‘Well, it might be a cliché, but things become clichés for a reason. Usually there’s some truth in them.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And there was the whole Chase thing, before we got together. What was that about? A remote, unavailable man, twenty-odd years older than you … hmmm … let me think …’
‘Fuck off. You are way, way off beam.’
He curls his lip, rolls his eyes. ‘Have it your way,’ he says wearily, then he seems to disagree with his own words, leaning forwards to speak with intense urgency.
‘Actually, no. Don’t have it your way. Have it my way. Move in with me, Sophie. Just break through your fears and take a risk. I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll make you happy, I promise.’
His face seems to swim in front of me, only his eyes retaining pure sharpness. I feel a heat and a constriction. I’m on a tower, and everyone’s shouting at me to jump.
I could do it. I could do it.
I break our gaze.
‘I’m not ready.’
‘Shit,’ he says under his breath. He swigs from the coffee cup again. ‘Look, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this challenge. But I’m going to. I need to know how it ends. But you’ll stick to the deal, won’t you? No matter whether you pass or fail, you’ll stick to the deal.’
‘I always stick to a deal.’
‘Good. Right. I know that. Just needed to hear it.’
‘What’s the challenge?’
‘I’m not going to say yet. I need to make a few arrangements first.’ He drains his cup. ‘See ya.’
He leaves without the usual kiss, or slap to my thigh, or growly bear hug.
I feel like I’m losing him already.
***
‘Dress for sex.
Take a taxi to Brace Street and go into the Peep Show at number 5. Tell whoever’s behind the counter that you’re here for Mr Bulgarov. He’ll direct you up some stairs. We’ll be waiting for you on the top floor.
You should be there for eleven.
L.’
Lloyd is out for the afternoon on a procurement job, so this message arrives by email with the heading, ‘Challenge’.
I read it through three times before I realise that the Peep Show on Brace Street is the same one I once performed at, the one below the illegal gambling club where Lloyd used to run the bar.
This gives me an immediate and consuming sense of unease.
If I emailed him back, ‘Yes, I’ll move in with you’ … no. I have the feeling this challenge will be about confronting something. Something I don’t want to confront, but perhaps should.
Dressing for sex involves squeezing into a beribboned black satin basque straight out of the Moulin Rouge, together with G-string and matching teeny ruffled skirt. Lace-topped thigh-high stockings are next, then I pull on an expensive tuxedo-style jacket, which covers more than the skirt even bothers to attempt.
In the mirror, I look template-sexy, but I can see the vulnerability behind the lipstick and the false lashes. All the same, the basque and other fixings are like a uniform, pulling me out of self-doubt and into a professional frame of mind.
Lloyd sometimes accuses me of approaching sex as if it were a job, and I can see his point. I am my own harshest Performance Reviewer. My objective is always to provide an unforgettable fuck, the best of whoever’s life. If I don’t achieve this, then I mark myself down, consider myself unfit for promotion.
Eliciting an emotional response has never been on my job description, but now it’s happened, I don’t know what to do about it.