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prostitution.’
    ‘Pretending. So it’d all be a bit of a game.’
    ‘Sure. A bit of fun, for pay.’
    ‘What if you wanted to have sex with a client? And they wanted it too?’
    ‘What if, what if.’ He smears on the last of the cream and recaps the tube. ‘What is this?’
    I sigh. ‘Oh, nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
    ‘Your voice. You are not fine.’
    ‘I am fine. Really.’
    He helps me off the vaulting horse and holds me against him, his lips on my hair. ‘This sex is very amazing,’ he says. ‘Thank you for it.’
    I am instantly cheered. ‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You’re more than welcome.’
    ‘I wish I don’t have to start work in half an hour. But I must go. I book a room for next Saturday, right?’
    ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah. Think my bottom might have recovered by then.’
    ‘OK. But I go for the dungeon. I think we do bondage next, yes?’
    ‘Uh. Yeah.’
    ‘Good. So how about we get quick cup of coffee now. Get your coat.’

Chapter Five
     
    What with one thing and another, we didn’t get the chance to meet up again until Saturday. If he was free, I was in the office. If I was free, he was in the restaurant kitchen. We had a couple of text catch-ups during the course of the week (Him: How is your ass? Me: Bruised! And so on) but didn’t really speak.
    I spent long days longing for him, trying to keep his image alive in my mind’s eye while I wrestled with advertising copy and the many childish distractions of life in a modern media industry.
    Anton worked hard to drag me away from my preoccupations. He got free tickets to a red carpet premiere in Leicester Square, then an invitation to a private view in a local gallery. Between that and my seemingly unending sloganeering, I managed not to pine too terribly.
    On Friday afternoon, though, it nearly went horribly wrong.
    ‘You fancy hanging with me and some of the crew from the baby food account tomorrow afternoon?’ asked Anton in between bouts of Facebooking. ‘Thinking of heading up Westfield, then whatever.’
    ‘That’d be – oh, hang on. Sorry. Can’t.’
    ‘No? Date with Mr Mystery?’
    He had been teasing me about my ‘secret man’ all week.
    ‘No, just busy. Stuff to do.’ I was conscious of not looking him in the eye and shuffling stuff on the desk in an evasive manner.
    ‘Have I said something to offend you?’
    ‘No! Of course not.’
    ‘Westfield’s a bit weak really, innit? What if I said somewhere else? Where do you want to go?’
    I found the courage to look up. ‘Nowhere, mate. It’s cool. We’ll do something on Sunday if you want.’
    He brightened. ‘Nice one. Brunch? Hampstead Heath?’
    ‘Get your kite out.’
    ‘I will! Well, I would if I had one.’
    ‘Sorted.’
    Ten minutes of silence while our heads went back down to our computer screens.
    ‘Definitely a brothel,’ he said, out of the blue, pulling me away from my air-freshener radio ad.
    ‘What?’
    ‘That place.’ He jerked a thumb towards the window, indicating Kinky Cupcake.
    ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘Just saw this blatant ho come out the door. Skirt up to her arse, heels like Nelson’s Column, corset and a dog collar.’
    ‘Perhaps that’s just her style. Not very nice to call women hos, Anton.’
    ‘Style? It’s nasty. Saw a really weird guy come out of there earlier on too.’
    ‘Did you?’ I hoped to God I wasn’t not blushing too much. My heart was skittering.
    ‘Looked like one of the Village People but skinnier. I reckon they have male and female hookers in there.’
    ‘Right. Which Village Person was it? The one with the huge feather headdress?’
    ‘Nah. Which was the one with the huge ’tache?’
    My heart stopped for a beat.
    Coincidence.
    Paranoia.
    Stop it.
     
    * * *
     
    I want to ask him about it, but I manage to head myself off, concentrating instead on small talk about his crazy flatmates and the film I saw with Anton, while we sip at our Kinky coffee.
    ‘I miss you this week,’ he says, putting a