The sound of Claire scrabbling to fit her keys in the door woke him. He lay there, groggy and sour, and listened to her banging around, running the taps, getting ready for bed. She put the hall light off before she opened the bedroom door, so it wouldn’t disturb him; but she didn’t come into the room right away. She stood there, in the doorway, not looking at him exactly – it was too dark for that – but sensing him somehow, testing the tautness of the air, to tell if he was awake; if he would speak. Sometimes they reconciled like this, late at night, in the darkness, holding one another affectionately, relaxing out of their mutual tension into the weight of sleep, with only a murmured sorry or two. Not tonight. Even when she crept into bed beside him and placed a warm hand on his side, even when he felt the softness of her breasts against his back (was she wearing nothing at all for once?), he did not move. Her hand crept lower, seeking the point of his hip, the crease of his groin … What was she thinking? It was painful, bewildering, that she would choose this moment, when they were hardly speaking to each other, to initiate sex. She must be properly pissed: he could smell the hoppy fumes coming off her, because of course she had only drunk beer with Caro, not champagne. Had Caro put her up to this? Had they discussed the argument? Had Caro advised Claire to go home and shag him and make up her mind?

Fuck Caro, he thought viciously. He twisted away from Claire’s touch and ripped back the warmth of the duvet, making her gasp. He got up.

‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I want to …’

An odd thrill it gave him, to hear some kind of need in her voice. Of course the need was not sexual. Reassurance: that was all she wanted. A chance to make amends for how she had treated him before, going off with Caro, gossiping perhaps. Drink had made her sentimental enough to offer what she thought he wanted. But she was wrong, wasn’t she? He didn’t want this: drunk sex with no talking, during which she would probably – also because of the beer – begin to cry, and which stood no chance of giving her pleasure, because, as she’d told him endlessly, alcohol dulled her nerves. She was crying now. The wet snuffling sounds had begun. He didn’t care. Let her cry about rejection for once, instead of crying because he’d made her reject him. It was a more honest kind of sorrow. It might even do her some good.