Joanne looked thoughtful. ‘You said something else a minute ago.’

‘What?’

‘You said: “I’d hate to be in love with a girl who’s difficult.” Did you mean it?’

‘Did I mean what?’

‘The part about being in love.’

‘Oh! I didn’t intend to say that.’ He threw caution to the wind. ‘But hell, yes, if you want to know the truth, I’m in love with you. I think I’ve loved you for years. I adore you. I want—’

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

This time it was the real thing, her mouth moving urgently against his, the tip of her tongue touching his lips, her body pressing against his. It was like 1935, except that she did not taste of whisky. This was the girl he loved, the real Joanne, he thought ecstatically: a woman of strong passions. And she was in his arms and kissing him for all she was worth.

She pushed her hands up inside his summer sports shirt and rubbed his chest, pressing her fingers into his ribs, grazing his nipples with her palms, grasping his shoulders, as if she wanted to sink her hands deep into his flesh. He realized that she, too, had a store of frustrated desire that was now overflowing like a busted dam, out of control. He did the same to her, stroking her sides and grasping her breasts, with a feeling of happy liberation, like a child let out of school for an unexpected holiday.

When he pressed his eager hand between her thighs she pulled away.

But what she said surprised him. ‘Have you got any birth control?’

‘No! I’m sorry—’

‘It’s okay. In fact, it’s good. It proves you really didn’t plan to seduce me.’

‘I wish I had.’

‘Never mind. I know a woman doctor who’ll fix me up on Monday. Meanwhile, we’ll improvise. Kiss me again.’

As he did so he felt her unbuttoning his pants.

‘Oh,’ she said a moment later. ‘How nice.’

‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ he whispered.

‘I may need two hands, though.’

‘What?’

‘I guess it goes with being so tall.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Then I’ll shut up and kiss you.’

A few minutes later she said: ‘Handkerchief.’

Fortunately, he had one.

He opened his eyes, a few moments before the end, and saw her looking at him. In her expression he read desire and excitement and something else that he thought might even be love.

When it was over he felt blissfully calm. I love her, he thought, and I’m happy. How good life is. ‘That was wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’d like to do the same for you.’

‘Would you?’ she said. ‘Really?’

‘You bet.’

They were still standing, there in the kitchen, leaning against the door of the refrigerator, but neither of them wanted to move. She took his hand and guided it under her summer dress and inside her cotton underwear. He felt hot skin, crisp hair, and a wet cleft. He tried to push his finger inside, but she said: ‘No.’ Grasping his fingertip, she guided it between the soft folds. He felt something small and hard, the size of a pea, just under the skin. She moved his finger in a little circle. ‘Yes,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘Just like that.’ He watched her face adoringly as she abandoned herself to the sensation. In a minute or two she gave a little cry, and repeated it two or three times. Then she withdrew his hand and slumped against him.