‘The client will decide what time he is finished. Don’t worry, he knows how this works. You will be brought back here when he is finished with you.’

‘Only one tonight then?’

‘Yes.’

I guess this is what they call ‘breaking her in lightly’.

‘He has paid already.’

The phone goes dead. A hand touches my shoulder. ‘Natasha?’

I turn to face ‘Mark’. He’s about fifty or so, hard to tell when they’re grey like that – his skin and his hair and his stubble. He’s wearing a shiny black leather jacket, a pressed shirt with the collar starched, and high-waisted jeans. His shoes are brown leather, pointed. Obviously he has no woman in his life to dress him. His skin is florid and flaccid, one of those pasty-faced Irish men gone to seed. Would he look any better in a suit?

‘The eagle has landed!’ he says.

I force my face into something resembling a smile, but it feels cracked, like I’m slathered in a dried mud mask. Maybe this is what that expensive foundation shit does to your face – mummifies it? Am I pretty, sir? Am I pleasing? The crack is where the light gets in.

‘What can I get you?’

I can hear the woman’s voice say, ‘Not too much alcohol’, just as I hear my own say, ‘Double wodka, please.’

He chuckles to himself. Glad I’m amusing you, sir. We sit at the bar, gulp back a few, make some polite chit-chat bullshit. He seems surprised that I’m Irish, though it doesn’t faze him, just makes him more excited.

‘You’re real name’s not Natasha, is it?’

Brilliant. I’m dying to ask him if he’s married. Does he have any daughters? Does he do this often? There is nothing about his demeanour that suggests he’s embarrassed. He’s getting redder and puffier in the face from the double measures of gin he’s downing, louder, drawing glances from the people around us.

I could still walk away from this. I could.

We’re in a lift going to the sixth floor when he pushes his bulk against me and sticks his tongue down my mouth. Did I ask for that, mister? The lift stops and he gets out. I follow, even though the kicking sensation has started deep in my stomach. He opens the door to room number 606 and I notice there’s a bucket with champers in it and a big fake chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling. I watch how the light plays on the bed sheets beneath it, turning everything into a dappled display of pyrotechnic wizardry: disco balls, fireworks.