But his photographs – those she could dreamily get lost in. She called up his Photogram and Deviant Art pages and drifted through his night-lit streetscapes for a while.

Funny to think he might not have even come back to her flat. Intimacy had been quite uncomfortable to start with, like being watched making love. It wouldn’t have worked with anyone else – it was almost as if they’d measured the chemistry, the endorphins and pheromones slithering between Vincent and her. It was almost as if the activities on their date were deliberately chosen to match them. Thinking back, that’s probably exactly what happened. There was probably a variety of set routines and they simply selected one for each participant when they saw them sitting down – it would have been easy to choose the sexiest routine for Petra and Vincent, pegged as randy first-flushers the moment they came through the door. Though it was a little awkward at the start, and she thought she’d totally blown it by the middle, messing up the instructions, by the end their fingers were threaded and their eyes were locked – according to the script, yes, but it felt like they could have sat there, intertwined, forever.

Alone in her room, she played ‘Ghost Town’ a few times. It was surprisingly mellow for a protest song, but it was catchy and she could see how it might go viral – she could imagine gangs of disaffected kids using that out-of-kilter singsong refrain as a taunt to police during the riots in 1981. Laid back, angry, resigned, the song was a bit of them all – a lot like her image of Vincent.

That memory refuelling her this evening, Petra picked up her phone and texted Vincent before thinking too much.

<Petra: Heya. How’re you doing?>

<Vincent (two hours later): Not too bad. You?>

<Petra: Very well. I had fun on Friday. I’d like to get together again if you’re keen.>

<Vincent: Sure>

<Petra: Okay. Great. When? Where? Any place you like to go?>

<Vincent: I’m easy.>

<Petra: Glad to hear it >

* * *

‘It’s so good to see you,’ Petra said, opening her arms. Vincent rewarded her with an enveloping hug, his hand moving up her back and to the nape of her neck in a way that made her want to cancel drinks and go straight back home with him. When they broke it up he stepped back and assessed her with a sigh, and it was clear he was thinking the same thing.

Thursday evening was the new Friday evening by the looks of the Ragged Boar. The pub was heaving inside, full of workers denying there was still another day at the office this week, but they managed to squeeze inside and find a quieter side room upstairs.

‘I hope I wasn’t harassing you too much, being too forward.’

She wasn’t sure if she’d been too forward or too uncool texting him on Monday night. The fact was she wanted to see him, and she liked to think of herself as far enough from teendom not to worry about being cool. Vincent’s monosyllabic text style had been a little hard to read, but here he was, his warm smile and open face, and she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. Some people just were better at real-life conversations than texts.