titillating about prostitution.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
He saw that she didn’t believe him. She said, ‘Whatever you say. The truth is, it’s dirty, monotonous and depressing. Occasionally, it’s dangerous. But most of the time, it’s as routine as any nine-to-five. Except we tend to work p.m. to a.m.’
‘How many days a week did you work?’
‘I’d say four to five, averaging five clients a day, at thirty to eighty pounds a go. Some days you get no one, other days you lose count.’
‘What kind of people?’
‘A mixture of regulars and one-offs.’
‘Can I ask you the most obvious question?’
She guessed what that was. ‘How do I do it with someone I find repellent?’
‘Yes.’
‘The same way a lawyer does his business with a criminal he’s sure is guilty. Dispassionately and professionally.’
‘But this is your body we’re talking about.’
‘Exactly. It’s not my soul – my spirit – so it’s not the real me.’
This time it was Stephanie who saw that her answer was doubted.
‘What do they tend to be like?’
‘They’re mostly middle-aged, mostly married. There are one or two who are nice enough – they tend to be the regulars – but the rest are wankers. Especially the ones who try to bargain. I mean, it’s bad enough without having to explain to some tosser that I’ll open my legs for eighty but I won’t for forty. Then you get the guys who can’t get it up or who can’t come. They’re the ones who are most likely to get abusive. They’re also the ones most likely to cry. But the ones I like the least are the macho ones who insist on the full half-hour – not a minute less – and are determined to try to break some kind of ejaculation record. It’s like some kind of virility test they have to pass. They’re pathetic.’
‘Do you have to see so many of them?’
‘Why? Do you think I enjoy it?’
‘No. But five clients a day at eighty quid a session, that’s four hundred pounds. Five days a week makes two grand.’
‘Let me explain something to you. Firstly, not all punters want, or can afford, the full service, so it’s not eighty quid a time. Then there’s rent. I paid a full rent to Dean West, my landlord. I also paid protection to him. If I’d gone outside him, I’d have had to pay a full commercial rent but I’d also have had to pay someone to take the flat in their name, since no agency is going to lease a place to someone who doesn’t even have a bank account.’
‘What?’
‘That’s right. No bank account, no National Insurance, nothing. And whoever rented the flat on my behalf would probably have skimmed some more off the top. Then I had to pay the maid – she cost fifty quid a day plus ten percent of what I made. On top of that, I had the cards to pay for. That’s twenty pounds for a thousand and ten pounds to the carder for every one hundred he stuck in a phone-box. And now that British Telecom is clearing some phone-boxes up to four times a day, that’s a hell of a lot of cards we’re talking about.’
‘I never really thought about the details,’ Proctor admitted.
‘No one ever does. The truth is, it’s bloody hard work.’
Proctor nodded. ‘It sounds rough.’
‘It is.’ When it looked as though he might be about to say something sympathetic, she cut him dead by adding: ‘But not as rough as the ride on North Eastern Airlines.’
He reached inside the fridge for the bottle and replenished their glasses. She shovelled some of the vegetables into the wok. The oil spat.
She said, ‘Did you know that they never found David? All the others were eventually identified – God knows how – but David was one of the twenty-eight they never recovered.’
‘No. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’
Stephanie shrugged and seemed surprised at herself. ‘I don’t even know why I mentioned it. I mean, what difference does it make?’
Half an hour later, they had eaten. The topic of conversation had changed and so had the mood.
Stephanie said, ‘It’s my turn to ask you something personal.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Are you gay?’
‘What?’
She wasn’t sure whether he was merely surprised by the question, or angered by it.
‘Are you gay?’
‘What makes you think I might be?’
‘I haven’t seen you with anyone.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been away a lot.’
‘I know. While I’ve been here. And no one called. At least, no one personal and female.’
He smiled at her analysis. ‘In answer to your question, no. I’m not gay. I’m just busy.’
Stephanie gathered their plates and took them through to the kitchen. Proctor followed. She placed the plates in the sink and turned on the cold tap. Proctor was behind her, but closer than before. She knew he would touch her before he did. He placed a hand on her hip and kissed her on the ear. It was a little peck followed by: ‘Thank you. That was delicious.’
The cold water was running over her hands. ‘It was nothing.’
‘It was thoughtful.’
He hadn’t moved away. He’d waited for a response, some form of rejection. There hadn’t been one and he took this as a sign of encouragement. He placed a hand on Stephanie’s shoulder and slowly turned her around. She let him. This was a moment that had been coming for a while.
Stephanie’s curiosity was marginally stronger than her trepidation. Proctor kissed her. He was tentative and closed his eyes. She kept hers open and never blinked. His hands moved around her, from the shoulders to the small of her back. Her lips felt numb against his.
She broke the kiss.
‘Are you all right?’ he murmured.
She recognized the sensation; the tension of a guitar string on the verge of snapping. Her pulse quickened, her fingers flexed.
He lowered his face towards hers once more, reading her silence as acceptance. But she turned her face away, grabbed his arms and pushed him back. If he was surprised by the vigour of her rejection, he was utterly amazed by the look on her face. Her eyes were aflame. The bitterness in them superseded anything he had seen in her before.
