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is either too experienced (as he would have you believe) or his hormones are too depleted to have his cool blown for too long, nods sombrely. — Next Monday, Miss Fuller-Smith.
    — Nikki, please, I grin, tossing my head sideways.
    — Next Monday, McClymont humphs and starts to tidy up: his bony, knotted hands stiffly tugging at his papers and cramming them into his case.
    To win at anything requires persistence. I persist. — I really, really, really enjoyed the lecture? I beam at him.
    He raises his head and gives a sly grin. — Good, he says curtly.
    I flush with this small victory as Lauren and I head for the refectory. — This film studies seminar group? What’s the talent like?
    Lauren frowns darkly as she considers the potential hassles ahead, all the possible visitors to the flat; the ones who may be untidy, the ones who may ponce, the potentially unruly. — There’s one or two that’s okay. I usually sit next to this guy Rab. He’s a bit older, maybe about thirty, but he’s awright.
    — Shaggable? I ask.
    — Nikki, you’re terrible, she says shaking her head.
    — I’m a free agent! I protest, as we down our coffees and make our way to the class.
    The tutor is an intense guy with long hands. His spindly frame and round shoulders twist him into a posture so perfect for gazing at his navel. When he talks it’s in a soft, low southern Irish accent. The class is underway and we watch a short Russian film with an unpronouncable title on video. It’s nonsense. Halfway through it, a guy in a blue jacket with an Italian label comes in, and nods a curt apology at the tutor. He smiles at Lauren and raises his eyebrows, and slumps into the seat next to her.
    I glance at him and he does back at me, very briefly.
    After the lecture, Lauren introduces him as Rab. He’s friendly, but not gushing, which I quite like. About five ten, not overweight, light-brown hair, brown eyes. We go down to the union for a drink and talk about the course. This Rab’s not the sort of guy who immediately stands out in a crowd, which is strange because he’s quite handsome. It’s a very conventional handsome, however, the type you fuck between serious boyfriends. After a beer he heads to the toilet. — He’s got a nice arse, I tell her. — You fancy him?
    Lauren shakes her head in a dismissive pout. — He’s got a girlfriend and she’s expecting a kid.
    — I didn’t ask for his CV, I tell her, — I just asked you if you fancied him.
    Lauren nudges me quite sharply with her elbow and calls me daft. She’s a puritanical girl in a lot of ways, and seems a bit out of time, as in old-fashioned. I love the almost translucent skin she has, the hair scraped back and her glasses are really sexy, as are the precise dainty movements of her hands. She’s a slender, graceful and self-contained nineteen-year-old, and I sometimes wonder if she’s ever had a serious boyfriend. By which I suppose I mean, I wonder if she’s ever been fucked. Of course, I’m far too fond of her to tell that I know that she’s adopted those feminist politics because she’s basically a small-town prude who needs a good shagging.
    She habitually goes with this Rab lad for a drink, to talk film and moan about the course. Well, now this is a ménage à trois . Rab’s got that world-weary, I’ve-done-it-all-before aspect to him. I think he likes Lauren’s maturity and intelligence. I wonder if he fancies her, because she likes him, you can tell a mile away. Well, if it’s maturity he wants, I’m almost twenty-five.
    Rab returns and sets up a round of drinks. He tells me that he works in his brother’s bar as a means of raising extra cash. I tell him that I do sauna work some afternoons and evenings. He’s intrigued at this, as most people are. Cocking his head to the side, he gives me a searching look, which totally changes his face. — Ye dinnae . . . well, eh, you know . . .
    Lauren puckers her thin little mouth in distaste.
    — Sleep with