The job at Virgin Megastore was meant to be part-time while I focused on my songwriting and tried to make something of the band.

It was 1996 and I’d just finished my Music degree and turned down my parents’ offer to move back in with them in Stevenage while I ‘decided what I really wanted to do’.

The job suited me perfectly. Not only did I get discount on new music, but I also got to people-watch, which is how I first noticed the girl in the red duffel coat.

She came to the counter and placed REM’s New Adventures in HiFi between us.

‘Great choice,’ I said as I carefully placed the record into a bag. I guess vinyl was seen as outdated then, not retro as it is now, so her purchase was something of an anomaly.  

In her late teens to early-twenties, she had faded, dyed red hair that would have once matched her coat and an obtrusive lip piercing that somehow didn’t quite suit her face.  

From then on, I noticed her coming in two or three times a week.

‘Why don’t you just ask her out?’ my colleague Donna asked one afternoon.

‘As if she’d go out with me,’ I said.

‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Steve,’ Donna said. ‘You’re a nice guy. Looks aren’t everything.’

Anyway, over the next couple of months the girl (always in her red duffel coat) nearly always selected the new releases that I’d chosen for myself.

It wasn’t until November that she bought something I would never have imagined.

‘Spice Girls?’ I laughed as I scanned the CD.

When I looked back at her, I saw tears well in her eyes.

‘It’s for my sister,’ she said. ‘She’s-, she’s not very well.’  

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling my face flush red. ‘I’m such an idiot, I-,’

I watched, mute with embarrassment, as she flicked through her purse.

She brought her hands to her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve left my money in the cash machine.’

And then she was gone, dashing through the store to the exit. As she reached the doors, I realised she’d left her purse behind and, before I knew what I was doing, I was chasing after her.

Outside, the evening sky was cool and crisp and people dashed along the puddled pavement with their heads ducked, swaying umbrellas above their heads.

I caught up with her outside Topshop. I tapped her shoulder and, as she turned, I saw tears flowing down her face.

‘You forgot your purse,’ I said.

She took it from me without a word, then said something so strange that I had to ask her to repeat it.

‘Please hold me,’ she said again.

She stepped toward me and pressed her body against mine, her arms wrapping around me as my own brought her closer. I felt her head against my chest and I smelt the sweetness of her hair.

After a moment, she let go. She stepped back. The streetlight’s reflection rippled in the puddle between us.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You don’t even know me. I’m sorry.’

I watched as she walked away, another in a stream of bodies disappearing into the night.

I never saw her in the shop again. I think I may have passed her on the tube once, but it was so soon after that that I thought everyone in a red coat was her.

That was 18 years ago. 18 years. I’m 39 now and not once in my life have I felt as needed as I did in her embrace.