I don’t know what it was about her that caught my eye. Maybe a sense of being out of place – something kind of lost-looking about her. They’d all piled out of the Community Centre, just across the road; the boys and the survey people. I’d seen them about, this survey lot, and they’d talked to some of my friends, but they seemed to leave me alone. I suppose my background wasn’t working-class enough for them. On the other hand, I hadn’t exactly gone out of my way to look welcoming whenever they turned up.

Anyway, they came across the road and filled up the café. I thought about getting out; I was gathering up my books and notepad. Then I saw her.

I couldn’t remember whether I’d seen her before. Obviously hadn’t taken much notice if I had. And I couldn’t figure out quite what it was that made her stand out. She went to sit with one of the other interviewers, a blonde who was actually a bit of a peach and rather nearer my own age. But somehow I couldn’t stop looking at her. Something in her face really held my attention. Not her features, exactly – just something about the expression on them.

She must have been nearly thirty. Her black hair looked like a throwback; heavy and dense around her head, cut well above her shoulders. Her coat was quite modern, nice-looking, but somehow it didn’t suit her and she made it look as if it was borrowed. The shirt underneath screamed "sensible", and she’d obviously never heard of minis. There was a small run in her tights; I wondered if it had just happened or if she didn’t have money to buy any more. The second possibility didn’t seem to fit with her coat – but then the coat didn’t go with the rest of her.

I shifted a little way along the café bar to get a better look. A couple of the guys tried to catch my eye but I pretended my mind was elsewhere. I flipped open one of the books and kind of let my eyes slip sideways over it to look at her.

She was the kind of woman who gets saddled with the description "handsome" because "pretty" would be an overstatement. She had nice, regular features; quite heavy eyebrows but far enough above her dark eyes to give her face a pleasant, open look. Having her hair swept back from a high forehead helped with that, too. It was a face that benefited from being fully displayed. I guess it was the nose that let her down; there was nothing wrong with it but it could have done with being just that bit smaller. And then the face was saved by that mouth. It was a good mouth, just the right size, with the top and bottom lips in perfect proportion. As I watched her she smiled wanly at something her companion said, and it made me want to see that mouth smile properly. As she moved her head I noticed a slight double-chin effect, but somehow it didn’t detract from her overall appeal.

She wasn’t wearing earrings; as far as I could make out she didn’t have any jewellery at all. As she was given her coffee cup I had to crane my neck slightly to look at her hands. No rings. Just a plain, neat watch.

I ducked back behind my book. My heart was thumping slightly. I wondered if anyone had seen me looking – whether they had noticed what I was looking at. I half-smiled to myself, realising that they’d probably think I had my eye on the blonde.

Which I should have done, of course. After all, this woman was nearly ten years older than me and she looked like a schoolteacher. What the hell was it about her that was so fascinating?

I wondered if it had something to do with the book I was holding. It was Colin Wilson’s first novel, Ritual In The Dark; I’d just got to the bit where his hero is thinking of seducing the older woman, the Jehovah’s Witness. Maybe it was that idea, the prospect of unearthing hidden passion from beneath a prim exterior, that was getting me all prickly. Certainly my girl looked like all she got into bed with was a book and mug of Horlicks.

It wasn’t that simple, though. There was something else, something I couldn’t pin down, something that made me watch her eyes as if any second she was going to give away some incredible secret just by staring straight at me. She looked – there was no other word for it – haunted. There were people talking all around her, but she just sat back and clutched at her coffee cup with both hands, lost in some other world.

So how was I going to gain entry to that world? How could I meet her?

Sometimes you get the feeling that things are just meant to be. I mean, I don’t know if I believe in fate, destiny, predestination, whatever…but sometimes, things just happen and there doesn’t seem to be any explanation. Sometimes you just have to shut your trap and go with the flow. So when Dennis Horseman plonked himself on the stool next to me, I thanked whoever it was that watched over me and let things take their course.

Dennis wasn’t exactly an intellectual – he thought The Silver Surfer was the apotheosis of philosophical thought – but he knew his way around a bass guitar like nobody I’d heard this side of Paul McCartney, and for that at least he had my grudging admiration. My musical ambitions were high, like all my aims, but in this case they were in inverse proportion to my ability. So I respected Dennis for his one talent and put up with everything else about him because I had some hopes of hearing his bass-lines beneath some lyrics of mine at some point. And I was glad to see him now because he’d just come from the Community Centre.

‘Hi, Dennis, Have y—’

‘Couldn’t spare me enough for an espresso, could you, Con?’

I sighed heavily, to make sure he knew how much of a favour I was doing him, and fished out what I could find in my pocket. It didn’t look like quite enough, but Dennis miraculously stumbled across the necessary extra in a quick rummage through his jacket pockets. ‘Ta, Con. My treat next time.’

‘Sure.’ I wasn’t going to hold my breath. And I wondered for the hundredth time if I should tell him how much I hated his shortening of my name. It’s not that I was that fond of Conrad – imagine the expressions on people’s faces when you try to explain that you’re named after the guy who played the Nazi in Casablanca – but "Con" was even worse, somehow. It was a nothing syllable, a kind of Admass word. To comfort myself I sometimes imagined what it would have been like had my father had his way – "Algernon" would have been a clear incitement to suicide, Biggles or no Biggles.

‘What’s that?’ Dennis pulled my paperback round so he could see the title. ‘Mmn. Murder story, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a bit more than that.’ I wasn’t going to explain the intricacies of Wilson’s philosophical explorations, so I dived straight into my own investigation. ‘Been doing this survey today?’

‘Mm.’ Dennis received his coffee and sipped it quickly but found it too hot and decided to answer my question more fully. ‘Yeah, they talked to us about our ambitions today. That was good. It’s…’ he paused, his mouth stretching in a grimace as he sought for words, ‘…it’s funny hearing yourself say the things out loud. "I wanna be the best bass player in the country". I thought she’d laugh at me, but she took it all pretty seriously.’

‘ "She"?’

As I’d hoped, he looked around, and I silently promised him another coffee sometime when he indicated my target with a flip of his hand. ‘Her.’

Could I ask about her without arousing his suspicions? I figured I was on pretty safe ground; he’d be thinking about his own dreams, not my sordid little fantasies. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Um…’ For a moment I wanted to hit him; could he have forgotten in the space of fifteen minutes? ‘Er…Barbara…Barbara something.’ The effort at recall clearly galvanised his brain into action; he frowned at me. ‘Why?’

‘Thought I recognised her,’ I tossed out carelessly.

‘Maybe from school,’ he suggested. ‘She used to be a teacher at Coal Hill.’

This was un-hoped for bounty. ‘Oh? How long ago was that?’

‘Dunno, she didn’t say exactly. Maybe four or five years.’

I looked at her again, glad to have an excuse. I didn’t remember her, but she must have been there at least some of the time I was. I suppose my mind was on other things; the Beatles, Lady Chatterley, or figuring out a way to meet Christine Keeler or Ursula Andress. I don’t remember fancying any of my teachers. But at least now I understood why she looked like one.

Dennis was saying something and I wasn’t paying attention. I looked at him blankly for a second until I had one of those experiences where you retrospectively understand what’s been said by sort of replaying the sound in your head. He’d told me some of her questions to him had been "funny".

‘ "Funny", how?’

‘Well, I dunno, maybe it’s something they’ve added to these surveys, with the space-walks and everything, but I didn’t expect to be asked about the universe and other planets.’

‘What did she ask you?’

Dennis frowned. ‘Dunno. Can’t remember exactly. Just kind of…had I thought about it, did I have any ideas, did I believe in UFOs – that sort of thing.’ He shrugged. ‘Probably just a personal pet thing of hers.’

‘She doesn’t look the type.’

‘I dunno – she sounds a bit like she comes from a planet where it’s still the 1950s.’

I conceded him a kind of grimace to show his wit was appreciated. I looked at her again. Barbara, her name was, then. It suited her – dependable, not exotic, intelligent but restrained.

‘I showed those songs of yours to the others.’ Dennis had reached the end of his attention span for any non-musical subject. This time, despite my stake in the proceedings, I couldn’t find it in myself to worry too much about the verdict on my lyrics. I knew I could write better, given time. But the situation seemed to demand a response so I rose nobly to the challenge.

‘Yeah? And?’

Dennis looked at me for a moment and I knew the others hadn’t been too enthusiastic. His eyes shifted around a bit and he seemed to want to hide behind his coffee cup. But he was basically too honest to evade the issue. ‘They quite liked the psychedelic one – though Jim said it was a bit too much like Lucy – but the others…’

‘They should listen to that Velvets and Nico album. Then they’d see what I’m getting at.’

‘Well, they have – we have. I think it’s a bit weird.’ He shifted on his stool, looking down at the counter. ‘And, well…Rob says you’re just writing in that style, without really having seen any of that stuff for yourself.’

I hate it when people criticise intelligently. And get it right. Ersatz Velvets was exactly what I’d given them. I’d been hoping it didn’t show so plainly. ‘Yeah, well. When I get into my stride…’ It was pleasant to find that it didn’t seem to matter too much. I looked at Barbara again and wondered what music she liked. Classical, probably, or crooners. Was she a romantic?

Dennis was talking again. He’d been trying to write songs himself, based, from what I’d seen, on the stuff he’d been reading in Marvel Comics. Now he was lamenting his own lack of experience with women. He wanted something real to put into his music. ‘Why is it so hard to meet girls?’

‘ ‘Cos you spend all your evenings shut away with the group. Wait’ll you get out and play a hall, or something. You’ll be beating them back with your bass.’

‘No fear – it cost too much.’ But my words had encouraged him. He gestured over to where Barbara was sitting. ‘Actually, I rather fancied that one. I could go for a bit of older woman – experience, you know.’

There must have been something in my face, despite my efforts to hold it back; he laughed. ‘Oh, not the teacher. What d’you think I am? The blonde – Sally Willmott, her name is. Yeah, reminds me of Patti Boyd, a bit. Don’t you think?’

I nodded, temporarily unable to speak. He had given me a shock for a moment. As I listened to my heart return to normal I decided Dennis had served his purpose for the time being and began to consider ways of getting rid of him.

‘D’y’ think she’d look at a bloke like me?’ Dennis was staring wistfully at Sally Willmott.

‘Maybe if she saw you behind your bass.’ I tried to adopt a conspiratorial tone. ‘You should ask if their survey could include watching you rehearse.’

‘Yeah…’ His face fell a little. ‘But she’s not really my interviewer – I’ve hardly spoken to her.’

‘Er…has she talked to any of the other members of the group?’

‘Jimmy.’

‘Well…suggest it to Jimmy, then.’

‘Yeah, but I think maybe he fancies her as well. And they always go for drummers, don’t they.’

I added a note of impatience to my voice. ‘You don’t know ‘til you try, do you? Jimmy’s only just seventeen. And anyway – what makes you think she hasn’t got a bloke at home?’

This did not cheer him up. And I had to remind myself that the lack of rings on Barbara’s fingers might not mean what I hoped. And then I had to remind myself that my interest in her was crazy anyway.

After Dennis left to find Jimmy I tried to invent a plausible excuse to go up to Barbara but I couldn’t come up with one. I have to admit the thought of speaking to her made me nervous. I opened Ritual and tried to get back into it but my thoughts kept flying off towards Barbara. Bloody Colin Wilson, making me think I was missing out. Eventually I gathered my stuff together and slid reluctantly off the stool. I kept hoping something would happen, some magic event that would draw attention to me, or make Barbara come over to the counter, but of course nothing materialised. I made one of those agonisingly slow walks you do past someone you really want to get to know, still racking my brains for some way of making contact. But I finally reached the door and I hadn’t come up with anything, so I opened it and took one last look back.

Barbara and Sally were getting up. I thought quickly and went out into the street. It was already dark, and pretty nippy. The stupid state I was in I couldn’t come up with anything better than the old shoelace ploy, so I knelt down just to one side of the door and watched them come out. They started walking together, towards the tube station and I straightened up slowly and ambled after them. Then I caught myself. What was I doing? What was I planning? I wasn’t some kind of weirdo – was I? What was in my mind – to follow her home? What for? I kind of mentally shook myself and stopped walking. It was Saturday evening – the survey team would be back on Monday. And that would give me time to think something out. Or maybe to get over it. With an effort I turned and went back to my digs, fighting all the way not to turn again and run after her. It’s scary how these things can get hold of you.

When I got home I managed to avoid Mrs. Muller’s tea table with some excuse about not feeling well; I locked myself up with Blonde on Blonde, which did a good job of snapping me out of it until I got to ‘Sad Eyed Lady’. It reminded me of her eyes; Barbara whatever-her-name was.

Colin Wilson wrote that he always had problems with his landladies, but I was lucky. Mrs. Muller was a friend of my mother’s, another ex-pat German who’d come over sometime in the late thirties when things got too nasty back in the Fatherland. Her relationship with my mother did mean that my actions were reported home, but that was more than balanced by Mrs. Muller’s literary and philosophical leanings, which enabled her to take an indulgent view of my semi-reclusive behaviour and odd comings-and-goings. She did try to keep foisting German literature on me, but at least that introduced me to Hesse a lot sooner than I might have discovered him for myself. (Wilson had written about Hesse, of course, and he was becoming all the rage across campuses, but it’s one thing to be aware of an author and quite another to have the cash to actually get the books. Mrs. Muller had nearly everything he’d written—in German and English.)

So apart from a couple of tentative enquiries about whether I wanted to eat, I was left alone on the Sunday. I stayed in my room all day and got fed up with the news being full of Concorde and wished I’d been able to buy that Velvets album. It would have just suited a wet December Sunday in one of the dirtiest parts of London.

I was supposed to be writing a fantasy novel, or at least planning it, but somehow the day slipped by listening to records and staring out the window. I have too many Sundays like that. I suppose this was different, in that I was trying to get to grips with a specific problem, but I can’t pretend I made any real progress. My thinking tends to be a bit unfocussed unless I write things down, and it just wasn’t the kind of day to sit at my desk and think things through properly. Aimless daydreaming went with that sort of weather.

After most of a day spent procrastinating I usually get annoyed and make myself do something – and then wish I’d done it hours earlier. Somehow, even knowing that I have this habit doesn’t make it any easier to break it. This special Sunday was par for the course in that respect; about seven in the evening I grabbed a pen and plonked myself at the desk, my hand twitching over a scrap of paper while I tried to think of a methodical approach to the Barbara problem. Eventually I just listed everything I knew; ex-teacher, survey interviewer, serious type, probably not well off, no rings, maybe some kind of interest in space travel.

The last item seemed so irrelevant I almost crossed it out, but looking at what little I had I decided I couldn’t afford to ignore any possibilities. In fact it occurred to me that this space business might be the only point of connection between us. I’d read Dune recently, and I had a nodding acquaintance with a few of the other SF classics of the last couple of decades. Plus, I suddenly remembered, I had a stack of six or seven paperbacks I’d picked up from a market a few weeks back. I rooted them out – coming across about a dozen other things that cried out to be read immediately – and spread them on my desk. The covers were eye-catching enough to distract anyone who passed within a few feet. But would they be the right bait to hook my woman?

Going to work on Monday was even more painful than usual. Mr. Stephenson was actually in the shop most of the morning so I couldn’t read any of the magazines. He kept asking me to make myself busy, and there’s only so many times you can replace the single chocolate bar you’ve just sold. After the first rush for the papers Monday mornings are always dead, anyway; that’s why he tends to leave me on my own. There’s barely enough work even for one person.

Things got better when he went home for lunch and Mary came in. Mary works hard herself but doesn’t seem to care what I do. Maybe she realises I’m too good for the place and I’m destined for better things. Or maybe she’s too soft on me; sometimes I wish she’d tell Stephenson how little I do so that he’d get rid of me. I’m not sure how I’d cope with sudden unemployment but I think maybe a little shock would shake me up, make me do something. The afternoons are a bit busier, anyway, especially when the kids start coming past , so I guess we do need two at that time – and at least Stephenson knows I don’t take money from the till like the guy I replaced. I suppose it could be a lot worse – I’d hate to be stuck in an office or on a production line.

Somehow I made it through the day. I’d warned Mrs. Muller I was going on somewhere else after work, so I gathered up my bulging bag and went straight to the coffee bar. I saw one or two guys going into the Community Centre, so it looked like they were doing some more interviewing. There was no guarantee they’d come across for a java afterwards, of course, but most evenings they did. And I wondered again why I hadn’t noticed Barbara before.

I bought coffee and a cake with some money Mary had lent me, and spread myself over the table nearest the door, so anyone would have to pass me on the way in and out. I decided that writing would look more interesting than reading, so I displayed the few notes I’d managed to make for my fantasy novel, took one of the half-filled pages and made occasional marks on it with my pen.

My concentration wasn’t good; I was all over the place. I told myself several times how stupid it was, how it wouldn’t work anyway, that she must have a husband or at least a fiancé, that if anyone found out what I was up to I wouldn’t be able to venture out for at least a year…I kept glancing over at the Centre and then I started to worry that the staff would notice what I was up to. I made an effort to discipline myself and started to browse through one of the books.

I had just got to the point of starting to take an interest in what I was reading when there was a mass exodus from the Centre. I saw Dennis and was relieved when he broke from the main group with a couple of members of his group and went off up the road. Monday was usually their song-writing session, I recalled.

About half the interviewees came into the café. One or two of them nodded to me, but they were all talking about the questions they’d answered and that seemed to preclude non-participants. Which was a relief.

I had a few very nervous minutes, as the Centre seemed to close down and there was no sign of my quarry. But then I saw them coming from around the back of the building, her and the blonde. You know the sensation at moments like that; it feels as if your whole body’s gone on red alert. I looked at her as she approached and thought; what do I see in this creature? I remembered Dennis’ reaction when I had mistaken his interest. I dropped my eyes as they came into the café, and thought: it must be the primness about her, the challenge. I watched her back as the two of them went up to the counter, and found I couldn’t even take an interest in her figure. It wasn’t as if I was being shown much of it, I suppose, except for her calves, but somehow I had no wish to see her body. It must be something about her face, I decided – something in those eyes. Or was I just desperate?

They came and sat quite close to me – only one small table between theirs and mine – and I could half-hear their conversation. Annoyingly, the girl called Sally did most of the talking, mostly about a bloke she couldn’t decide whether to keep on seeing. Barbara seemed to just listen; occasionally she would ask careful, pointed questions. It sounded to me like she was leading Sally Willmott towards her own conclusions. I liked that; it revealed sensitivity and restraint.

But I had missed the first good opportunity; neither of them had spared me a glance when they came in. Was I prepared to wait ‘til they left and hope, or should I try to precipitate some kind of incident? Short of throwing a book at them, I couldn’t think of anything.

I assessed the state of my finances and decided on another cup of coffee; maybe Barbara would look at my table while I was at the counter. I propped my hardback of Dune against a pile of the paperbacks so the cover was facing in the right direction and took a slightly awkward route up to the bar so I could pass directly behind her. I caught a faint whiff of a perfume I didn’t recognise; that is, it didn’t smell like any of the stuff worn by the girls I knew.

It was bloody difficult to resist the urge to look back while I was getting my coffee, but I managed it by concentrating fixedly on the counter, which led the girl serving me to ask if I was all right. I told her I was just thinking about something, in a tone that I hoped hinted at deep mysteries. Then I gave her my best Dirk Bogarde smile, world-weary but charming, and sauntered back to the table.

It was difficult to tell whether I’d achieved anything. They were still talking, although they seemed to have moved on to contemplating the next step in the survey. Barbara sounded a little insecure about her part in the proceedings, for reasons I couldn’t make out, and Sally was reassuring her. There were still no clues about Barbara’s personal life; I couldn’t even work out whether she might be sharing digs with Sally.

Eventually I heard Sally say something about needing to get ready for a date. Then she paused and asked Barbara why she didn’t come along. I stared unseeingly at the back of one of my books, trying to watch them out of the corner of my eye, and all but held my breath as I waited for Barbara’s reply.

‘Somehow I think Mike would be less than enthusiastic about my presence.’

‘He wouldn’t mind. He likes you.’

‘How long is it since you’ve seen each other? How long was he up in Nottingham?’

Sally’s reply was very low: ‘Nearly a fortnight.’

‘Then he definitely won’t want me around. It’s kind of you, Sally, but I have plenty to do, really. Go out and enjoy yourself.’

Barbara took her handbag from where it hung on the chair, but Sally had not moved as I looked up. The blonde’s tongue flicked across her lips as if she was slightly nervous. ‘Have you…seen Ian lately?’

Barbara’s mouth firmed into a line for a moment before she replied. ‘Not for a while.’

‘You should ring him.’

‘Not…yet.’ Barbara brought her bag in front of her and opened it. She stared into it for a moment, as if trying to remember why she had opened it, then snapped it shut again. ‘There are one or two things I have to work out first.’

‘Even he won’t wait forever.’

‘I wouldn’t expect him to.’ Barbara reached behind her and slipped her coat from the other side of the chair. ‘Perhaps he shouldn’t. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to live life the way he wants to.’

Sally still had not moved. She put a hand across the table, resting it on Barbara’s wrist. ‘You never told me exactly what it was between you – what caused the problems.’

Barbara took a deep breath. ‘A different way of looking at things, that’s all.’

‘Then why—’

Barbara removed her hand from under Sally’s and stood up, pulling on her coat. ‘It’s difficult to explain, Sally. There were some things that Ian and I shared that we couldn’t talk about to anyone else.’

‘During your elopement? But what could have hap—’

‘Sally…please.’

Sally stood up slowly. ‘I’m sorry. Of course it’s none of my business.’ She caught up her own coat. ‘I just don’t like to see you…’ She grimaced, obviously unwilling to complete the thought aloud.

‘I’m all right,’ Barbara assured her, smiling slightly.

‘But you should call Ian.’

Barbara’s smile tightened. ‘I’ll think about it.’

They turned towards the door. The suddenness of their movement made me jump slightly, and the copy of Dune I’d propped against the others slid off the table as I jogged the pile. Before I could recover myself enough to reach down Barbara was there, bending easily with her mass of dark hair so close I could have ruffled it with the faintest breath.

She glanced at the book, turning it over as she straightened up. Then she stopped, looking at the cover. Her eyes came up and met mine.

‘Th-thanks,’ I managed, squeezing the words past my heart.

She smiled automatically, holding out the book, but her eyes were serious. ‘Have you read this yet?’ At my nod, she went on: ‘What did you think of it? Aridius is very well realised, didn’t you think?’

‘Arrakis,’ I said automatically.

‘I’m sorry..?’

‘The planet’s called Arrakis.’ My voice sounded girlishly high to me. I tried to take a deep breath.

She was frowning. She put the book on the table, hardly seeming to see it any more. ‘Yes. Arrakis. Of course.’ Her eyes fell on the stack of paperbacks. ‘You read a lot of science fiction?’

‘Some. The good stuff.’ I found it difficult to look at her and followed her example, directing my eyes to the books.

‘Barbara…’ Sally’s voice was low.

Barbara turned her head. ‘Yes. I’m sorry. We should go.’

You don’t have a date, I tried to remind her silently. She looked again at the books and then at me. ‘You come here quite often, don’t you? I’m sure I’ve seen you before.’

I nodded, then realised I had hardly said a syllable to her, and tried to think of some more vocal response. ‘I sometimes meet some of my friends here – the ones you’re interviewing.’

If she was surprised that I knew anything about what she as doing she didn’t show it. She looked at me for a moment, unspeaking, her mouth moving slightly. ‘Perhaps…perhaps we…would you be interested in talking about some of these things?’ She gestured at the books.

I tried to look as if the idea hadn’t occurred to me, aware of Sally hovering with gentle impatience. ‘Uhh…well, yeah. Sure. Not much opportunity around here to talk to anyone about it. Most of the guys aren’t really readers.’ I realised I sounded superior and hated myself for it. ‘Uh, when?’

She hesitated. How about now, I was thinking, but I couldn’t find the nerve to suggest it. I couldn’t let her feel this was anything but a chance meeting.

‘Will you be here tomorrow?’

I tried to take it slow, appearing to think about it. ‘I can be.’

‘All right.’ She glanced at her watch, an automatic action. ‘We finish just after seven ,usually. So – I’ll see you here about…quarter past?’

‘Okay.’

I sat there in something of a daze after that. Mostly I was wondering what I’d done. What was I trying to achieve? What did I hope for? Did I really want to go the whole hog – try to get her into bed? I mean, she wasn’t even sexy. Was she? I couldn’t work it out. There was something about her, but what was it? What was it?

Unable to find answers to any of my questions, I went home and tried to put it out of my mind by watching television with Mrs. Muller. It worked for a while, but when I went to bed Barbara came back into my head and settled there, nagging at me until I fell asleep.