Lulu flapped a hand. “He’s a very unfortunate individual, let’s leave it at that. New subject, please.”

“Last night?”

Another flap of the hand. “Oh, you know. The usual.”

“Tell me everything. I want to know what I missed.”

“No.” A sulky pout. “You should have been there with me. It’s not enough to listen to stories. You have to be a part of them.”

The waitress brought the coffee and mousse.

“Don’t be like that, Lulu.”

“Like what? You keep telling me your husband is enough for you. If that’s true, then you won’t need my stories to keep you happy.” She stabbed at her dessert with a spoon.

Genevieve sighed. “Why do the two things have to be linked? Am I not allowed to be interested in your night?”

“Come on, Vivi. You know you didn’t want to go home at the end of the party. Admit it.”

Genevieve drained her hot chocolate. “I was quite ready for bed.” There was a stiffness in her neck that made her want to shrug her shoulders and roll her head around. She could still feel Robert’s hands holding the back of her head when they’d kissed in the hallway. Why did he have to do that? It was like being trapped in some kind of brace.

“And it was very exciting in that marital bed, eh?”

Robert had “before” rituals. The special knock on her door—one light knock, one heavy, like a heartbeat. Always the same. Then, as though there was a further need to identify himself, he’d call, “Only me,” before coming in. He’d get into the bed on the left side, always the left, and he’d warm his cold feet against hers.

There were “during” rituals too. First the whiskery kisses that made her want to gasp for air, then the interminable fumbling below the sheets. She’d tried to speak to him gently, in the hope of improving the experience for both of them, but such discussion was unacceptable to him. This came as an unpleasant surprise after her early impressions of him as someone you could talk to about anything. Ultimately he’d just hitch up that nightshirt of his, climb on top and do the business. Heavy, red-faced, mechanical. And the knocking would start. Exactly which component of the bed made that strange noise? She’d tried to figure it out during the day, peering at the legs, the mattress…knockety-knock, faster and faster. It was like making love with an over-wound clockwork toy.

Afterward, he would trace circles on her bare shoulder and try to talk to her, just when she didn’t feel like talking. Small circles. Large circles. Always circles. He hummed too. The humming would almost be a recognizable tune, but not quite.

“You seem…,” he began last night, as he traced those damn circles.

“What?”