The Beginning

It was a late afternoon in February 1993 and I had just entered the dingy, Student Union bar. I saw her coming towards me across the 1930s parquet floor: orange, green and mustard striped jeans, red lips, auburn hair. She greeted the friend I was with. A moment; and then we were introduced. Much later, Ann told me she had only come over because of me. She thought I looked like William Shatner when I smiled.

The three of us sat and chatted. In the manner of these things, three became four, four became seven and, eventually, there must have been fifteen of us grouped around a couple of chipped tables. Amongst the overflowing ashtrays, plastic pint glasses and circulating spliffs, comfortable within the security of the raucous babble, Ann and I began our journey.

The idea was to go to the King's Head in Upper Street, then on to a tiny, all-night, salsa club above Ronnie Scott's in the West End. The King's Head still spoke in 'old money' - a pint was thirty shillings. But Ann and I fell back from the group almost as soon as we emerged from the basement on to Highbury Barn. I remember that we looked at one another and smiled.

"Where did you two disappear to last night?" My friend asked the following day as we waited for a seminar to begin. I think I shrugged noncommittally.

In fact, as the others were doubtless shouting their drink orders above the din in the King's Head, Ann and I were chatting easily in a little Turkish restaurant opposite the college. I don't recall the name of the place, but it served good food and was cheap enough for students to dine occasionally. I hope it's still there.

Ann lived in Finsbury Park. At about midnight, we left the restaurant and I walked her home. I had never seen such a compact flat. The door opened on to a small room, perhaps 10' by 12'. To the right, a kitchen area: a two-ring hob, a sink and a free-standing fridge which was clearly designed to be built-in to a cabinet. That same fridge finally fulfilled its manufacturer's ambitions when it was built into our kitchen here in Kent. What was left of the room was filled with a double futon bed. A doorway led to a lavatory and shower-stall. Everywhere, there were books. Every wall supported shelves brimming with books. Books were stacked dangerously high in pile after pile around the floor. A stack of books served as a bedside table. But it was clean.

We sat on the futon, drank coffee and talked. In the years since, Ann delighted in telling people that I tricked her that night. Ann knew her art and she knew her literature. I know just enough to fool some of the people, some of the time. But, that night, I was lucky. I got away with it.

I left at about 9 the following morning. We had talked all night. We hadn't touched. Our first kiss was like our last: a kiss goodbye.