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guilt.
    He drove through a storm to ask her father’s consent to marry her; he enquired about bank loans and filled out forms to get new credit cards; he phoned some of his contacts he had through his photography hobby to find who could do the traditional style she wanted; he agreed with everything she said and chose. He tried to cuddle her more. But there was a tension between them which he couldn’t get through. He decided it must just be in his mind, though, as Helena bought more wedding magazines and went to wedding shops, and their time together was spent browsing wedding sites on the internet.
    Dean tried to envisage their life together, when they were doing something mundane like him washing up and her drying, discussing which supermarket was the best value. He could almost imagine it: having children; spending evenings bickering about what to watch on the telly; going to church every Sunday; growing older and older.
    When she wasn’t with him, out of the corner of his eye he saw some leaflet to do with wedding shoes and it took a couple of moments before he realised what they were doing in his flat. It wasn’t quite that Helena ceased to exist for him, more that she faded into an area at the back of his mind next to aunts he sent Christmas cards to every year, and the neighbour who’d once helped him jump start his car. Was that what marriage was like, should be like?
    He convinced himself that it showed how comfortable they were with each other, how relaxed; that they didn’t have to jump through hoops and be overly affectionate or romantic with each other to prove their love.
    He mentally tried on the mantle of husband as he would physically try on a new coat, stretching himself out, testing the fit, thinking how other people would view him and judge him.
    He read the Bible. Thou shalt not commit adultery. He wanted to be a good husband. He would be a good husband. His fingers flicked almost subconsciously to the Song of Solomon. His eyes found his favourite verses immediately.
    Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.
    The king hath brought me into his chambers: we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will remember thy love more than wine
    A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts .
    He shall lie all night betwixt my breasts .
    He shall lie all night betwixt my breasts .
    He repeated the phrase out loud, his tongue forming around the word “breasts” as if it was a caress. He was little more than a teenage boy in his experiences; a few letters on a page gave him an erection. But the experience he did have was so significant. He remembered the woman, Crimson, the things she’d made him do. How she’d ordered him to open his coat, the way she’d looked at his genitals, the confidence with which she’d made him clean her flat.
    Dean went to his computer, switched it on and logged on to his favourite website.
    ‘I’ll be a good husband. I’ll get this thing out of my system now,’ he reassured the empty room.
    Crimson had blocked him from contacting her after they met, and the previous mistress, Tigerlady, who had often spoken to him on the phone, said she didn’t want anything to do with him after he told her he met another lady.
    ‘But you knew I have a girlfriend, and that never bothered you, and you said you didn’t care if I flirted with other women online, so why does it matter that I met another mistress in real life?’ he’d pleaded.
    ‘Fuck off,’ she’d said.
    The phone had gone dead. Dean leant against the wall, clinging onto his mobile for half an hour before the hollowness left him, and he was certain he wouldn’t give in to the deep need to phone her back and beg for her to reconsider. That would have been too disrespectful to a mistress who had been so good to him.
    Now he wanted a new woman, someone he could connect with and build up a relationship with, but who would be casual enough not to care