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'Oh my God,' Connor says in a lowered voice. 'Look.'

I look up, and my stomach gives an enormous lurch. Jack is walking over the grass towards us, dressed as a cowboy, with leather chaps and a checked shirt and a proper cowboy hat.

He looks so completely and utterly sexy, I feel quite faint.

'He's coming this way!' hisses Connor. 'Quick! Tidy up that lemon peel. Hello, sir,' he says in a louder voice. 'Would you like a glass of Pimm's?'

'Thank you very much, Connor,' says Jack with a smile. Then he looks at me. 'Hello, Emma. Enjoying the day?'

'Hello,' I say, my voice about six notches higher than usual. 'Yes, it's … lovely!' With trembling hands I pour out a glass of Pimm's and give it to him.

'Emma! You forgot the mint!' says Connor.

'It doesn't matter about the mint,' says Jack, his eyes fixed on mine.

'You can have some mint if you want it,' I say, gazing back.

'It looks fine just the way it is.' His eyes give a tiny flash, and he takes a deep gulp of Pimm's.

This is so unreal. We can't keep our eyes off each other. Surely it's completely obvious to everyone else what's going on? Surely Connor must realize? Quickly I look away and pretend to be busying myself with the ice.

'So, Emma,' says Jack casually. 'Just to talk work briefly. That extra typing assignment I asked you about. The Leopold file.'

'Er yes?' I say, flusteredly dropping an ice-cube onto the counter.

'Perhaps we could have a quick word about it before I go?' He meets my eyes. 'I have a suite of rooms up at the house.'

'Right,' I say, my heart pounding. 'OK.'

'Say … one o'clock?'

'One o'clock it is.'

He saunters off, holding his glass of Pimm's, and I stand staring after him, dripping an ice-cube onto the grass.

A suite of rooms. That can only mean one thing.

Jack and I are going to have sex.

And suddenly, with no warning, I feel really, really nervous.

'I've been so stupid!' exclaims Connor, abruptly putting down his knife. 'I've been so blind.' He turns to face me, his eyes burning blue. 'Emma, I know who your new man is.'

I feel a huge spasm of fear.

'No you don't,' I say quickly. 'Connor, you don't know who it is. Actually, it's not anyone from work. I just made that up. It's this guy who lives over in west London, you've never met him, his name is … um … Gary, he works as a postman.'

'Don't lie to me! I know exactly who it is.' He folds his arms and gives me a long, penetrating look. 'It's Tristan from Design, isn't it?'

* * *

As soon as our stint on the stall is up, I escape from Connor and go and sit under a tree with a glass of Pimm's, glancing at my watch every two minutes. I can't quite believe how nervous I am about this. Maybe Jack knows loads of tricks. Maybe he'll expect me to be really sophisticated. Maybe he'll expect all kinds of amazing manoeuvres that I've never even heard of.

I mean … I don't think I'm bad at sex.

You know. Generally speaking. All things considered.

But what sort of standard are we talking about here? I feel like I've been competing in tiny little local shows and suddenly I'm taking on the Olympics. Jack Harper is an international multimillionaire. He must have dated models and … and gymnasts … women with enormous perky breasts … kinky stuff involving muscles I don't even think I possess.

How am I ever going to match up? How? I'm starting to feel sick. This was a bad, bad idea. I'm never going to be as good as the president of Origin Software, am I? I can just imagine her, with her long legs and $400 underwear and honed, tanned body … maybe a whip in her hand … maybe her bisexual glamour model friend at the ready to spice things up …

OK, just stop. This is getting ridiculous. I'll be fine. I'm sure I'll be fine. It'll be like doing a ballet exam – once you get into it, you forget to be nervous. My old ballet teacher always used to say to us, 'As long as you keep your legs nicely turned out and a smile on your face, you'll do splendidly.'

Which I guess kind of applies here, too.

I glance at my watch and feel a fresh spasm of fright. It's one o'clock. On the dot.

Time to go and