Brody, a blur of messed hair and briny bed smells, smiled and reached over to smooth my hair back from my face. Then his hands moved down onto my breasts, ever so gently.

I’d always thought that my sex life with Harry was good. He was quite sensitive in bed, meaning that he hugged me afterwards – well, until his arm went numb and he rolled me off – which was practically a Byron love poem in the Insular Peninsular.

But this – this was something totally different. Parts of my body that I didn’t even know I had were speaking to me. I was like a pinball machine of pleasure, with lights and whistles and bells and flippers going off frantically all over.

I sighed with longing, but suddenly broke free from his kiss.

‘Wait! I’ve got to tell you the truth.’

Brody looked at me with wary intensity. ‘Oh, Christ. You’re not really estranged from your husband?’

‘No. Not that.’

‘Phew, okay . . . You caught herpes on that one-night stand – the gift that keeps on giving? Or crotch critters? This is a floating STD zoo, you know.’

‘No. And, yuck, is it?’

‘Um . . . you’re really a bloke?’ His eyes glimmered mischievously.

‘No! The truth is, I don’t write for a major national newspaper. I write for a local rag. I pen groundbreaking pieces about a kitten that choked on a mouse, a man who got stuck in a toilet or a patient who was given a pillowcase instead of a hospital gown.’

‘Okay. Time for me to tell you the truth,’ Brody said, with equal fervency. ‘I didn’t lose my leg jogging. I was staggering home, pissed, from a staff party, and wandered off the path into an area that hadn’t been de-mined. So, it was my own stupid fault. Mind you, if they instigated random drug and alcohol testing of medics in conflict zones, there would be no Doctors Without Borders left.’ He reached for me again. ‘Moving on . . .’

‘Wait,’ I said once more. ‘Orgasms this great deserve a good soundtrack and a swipe of lipstick. Here, choose a song.’ I handed him my iPhone while I leapt out of bed to reapply lip gloss.

‘Hmm . . . The Doors, “Light My Fire”? What about “Sexual Healing”? No, it’s gotta be “Whole Lotta Love”, Led Zeppelin.’

‘I was thinking something classical . . . Zeppelin are a bit, well, pedestrian.’

‘Pedestrian? Sure – and the pyramids are just a pile of rock.’ Brody was going to expound on this theory, but just then I slipped back into his arms. ‘I would pick apart that pathetic prejudice of yours, but I’ve never won an argument with a naked woman . . . So, you choose.’