‘I’m a big girl, David. I’m sober and I’m making this choice sober.’

‘Very early days, though, Sonya.’

No more talking. I pull him back to me. I wrap my arms around him, and his stiff body softens. We kind of rock like that for a few moments until the tension becomes unbearable. We’re no longer fixed versions of ourselves; we’re in the process of becoming something else entirely. David’s eyes glaze over as he pulls my jumper down over my shoulder and traces his lips over my hot skin. He seems instantly pissed on the moment; all semblance of control gone. His tongue is inside my mouth, tang of metallic, kick of coffee.

I give myself over to the thrill of being afraid. Fear equals adrenalin equals aphrodisiac. Standing up there in the spotlight, all eyes trained on me, all ears tuned in to my words, the spell I would weave, the orgasmic terror.

This is that: close attention being paid to me. I had forgotten the power of that rush. A kind of obliteration. A moment that seems both holy and depraved. I am turned on in a way I haven’t been since I was with Roberto in some forbidden place. We shouldn’t be doing this. A forbidden encounter! How romantic, and how undeniably sexy.

After, somehow having made it to the bed, we lie in each other’s arms, drenched in sweat. I know what’s coming, the whirring, the back-pedalling, the wishing it had never happened. Neither of us speak. Outside: a clear night sky, like navy velvet shot through with brilliant diamonds. Take him and cut him out in little stars. Where are you, my Mister Man? My breath gets stuck high in my throat and I’m scared I’ll spill into tears. This is the part I dread, when I feel as if I have vacated myself. I hate this moment of bare-arsed vulnerability.

David falls asleep easily, his face relaxed, his body twitching involuntarily. I lay a hand on his cheekbones, tracing the line of stubble down towards his jawline. Can’t bear the feelings this closeness brings. This is something I’ve always experienced: this post-coital surge of excess emotion, while whatever partner is lying beside me is out cold. I go into the kitchen, fill a saucer of milk for Marmie and lay it in front of her. The little girl laps at the milk with her baby-pink tongue. I am entranced by her intense concentration, her defencelessness.

David sleeps for a solid seven hours, while I pace, watch telly on low. A Mystic Meg rip-off is on, her phone number flashes on screen. I get my phone, dial, and am greeted by an automatic voice to dial in a credit card number. Fake Meg’s bland, pretty, young face fills the screen. The casting department got it very wrong – they should’ve cast a wrinkled hag with searing blue eyes; this one is as inane as a catalogue model. I wonder at the type of person who would pay for an out-of-work actress’s advice at 3 a.m.