“Do you want me to look it up in the OED, or are you going to tell me?”

“What?”

“Priapic.”

“Medical condition. Guy whose joint stays erect after he’s shot his wad.”

“You never introduce me to boys like that.”

“She liked my crocodile shoes, the strawberry blonde,” said Nick, finding the exchange arousing and changing the subject so as not to allow his wife to get her way.

“Did she?”

“That’s what she told me. Obviously had an eye for a shoe.”

“Or a system of relating size of feet to size of member.”

“Thought it was hands—you told me it was hands.”

Miranda let some more hot water into the bathtub. “Want me to give your back a scrub?”

“Like a rub, if you’re in the mood.”

“You’re the boss.” Miranda continued her barbed inquisition. “So what effect do you think you’ve had on the life of this ticket collector?”

“I didn’t say . . .”

Miranda waved him on. “Did she want more—did she ask for your number?”

“No, no, I was what you’d call ‘the one that doesn’t count’.”

Nick looked at his wife, now preoccupied with buffing her nails. He looked at her legs, slightly apart as she sat, felt energy centring within him, and wondered if she was truly like him. You never really knew with women. He had never been able to exhaust her—unless you consider cystitis exhaustion. He enjoyed seeing her taken by men or women; it excited him, renewed his desire for her. Was it really the same for her, or was she just his creature?

He wondered who would be at Fleur’s. Fleur—they had hit on her in the Soda Bar at Fortnum’s. Miranda had pointed her out. “She’s a goer,” she’d said.

“Now?” he’d enquired.

“Listen, chum, when a girl’s in the mood, there is only now.”

Fleur had left with them before they had ordered. Nick had driven, and Miranda had her hand up Fleur’s skirt before they made Knightsbridge. What a natural: that freaky clitoris. No wonder she wore loose outfits. Another centimetre or two and she could have been piggy in the middle.

Who would she have found for tonight? Would the couple that he had seen at her Christmas party be there? What were their names? Odd name, the chap had. Good-looking devil, with those printed lashes he liked; she was delicious too. He had quite fancied both of them. Zeno, that was it. And what was the missus called? He wondered why he had not made the move; she was quite delectable. She was something, this Mrs Zeno; a piece—like Miranda. Why had he been so cautious? Had he chatted to her, watched her mouth, waiting for her to speak. When she had, he found that she was thicker than peanut butter. A vacuous-looking model had cruised by and waved hello.

“Who’s that?” he had asked.

“Her? Oh, someone I used to know.”

“She on the loose? Got good legs.”

“I’m not sure. But you wouldn’t like her—she’s dumb.”