‘Chris,’ said Chris. He wondered whether her eyelashes were fake, too.

‘No, I mean in the army. What name do they call you? Like general or colonel or whatever.’

‘I’m a second lieutenant.’

‘So that’s pretty high, right?’ Lara sounded impressed.

‘For an officer, it’s the lowest rank.’

She frowned. ‘But how old are you?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘So how come you’re still on the lowest one? Are you not very good or what?

Chris smiled despite himself. If nothing else, she was refreshingly blunt. ‘I only started my training eighteen months ago. I’ve been a second lieutenant for six months.’

‘So what were you doing for all that time, before the army?’

‘I was doing a degree.’

Lara laughed the laugh. ‘Get off, you’re shitting me! You did not do a degree.’

‘Why is that so unbelievable?’

‘Because you’re in the army,’ said Lara. ‘Go on, then, what did you study?’

‘French and Italian.’

‘You’re just trying to chat me up. No way can you speak French. No way.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Chris flatly. ‘Ask Doug if you don’t believe me.’

‘No, I want you to prove it. Say something in French.’

Chris shrugged, giving himself up to the utter absurdity of this conversation. ‘All right then … let’s think … C’est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière, accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons d’argent; où le soleil, de la montagne fière, luit; c’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.’

It came out perfectly: no trips, no hesitations, plenty of Gallic panache. All three of them were looking at him as if he’d just levitated.

When Helen and Doug turned back to their conversation, Lara leaned across the table and asked, in an undertone,

‘Will you say that when you’re fucking me?’

* * *

Three pubs, one cocktail bar and a long, costly taxi ride later, Chris found himself fumbling with the clasp on Lara’s heavily padded bra, surrounded by a galaxy of pink-tinted fairy lights.

From the moment Lara had posed her audacious question – Will you say that when you’re fucking me? – there had been no doubt that they would end up sleeping together. Chris simply didn’t have it in him to refuse. It had been months since he’d slept with anyone, and now here was a girl offering him unconditional sex in a tone which implied that, despite her unpromising exterior, she was something of an expert in the bedroom. Add to this the alchemy of alcohol and the transformation – from overdone Essex girl to petite and sultry sack artist with a great pair of tits – was complete.

Up in Lara’s Ikea-filled bedroom, however, the charm was rapidly wearing off.

‘Fuck it,’ breathed Chris. Then: ‘Sorry. Sorry. It’s this clasp – I can’t seem to—’