They interlocked like two jigsaw pieces, she believed. He started a sentence, she completed it. She began to form an idea, he developed it. Brick and mortar, wood and nail.

            Phil was tall, dark-haired, good-looking, otter-sleek. And busy around the university campaigning, a missionary for environmental change. Strong feelings, high ideals. Hers too, and they went about together, she the shadow to his light.

            Frieda knew she wasn’t attractive like him. Plumpish, plain face and brown hair, a reclusive fieldmouse, shy, to his out-there eager-beaverness. But they were solid, and she wanted him desperately.

            One night they slept together. Fully locked. This was it. She would never feel incomplete again, no longer believe she was a solitary piece of a puzzle. But in the morning he just said, ‘That was nice. We’re still friends?’ And then he was off with his right-on, committed chums, busy-busy, no time for her for days. She asked him eventually had it just been a one-off?