Joel was flirtatious, but in an inoffensive way. He never said anything sleazy. He complimented Christine on her progress – and that quickly moved on to complimenting her on her appearance when she arrived at the gym for her morning work-out. She found herself taking a little more trouble over her dress, picking out clothes that he might like – no, that made her look better for herself – oh, sod it, who was she trying to kid? He did it all with such refreshing directness, such dazzling smiles, that instead of saying ‘Oh, what, this old thing? No really, it was cheap, I’ve had it for ages, I normally use it as a dog blanket,’ she simply said ‘Thank you very much,’ and felt that tingle beginning in the roots of her hair and the tips of her toes, swiftly spreading to her cheeks, her breasts, her hands.

There was no question of a relationship outside the gym – as well as being a good deal older than him, a respected barrister on her way to becoming a QC, she made it a rule never to mix business with pleasure. It was just not done. Plenty of other careers had foundered on those particular rocks. She was his client, he was providing a service, and as long as there was money changing hands, and professional standards to consider, there was absolutely no way that she would even dream of . . .

And then he asked her.

‘So, Christine,’ he said, in that bright Australian accent that made her think of sea breezes and wide open skies, ‘how do you fancy brunch some time? You know, if you haven’t got a big case on, or anything. I’m always starving after training you.’

‘Me too. I mean, after you’ve . . . But actually, I have to . . .’

‘There’s a couple of nice cafés up Red Lion Street where we could grab a ’cino and a toasted ciabatta or something.’

‘That doesn’t sound very healthy.’

‘Oh, bugger health,’ he said, flashing his whiter-than-white teeth, ‘sometimes you’ve just got to think of pleasure.’

Christine was finding it hard to think of anything else, but managed to force her mouth to say the words ‘Well, that’s a lovely idea, I’ll have a look at my diary and see if I can fit you in.’ She immediately regretted what sounded so crassly like a double entendre, and turned up the resistance on the rowing machine.

‘Wow, Christine,’ said Joel, leaning against the wall, ‘you’re on fire today!’

Victoria dressed carefully for dinner – very carefully, considering this was meant to be a cosy à deux, at home. She did not choose the sky blue Cavalli; she did not want to look as if she was over-keen on Massimo’s spending power, however true that may be. She needed something that looked matrimonial. Not ‘wifey’ or God forbid ‘mumsy’, but the sort of outfit that made a man think about talking to his laywer and looking to the future. Fortunately, she had packed a calf-length chiffon dress in a black and cream abstract print, tying around the neck, the ties floating over her shoulder blades. Relaxed but elegant, sexy but soft, easy to live with . . .