Oh what the hell. It'll be declassified soon anyway.

It was in Marrakesh, 2003. Despite the locals wearing jackets and coats it was too hot for me in my cramped room, so I went down to a little bar near the souk. The ceiling fan gave no relief, it merely stirred the fume-laden air, so that we all got an equal hit of hashish, body odour and Turkish cigarettes. It suited my mood. I didn't want to sit next to some European or Yank complaining that everything was different from the country of their birth.

It wasn't on any tourist map, so I was surprised when Lianne walked in. You know that scene when a stranger walks into the saloon and even the automated honky-tonk piano goes quiet? I stared, mouth open, along with every other occupant. I like to think I shut my mouth and turned away before anyone else. As I said, I wanted nothing but my own company that night.

She slid into a chair two to my left and jutted her jaw at the bartender in greeting. "Something long and cold," she said, in that lilting Leeds accent that made red-blooded men want to wear flat caps and go whippet racing.

"I am sorry, madame, but we do not serve ladies here."

Her look could have frozen hydrogen. The bartender's face took on an expression of pure terror, like a mouse that has been admiring the seamless grace of a cat, just before it pounces.

"I am sorry, madame. These are not my rules. I only work here," he gibbered.

I tossed a couple of dirham onto the counter. "That sounds good. I think I'll have something long and cold too."

He grabbed the money with relief and turned his back, bottles rattling as he grabbed ingredients.

"He would have served me in the end, you know. But thanks."

I held my hands up. "I have no doubt. I just don't like to see a grown man cry. Besides, I like drinking here. If you reduced him to a wreck I'd have find somewhere new to drink."

Something long and cool was pushed in front of me. As I slid it along the bar the bartender hurried off to talk to someone else, pretending he hadn't seen me give it to her.

"Are you local, then?" she asked.

"Local-ish. I've been here for a few months."

"What do you do?"

"I travel in haberdashery." It was a reasonable cover, giving me free reign to wander around the souks and also to be a frequent visitor to the British Embassy. I waited for the inevitable joke. She didn't make it, and for that reason if for no other I fell in love with her.

"That's amazing," she said, without a hint of irony.

"No, really, it isn't."

"No, I meant, I am in dire need of pyjamas. There was... an incident."

"A pyjama-related incident? Was blood spilled? You have the air of a woman around whom a lot of blood is spilled."

She smiled. "None of it mine. Suffice to say the flannelette nighty is far too hot and the neglig�©e is beyond repair."

I gave a short but explicit curse. "Are you alright? I mean, I have contacts, if you want to report an attack."

"Oh, I rather think the poor man is going to regret his life choices for months to come, but thanks. No, what I really need is a replacement, but of course all the shops are closed. I'd really rather not sleep in nothing but Chanel Number Five."

"And this is the point where I invite you up to my room to see my samples?"

"He may even regret it for years to come," she said.

"Because, of course, I'd never do that," I added instantly. "But there are some wholesalers nearby who are open. We could pick a cloth, give measurements and it'd be ready for you first thing in the morning."

She downed her drink in one elegant movement and slid off the stool. "Sounds like a plan."

We stepped out into the warm evening. I offered her my arm. She looked at it for a moment, touched it gently, and looked at me with the saddest eyes.

"I'm married," she said.

"Is he here in Marrakesh?" I asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

Her hand dropped from my arm and touched her chest. "He's here, always."

"Okay. Good, good." I hoped my face wasn't betraying my heart. "So, pyjamas, then."

And we stepped into the night.

Sometimes life gives you lemons. I can deal with that. Sometimes it gives you something sweeter by far, but then takes it away after an hour or so. I never saw her again, but I did get a message the next day.

LOVE THE PJS. SORRY ABOUT THE MICROFILM.

My hand flew to my wallet, but I knew it had already gone. I smiled ruefully. Next time, my little vixen. Next time.