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respected each other’s boundaries. Why else would so many rich and famous people live there? It was no coincidence that its properties came with long, winding driveways, obscuring their owners from prying eyes. Besides, who else could afford its huge rustic homes? Not the rustics. The estate agent had barely finished showing them the house before Simon had put in an offer.
    Simon pulled into his own long, winding driveway, unlocked his obscured front door and soaked up the rare, peaceful silence.
    Feeling relaxed at last, he stooped to pick up a business card from the mat. As he straightened up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. He was less keen on mirrors these days. There seemed to be some kind of conspiracy; the man who squinted back couldn’t possibly
be
him.
That
manlooked every one of his thirty-nine years: his hair was thinner and his nose was much bonier than his own. It was like a cartoonist’s version of himself.
    ‘You’ve got an intelligent face,’ Linda would reassure him, and she’d ruffle her fingers through his hair.
    ‘Sod intelligent – is it a romantic face?’ he’d neurotically cross-examine her. ‘Is it a Richard Curtis rom-com leading-man kind of face?’
    Simon leant closer to the mirror. Sure enough, he could already see the purpling of a small bruise on his forehead.
Bloody mini-Bounties
, he thought dryly. Thank Christ his velvet pantaloons had cushioned the Creme Egg.
    Out of the corner of his eye he could see the red button of the answerphone flashing. He pressed it and Linda’s voice filled the hall.
    ‘Simon, love, it’s me. Look, sorry, but something’s come up at work. I know the twins are out and it’s supposed to be our night, but this is really important. Sorry, sweetheart. I’ll be on the last train home. Don’t wait up. Love you!’
    Simon’s shoulders slumped and he dropped his car keys into the key dish with a clank. He tried not to feel hard done by, but he felt a pang of longing for his wife. It wasn’t just the sex. He wanted to breathe in the smell of her conditioner as they cuddled up watching TV, to spoon gently behind her as they drifted off to sleep.
    Idly, he looked at the business card. It had a picture of a ladder and a bucket. He turned it over. There was a message scrawled on the back.
    All right, Si? Tonight, my place. 8.30pm, or whatever time you knock off from scaring kids. Woody.
    And then …
    PS … Your bay window’s looking a bit skanky. Want me to fit you in Monday?
    Simon sighed and pictured the bottle of red he and Linda were supposed to be drinking. Then he pocketed the card, picked up his car keys and headed out.

ROXY

    Roxy had the nagging feeling she looked like a hooker.
    Normally looking like a hooker wouldn’t bother her; you couldn’t so much as interrupt a paparazzo’s fag unless you were dressed like a tenner-a-trick slut. But, tottering past the manicured lawns and sculpted topiary of Lavender Heath, the hooker look made her feel twitchy.
    The problem – she decided – was her coat. She wasn’t big on coats. It was her job to be out there and be seen. Hiding her wares wasn’t an option – even if the weather was arctic. A few years back she’d never noticed the temperature, warmed as she was by waves of heat from the photographers’ flash bulbs. But, lately she’d begun to get cold; and last night she’d been positively freezing. Woody’s place was on the opposite side of the village, a full seven minutes’ walk away. So she’d rummaged in the back of her wardrobe to find something suitably ‘coaty’. What did one wear when popping round to one’s friendly neighbourhood pop star for small talk and internet-movie-worthy sex? She could only find a trench coat. It was so thin she needen’t have bothered. And it was so shortshe looked naked underneath. If Lavender Heath had been gauche enough to have nets, she was one hundred per cent sure they’d be twitching.
    It hadn’t always been this way,