‘No?’ he asks me. ‘Then what do you want to do?’

I manage to straighten my legs and hold them still enough to put my face opposite his. My head is like a balloon tied to a stick, it keeps flopping down towards the ground. I haven’t been drunk in over a year. I just chugged four gin and tonics in one hour. That’s a lot for me right now.

‘I want to kiss you,’ I say. ‘I want to kiss you on your mouth.’ I manage to keep my head steady enough to make my first attempt. He pulls away, looks up the street and seems a bit cross.

‘What are you doing?’ he says, like I just tried to hit him.

‘Sorry, I thought we …’ My shame taps me on the shoulder. Another man who thinks I’m a giant sexual oaf.

‘It’s OK. But what about this?’

He holds up my left hand, he’s referring to my wedding ring.

‘Oh that,’ I say, looking at my ring like it’s a scumbag ex-boyfriend. ‘This is what I think to that.’ I take it off and throw it into my bag. ‘Does that bother you, because it doesn’t bother me?’

‘No. I understand that feeling,’ he says.

‘Take me to your house,’ I demand.

He looks both ways and puts his arm under mine to help me. We’re at his front door within a few minutes.

‘Wow, you’re really rich,’ I say, as we walk in. Which is rude. I’m drunk and behaving like a student. It’s a house in Highgate. The entrance is beautiful, ivy growing up the front of the building. The living room he leads me into doesn’t feel like a bachelor pad. ‘You have great taste for a man.’

‘My ex-wife did most of this. She didn’t want the house when we split. She wanted all my money though.’

‘What a bitch,’ I say, smiling. It’s a joke, and thankfully he gets it. This is OK.

He is at a little bar pouring us some drinks. He hands one to me and I drink it quickly before reality dares to remind me who I really am.

‘Look at us, two strangers alone in a house together. I’ve had enough booze to pretend to be someone else for a bit, have you?’ I say, wiggling around flirtatiously.

‘I don’t know if I need to pretend to be someone else, but I’m certainly happy you’re here,’ he says, with all the assurance of a man in his fifties who doesn’t have personal or intimacy issues. I put my drink down and sit on the sofa. He does the same. I channel Risky and throw myself at him.

His hands are stroking me and squeezing me. Touching me more passionately than my husband ever has. It feels unreal, like it’s someone else’s body, but it isn’t, it’s mine. This is what I want and need. It’s what I deserve. It feels good. I feel good.