‘Really?’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘You know me pretty well.’
‘I think we’ve spent enough time in close proximity to be fairly clued up on each other.’
‘Yeah. I’m wondering now if I’d recognise you that way. I think I would.’
‘It was smell as well. Even underneath that terrible aftershave.’
‘Ah, so that cunning plan didn’t work.’
‘Nope. Plus, it was so obviously going to be you anyway. It’s like a classic fairy-tale plot. Three of these shall ye shag, or something. And you’re the handsome prince all rigged out like a malignant goblin.’
He snorts. ‘Thanks. Handsome prince, eh?’
‘I’m not talking literally.’
‘No, I suppose not. Well.’ He raises himself, pulling out of me with slow care, and discards the condom. ‘As far as handsome prince behaviour goes, there’s one thing I haven’t done.’
I hear buttons, belt buckle.
‘What’s that?’
He comes around to face me, crouching so our eyes are level. God, his are so blue. I sometimes forget how blue they are.
‘Kiss the princess,’ he says then fastens his lips to mine.
Corny as fuck, but it makes me feel annoyingly gooey, in amongst the kissing and the tonguing and the breathing in of his more familiar scent, now overpowering the cheap crappy cologne.
‘Who are you calling a princess?’ I croak, once he has kissed me into oblivion.
He just smiles and starts to untie me.
‘I passed that one then?’
‘I suppose you did. What was going on in that pub in Mayfair? That looked spectacular.’
‘I’ll tell you all about it at home. Oh shit!’
‘What?’
I called his flat ‘home’. But I can’t draw his attention to that. ‘I was supposed to be taking photographs tonight.’ I flex my wrists, freed from their bonds.
‘Well, the night’s young.’ He scoots behind me, unstraps my knees. ‘It isn’t eleven yet.’
‘Yeah, but …’
I stand, tentatively. Lloyd catches me when I sway, unsteady on my feet. I miss the drips on my thigh, the unmistakable evidence that Lloyd has been up to no good inside me. I want to do it again, sans condom.
‘But?’ He smoothes my hair, cups my face, kisses me again as if he can’t help it.
‘I’m in the mood now,’ I murmur into his ear. ‘Not for photography. I want to do it in a bed, without a condom, after you’ve removed that fucking awful aftershave with paint stripper if necessary.’
‘Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse,’ says Lloyd. Once the last strip of tape has been peeled off, he slaps my bum. ‘Get dressed then.’
Back at his flat, after politely taking our leave of Jerome, Jake, Lincoln and the collected clientele of Tied and Trussed, we shower and then pore over the pictures I’d sent to Lloyd on his phone.
‘I really liked those knickers,’ I sigh, looking at them fluttering in the South Bank breeze, then crumpled inside a sentry box.
‘I’ll get you new ones.’