‘Well, I came back,' she said, slightly calmer now. After all, she kept repeating to herself, she'd been leaving him anyway.

Roger just lay there, blinking at her.

‘Oh, Bron,' said Sasha, sitting up now, the sheet barely covering her ample bosom, 'this is only a bit of fun. No need to take it too seriously. It doesn't need to change anything.’

Bron stopped putting nail varnish into its box. 'You're wearing my underwear – you must have changed out of yours! But don't worry,' she went on quickly. 'The last thing I want is for you to give it back to me.'

‘You're not going to say anything to anyone, are you?' asked Sasha.

Typical of her boss to worry about her reputation. Looking, albeit rather reluctantly, at her now Bron realised Sasha suddenly seemed older and less glossy and groomed than she usually did. She was several years older than both of them and an unexpected spark of compassion rose in Bron. 'At the salon? Probably not. I don't want Roger any more anyway. You can have him as your young stud if you like.'

‘Hang on!' Roger sat up, suddenly full of righteous indignation. 'What do you mean you don't want me any more! I was going to marry you, Bron!’

Bron started to laugh. It was all so ridiculous. And so clear. Roger had, he thought, moulded her into the perfect wife, but a perfect wife wasn't enough. He wanted a mistress as well – one who just happened to be her boss.

‘I'm sorry not to be more flattered, but you never asked and I wasn't going to marry you back,' said Bron. 'I was going to tell you I was leaving anyway – tonight.'

‘What do you mean? Where would you go?'

‘I have a place arranged, thank you for your concern.’

He tried to speak for a few moments and then managed, 'But my parents think you're perfect for me!' Roger was still in denial. He might well have thought about upgrading from a mere hairdresser to the salon-owner but it had never occurred to him that the hairdresser might leave him. He was outraged.

‘I'm very fond of your mother, Roger, but you're going to turn into your father very soon, and he's a fascist.' It was bliss finally letting it all out.

‘How dare you talk about my father like that!' Roger jumped out of bed, naked, his whole body jiggling with indignation. It was hard not to see the funny side. She stifled a giggle.

‘Sorry to hurt your feelings, but you must admit he makes Genghis Khan seem like a bleeding-heart liberal. I don't know how poor Pat has put up with him all these years. And you're just the same!'

‘I don't know how you can say that!' He was now struggling into a pair of boxer shorts. 'I give to charity, don't I?'

‘So does the Mafia, Roger! And I should warn you,' she said to Sasha, 'that he won't bother with foreplay after the first six months. As for looking for your G spot, without Sat Nav, he hasn't a chance.' She frowned. 'Maybe that was a bit unfair. Sat Nav can lose far easier-to-find places than that.'

‘Now you're being disgusting.' Roger was now wearing trousers and it gave him a bit of confidence.

Feeling her own confidence growing by the minute, Bron stood up straight and confronted Roger. 'You're a fine one to talk! You dress your girlfriend up in my underwear and say I'm being disgusting!' she said.

‘Bron!' A T-shirt gave Roger the upper hand, or so he thought. 'You're blowing this up out of all proportion.'

‘At the risk of being thought disgusting again, I think you've been the one doing that!'

‘Really, I had no idea you had such a filthy mind!’

She shrugged, for the first time a little rueful. 'I didn't intend to give you the character-assassination speech, but you did rather ask for it.' She moved to the dressing table, opened a drawer and took out a large plastic bag she had ready. And to think she'd been feeling guilty about leaving him. She swept everything on the table into it.

Sasha was getting back into her clothes and Roger put on his socks and shoes. 'You're over-reacting,' he said. 'Typical bloody woman!’

Bron sighed briefly, her anger abating a little. Originally, she had only been going to take what she really needed.

She wasn't going to take everything she'd paid for, just because she could. But now she was intent on stripping the bedroom of anything she'd bought personally. There was a huge dress carrier ready in the wardrobe and she slid the dressing-table mirror and one of the bedside lights into this while Roger was still staring at her.

‘You can't take the furniture!' he roared.

‘I can if I paid for it. I won't take the mattress though. It's been sullied.' She had to stifle another giggle. 'Sullied' was such a lovely word and she hadn't realised she'd known it until it popped out. Adrenalin was keeping her going, she realised, aware that later the shock of all this would hit her. But at this moment, she was on a high.

She was aware of Sasha and Roger whispering to each other, probably wondering if she'd gone off her head. She'd never felt so on her head. The bathroom was the next place to get the treatment, although she left the shaving mirror as it had been a present from her to Roger and she couldn't see properly in it anyway. She then went downstairs to the kitchen.

Her carrier bags were full so she found a bin-liner and started filling it with gadgets: the blender, the toaster and the steamer. Roger came in while she had the knife block, full of knives, in her hand.

‘You can't take that!' Roger's trousers were half tucked into his socks. 'It was a present from my parents!’

‘Yes,' replied Bron, half admiring him for being so confrontational when she was so well armed. 'To me!’

‘Shall I put the kettle on?' suggested Sasha from behind him, now fully dressed and anxious to soothe the situation if she could.

‘If you're desperate for a cup, that's a good idea,' said Bron. 'I'll be taking it in a minute.'

‘You cannot just strip my house like this!' Roger was pulsating with indignation. 'It's robbery!' He wasn't even trying to win her back.

‘OK, I'll leave the kettle,' Bron conceded, 'although it's mine by right.' She knew there was a kettle in the cottage. Mrs Lennox-Featherstone had sent her an inventory of what was there.

She surveyed the kitchen and considered taking the saucepans, but then left them. They'd been her parents', left behind when they moved to Spain, and they weren't very good ones. Her cookery books she decided were just too heavy; as it was she could only just drag the sack into the hall before going back for another.

‘What do you need that for?' demanded Roger, seeing her detach the bin-bag from the roll. 'You've taken everything that isn't nailed down!'

‘There's the standard lamp in the sitting room!' Bron had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. She had no intention of taking the standard lamp, although that too had come from her parents.

‘This is bloody ridiculous!'

‘OK then, Roger, I'll do a deal with you. Help me get this lot into my car and I won't take anything else if you really need it.'

‘I've put a couple of sugars in your tea, Rog,' said Sasha. 'For the shock. This must be so upsetting for you.’

Bron shook her head in disbelief but didn't say anything. Roger hated being called Rog even more than he hated sugar in tea.

When she drove away twenty minutes later, Bron gave a little toot of triumph on the horn. At that moment she felt she could conquer the world.