exclaimed Jess in horror. Although they were eating in an old-fashioned Italian restaurant just off Oxford Street, where the tables were quite widely separated, Fleur saw a man turn round when he heard Jess’s anguished voice. Jess was still talking, though in a slightly lower tone. “I can’t believe it – this isn’t like you. It’s completely out of character.” She paused, aghast, as another thought struck her. “You might have caught anything – anything at all. Have you considered that?” “I have, actually,” Fleur admitted. “Oh, my God,” Jess said, appalled. “Well – please don’t do it again. I’m begging you.” “I don’t suppose I will,” said Fleur, but suddenly had a memory, a physical memory, of Dominic’s mouth, his hands upon her. Jess, her oldest friend, read her mind. “You’re a bit old to be like this, aren’t you? I don’t like that little repressed smirk on your face. You know where it could end up, don’t you? We’re talking street people – unprotected sex with all and sundry, dirty needles, the lot.”
