later, when Graham announced that he wanted to catch the last half hour of someone called 'Moby's' set and then see the fireworks. Maggie agreed enthusiastically; perhaps you won't be surprised to learn that the resident saxophonist had become her latest target. Like dominoes falling, everyone then decided that this was an excellent idea, and we all trooped out of the trailer and made our way back down through the levels of the inferno, to what was rapidly becoming my least favourite field in the entire state of Washington.

Amid the glaring lights of the main stage, my eyes could pick out a lone, hairless man - who looked absolutely nothing *like* a whale - penned in by keyboards and banks of equipment, with a guitar strapped around him. I found myself wondering exactly how many instruments he intended to try to play, and passed the torturous, ear-ringing minutes imagining him as a one-man-band, with a harmonica wired before his jaw, cymbals attached to the insides of his knees and a bass drum strapped to his back. I was sufficiently drunk that the image gave me some amusement.

I almost laughed out loud when I realised that the song this man was conjuring from his gadgetry was actually an advertising jingle.

And then it was over and the fireworks began. No, not metaphorically, I mean real fireworks. It was an impressive display, though my slouching, defeated posture remained unmoved as I listened to the ooh-ing and ah-ing going on around me. It should have been romantic, standing in the dark, watching the night sky explode with colour. The setting was everything I'd hoped for, when Daphne had first announced her intention to make this trip.

But it was too late to make any kind of a move; even a teenaged 'sneaky arm around the shoulders' routine.

The loud bangs covered my heartfelt sighs rather well.

Once the show was over, we filed out of the field like herded sheep, and reached the point where we would part for the night. Michael invited us back for more drinks, but Daphne answered that she was tired and thought she'd head back to the Winnebago. I saw Maggie hesitate, before deciding to call it a night as well. I was glad that my own preference to head for our makeshift home was not the casting vote.

We said goodnight and walked off. The campsite seemed to be just coming to life; there was a worryingly large fire blazing outside a vehicle parked a short distance away from us. I tested the wind, out of habit more than anything else, and concluded that the sparks wouldn't be blown our way. Not that it mattered any more.

My two companions seemed content to take the same sleeping arrangements that we'd adopted the previous night. It seemed a lifetime ago, that Daphne and I had drunk brandy together and laughed and wrestled at the front of the motor home. It was indeed *half* a lifetime ago, because I knew, somewhere inside, that this day was a defining one for me, dividing my life into two discrete segments; pre-'hopes-shattered' and post-'hopes-shattered'.

While I was attending to ablutions in the sarcophagus, Daphne and Maggie made up the beds. I strained to hear them speak, but unless the words, 'Pass us that cushion, would you?' are in any way significant, I failed to overhear anything meaningful. When I was done, I used the private bedroom at the back to change, then scampered self-consciously past Maggie into the fold-down cot. I pulled the curtain across and listened to the sounds of the pair getting ready for bed. There were muted goodnights finally called to me, which I answered as congenially as I could, then the light went out and all was quiet.

I hoped the pain in my chest would behave like a virus - that it would stop hurting, so long as I was asleep.

Alas, I didn't get to find out.

After an hour or so of trying to settle, I gave up and sat upright. There were no sounds from beyond my curtain except for the occasional creak of suspension and the distant noises of the bonfire party. I tentatively drew the shroud back, and looked through the semi-darkness to the person-shape in the other bed. I wondered about creeping beneath those same Daphne-scented blankets and taking her sleeping body in my arms. When my treacherous thoughts prompted an inevitable reaction, I shook my head angrily at myself and slid down from the bed.

I groped around silently for my clothes and dressed again, then I slipped outside and pulled the door to behind me with an unobtrusive click.

It may seem like a foolish idea, embarking on a moonlit walk in such dangerous and unknown terrain, but large quantities of alcohol combined with the same amount of emotional agony had left my senses dulled. I headed off through the motor homes and awnings, avoiding people, until at the edge of the campsite I noted a signpost lit overhead by a streetlight, pointing away from the road, along a footpath.

So I followed it.

Beyond the illumination of the site, I found myself walking through blackness. It helped, actually. The privacy was something I'd missed all day. It was interrupted briefly by the appearance of a spot of light which turned into a flashlight beam, as a couple walked back to the camp, their clothing dishevelled and their faces advertising exactly what they'd been up to with conceited smirks.

I bid them a polite good evening, just at the same moment that some hidden bird of prey shrieked with its kill, beyond the tree line, but fortunately I managed to disguise my flustered startle from the post-coital couple.

Then they had passed and the darkness was back. I felt old and alone and unhappy.

Sounds prickled at the edge of my senses until they coalesced into the trickle of running water. The footpath opened out into a lit clearing, beside a river. A low wooden jetty strutted out over the water, and a padlocked boathouse flanked by a hoisted lamp stood to one side. As I drew closer and took in these surroundings, thankfully absent of other festival goers, fate kicked me hard in the backside yet again.

I tripped over a tree stump and fell head first into a pile of wet leaves.

My gasped expletive attracted no attention, for which I was initially grateful, before I tried to get up again. At that point I found myself eschewing pride and groaning my pain in the hope of garnering assistance. But I was alone, and I finally struggled to my feet and hobbled over to the wooden jetty, to sit down on something less suspect than the wet ground, to examine the damage.

I knew before I unlaced my boot that I'd sprained my ankle; I am medically trained, after all. To be quite honest, the pain was a vaguely welcome distraction from my maudlin thoughts, and I carefully removed my boot as the ankle swelled and throbbed. Shuffling to the side of the jetty, I sank my aching foot, sock and all, into the cold river water. It brought some relief, and I left it there as long as I could stand, before beginning to think about how I was going to get back. I certainly didn't know how the hell I was going to climb into my fold-down bed.

I was just concocting a fantasy based on this logistical difficulty - using it in fact, as an excuse to forfeit my cot and slip in beside Daphne's warm body - when a sound made me jump. It came from within the trees, so loud that the source had to be close, and it sounded suspiciously like a coyote or perhaps a wolf. Without giving myself time to wonder whether wolves were still wild in this area, I all but leapt to my ... foot ... and hopped off back along the pathway.

When the lights came into view, I'd never been more pleased to see signs of 'civilisation'.

Gradually losing the sensation of panic stirred by my brush with death, I grasped a branch from the ground and used it to lean on, then I hobbled slowly back between the motor homes. I decided I'd have to swallow my humiliation and wake Daphne, to let her take a look at my injury.

I'd made it to the door of the Winnebago, when I realised I'd left my boot lying discarded on the wooden jetty.