I’d phoned Glen during the night and she was up and waiting for me when I got to Petersham. She came out and met me on the bridgeway. She was freshly showered and wearing a black satin dressing gown. She looked like Ingrid Bergman in Paris in Casablanca I felt like Bogie after he’d pulled the African Queen through the swamp. She kissed me anyway, risking blood, mud, whisky breath and stubble like a wire brush.
I put my arms around her, feeling her warmth, softness and strength. ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered into her hair. ‘I won’t do it again.’
‘Yes, you will,’ she said, but she smiled.