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success, and when it came to women he had the willpower of a gnat. He was also – aren’t they always? – married.
    I knew all that before I’d even met him.
    He sounded like exactly my kind of man.
    §
    I didn’t set out to seduce him.
    But then I rarely do. Things just happen.
    Can I backtrack again? That makes me sound such a slut. But then, perhaps I am. In her eyes, at least. The wife. Mrs Rebecca Swaine.
    She must hate me, of course.
    She must have hated me even before she knew who I was, when I was still just a fragment of doubt in her mind; when I was no more than a few clues that finally gave substance to her fears.
    A blonde hair on the jacket (she’s blonde too, but more mousey, more drab).
    A smear of lipstick, perhaps; a trace of a scent she never used.
    A Porter-lie that didn’t quite tally with all the previous Porter-lies.
    Unexplained items on the credit card bill, or on the mobile phone bill (although Porter handled both of these online so there was no paper trail, no envelopes to open in his absence; he knew the ropes).
    Taken singly: none of these were conclusive.
    Taken together: me. Ellie Jordan. In my early twenties. Slim, blonde, perfect cheekbones, big blue eyes, perfect shape, legs to die for.
    I was Rebecca’s worst nightmare and her husband’s wet dream. Does that make me a slut?
    Oh well...
    §
    “You really think it makes everything so easy?” I protested.
    “And you’re really going to tell me it’s tough being totally drop-dead gorgeous?”
    And yes, when you put it like that... Make me out to be a spoilt, ungrateful slut who doesn’t appreciate the cards she’s been dealt, and you’ve got me nailed.
    We were in a little wine bar, ironically drinking coffee and not wine. Me and Maggie Nolan. I work for Ellison and Coles, in marketing. We’d published Maggie’s first novel, Leaving Lulu , to huge success a couple of years ago, when I’d been a junior in Marketing. As a former copywriter, Maggie had taken an interest in what we did, and she’d kind of taken me under her wing. I don’t know if she saw something of herself in me or if she just saw me as an amusing diversion. I don’t like to over-analyze: she was fun, and she was friendly, and that was enough for me.
    Most important of all, she saw past the obvious with me, and I appreciated that more than anything.
    She was laughing now, not hiding at all that she was laughing at me. I’m cool with that. I’m vain enough, and self-aware enough, to recognize that I like to be the focus of attention.
    “Okay, change of subject,” I said. “Lucy Sterne – have you come across her?”
    “Sure,” said Maggie. “American – from Boston, I think – writes for the Guardian , has fabulous parties at her place in Islington. Has a book with Ellison and Coles, I think.”
    “And have you come across Ellie Jordan?”
    Maggie laughed. “A trap...”
    “Shall I answer for you? What was the first thing that came into your head, or anyone else’s head? Blonde? Long legs? Blowjob lips?”
    Maggie was shaking her head. “I’m only interested in your mind, darling.”
    “Yeah yeah yeah. That’s what they all say. And do you know what? When they say that they’re never looking me in the eye.”
    Maggie leaned forward now, squeezing her generous breasts together between her arms. “We’ve all been there, darling,” she said. “It’s just like any other asset, though: dazzling wit, brilliant mind, a suck like a thirsty camel... If you’re smart you learn to use it, not resent it.”
    §
    She was right, and she knew it. And she knew I’d learned to use my assets a long, long time ago.
    The first time was with Harry, a journalism lecturer who taught a course in my first year at university.
    At high school I’d always felt awkward, always skinny and clumsy, as if I hadn’t quite grown into my body yet. I hadn’t realized that was my ugly duckling phase; I’d just thought that was going to be it .
    So when I ran along