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‘Little Miss Liberated?’ Malcolm mimicked Jean's furious blinking, sucking in his cheeks, patting his hair.

We dissolved into hysterics again, just as the door behind us opened.

‘I take it this is where the staff take their ciggie breaks?’

I swung around to see a tall, quietly amused figure, tapping the end of his own cigarette on a packet of Rothmans.

‘Oh.’ I struggled for composure. ‘Well, not really. It's just – you know – a bit hot in there. But we must go back.’ I stubbed my cigarette out hurriedly.

Doctor Hamilton lit up and blew the smoke over my head. ‘I wouldn't worry. She's paused for a breather. I think everyone needs a drink after that.’

‘Has she finished?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Well, thank the Lord,’ said Malcolm with feeling. ‘I'd better go and charge the Lambrusco glasses. Lovely to meet you, incidentally.’ He extended a hand and flashed a dazzling smile. ‘Malcolm Harding.’

‘Anthony Hamilton,’ smiled Anthony, shaking hands.

‘I'll cover for you, angel,’ breathed Malcolm as he went to go in. ‘You catch your breath.’

‘What is going on out here?’ The fire door swung back and Jean appeared, looking like Brünnhilde, glowering furiously. ‘Malcolm! The white wine, please. And, Evie, what on earth are you doing luring our guest out here?’ Oh, she had to be vulgar, didn't she?

Malcolm came to my rescue. ‘Evie doesn't feel very well. She was getting some air.’

‘Well, she'd better go home then, hadn't she?’ Jean snapped sourly. ‘Go on, Evie, go and get your bus. Malcolm and I will manage tonight. Doctor Hamilton, shall we?’ She opened the door to usher him back in, Uriah Heep-style, bending low, pussycat smile in place.

‘Actually, I ought to be going too.’ He turned to me. ‘If you're not feeling well, I'll give you a lift. You don't want to get a bus. Where are you going?’

‘Um, just past Magdalen Bridge,’ I stuttered.

‘Oh, perfect, I'm at Balliol. Just round the corner.’ Nowhere near. He smiled at Jean. ‘Thank you so much. It's been a very enjoyable evening and, um, very… informative too. The small amount I caught of it. So sorry I've got to fly.’

Jean looked ready to spontaneously combust. Malcolm ushered her away like a nurse with a mental patient, pausing only to turn and flash me a meaningful, delighted grin.

‘I'll just get my coat,’ I muttered to Anthony as we went back through the shop together. I lunged to grab it from behind the counter, avoiding Jean's furious eye, then scampered to join him as he waited for me at the door.

My heart was pounding, and naturally I couldn't think of a thing to say as I walked with him to his car, a beaten-up old Citroën parked down the road. Happily, his savoir-faire gene was more developed than mine.

‘Feeling better?’ he enquired as we got in and put our seat belts on. He flashed me a knowing smile as we pulled out into the traffic.

‘Much,’ I grinned back. ‘I'm afraid poetry readings tend to have that effect on me.’ I couldn't believe I was in his car. I looked around greedily, knowing I'd want to remember later. Polos on the dashboard; papers strewn in the back; nicely messy.

‘You're not a fan then?’

‘What? Oh, no, I love poetry. It's just… not that particular type.’

‘Oh, right. What type d'you like?’ I realized he was interested. Damn. But luckily I knew the names of some poets. Crikey, I lined up their volumes often enough. I threw some out.

‘Oh, you know, Keats, Sylvia Plath, Pam Ayres, that sort of thing.’

He smiled. ‘Fairly eclectic.’

‘Oh, yes, I like the Eclectic Poets.’ Possibly a group, like the Romantic Poets, whom I'd heard of.

He laughed. Why? No matter. Here I was in his car, snuggled up in my coat beside him, looking at his terribly attractive square profile. Heaven.

‘You must be in clover then, working in a bookshop. Ample opportunity.’

To pick up square-jawed men? No. Perhaps not. ‘Well, quite,’ I enthused, coming to. ‘I'm always reading. I read copiously.’ Good word, Evie.

‘Novels?’

‘Oh, novels,’ I gushed. ‘Can't get enough of them.’ Now I really could be honest. ‘All the time, actually – well, when Jean isn't looking,