'TIS a timeless story of a pair of star-crossed lovers - a tragedy of unrequited love.

First, there is unknown actor Joseph Fiennes, who rises to be Britain's hottest new screen idol.

Then there's our heroine, a naive, sweet girl of 16 summers, who becomes Mirror showbiz journalist Polly Graham.

There are tears and tragedy - for whoever loved that loved not at first sight?

Joseph turned his green-eyed stare upon me and said the words I'd longed to hear: "Oh, er yes. Would you like, er, to go out tonight?"

Mine heart did pitter- patter like the uncertain rain of an April day.

'Tis a winter's tale from 1988 when, with acting ambitions filling my young head, I joined London's Young Vic Youth Theatre.

With quick spirit I espied a silent, brooding figure as I entered the school hall for our first workshop. 'Twas Joseph - nay, Joe as he insisted - and not alive so stout a gentleman had I seen. He cleft my heart in twain on sight.

Our uncertainty turned to friendship as we developed a play called Heroes and Sheroes. The play's the thing, but not in this case.

Perchance I read too much into his offer of a drink, but drink is a great provoker. We adjourned to a house of music. This maiden realised that if music - or rather Duran Duran - be the food of love, then play on.

Joseph was with a cohort and another female of the Young Vic. To my horror the girl Claire was under the impression that she too was on a date with Joe.

The trappings and suits of woe were truly mine.

But come the hour of 11.30pm, Joseph insisted he and his friend would give me a lift home in the friend's two-seater sports car. Claire was escorted to a carriage of a more public nature - the bus. My heart most joyously leaped.

With only two front seats, I had to sit on Joseph's knee. But my pleasure turned to despair as I was left at home with barely a peck on my flushed cheek. 'Twas with slight embarrassment that we greeted each other next day. "Did you have a good night?" he asked. What fresh hell was this? "It was great," I replied.

My diary had been cleared for the next three months, but 'twas weeks before our next liaison. Already our paths were separating. We met upon the production of The Threepenny Opera. Joe's talent had been recognised and he won a leading role.

I made it only into the chorus line. I then found Joe had struck up a romance with another cast member. More in sorrow than in anger, I saw her sitting on the same spot where I had once perched. It was Joseph's knee, the scornful seat that once had been mine.

Now, dear reader, we travel through time, a decade of regret and quiet tears.

I charted from afar our hero's progress, from rave reviews at the National Theatre to his starring role in Shakespeare In Love. Fate would have it that I am now a showbiz reporter, braving the slings and arrows of the outrageously fortunate.

Destiny reached out and I was on hand at the London premiere of Joseph's film. Were the embers of flaming love still glowing?

With trepidation I dodge through the crowd ignoring Gwyneth Paltrow - oh doth she pout or what? - and there was Joe.

"What's happened to your hair?" he inquired. "You used to have long, curly hair," he said, grabbing my hands in a warm clinch.

I told him I was a journalist. He was mightily unimpressed.

Then it happened - a kiss. My cheek was ablaze.

My heart was a raging forest fire.

"I've been following your career," I muttered.

"Now I can follow yours," he winked, his eyes flashing with promise.

Then he was gone - and there I finish. For never was there a story of more woe than this, of Polly and Joe.