Brent lay in bed, bleary-eyed. The sun leaked through the curtains: early morning, still no daylight saving. He blinked his eyes and looked at the far wall, where Catherine had placed a poster of a painting by Rembrandt, from a recent exhibition: the eyes of some ancient Dutchman gazed back at him wearily.

Her hand was resting lightly on Brent's shoulder, a gentle possession of his flesh: the sheets were drawn bedraggled to the small of her back, and Brent could see her vertebrae rising low out of the flat smooth expanse, an archipelago connecting the poles of neck and tail-bone. Her shoulder-blades rose and fell as she breathed: she lay on her stomach, her breasts compressed against the bed, her eyes shut lightly, her mouth open just slightly, a little rivulet of saliva trickling onto the pillow beneath her head. Brent tucked some stray strands of her ash-blonde hair behind her ear; she didn't stir. At any other time in my life . . .

He lifted her hand off his shoulder and sat up, quietly. He looked down over his body with a curious detachment: he wondered if she saw what he saw, the signs of gradually encroaching age: the spots, the creases, the pockets of fat where muscle should be. He stood up and put some pyjamas on, and went to the kitchen to make some coffee.

It was easier not to think about it, about last night and this morning, when he was out of the bedroom. Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn't that things had been rocky with Catherine; true, things were never smooth - but who wanted smooth? He hadn't been planning on seeing her this weekend, she'd said she'd be busy, but that didn't change anything. It didn't make Brent feel justified in anything. It just meant he might get away with it.

'Get away with'? So it was a crime, then? Or at the very least something to feel guilty about? Well . . . he did feel guilty, didn't he? Didn't he.

Strangely. Guilty - but not unhappy that it'd happened. Not exactly. Maybe, if he had the choice, he'd wish it hadn't happened . . . but it had. No point arguing about that. Just have to make the best of a bad situation now.

Instinctively, Brent brewed enough coffee for two. Maybe she wouldn't wake up any time soon - what was the time, anyway? God, only nine o'clock. Damn sun. She probably wouldn't wake up for hours. Brent sure felt like he needed more sleep. And an aspirin.

How was he going to handle this? It'd have to be gently. He didn't know any other way. But it couldn't continue, that was obvious. Not even for the weekend. No, there was last night - and that was all. That had to be all. He couldn't do that to Catherine, he wasn't that kind of guy . . . Except he was. Obviously. It'd never even occurred to him before. If anyone had asked him if he'd ever do it, he would've said: "No. No way. Never." But that was the problem: it wasn't an intellectual thing. It was smiles and touches and rushing blood and pushing misgivings deep, deep down. You didn't do something like this because of yourself, you did it despite yourself.

He put two mugs and a full coffee plunger on a tray and carried them back to the bedroom. She was still asleep. She was pretty, even the morning after. What was her name - Christ, what was her name! He had to know, if he didn't even know her name then he didn't know anything about himself any more, either. He wracked his brain, but the only name that came to him was Catherine. Catherine, amber hair. Catherine, Cathy . . .Cassie! That was it! Cassie. Ash-blonde hair. There.

He put the tray down on the bedside table, and sat down on his side of the bed again, and poured himself a mug. Cassie slept.