Pam Beesly looked down at her phone again, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. It was the right address, or should be the location of the right address anyway. But this didn't look like the guitar shop that she was looking for. Or at least the one Pam thought she was looking for. She stood shivering in the bitter London cold, looking at the chipped red paint of the closed door to the building, wondering if she should go inside. The guitar shops that she'd been to back home in Scranton with her sister were bright and airy, with big glass windows and air conditioning and sales staff practically pulling unsuspecting buyers off of the street with their smiles and shiny hair. And this place was anything but. 

Pam pulled her red chunky knit scarf higher around her face to keep out the cold, and looked around. Every shop on Denmark Street seemed to be a guitar shop, or some sort of music shop. She could see into some of the windows on the second and third floors of the tall Dickensian looking buildings on the opposite side of the street, and there seemed to be even more guitar shops up there. She pulled her shoulders up around her ears as if that would help her stay warmer and looked down at her phone again. The message from Penny confirmed that this was the right address. She took a step backwards to take a photo of the building, but bumped into someone who was quickly walking down the street.

"Fucking watch it mate," said the gruff voice from the man that Pam had bumped in to. He carried on walking without so much as a glance back at Pam. 

"Sorry," Pam called quietly, not wanting to cause another confrontation. She repositioned her phone, looked around to make sure that she wasn't in anyone's way, and then took a picture to send to her sister. She sent the photo first, and then typed out a message. 

Penny, is this definitely the right place? It looks like an office or apartment building or something

Pam waited a few moments, staring at her phone, but the message didn't deliver. She chewed her lip and looked around again, before returning to the phone screen, where WhatsApp was still just showing one tick against the messages. She locked her phone screen, and slipped the device into her pocket, before reaching up to press the third button, labelled DM Guitars. The buzzer sounded, along with some screeching that made Pam wince slightly, and then the chipped red painted door popped open. She pushed the door open and looked at the dingy foyer in front of her. If it could be called a foyer. A small square of worn green carpet led on the left to yet another guitar shop, and straight ahead to a steep flight of stairs. Pam took a step forward, a stale and slightly damp smell hitting her as the door closed behind her. She glanced into the guitar shop to the left, with Vance Music printed on the window panel of the door, and then to the stairs with their green carpet in front of her. The white walls, with their bumpy paint, looked grimy and sticky to the touch, as did the black gloss painted bannister that was stuck to one of the walls. Pam made her way up the steep, narrow stairs slowly, careful not to touch the walls on either side of her. By the time she reached the third floor, she was panting slightly.

She looked around at the various flyers stuck to a pinboard on the wall. Brightly coloured pieces of paper offering banjo lessons, a Thursday knitting circle, a pretentious sounding book club and an improv class all jostled for attention. Pam looked at them all in turn, and before she knew what she was doing, found herself reaching for the phone number of the book club and tore off the small strip of paper. She stuffed it into her coat pocket and turned towards the slightly ajar door, its grimy looking white gloss paint matching the stairway that she'd just ascended. Rather than touch the tarnished doorknob, Pam pushed the door with her foot, causing a tinny sounding bell to ring above her, and tentatively stepped inside.  

The small shop seemed completely empty, other than for the hundreds of guitars that were stacked double high on shelves against every wall, all leaning the same way towards the wooden counter at the other end of the room. Pam looked around at the many, many Fenders, Gibsons, Ibanez's and the rest, overwhelmed by the number of guitars that were crowded into such a small space. She noticed one wooden chair in the corner as she squeezed past the small wooden island in the centre of the shop.  

"Hello?" she called out after a few moments standing in front of the till. Pam looked around self consciously as she shifted from foot to foot. She leaned over the wooden counter to try to peer into an open door that Pam assumed led to a back room. "Hello?" she tried again. 

"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here," a man called as he ran through the doorway.

"Uh, hi, um, I'm here about the C. F. Martin guitar?" Pam said. 

"Oh yesh," he said. "You must be Penny Farthing," he laughed.

"Penny Farthing?" Pam questioned. 

"You know? Like the coins? The bike?" he said, confused at how Pam wasn't understanding his joke. 

"Um, no?"

"Oh hey, you're American! Snap! That explains why you don't know what I'm talking about," he said excitedly. 

"Uh, yeah," Pam replied, pulling her purse higher up on her shoulder, hugging it almost as if it were a security blanket. 

"I'm from Pennsylvania, how about you?"

Pam hesitated, not really wanting to share personal details about herself with a total stranger. But she looked at his waiting face, with its simple smile plastered over it and felt herself giving in slightly. "Um, same actually," Pam said with a nod.

"Get out!" the man exclaimed. "Penny from Pennsylvania! Who'da thunk it?" 

"Oh no, I'm not Penny. That's my sister. I'm Pam," she said before she realised what she was saying. 

"Pamalamadingdong! Michael Scott," he shouted, holding his hand out. "The pleasure's all yours."

Pam cautiously went to shake his hand, and with good reason, because as she gripped his outstretched hand, an intense buzz shot through her. "Oww!" she yelped, pulling her hand back. 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Michael said, pulling something out from his sleeve. "Forgot that was up there. Practising for my magic show later." He pulled a silk scarf from his pocket that kept on going. 

"So, uh, do you think I could get the guitar?" Pam asked as Michael continued pulling out the long line of silk scarves. He seemingly hadn't heard, or didn't want to stop his ‘show', so instead just gave her a huge smile with raised eyebrows and continued pulling. Pam pursed her lips and continued watching, with little choice, but the sound of the bell above the door dinging caused her to jump and turn round. 

A tall guy, wearing a black baseball cap and a black disposable mask shuffled in. He mumbled something and raised his hand in greeting to Michael, before he walked to the back wall and began looking at the guitars on the top shelf. 

"Hi Duncan," Michael called out, his eyes still trained on Pam, his smile almost Cheshire Cat like, as he carried on pulling the scarves out. 

"Hey," a quiet, transatlantic voice called back. 

Pam shrugged it off and turned back around to face Michael, hoping that this magic trick would be over soon. "Could I get the guitar?" she tried again. 

"Patience young one, have you must. Getting your guitar in a minute I will be," he said to her in a terrible Yoda voice. Finally he ran out of scarves and held out his hands out ‘jazz hand' style while he waited for an applause from Pam that didn't come. "Alright, fine," he huffed. "I'll be back in a second. 

"Thank you," Pam tightly smiled. As Michael shuffled off to the back room, Pam gripped the strap of her purse on her shoulder and turned around, looking at all the guitars on the shelves. She heard the sound of a guitar being plucked, and looked towards the back of the shop to see the man that had walked in moments ago, sitting down on the lone chair, strumming a guitar that was resting on his bent knee. He'd removed his mask and baseball cap, and Pam could only see the top of his head as he looked down at the instrument. She noticed how his messy hair fell about his forehead, while the hair behind his ears was curling out slightly. She watched him, slightly mesmerised, as he effortlessly fingered the strings, until he looked up, straight at her. 

Pam immediately turned around to face the counter, mortified that she'd been caught staring at some guy. She hugged her purse tighter as she listened to him playing, but remained perfectly still, looking straight ahead. He started to sing softly, and immediately Pam felt as if she were being hugged from behind, enveloped in honey, a warmth radiating through her. She looked up at the ceiling and pursed her lips as if trying not to let the smile sweep across her face that was so desperate to escape. She took a deep breath, and chanced a quick look back behind her, and saw the guy staring straight at her. He flashed her a small lopsided grin, one cheek tugging at the corner of his mouth. Pam immediately flushed pink, and the guy dropped his gaze back down to the floor as he continued playing and humming softly. 

"Alrighty, here we go," Michael said as he heaved the guitar onto the counter. "1954, C.F. Martin 00-18 Flat Top acoustic guitar, and in pretty good condition. So, cash or credit card?"  

"Uh, do you take American Express?" Pam asked as she looked through her purse. 

"Wish I could, really wish I could. But nope," Michael said sadly. 

"Mastercard?" she asked, holding out a credit card. 

"Ah, your flexible friend?" he laughed, taking the card from Pam, who just looked confused and so Michael began rambling at her. "The old advert? It was a huge hit. Oh, but maybe you weren't born yet, or maybe you were but not here yet. I mean not here like in the shop, but in London, Well let's see, what year is it now?" 

Pam knew Michael was talking, but she'd tuned out when he mentioned that she probably wasn't even alive yet. Instead, she was focusing on the sounds coming from behind her. She was desperate to turn around, to just stare at this complete stranger play his guitar and listen to his voice. But she held it together and pulled her focus back to Michael. He was still rambling about adverts from the 1990s, and she was sure she'd heard the word Bisto in there somewhere, but had no idea what it meant. Finally Pam was able to put in her PIN, before Michael made a whirring and beeping noise as the machine worked and then tore off the receipt. 

"There you go. You're now the proud owner of a very old guitar," Michael said proudly as he tucked the guitar into its case, closed and locked the lid, and held it out to Pam. 

"Thanks," she said with a small smile. She took the handle of the guitar case and pulled it off of the counter, surprised at the weight of the instrument that she'd have to somehow get home on the bus. She turned and headed to the door, her gaze still drawn to the man in the back corner of the shop. As she passed him, he looked up and gave her that same lopsided grin as he had done minutes before. She couldn't help but give him a shy smile of her own, her cheeks colouring pink. She swallowed down a lump in her throat and fumbled for the doorknob.

"Here, let me," the guy said, standing. He learned the guitar against his chair and walked over to grab the door for Pam, seemingly not worried about how dirty looking the brass knob was. 

"Thanks," she smiled, almost with a whisper. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and ducked her head down slightly, biting the inside of her cheek to try to stop her smile growing wider. She looked up again, and locked eyes with the stranger. After what seemed like hours, but was more like 27 seconds, Pam finally tore her gaze away. "I should, um, get going," she said, immediately regretting her life choice not to live in this dingy shop, or sit and listen to him play 24/7 as if she had nothing else to do in her life. 

He gave her another smile as he pulled the door wider and leaned against it, watching her walk down the stairs, carefully balancing in the middle of the staircase and making sure not to touch the walls. Pam couldn't help herself as she paused and turned her head slightly to see the stranger still staring at her. She flushed pink again, smiled, and then turned to continue her journey out of the tall building.

--

Back out in the cold, Pam wasn't sure what to think. She turned back to face the red door and contemplated going back inside. She bit her lip, shifted the heavy guitar case to her other hand and held her left hand against the DM Guitars button on the buzzer. What would I even say to him? Pam thought to herself. Hey Dylan, wanna go get a drink? Was it Dylan? Deacon? Duncan! It was Duncan. Ok, so Duncan, wanna grab a drink? No. You don't ask guys out. Not that they ask you out either. But, he's obviously not going to say yes, and then that's just all kinds of embarrassing and do you really want that? Just, let's just leave it.  

"Excuse me," a woman said, as she pretty much pushed past Pam to reach the buzzer, startling Pam from her trance.

"Sorry," Pam mumbled as she took a step to the side. She watched the woman wait for the buzz and then push the heavy door open. Pam lunged forward to stop the door from closing, putting her foot in the way. She stared at the large brass knob in the centre of the door, before sighing and slowly pulling her foot back and allowing the door to close. She pursed her lips to the side and sniffed slightly before turning back to the street, shaking the stranger out of her mind. 

She looked right, as she'd been training herself to do over the last few weeks, and began to cross the road, before she stopped herself and looked the other way, realising it was a one way street. She let a black cab pass, before quickly skipping over the road to the other side. She passed Flat Iron, gazing into the darkly lit restaurant, before letting her eyes flit down to the ground to see the dirty looking sign for The Ally Cat Club and its wrought iron steps disappearing downwards into a black hole beneath the street. Finally, at the end of the road, Pam reached the glass and black metal door of Fernandez & Wells, the independent coffee shop she'd passed on the way down the street, and pushed it open with her shoulder, carefully sliding the guitar case in front of her. She approached the cash register and placed her order for a chai tea. She thanked the woman behind the till, and turned around to head towards the end of the counter, and ran smack into a body. She looked up slowly and realised it was a man. The same man that she'd met upstairs. The same man that she hadn't stopped thinking about since she'd heard him softly singing and strumming his guitar. She locked eyes with him beneath his baseball cap that was pulled down low. 

"Um, uh, sorry," she quietly said, quickly looking down at the floor. 

"No worries," came his muffled reply through his black mask.

Pam looked back up at him and thought she saw a smile. "I'll, um, I'll just," she pointed to the left as if to motion that she'd get out of his way.

"Thanks," he said, before walking up to the cash register.

After a few minutes, the guy came to stand next to Pam as he waited for his drink to be prepared. She held her breath slightly, feeling like her right arm was burning by being in such close proximity to him, even if the fabric of her jacket was barely touching his. They stood in silence, as Pam chewed the side of her bottom lip and wondered what to say to him. 

"So, what guitar did you get?" he asked, leaning his head slightly towards her. 

"Oh, um, it's a," Pam began, but was interrupted by her name being called. "Oh, uh, that's mine." She took a few steps to the counter and picked up the small white paper cup with its black plastic lid. She quickly put it down again when she realised it was so hot, and grabbed a brown cardboard sleeve. She put the guitar on the floor next to her so that she could slip the sleeve onto the cup, and carefully picked both back up. Just as she turned around, she suddenly wondered what she should do. The guy was clearly only making conversation while they waited for their drinks, and now she had hers, what should she do? Should she just smile and walk out of the coffee shop? Or should she go back over and tell him what guitar she'd bought like he'd asked? She took a deep breath and walked back over. 

"So what was it?" he asked, before Pam even had the chance to work out what she was going to do.

Pam was just about to answer, when she was interrupted again. 

"Jim!" the barista shouted, causing Pam to jump a little. "Flat white for Jim!" 

The guy Pam was talking to raised his eyebrows under his cap and stepped forward to claim the drink. He slipped a sleeve onto his cup and turned back towards Pam. "Sorry," he said as he returned to her, a slightly confused expression on her face. "Do you want to maybe walk and drink and you can tell me about your guitar?" he asked through his mask. 

Pam didn't need to be asked twice. "Absolutely I do," she replied with a bright smile.

"After you," he said, holding the heavy glass door open of the coffee shop open, letting the cold London air hit them. He motioned with his hand for Pam to walk through.

"Thanks," she said with a slight blush, trying to work out if she should lead with the guitar case on the way through the door, or if she should squeeze herself through first. 

"Here, let me," he said, holding his hand out to take the case. Pam looked down at the case and then up a little apprehensively. "I promise I'm not gonna steal it," he chuckled. 

Pam bit her lip and slowly lifted her arm so that he could take the case from her. "Thanks," she said with a small smile.

They started walking towards St Giles in the Fields as Pam took a sip of her drink. "So what is it?" he asked. 

"Uh, chai tea," Pam replied, looking at her cup.

"No," he laughed. "I meant the guitar."

"Oh," she giggled. "It's a C.F. Martin acoustic guitar. From the 50s."

"Oh wow, that's pretty impressive."

"It was the same one that my grandpa played. My sister tracked it down and we've bought it for my dad's birthday."

"Nice present," he said as his eyebrows disappeared somewhere underneath his cap.  

A pair of young girls walked past them and squealed at each other and began whispering. Pam turned around, unsure of what they were so excited about, but shrugged it off and tried to keep stride with her walking companion who seemed to not have noticed the girls. "It's for his 50th," she replied. "So do you play? Sorry, that's stupid, of course you play. You were playing in the store." Pam felt herself flushing slightly. "I mean, how long have you been playing?" 

"Since I was a kid. Wanna walk through the church yard?" he asked with a tilt of his head towards the rusty iron gate. 

"Sure," she smiled. They walked through the church yard in comfortable silence, keeping to the path and watching pigeons pecking at the winter worn grass and brown leaves that were scattered across it. Pam looked over and realised that between carrying his own coffee cup and her guitar case, Pam's new friend didn't have a free hand to pull his mask down so that he could take a sip. She also realised that she wasn't entirely sure of his name. She was fairly sure that in the guitar shop the owner had called him Duncan, but at the coffee shop, he picked up the coffee for ‘Jim'. Maybe he just got confused and picked up the wrong cup, Pam thought as she brought her cup to her lips. But who gets Jim and Duncan confused? They're not even remotely similar! "Want me to take that so you can drink?" she asked, pointing to the guitar case. 

He looked around as they walked to the deserted playground behind the church, and it seemed as though he was about to say yes, but then a youngish guy passed them. "I'll wait til we get there," he said, slightly tense. 

"Get where?" Pam asked, slightly confused. 

"There's a little community garden just down those steps," he said, pointing past the small basketball court where a couple of guys were having a one-on-one game. They walked further on, down the steps and to the right, until they reached the black iron gate with the rainbow sign that read ‘Welcome to the Phoenix Garden: A haven for wildlife and people'. "After you," he said, motioning for Pam to walk into the garden. He led her round the path that curved between the overflowing flower beds and full bushes, until he found a small wooden bench situated under a large tree. "Shall we?" he asked. 

Pam nodded and sat down on the bench, scooching to the side to make sure that there was enough space. He sat down next to her, placing the guitar at their feet and Pam put her purse next to it. He took a look around and slowly pulled his mask off, before taking a sip. "Not many people still wear those round here," she said, pointing to the mask that was now in his hand. "Still worried about Covid?" 

He looked down at the black paper mask in his hand. "Um yeah, something like that." He took another sip and then quickly changed the conversation. "So, uh, you're not from here? I mean, obviously, you've got an American accent," he said, a touch of embarrassment colouring his voice.

"Yeah, I'm from this little town in Pennsylvania. I've only been here for like," she thought for a second, "three weeks. I'm on this semester abroad thing."

"Oh yeah? What are you studying?" 

"I'm doing an MFA in Digital Arts at Pratt in New York, but I'm here for the Spring semester at Central Saint Martins," Pam said a little bashfully

"Very impressive," he smiled.

"So, uh, how about you? You don't really sound English." 

"That's because I'm not." He flashed her a brilliant smile from under his black baseball cap. "I was born in Philly, but we moved over here when I was about 10. So I guess I'm not really English, but not so American anymore either. Kinda makes for a weird accent," he laughed. 

"I like it," Pam said with a blush. 

"Well thanks," he said, a blush of his own matching Pam's. He was about to open his mouth to ask another question, but someone walked past them and he quickly ducked his head, pulling his baseball cap low over his eyes.

Pam was a little confused about why he seemed to be hiding from a total stranger, but decided not to push it. "So," she said slowly. "I, um, I didn't actually introduce myself earlier. I'm Beesly. Shit, I mean I'm Pam. Beesly. Pam Beesly," she said, holding her hand out, incredibly embarrassed that she felt so flustered around this guy that she couldn't even get her own name right. 

"Great to meet you Beesly," he said, shaking her hand.  

Pam felt a spark of electricity jolt between them as their palms touched and his fingers squeezed her hand slightly. They pulled apart and Pam almost forgot how to function as a person. "And, um, you are? I mean, what's your name?" 

He paused for a second and looked at Pam's earnest face. "I'm, um. It's Du-" He cut himself off and paused again, before taking a deep breath. "I'm Jim."

Pam caught his slight slip of Duncan, but he said his name was Jim, so she wasn't going to argue with him. "Nice to meet you too, Jim," she said, extending her hand out again. When they touched again, she felt that same spark fly through her. As they pulled apart, she tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear. "So hanging out in guitar shops and getting coffee in the middle of the day, I'm guessing you're a student too?" 

"Ah, no actually," he smiled, and Pam swore she saw him breathe a slight sigh of relief. "I'm a musician. Well, I guess a singer and a musician. I play the guitar." 

"Oh wow, that's awesome," Pam beamed. "What kind of music?" 

"Um, kinda like Heartland Rock. You know, like Tom Petty? Springsteen? That kinda thing. Well, at least I try anyway," he blushed.

"Oh yeah, it's a little before my time, but I know that sort of stuff from my dad when I was growing up and stuff."

"Yeah that's exactly how I got into those guys. My dad was always playing that sorta stuff when we were growing up, and then I guess even more so when we moved here and he wanted to remember back home." 

"How come you guys moved here?"

"My dad's job. He's an architect and his firm wanted to open an office here, so we moved over. And we've been here for about 17 years now," Jim explained before taking the last sip of his coffee. 

"Think you'll ever go home?" Pam asked. 

"I'm kinda working on it at the moment."

"You said you were born in Philly right?" Pam asked, and Jim nodded. "I'm from Scranton." 

"No way," he smiled. "My grandma lived there, my dad's from there. He moved to Philly for college and met my mom and they settled down there." 

"So you want to go back to Philly huh?" she asked. 

"I was so young when I left, I don't really remember much to be honest. But I meant," he said as he happened to glance down at his watch. "Oh shit, I'm really late. I'm really sorry, I've got a meeting I've gotta go to." He stood up and looked down at Pam's fallen face.

"Oh, um, no worries," Pam replied, a little flustered and sad that their time together was coming to an end.  

"Um, are you free for dinner tonight? We can carry on chatting about home and stuff." 

"Yes," Pam replied without hesitating. 

"Alright, then it's a date," he smiled. 

-- 

Pam shifted uncomfortably on the faded yellow leatherette bench in the booth of Trattoria Mondello where Jim had said he'd meet her at 8pm. She tapped the screen of her phone where it lay on the table next to the blue paper placemat and looked at the time again for what felt like the three hundredth time in the last 10 minutes. She sighed and looked around at the busy restaurant, looking longingly at the laughing and loud patrons drinking Italian wines and sharing food. Her eyes skimmed over the beamed ceiling, the textured white walls and the authentic Italian paintings and ornaments that adorned them, before staring at the glass door waiting for it to open. Wondering if it would ever open and if the person walking through it would be looking for her.  

After alternating between looking at her phone and around at the bustling restaurant a further eight times, the door finally opened and Pam held her breath as she craned her neck out of the booth to see who it was. 

"Duncan!" a thick Scilician accent boomed from a small stout man wearing a black waistcoat. Pam watched him embrace the taller man with a hearty slap on the back before he gripped both his forearms, and then led him over to where she was sitting. "La bella signora," the shorter man announced as they reached Pam's booth.

"Hey," Jim breathed as he slid into the bench opposite Pam and pulled his black disposable mask off. "I'm so sorry I'm late, there was this whole... thing," he said, waving his hand in a circle, before shrugging off his jacket.

"No problem," Pam smiled, aware that her cheeks were flushing slightly pink.

"Have you been waiting long?" 

"Oh, no, like a few minutes." 

Jim glanced down at his watch. "Oh shit, I'm twenty minutes late. I really am sorry." 

"Don't even worry about it," Pam tried to wave him off. "This place is really cute. Very," she paused, looking around the small, bustling restaurant for the right word, "Italian."

"Yeah, I love it here. The bruschetta is amazing, and the Veal Milanese is like the best one I've ever had. Oh and the pizzas are awesome too. Sorry, I just really love Italian food." Pam smiled at him and picked up the green and white menu and started looking at the plastic covered pages. "Did you make it back to your place ok with the guitar?" 

"Oh yeah," she smiled. "Almost got it stuck in the doors of the bus, but it was all ok. How did your meeting go?" 

"Was really good. Was with a record company."

"Oh my god, that's amazing!" Pam exclaimed. "Like a real record company?" 

"Yeah," Jim chuckled.

"That's like so exciting!" she squealed, almost jumping out of her seat. "We've got to get something to toast with!" Pam immediately flapped her hands around and a waiter came over.

"Se signora, what can I get for you?" the tall man wearing a white apron around his waist asked. 

"Can we get a bottle of your best champagne please?" Pam blurted out, before realising that she was a student and Jim was a penniless musician. Fuck it, she thought. I'll just eat pasta for the rest of the week to make up for it.

"Absolutely," he said with a slight bow, before turning and leaving. He returned with a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and carefully poured it into two champagne flutes, before putting the bottle into an ice bucket.  

Pam held her glass up towards Jim. "To you and your record deal. Don't forget me when you're famous," she smiled. 

Jim grinned and clinked his glass against Pam's, before they both took a sip. "So tell me about the rest of your day," he said, leaning closer in as he put his glass down on the table. 

"Well, after I wrestled the guitar home, I just worked on one of my assignments and then came here," Pam replied breezily, not wanting to tell the truth of how she'd actually run home to try on every single item of clothing that she owned before jumping in the shower and then trying to style her hair thirty different ways before finding the right one. She flashed Jim a smile before picking up her menu. "So, what do you recommend?" she asked, peeking over the top of it.

"Definitely the bruschetta. And the calamari. Want to share?"

"Absolutely I do." She looked back at the menu, glancing from side to side, before closing it and putting it back down on the table. "I think I'm going to get a Napoletana." 

"Gross. Black olives are disgusting. And anchovies? Yugh," Jim said, pulling a face. 

"Shut up," Pam giggled. "What are you getting?" 

"Well, I respect my taste buds, so I'm actually going to get something tasty. Like the Veal Milanese," Jim said, with a joking snobbery to his voice.

"Ok, let me ask you this. Have you ever come here and not had the Veal Milanese?" Pam asked with her eyebrow raised.

"Um, yeah," Jim said slowly. "Of course I've had other food here. I told you, the pizza is great here." 

"In the last ten times you've come here?"

"Ok, I think it's time for us to order," he said, turning around to wave at a waiter. 

They placed their orders, before falling into easy conversation about anything and everything. Pam learned that Jim had two older brothers (whom he hated) and a younger sister (that he adored), he was allergic to red wine and that he was absolutely hopeless at any type of video game. In return, Pam told him about her love for musical theatre, how she didn't learn to ride a bike properly until she was 15 and how much she hated her student accommodation. As Jim was delving into one particularly funny story about a prank that had gone wrong on one of his brothers as their waited for their food, Pam noticed a few people around the restaurant staring at her. Or Jim. Or them. She wasn't quite sure at who, but it was definitely at their table. As they whispered to each other, Pam did her best to pull her focus back to Jim and to his story about lawn darts. She smiled at his animated movements, and put the other patrons out of her mind.

At least until they were midway through their main courses, when Pam's wondering eye fell upon a different table. This time, the people were nudging each other and whispering. And at that point, Pam felt she should say something. "I might be going crazy, but I think people are looking at us," she said, picking at the crust of her pizza.

Jim finished the mouthful of veal that he'd been chewing and swallowed. Without even glancing round at who Pam had thought was staring at them, he put down his fork and looked directly at Pam. "It's because they're staring at the most beautiful girl in this restaurant," he said completely seriously, but with a slight glint in his eye. 

Pam burst into laughter. "Oh my god, that was so cheesy," she giggled.

Jim let out a small laugh through his nose and hung his head, shaking it slightly. "I was trying to pay you a compliment!" he exclaimed. "But yeah, I guess it was kinda cheesy." 

"I like cheesy," she smiled at Jim. "But they are staring. Do I have food on my face or something?" 

"I mean, you do have some pizza sauce right here," he said, pointing to his cheek. 

"I do not!" she exclaimed as she frantically wiped at her face. 

"Nah, you don't," Jim laughed. "But that was funny." 

"I hate you," Pam tried to say with a straight face, before taking a bite of her pizza. 

"Sure you do," Jim smirked. 

Their banter carried on through the rest of their mains and into a shared dessert of tiramisu. Jokes and revelations of shared interests flowed easily between Jim and Pam, until suddenly her phone rang. "Oh," she said with a furrowed forehead. 

"What is it?" Jim asked, putting down his spoon.

"It's my mom. She never calls me. Something must be wrong. Do you mind if I get this?" 

"Of course not. I'll grab the bill and meet you outside?"

Pam nodded and smiled slightly. "Mom?" she said into the phone as she stood and made her way out of the restaurant. "Is everything ok?" She listened intently to her mother talking on the other end of the line, completely engrossed to the point that she didn't notice Jim wave meekly at the people who had been staring at him, or how he bent down awkwardly to take a selfie with another person who came rushing over to him. But as the door to the restaurant opened, drawing Pam's attention to Jim leaving it, she snapped her head up and waved to Jim. 

He waved back, and just as he was about to leave, one of the waiters came rushing out. "Duncan, your lady friend left her scarf," he shouted, holding up a red scarf. Jim took it with a smile and walked over to Pam. 

"Yeah I think I am," she said into the phone. She smiled at Jim as he stood in front of her holding her scarf. "I have to go. I will. Bye Mom." She hit the call end button and slipped her phone into her pocket. "Sorry about that." 

"Everything ok?" Jim asked as Pam took the scarf from him. 

"Thanks," she smiled, as she wrapped the scarf around her neck. "Yeah, my Meemaw had a fall but she's ok." 

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said earnestly as he looked down at Pam from underneath his cap. 

She smiled up at him and felt the air around them shift. She tried to swallow, but her whole mouth had gone dry. Jim was staring at her intently, as if he wanted to say something. But he didn't. Pam kept looking at him, urging him, willing him to say whatever it was that he was holding back. After 27 seconds, she finally couldn't take any more. "I'm cold," she said, tightening her scarf. "Want to walk me to my bus stop?" 

"Sure," Jim said, with a slightly sad smile. 

They walked along Goodge Street in silence for a minute or so, when suddenly, the back of their hands brushed. Pam felt the same spark that she had earlier that day, and again, when Jim's hand moved, she felt a sadness run through her. As they turned the corner onto Tottenham Court Road, their hands bumped again, but this time, feeling brave, Pam slipped her hand into Jim's. She looked up at him and watched him bite back his smile as he looked down at the ground. They carried on walking, Jim rubbing his thumb back and forth over Pam's knuckles, until Pam saw her bus stop and sighed. "That's me," she said pointing to the small shelter. 

Jim nodded solemnly, but as soon as they passed Costa Coffee, he looked left into the empty space of Whitfield Gardens, and without hesitating, pulled Pam into the dark. He spun her around, and before she could say a word, bent down to kiss her softly. His hands wrapped around her waist in her puffy jacket, and hers travelled up his chest to the back of his neck, gently playing with the hair that had escaped his baseball cap. "I've wanted to do that since I first saw you," he whispered as they finally pulled apart, both staring into each other's eyes. 

"Me too," she smiled back, illuminated by the lamppost light just above them. He grinned and bent down to kiss her, but she put her hand on his chest to stop him. "Jim," she said softly. He gave her a confused, and slightly worried, look. "Can you take your cap off?" He laughed, and removed his hat, before pulling Pam closer to him and kissing her with everything he had. 

They stayed lost in their kiss until they heard a man peeing against the tree they were standing next to. "I think that's our cue to leave," Jim chuckled as he put his cap back on. "Come on," he said with a nod of his head. 

They walked up to the bus stop and saw that Pam's bus was due in three minutes. "So you really wanted to kiss me since we were in that shop huh?" Pam teased. 

"Absolutely I did," he grinned back, leaning down to give her a quick peck on the cheek.

"Oh hey. Um, why do people keep calling you Duncan? There was that guy in the shop and those waiters tonight," she asked with a slight confused tone.

"Um, it's because," he glanced around and pulled his black cap down slightly further, "uh, it's my stage name." 

"Your stage name?" Pam asked with a slight surprised cough. 

"Um, yeah," Jim replied a little sheepishly.  

Pam was just about to ask why on earth he needed a stage name, but the number 73 pulled up. Instead she reached up to give him a quick kiss and thanked him for the meal. "I had a great time tonight," she smiled as she stepped onto the bus.

"Me too," he beamed, reaching up for one last kiss, much to the annoyance of the person in the queue behind them. "I'll text you tomorrow."

Two minutes later, Pam was sitting, staring out of the window on the top deck of the bus, when suddenly her phone buzzed. She reached into her pocket and saw that there was a message from Jim. She couldn't hide the wide smile on her face as she read his text.

I couldn't wait.