This morning, my husband Dan phoned from Istanbul, to say he’d be back Monday night.

“Any adventures while I’ve been away?”

“You mean sex?”

“What else?” I suppress a smile. I imagine his reaction if I’d said, Well, I have been lifting a few thousand pound handbags. But I keep stumm.

Does it surprise you that my husband and I have an open marriage? It surprises most people, that’s why I don’t usually mention it. When we got married, Dan said that marriage shouldn’t be about control, about limitations, it should be about having a base, a solid base from which the two partners can come and go, birds that fly away and go on adventures in foreign lands with strangers, and then come back. He doesn’t even ask me to tell him about the other person. Sometimes I do, sharing each caress, each bite or scrape of nails. Sometimes I don’t.

“What’s he like?”

“Oh, I don’t know …” my voice sounds weak, like the mewl of a kitten. I don’t want to explain that Boris is different from all the others, the stream of bodies, mostly men, but with the occasional woman tossed in, that offered carnal release, the thrill of experimentation, new tastes, sensations, secretions. I’ve tasted and sucked and fucked enough for now. It’s my mind that wants to be sucked and fucked. Does that make any sense?

“Jane? Are you still there? How did you meet this man?”

“We met in the handbag department of Harrods.”

“And? What profession is he in?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care, and that’s how I want it to stay.”

Something about Boris has affected me. He treats me like an object to be used. He has all the control.

I find I like it.

“So what have you been doing with yourself? You haven’t even had Alan and Penelope round?”

Alan and Penelope are one of the couples we occasionally invite over for dinner, brandies and sex. Mostly it’s about me and Penelope getting it on and the men watching, which can be hugely arousing, when I’m in the right mood.

“Hey, it wouldn’t be the same without you, darling,” I say. Although Penelope is absolutely gorgeous, I haven’t thought of her in months.

“Can you call them and invite them round for Monday night?”

“Sure. Oh and Dan—” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the stealing. How I’ve developed a little problem.

“What?”

“Nothing. It can wait until you get home.”

Surely I can stop myself, as long as I avoid going into shops. Not very likely, admittedly, but I’m going to try.

As I phone Alan and Penelope, I find my voice lacks enthusiasm. They’re over the moon to be invited for one of our intimate exchanges, while I can’t be bothered. All I can think about is Boris. Boris. Anonymous Boris.

Yesterday, once we’d eaten our meal, he said, “You get a thrill out of stealing things, yes?”

“I guess so.” I could feel myself blushing. “I just can’t seem to help myself.”

“Stealing is a sign of boredom.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am bored. After all, I don’t have any kids. We have a cleaner. My job is only part time.”

“You’re looking for a distraction?”

“Maybe I’ve found it,” I said, putting my bare foot over his erect cock and rubbing it slowly back and forth.