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       The Love Potion

      The card featuring a lovelorn teddy and hand-scrawled limerick had promised, if not a day of heady romance, then at least fond attentiveness outside working hours. He had propped it on his pillow so that it was three inches from her face when she opened her eyes. A red paper blur. Same routine every year. As Valentine’s Days went, based on experience, she anticipated that it would be, at best, satisfactory.

      Thunderous little feet approaching represented a threat. ‘Ooh! A letter for Dillon, Mummy!’ The glee in his voice betrayed his six-year-old’s violent intentions.

      Claire sat up in bed hastily, snatching the lover’s missive to safety before it could be crushed and magic-markered to death.

      ‘No, darling. It’s for me,’ she said, prizing the card from its red envelope. ‘From Daddy. Isn’t that nice?’

      Dillon was impressed by the grey teddy bear clutching a bunch of roses. So was she. At least the teddy had the wherewithal to buy roses. But she mustn’t complain.

      She read the limerick in silence, its author watching intently for a reaction from the other side of the bedroom. He still wanted to do her in a field of flowers, to while away the hours. She apparently still inspired him to be her sexy beast and to rhyme sexy beast with sodding Bexleyheath, as if it were even possible to think a sexy thought in Bexleyheath, let alone be a beast. Buffoon. She arranged her face into a convincing smile and set the card on the bedside cabinet. Picked up the first coffee he had made her since her birthday in August. Sipped it and nodded encouragingly.

      ‘Thanks, Dave. That’s lovely.’

      Her partner grinned at her. Pulled his work shirt over his perfectly toned abs. Winked.

      ‘Knew you’d like it, babe.’ Winked again.

      The smell of his aftershave was strong today. He was wearing his best pure silk boxers, which she had bought him as a Valentine’s gift two years ago. She could see the outline of his sizeable manhood beneath the silk, pointing mournfully down at his left thigh. Considered wistfully that it was a long time since she had seen it not ensconced in underpants. Certainly not in a tumescent state. Apart from that time three weeks before Christmas, when she had finally caught him masturbating in the downstairs toilet. Dave said he ‘wasn’t a very sexual person’. But he seemed to be a very sexual person in the downstairs toilet. Perhaps he had a penchant for the particular bouquet of the limescale remover. The libido was a complex thing.

      Trouble was, the Daves of this world were hard come to come by for the Claires, and this particular Claire knew it. She drank her coffee slowly and mused on the imbalance of their match. Where she was mousy, unadventurous and fond of routine, he was gloriously handsome, gregarious and enjoyed some reflected limelight as a self-employed Physiotherapist for Lesser Stars of the Sporting World. In the seven years that they had been together, Claire wondered how she had managed to cling onto this golden-haired eye candy, feeling certain that the pull of her nicely turned wrists and her extensive pharmacological knowledge should have waned as soon as the candles were snuffed out at the dinner party that had occasioned their meeting. Dave’s only shortcomings, on paper, were his simple-minded obsessions with rugby, Formula 1 and crisps. Hers, however, were many and varied, she was sure.

      ‘Meet you in Santorini’s at 8pm,’ Dave said, traversing the bedroom and giving her a peck on the ear. He ruffled Dillon’s blonde thatch, swinging him upside down over a broad shoulder until the boy squealed in despairing delight. Smacked his tiny, pyjama-clad bottom. Blew raspberries on his hip. Together, they went downstairs, leaving Mum to have her ‘lie-in’ until a decadent 7.30am.

      Claire stretched out in her Dalmatian-spotted fleece onesie, farted and reminded herself how lucky she was to have this set-up. A beautiful son. A doting father. A reliable partner. All living under an adequate roof that Dave had bought. And today was a day to celebrate that.

      Dave’s voice resounded from the hall. ‘You be good for the babysitter, champ. Right?’

      ‘Yes, Daddy. Love you.’

      ‘Nice card, Claire!’ Dave shouted up the stairs. ‘Ta. See you!’ He had evidently found the card she had left for him by the kettle.

      At that stage, Claire assessed that the click of the front door heralded 50 per cent of all the Valentine’s Day romance she could reasonably expect as having been delivered in full. But Santorini’s was on the cards, and tonight, of all nights, no matter how tired she was feeling after a long shift in the pharmacy, and no matter how beleaguered Dave’s libido had recently been, what with the legal action over the third-division footballer’s dodgy discs, she would surely enjoy that perfect manly physique for all she was worth. Dave’s body and the things he very occasionally did with it made up almost entirely for his

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