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find others in my minority. A doddle, no?
    Grant and I weren’t meant to be but I’ll be forever grateful to him for instilling in me the need to avoid that dead, sexless jail that had trapped me for so long. He made me take stock and, over time, I became deliberately bolder. I realised I had two choices. I could stick my neck out and start being honest about my desires, or I could suppress my feelings and remain in the closet, hoping someone would eventually find the door to let me out.
    Basically, I could live or die; or at least, live a life not fully realised. Giving up on certain aspects of yourself, the parts others might find distasteful or threatening, is the easiest thing in the world. It’s the safest route, the path of least resistance. But I was starting to feel if I followed that track of inertia, my lost and abandoned fragments would return to haunt me. I’d end up restless and frustrated, hunting for the flawed, shining jewels shame and doubt had made me bury.
    After my father was diagnosed, he said, ‘And I never got to see the Northern Lights.’ Everyone in the family insisted he still had time. We’d book a cruise for him and Mum, and he could sit on the deck, a tartan blanket on his lap, gazing up at the dances of a shimmering green sky. Of course, there was no guarantee the lights would show but at least we’d have tried. But stage four stomach cancer had other ideas and Dad left us, age fifty-two, with too many dreams unseen.
    I didn’t want to be like that, ticking along and pinning my hopes to a future which fate could snatch away. I wanted my Northern Lights, damn it. If my candor scared some guys off, then clearly they weren’t for me. And I would never have met Baxter Logan if I hadn’t embarked on a policy of openness, although I’m not sure that constitutes a recommendation.
    But now, after my home had been broken into, I feared I’d pushed it too far. Had I, in talking so freely about my fantasies and desires, become a bit much? Had I lost sight of what was appropriate? Safe?
    Behind me in bed, Liam stirred. He rolled away from our spooning, his hand dragging sleepily across my breasts. My back was damp. I fought the urge to roll after him for comfort, instead sliding my leg towards his to maintaincontact with his body. My safety anchor. Tomorrow night, I would be alone. And the night after that.
    No, Monday evening I had a date. If it went well, maybe I wouldn’t need to sleep alone. Oh, what an awful thought! I couldn’t go on a date in the hope of snagging an unsuspecting bodyguard. Besides, dates rarely went well for me, my first date with Baxter being an enormous exception.
    I should tell Liam. He’d stay over if I asked. He wouldn’t want me to be scared.
    But I didn’t want to involve Liam. He knew my kinks, more or less, and while he didn’t share them or feel able to cater to them, he was cool with what I wanted. But this was on a different scale altogether. We weren’t talking bondage and roleplay. Some guy I’d never met had found my address and broken into my house.
    I lay on my back, staring at the dark ceiling, trying to get a grip. Regret kept lurching in. I’d been seduced by the intimacy of the internet, hadn’t I? I’d revealed too much with scant regard for who was on the other side of the screen. Without knowing who he was, I’d trusted him.
    Too late now. You can’t unsay what you’ve said.
    Damage limitation, then.
    I could call the cops. That would be the sensible option but I knew I wouldn’t for two main reasons. One, nothing much had happened and if they were to take the threat seriously (and yeah, as if they would), I’d have to tell them about our emails and risk having my sordid, sexual fantasies used as evidence in an enquiry. Or worse, my words would get passed around the police station and they’d all be sniggering, thinking, ‘The dozy mare, what did she expect, telling that kind of stuff to a stranger? And whoa, what a