Isabelle had not had a particularly glorious sexual career. There had been boys at school, seduced at home, all over in a flash. There were affairs at college, most of them conducted under the influence of too much drink and drugs, often secretive, always messy, never fulfilling. There was the long frustration of her love for Will, and the dark energy that compelled her through New York . . . And all that had happened as a result of that. Pregnancy, abortion, the fear that she would never be able to be touched again, the closing down of that part of her that longed for warmth and intimacy.

And there was Dan, his hands unfastening her dress, pulling his shirt over his head, lying down on the bed, pausing to catch his breath, laughing, kissing her again, and finally both of them naked, legs between legs, arms encircling, mouths joined. When he entered her, she felt none of the pain, or rage, or frustration that had propelled her through so much of her life, but only the here and now and the joy and gratitude that had brought her to this place at this time with this man.

When she woke up in the morning, she knew that they would stay together.

‘Paris or London?’ she said, kissing him awake.

‘Don’t care.’

‘Paris is nice. Trees. Parks. Shopping.’

‘Yeah,’ said Dan. ‘So’s London.’

Isabelle turned her mouth down. ‘Bendy buses. Knife crime. The bloody Olympics.’

Dan poured two glasses of orange juice. ‘Well – smelly drains, rude waiters, no decent restaurants.’ He ripped open a plastic packet. ‘Croissant, madame?’

‘Let’s heat them up, at least.’

‘I’m hungry.’ He bit into his, flakes of pastry falling on to his chest, getting caught in the surprisingly thick dark hair that covered it, darker than the hair on his head. He was only wearing a pair of green-and-white striped boxers; she was wearing a bright red Arsenal t-shirt. The kitchen was at the back of the house, and got the morning sun.

‘Oh for goodness’ sake.’ She switched the oven on and arranged the croissants on a tray. The interior of the oven was suspiciously clean.

‘Don’t do a lot of cooking, do you?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘Can you make a decent cup of coffee?’

‘Ah,’ said Dan, jumping to his feet, ‘that I can do.’ He put his arms round her waist, kissed her. ‘I’m not dreaming, am I? Not this time.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘this is reality.’

‘Good,’ he said, and ground the beans.

‘That smells good.’

‘You’ll have fresh-ground coffee every morning when we’re married,’ said Dan. ‘You did say yes at some point last night, didn’t you?’

Isabelle put her face over her hands and nodded her head.

‘Good. Just wanted to get that straight.’