Christine stopped her kneading, and allowed her hand to fall back on to the sheet. She hadn’t realised that this – whatever ‘this’ was – meant so much to Joel. He’d made her feel like a new woman, that was for sure, and she enjoyed every second of their frequent, athletic lovemaking – but on an emotional level, she thought of him fondly at best. His endless autobiographical monologues bored her. She’d long since tired of his plans for world domination through health clubs. He took little interest in her career – seemed, in fact, to resent her vastly greater achievements – and he certainly didn’t want to hear about her family life. As far as Christine could make out, she represented money, class, access to nice restaurants and regular, uncomplicated sex. It was a shock to discover that Joel, naked and rumpled and smelling like a freshly mown field of hay, was so keen to celebrate their quarter-anniversary.

‘Oh, Joel . . .’

He turned to face her, the muscles on his sides forming elegant diagonal lines down his torso. ‘You’ll cancel him?’

‘I can’t. You know that.’

‘Right. I’ll get a shower, then.’

‘No, don’t.’ She pulled the duvet back, patted the sheet. ‘Come back to bed. We can celebrate now.’

‘I don’t want to, now.’

‘You do from where I’m sitting.’

‘That’s just . . . you know. First thing in the morning thing.’ He stood with his back to the window, rotating his hips slightly. Christine bit her lip. ‘You want it?’

Yes, of course I do.

Christine put her hands behind her head, tried to smoulder. This was his cue to pounce. He missed it.

‘If you want it,’ he said, leaning on the dressing table, groin thrust forward, ‘come and get it.’

So this was his game, was it? Making her work for it?

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Joel.’ She scowled at him, and realised that she sounded very much like a mother. And so, to undo that unwelcome impression, she got out of bed, and crawled on her hands and knees across the carpet to where her young lover stood, his eyes half closed, his lips curving in a smile.

‘You look very beautiful this evening, Christine.’

John Ferguson pulled out a chair, got Christine comfortably seated.

That’ll be because only twelve hours ago I was having sex on the bedroom floor, on the landing, in the shower and against the sink.

‘Thank you very much. You’re not wearing too badly yourself, John.’

‘How you can tell such lies and still look so convincing I will never know. But I suppose that’s why we keep instructing you.’