Camellia wanted to admit that she hated knowing that Miss Peet and Miss Puckridge were disappointed in her, but she knew he would sneer at that. 'I don't know,' she said weakly. 'I suppose it's because everything's gone a bit haywire since I met you.'

He caught hold of her two arms and pulled her close to him. He smelled of sweat, he was hot and his almost black eyes burned into hers. I'll look after you. You belong with me.'

He kissed her then, hard and long, ignoring the curious glances from passers-by. When he eventually released her he cupped her face in his two hands.

'You've got this Saturday off haven't you?' he said. 'Pack your bags and catch a taxi to my place. You said you love me. Prove it.'

Camellia had agonised all week. Suzanne and Carol both advised her not to be hasty. Yet back at Archway House, Madeline encouraged her.

'You go with him if that's what you want,' she said forcefully, hands on hips. 'Miss Peet's as bad as my parents, she doesn't want anyone to have any fun. So maybe it won't work out, but you'll regret it if you don't try. I gave up my boyfriend, Colin, in Birmingham because my parents didn't approve of him, and I've never met anyone I like as much since,'

In the end Camellia wasn't brave enough to give notice, or even say goodbye to Miss Peet. When she saw the older woman leaving on Saturday morning to go shopping, she hastily stuffed the last of her belongings into a couple of pillowcases and called a taxi. Rose, Wendy and Madeline all hugged her and urged her to stay in touch, but their eyes showed they knew they were seeing her for the last time.

Camellia hadn't really thought about what living with Dougie would mean, other than wondering how she would wash her clothes and where she would hang them. She was soon to discover his lifestyle was completely alien to everything she knew.

He had no set routine and time meant nothing to him. He slept when he was tired, got up when he chose, ate on the move and hated any kind of conformity.

Yet he was surprisingly organised in some ways. He erected a rail across an alcove for her to hang up her clothes. Within four days of her moving in he had found a doctor willing to prescribe birth control pills for her. She only had to mention wanting something, whether shampoo, steak or a jar of coffee, and he stole it.

Less than a fortnight after moving in with him, Camellia was given the sack from Peter Robinson's. She had been late on four consecutive days, arriving with dark-ringed eyes. When she couldn't offer a sick note to back up her claim she'd been ill, she was handed her cards.

Dougie was delighted. 'I'll teach you ways to make three times what they paid you,' he said, laughing at her protests that she needed money of her own. 'Don't worry babe, there's more to life than work.'

Camellia soon found that his last statement was entirely true. Once she'd got over the initial anxiety, she felt as if she were on one glorious long holiday. Idle summer days spent smoking dope, listening to rock music and making love, lounging in parks with Dougie's friends or cruising the boutiques in Carnaby Street, then moving on to bars and clubs for the night.

Dougie's friends were the sort she wanted to be like: fascinating people who laughed a great deal, who talked knowledgeably about exotic places, about music, art and poetry. Any form of authority was a joke to them. Love and sensation was all. Camellia was touched by the way they included her in their deep conversations, their wild clothes and their mystic ideology.

Although Camellia was a little disturbed at first to discover that all the money Dougie splashed around came from selling drugs, this was soon to become a source of pride.

By day they were just another couple of flower children, indistinguishable from thousands of others who thronged the West End, but as darkness fell and Dougie dressed up in velvet trousers, frilly shirts and snakeskin boots, he was 'The Man', sought after, admired and respected. Camellia's role was primarily a decoration on his arm, but also a distraction and lookout until every last packet of drugs concealed in his boots, crotch and pockets were gone, the money belt strapped under his shirt bulging.

As Camellia went with him from one club and bar to another, she learned for herself the difference between 'Tourists' and 'Heads'. The former could be made to pay twice the price; the latter were dangerous if the goods weren't up to scratch. Uppers, Downers, African Black, Lebanese Gold, Moroccan, Durban Poison, Acid and Grass, Camellia tried them all and learned to identify their peculiarities. She could spot a plain-clothes policeman a hundred yards off and became as practised as Dougie at giving them the slip.

They moved around: to the Hundred Club in Oxford Street, Tiles and The Scene, but mostly to UFO or the Middle Earth, fitting in the Whiskey-a-Go-Go or The Discotheque en route. London was buzzing, young people pouring in daily from all corners of England and further afield, and as that summer of 67 slowly turned to autumn, Camellia felt she'd removed the last traces of the fat, plain girl from Rye. Once or twice she'd tried to tell Dougie about how it was for her then, but he said it was only the present and future that counted, the past was as dead as her mother. Camellia had been a little hurt by that, she wanted to share everything with him. But she had come round to his way of thinking, and in private moments alone she thought of Bonny, understanding her a little better now that her own life wasn't squeaky clean.

Miss Peet, the girls at Archway House, and even her old job at Peter Robinson's were all so distant, a period in her life to be looked back on sometimes with nostalgia but mostly with relief that she no longer had to conform to their rules. Only the memory of Bert Simmonds occasionally prickled at her conscience. He would most definitely not approve of how she was living now. But she couldn't speak of that to Dougie, he wouldn't understand why anyone should consider a policeman's opinion important.

Camellia Norton was beautiful, so everyone told her. She was in love, she had money in her purse. She was 'someone' at last; she had achieved her goal.

Dougie encouraged her to dress in tiny suede miniskirts, embroidered blouses that revealed her bare jutting breasts, Red Indian headbands and wild jangly silver jewellery. He wanted other men to lust after her as it all added to his prestige and Camellia was pleased to find herself the centre of attention.

But however exciting it was being Dougie's 'chick', seeing envy on other girls' faces and basking in his reflected glory, it was the time alone with him at home she loved most. For the first time in her life she felt truly wanted and needed. When Dougie barricaded the door and took her in his arms, all her little niggling doubts and insecurities seemed to vanish.

As Dougie's fingers delved deeper and deeper into her jeans, Camellia felt her enthusiasm for cleaning the windows evaporate. When he turned her round to kiss her, she dropped her cloth and responded eagerly.

Dougie was usually sparing with his kisses. Now she held him tightly, insinuating her tongue between his lips, pressing herself against him. She could feel him pushing her jeans down over her bottom and he nudged her backwards until she was resting against the windowsill.

Camellia found it hard to understand his preference for making love to her in strange positions and places. It seemed unnatural to her to be pinned-up against walls, on the floor or astride a chair when they had a perfectly good bed to lie on. But then he was unconventional in every way, and she had quickly learned that if she wanted to keep him interested she had to go along with him.

But when he dropped to his knees in front of her and pulled her jeans and knickers right off it seemed his only intention this time was to please her. He grasped the tops of her thighs, parting the lips of her vagina with his thumbs, looked up at her with a wicked expression, then thrust his tongue into her.

This was an unexpected treat, and all resistance vanished. Camellia bent forward towards him, winding her fingers into his dark curls, watching his long red tongue darting in and out, and moaned in bliss.

'Do you want to come?' He halted for a moment, grinning up at her, and then pushed two fingers deep inside her.

Camellia could only nod and pull him closer to her.

He looked up at her, his mouth wet and slack, his eyes black unfathomable pools of wickedness. 'Then promise me you'll go and nick some groceries afterwards?' he said. 'No bottling out like you've done before?'

She knew immediately she'd been conned. It wasn't passion which made him start playing with her, he was just asserting his power over her. Yet although she felt a moment's shame, she was helpless.

'I promise,' she murmured, throwing back her head till it banged against the glass behind her. 'Whatever you say!'

Over the last two years Camellia had altered immeasurably in her outlook and personality, but in the last few weeks Dougie had worked on her character too, already influencing her to think like him. She scorned the middle classes for their ordered lives, and regarded the teachings of the church and the law as just another trap to keep people in line. She was learning to believe too that drugs brought enlightenment, that only fools worked and that sexual experimentation was all important if you were to find your real self.

Yet Camellia wasn't entirely happy with the fantasies which came into her head while Dougie was making love to her. Deep down she felt shamed that instead of being filled with love for him exclusively, she sometimes imagined three or four men doing things to her in turn, being tied up and screwed senseless while vicars, doctors and even dentists took her in wild erotic situations. Sometimes Dougie played out these stories, pretending she was a school girl and he a teacher, doing things that made her blush with shame later when she was on her own.

This time she imagined someone watching from a window overlooking their room. A clerk in a pinstriped suit, masturbating while she writhed under Dougie's tongue.

She loved the way Dougie's eyes went all dreamy as he licked at her. Every now and then he looked up to see her reaction, stuffing his fingers inside her, smiling at her wild moans. She was afraid that he would suddenly stop, as he had in the past, taking her almost to the point of delirium, then getting up and walking away, making her beg for more. Other times he would throw her down on the floor and force himself into her, coming in two or three strokes, then getting up and going out without even a kiss. But then there were the other times when he only thought of her pleasure, hours and hours of playing and stroking until she had multiple orgasms, then sleeping, holding her in his arms.

Today Dougie was neither teasing nor cruel. He spread her legs wider, using both fingers and tongue with tantalising sensuality. She could see the tip of his cock rising out of his opened jeans and the imagined man outside the window disappeared as she looked down at his flushed, tender face.

She was coming, digging her nails into his shoulders, screaming out in ecstasy. While she was still shaking from the orgasm, Dougie turned her round, bent her over and pushed himself into her from behind. Now she had to hold onto the windowsill to prevent herself from falling as he gripped her hips and hammered away at her.

'You love my big cock, don't you?' he shouted.

'Yes,' she replied weakly, wishing he didn't have to be so crude.

'Can you feel it right inside your cunt? Eight inches of meat stuck up you.'

He came with a roar, reaching up and squeezing her breasts so hard she screamed out in pain. Then he was still, his sweat turning cold on her bare back as he withdrew and fell panting onto the bed. Camellia followed him, curling herself round his long body. She adored him most after sex, when his dark eyes turned to pools of melted chocolate and his lips lost their sneer. Even his body grew softer. For a short while he was all hers.

'I love you, Dougie,' she said with a catch in her voice, leaning up on one elbow to kiss his lips.

'Don't settle down and get comfy,' he said, turning his head away from her. 'The shop will be closed soon and you've got a promise to keep.'

Camellia crept down the dark stairs. She could hear Mr Tharrup's small press whirring away at the back of the building and she didn't want him coining out to speak to her. Mr Tharrup gave her the creeps, as did his dark, dirty building. He was well over sixty, obese, with a sweaty, red face and he leered at her whenever he saw her. Camellia still hadn't worked out the relationship between him and Dougie. Although she had seen printed flyers for clubs in the shop and Dougie claimed this was business he'd brought to Mr Tharrup, she had a strong suspicion there was something more to their relationship, something dark and unpleasant, just like the building. It seemed strange that a businessman would allow Dougie to live above his shop rent free.

Once out into Nottingham Court, Camellia pulled her black velvet antique cloak more securely round her. She had bought it in Kensington Market just for its beautiful jet beading; she certainly hadn't intended to use it as a cover-up for shoplifting. But it was ideal. Hidden beneath it she was wearing a Greek tapestry bag, slung over her shoulder. With two hands on show, hopefully no one would notice her popping the odd item or two beneath her cloak.

She crossed Endell Street and paused outside the Greek delicatessen on the corner of Betterton Street, trying to summon up her courage. It was quarter past six now and the street busy with traffic. But there were few pedestrians: this was an area of small businesses and most of the work force had already gone home.

Andreous, the flirtatious and portly Greek who owned the shop, was just inside, perched on a stool by the cash register, smoking a cigarette. Another half an hour and he would be closed.

' 'Ow are you today, pretty one?' he said, as usual. His accent was Greek but with a Cockney influence. Camellia liked him his doleful dark eyes, his jollity and warmth. She knew she shouldn't be intending to rob him.

'Fine thank you,' she said cheerfully and picked up a wire basket from the pile by the counter. There were three or four other customers further back in the shop. With luck someone would want cheese or ham cut from the deli counter and Andreous would be distracted. 'And you?'

'Not so bad,' he grinned. 'Business 'as been better, but then it's been worse too. As Momma used to say "Andreous, not all the bottles of wine you open will be good ones." '

Walking down the shop Camellia put a bag of sugar in the basket. A tin of salmon went straight under the cloak, quickly followed by a large piece of rump steak from the cold cabinet. Biscuits in the basket, a packet of bacon and half a pound of butter into the bag. Dougie often got a bottle of gin or whisky but she didn't dare risk that. Instead she briskly walked round the gondola in the centre of the shop and selected a small loaf in full view of Andreous, who was just replacing a salami sausage on its hook.

'Have you got any mushrooms?' she asked. 'I can't see any.'

'Maybe I 'ave some out the back.' His dark eyes looked weary, he'd had a long day. ' 'Ow many you want?'

'Just a quarter. I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble.'

She managed to get a good bottle of red wine and forty Rothman's from behind the cash desk while he was gone.

Camellia was very scared while she was paying Andreous. The hidden bag was heavy and he had only to come round the counter and give her a playful hug for her to be caught out. Fortunately the telephone rang just as he gave her the change and he turned away to answer it. Camellia took her carrier bag in one hand, waved goodbye with the other and left hurriedly.

'Groovy,' Dougie enthused when she got back. 'I always knew you could do it. You'll be an even better tea leaf than me with a bit more training. I never had the nerve to take fags.'

Suzanne had once said that her only reason for stealing from Peter Robinson's was greed. In sixteen months of helping herself to clothes, Camellia had so many she was hard pushed to wear them all. But she had also discovered another reason, one she had never considered until she'd mastered shoplifting. The excitement.

Big stores like Selfridges were the best. With all that wonderful array of items just lying there on counters and rails. The more difficult and dangerous it was, the more the excitement grew. Leaving the shop was terrifying. Sometimes she would pause at the doors, expecting any moment to feel the hand on her shoulder and hear 'Excuse me, madam, will you come with me to the manager's office for a moment?'

Yet the moment she was well out on the street, scurrying away through the crowds of honest shoppers, Camellia felt absolute elation. It was better than drugs or sex, better than listening to Jimi Hendrix at full volume.

All through the autumn she felt like an actress, playing a dual role. She learned to win the assistants' trust in her, breaking up their otherwise boring day with a friendly chat. Her knowledge of store procedure helped: she knew how to spot detectives and recognise assistants who were easily distracted. All the time she was helping herself to anything she wanted.

Dougie was impressed at her skill and daring. He openly admitted she was far more adept at it than he was.

Sometimes Dougie worked with her. He would create a diversion while she stole something big to sell on to a fence, or she would stuff a bag to capacity with stolen items, then at a given signal she would swop her bag for his identical one, often filled with old paperback books and perhaps a couple of worn sweaters. Only once was she stopped by a store detective and although Camellia was sure the man guessed she'd been working with an accomplice, he had no alternative but to apologise for stopping her.

She and Dougie laughed helplessly for hours when they got home. Camellia acted out the whole scene for him, imitating the poor embarrassed security man, who had actually begun to stutter as he opened her bag. She felt all powerful, not just for beating the system, but because she'd found a way of becoming Dougie's equal.

Stealing clothes and household items began to lose its attraction once there was nothing more they needed. Camellia had got table lamps, crockery, kitchen utensils, bed-linen and towels, and the miserable cold flat began to look a great deal more welcoming once she'd stolen gay bedspreads to put over the old settee and a few colourful Indian durries to hang on the walls. She had all the pretty underwear she needed, dozens of sweaters, dresses, handbags, jackets and coats. But the thought of stealing just to sell the items on to someone else for a fraction of their value, somehow dampened the excitement.

One cold blustery afternoon in December, Camellia turned to pickpocketing. She was choosing a magazine from the newspaper stand at Piccadilly Circus when an American got out of a cab just beside her.

She probably wouldn't even have looked at him if he hadn't been arguing with the driver.

'Look, mate,' the driver was saying impatiently. 'If you think there's a quicker bleedin' way from Notting Hill to Piccadilly Circus than the way I brought you down Bayswater Road and Oxford Street, then I suggest you catch an 'effing bus next time.'

The American was short and fat, wearing a loud checked overcoat that looked several sizes too big and a bright yellow wool scarf. As Camellia watched him dump his suitcases on the pavement and get out his wallet, she could see it was stuffed with notes. Instead of putting the wallet back into the inside pocket of his coat where he'd got it from, the American stuffed it angrily in his coat pocket, then picked up his bags and began walking back towards the Cafe Royal.

Camellia forgot all about the magazines she was going to buy. All she could see was the end of that black leather wallet sticking out of his right-hand pocket. She followed him, picking up speed among the crowds until she was just behind him.

The man's case and briefcase were so bulky that his arms weren't touching his sides. It was the easiest thing in the world to reach out from under her cloak, grasp the wallet firmly, pull it gently out, then withdraw her hand back into her cloak.

Perversely she still followed him, allowing other shoppers to come between them. She felt absolutely no guilt, only pleasure. He was obviously a rich-man and a mean one at that.

Dougie was astounded when she showed it to him.

'You dipped his pocket?' His lean, olive face was a picture of disbelief, shock and awe. He touched the expensive wallet reverently and smelled the soft leather. 'Camellia, that's seriously bad. What if a pig had seen you?'

'The hand is quicker than the eye,' she laughed and snatching the wallet back from him, opened it and spilled the contents onto their bed.

They counted it together: two hundred and twenty pounds in twenty-pound notes, a hundred dollars and a few German marks.

They threw away the snapshots of his family and the return air ticket to Chicago. When they went out that night to eat at the Bistingo in Queensway, they didn't give the owner of the wallet a thought.

Camellia wore a white rabbit coat she'd helped herself to from C&A, over a new black Ossie Clark minidress; Dougie wore his new cashmere pea-jacket and a floral shirt she'd got him from John Stevens in Carnaby Street, and they took a taxi both ways.

It was a wonderful night. Over French onion soup, pigeon in red wine and a bottle of sparkling wine, Dougie held her hand across the table and spoke of his plans for their future.

'We'll start saving properly,' he said. 'I've got a couple of deals coming up just after Christmas, then in March we'll pack up and go to Morocco. We can live like this all the time there, Camellia. I'll get some contact sorted out there to buy dope. We'll find a real house by the sea. When we need more bread we just buy a weight of dope, smuggle it back here and flog it.'

He painted word pictures as picturesque and vivid as a postcard. Camellia saw them both in a little Arabic house, perched on a hill looking out to a turquoise sea, eating juicy peaches, drinking iced lemon tea. Their friends would drop by to visit them on their way through to Marrakech, they would swim and sunbathe all day and never be cold again.

That night, when they made love, it was tender and sweet. It didn't matter that the gas fire didn't heat the room or that the shutters rattled in the wind. They had one another and soon they'd be looking back on this awful flat with laughter. Middle-aged American men around Piccadilly became Camellia's main target during December. She learned to track them down in banks and busy stores before robbing them in a crowded street. She dressed for this very carefully, never wearing anything which would make people suspicious, her fur coat left open to reveal a low-necked tight minidress, her hair and make-up as carefully done as if she was on her way to a wedding.

To her, the way these men displayed their wealth was obscene. They deserved to be relieved of it.

'Excuse me, sir,' She would smile right into their eyes, leaning forward a little so they could see down into her cleavage. 'I'm afraid a bird's done his business on your hair.'

They always reacted the same way, a hand moving to their heads, their fat faces flushed with embarrassment, never for one moment suspecting the pretty girl with shining long hair and a tiny miniskirt was going to rob them.

'I'll clean it off for you,' she'd say, smiling understandingly. 'It's supposed to be lucky but it isn't very nice, is it?'

With a tissue in one hand she'd mop away at them, distracting them with her cleavage, long legs and friendly banter. It only took a second to get her hand inside the appropriate pocket, another to slip it into hers.

Sometimes they tried to date her, almost begging her to come for a drink. 'You are a real sweety,' was her stock answer. 'But I've got to meet my boyfriend. Another time perhaps.'

She was off into the crowd before they could draw breath, down into the underground toilets to count the notes and dispose of the evidence, then home to Dougie to while away the rest of the day smoking dope, listening to music, making love and basking in his admiration.

Early in 1968 Dougie came home one afternoon grinning from ear to ear.

Camellia was huddled over the gas fire, with a blanket round her. It was a little after four, but dark outside. She had closed the shutters hours ago to try and make the room warmer, but it did no good.

Dougie had been gone since ten that morning. His Afghan coat was covered with snow and it gleamed on his dark curls like a sprinkling of sequins.

'It's still snowing then?' she said, just for conversation. Dougie didn't like to be asked where he'd been.

'Yup, it's six inches in places,' he said cheerfully, putting his coat over the back of a chair and coming closer to the fire to warm his hands. 'You should see Hyde Park, it looks like a Christmas card.'

Camellia didn't really want any reminders of Christmas. Dougie hadn't been able to get any dope, either for himself to smoke or to sell, and he'd been like a bear with a sore head. Camellia had cooked a chicken and all the trimmings, but he'd found fault with everything.

'How would you like a night in a posh hotel?' he asked. 'Long hot baths, loads of food and booze?'

'I'd die for it,' she said. In fact she would settle just for getting into bed.

'Well, princess, your wish is granted.' He made a low bow and kissed her feet. 'This Saturday, and get some kinky undies to please me.'

He said he wanted to take her for a long weekend to Brighton, but he was afraid the trains would be cancelled because of the snow. But as Camellia had never stayed in any hotel, not since she was a kid and came to London with her mother, she was just thrilled to be going somewhere smart.