here are days when the very last thing Josie Mitchell wants to do at five-thirty in the morning is go to the gym. At five o’clock, on the dot, Capital Radio screams from her bedside table, forcing her eyes open as she groans and throws the covers off, trying to muster the energy to move.

Throwing on a T-shirt, running pants, and sneakers, she scribbles a note for the cleaning woman before picking up her gym bag (carefully packed the night before), her work clothes carefully draped in a hanging bag, and heads out the door to the Harbour Club.

Her daily routine rarely changes. A brief smile and nod to the receptionists (and who could really expect more at that time in the morning?), then Josie strides to her locker, hangs her clothes, and is in the gym doing her stretches by 5:40.

There are already numerous people in the Harbour Club. Mostly bankers, fellow workers in the City, and occasionally someone she knows, although she rebuffs anyone who wants to chat. She takes her exercise seriously and is in no mood for small talk when in the gym.

Twice a week she does weights, twice a week cardio, and once a week, on a Sunday morning, she does a spinning class.

She has breakfast on the way into work. Always the same thing, every day: a skim latte and a dry bagel. She doesn’t have time to sit and enjoy it, although food is not something she ever enjoys.

As a child she was overweight, never feeling as if she belonged, never feeling as good as her peers, turning to food for comfort, to stop her from feeling anything at all. At university she went to the other extreme and discovered that not eating empowered her unlike anything else had before, and the less food she ate, the stronger she felt, even as her body shrank to almost nothing.

She would refuse to eat anything that wasn’t “natural,” as she termed it, subsisting on lettuce, tomato and cucumber, apples and oranges, with the odd bit of whole-meal bread as a rare treat.

When she became ill, weighing less than ninety-eight pounds, she was sent to the university counselor who diagnosed anorexia, and although she now thinks she has a healthy attitude toward food and is a “normal” weight, she still feels uncomfortable eating in front of people, still worries that, despite being a small size ten, people who watch her eat will think her greedy, or worse, fat.

Her addiction to food has been replaced by an addiction to the gym. She fights to keep her gym visits down to five times a week—she could easily go every day, and occasionally, when she’s home early enough with nothing to do, it’s a battle not to go a second time in the evening.

And of course there is work. The more she can lose herself in work, the better she feels about herself, the less she has to think about a life outside the office.

For Josie really doesn’t have much of a life apart from work. Too tough and intimidating ever to be a woman’s woman, she has never really had girlfriends, has never known the joys of a close group of women, and has never shared the intimate details of her life with anyone.

On rare occasions when female bonding has been required—if she has been trying to woo a female client and knows that a spot of moaning about men will create a false intimacy—it has never felt natural to her.

And yet she takes enormous pride in her appearance, is careful to ensure she looks perfect at all times: her hair is streaked at Daniel Hersheson, her suits are Gucci, her nails immaculately manicured. If you didn’t know her reputation as ball-breaker extraordinaire, you might mistake her for a wealthy wife, or a glamorous girlfriend.

You might expect to see her lunching at E&O or shopping on Bond Street. You might indeed expect her to share these lunches with someone just like Alice. Certainly what you would least expect is for Josie to stop at Marks & Spencer on her way home and pick up a bag of salad or a ready-cooked meal to throw into her microwave prior to reading or watching television on a hard, uncomfortable mushroom-colored sofa before going to bed.

Al Bruckmeister jokes that her flat is the quintessential bachelor pad. And Al should know. Her only true friend, or at least the only person she sees on a regular basis, he was her second boss at Goldmans, her mentor, and finally her friend.

Al was the only person who knew when Godfrey Hamilton Saltz approached her to come and work for them, and although he was sorry to see her leave, he knew it was much too good an offer to turn down, and told her so.

Al, a native New Yorker, has been living in London for eight years, in a large loft apartment on the river, where he reads the FT and the Wall Street Journal Europe every day, the New York Times on Sunday, and still bemoans the fact that nowhere in this city can you get a decent bagel.

Forty-three, attractive in a Jerry Springer-ish kind of way, and hugely wealthy, there is no shortage of gorgeous young girls for Al to play with, but none of them thus far has interfered with his friendship with Josie.

He adores Josie. Knows that if he were ever going to settle down again (which is something he won’t even consider, given the variety of younger and younger women out there), Josie would be exactly the sort of woman he’d choose.

He loves the fact that she’s opinionated. She’s strong and tough, and he has the best and most provocative arguments with her. She’s the perfect companion for the various functions a man like him has to attend and the perfect date for dinner with friends.

Very early on, many years ago, he made a pass at her. They were at a black-tie dinner, and he invited her back to his loft apartment for a nightcap. He had known she would be impressed by the place, and imagined she would, like most of the other young girls he brought back, immediately fantasize about living there, jumping swiftly into bed with him in a bid to become the next Mrs. Al Bruckmeister.

He had poured her a vintage port, dimmed the lights, put Barry White on the stereo, then sat back on his sofa and looked deep into Josie’s eyes as he asked her why such a beautiful woman didn’t have a man.

And Josie had laughed.

She had laughed and laughed until tears were pouring down her cheeks.

“That is pathetic,” she had finally spluttered, wiping the tears and mascara away as Al sat there wondering what the hell was so funny. “Is that how you lure innocent young girls into your bed?”

“Well, yeah,” he’d said after a while. “And I have to tell you it usually works.”

“You don’t expect me to fall for that shit?”

“I was kind of hoping you would,” he said hopefully. “Do you think you might? I mean, is it worth me carrying on?”

“With what?” Josie was giggling, enjoying herself immensely. “More smarmy flattery? Al Bruckmeister, you are hopeless. I’m telling you now that even if I were interested in getting involved with someone at work, which I’m not, you would be at the very bottom of my list.”

“Oh, thanks.” His ego was instantly bruised.

“Oh, please. Don’t pull that hurt-little-boy act. Al, you’re a wonderful man, but cheesy beyond belief, and you and I would never work. Plus those lines are terrible. If you want I’ll help you come up with some better ones for your next victim.”

“I’ve always thought my lines were pretty good. They’ve never failed me before.”

Josie shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you have to do better than that. Pour me another drink and I’ll tell you what women really want to hear.”

“How would you know?” Al stood up and grinned. “You’re just a man in woman’s clothing.”

“Touchy, touchy,” she soothed. “Just because I won’t sleep with you. But the good news is I’ll be your friend, and, trust me, you’ll have a much better time with me as your lifelong friend than as a quick fuck, which would be over in a few weeks.”

Al raised an eyebrow. “A few weeks? It would last that long?”

“Only if you were very lucky.”

As it turned out, she had been right. They had been friends now for over six years, and he was the one person she could always rely on, the one person she was never too tired to see.

Once or twice a week they’d get together, go for a local meal, or to the movies. On the weekends, if Al didn’t have a date, Josie would accompany him to a cocktail or dinner party on a Saturday night, or they’d spend a Sunday together walking in Hyde Park, followed by brunch at the Bluebird with a group of Al’s friends. If Al was dating someone, they’d see each other slightly less (the girls in his life invariably felt threatened by Josie), and on the rare occasions Josie was involved with someone, Al would moan for a while before finding another playmate, knowing that Josie’s involvements never lasted long, and he’d soon have his friend back.

The last time Josie had sex was eighteen months ago, a fact that never fails to astonish Al, who regularly offers to change that but is always met with rolling eyes and laughter.

Josie tells herself she is too busy to think about men, work is too important to her and a relationship would be too distracting. But something strange has happened in the last few weeks. Something called Joe Chambers.

Josie knows she should find his advances smarmy. She knows of his reputation and knows he should be avoided. But her head and her loins don’t seem to be in agreement, and she’s shocked to discover that Joe Chambers seems to have awoken feelings in her she thought she’d forgotten about.

It had started that night in the cab, when he’d kissed her. She’d wordlessly stepped out of the taxi and let herself into her flat, leaning against the wall for a few seconds trying to steady her breathing.

You are being ridiculous, she had told herself. He’s a colleague, he’s known for being a slut, and worst of all, he’s married.

But that night she had lain in bed unable to stop herself imagining what might have happened if she’d invited him in. Her breathing had quickened, her hand had lowered as she’d imagined him smiling at her as he unbuttoned her shirt, bending his head to kiss her as he slid her skirt up her thigh.

On the Monday she’d been unable to look at him in the office, had prayed he wouldn’t talk to her in case he’d somehow been able to tell.

She had managed to avoid him for the whole week, despite feeling his eyes burning into her. Then on the Friday she had been working late, finishing a presentation, when she sensed someone behind her.

“Well, well.” Joe pushed his sleeve up and looked at his watch. “Eight o’clock on a Friday night and you’re still working? That’s extremely conscientious of you.”

Josie shrugged and turned back to her keyboard. “Just finishing a presentation. Can I do something for you?” The coldness in her voice masked her nervousness.

“I don’t know. Can you?”

Josie didn’t say anything, just carried on typing.

“Okay,” Joe sighed, walking around to the other side of the desk so he faced her. “I’m sorry that I kissed you. I’m sorry that I can’t help but find you completely gorgeous, but I promise I won’t do it again. Are you happy now?”

No! Josie thought. Of course not! But she sighed and nodded. “Thank you.”

“I know you’ll take this the wrong way, but it is eight o’clock and I’m starving. I was going to go out to grab a quick pizza. Do you want to come?”

It’s pizza, Josie thought. He’s not inviting you out for a romantic candlelit meal where he’s going to make a pass at you (more’s the pity). It’s pizza, for God’s sake. What could possibly happen with pizza?

“I’m still stuck in the office with Dave.” Joe went into one of the private offices off the trading floor to call Alice so Josie wouldn’t hear. “We’re going out to grab a quick pizza, then we’ll probably have to come back. Don’t wait up, darling, it might be a late night.” Please God, he thought, crossing his fingers. Please God, let it be a late night.

Alice sighed and sadly put down the phone. Please don’t let it be starting again, she prayed. You’ve been so lovely for so long. Please don’t do this to me again.

Pizza Express was hardly romantic. Hard-tiled floors, a monochromatic color scheme, and bright white light weren’t supposed to fill diners with thoughts of love, and indeed love was the very last thing on Joe and Josie’s mind as they sat at a corner table and ordered their meal.

Pizza Napolitana for Joe, a mixed salad for Josie, with a bottle of Montepulciano and a bottle of San Pellegrino to wash it down.

I don’t remember, Josie thought, watching Joe loosen his tie and run his fingers through his hair, the last time I found someone this attractive. What is it about him, why am I ready to have an orgasm just sitting here looking at him?

Home run, Joe thought, being his most boyishly charming, asking all the right questions and smiling in all the right places, but careful not to be too flirtatious, careful not to come across as too charming, too well versed in this.

Nearly there. He felt a familiar flutter of excitement, the thrill of the new. Tonight, my son, could very well be the night.

The pizza had been eaten, the salad had been moved around the plate and left, half the water and all the wine had been drunk. The conversation was largely irrelevant, for both of them knew where this was leading. Josie tried to pretend this was innocent, but Joe had left the table to go to the bathroom, and watching him walk back into the room Josie knew that, dangerous as it undoubtedly was, dangerous as he undoubtedly was, she would be sleeping with him.

Soon.

There was a lull in the conversation just as they finished the second bottle of wine. Joe leaned his chin in his hand, gazing at Josie. His eyes clouded over with lust as her stomach did somersaults.

“I probably shouldn’t say this,” he said, his voice low and slow, the smile leaving his face for the first time that evening, “and I know you probably won’t believe me, but the only thing I’ve been thinking of all evening is taking you to bed and fucking you.”

“I know.” The words were out before Josie even had a chance to think about them. “Are you coming back to my place?”

Wordlessly they paid the bill and left, and as soon as they were out on the deserted city street they stood and looked at each other and within seconds were kissing furiously, Joe’s hands everywhere, Josie biting at his lips, wanting him inside her now.

Josie lay in Joe’s arms in the back of the cab, eyes closed, savoring every sensation as he traced his fingers along her thigh, gasping softly as they slid beneath her skirt, over the lace of her stocking, and finally, finally, on to bare flesh. (Thank God, she thought, I put stockings on this morning and not tights. Thank God I’m wearing new underwear. Thank God my legs were waxed only last week.)

Higher, she held her breath in anticipation, lust screaming through her body as she waited for him to hit the spot. Higher. Higher. And his fingers gently brushing the outside of her panties, so softly she might almost have imagined it, then harder, then disappearing back down her thigh, teasing down to her knee. Josie sighed as she turned her head to meet Joe’s tongue.

No going back now.

Up the stairs and into her flat, the door barely closed before they kiss again, laughing softly at the intensity, then serious as Joe grinds his painfully stiff cock against her.

Walking clumsily, still kissing, into the bedroom, falling onto the bed, tongues and fingers and mouths everywhere, feeling, tasting, sucking, lapping. Whispering, sighing, increased urgency, bodies sliding over bodies, over and over.

And finally relief as Joe lies back, hands on Josie’s naked hips, lips on hard nipples, her breasts as full and firm as he had imagined, sliding into her, a gasp from both at the forgotten and forbidden pleasure.

Joe watching Josie as she rides him, eyes closed, biting her lip and gasping as he thrusts deeper, quicker. Reaching fingers down to stroke her as he thrusts, enjoying her smile of surprise, her pleasure, her body stiffening, contracting as she comes, giving up to his own orgasm immediately after.

Lying in bed smiling at one another. Joe tracing her lips with his fingers, watching her taste herself as she takes his fingers into her mouth. Kissing gently, stroking hair, whispering.

“That was amazing.” Joe smiles, tracing her hair behind her ear.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“I do, but I rarely mean it. This was incredible.” He kisses her. He means it. “You are incredible.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Josie smiles like the cat that got the cream, feels like the cat that got the cream, had forgotten how satisfying it is to be the cat that gets the cream.

Joe stretches and rolls over to look at the clock. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Your wife?”

He rolls back and kisses Josie again. “I wish I could stay.”

“It’s past midnight,” she says. “You should go.”

“This won’t be the end of it.” He leans over to kiss her again. “God, you’re incredible. Tomorrow?”

Josie laughs softly. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“And? Tomorrow afternoon? What are you doing?”

Josie wants to say she’s busy. She wants to say she won’t be available, this was just a one-off and she’s not the sort of girl who gets involved with married men, but she doesn’t.

“Tomorrow afternoon?” She lies back as Joe starts to stroke an already stiffening nipple again. “I’ll be lying here waiting for you to fuck me.”

“Oh God,” Joe groans, climbing back onto the bed. “I can’t leave you alone.”