‘So,’ I say, downing the last of my martini to really build the tension. Not that Tash has noticed – she’s more used to my complaints about my mother or the lift at the flats being out of order than anything truly scandalous. ‘When I got home last night – I didn’t leave work till half eight – Max was watching porn and wanking.’

‘In the lounge?’ Tash asks, and the fact that this is her first question makes me laugh so much some of the cocktail dribbles down my chin.

‘Nice,’ she says as I wipe it off with the back of my hand.

A waiter appears next to our table – it’s one of the high ones with stools we both had to clamber onto and which I will probably fall off – with another frozen margarita on a round metal tray. Tash flutters her eyelashes at him and takes it, accidentally-on-purpose letting her finger graze the top of the glass so she can lick the salt off it. I look at her – eyes wide, index finger in her mouth – and then I look at the waiter. His mouth is actually hanging open. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a bit of drool came out. To be fair to him, Tash is gorgeous. Beautiful, curvy, sexy. Her dad is from Sri Lanka, so she has this incredible golden skin. Plus she’s got huge boobs.

‘Excuse me!’ I call as the waiter walks – or rather staggers – back towards the bar.

He turns back to me with a look of impatience. ‘Another martini for me, please,’ I say. ‘You know, if you don’t mind.’

‘Yeah,’ he says, still pretty much slack-jawed.

‘You are shameless,’ I tell Tash. ‘And yes, it was in the lounge. Is that better or worse?’

She pulls a face. ‘I just don’t think it’s that big a deal. I mean… do you never watch it together?’

‘No!’ I say. ‘God, no.’

‘You don’t want to?’

I shake my head. ‘I really don’t.’

‘You don’t want to watch porn or you don’t want to watch porn with Max?’

I groan. ‘I don’t know. I don’t really want to watch porn. And I really don’t want to watch it with Max.’

‘Sometimes it’s hot,’ Tash says. ‘Watching together. Sometimes if I get home late, Rob’s already watching and I just—’

‘La-la-la,’ I say, putting my fingers in my ears.

‘Very mature,’ Tash says. She waits until I pick up my glass and says, ‘Suck him off. I just suck him off.’

‘Thanks for that,’ I say, pulling a face.

I sip at my drink before remembering I’ve finished it and I try to picture me and Max on the sofa, watching porn together. But all I can see is me in my cloud print pyjamas, Max in his tracksuit bottoms and some band t-shirt, eating crisps and grunting, while I make sarcastic comments about the actors.

‘You could try it,’ Tash says. ‘He might like it. God, you might like it.’

‘Maybe,’ I say, thinking, no way. ‘Do you do it on your own? Watch porn, I mean?’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I mean… not all the time, but it’s good if I want to get off quickly.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘And how did it go with…’ My mind’s gone blank.

‘Liam,’ she says. She wrinkles her nose. ‘I don’t know. He’s hot. But he’s pretty thick.’

‘Ah,’ I say. Tash and Rob have an open relationship. Apparently. I don’t begin to understand it, but she says it works for them.

‘But he’s also, you know, pretty thick.’ She gestures at her crotch.

I pull a face. ‘You shagged him?’

‘Blew him. In the cab.’ She grins.

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Yeah. He one hundred per cent wants to see me again.’

‘I bet he does. What percentage are you?’

She screws her mouth up and looks up at the ceiling. ‘Eighty, if I can just go round to his for a shag. Forty if he wants to go out first.’

The waiter brings over my martini, but stares at Tash the entire time. Without looking at him, she picks up a peanut from the bowl in the middle of the table, pops it in her mouth and licks her fingers. The back of his neck’s gone bright red.

‘What’s with all the—’ I stick my index finger in my mouth and suck.

‘They love a bit of finger action,’ Tash says. ‘You know they all secretly want a finger in the arse. Did you never see Kanye’s tweet?’

‘I don’t follow Kanye. And they don’t,’ I say. ‘Do they?’

‘Well I’ve never had any complaints,’ she says.

‘God,’ I say. ‘I can’t imagine doing that to Max. Do you think Max wants it?’

‘Oh god, yeah,’ she says, grinning. ‘Gagging for it.’

‘Maybe I should… suggest it,’ I say.

‘Fuck no. Don’t do it unless you want to do it. Do you not think you might like it?’

I shake my head. ‘I mean… I’ve seen his pants.’

She shudders. ‘What about if he did it to you?’

‘I… no. I don’t think so.’

‘Surely he’s tried it with you.’

‘He’s prodded around there, yeah, but not with his finger.’

‘They’re all obsessed,’ Tash says. ‘But don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. But you haven’t said how you feel about it.’ She does her American therapist voice: ‘How did seeing him wanking and watching porn make you feel?’

I bite at my bottom lip and pick up a handful of peanuts. ‘It made me feel… like I don’t really want to be with him any more.’

‘Seriously?’ Tash says, her eyes widening.

‘Yeah. Because… I didn’t feel anything.’ I swap the peanuts to my other hand and take a swig of my drink. ‘I wasn’t angry or upset and I certainly wasn’t turned on. I was just… meh. Don’t say “I told you so”.’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ Tash says, looking at me over the salt-crusted edge of her glass.

‘No? You’re not going to say he was never right for me? I could do better? I should never have let him move in with me?’

She shakes her head, her long dark shiny hair swinging gently from side to side. For fuck’s sake.

‘What then?’

‘I’m just wondering… Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s you.’ She sits back and stares at me.

‘Oh god, thanks! Way to blame the victim! How can this possibly be my fault?’

She shakes her head. ‘Come on, Izzy! It’s textbook!’

I realise I’ve crushed the handful of nuts almost to powder so I drop what’s left of them back in the bowl and wipe my hand on my jeans.

‘I don’t get it,’ I say.

‘First of all,’ Tash says, gesturing at the bowl, ‘gross. Second of all, yesterday I bought myself some new underwear.’

‘O-kay,’ I say. ‘Good for you.’

‘It was expensive. It’s lacy and black and very sexy.’

‘Are you coming on to me?’ I say.

I hear a glass smash behind the bar.

‘Rob worked late last night and by the time he got home I was asleep. So I put it on for him this morning and I was an hour and a half late for work.’

‘Put your back out?’ I say. ‘Locked yourself in the loo? Caught them on a doorknob?’

She shakes her head. ‘He couldn’t resist me.’

My glass is empty again, so I reach for hers and take a large gulp. ‘Thanks for sharing. That makes me feel so much better.’

‘Did Max ever find you irresistible?’

‘Are you trying to make me cry?’

‘It wouldn’t make you cry. Because you’re not arsed about him either. Tell me though – does he ever want to rip your clothes off?’

I wince. ‘He’s not really a clothes-ripping-off kind of a person. I don’t think I am either, to be honest.’

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘Come on. Max did that girl in the bathroom at Jake’s party that time when you two were still flirting feebly with each other. I don’t think they went in there to watch a couple of Friends repeats and then do it missionary.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know why I ever tell you anything.’

She grins. ‘Friends repeats are not foreplay.’

‘At first it was a bit more…’ I pick up some more nuts and try to remember a time when we really went for it. I’m struggling.

‘We had to leave the cinema once. We started kissing – the film was really boring –and we both got a bit… you know. And he said “Shall we just go?” and so we left. And went back to mine.’

‘And the sex?’

I can’t remember the sex.

‘It was good!’ I say.

‘You can’t remember it,’ she says.

‘Oh god. Tash! Everyone’s not like you. I’m not like you! I’m just not that…’ I lower my voice, ‘into sex.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t care. I’m telling you, when we don’t do it, I don’t miss it.’

She pretends to cough and says, ‘Bullshit.’

‘I don’t!’

‘You masturbate, don’t you?’

Unlike me, Tash has not lowered her voice. I can’t bring myself to look, but I’m fairly confident that the bartender is just leaning on the bar now, watching us.

‘I don’t want to talk about this any more,’ I say. ‘Not here anyway.’

‘You’re repressed. And you’re blaming Max. You settled for him because you were scared out there.’

‘Out where?’

She waves her arms, knocking over my martini glass. ‘Out there! In the world. As soon as Max showed a bit of interest, you sighed with relief ’cos you could stop shaving your legs and start changing into your pyjamas when you get in from work.’

‘You don’t change into your pyjamas when you get in from work?’

‘I do if Rob’s away. But if he’s there I make an effort.’

‘And it’s worth it?’

‘It is so worth it.’

‘And you don’t ever get bored?’

‘With sex?’ Tash looks completely astonished. ‘God, no. If you’re bored, one of you is doing it wrong. With you and Max? It is probably both of you.’

‘Great. That’s helpful. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. You need someone who sees you. I don’t think Max has ever really seen you. He sees, I don’t know, a cheap place to live.’

‘Ouch.’ I stare down at the scratched wooden edge of the table. ‘You don’t think he was into me at all?’

She runs one manicured finger around the edge of her margarita glass. ‘Do you? You know what I think?’

‘I’m about to.’

‘You don’t want a real relationship,’ she says, frowning. ‘It scares you. So you sabotage yourself. You’ve been the same with your job.’ I’d told Tash about the Fancy Bantams pitch on the way to the bar. ‘You’re in. But you’re not all in.’

She leans her chin on her fist and stares at me. ‘You know I’ll help you with the pitch, right?’

I look down into my drink. ‘Thanks. I just… I’m not sure I can do it.’

‘You can,’ Tash says.

I know without looking at her she’ll be giving me her Hard Stare. Like Paddington by way of Margaret Thatcher.

‘I mean, it doesn’t really matter,’ I say. ‘I’m fine where I am. Assuming the company survives. I heard someone saying that if we don’t get the pitch then we’re in trouble.’

‘No,’ Tash says. ‘No. You always do this. You always undervalue yourself. You always have.’

‘I don’t,’ I say, even though I know I do. ‘I just know what I’m capable of and—’

‘And it’s much more than you’re doing now, Iz! God, you’re so frustrating!’

I shake my head. This evening was meant to be fun. I wanted a laugh with my best friend, not a therapy session and character assassination.

‘Promise me you’ll think about it, at least,’ Tash says. ‘And I don’t mean think about it like “Oh I don’t think I can do it”, I mean properly think about it. Like a person.’

‘God, all right,’ I say and I sound like a bratty teenager even to myself.

‘And don’t mention it to your mother,’ Tash says.

She knows me much too well.

In front of the restaurant, I stand at the edge of the kerb and hold my arm out for a taxi, while Tash explains to the barman that she’s got a boyfriend and no, she’s not interested in a bit on the side (mostly because she’s already got one) and no, she won’t take his phone number just in case. I can’t hear them, I just know how these conversations go. She has them practically every time we go out. It’s all part of the fun for her. I don’t know how she can be bothered, really.

A taxi sails past me, its yellow light glowing. It’s one of those evenings that’s still almost light, even though it’s pretty late – the sky is royal blue and the air is still just warm enough that I’m not worrying about not having a coat with me. I do want to get home though, my feet are killing me.

Another apparently available taxi passes without stopping.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter under my breath.

I wave frantically in case the driver sees me in the rear view and turns back, but no. Another cab rounds the corner and doesn’t seem to notice me either. I look down at myself. Am I invisible? What’s the problem? Maybe it’s ’cos I’m wearing black?

‘What was wrong with that one?’ Tash says, joining me at the kerb.

‘Didn’t see me, apparently,’ I say. I lift one foot out of my shoe and wiggle my toes. The middle one is numb. ‘And I could ask you the same thing.’ I smile.

‘Huh?’

‘Got rid of your friend?’ I gesture back towards the restaurant.

She laughs, wrinkling her nose. ‘He was very keen, bless him. Think the wank chat got to him.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ I grin.

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer.’

‘What?’ I lift my other foot.

‘Please tell me that you do!’ She grabs my arm.

‘Do what?’ I see another taxi in the distance. I try to make it speed up and stop in front of me with the power of my mind. It doesn’t work, unsurprisingly.

‘Do… you know.’ She wiggles her middle finger at me.

‘Eww, Tash. Come one. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘It’s good to talk about it. And you still haven’t said if you do it. You do, right?’

‘Sometimes,’ I say.

‘Good.’

She steps closer to the edge of the kerb, lifts her arm and a taxi in the distance seems to speed up and then skid to a stop next to us.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I say.

‘You take this one.’ She kisses me on the cheek. ‘I’ll get the next.’

I glance back at the restaurant, wondering if she’s maybe going back for a drink with the barman. I bet she is. She can’t resist them when they’re all starry-eyed over her.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yep,’ she says and wafts her hand. ‘Off you go. And I know I was hard on you tonight, but you can do so much better than Max. You need someone who really sees you. In all your awesomeness.’

She kisses me again, pulls open the taxi door and I climb in, banging my knee on the door as I always do. As the driver pulls away, I look back at my best friend. She’s still standing there and two taxis have stopped next to her.

On the way home, I think about what Tash said. About me being scared out there. Of course I was scared out there. Dating is scary. And for some reason I only ever seemed to attract weirdos. Like the taxi driver who asked me out and then, even though I said no, sent me flowers, then came round and dropped off a mix CD – a mix CD! – of love songs, and then just waited outside for me one day. To ask me to my face why I didn’t want to go out with him. As if I was going to be won over by the creepy stalking and a collection of nineties R&B.

Then there was the client at work who came in for a meeting and seemed really nice. As I showed him out of the office, he asked me for my number, and I gave it to him (even though I wasn’t sure if that would be frowned upon by Mel). About an hour later he texted me just one word:

There was the guy who sat opposite me on the train home to visit my parents. He seemed normal. He spent most of the journey reading a book, ate his sandwich from the buffet without any disgusting noises or spitting, answered the phone and went out into the bit between the carriages to have the conversation. And then, just before the train pulled into Hastings, we started chatting. I can’t even remember how, now – something the conductor had announced, I think.

We met for coffee the following week and he was still normal. We met for dinner a few days later, still no red flags. He was a good kisser. He didn’t ask me for nudes. He didn’t wait outside my flat or send me music. I started to get excited. I started to think of us doing couple stuff together: going to B&Q to buy a Christmas tree, cooking at my flat (me holding out a wooden spoon for him to taste… whatever I was cooking), lying on a beach together, squinting at each other in the sunlight. And then we slept together. And he asked if he could piss in my mouth.

I think about what Tash said about me and sex. I must have had that clothes-ripping-off thing with someone, mustn’t I? I can’t remember it with Max, but there must have been someone who found me irresistible, who couldn’t keep his hands off me? No one springs to mind. I bet Tash could tell me stories the whole way home and possibly to the airport and then on a long-haul flight. And then during the taxi journey at the other end.

The only one I can think of is a waiter on holiday who hung around outside the hotel one evening, said, ‘Sex?’ and then kissed me passionately while running his hands all over my body. But all I could think of was how weird it was that we hadn’t even had a conversation, that anyone could have seen us, that I couldn’t remember his name – was he Paco from the bar or Francisco from Reception? (It was Paco. We didn’t have sex. In fact, I spent the rest of the holiday avoiding him.) The way he groped me did feature in my fantasies for a few years after, only being done by someone I actually found attractive. Like Gary Barlow. (It was a while ago.)

‘Been out, love?’ the cab driver asks me as we swing off Ranelagh Road on to the High Street and my bag slides across the sticky floor at my feet. I reach down, pick it up and put it on the ripped and stained plastic seat next to me. My head swims slightly. I should have known better than to have cocktails with Tash.

‘Drinks with a friend,’ I say, without looking up from my phone. I hate being rude, but I’m too tired for a conversation right now. ‘After work.’

‘What do you do?’ he asks. I glance up and see him looking back at me in the rear view mirror and there’s no way I can be rude while I’m actually looking him in the eye, so I say, ‘Advertising.’

I see his eyebrows raise and I look out of the window. We’re just passing the college. Not far now.

‘Advertising, eh?’ he says and I can’t resist glancing back. I catch his eye again. Kind of wish he would spend more time looking at the road and less at me, but okay. ‘I always think of that as more of a man’s game.’

I let out an involuntary snort of laughter and then shake my head. ‘No. Not really. Most of the senior staff are women where I work.’

Of course the absolutely senior staff – the most senior staff – are men.

I stare out of the window, watching the street lights blur through the glass, but then the taxi turns right and there are no lights, no lights at all, and my stomach lurches with fear.

I look back at the driver who is, now, looking straight ahead at the road. Both sides of the street are in darkness. Why’s he turned down here? If he’d stayed on the High Street it was a straight run to St Mary’s Road where I live. If he goes down here he’ll have to turn left and left again and what’s the point of that?

On my phone I double click out of Twitter and load the ‘call’ button. I press nine and then nine again and feel melodramatic and terrified at the same time. Images of the cab driver pulling over and dragging me out of the cab flicker through my mind, but at the same time, I can see myself getting out of the cab and walking up to my flat, my legs trembling as I shake my head with embarrassment at myself.

I’m darting my head from side to side, trying to take in details of where we are in case I have to give a statement to the police at some point. I look at the cab driver again. Should I talk to him? If I talk to him is he less likely to—

‘Diversion,’ he says.

‘What?’ I almost shout.

‘Can’t go by the park. Burst pipe.’

I blink. I’m picturing the pipe my grandad used to smoke. Burst like on a cartoon? All splayed out, his face black with soot?

‘On Kennilworth Road. There’s been a burst pipe. The whole place is flooded. It was on the news earlier. Stinks.’

‘A burst water pipe?’ I say, stupidly.

‘Sewage, I think,’ the cab driver says. ‘Fucking hilarious.’

I shake my head. Is it?

‘Not for the shops that are flooded with shit, though,’ he says. He turns left and we’re back on a brightly lit street, much busier than usual, and I look down at my phone, ready to log out of the call screen. It’s already gone to sleep.

Because he’s come down the road from the wrong direction, the cab driver pulls up opposite the ex-council block I’ve been living in for the past four years, in front of the pub me and Max used to go to all the time when we were first going out. Can’t actually remember the last time we went in there. Or the last time we went to any pub together for that matter. As I’m rummaging in my bag for my purse – I’d usually have it ready, but I got distracted by all the fear – the cab driver’s still talking about the burst pipe. It’s knee-deep, apparently. Nice. And I can’t find my purse.

‘Sorry,’ I tell him, dumping a bunch of files out of my bag onto the seat next to me. ‘It’s in here somewhere.’

‘No problem,’ he says. ‘I know what you women are like with your bags.’

My face is low enough into my bag that I can roll my eyes without him seeing. I find my purse and pay him through the perspex window. Once he’s given me back my change, I clamber out, and he pulls away, his phone still in his hand.

I head into the shop next to the pub. I really want a tea before bed – my mouth feels rough after the cocktails – and Max never remembers to buy milk. As I’m waiting to cross the road back to the flats, a bloke outside the pub shouts, ‘Oi, darling? Come and have a drink?’

I glance over my shoulder. He’s one of three blokes standing outside the pub, smoking. I think I recognise one of them – he’s wearing a bright white shirt and he’s got sunglasses pushed up on his head, even though it’s fully dark now.

‘I’m all right, thanks,’ I call back, holding up the milk like a complete idiot.

White Shirt looks at his mates – Dirty Jeans and Hipster Beard – and grins. ‘Nah, come and have a proper drink. With us.’

I look up and down the street. There’s much more traffic than usual, presumably because of the road closure. I could dart out between the cars, but I really don’t want to.

‘No, thanks,’ I call back again. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘Stupid bitch,’ I hear one of them say – I think White Shirt but I don’t know for sure.

I feel something like pins and needles in my fingers. My stomach curls up and I want to curl the rest of me around it. And then suddenly I’m furious. I picture myself throwing the milk back at them, the plastic bottle cracking, white liquid bursting over that one guy’s stupid white shirt. I see myself swinging the bottle hard, my arm extending so that I hit Hipster Beard in his stupid face. But I don’t do anything. There’s a gap in the traffic and I dart across the road.

I half-expected Max to be asleep when I got in, but no, he’s there on the sofa in an Arctic Monkeys t-shirt and his tatty football shorts, playing some video game with cars and guns and screaming. I suppose I should be grateful it’s not porn. I just want to make a cup of tea, get in my pyjamas and go to sleep, but as I’m filling the kettle I stop.

What if I tried something different? What if I could really make Max want me? The way Tash said Rob wants her. The way the waiter clearly wanted her. The way Liam, whoever he is, wants her. And we wanted each other at the start, didn’t we? We must have done. Maybe that’s where we’ve been going wrong. We let the sex get stale and then everything else got stale as well.

I put the kettle down, and crouch down to look in the small cupboard where we keep the booze we’re probably never going to drink. I lift out a litre of Baileys, a bottle of Kahlúa and some sherry I won in a raffle before I see something I actually want to drink: cinnamon vodka with gold leaf. Tash bought it for me and insisted it was incredible, but it sounded gross to me so I didn’t even open it. Now I pour myself a tumbler full and knock some back, wincing as it burns my throat. Shit, though. It’s actually really good.

When I put the other bottles back, I knock something over in the cupboard and it sets off a domino effect of falling bottles. I flinch, but there’s no reaction from Max, which isn’t exactly positive, but isn’t that surprising either. He seems to have learned to tune out everything that isn’t on the TV screen. Maybe he just needs a wake-up call. A sort of intervention. A sexy intervention. I snort and then stop and compose myself. I have to think sexy. And snorting isn’t sexy. Is it? I’ll have to ask Tash.

I down some more of the vodka and hold the glass up to the light to look at the gold leaf. It’s pretty. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about gold being edible. Or drinkable, I suppose. I wonder what happens if you drink too much? I drink some more and then reach round and unzip the back of my dress. I shrug it down so it falls on the floor. That feels a bit sexy, I must admit. But my underwear isn’t exactly seductive – it’s not my period stuff, but it’s not my best either – so I figure naked is probably better. Naked’s better for men anyway, isn’t it?

I don’t know how strong that vodka is, but I think my teeth have gone numb. I strip off everything else and take a couple of slightly wobbly steps towards the sofa. But then I think if I’m going to do it, I might as well do it right. I grab my highest heeled shoes from the corner behind the door where I kicked them off last time I wore them. They’re agony. Even squeezing my feet into them now hurts and I worry I’ll never get the feeling back in that one toe, but it’ll be worth it if it works. If it gets me Tash-level sex. Oh god. I’m actually attempting to level-up sex.

I make my way over to the sofa, trying to do my sexiest walk, which is not actually that easy. You’re supposed to walk in a straight line, aren’t you? As if you’re walking a tightrope. Or you’re being breathalysed. I’m a bit too drunk for that. For both. I’m also slightly self-conscious, but not as much as I would have thought because a) I’ve had cocktails and b) I know this is going to be okay because no straight man is going to resist a naked woman in stilettos offering sex, right? Right.

Max doesn’t react as I bump into the back of the sofa, so I steady myself and then slide one hand along the edge, letting my fingers brush against his neck. His head twitches like a fly’s landed on him, but he doesn’t look at me. Obviously I’m going to have to be a bit more full-on. I swing my left leg up so my foot – in my extremely sexy black slingbacks that are so far working out at seventy pounds per wear – is resting on the back of the sofa. My other leg vibrates with the effort, but I take deep breaths and I’m fine.

Max glances at the shoe – my foot – I’m sure he does. But he doesn’t say anything. What’s wrong with him? At the very least surely he must be wondering what it’s doing there. Maybe he’s asleep. I’m not entirely sure how to get my leg back down gracefully, but I decide the best option is to climb over the back of the sofa and on top of Max. He’ll have to take the hint then, surely. I mean, that can’t even really be considered a hint. A naked woman climbing over the sofa on top of you is hardly subtle.

I move my left leg so my foot is on the sofa cushion and try to slide over the back of the seat. It’s not quite as easy as I expected it to be. I end up sort of hoiking myself over with a bit of a grunt and I think I give myself a fabric burn in a delicate area, but once I’m on the sofa – naked, on all fours – there’s no question of my intentions.

I crawl seductively towards my boyfriend. My maybe soon-to-be ex-boyfriend who I just want to shag one last time. For science. He’s still staring at the TV. But not for long. Surely.

‘Max,’ I purr, running one hand up the inside of his thigh.

‘Do you mind, Iz?’ he says without looking at me. ‘I’m playing here.’