It's Saturday morning at Laurence and Mia's house.
The previous evening began with sophisticated wine including Journey's End Cabernet Sauvignon 2005, and it ended with five of us working hard to massively inflate JP Chenet's share price.
We're all so hungover that even our auras are dry-mouthed and stinking of stale red plonk.
As we mill around the living room, Laurence pats me on the backside in a friendly manner, like a sportsman congratulating a team mate. I barely notice.
His eyebrows lift and he pats again. And again. Except, it's more of a fondle - and I definitely notice.
"That's a surprisingly nice arse," he opines. "Hasn't he got a nice arse, your husband," he says to Emma, all the while slapping gently at my cheeks with a slightly cupped palm.
I take a step back, out of reach of my mate's hand.
"I dunno what to say," I grunt. "I've never had a man tell me that before."
Laurence lets out a little laugh. "I've never said that to a man before," he says.
"Well," I say, "it's been a new experience for the both of us, then."
