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it be to track her down? The excitement of that thought now took hold of Brian’s brain, in the remarkable absence of the obvious question. Why? Why would he want to?
    And the reason the question wasn’t asked was the reason so many queries go unproposed. Brian, although he was in no position to recognise the condition, was in the grip of the first stage of that thing we call love. A whole new form of attraction. Deep, unseen, disturbing. At that very moment the reverberations began, harmonising from cell to cell, sending their message of love unseen through the blood, stiffening the sinews and clouding the brain. And Brian was defenceless against the invasion. All he could do was be aware of the strange new thoughts floating through his head. Maybe this had been a lucky break.

Fantasies
    Malcolm didn’t believe in luck. He preferred to believe in Mathematics. With Mathematics it was a fairly simple matter to show that life’s cosmic coincidences, rather than being shaped by strange and mystical undercurrents, were in fact the simple and inevitable consequence of random pattern generation. In a world of over six billion people, the day when some of them weren’t winning lotteries, seeing visions, or having premonitions, that would be the day to look for a divine explanation.
    So when Charlotte rang out of the blue and explained (rather awkwardly Malcolm thought, for such an attractive woman) she would like to contribute to his research, he did not thank the gods for their intervention. Rather he accepted it as just one of those things that had to happen somewhere, at some time, to somebody; and he did so with a satisfied shrug and the faint stirring of an erection.
    Not believing in luck meant more than just meeting the unexpected with a knowing smile. It meant being prepared; because if luck wasn’t going to do it for you, you had to look after yourself. So Malcolm bathed twice, then showered for good measure. He shaved, although it was barely necessary, sprayed deodorant, put on his very best clothes, which he had spent fifteen minutes ironing, then gave a further half hour to the biggest decision of all: whether to conduct the interview in the bedroom or the lounge. (The bedroom, with its superior acoustics, eventually won through.)
    Finally he nipped down to the supermarket and bought himself a 12-pack of spermicide reinforced condoms, two of which he put in his back pocket. Not that he was expecting sex immediately; he would be more than happy with a good interview and an initial canvassing of the subject. In fact, truth be known, any instant request for performance would quite unsettle him, for the sorry fact was that despite all his research to date he was no closer to knowing how to do it. That is to say, he couldn’t be certain (in the exact technical way he liked to be certain) which acts he would be expected to carry out, for how long or in which order. He had downloaded some porn in an attempt to clarify matters but it had been of no more use than footage of a Formula One car race would be of use to someone wishing to learn to drive.
    Charlotte arrived early, dressed all in black. Boots, pants beneath some petticoat type thing, crop top, beret and a jacket it was far too warm for.
    ‘Ah, hi,’ Malcolm started, cursing the stammer he heard in his voice. ‘Um, there’s no one home. Mum’s on night shift, she’s a nurse, and my sister’s at university now.’
    He had no idea why he said any of that, and now he was having to consciously drag his eyes up to her face as he spoke. God, this was awful.
    ‘Um, my bedroom’s this way.’
    And now it was worse. For whatever reason, she smiled and said nothing, and even followed as he led her upstairs. He was determined to say nothing more. Then Charlotte matched Malcolm silent pause for silent pause while he showed her where to stand and pretended to busy himself checking the camera set-up. It was as if they were training together for a mime competition.