His hands on her face, they kissed until they hurt each other. Hungry and desperate, they couldn’t get enough of each other.

‘Sorry,’ Jack whispered.

‘’s OK,’ she murmured back.

Gradually the kisses calmed, becoming dreamier and gentle until his lips were like feathers as they sucked against her tender mouth. The music was still on the stereo and they seemed to be circling slowly.

The sea looked in and thought, Slow-dancing in his front-room, well I’ve seen it all now.

Ashling slid her hands under Jack’s shirt and up along the delicious newness of his back. Their bodies were pressed up against each other, his palms on her bottom were pulling her even closer and she felt syrupy, floaty, blissful. She had no idea how long they spent like that. It could have been ten minutes or two hours, but suddenly Ashling had taken off Jack’s shirt. Well, it only involved opening one button.

‘You hussy,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you a shirt and I’ll raise you a pair of boots.’

‘OK.’ Her heart was banging in her chest. ‘What exactly does that mean? I take off my boots?’

‘And your shirt. I can see you’re not a poker player, I’ll have to teach you the rules. Off with your shirt.’ Already he was helping her out of it. ‘Now you say, I’ll raise you a pair of jeans.’

‘I’ll raise you a pair of jeans.’ She swallowed with nerves and excitement, as slowly Jack popped the buttons on his fly. Her hands trembling, she waited a tantalizing moment before unzipping her black trousers and wriggling out of them.

‘Socks!’ he declared, but his jokey tone was not mirrored by the intent expression in his eyes. Her throat was closed and she felt trickly and achey with longing, as they stood before each other, Jack in white Calvins, Ashling in her new high-cut all-in-one (with waist effect).

‘Got the rules?’ Jack asked thickly.

She nodded slowly, taking in his perfect legs, the sculpted arms, the flat area of black hair on his chest that snaked down to his stomach. ‘Think so. And what’s wild?’

‘You?’

She surprised herself with a laugh. Waist or no waist, she was more confident than she’d ever been without her clothes.

She reached out her hand and touched the thick column that was straining against the white cotton and was rewarded with a shudder from him. Then she put her finger inside the waistband and pulled. No need to speak. It was perfectly clear what she wanted.

He reached in and freed himself. Revealing black pubic hair, he slid off his Calvins while holding his erection in his fist. Ashling was transfixed by how erotic it was.

Upstairs on Jack’s freshly laundered bed, he peeled her underwear off in slow motion. Inching it down and away from her with such tiny, languid movements that she thought she’d shriek. Finally there were no more obstacles.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Jack asked anxiously.

‘What do you think?’ She smiled lazily at him.

‘You might be on the rebound.’

‘I’m not on the rebound,’ she said gently. ‘Honestly.’

Suddenly he froze. ‘You’re not doing this for a bet?’

She laughed hard, genuinely entertained.

‘No? I just had a vision of Trix running a book on you and me.’

They slid themselves along each other and every touch, every gesture was inquisitive and gentle. Their breath grew shorter and, with gathering speed and desire, they stopped being gentle and became wild and wanton and rough. She dug her nails into his buttocks and he bit her breast. They rolled over each other, welded together as he thrust into her, then she slid tightly down on him.

Afterwards, they lay tangled together, glowing with unity. But suddenly Ashling was gripped with uncertainty. What if he changed his mind? What if, now that he’d slept with her, he went off her?

Then Jack said softly, ‘Ashling, you are the nicest thing that has ever happened to me,’ and all her doubts went away.

‘Of course the question is,’ Jack spoke into the darkness, ‘will you respect me in the morning?’

Sleepily Ashling said, ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t respect you anyway.’

He pinched her.

‘Of course I’ll respect you in the morning,’ she reassured. ‘I might disparage you a bit in the afternoon, mind,’ she added. ‘But I can guarantee my undivided respect in the morning.’

65

On the first Monday in April, a week before she returned to London, Lisa received notification of her final decree in the post. Before she even opened the envelope she knew what it contained – silly though it was, she was sure she sensed a slightly unpleasant air emanating from it.

Her instinct was to recoil from it, to shove it under the phone book and pretend it had never come. Then, with a sigh, she quickly tore it open. She’d had to do lots of unpleasant things in her life. If she didn’t face them head-on she’d never get anything done. But they had to be done fast, like ripping off a plaster.

Her head was amazingly clear. She noted the way her fingers shook as she pulled out the pages, then watched the sentences scroll away from her eyes, too quickly to be read. When the words slowed down and stopped moving she forced herself to study the hard black letters on the white page. One at a time, until the message she already knew revealed itself – it was over. No more living half-in-half-out of a marriage, instead it was all tidied neatly away. The end. Fin. That’s all folks.

With ongoing crystal clarity, she observed that she hadn’t suddenly started skipping around the hall with the liberation of closure. Instead she noted that her temperature had soared – was she sweating? – and that she didn’t feel joyous and free.

All through the divorce process, she’d hoped that the next part of the procedure would be the one where she’d magically feel healed. But now they’d reached the end of the line and she still wasn’t restored to her former happiness. If anything she actually felt worse.

Perhaps the sadness of a divorce doesn’t actually disappear, she realized. Instead you have to incorporate it, learn to co-exist with it – which seemed like such a slog, she felt like going back to bed.

Fifi had thrown a party when her divorce had become final, so why didn’t she feel like doing the same? The difference, she reluctantly admitted, was that she didn’t hate Oliver. Shame she didn’t, she mocked herself. There was a lot to be said for acrimony.