‘Now, I really can’t stop,’ said Maya. ‘We’re on our way to see . . . Well, least said soonest mended.’ She took a swatch from Isabelle’s hands, and said ‘Aaaaw,’ in a way that is usually reserved for child cancer patients, and moved on, entourage and all.

Isabelle and Will looked at each other.

‘Aaaaw,’ they both said, and burst out laughing.

Joel arrived five minutes early, standing on the doorstep looking up at her with those puppy dog eyes, always so wet and white, as if he’d just administered eyedrops, a bottle of wine clutched in one hand, a bunch of chrysanthemums in the other. Not the chicest of flowers, thought Christine, especially when they’re yellow, and wrapped in cellophane, from some garage forecourt or supermarket stand, but flowers nonetheless. And it was a long time since anyone, other than herself, had brought flowers into the house. She took Joel’s offerings, which included a kiss on the lips, his mouth slightly open, tasting of spearmint.

‘Come down to the kitchen,’ said Christine. ‘Dinner won’t be long. I hope you’re hungry.’

‘You know me,’ said Joel, bounding down the stairs five at a time, hoisting himself aloft on the handrails, ‘I’m always hungry.’

‘Do you like risotto?’

‘Strictly speaking, I don’t eat carbs after five,’ he said, walking into the kitchen and rather unnecessarily raising his pale blue polo shirt to rub a hand over his six-pack, ‘but for you, Christine, I’m willing to make an exception.’

Why did everything he say sound like an invitation to sin? Christine busied herself with the illicit carbohydrates.

‘Any chance of a drink?’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Christine, the Iron Lady of the divorce courts, the barrister with twenty years call, felt flustered. ‘I’m forgetting myself.’ Was that sweat she could feel at her temples? She hoped not – but it was hot in the kitchen. ‘Wine all right?’

‘Whatever you’re having.’

‘It’s quite nice,’ she said, slopping Chardonnay into a glass. ‘Cheers.’

They clinked. ‘Looks like you’ve got a head start on me.’ He downed half his glass in one, smacked his lips. ‘That’s better. Never let a lady drink alone.’

He held her eyes for a moment. He’s right, said Christine. I shouldn’t drink alone. I shouldn’t be alone. Especially in bed. The bed where I will take him later.

Dinner went well, insofar as Joel ate every grain of rice, asked for more and ate that too, complimented Christine on her cooking, her presentation, her house. He did rather have a tendency to bang on about himself – for the fifth time at least she had to listen to his plan to open a chain of health clubs, sell them for a massive profit, move into property/travel/hotels, retire at fifty and travel the world etc – but at least he had passion, enthusiasm, self-belief. So many of her peers were jaded, and masked their ambition with that peculiarly English form of self-deprecation, possibly the most unsexy quality known to man. Joel knew what he wanted. And if he carried on looking at her tits like that, thought Christine, he’d get it.