How would she know, Nick wondered. Someone must have told her. She was a natural, though; he sensed that. She could be had, caught at the right moment. But mentally, that was different. It was the dumb ones that snapped when they tried to think about it.

“Are you ready for that rub, lad? The water must be cold.”

Miranda had slipped out of her new dress and into a linen kimono. Nick dried off, followed his wife into the workout room, and stretched out on the massage table. Quite a few massages that top had seen; and quite a few masseurs, too. Miranda lubed up her hands, and Nick continued his mental dissertation on the Studds.

Now the guy, Zeno: he could handle it. Probably had. Fella like that wouldn’t be short of opportunities. He was a lot like himself—near the line. That magic line that divides men and women. He would know how it is to be all things to all people. I’m certain I could have him if I put my mind to it.

Nick recalled the shape of Zeno’s head, the sense that informed his glance. There was a clearness about him which was not simply good health; an intelligence of someone who accepted life as it came and took responsibility for it. It always showed, sooner or later. I know how to make a pilgrim like that. Fuck with his mind. Too much command over his body. Yeah, he’d be open to something new.

Miranda’s mind was also not one hundred percent on what she was doing. She was thinking about the first time Nick had introduced her to his views on sensuality; how the same set of genitals that were pushed to make love to a wife or regular girlfriend more than twice a day could rise to the occasion a dozen or more times, given a selection of willing partners; he claimed to have gotten off fourteen times at the stag party of an old school chum.

Not always believing everything her husband told her, she had arranged a surprise harem party of her own the year after their marriage, inviting a selection of her raunchiest chums, and offering him a chance to prove his point. Twelve left smiling, and only two admitted that they would have preferred to have caught him nearer the start of the proceedings. When quizzed, Nick answered that he would probably have done better if the company had been mixed. He later added, probably to tease her, “Guys give guys the best head, you know.”

Miranda was working on his traps. He could feel the weight of her breast through the linen on his back. What kind of nipples did Mrs Zeno have? he wondered. Modest pert daggers that stiffened if you looked at them? Or large ripe fruit that needed to be pinched into response? Now that would be a novel game to introduce at Fleur’s.

He looked at the silent TV set placed in front of the climbing machine. Why don’t we have our own porn channel here in Britain, when every house and third-rate hotel across Europe can tune in? “It’s been debated in Parliament, mate,” the cable mechanic had informed him. What was it about the British and sex? Hadn’t the delectable Louise Brooks proclaimed that the English were the best cocksmen? So where was the evidence—hard core porn on television? Mary Whitehouse would ride a white cart-horse to Downing Street, where the soft-cock Cabinet would be manning a barricade. None of them had ever attended a party; nobody would ever consider asking them. Maybe that was the problem.