‘Well, that is always the risk, if you’re a plate, isn’t it?’ she whispered, letting her fingers catch his cuff, but keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the fine hairs at the back of his neck. ‘If you want to be spun, then you must accept the possibility of being broken.’

Slowly, his head came up to look at her, his gaze flicking uncertainly over her face, as if in search of a sign. His pupils were bigger than she’d ever seen a man’s be, and she’d seen several.

‘And do you⁠ —’ he gruffed, seeming to have such difficulty with the words, but with no difficulty at all in the sudden certain strength of his stare, ‘accept that possibility?’

Joan paused for a moment, feeling Wolsey squirm at the sudden lack of their hands. She wetted her lips and willed herself to form the sound. ‘Yes.’

He bent his head to her, and like a little boy just discovering this, took her face in his hands. They were warm and still against the skin of her cheek. She felt that, more than she’d felt anything for years. She closed her eyes. The distance between then and now hurt inside her, and she let go of the breath she’d been holding, letting herself breathe deeply and fast, remembering all the things about being married that she’d enjoyed and let herself forget. Her heart was pounding like a dance, but he was studying her, like a painter, from a distance. She opened her eyes again, and saw that he was terribly afraid.

‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’ he said. And brought her mouth on to his. After a moment, a minute, they parted again. And kissed again, exploringly this time, now that that terrible uncertain thing was dead and they were delighting in the knowledge that this was what they both wanted to do.

Finally they stopped, and Joan let her head fall on to his shoulder, and, in a kind of unlikely stumble, they got up and shuffled back to sit together on the sofa. Wolsey fell off in disgust and stalked into the kitchen.

‘May I sit on your lap?’ Joan asked. ‘I feel, oh, I’m blushing, like a young maid, and, I must admit, I’m rather enjoying it. You don’t think me forward, do you?’

‘Oh yes…’ Smith giggled. ‘Forward. As opposed to reverse. I’ve got all my gears mixed up.’ He helped Joan as she got up, smoothed down her skirt and settled back on to his lap. ‘This is so ridiculous,’ she said, not being able to catch his eye as he awkwardly put an arm around her waist. ‘I’ve been married, I shouldn’t feel all nervous like this.’

‘I’m, erm, nervous too,’ Smith muttered. ‘I don’t feel as though I’ve ever done anything like this before.’