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Eddie had quickly reached a point of no return. This was no passing infatuation. It was the real thing.
    Just seeing her coming towards me in the street, her flowing skirts billowing gently in the wind, brought a lump to my throat. Her voice on the phone, hesitant, vulnerable was like an arrow aimed straight at my heart. Her lengthy silences when we were together spoke to me more words than a recitation. I knew we had to be together, no longer reliant on stolen, illicit moments of joy. I wanted to travel with her, take her places I’d talked of, praised, loved. But most of all I hankered for whole nights with her. Whole nights. A whole life.
    The idea appeared to have some appeal to her, albeit with reservations too, which I could well appreciate.
    Which presented us with a problem.
    The husband.
    A man who took her for granted. Her first big flame married too early, now too obsessed with his professional career and neglecting her needs it seemed.
    They had come together at university. Oxford. He’d done time at the BBC in the News Department, reporting for radio and then, when bi-media was established, for early morning TV, on business in the automotive and nationalised industries. He’d now progressed to business correspondent of one of the failing broadsheet newspapers.
    Our silences shortened while our talk of the future increased. Hesitancy. Fear. I foolishly insisted, although never quite to the point of giving her the damn ultimatum of him or me. Although I maybe gave that impression in my feverish intensity.
    We still fucked like rabbits, and I just couldn’t believe how every time it just got better and better as our bodies grew ever more familiar with each other and the fit became so much more intimate, frenzied and tender. Any more of these heart-wrenching heights and I’d be having heart attacks, breaking in two, collapsing in tears of joy, I felt.
    I convinced her to spend a whole weekend with me. We knew it would be a test for both of us and that decisions might be reached by the end of those 48 hours together. I was deliriously happy. Two whole days seemed like an eternity, and I was convinced that my fervour would convince her I was her only alternative. All I had to do was just be myself, love her even more tenderly (which was no stretch in the state I was in) and all would fall into place.
    Excuses were made, alibis meticulously constructed and we met at Waterloo Station for an early morning Brighton train. Both a bit nervous. Never before had we actually spent so long together. Both of us bursting out in laughter when we discovered we had each packed a book along with our lightweight overnight luggage.
    We never did read much. Well, the morning papers on Sunday as we enjoyed breakfast in a bed that stank of sex and sweat and other delightful secretions.
    We did all the things you do on a traditional dirty weekend. Enjoyed our bodies. Walked on the sea front. Had fish and chips. Fucked again all afternoon. Found an Italian trattoria full of football supporters for a late snack until we repaired to the hotel room together again for more carnal activities. At some stage, I also remember we went out seeking the local Häagen-Dazs ice-cream parlour in a backstreet which she recalled from an earlier visit (with her husband, I assumed). I had chocolate chip and raspberry, Eddie had bilberry cheesecake. We swapped flavours from tongue to tongue like kids.
    It was a rainy weekend and there wasn’t much else to do but stay in bed, caress, embrace, cuddle, make love until we were both quite raw and wondrous at our renewed vigour and how perfect we were together and how we didn’t want these moments to ever end.
    But they did.
    In Brighton.
    Why the hell do political parties have annual conferences, I ask you? It’s just an ego trip for politicians. A rubber stamp for redundant policies. And why the hell do they always choose seaside resorts as venues for the damn events?
    At any rate,