When he’s finished fucking me through his climax, he pulls me down and I collapse on his chest, panting and laughing into his neck at the intensity of it all. He twitches inside me, and I clench around him.

He groans into my hair, wrapping his arms around me. ‘Fuck. Does your cunt go to a special cunt gym? Because it’s fucking ripped. Does it lift weights? Do squats?’

’No, but it has an excellent personal trainer,’ I quip.

He stills beneath me. ‘I know I don’t have the right to ask you this, but… just the one trainer?’

‘Just the one,’ I whisper, and he squeezes me tighter.

‘Good.’ There’s a pause, then he clears his throat. ‘My dick only has one PT too, and she’s bloody gorgeous.’

CHAPTER 35

Marlowe

I'm determined that this trip will be cause for celebration for Tabs, something for her to embrace rather than fear. She's known for years that a valve replacement operation is in her future, and we talk about it as one of those great, delineating events in life, as if a new pulmonary valve is as momentous as the coming of Christ. Which, of course, it will be for her and for those of us whose happiness depends solely on the health of this little girl.

After the operation, you'll be able to run as far and as fast as you can!

After the operation, you can learn how to ice-skate!

And do parkour!

And trampoline! (God, how badly she wants to go trampolining. I'll spend every hour of my weekends in those hellish, neon-lit trampoline parks that I've heard other parents from school complain about if I have to.)

So, yes, this procedure will mark a seismic shift in my daughter's life. It will, quite literally, give her a new lease of life, as if, by moving heaven and earth and paying hundreds of thousands of pounds, we’ve purchased a lease agreement that promises athleticism and freedom and boundless energy, for the next few years at least.

That’s worth celebrating. So I take her into the centre of town to get some bits and pieces for the hospital: new PJs, some reading books and sticker books. She skips along beside me as I hold her hand and navigate the crowds of weekend shoppers.

‘Take it easy, sweetie,’ I say as gently as I can. Every time I have to remind my eight-year-old daughter to tamp down her natural little-girl energy and take it easy, a piece of me dies.

‘Sorry, Mummy,’ she says reflexively, and I squeeze her hand and smile down at her.

‘You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry I have to say these things to you. But in a few weeks you’ll be running and skipping all you like, won’t you?’

Her smile is huge. ‘Yeah. And dancing.’