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looked over his shoulder, holding my gaze for a second or two.
    ‘No,’ he said firmly, then he jogged down the steps and turned the corner, out of sight. A moment later, the heavy front door creaked on its springs and banged shut.
    For the next hour or so, I did nothing much except hate myself.
    All this heartache because of me: stupid me who’d thought horniness was reason enough to fuck; stupid me with stupid fantasies about some guy across the street who happened to have got his dick out the other evening; who happened to know my name and number; who happened to have asked me what I thought about when I masturbated; who happened to have returned home recently after several days away.
    Shit. Though my mind was spinning the needle kept getting stuck. Faceless man. Faceless man. I wanted to be in the mood to open my curtains again and see what, if anything, was happening in his window. But I had no game-playing spirit. I was too sad, too drained.
    I pottered round my flat, flicked the TV on and off, thumbed a book, lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling. I wished I didn’t like sex so much; wished you could get it without the strings that tangle everything up. A relationship where sex and friendship are separate – was it really as impossible as it seemed? Maybe I could pay somebody to fuck me. Or maybe I could be a whore, a special whore who worked according to ‘Beth’s Prerogative’: I get to choose the punters.
    I debated whether to phone Martin. I could suggest meeting up to try to talk things through. But then, I reasoned, my motivation was purely selfish. I wanted to stop him from going to his brother’s because I’d miss him. Me, me, me. I decided not phoning was more generous, more loving.
    I had a shower and thought of Lady Macbeth trying to wash away her crime then going bonkers because her brain was still stained. But I felt better for my little water – cleansed of sweat if not cleared of my deed. I got dressed, changed my top and put the radio on. Bit by bit, I distanced myself from the afternoon.
    And, bit by bit, my fingers grew twitchy about the curtains. It was early evening – softly light – when I opened them. I was nervous. If he were still standingthere, wouldn’t that mean he was dangerous and deranged? Normal people didn’t stare at drawn curtains. And yet I wanted him to be there. I wanted him to be dangerous and deranged.
    I was disappointed. His window was lifeless.
    I was cross with myself for being so foolish and desperate. But I rose above it. I stood there, willing him, challenging him to step into view. He’d started this intrusive exchange; he’d watched me getting off with Martin. I was damned if it wasn’t my turn now; damned if I was going to wait to be summoned.
    Whether he could see me from somewhere, or whether it was mere coincidence, I don’t know. But within a shortish while he moved into the frame of his window and took up his staring post.
    My heart pounded. Excitement. Terror. We just stayed there, looking over at each other; rabbits and headlights stuff. And, just like the last time, I didn’t know what to do.
    So I stood perfectly still. After all, the last time
I’d
made the first move, hadn’t I? I’d stripped off my top and he’d simply copied me. Well, this time, he’d have to take the initiative. I was out of ideas.
    I psyched myself up to mirror him. Whatever he did, I would follow. Would I have the nerve, though? Everywhere I looked there were uncurtained windows. But if he was bold enough, maybe I could be bold too.
    As it happened, I wasn’t given the chance. His only move was to walk away from his window: ‘away’ as in I could no longer see him; ‘away’ as in he was no longer interested.
    ‘Bastard!’ I spat. He’d beaten me again. I wished I’d done it first. I wished I’d walked away: cool, casual, indifferent, bored. Bastard.
    I turned, resolving to forget it, to get on with the book I was supposed to be reviewing.
    The phone