I'm sitting out on the terrace, or decking, or whatever home makeover shows call planks these days, staring through ashy cloud at the brightening Hampstead stars. Smoke from Spike's scrubbed-out cigarette drifts up from the table, tangy and sour. I remember kissing him in the downstairs cloakroom before dinner; the flavour of Colgate and tobacco weirdly mingled on his tongue. I lick my lips.
Yes, this'll be fun. I've never slept with an older man before. I wonder what he looks like naked, how he kisses, what he'll want in bed. I'm almost looking forward to it: he'll be a thrill, a milestone. Something exotic.