His jacket, she saw, had been placed over the back of the chair in front of the desk/dressing table, the finely hemmed edges brushing the floor. It left her with a dilemma: she wanted to sit, but didn’t want to crush his jacket or take a place on the bed, not yet, maybe not at all. She began to realise the situation more fully and was certain she had neither the desire nor the daring to go through with whatever it was he might have planned. Sex, certainly, but then what? Regular meet-ups for more sex? Falling in love? She gave a quiet snort of laughter. That would never happen. He really was not the kind of person she could ever love, but was he the kind of person who might make her feel good? Was she really about to say no to the only offer she had had in over three decades? Was that courageous? Would she regret it? The air was heavy with his scent, suggesting he might have sprayed his aftershave shortly before her arrival, and again she was flattered.

She watched him through the open door of the en suite. This really was the weirdest thing. She was in a bedroom with Mr Maxwell, who was fetching her a glass of water from the bathroom tap, his long bare toes gripping the pale grey tiles.

‘I want you to know,’ she called out, ‘that I don’t make a habit of this. I’ve never done anything like it before.’

‘Well . . .’ He came into the room and handed her the cup. Bess took a sip and only when she pulled away did she see the water was a little cloudy with whitish particles floating in it, while a little green curl of vegetable matter still clung to the inside of the cup, hidden, lurking and disgusting. Mr Maxwell hopped on to the bed, his manner boyish, overly exuberant as he lay on his side with his head resting on his elbow. He was a handsome man, tanned and toned with thick hair and eyes that looked at you rather than around you. There was power in that: the feeling of being seen. It felt nice.

‘I can’t claim to be an expert, but let’s just say this is not my first time at the rodeo.’ He laughed then, the laugh that she and Mario had mocked, slightly nasal, considered.

‘Does . . . ?’ Bess paused. To mention his wife, even to say her name, felt disloyal, abhorrent, and that was before she had taken her place next to him on the bed with the shiny counterpane and the micro-evidence of a thousand encounters like this. The thought left her a little nauseous. ‘Does Helen know how often you attend the rodeo?’ she asked. The self-conscious turn of phrase, her hesitancy and tension all added to the weight of awkwardness now pushing down on her shoulders.