24 June

      It was a lovely night, amazing food and the most romantic setting, overlooking the river, but the restaurant was a little … intimate. By which I mean that it was very difficult not to overhear the conversations taking place at other tables.

      This made me nervous, and so did Dan, because he looked so bloody gorgeous. He had on the dark suit he wore to my sister’s wedding and he knows I can’t resist him in that. He knows because he got to shag me up against the register office back wall while the groom’s family photographs were being taken on the front steps. He looked utterly, unbelievably, mouth-wateringly sexy, with his two top shirt buttons undone, so a little chest hair tantalised the eye.

      Dan looks good in everything, mind you, whether he’s patrolling the streets in his uniform or mowing the lawn in ripped jeans and a tight T-shirt. He makes my tongue hang out. I have to keep remembering to put it away. He’s tall and dark and all the running after criminals keeps him fit. He has a face that can do anything, as well. I’ve seen him go from boyish twinkle to roguish glint to 100 per cent wicked in the time it takes to raise an eyebrow.

      I remember how he bowled me over the first time we met. I sat there on that orange moulded plastic chair, watching him in a trance. I’m not sure I breathed once in the twenty minutes it took for him to question and charge the kid I was acting as Appropriate Adult for. The only thought in my mind was Who? Is? That?

      Obviously I stayed professional, much as I was dying to play footsie under the battered, cigarette-burnt old desk. The way he flicked his eyes over me from time to time made me think there might be a little bit of something similar going on with him too.

      When I left the station, he caught me on the steps, all breathless and tousled. God, I wanted to wrestle him to the floor then and there. I restrained myself, what with being in the company of a furious fifteen-year-old, and simply nodded and smiled while he volunteered to give a talk on police/community relations at my Vulnerable Young People’s group.

      I think I actually said, ‘Awesome!’

      The fifteen-year-old teased me about it all the way back to the children’s home.

      ‘He wants you, Pip. Better watch out if you don’t want Plod in yer knickers.’

      I blanked this line of conversation, but inside I wanted to hear more.

      He came and did the talk to a group who started out hostile and ended up charmed and positive. He has the knack of making people want him to like them, so that they strive to please him. It’s a neat trick – I wish I had it.

      Anyway, he’d won them over, so just imagine how I felt. He’d seduced me already – the physical side of it was a mere formality. We sat in my office after locking up the building and shared a bottle of wine and talked very earnestly about the social issues affecting my Vulnerable Young People until the switch flipped and every single thing we said seemed to be a form of verbal foreplay.

      We kissed against my filing cabinet and ended up at my flat. I don’t think we’ve spent a night apart since, shift patterns permitting.

      And now here we are, three years married, and he’s still the funniest, sweetest, kindest, most capable and sexy and sometimes slightly annoying but not that much man in the world.

      So why the hell was I contemplating asking him for more?

      In the low-voiced, elegant atmosphere of the restaurant, I panicked. I couldn’t go through with it. What if I scared him? Why would I risk my marriage to this man?

      The first thing he said on sitting down was ‘I’ve got a little something for you.’ And he rustled a package inside a shopping bag.

      ‘Can’t we … do the presents at home?’

      ‘But you’ve brought mine.’ He looked puzzled. I love his puzzled face. Just adorable.

      ‘I know, I just … it’s a bit … it’s not very private here, is it?’

      ‘Oh.’ His eyes lit up. ‘That kind of present, eh?’

      Fuck. Now he was expecting something from a sex shop. Oh, God. I wanted to bolt from the restaurant, take the belt back to the shop and exchange it, quickety-quick, for a lacy basque and a set of nipple tassels.

      ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ I said.

      ‘It’s my wedding anniversary,’ he said. ‘If I can’t get my hopes up on my wedding anniversary, when can I get them up?’

      ‘Good point,’ I said, then, suddenly inspired, ‘So, what are your hopes?’

      What if I could bring him to confess his own hidden desire for kink? What if he longed to redden my bottom but was just too worried it would appal me?

      ‘For tonight?’

      He was about to lean over the table and murmur into my ear, but the waiter appeared with our champagne cocktails and menus, so the moment was lost.

      ‘I really want to give you your present,’ he said, sipping and watching me.

      ‘I don’t mind waiting.’

      ‘I know you don’t. But I want to give you it now. I’ve been looking forward to it.’

      ‘Oh …’ I looked around. Everybody seemed pretty involved with their own conversations. ‘Go on, then.’

      He beamed and handed over his bag, then retreated into his champagne glass, sipping with measured calm.

      I opened the delicate tissue wrapping and had to clap a hand over my mouth to stop myself screaming.

      ‘Happy anniversary, my darling little Twinkletoes,’ he said, flushing with pleasure at my reaction.

      ‘Is this genuine?’

      ‘It’s not a bloody knock-off. What do you take me for?’

      ‘A genuine Mulberry Alexa? Christ, Dan, these cost a fortune.’

      ‘Well, I got it from an outlet store,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’

      ‘I don’t know what to say.’ I turned the deliciously soft tan leather every which way, putting it up to my face and sniffing, just the way I did with the belt. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever been given.

      He was perfect. Why would I want to change him? I felt guilty and cheap for even considering it.

      ‘You don’t have to say anything. It’s written all over your face.’

      He sat back and basked, while I became conscious of the indulgent good wishes of the other diners. Suddenly the parcel at my feet became my nemesis, a terrible mistake. I should have got him something else.

      Too late.

      ‘So, come on then. Hand it over.’

      He held out a palm. Lately, he couldn’t do that without me imagining how it would feel cracking down on my bum. Tonight was no different.

      I shut my eyes for a second of unspoken prayer, then reached down for the gift.

      The shop had been a high-end establishment and they had put the belt in a smart silk-lined box with a gold monogram. When Dan unwrapped it, I think he was expecting something you’d find in a jeweller’s, like cufflinks or