In the end, it wasn’t at the River; it was back at the gym.

Friday night had been a bit pathetic, really. Too many nights out on the trot with no time to recover. It was all catching up with me and I felt tired, irrationally miserable and not at all inclined to go hunting for sexy doormen. We had three drinks in the Pitcher and Piano, a further two in the Queen’s Head, and by that time I’d had enough. Sam looked at me as though I was joking when I said I was heading for home. Saturday I spent recovering, watching movies on the sofa.

On Sunday morning I woke up at ten, feeling refreshed for the first time in weeks. Outside the sun was shining, the air crisp and still, a great day to go for a run. I’d do that, then go and shop for some healthy food, have an early night.

A few steps on the icy pavement put paid to that idea. Instead, I bundled some clean clothes into my bag and drove the five miles to the gym.

This time, I recognised him before he saw me. He was standing by the swimming pool, adjusting a pair of goggles. Not bothering to worry about whether he could see through the glass window to where I stood ogling him, I watched him slide into the water and kick off the wall into an easy, gliding front crawl. The water barely moved as he slipped through it. I watched him do two lengths, hypnotised by his rhythm, until someone almost fell over my gym bag and broke the spell.

In the changing rooms, I stowed the bag in a locker and pulled out my MP3 player, strapping it to my arm. As I headed for the gym, I caught sight of myself in one of the mirrors. My cheeks were flushed, and the look in my eyes made me stop short. My God, I thought, unable to wipe the stupid grin off my face, he really is fucking sexy.