The door was nondescript, inconspicuous. Black, which made Max smile weakly. What other colour would it be? She stood across the street, hidden in the shadow of the railway bridge above, and wondered, again, if she could do this. In three attempts, this was the furthest she had got. The two previous journeys had ended at Stoke, as the fear of taking such a step far outweighed the hunger, the need, inside her. But now, two weeks later, she’d stayed on the train to its final destination, Manchester, and having gone that far, it seemed her legs had decided she might as well reach her final destination without any more delay.

She’d arrived at the hotel, in the city centre near Piccadilly Gardens, at about five o’clock that afternoon. The room was small but nicely furnished, and the bathroom was gorgeous. She’d eaten early from room service and had one glass of wine to settle her rampaging nerves. Then she’d had a long soak in the bath and washed her hair, taking her time, again hoping the warm water would calm her. She wanted to do this. She did. At the same time, she was terrified about what it meant for her life and her relationship. She refused to listen to the answer.

At nine thirty, she’d summoned a cab. The ten minutes in the car sent her stomach churning and her mind whirling. Twice she’d nearly asked the driver to take her back to the hotel, and twice she’d resisted.

So here she stood, body trembling from nerves or from the cool September evening air; she couldn’t tell which. She hated the lies she’d told these last two months about imaginary meetings in Manchester that didn’t finish until after seven. Somewhat to her dismay, the lies had come easily.

She’d blamed her job—working in PR for a drug company meant she constantly had to…massage…the truth. Telling little white lies was second nature to her. But Sue didn’t need to know the truth. Sue, whom she loved dearly and had loved for nearly eight years. Sue, who was twelve years older than her, who was deep in the throes of menopause, and who had lost all interest in sex, even in intimacy. Sue, who hadn’t kissed her properly in a year.

They’d talked about it, and there had been genuine regret in Sue’s voice. Max had accepted it and told her it was okay, told her it didn’t matter. Their love was too strong to let this one small thing get in the way. Their love was built on a more intellectual basis, always had been. That had been fine when they first got together; in fact, it had been exactly what Max had needed. Sue was a wonderfully undemanding escape from the unhealthy craziness that Max had dealt with in her previous relationship.