The sense of it was there the very first time they brushed shoulders in the Victorian Literature section of that quirky, long, thin bookshop down a side alley, half way between the station and the university. He stood at the side of her, his arm becoming entangled in hers as she tried to reach for Elizabeth Barrett-Browning and he attempted to pull the author’s husband off the shelf. He smelled like Dad when, on a rare occasion, he used to get dressed up to go to the pictures – of a splash of musky aftershave and a hint of carbolic soap – and another chemical smell she couldn’t put her finger on. His dark brown trousers swayed down his legs in thick folds and tucked just underneath the heel of his shoes. His brown tweed jacket hung around him as if he might have bought it in a jumble sale,
