Howzat! Hands rise, Rodney, today's umpire, shakes his head; shoulders slump.

I raise my pint in toast and lie back, clover tickling my neck, clouds furling into animals.

Long legs, faded shorts, elfin hair. She drops to the grass a distance away. I look away.

‘Pimm’s any good?’ Clipped vowels, mischievous smile. ‘Can I taste yours?’

I pass the drink. She sips, plucks a strawberry, bites, then leans across. I snag a loop of her shirt; our lips touch.

‘That was quick,’ she whispers.

‘Sometimes it feels right. So what now?’ I say.

‘Now we pick up the children.’

I see him first, sprawled in his whites, nonchalant. He was out third ball, for no runs. Oh the shame!

I’ve worn the old way-too-shorts he loves—frayed, sun-soft, irreplaceable—and arrive as late as possible.

I ensure he sees me, then settle just out of reach.

“Pimm’s any good?” I ask. His fifth, perhaps?

“Can I taste yours?”

He passes it. I eat a strawberry, artfully smearing juice. I lean in, perfume close, brushing a breast across his shoulder. He pulls me in. His mouth finds mine. He says the words.

Wow! Booze breath.

“I’ll drive.” I insist.