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studying English.’
    ‘I’m Damon,’ he replies. ‘Damon Guest. And I’m doing life sciences.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘I have no idea. I ended up here through Clearing.’ He pauses. ‘So tell me, Alison Smith, why shouldn’t I buy this record?’
    ‘Because it’s terrible. Boney M – they’re rubbish.’
    ‘But it’s only twenty-five p.’
    ‘That’s twenty-five p too much,’ I say, and take the single off his pile and put it back in the rack.
    Friday, 20 October 1989
    5.47 p.m.
    ‘So how did your date with devilishly handsome Damon go?’ asks Jane, as we sit on the edge of her bed, half watching the late-afternoon repeat of Neighbours on her portable TV.
    ‘Great,’ I say. ‘We went for a drink in the Varsity.’
    ‘On the Bristol Road?’
    ‘That’s the one. He drank Coke all night because he said he doesn’t like the way alcohol tastes.’
    Jane laughs. ‘What a girl.’
    ‘I know, but you know what?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I don’t know why but that seemed to make me like him even more.’
    Jane groans. ‘Okay, so what did you talk about?’
    ‘Music, mainly. He’s passionate – and I do mean passionate – about music. He plays guitar really well apparently. He was in a band back in his home town but they’ve split up now.’
    Jane laughs. ‘You should hook him up with that weird boy who tried to snog you at the beginning of term.’
    ‘Don’t remind me,’ I say, shuddering. ‘I can’t imagine his band was any good.’ I smile, thinking of Damon. ‘I love that he loves music. There’s something about a man with a passion for a particular activity that is incredibly sexy. Obviously trainspotting, stamp-collecting and suchlike are exceptions to the rule, but with music you’d be hard pressed to get much cooler. I managed to bluff my way through the conversation because I’ve heard of some of the bands he mentioned on Radio One. Later we talked about what we want to do with our lives. He told me he wants to work in the music industry and I told him about my plan to be a novelist.’
    ‘You sound like a right pair of pretentious idiots,’ says Jane, laughing.
    ‘I know, but it gets worse. I spent most of the night imagining us living together. Me writing novels in the spare room of our house and him in the living room surrounded by hundreds of records.’
    ‘So all you did was talk, then?’
    ‘No. He walked me back to mine and we kissed.’
    ‘How was it?’
    ‘Fantastic.’

1991
    Friday, 11 January 1991
    10.45 p.m.
    An hour ago – with Ed, a second-year biologist, on drums, Ruth, a first-year maths student on guitar, Nick on bass and me on vocals – all my dreams came true. Captain Magnet, the band I dreamed of forming, played their first gig on the small stage in the upstairs room at the Jug of Ale in Moseley to a crowd of ten people. It was fantastic. Better than I could ever have imagined.
    It’s all over now. Ed and Ruth have gone home and Nick and I are sitting in the downstairs bar. We’ve been talking about the gig solidly since we stepped off stage and now that the topic is wearing thin I decide to offer up another conversational gambit on a subject close to my heart. ‘It’s all very well being the lead singer in a band,’ I say, more loudly than advisable in an overcrowded pub, ‘but I need a woman. And I need a woman now.’
    ‘Things can’t be that bad,’ says Nick.
    ‘They’re awful,’ I say. ‘I thought university was supposed to be a hotbed of depravity. I want my share. Do you know how many girls I’ve been involved with since I started university?’
    ‘No, but you’re going to tell me, aren’t you?’
    ‘One,’ I reply. ‘Linda Braithwaite.’
    ‘The dodgy semi-Goth from Freshers’ Night who you managed to get off with a further two times?’
    ‘I know,’ I say, shaking my head sadly. ‘I have no shame.’ I take another sip of my pint.
    ‘Your love-life’s a mess, mate.’
    ‘I know it is, which is why . . .’ My