ginger steps.

It was no single thing, but a thousand tiny kindnesses. He filled our bedroom with Confederate jasmine because I mentioned that I liked its scent. He stayed up all night testing me before my exams, never taking offence when I yelled at him out of nerves or sheer bloody-mindedness. When I wanted to ski in Colorado, he was happy to take me, even though he hated the cold with all the fervour of a Southern boy who's never experienced a morning frost. Not just keep-the-peace happy. Child-on-Christmas-morning happy. Being with me was enough for him. No matter what I proposed, he smiled his easy smile which scrunched the corners of his blue blue eyes, and said that if it worked for me, it worked for him too.

Our light romance bridged the gap between Mardi Gras and real life with surprising success. We were very different people, and yet we understood each other. We'd both had to grow up hard and fast, and if our reactions to this hot-housed awareness of the fragility of life were very different - he chose to live for today, I to control tomorrow - we had a shared knowledge of the chaos that lay beneath. We both loved jazz and blues, Gregory Peck and baroque architecture. He adored peacefully walking in the mountains almost as much as I loved the challenge of climbing them; we both relished the thrills of white-water rafting, kayaking and canoeing. Admittedly I missed the bright lights of London, but in those early days we were truly happiest when we were far from the madding crowd, holed up in a cabin somewhere with just the odd harmless black bear for company.

Of course I loved him; it was impossible not to. He gave freely and asked nothing of me. He was always there for me, my confidant and companion, my dearest friend.