Juliet sighed with relief, dropped the phone, dropped her coat where she stood in the hall, dragged herself upstairs to the main bathroom. She ran a bath, put in some Dior bath oil, poured herself a whisky. The nightmare dissipated only slightly as she drank, as she soaked in the warm water. The doorbell rang at last.

Juliet answered the door in her white dressing gown. Grover came in with his small bag, kissed her cheek briefly, walked immediately upstairs.

‘Long time no see,’ he said on the stairs.

Juliet did not answer.

‘The play’s doing well,’ he said, as they entered the bedroom.

‘But I’m exhausted,’ was all Juliet told him.

‘Lie down,’ he said.

She dropped the dressing gown, under which she was wearing nothing, on to the floor; lay on the bed, on her stomach, at once lying spreadeagled as if her body remembered exactly. Out of his small case Grover took bottles of oils, lay them beside the bed. He quickly stripped to the waist, knelt across Juliet, began to massage. He was very, very good at it; long, strong, even strokes all over her body. She was so tense that he gave a low whistle, he had to go over and over her shoulders, pummelling and then stroking hard, pummelling and then stroking hard. He moved slowly down her back, breathing evenly as he kneaded the vertebrae, one after the other, downwards, downwards. Juliet’s legs opened wider.

‘Wait.’ He slapped her buttocks, not too hard.

He massaged her legs, pummelling the muscles, pulling down the calf muscles, pushing at her ankles, wrapping his fingers around and between her toes. He moved back up her body, took more oil, pummelled her buttocks, pushing and kneading. Juliet gave a little sigh, was unable to stop opening her legs wider. This time he did not slap her, ran his fingers along her anus and underneath to her clitoris. She moaned very very softly.

‘Turn over,’ he instructed.

She turned over. In the lamplight he saw that she still had a good body but her stomach muscles were slacker, the breasts drooped, fell slightly to either side.

‘Getting old Juliet,’ he said indifferently, oiling her nipples. ‘Four years has made a difference.’

She did not answer. Her body began to move in a kind of rhythm. He ran his hands over her breasts, over and over again, pulling at the nipples, pinching them, stroking down to her stomach and her groin. He saw her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow, she was moaning very very quietly, she never made much noise, yes she whispered, and then again, but only whispering still, yes, yes – oh – oh yes. He was good at his job: he stroked her clitoris again with the oil and then slipped his fingers inside her, moving deeper and deeper, catching her rhythm.