Fresh from his knifing, the clown catches his breath against the window of a Thai restaurant on the corner of the Terrace and the High Road. Inside, Michael Huxley and his wife Christine are finishing the second of three courses. Christine beginning with four skewers of chicken seasoned with a satay sauce, Michael choosing a clear, piquant tom yum soup with prawns. The two now picking at the last morsels of a green curry with chicken (Michael) and a beef Pad Thai (Christine). Charlotte and Tom raved about the place, and it’s only a quick hop from Queens Park. Basic, they said; no frills but they know how to cook and it’s clean. Michelle Thonglau arrives to take their plates away. Eighteen, slim with long black hair shining like it is polished, a white shirt too large for her, pencil black mini skirt and black leggings. Michael Huxley looking at her face, briefly; the girl seems bored, going through the motions, her mind somewhere else. Christine Huxley talking about swimming lessons for Bonnie. The only class nearby for children her age is at 5.30am, but her teacher thinks that, with proper training, she might represent Brent. Thonglau returning with a Cilio 18/10 stainless steel table crumb remover, and as she busses the table, her breasts accidentally brush against Michael Huxley. Instantly he feels blood rush to his loins as pressure builds against the green and blue tartan design cotton stretch hipster underpants that Christine bought in a pack of three from Next.

“Simon takes Benedict to Swiss Cottage pool at 5.30 every Saturday, and he says they just go to bed earlier on Friday, but we could always take it in turns, and who knows? She may find that when it gets serious, she doesn’t like it as much.”

Michael Huxley looking at Christine patting her mouth with the salmon pink table napkin and seeing lines around her eyes and the shiny deep grey patches under them, the wrinkles by the side of her mouth, the heavy shoulders that used to be so slim. He looks away. Michelle Thonglau now laughing with an older Thai woman – possibly the owner. He wouldn’t have looked twice at her before, but now he’s fixated with her bosom, trying to figure out how big her breasts are beneath the billowing cotton of her work shirt.

“Cameron and Daisy have started drama classes at the Tricycle on Wednesdays after school, but that clashes with Zumba. Then again, they do them on Saturday mornings too, so that would mean going straight on from swimming which might be too much for Bonnie.”

Michelle Thonglau returning with some dessert menus, innocent of the storm that she is creating in bespectacled Michael Huxley, forty-one; thinning on top but not enough to shave it. Christine Huxley picking up the menu greedily, as if this in itself were something sweet to be devoured. Her gaze averted, Michael Huxley stares at Thonglau’s upper body while she takes an order from another table, his eyes trying to penetrate the thick white cotton. He swallows and picks up the menu. Thonglau walks past again, suddenly statuesque, Huxley not listening as Christine details the intricacies of their children’s Saturday mornings, his focus now solely on the contents of Michelle Thonglau’s blouse.

“Then again, she might want to do ballet this term, but they do that at the O2 as well. You’re very quiet Michael.”

Huxley raising his eyebrows in faux defence and taking a gulp of Singha beer to rid his throat from the clag that has collected there.

“I can take her swimming.”

He smiles and gets up to excuse himself. Thonglau no longer in the restaurant; she must be in the kitchen. The loo a single small cubicle with a sink outside. Huxley bolts the door, pushes down his jeans and boxers, closes his eyes and begins his fast journey to rapture, feasting on a naked Michelle Thonglau of his imagination. His balls tighten as a child’s voice outside the door asks his daddy why they can’t go in.

“Because someone’s in there, Barney. We have to wait for them to finish.”

Michael Huxley stopping for a moment as Thonglau reclines, half undressed on a white bed, hoping they’ll leave. Peace. He grabs himself again.

“I don’t want to wait daddy.”

Huxley clenching a fist and pressing it to the top of his forehead. He pulls up his jeans, flushes the lavatory and unlocks the door. A man in a leather jacket; unshaven with a whiff of tobacco holding the hand of a small blond boy. Back at the table, Christine Huxley has decided what she is having – tempura banana with coconut ice cream. Michelle Thonglau who is a student of business and administration at the College of North West London and who still lives with her parents in Hendon returns and smiles. She waits, nubile, flat bellied, intoxicating; Christine handing her the menu, Michael aching to be left alone with her compliant, willing body.

“Michael, dessert?”

Huxley breaking from his trance, mumbling an order for a black coffee. Christine Huxley looking tired, her skin no longer pearlescent and her voice now a shrill clarion, a sharp atonal blare that cuts through the excited chatter of infants. On the next table, the man in the leather jacket returns and begins feeding chips to his son while the couple sitting with them teach their six-year-old how to eat with chopsticks. Tonight in her bed, Michelle Thonglau will imagine that the slim dad with the stubble, the laughter lines and leather jacket who called her ‘Sweetheart’, whose breath smelled of cigarettes and who has a son called Barney is riding her up to the balls. Michael Huxley toys with his beer glass as Christine checks on her iPhone for the times of the drama classes on Saturdays at the O2 Centre on Finchley Road.