Finally, we ground to a halt and I gathered my papers together, shuffling them into my briefcase. I eased myself out of the chair and stood up, feeling a twinge in my back after an hour or so of sitting. The American lollopped out of her seat and stretched up for her bags.

"Here," she said, proferring a small rucksack, "take that for me." Not so much as a please or thank you. Grudgingly, I held it for her as she reached up for a larger rucksack, waiting to hand it back to her when she was settled. To my amazement, once she grasped the large rucksack she turned and, without a backward glance bounded off the train, leaving me holding her smaller one in my outstretched hand. I started to say something, but no words came out. Astonished by her cheek, I followed her onto the platform.

Once disembarked I couldn't see her anywhere. I scrutinised the crowds milling about, some heading purposefully towards the exit, others waiting expectantly for someone to appear from the train. But my American girl was nowhere to be seen. Damn me, I thought, looking at her grubby rucksack, what am I going to do with this? I headed for the exit, looking for a guard I could pass it over to. What an extraordinary woman, I thought. Completely mad. But very attractive though, in a boyish sort of way. I was almost disappointed that she had gone.

As I reached the exit, fumbling for my car park ticket, I saw her. She was leaning against the wall next to the cash machine, left leg raised nonchalantly so that her sole was flat against the brickwork, running her hand through her short hair and grinning at me.

"There you are," she said, "I thought you'd got lost." She picked up her large rucksack, swung it over one shoulder and headed off, her bum swaying extravagantly as she walked. "I'm so hungry," she continued. "Where are you taking me to eat?"

I stood rooted to the spot, speechless, watching her swagger out of the station towards the taxi rank. Noticing I had failed to follow, she stopped and turned towards me.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice quavering, "are you somehow under the impression that you know me?"

"Not yet, hun" she replied, with a lascivious grin. "Not yet. Come on, I'm hungry."

"My car's in the car park,"

"Yeah, yeah. So get it tomorrow. We'll be drinking too much tonight to be able to drive cars. Come on, the taxi's waiting."

With my briefcase in one hand, her rucksack in the others, I followed meekly, too perplexed to argue. Once in the taxi, she asked the driver to recommend somewhere "cool" to eat, and so it was that, quarter of an hour later, we found ourselves in the Star of India, ordering a bottle of Zinfandel and perusing the menu.

What am I doing, I asked myself. I'm in a restaurant, buying a meal for some American girl I've never met, someone who deliberately made a fool of me earlier, and who, in all probability, is completely stark staring mad. What am I doing? And yet I was intrigued, I couldn't deny it. There was something about her, something appealing, a wildness, a spirit, a sense of adventure which seemed to seep out of her pores, enveloping her, surrounding her. She appeared to be so confident, so self-assured. And, I couldn't deny it, she was very, very sexy. It was partly to do with her self-containment, partly her accent and partly her looks. But it was more than that: some people just have an aura of sexuality about them, they transmit sexual appeal, every act, every gesture seems suffused with erotic energy. My little American was like that. She couldn't look ordinary if she tried, but would always stand out from the crowd, always attract attention.

The air of mystery around her added to the sense of intrigue. She wouldn't even tell me her name. "Just call me Fetishdoll," she said, with a husky laugh. She was infuriating! I wanted to ask her questions, make some sense of this ludicrous situation, but she deflected every enquiry with a casual disregard, as though they were beneath her contemplation.

The waiter appeared to take our order, and I asked for a Gosht Kata Masala, a slightly nutty flavoured, rich sauced meat curry. My companion had gone quiet as she studied the menu.

"And what about you Fetishdoll?" I asked in a loud voice, noting, with a small thrill of triumph, her momentary loss of cool as her eyes flicked towards the waiter on hearing me address her like that. The waiter stood, admirably aloof, not letting a grin crack his face. Fetishdoll quickly recovered her composure and asked for something vegetarian. Solicitously, I recommended a Hari Mirchi Kari which, I informed her, was a vegetable curry. I neglected to mention it was made with green chillies and was very, very hot. After the episode on the train I reckoned I owed her some public embarrassment.

I got absolutely nowhere trying to elicit any details from her: she could have been a politician, the way she evaded questions. She really was the most intriguing person. As she devoured her curry, not blanching in the slightest, I noticed, at its hotness, her brow furrowed in a frown of concentration. I found myself staring at her in wonderment. She really was very attractive, with an individualistic beauty that transcends the plastic, silicone-injected banalities which modern culture seems to favour. How could anyone find a surgically enhanced, enormous breasted, rubber lipped blonde attractive compared with this young beauty; how could anyone fail to be charmed by her fresh-faced, insolent appearance?

Her hair was quite remarkable. In amongst the natural black several strands had been dyed blue and green, and these had then been braided into the black. Furthermore, there were myriad little beads woven into her hair, and as she moved her head they clacked together, making a sound like a one-armed man on a typewriter. Peeking out from the hair were delicate little ears, beautifully formed, small and intricate. They matched her petite nose, a masterpiece of precision perched above her inviting mouth, with generous, but not huge lips of a beautiful, deep red hue. Her blue eyes danced around the room, taking in everything that was happening, alive and effervescent, rich and intelligent. Nothing seemed to escape her attention; it was as if she was hoovering in as much experience as she could manage.

There wasn't much of her. She was about 5'5", I imagine, and pretty thin. Her breasts were negligible, even smaller than mine, but pert and eyecatching, with beautifully upturned nipples which showed clearly through the fabric of her tee shirt, albeit with a rather strange bulge which I couldn't work out. Her bum, or ass, as she would no doubt call it, I had noticed earlier, was very shapely and attractive, tight but beautifully contoured. Her arms were perfectly shaped, muscular and firm, with wonderful tone but not going too far and becoming musclebound. Her skin was smooth and she was certainly in good shape; I fancied she might be a dancer. As she ate she gesticulated wildly with her hands, long fingers wrapped elegantly around her knife and fork, forming ethereal arabesques in the air to give emphasis to the words she emitted.

The evening progressed merrily, with a couple more bottles of wine being sunk. Without ever revealing anything about herself, Fetishdoll opened up and engaged in friendly, entertaining conversation. I found her an engaging person to speak to, with carefully considered views and well thought out opinions. She was also very funny, with a wicked sense of humour, much of which revolved around bawdy stories which may or may not have been taken from her past. The evening flew past, and the strangeness of the situation began to wear off. I started to think of her, not as this weird American woman who forced herself on me, but as someone I was happy to be with.

I was beginning to wonder how it all might end up. After all, she had invited herself to eat at my expense, so heaven knew what she had in mind for later. The prospect alarmed and excited me at once. I began to debate with myself what I would do if she came on to me. I was sure she was a lesbian, and thought it a possibility that she might. To be honest, I had no idea how I would react. I told myself I would politely decline, but in my heart I wasn't sure if that was true.

And then, all of a sudden, my dilemma was resolved, as Fetishdoll sprung up, grabbed her jacket and rucksacks and prepared to leave.

"Gotta dash, hun," she said, by way of explanation. "That was really cool, though. Thanks for the meal." As she headed for the door she bent down and kissed me lightly on the cheek, and the feel of her cool lips against my skin sent ripples pulsating through my body. "Catch you later," she called as she opened the door and headed into the night. And I was alone.

I needed to know more about this woman. Fetishdoll had entered my brain.