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For a whole week, George's restlessness knew no bounds. The encounter with Gloria McKinnon, that glimpse into her suffering world and the sensuality lurking underneath her aloof and reserved surface was etched in his mind. He wanted more from her, of her: a lot of it was sexual, he had to admit in the loneliness of his city apartment - his body's chemistry, so docile and apathetic in recent months was now upset, and his thoughts turned continually to one woman's face in the throes of ecstasy. He fantasised about her before falling asleep and in the quiet periods at work, and he was fairly unproductive that week.

On the other hand, he also knew that part of it was a chivalrous streak that had never fully flourished in him - a damsel-in-distress syndrome. Gloria had assumed, perhaps rightly, the role of the stoic, tragic heroine in his eyes, and rescuing her would satisfy his ego as effectively as sleeping with her would soothe his libido.

He had no way of communicating with her or following up though. On Saturday, after a listless couple of hours in the morning, e decided to take matters in hand and drove over to his hometown. He didn't head for his mother's salon or home; instead he stopped by the pub where he had a pint of Guinness and chatted nonchalantly with the barman, a former schoolmate's father. He managed to make up a little story about his girlfriend's father's horse having fallen sick, and did he know whether Dr.McKinnon was in town this weekend? The vet was a regular at the pub, and the barman would know his whereabouts as effectively as any ...

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