‘Samantha? Something like that. Susanna, maybe.’ Emma watched him rooting around in the fridge looking for the lasagne. He ran a hand through his thinning hair. I am attracted to him, she thought with some detachment. He used to have a good body but in the last few years his belly had bulged (good Lord, who was she to complain?). He was tall though, and still wore his clothes well. Like everyone, she took the positives for granted.

She got up, poured herself a little more wine and settled herself on the kitchen island, slowly swinging her legs. As he moved from the fridge to the microwave, she stuck out her foot and rubbed it up and down his thigh. In their relationship, a gesture like this could not just be what it was; it had to be loaded with meaning. She knew that; she was feeling reckless. He turned to catch her eye.

‘Hey!’ he said. ‘What’s all this?’

It was so easy. He moved a step in towards her. She put her hand on his crotch and rubbed his cock a little. He stiffened almost immediately. ‘Is it my birthday?’ he said.

That annoyed her. She let it slide; she was surprising herself with her own forwardness. He had lost all interest in his supper. She opened her legs a little. This unusual location for proceedings made her feel risqué and adventurous, like someone else. She pushed her breasts against his chest. She had good breasts; everyone had always told her that, even her mother. She was enjoying her own daring and yet, as she took off his jacket and damp shirt for him, she was aware that she was playing this role of seductress rather than being it. It was all a show, it wasn’t her. It was almost as if she had an audience and several critics in.