I stay. Soon I’m even enjoying the attention. The vodka working its magic. Now his hand is on my back, sending a warmth through me. This is good, this is how I want to feel, although I do find myself wondering, which hand is on my back… the one with the wedding ring?

Don’t do it, Becca. Walk away.

I know, but…

But what?

Don’t I deserve a bit of fun? After the day I’ve had?

Fun, sure, but this guy’s married.

Then Stephen leans in and suggests we go someplace else, whispering in my ear, his warm breath starting the party. Ignoring the old Becca, the strong Becca, the one who seems to be losing control more and more, I agree.

Back at my apartment Now That’s What I Call Music 77 plays on the tinny stereo that cost a hundred bucks in a Music Depot flash sale. It came with two free CDs. The only CDs I have. Stephen is spread out over the sofa, watching me pour us both a glass from the bottle of gin. It doesn’t take him long to make his move.

Within minutes we are both naked on the bed. My head is spinning, my heart is swelling, my body vibrates. Ignoring how wrong it all is, I continue making love, or whatever it’s called when you’re fucking someone else’s husband. But, I tell myself, just don’t get caught and no one will get hurt. It’s that simple. For me, anyway. I don’t have to go home and lie to the love of my life about where I’ve been and what I’ve done. How will Stephen do that? Does he worry he might get caught? I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem to bother him at all. Hot and all as the guy might be, he is cold enough to be able to detach himself from what he is doing. I’m glad he’s not my husband.

A couple of hours pass before Stephen glances at the fancy gold watch on his wrist and shuffles out of the bed. I imagine it’s worth a lot of money, that watch.

‘I’ll have to go soon,’ he says, turning and bumping into the photo that he knocks off the nightstand. Watching his lean, naked body bend down to pick it up, I lie there, feeling content and awful at the same time. What did I just do?

Stephen is holding the photo in his hand, scanning the faces peering back at him.

‘Who are all these?’

‘My family.’ I’m not comfortable with Stephen meeting my family like this. ‘Mom and Dad, and that’s Danny.’ I feel sad when I say ‘Mom’. It doesn’t sound right. Should I say that was my mom?