“Want a quickie? You don’t seem short on energy.”

“Energy’s not my problem. You know that,” he said, lowering himself into the water and resting his neck on the curve of the rim. “It’s the blue veiner I’m looking for.”

“Don’t say that—it makes you sound like an Australian.”

“Errol Flynn was an Aussie,” said Nick, knowing she admired the actor. Miranda seated herself on the loo.

“Tasmanian, actually,” and twisting her legs, “the numero?”

“Pinned her on the train. Must have been in Brighton overnight. Pretty little thing, worked for British Rail. Cute cockney accent. Mid-twenties, I should think.”

“Single?”

“Married.”

Miranda wrinkled her forehead. “Game, then?”

Nick went on. “The usual: husband screwed her blind for the first eighteen months and then lost interest. Course, she was as horny as all get out. I don’t think she was actually on the lookout in Brighton.”

“No, just sea air and a plate of cockles,” Miranda snorted.

“Anyway, I dialogued her.”

“I bet.” Nick was soaping under his arms with his wife’s iris soap. “So how did you put the make on her?”

“Told her I’d show her how to make up her eyes.”

“Her eyes . . .”

“Did, too—bought some cosmetics in the Hilton.”

“Classy.”

“Took her to the café on the top floor, settled her there with a coffee.”

“With cream, I bet.”

“Hot milk, actually. You know how these girls are.”

“I wish I did.”

“She stayed quiet as a mouse, looking out over the park. I nipped downstairs, booked the room, and scored the eye make-up. They didn’t have much of a choice, so I improvised. Took her down two floors, put the ‘Do not disturb’ sign outside, and asked her to take her blouse off so as not to get it spotted.”

“Spotted?”

“From the mascara.”

Miranda gave him an old-fashioned look. “If she believed that . . .”

“Well, I think she realised she wasn’t there just for the demonstration.”

“Not with make-up, anyway.”

“Did the eyes though. Worked beautifully. Took about ten minutes. I gave the impression that I’d lost interest, then, when she thought that was all she was going to get . . .”

“You dropped onto all fives and crawled towards her.”

“How d’you guess?”

“That was chancy.”

“Not really. Her breath smelled nice, and I could tell by her skin tone that she was healthy.”

“Did you do everything?”

“Almost—she only had an hour and a half.”

“Did you turn her over?”

“I didn’t, but I could have. I really worked her over while she was coming the first time.”

“Did she suck you off?”

“Of course.”

“Really off?”

“Really off.”

“How many times did you come?”

“Just the once. Didn’t want to get caught short later.” He grinned, showing creamy teeth.

“D’you fancy a cuddle?”

“Later.”

“Not up to it, huh? Real studs provide at home—whatever they’ve been up to elsewhere.”

“Like who, for example?”

“Warren Beatty, I imagine.”

“Spare me—he’s priapic. It’s like cheating at cards.”