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‘No, that's my province.’ He grinned and pulled my hair as he limped off.

I wondered vaguely what he meant by that as he ambled away. ‘His hip doesn't look great,’ I said distractedly.

‘Never does at this time of day. He's been on it too long. Phil and I can do whatever needs doing, and I keep telling him to rest it, but he won't. But it is getting better. The doctor said it'll take three months.’

I nodded. ‘And he's fit?’

‘Oh God, is he. Strong as an ox. Hasn't deterred him in the bedroom, either. There was I thinking, oh joy, three months off games – which was what the hospital recommended, incidentally – but not a bit of it. The moment he was out of hospital he was chasing me round the bedroom on crutches. We became very familiar with “SPOD”.’

‘SPOD?’

‘ “Sexual Problems of the Disabled”, a little booklet they helpfully provide you with when you leave hospital, complete with graphic illustrations. I tell you, Evie, there are positions in that book you wouldn't attempt if you were able-bodied, let alone disabled. Forget The Joy of Sex, “SPOD” has opened up a whole new erotic world for your brother. He can't imagine what we've been doing for the last eighteen years.’

I giggled.

‘I keep reading articles about men being too stressed and exhausted to make love to their wives,’ she went on, ‘and here I am, with the most stressed-out, exhausted hop-along cripple imaginable, who works from dawn till dusk, is up to his neck in debt and still wants to try the illustration on page thirty-two!’

I laughed. ‘You'd be worried if he didn't.’

‘Try me,’ she said drily. ‘He even tried to slip in some rodeo sex the other day.’

‘What's rodeo sex?’

Caro cleared her throat and pretended to read from a booklet. ‘The couple adopt the doggy position. The gentleman then calls out an ex-girlfriend's name and sees how long he can stay on for.’

‘No!’

She laughed. ‘No, quite right, not in “SPOD”. He found it in Viz. But you know Tim.’ She grinned. ‘Anyway, I expect you're right. I expect I'd be worried if he wasn't up for it. And Ant's the same, isn't he?’

‘'Fraid so,’ I said quickly, forcing a smile. I felt sick at his name, and she saw and squeezed my arm. But it wasn't just that. Ant wasn't the same, these days. And I wasn't someone who talked about sex with girlfriends, never had, but Caro and I had always had a bit of a mutual moan about our over-sexed husbands and how thrilled we were when we went to stay with friends and they apologized for the single beds in the spare room. But at the moment… well, this was all such a shock, of course. Put us off our stride. And before that, all that fuss with the book. Too much excitement.

Nevertheless, when Anna and I left the farm with Caro hissing in my ear not to worry and to tell absolutely no one, and when I'd dropped Anna off at her piano lesson at the end of our road, it was still on my mind. I found myself executing my usual eleven-point turn in Little Clarendon Street, and heading back into town.

I parked in my customary high street spot, unknown to tourists and shoppers alike, and head down, collar up, in the manner of a woman on a mission, hurried towards Marks and Spencer. Up the escalator I glided, then into the requisite department. I hovered there, in Lingerie, fingering the white cotton briefs, but secretly eyeing up the black silk on the next rack. I felt furtive, like a man in a mac. Ridiculous. And ridiculous that I'd never owned any, I thought, strolling over casually to look at them. Just to flick through them. Why, even my fourteen-year-old daughter had frilly knickers, tiny pink lacy things – lingerie, I suppose – which I gazed at in wonder as I took them from the tumble dryer. Whilst I had pants, which were always white, and came in packs of three, and eventually went grey. Occasionally I bought a pretty bra, but never anything overtly sexy, just something that did the job and was comfortable and certainly never black, which I somehow associated with sin. A bit grubby. But… men liked that, didn't they? I took a deep breath.

Half an hour