His grin drops, just for a moment, then it’s back. He laughs, but it sounds hollow. ‘Good one. Actually…’ He sits down on the plush, gold velvet armchair that faces the window. ‘Maybe I’ll stay, if that’s OK with you? I have some work to catch up on. Don’t worry. The bathroom door has a lock.’

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Maybe he hasn’t done this before. Maybe he is just ridiculously nice and stupidly naïve. I guess I’ll go back to plan A. Not that I had any other.

‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary, will it?’ I give him my best come-on smile. ‘Let me go and freshen up. Maybe you can order us something to eat? I’m absolutely starving.’

‘Sure,’ he says, happy again. ‘I’ll get us some champagne too. They have an excellent vintage Krug that goes perfectly with their lobster and caviar platter.’

Of course they do.

‘Whatever you think,’ I say, pulling the bathroom door closed. ‘Oh,’ I call from the other side, ‘and when I come out, you can tell me all about yourself.’

I hear him laugh. ‘You, too, sweetheart. You know I don’t even know your name?’

After a very brief pause, I reply. ‘It’s Carrie.’

I decide on a shower rather than a bath, and I think about calling on him, asking him to join me, but decide against it. It’s Carrie I think of as I soap my body with the expensive shower gel. It’s Sam’s face that I see when I close my eyes, letting the strong shower jets course over my skin. I work myself into a frenzy, but then I stop, holding back. I need to leave a little bit for Brad.

I rough-dry my hair and comb my fingers through it, then I use some of Brad’s toothpaste to finger-brush my teeth, gargling with a cold glass of water to freshen my mouth. I slip on one of the fluffy white robes and give myself a quick glance in the mirror. My skin is pink from the heat; my hair looks better now that it’s damp.

The doorbell goes as I am about to walk out of the bathroom, and I hold back, to let Brad deal with it. I hear the sound of a trolley being wheeled inside, low voices. The door closing again. Then the sound of a bottle chinking in ice, and I open the door.

Brad is in his underpants, running a finger under the foil on the champagne bottle. His eyes flick up to my face, then down the robe, and he tilts his head to one side – then holds up a hand and opens two fingers, grins.