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A pretty adult situation, no, wouldn’t you think, with Selina now tightening the belt of her sheer negligée (and gazing down disclaimingly – even she won’t forgive me), and Martina fixed in the frame of the doorway, in a suit of light-grey worsted, black shoes together (and what did she see? Brut…

We went to bed. We went to bed in that grownup way – you know, as if it were just the next thing. No mood-qualifiers or tone-deepenings, no goatish grunts or frisky yelps and giggles, no props, brandy, brothel gear, thongs, thumbscrews, third parties. She stripped swiftly. Her pants are pretty tale…

Martina stood silent on the terrace, in T-shirt and useful shorts, one arm akimbo as she trained her hose

they have what men call self-belief and blame you for your misprisions in their dreams

You have to queue, and pay good money, to mingle with vituperative interpreters and flashlight-faced Japanese