She was imperious from our first meeting, when she told me, ‘This is difficult work.’ She spoke from a shiny black chair, her back to me. I had the feeling the chair was hiding a truly powerful figure who wanted to keep her identity secret. A mafia boss, I decided, one who wouldn’t let me see anything but the smoke trails rising from her cigarette.

In her office was a glass cabinet. It contained opaque clues about her. Chemistry books, children’s stories, some VHS videotapes. I suspected she wasn’t a businesswoman and was puzzled as to why she couldn’t just hire almost anyone at random for the job; nothing in the key selection criteria stood out. Male. Minimum height 175 cm. Of sound mind. Not fat. What specifications there were emphasised appearance. Public relations, maybe? But why was she willing to pay so much? My situation meant I had little time for suspicions.

I was there because I was desperate. Predictions of a prolonged impact after the recent financial crisis had been rife, but I’d never imagined I would fall victim. At the beginning of the year, the promise of a pay hike drew me to a smaller company, owned by the son of el número uno in this country. Two months ago, though, murmurs about downsizing had started, and then I was sent packing.

After that came a series of unexpected setbacks. No company would take me on. My wife sold off her handbags one by one, which of course fuelled gossip about my hard luck. The crisis soon became an ugly test to discover who was in the outermost circle and would get bounced, and who – thanks to a wise selection of friends – remained on the inside. Like magic, most of those I’d assumed would spread a safety net for me disappeared. I became a leper.

My beautiful wife didn’t complain, but I knew she missed joining friends for dinners at restaurants or renting villas at weekends. When I heard that the ex-wife of a wealthy businessman was looking for someone to help out on a project, I sent a letter of application and my resume. The role itself was fuzzy, but it offered double my previous salary.

‘Six men have tried this work and they all failed,’ the woman warned from behind the black chair.

She was yet to arrive at the point so I broached it politely. ‘What kind of business do you run, madam?’

She sighed, softly at first, yet soon the sigh turned into laughter. Not the laughter of a colleague making you feel comfortable but the degrading laughter of a tyrant.

‘Oh, this work is important. Your services are sorely needed.’

For a while she said nothing more. Then, in language stripped of formality, she stated what she wanted. It made my face flush. I felt silly. She remained motionless and stopped exhaling her smoke.

The woman wanted to pay me to have sex with her.