Plates cleared away, they took drinks out into the garden. The air was cool, the sky already dark, summer long gone, the chill of autumn getting a grip. Christine put on a little woollen shrug, but even so, she shivered. Joel put his arm around her shoulders, drew her to him. She felt the heat from his body, felt her knees go weak, and allowed herself to sink into his arms.

They kissed – not for the first time, there had been pecks on the cheek, then on the mouth, even a suggestion of lips parting – but this time they meant it. Joel’s lips were soft, the skin around his mouth slightly scratchy with stubble. His tongue was firm as it came into contact with hers, his teeth smooth and shiny, a pleasant shared taste of garlic and good wine.

God, it had been so long. Not since that time with Andy . . . And how long since she had had any man other than Andy? Not since her early twenties. Not for most of her adult life. She did not know how to act – how aggressive to be, how much to steer the encounter, how much enthusiasm to show. She did not want Joel to think she was uptight or prudish; on the other hand, she didn’t want to come across as some randy old lady who’d sacrifice her dignity at the first sniff of young meat.

She needn’t have worried. Joel took control, setting the pace, reacting to the slightest hint like a mindreader. He took the drink from her hand, set it down on a table, and kissed her on the neck, working his way down her throat, pulling her hips into his with one hand in the small of her back. She could feel how hard he was, and gasped. He pressed against her, moving in rhythm, as if they were dancing, feasting on her neck, those soft lips and firm tongue setting her body on fire. She needed to sit down, to lie down, her legs were giving way, drawing him down on top of her. They would have sunk to the ground had Joel not broken this kiss, held her by the hands and said, staring into her eyes, ‘I’ve waited so long for this, Christine,’ then leading her back into the house, through the kitchen, and into the living room, as if he owned the place.

He lowered her on to the sofa, and himself on to her, gently opening her legs, his shoulders bunched up as he kissed her breasts through the soft wool of her sweater. She pushed him back, unbuttoned the front, opening herself up to him. For a while, he just looked, a rapt expression on his face, his eyes half closed, glinting through those eyelashes, and then he came down again, kissing, undoing her bra, sucking her nipples.

‘I want to see you naked,’ she said, surprising herself. ‘Please.’

He jumped to his feet, just as he did in the gym, and with one swift movement pulled the polo shirt over his head, revealing a mat of dark hair on his stomach, a little on his chest, deep dark patches under his arms. His torso was lean, defined, like a swimmer’s. All that talk about exercise and diet was not in vain. Pink nipples peeked through the hair; Christine wanted to kiss them.