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out.
    “Sophie,” Luke ran after me and caught me just as I took the first step down the stairs, and I nearly fell and broke my neck. But he grabbed me and swung me round and held me by the arms.
    “Let go—”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re not a stupid cow.”
    I opened my mouth and he disarmed me with a smile.
    “Well, you are,” he amended, “but I’m sorry I called you it.”
    I blinked. “You never really got the hang of this apologising lark, did you?”
    He pouted and did his puppy-dog eyes. “Don’t go. Stay. We can—I don’t know, watch a video or something.”
    “What, Barney’s Greatest Hits? Titanic? Terminator 2 ?”
    He released me and I nearly fell backwards. There weren’t many videos on the small bookshelf, just one or two, I guess, for rainy days. Such as this.
    I looked them over, and sullenly said, “ Much Ado About Nothing ?”
    He picked it up, looked it over. “I haven’t seen this version.”
    As far as I knew, it was the only version.
    He put it in the player and we eventually figured out how to get it on screen, and I tried not to snort when Emma Thompson said, “Men were deceivers ever.”
    “Hey,” Luke said, “don’t you snort at me, missy. I never deceived you.”
    I tried to think back. Apart from this one time where he let me think he was in love with me when he was about to dump me, just so he could shag me one more time… No, he never had.
    We got to the bit where Beatrice and Benedick have the first of many arguments, and Luke grinned and looked over at me and said, “She’s just like you.”
    “No, she’s not! I’m taller and my hair is straighter and I never tan like that.”
    He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean Emma Thompson; I meant Beatrice.”
    “Oh.” Was that a compliment, or not?
    We watched a while longer.
    “Where’s this supposed to be?” Luke asked.
    “Erm. Spain? I think.”
    “Nice place.”
    “Yeah.”
    On screen, Hero screamed and fainted as she was accused, and Benedick told Beatrice, “I do love nothing in the world so well as you,” and I was glad it was dark in the room, because my eyes were glistening.
    God, what’s wrong with me? I’m crying at a Shakespearean comedy? I’m pathetic! It’s just because Luke’s so close and so hot. It’s all his fault. Not my fault I’m weak. Not my fault at all.
    Sniff.
    We watched the film through to the end, and then it was pretty much time to go to bed. I stood, awkwardly, trying to think of a way to ask Luke where I was supposed to be sleeping.
    “I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “Wash this salt off before I go to bed.” He went into the bathroom, not looking at me, and I stood there feeling a little bit silly. That was a brush-off if ever I heard one.
    I sighed and rinsed out my mug for the dishwasher, filled it up and started a cycle. Aren’t I a good little housewife? I checked Norma Jean’s water bowl, took the key out of the front door so Maria could let herself in, and went and sat on the sofa. Just so I could look at the view out of the window. Of roofs. And walls. And roofs.
    And wait for Luke to come out.
    When he did, dressed in only a little towel, I really had to work hard not to drool. Because you should see him with no clothes on—I mean, really. He looked like a god. A damp, tousled, towel-clad god.
    I think my bosom might have been heaving.
    “Well,” I said brightly, standing up so fast I nearly fell over again. “I’m going to bed, ’night then,” and I tried to get past him as quickly as possible without looking at his legs, or his washboard stomach, or his chest or his arms or his face or any of him, because there was no safe part of him at all. He was hot all over.
    God, I was glad he had a towel around his waist.
    There was no possible way I could share a bed with him now. Not looking like he did. I’d never let him get near his pyjamas. All my resolve would go flying out of the window.
    But Luke, bloody Luke, caught me by the