The car slows down in a brightly lit street, which seems pretty swanky: posh bars and bistro-type French places, a whole strip of them. People are queuing, and bouncers with tough, appraising faces look the line up and down, letting only the good-looking girls in, only the youngest.

Mr Charmer opens my car door. ‘You ok? Need some air?’

I shake my head. I’m cold in my get-up and can feel people’s eyes on my goosepimply flesh. ‘Let’s go inside.’

He shakes his head. ‘This is where I leave you. Go straight in, sit by the bar. A guy called Mark will come find you.’

So, Mark, hey? I think of my cousin, who’s a pretty decent guy and a primary school teacher. Wouldn’t it be a scream if it was him? Oh, such a scream.

I teeter past the bouncer, who I swear licks his lips as I pass him.

‘Why is she going on through? We’ve been here for ages …’ I hear one of the women at the top of the queue whine. Because, love, in all seriousness, you need to knock a few pounds off, a few years off, and a few layers of threads off. The bubble of funny is beginning to form. I can walk in a straight line. No one is immune to my charms. The whole room is a sea of craning necks, and not just the men, the women’s eyes burn into me. I have never felt so visible, or exposed. Jesus, it’s not like I’m doing a Gaga on it, wearing only a thong and black lacy push-up bra. I wonder if any of them have seen my face staring out at them from the page or the screen. Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have been sent somewhere so public, or maybe they’re just bargaining on the fact that no one would recognise me in this gear, or maybe in places like this people know not to ask questions.

I sit at the bar, open the cream patent handbag the woman handed me as I was leaving and see the bottle of lube glinting at me. I push it to the bottom of the bag. She’s also stocked it with a mirror, lipper, brush, mascara, condoms, blusher, those painkillers, baby wipes (gross) and a new phone. Oh and fresh undies. She thinks of everything, that one. Except she didn’t tell me when it was time to go home.

Did yer man in the taxi say something when I was out of it? There were no instructions like: 3 a.m. at the front door. I don’t even know where that house in the ghost estate is. The phone rings.

‘Has he arrived yet?’ The woman’s voice sounds more foreign coming over the phone.

‘No.’

‘Good, drink lots of water and smile. He’s a very important client.’

‘What time am I being picked up?’