The thing is, he thinks, as he sits outside the three and a half million pound house with lake access, it really is just a matter of perspective.

For example, Spain’s age of consent is thirteen years old. Not that he’s using that to justify his actions. He just thinks it’s an interesting fact that a developed country, not so far from the UK, can have such a different approach. Along with Japan. Their age of consent is thirteen as well. To find that kind of freedom in England, you’d have to go back – what? – about two hundred years, when girls could legally marry at twelve.

Not that he’d want to marry a girl of twelve – that would be absurd – he’s simply saying that, if he’d wanted to, he could have done it back then, that’s all.

He checks his watch. The estate agent is six minutes late. Why do they have to be so inept? He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and then, as has become his habit lately, he rubs away the fingerprints with the sleeve of his jacket.

To kill time he focuses on the view through the windscreen and begins smiling. It’s the smile he’s been practising in front of the mirror for the past few weeks. His natural smile can border on smarmy, shows a few too many teeth, so he takes the trouble to get it right. Makes sure his eyes take on that shiny quality women love.

Smile at a woman like you’re noticing her and she’ll all but melt to the ground in front of you. It’s not rocket science.

Without meaning to, his mind has slipped back to the thing he can’t stop thinking about, and his practised smile becomes a grin. He’s grinning like an idiot, and he knows he has to stop before the estate agent arrives.

Who’d have thought it could be so easy?

Granted, it hadn’t gone totally as expected, totally as planned. But so what? Wasn’t that even better? The element of surprise – something unexpected happening, something thrilling to perk things up?

Wasn’t that why bored city workers did extreme sports? And fat-wanker bankers had sex with sluts in the cleaning cupboard? ’Course it was.

Although this isn’t an extreme sport. He knows that. He can’t pass himself off as some weirdo schizo and pretend like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

His smile fades as he admits this to himself and, as he checks his watch once more, he thinks, maybe I should call it a day. She was scared. Even doped up, she was really, really scared.

He had harboured a small hope that she might kind of get into it.

Because, that could happen, right?

But, no. That wasn’t how it had gone. So maybe best to leave it at that, find other things to do.

But then a thought occurs to him.

Suppose the next one gets into it? Suppose she’s been waiting for something like this? For someone like him. That could happen. It was possible.

A silver BMW Z3 pulls up alongside him, and a harried-looking woman in her mid-forties climbs out, approaches his driver’s side door.

She’s carrying a stack of papers and is holding them in front of her open blazer, trying to conceal the fact that her ugly belly is straining her skirt to bursting.

He opens his door, looks directly into her eyes and smiles. She averts her gaze, trying to gather herself. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr—’

‘Not at all.’ He shrugs to indicate that it’s been no bother and holds out his hand. ‘Call me Charles,’ he says, trying to pull himself back to the business of charming this feckless woman.

But it’s hard.

Hard because his mind is still on the girls and he’s thinking: Of course it’s possible that the next one will play out differently.

I mean, anything’s possible, right?