FRANNIE met Jasper at a rally. Nine years her senior, he was strong-jawed, clear-eyed, ethically scrupulous and, he disclosed, highly sexual. Soon she was hearing his post-coital dissertations on Marxism and cycling and not minding it one bit. But five years later she’d grown into herself: a witty, flexible, unashamedly contradictory woman ravenous for meat and a car. With air-con. Alas, Jasper was still Jasper. She admired his convictions, but every time she saw him sitting, straight-backed, diligently chewing his big salads, she had to fight the urge to punch him in the face.