She’s sitting on the edge of the tub regarding her feet, now she’s sitting sideways on the toilet looking at her knees. Now she leans her back against the basin. She’s now knocking her head gently against the window. She turns and glances in the mirror, imploring her reflection to tell her what to do.

Jesus, have I blown it now! Stupid stupid girl.

Say sorry.

As if that would suffice.

Laugh it off?

That would seem too trite.

Give him a blow job?

My jaw is too tense. And anyway, he’s hardly likely to rise to the occasion for a girl who’s thrown slanderous accusations at him, for a girl who’s made an utter fool of herself.

Well, what are you going to do?

Tell me what to do!

No, Cat – you figure it out.

Oh Fen, where are you!

Over the sea and far away.

Reflection – help!

It’s only you in the mirror. Your call, Cat McCabe.

Shit! Have I been in here ages? Say he’s left?

Cat opens the bathroom door. Ben is sitting in the chair seemingly engrossed in Rose Tremain. He glances up and then returns his attention to the book. Cat pads across the room, walks around the bed and sits on the edge so that her knees almost touch Ben’s. She tips her head to one side, silently imploring him to look up. He’s reading. She clears her throat, hoping she might gain his attention. He’s reading. Rose Tremain is bloody good. Cat sighs, hoping he’ll take sympathy on her humiliation. Nope. She gazes over to the window. It’s gloriously dusky now, the portion of sky visible streaked with amber, the room bathed so aesthetically in half-light that Monet really should have been there. Incongruous though it might seem, Cat feels an enormous sense of tranquillity, the willing captive of some strange hermetically sealed moment placing her in a beautiful room on a sultry evening with a man quietly reading. A blink returns her to the situation in hand. A glance to Ben reveals that Rose Tremain’s text is closed around his index finger and his attention is focused on Cat entirely.

Cat licks her lips fleetingly and speaks without preparation or agenda.

‘I. Am. So. Embarrassed.’

Ben does not reply but something about his demeanour enables Cat to smile apologetically.

‘What can you think?’ she continues with a humble shrug superseded by a sorry slump. Ben tilts his head and closes the book, clasping his hands loosely, sitting back in the chair, relaxed.

‘Please forgive me,’ Cat says, now sitting very tall, her hands demurely in her lap, her eyes cast down.

‘You’re fucking gorgeous when you’re angry,’ Ben says, deadly serious and with no jest.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cat says, looking straight at him, ‘I hope I didn’t offend you.’

‘On the contrary,’ says Ben.

‘And I really hope,’ says Cat, very measuredly, eye-locked, ‘that I haven’t gone and ruined any prospects here.’

‘You’re also very sexy when you’re meek,’ Ben tells her.