By now I’m getting hungry, and we go to a Japanese restaurant he knows. I’ll order for us both, he announces. Something simple, like katsu. English people get scared by real Japanese food.

Not me, I say. I’ll eat anything.

He raises his eyebrows. Is that a challenge, Miss Matthews?

If you like.

He starts me off with some raw sushi—octopus, sea urchin, various kinds of shrimp.

I’m well within my comfort zone here, I tell him.

Hmm, he says. He speaks to the chef in a fluent torrent of Japanese, clearly letting him in on the joke, and the chef grins at the prospect of serving the little gaijin girl something she won’t be able to handle. Soon a plate is brought over with a pile of white gristle on it.

Try some, Edward says.

What are they?

They’re called shirako.

Experimentally I put a couple in my mouth. They burst between my teeth, oozing a briny, creamy goo.

Not bad, I say, swallowing, although actually they’re pretty gross.

They’re the fish’s sperm sacs, he says. In Japan they’re considered a delicacy.

Great. But I think I prefer the human kind. So what’s next?

The chef’s specialty.

The waitress brings over a platter containing a whole fish. With a shock I realize it’s still alive. Only just, admittedly—it’s lying on its side, feebly raising and lowering its tail, its mouth working as if it’s trying to say something. The whole of the topmost side has been cut into thin slices. For a moment I almost balk. But then I just close my eyes and go for it.

The second mouthful, I keep my eyes open.

You’re an adventurous eater, he says grudgingly.

Not just eater, I come back at him.

There’s something you should know, Emma.

He looks serious, so I put down my chopsticks and pay attention.

I don’t do conventional relationships, he says, any more than I do conventional houses.

Okay. So what do you do?

Human relationships, like human lives, tend to accumulate the unnecessary. Valentine’s cards, romantic gestures, special dates, meaningless endearments….What if we strip all that away? There’s a kind of purity to a relationship unencumbered by convention, a sense of simplicity and freedom. But it can only work if both parties are very clear about what it is they’re doing.

I’ll make a mental note not to expect a Valentine card, I say.

And when it’s no longer perfect, we’ll both move on, with no regrets. Agreed?

How long will that be?

Does it matter?

Not really.

I sometimes think all marriages would be better if divorce was obligatory after a certain time, he muses. Say three years. People would appreciate each other much more.

Edward, I say, if I agree to this, are we going to go to bed?

We don’t have to go to bed at all. If bed is difficult for you, I mean.

You don’t think I’m soiled goods, do you?

What do you mean?

Some men…My voice trails off. But this needs to be said. I take a shaky breath. After Simon found out about the rape, I say, we stopped making love. He couldn’t.

My God, Edward says. But you? You’re quite sure it’s not too soon?

Impulsively I reach for his hand under the table and put it under my skirt. He looks surprised but goes with it. I almost laugh out loud. Made you look, made you stare. Made you feel my underwear.

I pull his hand deeper into my crotch, feeling his knuckles slide over my panties.

It’s definitely not too soon, I tell him.

I keep hold of his wrist, moving against it, rubbing myself on him. He pushes my panties to one side and slides a finger inside me. My knees come up and rattle the table, like a medium at a séance. I stare into his eyes. He looks transfixed.

We’d better go, he says. But he doesn’t take his hand away.

NOW: JANE

After we make love, I’m drowsy and sated. Edward props himself up on one elbow, examining me minutely, his free hand exploring my skin. When he gets to the stretch marks from Isabel I feel self-conscious and try to roll away, but he stops me.

“Don’t. You’re beautiful, Jane. Every bit of you is beautiful.”

His questing fingers encounter a scar under my left breast. “What’s this?”

“Childhood accident. I fell off my bike.”

He nods as if this is acceptable and continues down to my belly button. “Like the mouth of a knotted balloon,” he says, spreading it apart. His fingers follow the soft pathway of hair downward. “You don’t wax,” he observes.

“No. Should I? My last…Vittorio liked me this way. There’s so little of it, he said.”

Edward considers. “You should make it symmetrical, at least.”

Suddenly this seems hilariously funny. “Are you asking me to declutter my pubes, Edward?” I splutter.

He puts his head on one side. “Yes, I suppose I am. What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing. I will try to minimize my body hair for you.”

“Thank you.” He plants a kiss on my belly, like a tiny flag. “I’m going to take a shower.”

I hear the hiss of water behind the stone partition that separates off the bathroom. From the way the sound changes I can picture his body moving in and out of the spray, his sleek hard torso turning this way and that. Idly I wonder how the sensor recognizes him; whether he has some special privileges still registered on the system, or if there’s simply some universal, generic setting for visitors.