“Don’t, whatever you do, talk about tomorrow,” she said.

“Okay. I promise.” And it was that simple. He surrendered before the main course, a sirloin steak for him and a salmon cutlet for her, and Miriam felt something tight unwind inside her, a subliminal humming tension that had been building up for what felt like forever. She barely tasted the food or noticed as they finished the bottle of wine. He paid, but she paid no attention to that, either. “Where to?” he asked.

“Do you still have an apartment here?” she replied.

“Yes.” She heard the little catch in his throat.

“Is it safe? You’re sure nobody’s, uh—”

“I sleep there. No booby traps. Do you want to—”

“Yes.” She knew it was a bad idea, but she didn’t care about that—at least, not right now. What she cared about, as she pulled her jacket on and allowed him to take her arm, was the warmth at the base of her spine and the sure knowledge that she could count on tonight. All the tomorrows could take their chances.

He drove carefully, back to his apartment in a warehouse redevelopment not far from the restaurant. Miriam leaned back, watching him sidelong from the passenger seat of the Jaguar. “This is it,” he said, pulling into the underground garage. “Are you sure?” he asked, turning off the engine.

She leaned forward and bit his lower lip, gently.

“Ow—” Their mouths met. “Not here,” he panted.

“Okay. Upstairs.”

They worked their way into the elevator without getting too disheveled. It stopped on a neat landing with three doors. Roland freed up a hand to unlock one, and punched a code into a beeping alarm system. Then they were inside. He locked the door, put a chain across it, then bolted it—and she tackled him.

“Not here!”

“Where, then?”

“There!” He pointed through an open door into the living room, dimly lit by an old seventies lava lamp that shed moving patterns of orange and red light across a sofa facing the uncurtained window.

“That’ll do.” She dragged him over, and they collapsed onto the sofa. He was ready for her, and it was all Miriam could do to force herself to unwrap a condom before she launched herself at him. There was no time to pull off his clothes. She straddled him, felt his hands working under her dress, and then she was—

—an hour later, sitting on the toilet, giggling madly as she watched him shower. Both of them frog-naked and sweaty. “We’ve got to stop this happening to us!” she insisted.

“Come again?”

She threw the toilet roll at him.

“You’re violent,” he complained: “That isn’t in The Rules.”

“You read that?”

“Olga’s elder sister had a copy. I sneaked a peek.”

“Ugh!” Miriam finished with the toilet. “Move over, you’re not doing that right.”

“I’ve been showering myself for years—”