I couldn't get her out of mind. When she was with me I wanted to touch her, stroke her, smell her, feel her all the time. I wanted to hear her voice, that cute American accent, listen to the silly stories she told, mostly made up as she went along, I was convinced. I wanted her to touch me, to feel her hand on my breast, gently cradling it, exploring, scratching idly at my nipple, making it grow for her; I wanted to watch as she planted kisses all down my body, starting with my eyebrows, lingering on my mouth and breasts, meandering down my stomach to my bush and ending at my feet, giggling as she sucked one toe after the other into her mouth, tickling the sole of my foot with her tongue and sending shivers running through my body; I wanted to feel her body lying on top of mine, nipple to nipple, pussy to pussy, hands outstretched and gripping one another; to pass days like this, days entwined in an eternal embrace; I wanted her sweet breath on my face as she lay beside me, casually plotting her next assault on my willing body; I wanted to stare into her eyes for ever, to divine what lay behind them, to understand the woman who had so enchanted me.When she was out of sight, even for a moment, I felt an emptiness, an irrational longing for her to return. The notion of normal life, of the day job, of mundane things, was anathema to me: I just wanted to be part of Fetishdoll's world.

The day after our marathon I found a scrap of paper through my letter box, with a scribbled note from Fetishdoll.

"Got to go for a few days. Back soon. Luv you, F."

And she was gone again.

I had become fairly stoical when it comes to Fetishdoll's comings and goings, having become inured to them over the months of our relationship. This time I was upset, though. I had invested a lot of emotion in our affair, opened myself to her in a way my shy and retiring nature seldom allows; we had moved on to a new plane, I thought, developed a close bond, an understanding. And so for her to revert to her old tricks and disappear without warning really hurt me. I tried to deny it to myself, tried to rationalise things: she was a mad American who, since she had first entered my life, had been more absent than present, and who when she was present was unpredictable and temperamental. She probably had a screw loose, I told myself. You're better without her, Harriet.

It didn't work. I still missed her so much it ached. The first few days her smell permeated the flat, and I clung to that as a reminder; gradually it dispersed until, after a week, I could no longer smell her. Her presence was still strong, though. She was there in everything I did, little vignettes reminding me of her. Sitting on the loo I would remember the occasion when she toppled over, fully dressed, into the bath I had just run for myself; making myself a snack I would go into the living room and see her sitting cross-legged, naked, on the floor, in mid-meditation. When I went to bed at night, that was the worst. I would wake up thinking she was there, turning to embrace an empty space beside me. I cried myself to sleep too often.

When I got really maudlin I would stand and stare at the picture Fetishdoll had drawn of me. I loved that picture: she made me look more beautiful than I am. A serenity, a tranquil calm exuded it, a grace, an ease with myself which I hadn't felt in a month. I looked at every stroke, every detail, and tried to imagine her creating it. The fierce concentration that came over her, wiping off the carefree demeanor which usually adorned her face; the look of quiet satisfaction as she passed the finished drawing to me; the outrageous beam that lit up her entire face when she saw how much I like it. I tried to imagine her then, and could conjure up the image, but not the spirit of the woman.

I missed her so much, missed everything about her. It was more than the sex. She was so intriguing, so unpredictable, so unconventional she had turned my life around. We were opposites in every respect and she had managed to show me another way, a different life. I was having difficulty resigning myself to the knowledge that I would return to the steady, calm life I had known before Fetishdoll, I would return to being Harriet the boring businesswoman.

All of which goes to suggest I wasn't best prepared for what happened next.

It was about a month after her disappearance. I was at home, cleaning the flat as I did every few weeks: well, after a while the dust stops collecting, I find. As the doorbell rang I was head-first in the toilet, scrubbing it with Vim. Cursing, I abandoned my task and went to the door, greeting my visitor with a flushed face, frown, antiseptic smell and hideous pink rubber gloves.

"Yes?"

"Hi, Harriet, how are you?"

I had never seen this man in my life. He was about medium height and build, with brownish hair and a neat goatee beard. He had a warm, soft smile and relaxed air. Looking at his body he appeared to be in pretty good shape and was pretty attractive, all in all. Still, I hadn't the vaguest notion of who he was, though it was clear he appeared to know me.

"D'you mind if I put my bag down; it's real heavy," he continued rhetorically, moving to get past me into the hallway. His face seemed vaguely familiar, something to do with the insouciant smile, I think, and the American accent and casual, almost outrageous familiarity began to ring alarm bells.

I don't believe it, I thought. Don't tell me there's two of them.

"So don't tell me," I said, voice laced with sarcasm, "a friend of Fetishdoll's right?"

"Yeah, that's right hun. I'm Paul, her brother."

I began to lose my temper. What was I, a refuge for lost Fetishdolls? An easy stopping off point for any half-baked American waifs and strays? Was my address in some guidebook under "Easy English broads who'll give you a meal and a bed, no questions asked"?

"Right," I snapped, "you'd better come in then. This is always open bloody house for Fetishdoll and her retinue, isn't it? Make yourself right at home, why don't you. I'll rustle up a three course buggering meal, shall I?"

I lost it then, and started to sob, bursting into uncontrollable weeping, great tears rolling down my cheek. I tried to wipe them away but only succeeded in poking my eye with my rubber glove and momentarily blinded myself. I recovered my sight to find Fetishdoll's brother staring at me with a mixture of concern and humour. How quickly pathos can degenerate into farce.

"Hmm," he said. "I'm not surprised your a friend of hers, you seem about as nutty as she is."

I'll grant that our introduction wasn't what could be described as conventional, but this seemed surprisingly deficient in the tact and diplomacy stakes, even for a relative of Fetishdoll. Resignedly, I swung the door open wide and stood aside, ushering him through with an elaborate wave of my hand.

"Do come in," I said. "I expect you'll make yourself at home."