Tuesday, a week after my encounter with Kele, I watch Alison as she walks up to the wine bar door and peers in. I’d called her number a couple of days after she’d given it to me and arranged this meeting. She sees me with a hint of relief and enters, glancing around like she’s nervous someone’s going to recognise her. I’m over by the bar, and when she reaches me, I ask what she wants to drink. She orders a white wine spri...

Three days later, Alison calls. “Hi,” she says when I answer. “Can you talk?” “For you, I can.” I settle back in my chair and remember the way she looked when she orgasmed. “I’ve just been talking about you.” That’s a little worrying. “To Kele?” “No, another colleague. Monica.” That’s more than a little worrying. “Alison, it’s risky talking to people about what happened between us. I was a patient at your clinic; you coul...

“You are fifty,” the consultant said as he examined the scan of my knee. “Not twenty.” Tell me about it. I'm sitting in a wheelchair, in his consultation room, my leg sticking straight out in front of me, the knee joint swollen to the size of a football. I had decided to hop over a five-bar gate rather than go to all the trouble of opening and closing it. The knee hadn't quite exploded on the landing side but had come clo...