The prints depict faceless profiles of famous people: Marilyn Monroe, Winston Churchill, Jimi Hendrix and others. Instead of features their faces contain what looks like crude street graffiti. Archer isn’t sure what to make of them, or the stuffed dove. Strange. You think you know someone.

She hears music, coming from the bedroom.

A rock song. ‘Sweet Child of Mine’.

Archer rolls her eyes. Dom has shit taste in music. She has grown to detest this song as Dom always wants to play it when they have sex, which she flat out refuses, claiming her dignity is more important than some weird sixth-form sex fantasy.

Dom is sweet but he has some strange ideas.

From the living room she can also hear the television. She peers within and sees the enormous flatscreen broadcasting the BBC News channel which is running more speculation on the @nonymous killings.

She almost gets drawn into the report but is distracted by the remains of a meal on the dining table.

She frowns.

Two plates.

Two knives.

Two forks.

Two wine glasses.

Dom clearly has company.

She hears a grunt from the bedroom as the guitar riff reaches its crescendo.

She hears a woman’s rapid, melodramatic shrieking.

Archer’s heart sinks.

She has faked her orgasms sometimes, but not with the same dramatic flourish as the woman receiving Dom at this very moment.

Archer bites her lip and wonders if she should leave and deal with him another time, but thinks, fuck that.

The woman shrieks again.

Archer walks into the bedroom.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she says.

The woman gasps.

Archer holds up the bottle and smiles. ‘I brought wine for you. Pomerol. Your favourite.’ She slams it on the chest of drawers.

‘What the fuck!’ Dom shouts.

‘Calm down. I’m not staying.’

Archer opens the wardrobe, crouches down and takes out a holdall she keeps there. She stuffs a dress and some shirts into it.

‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be . . . bloody . . . not here!’

‘That much is obvious,’ snaps Archer. She can’t help but look at the woman. She is blonde, pretty with a priceless mortified expression.

Tara Hildick-Smith.

‘Your secretary, Dom . . . really? You’re such a fucking cliché.’

Dom jumps from the bed, his face glowing scarlet red.

‘Get out, Grace . . . just get out!’

She feels an enormous lump in her throat but would never give him the satisfaction of knowing how hurt she feels. She meets his gaze and in that moment wonders what on earth she ever saw in him? It doesn’t matter now. She turns to Tara and waves sweetly. ‘Bye, Tara. By the way, you might want to inject some subtlety into faking your orgasms. Check YouTube. You’re bound to find a tutorial.’

Tara’s eyes widen.

Dom looks crestfallen.

Tragic.

Archer sweeps out of the bedroom, carrying the hold-all. As she exits the flat she hears Dom berating Tara, who speaks back in soothing tones.