I sit at the foot of the bed, staring slack-jawed at a Russian news show. One of those satellite channels you only ever come across in hotel rooms. The panel members are using words like “financials” (can you really pluralise that?) and “bullish” (where, I wonder, is the missing “t”?).

K is lying on the bed, casually leafing through a property development brochure. We’re in a chalet on the grounds of an exclusive golf club and resort. The suit has had another dusting off and is hanging on the wardrobe door as she gets up to run a bath.

I think I may have died and gone to hell.

Now the dance, the ridiculous waltz of preparation; K will castigate me for not getting ready. It’s nearly time! Why am I just sitting here? Why am I not shaving? Why do I always do this? There will be raised voices, maybe even a couple of tears. Then I will get ready. In precisely ten minutes. And then she won’t be ready. When she finally is (multiple costume changes and two completely different hairstyles later) I must admit she doesn’t look too shabby. We go to the clubhouse. More