Chapter Five

‘Stan? Stan.’ She is shaking my arm. ‘God, we don’t have to go the theatre. It was just an idea. We could try yoga. Or take pottery classes.’

I don’t want to take pottery classes, Lucinda, I want to scream. I want to bone you until you can’t breathe, until neither of us can breathe. I want to tear off your clothes before we reach my front door and I catapult you onto my dilapidated sofa and grind myself into you and watch you groan and smile and smile and groan.

‘Yeah, pottery classes might be cool.’

Which translates into There’s no fucking way you’re dragging me to a pottery class.

I try to stop myself picturing her writhing on my sofa, groaning and smiling.