Can sexting be better than the real thing? Mr. Message has ideas on that… I'm a hardworking and unrewarded estate agent in London. My evenings? Netflix. My relationship status? You're kidding, right? Divorced. Messily. With a hefty therapist bill. Oh, I'm Jen by the way. And bills aren't my only problem. The divorce left me with crippling self-doubt. So romance is limited to lusting over fictional characters, glass of wine in hand, rather than dating. This takes a twist when I move to Instagram and start talking to … er, well, I call him Mr. Message. The mysterious Mr. Message can relate to my problems. He's also a master of guided scenes, even in public, that intoxicate me. Like you haven't thought about it. But it all comes with a proviso. A 'no feelings' agreement. Until he invites me to a concert. And a single night of sex. But maybe I do have feelings. And maybe this is the last thing I need. Especially if he does too. Should I go?