I’d edged onto the dancefloor, didn’t need to introduce myself, Sarah wasn’t my chattel, but I was high, possessive, desperately in love. I’d tapped Mick’s shoulder.

He’d turned, sweaty, seemed to be trying to work out if he knew me.

‘Would you like to have sex with Sarah?’

‘Sorry, what?’

Did he want to have sex with Sarah somewhere in the house? He’d need to check with her, of course, ha. But if she wanted to, and he wanted to, I’d like to, you know, be there to watch … assuming they didn’t mind. I’d started moving to the music, my classic side-to-side, backed away from Mick bit by bit.

Sophie coughed, held her mouth. ‘Are we nearly finished?’

‘Yeah, nearly, sweetheart. Hang on, it’s just the side here, it’s still wet.’

Mick talking into Sarah’s ear on the dancefloor, Sarah looking up, searching, finally seeing me, smiling. I’d followed them down the hallway into Valentino’s bedroom-cum-cloakroom, bags everywhere, soft lamplight in the corner, ooh, romantic, closed the door, stood by the wall in the shadows, watched Mick pull Sarah’s dress up over her body, woah, walk her backwards towards the bed. He was wearing button-fly jeans, good on him. Sarah popped one button, then another, put her hand carefully inside the bird’s nest and –

Nikau’s cock wasn’t huge in length, just right, but it had such girth, its head unlike any she’d ever seen.

Mick, in Sarah’s mouth – her gentle movements back and forth. A condom! He had a condom! That was good and –

‘OK, get your leg in here,’ I said, holding Sophie’s racing-car pyjama pants.

‘They’re sticky.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

Mick held Sarah behind the neck with one hand, his other on the bedspread. He was bearing down on her but with restraint, a little deeper – oh – a little more – oh …

‘And your arms through here, sweetheart.’

I sat inches from them on the bed, could have reached out and smacked Mick’s arse if I’d wanted, spurred him on, ya, boy, ya … It was less like fucking than I’d expected, more like making love.

‘Are you sad, Daddy?’ Sophie said, her hand emerging from the sleeve.

‘No, sweetheart. Do I look sad?’

‘Hmm, not really.’

I did up the buttons of her pyjama top. Her face, her freckles.

Sweat dripping from Mick’s face onto Sarah’s. You’re amazing, Sarah. No, Mick, you are. Me sitting flaccid, unseen.

‘Hey, are you forgetting something?’ I said to Sophie.

She stopped, turned, ran back into the bathroom, gave me another hug.

‘I love you.’

‘You too, Daddy.’ She ran through the kitchen, the hallway, threw herself onto the sofa.

Mick hadn’t taken my hand in his and squeezed it. Sarah had looked only at him, intently at him, not me.