Carlos and I dance and dance and dance. We barely talk, but I discover some nuggets of info. Recently arrived from Venezuela, Carlos speaks only rudimentary English, so our attempts to communicate are sweet and funny, but not really what I’m here for anyway.

At midnight, as the evening ends, and Carlos helps me into my coat, we both know where we’re heading.

Back at my place, in my bedroom, our last dance of the evening doesn’t disappoint.

Over and over, my body aches with pleasure.

Again and again, Carlos is keen to oblige.

The following night, as arranged, after I exercise and shower and do my hair at the gym, I swing by the salsa club. Carlos greets me with a firm, sweaty embrace. His lean muscles bulge beneath his tight T-shirt.

‘Crazie, you come again for Carlos.’ He kisses me, lingeringly, on the lips.

‘Carlos, not here,’ I admonish, but I don’t push him off. It feels so good to be so desired.

‘Come, I finish work. We dance,’ he answers boldly.

From what I gather, Carlos works at the club as a cleaner in the mornings – and as bartender/dance instructor in the evenings, attending English lessons in between. I suspect the job is illegal and the lessons are for his visa, but none of it concerns me. I’m not looking to invest. I’m looking to have fun.

Again, we heat up the dance floor and, after closing, I feel a swell of pride when Carlos scoops me into his arms, leaving the other women he’d danced with throughout the evening milling around at a loss, but also smiling at me conspiringly. ‘Congratulations, sweetheart,’ one well-put-together lady, early fifties, says as Carlos helps me into my jacket. He kisses me on my lips. My neck. My lips once more.

We head directly home to mine.

The week plays out in suit. Four nights in a row, I’ve spent hot and heavy between the sheets – and I don’t have to go dancing first any more. Carlos and I quickly fell into an arrangement whereby I go to the gym and home to potter and, around midnight, he arrives at my door.

Saturday morning, Carlos heads off to his English school and I’m out shopping with Poppy and Faith, a regular event these days, except that this expedition is extra special. Today, we’re shopping for our outfits for the TIARAs. Joyfully, I’m recounting the sexy encounters that mark the end of my many months of reluctant celibacy.

‘He has moves that would make you blush, Faith – and I’m not talking fancy dance steps.’

‘You’re having fun, Miss Gracie,’ Poppy giggles.

‘Darling, he sounds divine,’ Faith purrs. ‘Why don’t you invite him on the show next week?’