‘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.

I take off my jeans and lie on the sofa. He goes down on me. Michael hasn’t gone down on me since before we were married. The last time he did it, he stopped before I came and said he just couldn’t stand the taste. Why am I just realising how cruel that was? I have a gorgeous vagina. This man is reminding me of that. It’s like I’m a bowl of warm chocolate and he’s eating his way out of me. He’s so good at it. I have my hands on his head. I want this to be filthy. I come very quickly. I’m not done.