‘I never get arrested.’ He winks. ‘Never.’
I shake my head for a moment, then I think of my account manager Giles’s disbelieving narrowed eyes behind his super cool spectacle frames and I shudder. I don’t want to face them tomorrow. It has to be worth a try.
Mr Security is sitting at the reception desk, feet up, reading the Evening Standard while black and white CCTV footage flickers on the screens overhead.
I rap at the door and press my ID badge to the smoked glass.
He peers at me, then lumbers over. ‘What’s to do?’ he asks through the letterbox.
‘I left my house keys in the office. Just came out of the pub and realised they’re in my desk drawer. Can I come in and get them?’
‘I’ll get them for you. Where are they?’
I clench my fists. Is there any point in telling the truth? It has to be worth a try.
‘Look, I haven’t finished some important work. Would it be impossible to come in and do an hour’s graft at my desk? Please? It could save my life – it could certainly save my job. And we all need a job in this climate.’
The guard tightens his lips, puts his head to one side. Then, ‘Ah, go on.’ My heart leaps as he opens the door to me and lets me slip in. ‘Just for you,’ he says, with a rather unsubtle wink.
‘Er, thanks. Thanks a million. I owe you one.’
‘That’s right, love.’
I feel vaguely creeped out as I rush to the lift, grateful when its doors slide a barrier between us. All the same, it’s a bit of a triumph, and Dimitri won’t need to risk his liberty or his visa after all.
So what will he do now?
Reaching my desk, it occurs to me that I don’t have a number for him, or an address. What if that’s that and we never meet again?
Before switching on the light, I move over to the window and look down to the street. Kinky Cupcake is in darkness, even though I know that, somewhere in its upper roof space, slaves are being shared. As for Dimitri, there is no sign of him.
I sigh, flick the switch and sit down at my desk.
Air freshener. It freshens air. Four fresh fragrances. Fresh … fragrance … air … odour … aroma … I put my forehead on the desk and try to extract some coherence from these strands, but all I can think about is how Dimitri smells and how it felt to have his arm around me.
My mind dances away from scents and into sensations. Over his lap, he could have gone further, he could have touched me … right there, but I mustn’t masturbate on CCTV, mustn’t do that …
I wake up with a jolt. There is a hand on my shoulder.
‘Dimitri?’ I whisper, turning around, but it isn’t.
‘Sleepyhead,’ says the guard with a leer. ‘Off in the land of nod, were you, love?’ His fingers press into my shoulder blade. I try to shrug them off, but they are planted there.
‘Didn’t realise,’ I mumble. My head is still thick, but my heart recognises danger, quickening into a pounding rhythm. Sweat prickles on my palms.
‘I’ve gone out of my way for you,’ he says. ‘Could get into trouble for this. So that one you owe me …’
He bends lower and buries his nose in my hair. My scalp crawls as if beset with a million head lice.
‘What?’ I try to get the words out but my voice is high and cracked. ‘This’ll be on CCTV. Don’t.’
His meaty hands move down my shoulders over my upper arms. ‘Switched it off, of course. You think I’m stupid?’ His pig’s snout snuffles my neck.
I want to scream, but there’s no point. The clock says five ten. Nobody will be anywhere near this place.
All I can do is moan, ‘Noooo,’ while he chuckles, and then an alarm shrills out, so loud and piercing that we both jump and the top of my head bangs into his chin so that he swears.
‘What the fuck?’ he bellows, racing over to the lift.