He wandered along the corridors to the Members’ Tea Room in search of breakfast. An inner sanctum, the room had the feel of a gentlemen’s club, a holy place reserved for trusted confidences and whispered plots. A knot of Labour MPs were gossiping around their usual table. ‘Not planning any more fuck-ups today, Geoffrey?’ one of them called out, and they all laughed.

‘Very funny,’ said Geoffrey good-naturedly, always keen to show he could take a joke with the best of them. He walked towards the bank of pink armchairs reserved for the Conservatives, a tradition scrupulously observed by all shades of the political spectrum. ‘Lefty cunts,’ he said to a junior Tory minister sipping his tea. The minister mimed shooting himself in the head and went back to his newspaper. Geoffrey chuckled to himself. If only they knew what he’d been up to a few hours ago.

He helped himself to a bowl of prunes and sat down alone, checking his mobile phone.

A missed call from Barbara. An email from one of his daughters. Still no text from Anna.

Almost as soon as she’d left that morning, slipping out of his Commons office at around five to six, he’d sent her a message, asking if he could see her again that night.

Barbara would be down at the farmhouse for the next few days. He would have to put in an appearance in his Essex constituency at some point, but with no wife wondering about his absences, he could come and go as he pleased – and sweet Jesus, he pleased.

Anna was like no woman he had met before. She bewitched him. He couldn’t think of a better word to describe the effect she had on him.

It wasn’t a purely physical connection, although that was part of it. Her intellect aroused him, and her ruthless streak. She demanded things of him. Not a passive observer, like Barbara had become over the years, but a worthy adversary. Anna challenged him to exercise his own brain. Made him work for the privilege of enjoying her company. Perhaps it was his ego, but he wanted her to want him too.

Although he should have been dealing with paperwork last night, her arrival had excited him, especially the prospect of getting caught in the act by a parliamentary colleague. If Barbara was a dumpy Shetland pony, Anna was a thoroughbred.

A new email pinged on his phone. Subject line: SARA CARTER.

He groaned so loudly the junior minister looked up from his newspaper. But Geoffrey couldn’t help himself. This story was like a fucking zombie. He’d thought they’d killed it off, and here it was, rearing its ugly head again. He read on.

Dear Geoff,