what he hadn't got in his record collection. But she didn't stop to consider. She just smiled at the amount and moved on to the DVDs. Here Harvey had rather let himself go. Deptford Market had a healthy trade in slightly suspicious DVDs and he had begun collecting several years ago. From a first, primal choice: Blade Runner Director's Cut, through the Die Hard box set and right up to the Matrix interactive edition, he had, he felt, found a cross section of modern cinema to rival . . . well, anyone else he knew.
So it was with a certain sinking of the heart that he heard her words: 'Wow, you sure like action films, Harvey, and what is it with you and science fiction? You're not an alien, are you?'
This last comment was especially dispiriting to Harvey as it wasn't actually the first time that he'd heard it. Indeed, for a time in his twenties when the shop was getting started he had moved in a circle of friends, mostly from Camden, who were, frankly, too cool for him and the suggestion that he was an alien who had recently landed had become something of an in-joke. On his birthday one year they had all arrived wearing deely-boppers and had given him presents themed around space, including a silver hat to protect him from rays from other galaxies. They had not remained his friends for long, and the last he heard the coolest of them all, a terribly witty gay man with impeccable taste, named Peter, was working as a supply teacher at a comprehensive in Stafford. But it was as close as he had ever been to feeling like Bleeder Odd and that realisation made him close his eyes for a moment and wince.
'Hey, are you OK?' She came over and put the back of her hand to his forehead. 'Did I say the wrong thing?'
'Yeah, no, no problem. Just, you know. I don't like being called an alien.'
'OK.'
He could sense that she was trying not to giggle and he frowned the more. 'It's kind of a sore spot.'
'I see. Does it happen a lot?' The giggle made its way out and he felt his shoulders go up and despite himself he gave a little snort of amusement.
'Yes, actually.' They both snorted in sync and then she moved into his arms in such a slinky, sensual sort of way that she was almost being satirical, but not quite. He kissed her and she let him and then smiled and said, 'Mmm, hello' in a way that made his genitals awaken and begin to plan ahead.
'Let's er . . .' He tried to explain what his groin was saying but it's a hard language to translate.
'Do you have a bath?'
The question was so unexpected that Harvey was jolted into articulacy: 'Er, yeah, in the bathroom.' He pointed to make the position clear.
'Come on then, show me.'
So he showed her his spotless bathroom, and she ran the taps and found some bath foam to pour under the hot water, just like in a proper person's house. Admittedly it was Thomas the Tank Engine bathfoam, which came with a free game where you pressed buttons to make Thomas go round a track . . . but it was a genuine bathroom product. The fact that the bathroom now smelled heavily of strawberry bubblegum seemed all to the good. She then exclaimed aloud and ran off to the sitting room, returning with three fat little candles from her bag, which she claimed were meant to be a present for Lisa. But she sat them on the corners of the bath and he lit them with his fag matches, and then she turned off the light and made him a stranger in his own bathroom. How did women do that: transform somewhere into somewhere else in a minute? The water pressure in South London is quite low so it took some time for the bath to fill but he made up for that by kissing her. And at the end of one kiss, she grabbed the back of his T-shirt and peeled it up over his head. Harvey felt a powerful desire to fight her off and drag it back down. His stomach hadn't looked too good in the clear light of a Sunday afternoon, but the candlelight and the steam, he realised, would give many things a genuinely sexy glow. Would it work for his stomach? He wasn't entirely convinced, but vague