Virtually everyone at the party seemed to be in their element, chatting, sipping drinks, hardly thanking the waiters who circled constantly with plates of canapés. They were a different group to me, socially as well as financially. A rich patron of a charity for the mentally ill was hosting this "do" at a posh London hotel, a thank you for all the people who worked for the charity. I write a lot of their advertising and promotional material, and I suppose I had a right to be there, but I felt like a fish out of water. My normal night out is a few pints down the pub and a kebab on the way home. Here I was, dressed in my cousin's tux, an awfully tight fit, watching a group of minor celebrities and dreaming of a nice pint of bitter to replace this warm champagne.
I'd wandered over to the back of the room, trying to avoid conversation, and was looking at the silent auction prizes, dreaming of having the money to buy even the smallest of them, when I heard a voice, soft and feminine, but with that distinctive harsh precision of a native German speaker. She was speaking quietly, and apparently to no-one in particular.
"Mmmm... Greece in July. Maybe I'll actually be able to go this year." I heard her quite clearly, even against the hubbub of the party. She must have been very close behind me, and it seemed almost natural to respond, although, of course, it was rather rude.
"You should go. It is an amazing country. I've just come back from spending six months out there." As soon as I said it, I was surprised. Until that point, I'd been rendered almost dumb by awkwardness, and here I was ambushing a complete stranger who was talking to herself. I glanced over my shoulder. She didn't seem to be upset; she was looking at me with interest.
"Six months in Greece. Wow. Were you working?" I nodded in reply.
"Sort of. I was doing research at a few archaeological sites. I work translating ancient texts. When I'm travelling, though, I try to keep things easy, save lots of time for holidaying. So why can't you usually go to Greece?"
She looked confused. I kicked myself mentally for allowing my conversation to jump around like this, a terrible habit of mine.
"I'm sorry?" she said, and I attempted an explanation.
"You said "Maybe I'll be able to go this year." So I assumed you can't go normally. Why not?"
"Oh, I see!" she said, her face clearing. "Normally, I can't get even a day off in summer. I'm a tennis player. I'm injured this year, though, so I hope to have a few weeks away from it all." I almost dropped my glass. Suddenly, I realised what I had wandered into. I was having a conversation with Martina Hingis. This evening was getting better.
When I was starting at university, Martina was a sensation. She was the first of the "new generation" in women's tennis, a skilful, powerful player who was winning titles from the age of fifteen. I was entranced at the time, and although her tennis was no longer the finest in the world, I still watched her whenever I could. There was something about her that drove me wild. Her athletic lifestyle meant that like all tennis stars, she had perfect legs, but Martina also had a pleasant, girl next door face and a bubbly personality that was attractive both on the court and during interviews. I also loved the clothes she wore on court – nothing tight or blatantly sexual like certain others, but timelessly sexy billowy white skirts. Tonight, however, she was dressed to kill, in a long, red dress, split to the thigh on both sides, and hugging her figure very tightly. She wore minimal make up and only a thin gold necklace. Nothing flashy, nothing over the top. Simple, classical and erotic.
"Of course," I said, trying not to sound to excited "I recognise you. I've been watching you on TV for years." She smiled a practiced smile.
"I didn't think you were a tennis fan. I guess I can't always avoid being recognised, even now."
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I didn't know you worked for the charity."
"Only in Switzerland. I'm working to set up a new branch. But you can read all about that on the Internet. Think of this as a night off. You were telling me about Greece. I would love to go, but I don't have anyone to go with."
"Couldn't you go on your own? Or with your mother?"
"I don't think that the Greek beaches are designed to be shared with mothers!" She was mocking me, but nicely. "I want a man to go with. I'm sick of holidays on my own, I've been in London alone for three days, and I get bored too easily."
I saw my chance. I couldn't just let a fantasy walk out of my life after a brief conversation.
"I've got a few days before they expect me back at the university. Maybe I could show you around London?"
"I'd love that, actually. Why don't we go out right now, and you can show me a proper evening in London?" This was an offer I liked. We walked past the bouncers and out to the Strand. I hailed a taxi and we headed for a pub I knew. If Martina wanted to see the real London, I could show it to her.
