He picked up the first book from the pile, slammed it back down again.

Betty was serious, intense. Was she just another bluestocking, too unsure of herself to let go? Or was there a deeper reason? She wasn’t beautiful, but she was striking, and mysterious. Though, if he was honest, most women were to him.

No matter he didn’t have her surname. ‘Miss Betty c/o Barstow’s’ would find her. If he was keen, that is. Otherwise, forget her. On second thoughts, he could play for time by trying to find out her real name. It was juvenile to write ‘Miss Betty c/o Barstow’s’, the sort of thing one of his love-struck sixth-formers would do. He’d write to the boss, or Personnel if it was a big enough company, get her proper name. He didn’t need to contact her today, after all. And if he wrote on the school notepaper, then whoever read it would see he wasn’t some crank but a respectable citizen. He’d ask the secretary if he could borrow her typewriter. A typed letter would make it more official.

§

The reply came a week later. Miss Bette Fisher. Bette? They must have made a typing mistake. She was Betty, a common-or-garden diminutive Elizabeth.

He found it hard to concentrate these days at the best of times. Found himself setting translations and comprehension tests more than was strictly necessary while he sauntered over to the classroom window and gazed up at the clouds squatting over the city, the tips of the chestnut trees around the playground beginning to glow green with the promise of spring. She worked in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. On Monday it would be five weeks since he’d met her, and he’d made no move to contact her even though he thought about her all the time.

A letter had come by second post and was waiting in his pigeonhole. It was marked Personal. He slit the envelope along the top with his finger, and pulled out the contents. It was folded over, written on a small sheet of blue Basildon Bond paper, the brand he used to write his letters. Dear John. He skimmed to the bottom of the letter. Yours sincerely, Betty.

The writing danced and bowed. She had made the first move, beaten him to it. The secretary was staring at him across the teapot. She raised an eyebrow.

‘You’ve gone very pale.’

John could feel the smile climb along his lips and into his cheeks and finally settle around his eyes.