‘I’m supposed to be there in half an hour and I can’t simply not turn up, because I was supposed to escort this guy out to some fancy dinner—Oh, God!’
The mere suggestion of food prompted another mad scramble to reach the bathroom on time.
When she finally emerged on wobbly legs Regan offered to call a doctor, but Cleo was adamant that she didn’t need one. ‘I just want to lie down for a while,’ she said shakily, homing in on Lisa’s cluttered bedroom and crashing gratefully across the unmade bed. ‘I have to warn Derek,’ she moaned piteously. ‘His phone number’s on his card in my evening bag—I think I dropped it in the lounge—keep trying him for me, will you? And if you get through, tell him what’s happened.’
‘Why don’t you just phone your date yourself and tell him you’re ill?’ Regan asked, unable to understand her obsession. What did one broken date matter to a woman who hardly ever went out with the same man twice?
‘Because I don’t have his phone number, that’s why—only Derek’s card, with the address I’m supposed to go written on the back and the time I’m supposed to be there!’ Cleo croaked, rolling over onto her back. ‘Hell, Derek’ll kill me if I mess this one up for him—he said he could get some really good accounts from this guy.’ Her former boyfriend was in advertising, and staying on friendly terms with him had landed Cleo several plum modelling assignments. ‘But what in the hell am I supposed to do, for God’s sake?’ she said, panic turning to petulance. ‘It’s not my fault I got sick!’
She dragged her arm from across her bloodshot eyes and glared belligerently at Regan, who wisely held her tongue. In her opinion Cleo’s hectic, party-loving lifestyle involved too much alcohol and too little food, and Lisa’s puppyish admiration for her glamorous elder cousin was leading her down the same path.
Her silence appeared to mollify Cleo, who interpreted it as sympathetic agreement, and in between violent bouts with the re-emerging curry she allowed the rest of the story to emerge: how Derek regularly set up dates for Cleo and some of her girlfriends with wealthy single men, the kind of men who were happy to reward a pretty woman who escorted them around town with expensive trinkets if she was willing to round off the evening in bed.
‘You mean Derek is a pimp!’ Regan gasped, her eyes rounding as Cleo’s busy social life suddenly acquired a shocking new perspective.
‘Of course he’s not!’ Cleo roused from her torpor to snap. ‘He just does a few favours for people who might one day be in a position to do him a business favour in return, that’s all. None of us makes any money out of it; it’s not like it’s a call-girl operation, for God’s sake—so you can stop looking so bug-eyed with disapproval! It’s just consenting adults being introduced to each together and…well, consenting!’
After her initial mental recoil Regan was filled with a morbid fascination. ‘But…you said that the men rewarded you for sleeping with them…’ she probed.
‘Yes, but only with jewellery, not money,’ Cleo tossed back scornfully, as if it made all the difference in the world. And perhaps it wasn’t just semantics, thought Regan, her emotions churning in dark turmoil. At least both participants in the transaction knew the score, and there was no intention to deceive with any romantic pretence of love and caring.
What would it be like to make love with someone on a purely physical basis? she wondered with a shivery thrill. Without the pretences. With a stranger. Someone who had no preconceived notions about your desirability, or your ability to respond, who just wanted a lusty romp in the hay with no questions asked…
An idea, as bizarre and impractical as it was wicked and daring, slyly insinuated itself into her consciousness. After all that had happened was she going to continue to allow herself to be a victim, crippled by the lies with which Michael had ruthlessly manipulated their marriage, or was she prepared to reach out and grab at a chance to shatter his power over her for ever?
‘A glamorous party, some recreational sex and a gold bracelet or a pair of diamond studs to wear home afterwards…what more could a girl ask of a date?’ Cleo boasted feebly, waving a limp hand and drawing Regan’s attention to the thick chased-gold bangle clasped around her bony wrist.
She stared at it as if hypnotised, goaded to ask, ‘But how can you? I mean, what would happen if you found the man—you know…physically repulsive?’
‘I don’t have to have sex with them if I don’t want to, it’s not compulsory,’ Cleo said through gritted teeth, distracted by another threatening liquid rumble in her belly. ‘Derek never promises a guaranteed score—that would be tacky. Anyway, sometimes all they want is to show up somewhere with a flirtatious woman dangling off their arm. But most times it doesn’t end up platonic, because I don’t see anything wrong with sleeping with a guy you’ve just met if he turns you on, and since Derek only does favours for the movers and the shakers of this world…well, power’s a great aphrodisiac in itself, isn’t it?
‘It so happens most of them are a hell of lot more virile and attractive than the average Joe Loser who tries to pick you up in a bar and thinks the price of a drink entitles him to a night in the sack! As if!’
Regan had been an earnest, nineteen-year-old virgin studying pre-law at university when she had first met Michael. She had never been picked up in a bar either before or since. She had never even wondered what it might be like.
Until now.
Now she was wondering about all sorts of things that she had never before considered.
‘What’s his name?’ she ventured. ‘The man you’re supposed to meet tonight?’
‘Oh, God, who cares?’ Cleo groaned, rolling off the bed to hit the floor running. ‘Look, just get hold of Derek and let him sort things out, OK? I don’t give a stuff what happens all I want is to be left alone to spew my guts out in peace!’
So Regan left her wallowing in her misery and went to rifle the contents of the sequinned purse she picked up from the floor of the lounge. From it she extracted Derek’s business card, and, after a moment of shocked contemplation, one of the packets of condoms that Cleo obviously considered essential dating equipment. Surely she hadn’t expected to use all four packets in one night!
Pushing that daunting thought aside, and acutely conscious of time ticking away, Regan hurried through her nervous preparations, hampered by her restricted access to the bathroom. Luckily she had washed her hair that morning before work, so a quick shower sufficed, and she borrowed some of Lisa’s manufacturers’ samples to experiment with a bolder style of make-up which made her violet eyes look provocatively large and heavy-lidded. Her hand shook as she carefully applied a thick coating of black mascara, her mother’s oft-repeated catch-phrase ringing silently in her ears: A painted woman is the devil’s handmaiden.
Fortunately for her nagging conscience, Saleena arrived home just as Regan was ready to leave, and she was able to gratefully hand over the responsibility for their miserable guest.
‘I was going to study for next week’s exam,’ Saleena had protested mildly, her exotic brown eyes taking in Regan’s uncharacteristic glamour. ‘But I suppose I can keep an eye on Miss Chunderful while I’m at it, to make sure she doesn’t drown in the toilet. Where’re you off to?’
‘I have a date,’ Regan replied, fussing with her hair in the hall mirror so that she didn’t have to look her flatmate in the face.
‘No
