"Hmm, I could fall for you, little Harriet."

And with that she was gone.

This was worse than being chatted up by a boy: at least you don't expect them to call; at least you know that you have to be fitted in around other things in life like football, and carburrettors, and Boddingtons. But to have a woman declare she could fall for you and then disappear into thin air took a bit of beating. I just couldn't work her out, couldn't begin to predict what she would do next. It took me a while to realise that probably she probably didn't know either, that she was a creature of impulse, someone who couldn't be chained or tied down, someone who was always on the look out for something new, a fresh horizon, a different challenge. I, on the other hand, liked security, liked certainty. It seemed we had nothing in common. And yet...

Something about her had me completely transfixed, hooked. Maybe it was her freespiritedness. Opposites attract may be a cliche, but there is some truth in it. Perhaps she was my alter ego, what I would like to be if I weren't so wedded to convention.

And so I got on with my life. I knew she would reappear at some stage, so I didn't bother looking out for her. When I least expected her, there she would be, finding some new ruse to embarrass me. As I say, you couldn't predict how she would react.

What really got me when she did turn up again, though, was that I wasn't even on my usual train, having missed it due to a disaster with a broken shoe on the way down Charing Cross Road and an altercation with a snotty nosed kid in a baseball cap on a skateboard who ran over my remaining good shoe. If anyone wants a perfectly good skateboard or a slightly grubby blue baseball cap and happens to be in the Charing Cross area, they can be found in the building site near Tottenham Court Road, just behind a ten foot wooden fence.

So it was grumpy Harriet who disembarked from the 6.05 from King's Cross and hobbled towards the car park. Oh God, I thought, I need a hot bath, a bottle of wine and an early night with a good book. I took my place in the queue to pay my parking fee at the meter.

"Hi luv, I'm glad I bumped into you. Just bought you some stuff."

I didn't need to look up to know that Fetishdoll had reappeared.

"Would you mind letting me through," she commanded, rather than asked the queue in general, "This is my friend, Harriet, and she hasn't been in touch for ages. She's terrible like that."

I turned crimson as the queue tutted and looked askance at my American friend muscling her way through the irritated commuters.

"So how you been?" she asked, brightly.

"Fine," I replied, noncommittally, trying to pretend I was relaxed about her reappearance, while inwardly delighting in her return. "So what stuff have you got me?"

I should have known better.

"Luv, have I got you some sexy underwear. Let's face it, you need it. Check this out!" She began rummaging in her carrier bag and produced a series of black, red and white g strings and brief, high cut panties. Worse than that, she held each one up individually in front of me and, incidentally, the rest of the queue.

"I can't wait to see you in this one," she bellowed in her cute, southern accent as she held in front of her a piece of elastic with a scrap of silk attached to it. It was very nice, in fact, and I would have been delighted to be given it in circumstances less public than the railway station car park. Attack was the best form of defence, I figured.

"That's gorgeous, Fetishdoll," I trilled in my best sing-song receptionist's voice. "Lovely. Once I've cooked dinner I'll do a fancy fashion show for you, huh? Give you a quick twirl?" Most of the people standing loose jawed in the queue were commuters with whom I travelled day in, day out. In that curiously English way, even though we recognised one another and met each morning and evening we never spoke, nor knew anything about each other. I had just guaranteed that this would change: I would be the talk of the train for weeks. I was getting used to it.

An hour later and I was cooking again. I had a bit of difficulty because Fetishdoll was a vegetarian, but eventually decided on an Indian concoction. I put some rice on to boil and started with a Goan vegetable stir fry. I made a puree with coconut milk, spices, garlic and lots of ginger, then sliced some courgettes, celery, green pepper, French beans and four red chillies. I chopped up an onion and fried it for seven minutes, then added my puree. When it was simmering I added my vegetables and stir-fried it for a few minutes until they were nicely cooked. Meanwhile I began on my side dish of mushroom bhajees, stir-frying a small onion and some curry paste for five minutes before adding some halved or quartered mushrooms for another five minutes. These need to be served immediately or they go all slimy, so I slipped them onto a side dish, and saw to the main course. Everything prepared, I carried the meal through to the living room.

Where Fetishdoll was sitting cross-legged on the floor, stark naked.

"Mmm," she said, unconcerned. "I wasn't expecting it to be ready so soon. I was just doing my meditation."

As I set the food down I asked if she wanted a dressing gown.

"No, don't bother," she replied. "I like being naked. Clothes affect who we think we are, and what people think of us. Life's too much about image and show, but there's no "image" when you're naked. You're just yourself, you're unique. It's easier to connect with the world when you do it with your whole body. D'you see what I mean?"

I did, as it happened, but didn't want to agree just at that moment. I was beginning to know Fetishdoll too well and I knew if I did she would have me stripped off in no time; I didn't fancy balancing a hot curry on my naked lap, so I made a non-committal noise and settled down to eat.

I couldn't take my eyes off her though. She had a fabulous body, lean and sexy, with outstanding, tiny tits, nipples raised upwards. Her skin was tight and vibrant, well toned and dark. Her thighs were firm and beautifully shaped. She clearly worked out, though not so much that she was too muscly.

But what really attracted my attention were the silver rings through each nipple.

I had never seen a pierced nipple before, and was transfixed by the sight. Fetishdoll noticed my unwavering gaze, but carried on eating. I tried to imagine how painful it must have been to have that done. I don't think Fetishdoll could ever cease to amaze me. I ate my meal, barely concentrating on it, scarcely conscious of what was passing my lips: it could have been hamster food for all the attention I paid. We made small talk as we ate, but I was mesemerized by the sight of this beautiful woman sitting naked opposite me. Her movements were so fluid, so unaffected and natural, that even the commonest gesture, like raising a fork, was suffused with an erotic charge. The only truly sexy people can be those who don't try; it comes from within, an inner charge, a spirit, an element of their nature. Fetishdoll was the most overtly and naturally sexy person I had ever met and I was aware that I was becoming obsessed with her.

To the relief of my overwrought senses Fetishdoll covered herself with a shirt after we had finished our meal and we settled down with a bottle of Australian chardonnay. I started to play Images by Debussy, letting the poetry of the music flow around the room, fresh and fluid, stunning harmonies and subtle, fragile strains tugging at the edges of the soul. The opening piece, Reflets dans l'eau, is one of my favourite pieces, its rippling, shimmering passages gladdening my heart, evoking the gentle, rhythmic lapping of water as, perhaps, drops of rain fall on it, causing the water to fold in on itself in ever decreasing circles, fading away, falling, gently dying and disappearing into silence. Beautiful. Beautiful.

I noticed, to my horror, a sheet of cold fear rushing through my body, that as I listened to the echoes of the rippling water cascade through the room my hand was drawing little circles on Fetishdoll's thigh. I had had no idea I was doing it, transfixed as I was by the music. She didn't appear to object, so I rested my hand on her knee as the second piece, Hommage à Rammeau, began, with its rather more sombre, serious air, perfect harmonies glissading elegantly to a dignified climax.

We had sat in silence for some minutes, since the music began in fact, and I was aware of an erotic charge in the room. There was an air of expectancy, of anticipation. We were on the brink, I felt, the threshold of something. Fetishdoll sat beside me, her bare thigh touching me, the warmth of her hip passing through my clothes and insinuating itself on me. She sat, staring resolutely forward, occasionally sipping from her glass. I knew she wanted to take this further. I knew it, sensed it somehow, but she was not going to make the first move. For what reason I did not know. Oh God, Harriet, I thought, are you going to do this? Are you going to go through with it? It's likely to change your life, I told myself. Remember what she said: "I could fall for you, little Harriet."

As the beauty of the Hommage gave way to the louder, sterner third piece, the Mouvement, I pondered my decision. My hand, previously rested on her knee, began to roam her thigh again, abstractly, abstractedly, distractedly, its rambling, formless patterns a visual manifestation of the ambivalence and vacillation in my mind. Oh, to be sure I wanted her, I had since the first time we met, but was this a relationship which could work, could we satisfy one another? Still, Fetishdoll made no attempt to reciprocate my loose caresses, nor even to show any indication that she could feel them. Perhaps she was facing the same quandary?

The first set of Images gave way to Part Two, and the ravishing Cloches à travers les feuilles. More beautiful, rippling phrases. Perfect, circular repetitions of wonderful harmonies. The music of the water. Music to fall in love to. I turned to Fetishdoll and she looked at me. I leaned forward and grazed her cheek with my fingers, before brushing her lips with mine. She smiled.

"Took your time, love," she said. I laughed.

We kissed, our lips locking, teeth clashing, tongues meshing. My hand held her dainty head, her hair rippling through my fingers as I stroked it up and down. The music gave way to Et la lune déscend sur le temple qui fut, its pentatonic scale, reminiscent of eastern music, a perfect backdrop for my mystical, mysterious, exotic partner. Throughout its five and a half minutes we remained locked in an embrace, trying to understand through the sense of touch what weeks of conversation had failed to reveal about one other. The Images concluded with Poisson d'or, its understated beauty and harmony ending a poetic journey of the senses. And with it ended my doubts.

"Come to bed," I said.