‘Of course you must go; moja bratowa will look after the children. Eat!’

To her shame, Bridge then found two mouthfuls of Poland’s favourite pork stew totally filled her up, indigestion threatening. Her body clock was long past its optimum supper time.

Aleš’s appetite had no such limits. He had seconds, then thirds.

Knackered, with a lip that hurt – a lot – Bridge had to concentrate hard to stop her eyelids drooping while he talked about his stew, Poland, football and himself for ninety-five per cent of the time, her new job for five. ‘You think you’ll like it, yes?’

‘I already love it.’ Her new job paid a fraction of the Sous Vide glamour job, had a status a stratosphere lower, but Kismet had led her to it. She was needed from the get-go, her phone’s note app already chock-full of school inspection requirements grabbed online. It wasn’t about the money. She was Médecins Sans Frontières landing in a warzone. The biggest difficulty was going to be coming home and casting off the flak jacket.

‘There’s something different about you tonight, I don’t know what.’ Aleš tilted his head. ‘You change your hair?’

‘Employment changes a woman.’

It surprised her that Aleš hadn’t noticed the swollen lower lip straight away, although she’d made sure she kept her trademark red gloss topped up at all times to hide it, wine glass raised to her mouth whenever it wore a bit thin, regularly escaping to a mirror to reapply, ashamed of her vanity. Now she checked her reflection in the microwave’s black glass. Quite sexy from certain angles, but unnaturally huge. Did she look hot? Hot enough for Ash Turner to fancy her? Stop that!

Aleš sang her upstairs with a husky reprise of ‘Love Is All Around’, slapping her backside playfully all the way up the narrow treads, hushing past their children’s doors, then bursting into their own room, so low-ceilinged that he hit his head on both door frame and ceiling light, a sure sign that he was stocious. ‘I want those big lips around my chuja.’

Bridge licked her sore lips, tasting paprika, Malbec and pain. Her husband’s sudden and inconvenient interest in a blow job was doubtless not unconnected to the huge, glistening pout. But the thought was eye-watering. Every nerve ending there pounded.

‘I’m cream-crackered, lover,’ she lisped, diving into the bathroom to clean her teeth and tone down her make-up, keeping the scars covered.

You should tell him the truth, her reflection admonished.

He’ll make me get rid of Craic.

You just like secrets. They empower you. She closed her eyes, briefly reliving the blind, foolish moment she’d taken Ash Turner’s thumb into her mouth, the sheer thrill of it.

Back out again and Aleš was lying back in just his checked underpants, his cock protruding hopefully from the gap, listing left. ‘Hey, kochanie, you eat my beautiful food, now I give you dessert…’ In Aleš’s mind, cooking was as seductive a piece of foreplay as hours of toe nibbling or massaging.