‘Me, wanking.’ I say it aggressively, trying to make it as crude as possible.
‘I need more detail.’
‘Me, reaching my delicate fingers down to my slick intimate folds and manipulating them in order to achieve orgasm.’
‘Forget the ma
sturbation part. Who’s the woman?’
I click my tongue and huff at him. ‘What the fuck, Lloyd? I don’t have time for bloody riddle-me-ree. What do you want from me?’
‘Describe her.’ His voice has got louder and more strident. He’s going to shout at me in a minute. I’m preparing my walking-out-in-a-huff reflex.
‘Describe her? Not as young as she was, not as tall as she’d like to be, flabby arms and thighs plus too much round the middle, hair needs cutting, pulling a really stupid face.’
Lloyd holds my eyes for a moment then turns the picture round to look at it.
‘It’s weird,’ he says after long ruminations. ‘I always thought you were really confident.’
‘Nobody’s really confident though, are they? Everyone puts it on.’
‘I don’t. I really am. I think I’m a pretty stand-up guy. I mean, I acknowledge that I have faults, principally my filthy mind, but I have an outlet for that. No, I mean, I would never describe myself in the terms you just used.’
‘What, you’d say you were a handsome, buff stud, would you?’
‘I think I’m looking pretty good these days, actually. Better than I did when we met. And do you know why that is?’
‘No.’
‘Because I think that’s what you deserve. A man who takes care of himself, who you can look at and think, Give me some of that.’
‘Well, good for you. Thanks for your efforts, and all that. Much appreciated.’
‘I know it is, Sophie. But why are you so down on yourself?’
‘I’m not! I’m just modest and self-effacing, you know, like people are meant to be. I’m not in a black hole of self-loathing or anything like that.’
‘I wish I could be sure of that. I had to trick you into getting these pictures taken. What is it about your own image that frightens you so much?’
‘Lloyd Freud.’ It’s my ‘shut up now’ phrase whenever he gets too close to the bone.
‘Don’t. I’m not messing about. I want to know you, and I don’t feel I really do.’
‘Trust me, you’re better off that way.’
‘Why would I trust someone who won’t let me know them?’
‘So you don’t trust me?’
He shrugs, flips the photograph aside. ‘I do, in many ways. Most ways. I don’t think you’re sneaky or dishonest. But you’re hidden, and there can only be one reason that you hide, and that’s fear. What are you afraid of?’
‘Monsters.’
He smiles against his will. ‘I’m not a monster. Do you think I’m a monster?’
‘Only in a good way.’
‘Speaking of monsters …’ He pushes another photograph towards me, one of the pair of us in the throes, but this one has something else paper-clipped to it. A business card.