Want me to turn back?

She paused in the stairwell, breathing hard, her longing bone deep. She’d sworn to give him up for her children’s sakes, to respect his marriage even if his poor, sick wife had almost no memory of it any more. Yet she missed his company like oxygen. Blair was a crosspatch, sexist and a cultural wasteland, but he could make her laugh and make the world stand still just by looking at her, seeing straight through to her base metal.

Keep going. Rx she typed, removing the kiss and pressing Send before she could change her mind.

Feeling sadder than ever, she sat down on the stairs and hugged her knees.

Her phone beeped with a voicemail. Hoping it was Blair breaking the alarm glass, she leapt on it with indecent haste. Then she listened to it again. Twice. Then she started to laugh, her mood lifting.

Perhaps Lester was right after all. Carly Turner could prove extremely refreshing to have around.

*

Bridge was amazed how good she looked. Amazed. No way could scar-face become this fresh-faced unless witchcraft was involved. That, or highly illegal practices. Or just plain lust. Even the swollen lip looked pretty after she’d meticulously painted her face. Her eyes danced knowingly back at her from the mirror.

You. Have. A. Big. Fat. Crush, they told her.

On. Your. Friend’s. Husband, shouted a shameful twinkle in one.

He fancies you back, her dark pupils sang in response.

Bad as it felt, it was making her glow. No man should make anyone feel this good.

Bridge sent a rare selfie to Aleš. It was midday – Polish lunchtime – which meant he was eating his sandwiches and surfing his familiar 4G round route like a kid on a bike: Twitter, Santander savings account, YouTube, porn, Instagram, Reddit.

The message was to the point. On way. Take your clothes off.

He was home from the new eco-build in five minutes, cock springing from his flies as fast as he could unbutton them, recent full-on maritals making him priapic with readiness. Match fit, they’d been practising a lot. ‘Beautiful wife, I want you around this now!’

‘I have a job interview in half an hour.’ Bridge backed away, jazz hands flapping because her nail varnish was still drying.

‘It’s okay, we just do oral sex.’ Aleš’s pupils darkened, loving the little lady act. ‘You look so hot.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Her lower lip throbbed. ‘No oral.’

‘Boob wank?’

Bridge’s bra was new and had cost fifty quid. And just saying ‘boob wank’ was a Real Wives giveaway. ‘You go down on me,’ she suggested, brightening at the prospect of closing her eyes and fantasising tattoos, dog tags and…

‘I just eat chilli wrap.’ He sucked his lips.

Lunchtime sex was a rare negotiation, especially when they were pushed for time. Aleš flying back from Poland on New Year’s Day to upend the furniture had been spontaneous, uncontrollable. This felt more like arguing in a Pret a Manger queue.