Still, on the way home, Maggie spotted a Vivienne Westwood couture shop and tried to convince Jack that he needed a £350 man-bag, but he took her firmly by the hand and dragged her away before she could argue with him.

Back home, Jack put all of his new clothes on and looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of their bedroom door. He turned and checked out his backside in the perfectly fitted trousers, and Maggie couldn’t resist running her hands over his buttocks just to make sure. As his wife admired his dashing new look, Jack stood tall with one foot pointing forwards and the other pointing outwards, like he’d seen male models do in catalogues. An image, quite uninvited, popped into his head. It was an old photo of Harry Rawlins taken at an art gallery opening back in the mid-80s. As usual, Harry’s face had been partially hidden from the camera behind a carefully placed champagne glass, but his clothing was on full display. His camel hair coat had hung elegantly over a dark tailored suit, and he wore brown Christian Louboutin Oxford shoes, that Jack now knew must have set him back somewhere in the region of £500. In that old photo, Harry stood exactly as Jack was standing now, in a pose that said, ‘I know I’m worth looking at, but, be careful.’ In that second, Jack knew that his temporary new look was exactly right. This man could infiltrate De Voe’s world. This man would be respected. The clothes made Jack look like Harry but, more to the point, they made him feel like Harry.

Whilst Jack had been admiring himself, Maggie had left the bedroom, and now came back. She handed him a fake Rolex watch bought by Charlie when they were in St Lucia. Jack snapped out of his daydream: in a single gesture, Maggie had highlighted the difference between Jack’s dads. Who was he trying to kid? He was Charlie Warr, not Harry Rawlins.

Maggie slid her arms around Jack’s waist and kissed him. She squeezed his buttocks and whispered, ‘Do you know what I want to do to you now?’

*

Jack stood in the empty bath like Da Vinci’s ‘Vitruvian Man’, wearing just his white Armani boxers, whilst Maggie spray-tanned his ankles. His face, neck and hands were already turning a healthy shade of bronze. ‘When you’re dry and you put those clothes back on, keep your sleeves rolled down, ’cos there’s not enough left in the can to do your whole body.’ Maggie stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Don’t get dressed for twenty minutes or it’ll come off.’

‘I’ve got to stand here naked, for twenty minutes!’