Mrs Ross looked helplessly at Gregg, suddenly needing a fourth gin very badly.
'Well,' said Gregg neutrally, draining his whisky and soda. 'If you're ever that curious, you know where to find me.'
'Are you serious?'
'Here's my card. The agency is still in Pitt Street. It's up to you.'
Mrs Ross stared at the business card in her palm. 'Can I get you another whisky?' she asked tremulously.
'No. You should go home before you do something you regret. You're not sober, Mrs Ross, and I don't take advantage of women these days.' He stood up, took her arm and kissed her on the cheek. 'Another time, though, I'd be more than delighted,' he whispered. 'Don't forget . . . if you're still curious when you've sobered up . . . call me.'
Mrs Ross weaved out of the bar, wondering how she would explain to Colin that she had to leave the car in town. Bumped into an old friend. Few drinks.
She forgot the mayonnaise.
She held on to the card for a month before she did anything.
In the cold light of day it seemed impossible and wicked to follow up on Gregg's offer. Colin was a good man and she was a good woman; good women did not do things like this.
But the cover of that magazine was burned into her mind; the secret cleft wantonly exposed, the pinky-brown bud at its centre, tight but apparently not too tight. How would something bigger than a finger get in there? Mrs Ross was not clear on the detail. She thought about looking it up on the internet, but then she worried about Colin finding it on the search history, or accidentally downloading something incriminating. Maybe if she went to Desirez again – but how on earth would she hand a copy of that thing over the counter? Impossible.
On the last night of that month, she got Colin drunk with the intention of seducing him into exploring her very limits. She wore her new leopard-print basque with stockings and suspenders and performed a lapdance for him (the children were on sleepovers) in the living room. For the grand finale, she turned backwards on his thighs and waved her bottom in his face before pulling it rudely apart from the base of the cheeks.
'God, Lynnie, what is up with you these days?' he moaned. 'That was very sensual, up to the end. Why don't you light a few candles and I'll give you a foot massage.'
The next day, at around coffee-break time, she found herself holding Gregg's card in trembling fingers, staring at the numbers as if challenging them to disappear.
She began to punch the number in three times, abandoned it three times. Took a swig of coffee. Tried again. It rang. 'Gregg and Saunders, Tony Gregg speaking.' She was stumped, unable to think of anything to say.
'Hello?'
'Oh . . . Mr Gregg . . .'
'Lynnie!' She was taken aback at his instant recognition of her voice, and speech temporarily eluded her. 'Great to hear from you! Are you . . . is there a reason for this call?'
He sounded so hopeful that her courage returned. 'Hello . . . yes. There is.'
'OK, calm down, love. I understand that this isn't easy for you. Do you want to meet for lunch?'
'Yes, please. Somewhere discreet. Obviously.'
'Obviously. How about the Hotel? At one?'
'Oh, yes, good. I'll see you there then.'
I saw them arrive separately and leave together. I recognised Gregg, who had booked rooms and attended meetings here on a number of occasions. He isn't a bad shag, actually. I did not recognise Mrs Ross; she wasn't his usual type. Crossing the lobby she looked ready to collapse with nerves, but when he stood up from one of the couches that line the room and held out his hand to her, she seemed to straighten up, smiling at him and accepting his arm as he led her to the restaurant.
'What you must understand, Lynnie, is that I need some evidence that you are serious about this.'
'You mean . . . isn't this enough? I've met you in a hotel and you . . . you know what I want, so . . .'
'Wham, bam, thank you, Ma'am? No. I don't think that's good enough. I like you, Lynnie, and I want this to be a positive experience for you. In my experience, you need to build up to this kind of sex. You need to get into . . . training.'
'Training? I don't understand.'
'What I mean, Lynnie, and pardon my French but there isn't really a delicate way of putting it, is that I can't just ram my cock up there from scratch. You need preparation.'
'What sort of preparation?'