She trudged down the hall of their blond-brick bungalow to the kitchen. Through the sliding glass doors she could see three or four cars waiting for her husband’s attention in their adjoining garage. If only the car whisperer would care for her the way he caressed those chassis – massaging the metal, teasing out bumps, coaxing out scratches, rubbing and petting and polishing the body to a satisfying sheen. Most of Alessandro’s clients were female. They came in secret, not wanting their husbands to know that they’d bumped into a bollard or that the kids had dinged the car during a driving lesson.

Emerald knew that they fancied him, too. ‘It’s his attention to detail I love,’ women marvelled, implying that if the Dent Boss took that much time and care over a car body, imagine what he could do to her body?

‘Hey, Dent Boss, can you polish out my cellulite too?’ flirted one.

‘I just can’t curb my enthusiasm for your gentle touch,’ bantered another. ‘How do you feel about my sassy chassis?’

As Emerald flicked on the kitchen light, the dog gave her a glottal bass bark of welcome. At least her kelpie was pleased to see her. She opened the freezer and was bathed in its icy blue light. Only a tub of salted caramel ice cream could hit the spot right now; sadly, not the G spot, as she’d intended. The kitchen was spotless except for a can of engine lubricant Alessandro had left on the counter. She read the label – it was cheekily branded Start Ya Bastard. She was momentarily tempted to rush back to the bedroom and spray it onto her husband’s flaccid appendage.

Instead she ripped off the lid of the ice cream container she kept hidden under the ice packs at the bottom of the freezer. Alessandro had no idea that she secretly snacked on the side. She pretended to like the mung beans and tofu he stir-fried for them each night for supper, but she gorged on biscuits, chocolate and cakes when he wasn’t around. If this rejection kept up, she’d soon be the size of an emerging nation. She was full of fast food, but starved of slow sex.

As Emerald licked the spoon, the longing to have sex with someone, anyone, felt like a raging thirst. She seemed to have evolved from tranquil, middle-aged mum of two to male-hunting predator. Within minutes of meeting a good-looking bloke, she found herself imagining him naked. At the beach, while pretending to be immersed in some learned tome, she was actually surreptitiously perving on the nearest chiselled pectoral, imagining herself bivouacking in the shade of his bulging bicep.