Moth to the Flame by Maxine Barry

they were going, the first Alicia knew of his proposed landing place, was when a strand of leafy weeping willow brushed past her cheek. She caught it then let it trail out of her hand, entranced. Soon they were nudging their way through a whole curtain of weeping willow branches, to the steep, green bank beyond. The punt nudged into the bank, coming to rest with a gentle bump. Jared poled them into a parallel position to the bank, then looped the mooring rope into the air, over one of the thicker branches, and tied it off.
    With the high bank on one side, and the screen of trailing, weeping willow branches on the other, they found themselves cocooned in their own, green, secret world. ‘It’s like a fairytale,’ Alicia breathed, as a Jenny Wren suddenly trilled from the gnarled roots of a nearby willow.
    â€˜I know,’ Jared said, overawed as much as she. He’d wanted to spend the day with her, away from College and their friends and work and the play. He’d wanted to make it romantic, and peaceful and special. But not even he could have hoped for something as perfect as this. He carefully laid the pole inside the punt, then reached for the picnic hamper. He moved towards her, the punt rocking gently with his sure-footed movements, and sat down on the middle strut, the picnic hamper between them. The noon sun, beating down through the canopy of willow, cast dappled light across her. One diamond of sunlight was lying across her left eye, turning the china blue into a brilliant, Ceylon sapphire.
    She blinked lazily.
    â€˜You look beautiful,’ Jared said hoarsely.
    Alicia blinked again, this time feeling anything but lazy.
    â€˜I do?’ she blurted.
    Jared nodded, then quickly ducked his head to unfasten the hamper. He felt suddenly nervous. Shy, almost.
    Alicia stared at the bent head, a warm rush of tenderness flooding over her. Underneath all that banter and laughter, he was as nervous and unsure of himself as she was.
    â€˜Let’s see—we have pâté, with fresh crusty bread. A knife.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    â€˜We have Brie . . . hope you like Brie.’
    â€˜I love Brie.’
    â€˜Peaches.’
    â€˜I love peaches.’
    â€˜And . . . ta-dah!’ he held up a battered blue thermos.
    â€˜Coffee?’ Alicia hazarded blankly.
    â€˜Coffee?’ Jared growled, looking scandalised. ‘I’ll have you know, peasant, that whilst you were tucked up in bed, snoring happily away, I was slaving over a hot blender, just to make you some Buck’s Fizz.’
    â€˜I don’t snore!’
    Jared reached into the picnic hamper and extracted a pair of cut crystal glasses. He’d borrowed them from the same chap who had the hamper, under dire threats of disembowelment if he should break either of them. Now he placed the sparkling Waterford crystal flutes on the floor of the punt and carefully poured out the sparkling champagne and orange juice from the flask. Solemnly he handed a glass to her.
    â€˜To you,’ he said softly. Alicia felt her hand shaking slightly as she accepted the glass from him.
    â€˜To the director,’ she whispered. They clinked glasses even more solemnly and drank. It was perfect—the champagne was dry, but the orange juice was sweet. ‘Hum . . ., wonderful.’
    Jared busied himself with breaking the bread into chunks and layering on the pâté. Alicia watched him, wanting to say something, something that would honour this wonderful day and this wonderful setting, but she couldn’t think what.
    She wanted to blurt out ‘I love you’ but of course she didn’t. She might not know much about men, but even she knew that saying something like that was bound to scare a bloke out of his wits. But she rather thought . . . she rather feared . . . that she did love him.
    Jared looked up, caught that look, and froze.
    For a second he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He’d been dreaming