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aristos. She emailed me asking if I fancied supper (her words, not mine). I agreed, and she said she’d pick me up at seven. I liked the fact that she had a car, but didn’t like the fact that she wouldn’t be drinking – it always relaxes things a little, you know.
    But I’d misread her email: what she had said was that she would have me picked up at seven, and have me picked up she did, as a car almost too big to fit up our street appeared and I got a text to wait downstairs. The girl was nowhere to be seen, and I was guided into the spacious interior of a Rolls by a butler who’d been resurrected just long enough for the assignment, and resentfully grumbled his way through delivering a shag to his employer’s little girl.
    It was a good gig, I’ll admit. She was some society heiress who’d been ditched by her fiancé, and although the very attractive picture she’d posted was more or less true, she’d been using her middle name and some distant aunt’s surname as cover. I was sworn to secrecy before I’d got so much as through the door of her suite at a rather exclusive Mayfair private members club.
    The setting was great, the set-up fantastic; the sex, I must say, was disappointing: a lot of barked orders and, when she did eventually come, the disconcerting experience of hearing a girl in her early twenties cry out ‘daddy’. It almost put me off my stroke.
    She seemed to get pissed off at my presence almost as soon as we separated. I ran a finger down her spine, hoping to let her know that there was plenty more if she wanted it, but she stalked away from the bed, disappeared into an anteroom or possibly just the toilet and returned almost totally hidden by a thick dressing gown.
    After a few minutes of surprisingly awkward silence – bearing in mind quite how vocal she’d been when ordering me to smack her arse cheeks as I fucked her from behind – I got the message and pulled on some clothes, and then left with little more ado. I even turned down the offer of another chauffeur ride home.
    Thinking about it, I think she was surprised at how much she’d been able to let go. I imagine her ex was some chinless inbred who could only get it up while looking at a portrait of his stately home and horses, whereas centuries of breeding on her side had designed a woman meant to close her eyes, lie back, open her legs and think of England, rather than the cross between a camp commandant and a vixen on heat that she’d shown herself capable of being. As I’d been there to see the performance, she wanted rid of me as soon as possible. I never saw her again, except in the papers a few weeks later, when her engagement to a Byelorussian billionaire was announced.

Chapter Sixteen
    Being shagged and dumped has never been too much of a problem for me, and I got over the business with the heiress in, well, seconds, I guess.
    Within a couple of days, I still had no job, but did have a couple more dates, this time from the profile I had online. I’d met a couple of girls via chat room websites. One thing they all seemed to have in common was that their constant need to exchange gossip, titbits and rumours was not just limited to the Web.
    One of the women I met was married, in her forties and keen on fancy jewellery and frilly knickers. Her husband worked on oil rigs, and so she had money to spare and six months of the year to herself, one on, one off, when her husband was away. I got the impression that as well as having a high sex drive that needed satisfying, for six months she also needed some company, but from someone who wasn’t going to make demands on the rest of her life.
    We met quite regularly for three weeks or so. Her husband had gone away and, as ever, she was back online with a false name, looking for fun. We met after exchanging a series of flirty emails and messages, and after a couple of drinks, found ourselves back at her place.