How are we?’ She bridled at the ‘we’. He was probably fighting fit, judging by his sleek appearance. ‘Never been better,’ she said. The sarcasm was lost on Mr Hughes. ‘Splendid!’ he smiled. ‘So I take it the foot’s improved?’ ‘No. It’s worse. A lot worse. I’ve been getting a pain just here.’ She indicated the underside of her foot. ‘A sharp, searing pain. It’s difficult to walk.’ He gave his professional frown, combining dismay and concern with a hint of incredulity. ‘We’d better take a look at it. Would you remove your shoe and sock, please.’ He placed her naked foot on his pin-striped thigh. His hand was hot, her foot was hot, and all at once she felt herself melting in the heat of Oshoba’s embrace – a pin-striped Oshoba with silver hair, shafting her so wildly the sofa-springs were gasping in shock. ‘Good job you don’t live somewhere like Iran. You’d be stoned to death for adultery there, or at the very least have your hands and feet cut off.’ ‘I wouldn’t mind my feet being cut off,’ she retorted to the Monster, wincing as Mr Hughes pressed hard against the ball of her foot.
