With each passing moment in her presence, my infatuation with Simone deepened, ripened, swelled and matured, growing inside me until it was such that I could scarcely get her out of mind. Unbidden, thoughts of her would interrupt me while I was at work; my concentration suffered, my work deteriorated and yet, in my enamoured state, I didn't care. I was happy to sit at my desk and stare out of the window, dreaming of the sweet moment when I would take her in my arms, enfold her to my breast, run my finger down her cheek and 3; oh dear, such thoughts, such torment.

She radiated serenity, and that was her attraction. She had a luminous, extraordinary, intoxicating physical beauty, of course; this was what had first attracted me to her, but had I still only lusted after her looks it would have been a shallow love, a narrow, impersonal burst of emotion scarcely worthy of note. It was her presence, the sweetness of her nature, the calm perfection of her outlook which dazzled me. I have never known a feeling like it. In her presence my heart fizzed and fluttered, racing like a field mouse's when the timid beast's refuge is exposed by the threshing machine; my head felt light and a cold sweat developed on my brow; my fingers tingled and my palms went clammy. But the clincher was the music.

I have always been sensitive to the power of music; it has always struck me as the most perfect art form, the one best suited to defining the casual, terrifying power of love, its transience and ephemerality a perfect mirror of the fleeting fragility of heightened emotions. And when I fall in love I always hear music; each individual to whom I attach myself is surrounded by a piece of music, a motif which I hear whenever they are in my presence, or when I think of them. So it was with Simone. When she was in my mind I had a constant backdrop of Paddy Fahy's Reel, an eerily beautiful, ethereal melody, unresolved, ambiguous. It flits in at the end of a Planxty album, unheralded and unannounced and once heard can never be forgotten. At times it seems like the saddest tune in the world, at others an uplifting, wonderful paean to hope; it plumbs the depths and soars to the heights, casting a spell around you, drawing you in, enticing you and ensnaring you with its simple perfection. Beautiful, cyclical, a tune with no beginning or end, a piece of magic floating in its own space, creating its own history, defining its own meaning, the tune became my inspiration: the musical reflection of my goddess, Simone.

I was sitting at home, a relaxing bottle of wine by my side, attempting to read the new novel by one of my favourite authors, Andrew Greig, when the crunch came. The music was floating round and round in my head, and I couldn't see the words on the page for it. The sense of it was so powerful it felt almost physical, burning me, tormenting me, too perfect to be contained within the shell of my body, and bursting to be released. It was no good. I had to see her. I had to be alone with her.

Shaking, more nervous than I had felt since I did my A-Levels many years before, back in the days before I had learned to conquer my nerves, I dialled her mobile number. We had exchanged numbers the week before, a rite of passage which thrilled me with its potential significance, but seemed to be no more than a matter of routine to Simone. I had sat staring at it each night since she gave me it, knowing that this string of seemingly random numbers was all that separated me from hearing her velvet voice once more. As I heard the phone ringing I waited in dread anticipation, my heart leaping in my mouth, a feeling of nausea rising in my throat. Ridiculous, I thought, to get into this sort of state. And then it connected.

"Hi," she said. My Goddess's voice.

"Hi, it's me, Margaret," I replied, instantly feeling foolish, regretting having made the call.

"Oh hiya," she said breezily. There was a lot of noise in the background, chatter and laughter and chinking glasses; she was evidently in a pub. A feeling of jealousy swept through me. "Hang on," I heard her say, "it's just someone from home." That cut me to the quick. Just someone from home 3; I tried to ignore it and prevent myself from creating in her words nuances of meaning which were't there.

We chatted absently for a couple of minutes, Simone still half connected to the conversation flowing around her in the pub, while I was suffering a torment of self doubt. Finally, I summoned up the courage to ask. "Listen," I said, trying to sound confident, "there's an exhibition at Tate Modern just now, Arte Povera, which sounds really interesting. I wondered if you'd like to go to it. I was thinking of going down on Sunday 3;"

I held my breath. "Exhibition of who, did you say?" she replied.

"Not who. What. Arte Povera. It's an art movement, Italian, from the fifties." I was deeply regretting this conversation now. What kind of lame arsed chat-up routine was this? Come and look at some 1950s Italian art... She was clearly not going to be interested in it. Why should she? I'd made a fool of myself again.

"Yeah, cool," she said. "I've not been to Tate Modern yet. Is that giant spider still there?"

"No," I heard myself saying. "It's been replaced by Juan Muñoz now, those grey sculptures hidden above you, looking down at you." I was barely aware of what I was saying, the euphoria of success leaving me light-headed and dizzy. She had said yes. Instantly, my jealousy of those fortunate enough to be with her in the pub was eradicated; immediately my sense of foolishness and clumsiness vanished. I would have her to myself on Sunday; she wanted to be with me. As I put the receiver down Paddy Fahy's reel swirled through my head, sweeping and soaring in its splendid beauty, rising in volume until it occupied every fibre of my being.