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I took my hand out of her knickers. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
“Jess. Stop. I can’t.”
For a second she just stared at me, lips swollen, vest up round her armpits. Then it hit her. She slid down off the counter, tugged the vest down and pressed both hands over her face.
“Oh God. Oh God, I’m so sorry. That was me. I started it. I put my hand on you.” She laughed, and it cracked in the middle. “I’m such a mess, Tom. I just wanted someone to want me for five minutes.”
“I do want you,” I said, which wasn’t helping. “That’s the problem. It’s Hannah. It’s you and Hannah. I can’t do that to her.”
“No. No, you’re right. You’re a good man. I hate it.” She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Her curls had come loose, and a freckled breast was still half out of the neckline, and I will go to my grave remembering how much I wanted to put my mouth on it.
She sank onto the sofa in the next room and hugged a cushion. Her knees were drawn up. Her bare thighs, and the damp patch between them, were very much on show.
“Can you just sit with me?” she said. “Not like that. Just so I don’t feel like a slag.”
The kitchen light buzzed. I could go up. Or I could sit.