I swirl the teaspoon in my cup, looking at it as if it were the most important thing in the world.

'I thought we should talk about some important matter, Emma'. His voice is gentle. That irritates me: being gentle is easier when one does not care much. Is that the case?

'What if I don't want to?' I am starting really well, antagonizing Mr Vroom straight away.

'Then I shall be doing the talking.'

I cling to that cup of coffee and the residue of normality our conversation is leaving behind. What will it be? A thorough ticking off for baring my breasts out there in the wilderness? For my fantasies and the life I don't dare live?

'It is not easy for me either, Emma. To confront matters like this shows up the game we have been playing, and there is no guarantee that we can go back to what we were.'

Yes, he has just said what I have been worrying about all along. As long as the players' awareness of their invisible game is never uttered, the tacit agreement protects the story I have been weaving and he has been wearing.

'I have always admired you from a distance; the unattainable, beautiful girl whose company I enjoy so much. I am a loner; perfectly happy with my own company, I have worked for myself all my life and have had little opportunity to discuss ideas or feelings with other people. To me, my dreams are complete and self-sufficient because I have nobody to share them with. And I have been content to enjoy them whenever I want.'

Content. Is it the same as happy? Does this man know about happiness, or is it the ubiquitous 'not lacking' once again?

'Your diary has forced me to confront a situation I don't want to acknowledge: attraction is safe at higher levels, but to pitch it as low as everyday life is a dangerous activity to undertake. And I am scared.'

Mr Vroom scared! How can he? The egocentric primadonna in me secretly believes she is the only one who is allowed to be scared. Men don't get a fright, they get the girl. Don't they?

Then it occurs to me that the very reason why we are sitting in the kitchen having an unlikely conversation about a non-existing love affair is our opposite attitudes about the same issue: I have tried to lift the soggy bulk of my outwardly immaculate life by giving it the wings of a thrill, and am prepared to live it through. Mr Vroom has always had those wings, but needs to keep them attached solely to his dreams. He doesn't need the girl because he already has the dream of her. He is asking me not to spoil it.

We can't meet half-way.

Have you ever been physically close to somebody important to you and felt all the lonelier for it?

'I think you should leave', I say.

A pause, then he replies: 'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I need to protect my memories of you. I don't want to hurt you.'

'There is nothing to hurt. I have never even kissed you.'

'Ah, but you have. A million times. I know, I was there. I would like to teach you how to suspend your belief and let your imagination work for us. I want to feature in your little diary, and I am flattered that you would chose me to inspire you. However, whatever happens, our families come first. I have been married for forty years and never been unfaithful.'

I don't want Mr Vroom to teach me how to trick my soul into a make-believe world, where we can both indulge in repeated sexual encounters without manipulating reality. This is worse than my ill-fated pursuit of happiness, worse still than the 'not lacking' concept. It's the 'lacking'.

Lacking guts. Lacking a willingness to bare one's flesh, not knowing whether it is going to be kissed or whipped. Lacking a real taste for life.

And I thought I was the dreamer. I thought I was the unhappy one.

I smile. It's hard. 'I shall share your fantasies from a distance, if that makes you less uncomfortable', I say. After all, he is right on one thing: we do have perfectly pure memories of time spent in the vegetable patch, discussing the future of my cabbages, or his past as a racing driver. The future, the past. Never the present.

'Never the present', I mutter in my empty cup.

'I am sorry?'

'Never mind. Come on, Mr Vroom, let's go out in the garden. I suspect the ride-on mower's belt is on its last leg, and I would like you to have a look at it.'