Birmingham. Midnight. The streetlights cast elastic shadows. Shortening into pinpricks as you walk towards them and then lengthen, elongating on your tail after you've gone. Streetlights taking the mickey.

There's a woman standing in a doorway wearing a hat. Under its brim she looks like she might be Yoko Ono. But then again, she might be anyone. It's that kind of place. It's that kind of night.

Birmingham shadows fall. Fragments of the Bruce Cockburn song keep jostling for space at the back of Michael's mind. But he can't make out the words.

It's been a long day, but he's wired. Taut nerves needing the fragile excitement of late-night interaction with total strangers. Mind craving the alchemy of buzz then anaesthesia that comes as the wine soaks deeper in the system. Michael's on the prowl.

"Where to now, Michael?"

Jane's stumbling a bit on her words tonight. Maybe the ice maiden's letting her guard down. Michael's intrigued. They've been to Nico's on High Road for pasta and then on to some ubiquitous Irish pub to share a bottle of red and now they're walking back in the vague direction of a taxi rank. They've a plane to catch to Edinburgh in the morning and they're staying in the Hilton out by the airport. Except it's not the Hilton anymore. Michael can't remember what it's called, but everybody knows the place.

Michael's theoretically in charge. He's thirty-eight. The Regional Manager. Tall, toned and looks the part. Jane's just off her induction course. But already he's worked out that she's her own woman and you'll make the workplace a smoother place by letting her get on with it. Five feet six, blonde highlights and colour-coordinated. Holds every relevant qualification there is. She's not afraid to stand up for herself either. He chuckles to himself, remembering the evening on the induction course when Pete Jones, uninvited, tried to hold her hand on the way to the dance floor. She'd nailed him down on the spot. A woman who knows her own mind all right. She was going to be a high flyer and she worked for him! Mind you, she’d certainly cut herself some deal when he recruited her.

"Maybe we ought to get the taxi and head back. The plane leaves at eight." He's almost teasing her now. Seeing what she's made of.

Jane doesn't look impressed.

"We can pass this one with no sleep, Michael. It's pretty basic. Thought you knew all about this stuff." A definite stumble on "pass". Pronounced with an "h". Not her usual self at all. But daring him to flag a taxi nonetheless. "Anyway, we've a whole plane journey for sleeping."

It's a new side of Jane he's seeing. Slightly out of control. He wonders what's brought this on. More than that, he wonders where the mood might take her. For the moment it takes her away from the taxis as she keeps on walking slightly uncertainly along the street.

It's freezing cold outside tonight, half-heartedly snowing. Breath floating like speech bubbles in front of their faces. And already the warming effects of the wine are wearing thin. It's refill or grab a cab. They turn onto Main Street.

Michael sees it first. Almost misses it. It's not lit that brightly.

"Whaddya think?"

"The Seven Lizards? What's that when it's at home?"

"Ah, you're not a jazz woman then?"

"My Dad's into it..." Jane trails off into silence.

The lighting's no better inside. People with secrets come to the Lizards. And as Michael and Jane burrow through the drinkers crowding the outer bar and press on into the inner sanctum maybe they feel a jostling someplace inside themselves. A shaking loose of some of their own secrets.

There's an empty table in the corner with a lousy view of the stage. Jane makes her way over while Michael buys a round. Looks like the band's been between sets and the members, lubricated now, are thinking about tuning up again.

Michael knows all the lines. Has all the moves. There isn't an approach he hasn't tried with someone. And by now he's keen. But no matter what angle he comes from, he's meeting brick walls tonight. Jane might be slightly under the weather, but it isn't making her available. Rather, it's taking her off into some inaccessible place where Michael isn't invited. Some secret place known only to herself. She's staring into her vodka, eyes glazing over. All the bravado she showed on the street is faded now and he's rarely seen anyone look so lost.

"So your Dad didn't brainwash you then?"

Michael's trying to slide words into the vacuum between them. He's not comfortable with silence.

"No."

Tonight, Jane's not comfortable with speech.

"God, I love those moments of anticipation before the music."

He's trying all the gambits. He's hoping that the ambiance of the occasion might dignify banality with undeserved gravitas. It doesn't, and embarrassment washes over him. He's not sure why he's uneasy.

"Here. I'll get you another."

He's never seen her knock booze back so fast. But at the bar, at least for a moment, he can escape her company. Pretend that they're out on a date. Admire her body without having to steer around her eyes. He knows he's thinking in contradictions, but Michael's not at home getting up close and personal with a co-worker’s pain.

Jane's alone with her thoughts. There's been a friction going on in her head all day that has been demanding some kind of attention. It's been the same this day every year for what feels like almost as long as she can remember. It's the day on which the self-assured executive in training usually loses the plot. But she's not planning to tell anyone why.

Michael's back with the drinks.

"Thanks Michael."

He can't help but notice her full lips as she mumbles. He can't drag his eyes off the grace of her neck and shoulders. Maybe it's wrong, but wrong is an over-used word.

The band's ready to go and Michael's breathing a sigh of relief. Jane just wants the music. The anonymity that comes to the hearers as the attention is all focused on the stage.

Then ten minutes in, their world's turned upside down.

Sometimes you just know you're being touched by the divine. The mysterious. When that special enchantment that hides itself beautifully, inaccessibly aloof for most of your waking life pays a visit and you know that you need to mark the spot. Michael's sitting with his drink untouched, eyes closed and memorising every line. Jane's lost in some inside place all of her own. Still. She’s never heard tenor sax played like this. Ever.

He’s old. The whole band is old. And they're playing Louis Armstrong, Hoagy Carmichael, and the Duke. Each note crafted and perfectly detailed and flowing in and out of one another as seamless as a river in motion. Mysterious as an old, old secret. Like it's been aged with the passing of time and matured with the weeping of tears. It's music that homes in on the pain in you and burrows into the places that you want to keep hidden. Jane's transfixed, never wanting it to stop. It's massaging her need, finding the reason for her mood. Too soon, though, it's the encore. Oscar Peterson, "There'll Never Be Another You", and it rips her open. You might know the solo. As the old guy leans into it, sax becoming a part of him, a tear drips off the end of her nose, and Michael can't help but notice.

"You OK?"

"No."

Long silence.

Jane's feeling herself unravel inside. She knows he's called her the ice queen. They all do. And she's so careful to maintain the pose. Taking pains never to move outside the narrow wavelength that's become her emotional range these last few years. Shutting down on the highs and lows of sorrow and joy and pleasure and release that she used to explore so boldly. Protecting herself from the pain of exposure. Learning to live within limits. But tonight she's not going to hold the image. Tonight the songs have disarmed her.

Michael's not sure what to say. Can't define "appropriate" in his head. In the end settles for "You want to get out of here?" She nods.

Somewhere on the way to the door he realises that you can't ignore these moments of disclosure. Can't just let them hang. And as they stumble into the cold air he takes the plunge.

"I love that last song. Always have. It reminds me.... It just crawls into me and..."

"Yeah."

Michael's struggling now. Almost crossing the line into talking about his real self. Almost, but not quite. Though he knows he has to say something.

"You want to walk awhile?"

"Yeah."

Outside the streets are busy. One thirty in Birmingham's morning and there's clusters of people laughing and trying to flag down taxis. Girls stumbling on too-high heels, handbags clutched in frozen fingers. Bare midriffs tinged with blue.

Direction doesn't matter. There'll always be a taxi when they need it. And for awhile they just walk. Not talking. Each lost in thought. Each remembering the you of whom there'll never be another. Each trying to put an estimate on loss.

"It's uh... It's... It's the anniversary of my Dad's death. He died six years ago today."

She almost whispers it. He hardly hears the words.

"Motorbike hit and run. I was only nineteen. It was just..." Long pause.

She’s back there. Nineteen and with no tomorrows. Her father. Da. Irish mischief in his eyes and built like a tank. The guy who made her his princess and sheltered her from how the world is. Took her on his arm and showed her off. Worshipped the ground she danced on. The guy who died. There's never been another man in her life since.

"And I just miss him so much. You know my Mam died when I was seven, and he was all me and my sister had left. He looked after Rebecca and me. Minded us.... I was sat there in the house waiting for him. Wondering why he wasn’t coming home. And then when the doorbell rang...."

Words tumbling now, rushing for release. Racing towards the finish line. Needing to tell it all. Michael just listens, knowing that's all he's meant to do. Knows and, amazingly, understands.

When it's all been told they walk in silence for awhile. They've been walking for almost an hour now.

"You hungry?"

"Mmmm, no, but I'd love a coffee."

"Eddie Rockets it is then."

"You've such class, Michael."

"I know. It's what makes me so attractive."

Two lattes later and it's Michael's turn. He's not sure why, but something in the night, something in the woman, maybe something lingering from the music seems to open a valve in him. A valve he had thought was rusted shut. And so he's opening up about Roisin and the emptiness she left behind. About the embarrassment of returning the wedding presents and the messiness of untangling the mortgage. About the pain. About the inadequacy that's eating up his soul.

Two days before the wedding and she told him she couldn't commit. Told him there was just no way she could handle the claustrophobia of love. The claustrophobia of his love. Left him twisting in the crosswind of his own vulnerability. Made him the man he is.

About how she married Fergus eighteen months later.

He's never talked about this. He tried a shrink for a few weeks after she left, but the shrink seemed more interested in working out if Michael had been abused as a child than in talking about Roisin. And so Michael hadn't.

He knows he's superficial. He knows that he has a fear of vulnerability. He knows it's written all over his Pink and Boss finery. Spelled out in his target-focused conversations and laddish chat-up lines. But something in Jane's eyes pulls him in, disarms him, and he articulates the thing he's been afraid to say for too long.

"The thing is, maybe there really will never be another Roisin. I don’t know if I could ever.... You know, I don't know what I did to drive her away. It eats away at me.... Knowing there must have been something."

Jane's too wise to go after that one and swirls the latte in her cup. Pensive. Maybe thinking about how fragile confidence is. Even in the most successful of us.

And so the conversation drifts to safer places. Though it's still real. The big things are in the open now and so they can approach those smaller intimacies that make up knowledge of another human. Childhood memories, the film that lingers in your mind, favourite songs and the night you heard them, the first time you had sex. Jane's realising that the suit has a soul.

Three-thirty and Eddie's guys make the leaving gesticulations. You know the ones. Collect the cups. Wipe the table. Stack chairs all around. Michael and Jane take the hint.

Back out in the street it's stopped snowing, but it's colder than ever. Jane's shivering even in her coat, but they're off the beaten track for taxis. There's another walk ahead.

Ten minutes later she takes the plunge. It's taken hours to get here.

"Michael..."

"Uh-huh..."

"I know you're the boss and all that, and I know there's appropriate behaviour and everything. But... But could you just hold me for a moment? Would you...? I'm just so lonely...."

There's a silence on the streets now. Most of the night-time revellers have caught taxis and gone home. The Seven Lizards must have closed hours ago. The band members have probably made their way back into history.

Michael's wondering. It's not in the Company Guidelines. There's no subsection on what to do when the new star performer's falling apart. But there's something about her eyes. For what feels like forever, life suspends time.

"Come here then. If you're sure you won't sue me."

"Don't hold your breath on it."

And as he wraps her into his coat and gently strokes her hair it's as if there's a moment of epiphany for them both. A kind of homecoming.

Birmingham. Four in the morning.

She leans into him, finds his ear and starts talking. And he hardly believes the question. Answers in a hoarse whisper.

They're in a taxi, hands fumbling and mouths locked. Each knows that this is more than just a casual encounter. Jane's been looking for a Michael for a long, long time. Michael's just counting his blessings and trying not to blow it.

Back in the hotel and they're naked. Clothes have come off in short, frantic bursts of energy and lie about the room in unkempt piles watching the action. There's a blazing in Jane's soul that she knows hasn't been there for years. She's not self conscious about the raw need that's taken over her body and destroyed her inhibitions. She's taken a calculated risk on Michael and somehow she knows it was the right thing to do. A natural progression. As for the man himself, well he's feeling something defrost inside of him. The ghost of Roisin past melting on the duvet. For once he's not choreographing his moves. Not watching himself perform. He's holding nothing back.

And all the time whispers, like grace notes, punctuate their fierce coupling. Like intimacy unpacking after a long journey.