They walked to the lock at Camden; she didn't feel like walking very far. They spent most of the afternoon in a poster shop, looking, then in a cafe. She wouldn't walk back; they got the tube from Camden Town to the Angel.

In the train, in the tunnel, he asked her things he'd often wanted to ask, but never dared. There was a sort of noisy anonymity about the rattling carriage which made him feel safe.

He asked her about Stock; had she come to London for him?

She said nothing for a long time, then shook her head.

She had come to escape, to get away. The city was big enough to hide in, to become lost in and anyway she knew a few people here; Slater was one. Stock was here too, but she had no illusions, never had had any illusions, about the permanency of their relationship. She was here, she said, to be herself, to find her way again. Stock was... something she still needed, even yet; something to hold on to; a devil she knew, immovable in the change and flux of her life.

She knew they weren't suited to each other, really; she didn't love him, but she couldn't give him up just yet. Besides, he wasn't the sort it was easy to give up.

She stopped talking then, as though she thought she had already said more than she should have. She looked at Graham after a moment, put her hand to his cheek, said, "I'm sorry, Graham; you're good for me, I love talking to you. That means a lot. You don't know how much."

He put his hand on hers, held it. She gave a brave little smile. "I'm glad I'm good for you," he said (keeping his voice down; there were people nearby), "but I don't want to be just like a brother to you."

Her expression froze at that, and his heart seemed to sink into his guts as he realised he'd almost said the wrong thing. But she smiled again and said, "I'd understand if you didn't want to see me any more," and looked down, away from him, at her feet. She took her hand away. He hesitated at first, then put his hand on her shoulder.

That's not what I meant," he said. "I love seeing you. I'd miss you terribly if... well, if you went away." He paused, bit his lip lightly for a second, "But I don't know what you're doing. I don't know what your plans are; if you're going to stay here or go or what. I just feel uncertain."

"Join the club," she said. She looked at him, touched his hand where it rested on her shoulder. "I think I'll stay. I'm applying for the R.C.M. I had a place there if I'd wanted it, three... four years ago, but I didn't go. Now I might get a place there, this time. If they'll have me."

He bit his lip. What to do; admit his ignorance and ask what R.C.M. stood for, or just nod, make appreciative noises?

"What exactly will you do there?" he said.

She shrugged, looked at her long fingers, flexed them. "Piano. I think I can still play. I'm not getting the practice I should, though. I've got this electronic one of Veronica's; well, one of her ex-boyfriends'... and its action is all right, but it isn't the same." She shrugged, still inspecting her fingers, "We'll see."

He breathed again, relieved. Royal College of Music; that must be it. Of course; Slater had mentioned about her being good on the piano. "You should have a shot on one of the pianos in a pub sometime," he said. She smiled.

"Well, anyway," she said, taking a deep breath. He felt her slim shoulder move under the thick fabric of the tartan shirt, "as much as I know anything at the moment, that's what I think I'll be doing. Staying here probably, for the next few years. I think. I've still to get myself sorted out. But I'm glad you're here, you help me think." She looked into his eyes, as if searching for something in them; her white face made the dark, heavy-browed eyes look lost and empty, and after a while he could not look into them anymore, and had to smile and look away.

Then, from nowhere, a kind of despair seemed to settle on him, and he felt lonely and used and cheated, and for a moment wanted to be far away from this slim, black-haired woman with her tense white face and her slender fingers. The moment passed, and he tried to imagine what she was going through, how it felt to her.

The train shuddered and braked, slowing. Graham had a sudden, strange image of the train in its tunnel suddenly bursting through clay and bricks into the canal tunnel under Sara's flat; taking some ancient subterranean wrong-turning and missing the station entirely, smashing into the darkness and water of the old canal under the hill. He tried to imagine drawing such a scene, but couldn't. He shook his head, forgetting the idea and looking at Sara again as the train stopped in the station. She sat forward in her seat, smiling wryly.

"All my life people have liked me too quickly, Graham, and for all the wrong reasons. Maybe you'll change your mind when you know me better." The doors opened; she stood, and as he got to his feet, as they went out on to the platform, he grinned confidently and shook his head.

"No way," he said.

And now, in June, how much better did he know her? A little better; he had seen her in a few more moods, some higher, some lower. Her attraction had only grown; he found himself trying to smell her hair when they sat together in pubs, he gazed out of the corner of his eye at her breasts under whatever jumper or T-shirt she was wearing, wanting to touch them, hold them.

But it never seemed right; she would kiss him, for not very long, at the end of each meeting, and he could hold her, feel his arms around her narrow back, his body briefly against hers, but he could feel her tense if his hands went lower than the small of her back, and when he tried to kiss her more deeply, or hold her tighter, she would break away, shaking her head. He had almost given up testing the limits.

But now what? It sounded as though Stock was no more, as though at last she was free, strong enough to do without him, to get rid of his influence and accept Graham as more of - and more than - a friend.

Don't get your hopes up, not too much, he told himself. It might not be all you hope for. He stood at the side of Pentonville Road, by a telephone junction-box with posters advertising Woza Albert on it, and he told himself not to expect everything. Hopes and dreams had a way of evaporating.

But he could remember the sound of her voice on the phone that morning, when he'd called her up from the School, too well.

"Why don't you come in this time?" she said, "I'll get us a salad together, or something."

"Actually come into the flat?" he laughed. "You mean come oop and - "ow you zay - zee you zome time?" he said, in a good mood, making a silly French voice which he started to regret almost as soon as he'd spoken. Her voice over the phone was cool:

"Well... why not, Graham?"

His throat went dry after that; he didn't recall what else he'd said.