That’s cos my knees stop traffic. Pity I’m not a few inches taller and I could storm into one of those modelling agencies that I’ve read about, except I’d need to have parental consent. No consent needed for where I’m about to go, what I’m about to do, no height restrictions necessary. ‘Being flippant,’ that counsellor said, ‘is a way of deflecting from the real feelings … a coping mechanism.’ I knew what she meant, even though I laughed straight into her face, spraying her with spittle.

‘There are certain things I won’t do,’ I say, trying to assert myself. ‘Not from behind, not on my knees …’

‘This can be pre-arranged,’ she says, ‘but obviously we have very little control over what goes on behind closed doors. We can give them the menu, tell them what is allowed, but there are hazards involved once you’re alone.’

I think back to sex education class with Sr Wendy: ‘Men are wild beasts when they’re aroused.’ I choke on a laugh that is pushing back fear. That’s ok, I can manage them, find a way to tame the beast. I think of the guy from the bench and know I have a way to go yet: I’ll have to develop strategies.

‘Because of your age,’ Hatchet goes on, ‘I’m sending you to a place that is more tightly controlled than others. The clients are vetted and known, in the main, although as I say, there is no telling what can happen behind closed doors.’

I imagine a line of pompoms, faceless cheerleaders, a chorus of high-kicking legs, bravura voices: ‘Go, Sammy, go.’ What does it mean to be a ‘vetted’ client: swabbed? I doubt it. Police checked? Even more unlikely. This is a risky venture, no doubt, but then, I’ve not exactly been risk-averse til now. I have to remember it’s just until I’m eighteen and then I can go work legit. Doing what? Luce is always telling me what a great actress I’d be. By then I’ll have a world of experience, I’ll be able to buy my own place, get an agent. Yup. I congratulate myself on a workable four-year plan. Mr Kelly, the career guidance teacher, would be proud of my forward thinking. I crack up, rivers of tears and snot flowing.

Hatchet sits and looks until the storm has passed. ‘You sure you’re up for this? There are other ways, you know.’

‘What do you get out of this?’ I ask, when I can speak again.

‘A one-off sum,’ she says. ‘And the woman who runs the house will get a percentage of your earnings.’

‘That’s a whole load of moola for doing nothing.’

‘Count yourself lucky,’ she says. ‘Some of the girls from overseas are sold by family members or friends and spend their lives paying back their owners, earning nothing. Most of them never get out.’