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tightened the grip on her hand, not with affection, but as if he were a strict parent with a child, or a teacher with a disobedient girl. She knew there was no future with Richard... like in Richard & Greta, Greta & Richard, but what made the smile widen across her full pink lips was the realisation that she didn’t want to be a part of something, one half of a whole, the other shoe in a pair. She just wanted to be herself, explore her own potential.
    Potential? The word came into her mind like an echo and she wondered where it could have come from.
    ‘Come along,’ he said.
    Talk about a slave driver!
    At the end of the market two plump girls in bondage were stepping from a taxi and Richard held the door for them before ushering her in.
    ‘The Serpentine Gallery, please,’ he said in his nice accent and the driver tooted his horn as he pulled rudely into the traffic.
    Richard turned to take a close look at her. He removed her lip gloss from his pocket, redrew her lips and gave her a tissue to blot them. He straightened her hair with his fingers and then used the same tissue to flick the dust from the toes of her shoes.
    ‘They don’t really go, do they?’ he said and she couldn’t help feeling that she’d let him down.
    ‘Sorry,’ she murmured.
    He sat back with a cross look. Greta almost asked what was troubling him but knew she mustn’t. Was it the black shoes? The worry lines creasing her brow? Was she looking like Medusa with her wayward coils of hair? The No Smoking sign on the glass partition made her desperate for a quick puff but her cigarettes had gone, even her lighter, and it had been a present from Tara. She felt a sigh rise through her bones and entwined her fingers in Richard’s hand for comfort.
    ‘How am I doing?’ she asked.
    He fluttered his hand in an iffy gesture and she felt terribly disappointed. She was trying to be good and resolved to try even harder.
    The taxi stopped at the gallery and she stood quietly to one side as he paid the fare.
    ‘Don’t let me down now,’ he said.
    ‘I won’t, I promise,’ she answered and really meant it.
    He walked quickly ahead and she tripped along the path into the gallery. It was warm inside, the light softened. A few people were moving like dancers below the high domed ceiling. On display was a collection of mixed media sculptures, smooth voluptuous objects in wood, steel and stone, each form so seductive you wanted to reach for them and, so rare in a gallery, you were invited to do so. She ran her palm over sweeping curves of white stone, across fans of shiny copper, over stiff carved phalluses of grained polished wood.
    She closed her eyes and all the little scenes from the coarse floor in Richard’s hallway to the hood being pulled over her head were joined as if by a film editor, the whirl of images warming the oils of her insides and she had an awful urge to touch herself.
    They had reached the far end of the long chamber where the diffused glow from lights set in the floor embraced two figurative sculptures in two different shades of marble, pink and pale green, each locked like a lover to the other by reversed shapes of evocative forms, breasts, a penis, lips, a lock of hair. The artist had joined the figures into one form and together they resembled a curling heart.
    Richard retreated behind the sculpture, his head visible in the v-shape between the raised shoulders of marble. She hurried to join him and he placed her where he had been standing.
    ‘Be good,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.
    He lifted the back of her dress. A finger slid into her pussy, then another, and she shuddered as hemanoeuvred them back and forth inside her. Sex in public. It was so rude. So cheeky. So fab. She was doing what nature had intended and realised with Zen-like awakening that she had never had sex before. Not really. The breathless grunts of Jason Wise had been as clumsy as a car running on three wheels, his little jack handle always