I try to twist from under him without waking him and reach for the bag and the phone. I’ll hook up to the net and see how the world is getting on. Imagine a selfie here now? Imagine Luce’s face if I sent her a video? I wonder can they trace you by making updates, posting shit?

I track that thought to its furthest edge but it kind of slips away from me. I just want to let Luce know I’m ok. Am I ok? You’re fine, kiddo. This is it: the good life, the chandeliers, the champers, the middle-aged rich guy. I have to remind myself I never liked it anyway. Love is for suckers. Then Eminem’s lyrics are bouncing around my head: You think I give a fuck? Hello, Emmy, my old friend. Mr Em is my soul mate; I reckon he’d have done exactly the same thing if he’d been a girl and hadn’t become a huge star. Imagine the insides of his head? Maybe I should start writing it all down. I think of Ms White’s words: ‘Powerful, Samantha’, the page topped with a gold star, ‘where does your imagination come from?’

The phone is a dud and it won’t hook up to the net. I tap in a random number and it doesn’t connect, and I try another. The phone is for incoming calls only, for them to keep a track on me. I dial 999. Nada. Have they not got a hotline to someone, in case there’s an emergency, like in case one of these guys decided to get too kinky, like maybe strangle me or something? But then if there were big hands around my neck I wouldn’t be able to move to get the phone, to make a call. I can feel the acid rising in me, alongside a harsh sort of laughter.

I’m a bit sore, it has to be said. I wonder was it all too soon, although Hatchet did clear me for business, and she should know, being a nurse and all. I slip out of the bed. Yer man is snoring away goodo, so I glug on the remnants of the champers and pull back the curtains, peering out the crack. There are lots of peeps milling about out there. Good windows, must be triple-glazed or something, can’t hear a thing from outside, it’s like watching a film with the sound turned off: so many drunk girls out there, in their high heels and little skirts. I wonder how many of them will go home with some guy they’ve just met. How many of them will really want it? How many of them will wake up in the morning not knowing where they are? At least I’m being paid. Anyplace but home.