and, as a special treat, a tub of banana-flavour Nesquick and a pint of milk.

But the elation is short-lived. By the time I've got back, had some Nesquick, boiled the kettle, dissolved the bright yellow curry powder in a saucepan and eaten it, I'm feeling like Robinson Crusoe. The house is empty, it's raining outside, Josh's portable telly is locked in his wardrobe, and it's rapidly becoming clear that the so-called best years of my life are never going to happen.

Snap out of this. Do something about it.

I steal some change from the copper-jar in Josh's room and pile the coins on top of the payphone in the hallway.

But who to call? I contemplate phoning some guy called Vince I met at a party, but don't want to sit in a pub with just one other man, and also don't have his number, and can't remember his surname or where he lives or pretty much anything about him. Lucy Chang's back in Minneaopolis, and also thinks I'm a racist. Colin Pagett's still got hepat.i.tis. I nearly call Patrick before I remember that I don't even like him. Finally I decide to call Rebecca Epstein, because Rebecca's a Law student and, as Law's a proper subject, there's a good chance that she'll actually be doing some work.

She lives in Kenwood Manor and as her corridor's the same as Alice's, I have the number. After about twenty rings a Glaswegian voice finally answers.

'h.e.l.lo, is that Rebecca?'

'. . . yeeeeess?'

'It's Brian, here.'

A pause.

'Brian Jackson?' I offer.

'I know which Brian. What are you doing back?'

'I got bored, that's all.'

'G.o.d, me too.' Another pause. 'So . . . ?'

'So I just wondered, what are you doing tonight?'

188.

'Waiting for you to call, obviously. Is this a date? she says, as if she were asking 'is this a t.u.r.dT 'G.o.d, no, I just wondered if you wanted to go to the pictures or something. They're showing Pasolini's Gospel According To St Matthew at the Arts . . .'

'Alternatively, we could go and see something enjoyable. . .'

'St Elmo's Fire at the ABC?'

'Would that be Pasolini's St Elmo's Fire?'

'Back to the Future's on at the Odeon . . .' 'How old are you exactly? . . .'

"Coc.o.o.n at the ABC . . .'

'G.o.d help us . . .'

'You're very opinionated, aren't you?'

'I know. Scary, isn't it? Are you sure you're up to the job, Brian?'

'I think so. So what do you want to do?'

'Got any booze?'

'Twelve gallons of it. It's all home-brew, though.'

'Och, I'm not fussy. You're in Richmond House?'

'Yep.'

'All right, give me half an hour.'

She hangs up, and suddenly I'm scared.

Forty minutes later, she's sat on my bed drinking homebrew and laughing at me. As usual, she's wearing her uniform, which really does look like a uniform; black DMs, thick black tights under a blue-black denim mini-skirt, a v-necked black jumper under the black vinyl military-style belted coat, which I have yet to see her take off. Her short hair is glossy with Black-and-White pomade, and has been pushed up into a little, oily quiff in front of her black, peaked worker's cap. In fact everything she wears seems designed to suggest a long tradition of tough, manual labour, which is strange really, because as I recall her mum's a ceramic artist and her dad's a consultant paediatrician. In fact Rebecca's only concession to conventional notions of femininity is a thick smear of glossy ruby-red lipstick and a great deal of heavy mascara that makes her look intimidating and glamorous at the same time, like the Hollywood branch of the Baader-Meinhof gang. She even smokes like a film star, Bette Davis or someone, but a film star who rolls her own. In fact, if anything, she looks a little more attractive than usual this evening, and I find myself worrying that she may even have made an effort.

When she finally stops laughing, I say, 'Well, I'm glad you find my s.e.x life funny, Rebecca.'

'Surely it's only a s.e.x life if there's s.e.x in it?'

'She could have actually been telling the truth.'

'Yes, Brian I'm sure she was telling the truth. I told you she was a cow, didn't I? And don't look all po-faced. You know it's funny, otherwise you wouldn't have told me about it.' She puffs on her roily, flicks the ash down the side of the futon. 'Anyway, serves you right.'

'What for?'

'You know what for. The bourgeois w.a.n.k-fest. Call yourself a Socialist, but in the end you're just like all the other social climbers at this university, all ready to roll over and have your stomach rubbed by the so-called superior cla.s.ses . . .'

'That's not true!'

"Tis true. Closet Tory! . . .'

'Stalinist! . . .'

'Cla.s.s traitor! . . .'

'Sn.o.b! . . .'

'Inverted sn.o.b! . . .'

'Proto-yuppie! . . .'

'D'you want to get your Doctor Martens off my duvet?'

'Scared I'll ruin this exquisite fabric?' But she does move her feet, and then shuffles along to sit next to me, and taps her gla.s.s of warm beer against mine in reconciliation.

'Why's your bed-frame behind your wardrobe?' she asks.

19O.

'I thought I'd, you know, turn it into a futon.' 'A futon, eh? Well let me tell you, Brian, a mattress on the floor does not a futon make.' 'That was almost a haiku,' I say. 'How many syllables in a haiku?' I know this one. 'Seventeen, arranged 5-7-5.' She thinks for maybe one second, then says: A mattress on the Floor does not a futon make.

Smells surely follow.

. . . then she goes to drink, but stops to pluck off a strand of Golden Virginia that's got matted in her lipstick, a gesture that's so extravagantly cool and languid that I find myself staring sideways at her lips in case she does it again. Then she catches my eye, and I babble out, 'How was your Christmas, then?'

'We don't do Christmas, we're Jews, we killed Christ, remember?'

'So how about, what's it called, Pa.s.sover?'

'Hanukkah. We don't do that either. For someone who's representing our glorious establishment on University Challenge, Brian Jackson, you're surprisingly ignorant. How many times do I have to tell you, we're Socialist Non-Orthodox Jewish Anti-Zionist Glaswegians.'

'Doesn't sound much fun.'

'Believe me, it's not. Why d'you think I'm here with you?'

I think I'll try my hand at Jewish humour.

'Still. Christmas Schmistmas!'

'What?

'Nothing.'

She scrutinises me for a moment, then half-smiles . . .

'Anti-semite.'

And I smile back. I suddenly find myself feeling fantastically 191.

fond of Rebecca Epstein, and want to make a tentative gesture of friendship. I have an idea.

'Which reminds me, I got you this! Happy Hanukkah!'

It's Alice's unwanted Joni Mitch.e.l.l alb.u.m. I lost the receipt. Rebecca looks at me questioningly, 'For me?

'Uh-huh.'

'Are you sure? she asks, an East European checkpoint guard who suspects my pa.s.sport might be fake.

'Absolutely.'

She takes it between finger and thumb, and peels back a corner of the wrapping. 'Joni Mitch.e.l.l.'

'Uh-huh. D'you know it?'

'I'm familiar with her work.'

'So you've got it?'

'No. No, I'm ashamed to say I haven't.'

'Well, let me play it to you . . .'

And I take it from her hand, go to the record player, take off Tears For Fears, and put on Blue, side 2, track 4, 'A Case Of You', surely one of the most exquisite love songs ever committed to vinyl. After we've listened to the whole of the first verse and chorus in silence, I ask, 'So. What d'you think?'

'I think it's brought on my period.'

'Don't you like it?'

'Well, to be completely honest, it's not really my thing, Brian.'

'It will grow on you.'

'Hmmm,' she says, doubtfully. 'So, big Joni fan are you?'

'Sort of. To be honest, I'm more of a Kate Bush man.'

'Hmmm - that figures.'

'Why?'

'Because, Brian, you are the Man with the Child in his Eyes,' she says, and sn.i.g.g.e.rs into her beer.

'So what are you listening to at the moment, then?'

'Lots of things. Durutti Column, Marvin Gaye, the Cocteau Twins, some early blues, Muddy Waters, The Cramps, Bessie 192.

Smith, Joy Division, the New York Dolls, Sly and the Family Stone, some dub. I'll make you a compilation tape, see if I can wean you off all this f.a.n.n.y-music. You know, you have to be careful with these singer-songwriters, Brian. They're fine in moderation but if you listen to too much of this stuff, you will actually grow wee vestigial b.r.e.a.s.t.s.'

'Well, if you don't want your present, just say . . .' I say, getting up to change the record.

'No! No, I'll keep it. I'm sure I'll grow to love it. Thank you very much, Brian. Very Christian of you.'

And then I sit back down next to her, and we sit in silence for a moment. Then she takes my hand, squeezes it pretty hard, and says, 'Seriously - thank you.'

Ten minutes later, we're lying on the bed, and somehow the same hand seems to have found its way into her bra.

They say that the personal is political and it's certainly fair to say that, like her politics, Rebecca Epstein's kissing is radical, forthright and uncompromising. I'm lying on my back and she's pushing my head down into the pillow, and her front teeth are grinding against mine, but I'm determined to give as good as I get, and I'm grinding back, so it's only a matter of time before we take off all our enamel. The combination of the booze and the fumes from the calor-gas heater have made me feel heady, a little panicky even, but it's fun too, like when you're at school and you're being bundled. The thick emulsion of the lipstick creates an airlock around our mouths, so that when she finally pulls her mouth away I almost expect there to be a popping noise, like in a cartoon when a sink-plunger's pulled off someone's face.

'Is this all right? she asks. Her lipstick's smeared round her mouth now, like she's been eating raspberries.

'Fine,' I say, and she's on me again. She tastes of brewing yeast and Golden Virginia and the scented oiliness of the lipstick. For my part, I can't help worrying about the Vesta 193.

curry I had earlier. Should I pretend to need the toilet, and go and brush my teeth? But then she'll know I've brushed my teeth for her sake, and I don't want to appear conventional. Is bad breath in some way ^conventional? Probably not, but if I brush my teeth, maybe she'll think I want her to brush her teeth too, which I don't, really. In fact I quite like the tobacco taste, that feeling of smoking by proxy. Best just carry on. But where to go from here? Like a ventriloquist, I try to put my hand up her top at the back, but she's still wearing the belted coat, and when I make it past the belt I find that her jumper's tucked in pretty firmly, so I try to take an alternative route, via her neckline. I have to contort my arm to do so, and bend my hand back at right angles, like the world's most inept pickpocket, but eventually I get there. Her bra is black, lacy and slightly padded, which surprises me, and for a moment I find myself contemplating the politics of this bra. Why is it padded? Isn't this a bit out of character for Rebecca? Why does she of all people feel the need to conform to conventional male-defined notions of femininity? Why should she be obliged to acquire the conventionally 's.e.xy' body image that actually no woman is capable of attaining in real life, except maybe Alice Harbinson.

Then suddenly she breaks away from the kiss, and I expect she's going to ask me what the h.e.l.l I think I'm up to, but instead; 'Brian?' she whispers.

'What?'