She punched in the numbers, gave the address, sat down by the side of the sofa, cross-legged so her skirt rode up. He looked away, looked back again.

‘Ten minutes,’ she said. ‘Less. Tell Irene thanks.’

‘She’ll probably be down again in a minute – but Clemmie’s got this sickness bug …’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Pour me some more wine.’

‘You’re sure?’ she asked, but she poured him a full glass, taking a sip herself before she handed it over. There was a red smear on the rim of the glass and he raised his head and put his lips where hers had been, took an awkward gulp, feeling his muscles untying, his thoughts unbolting, all his words fraying, coming undone.

He had never looked at Frankie properly before – his wife’s oldest friend’s younger sister who’d been on the outer edges of his life for more than twelve years. He could see from here that she wore no bra and her breasts were full and soft; that there were muscles in her calves and she had long ear lobes from which hung a bright jangle of metal. There was a tiny white scar in her thick eyebrows and the parting in her hair was slightly crooked. Her make-up had smudged a bit; she looked soft, blurred, full of secrets.

‘I think I’m a bit drunk,’ he said. If he closed his eyes now, the room would tip and he would be adrift. He kept his eyes open and took another sip.

Frankie laid her hand, very gently, on his upper thigh. ‘It’s your night,’ she said. He looked at it for a moment, the slim fingers against his leg, the pearly nails. From upstairs came the sound of a door shutting softly. Adrian set down his wine glass and, without looking at Frankie, he put his hand on her blonde, warm head. He imagined Irene upstairs, listening outside the bedroom to make sure everything was fine the way she did every single night, her head slightly cocked and a tight, expectant expression on her face, and he tightened his fingers in the tangle of hair, tugging Frankie towards him. She uncoiled her legs and knelt up, leaning over him on the sofa where he lay. He smelt the wine on her breath. He brushed a thumb against her nipple, swollen under the thin material of her shirt, and she gave a little murmur. Her hair brushed his face. Her lips parted, very slightly.

‘Jesus, I want to fuck you,’ he said, not moving.

They heard the footsteps on the staircase and Frankie sank back onto the floor beside him. She re-crossed her legs and pushed her hair behind her ears.