Time drags so slowly, it’s like the day is clogged with sticky viscous stuff, and yet at 6 p.m. I can’t believe it’s 6 p.m. The rituals for the night of subterfuge are about to begin, and it’s time to don my disguise in the form of make-up, curling-tonged tresses and maximum exposure gear. I must get some time alone with Irina to get paid, and tell her about Mark’s ‘mishap’. That morning-after pill has to be swallowed within seventy-two hours of the incident, and I’ll have to get tested. Been there before, and I really don’t fancy having to do that every few days – I’d be sick as that dude in the jungle after he swallowed some liquid of the gods. I remember thinking at the time that it was their gods he was drinking down and they might not like it, and sure enough, angry eruptions poured out of him. Mark is not anyone’s god, to be sure, and his liquid has no place inside of me.

How do you insist on them wearing one? There should be a training manual and video: how to use coercive charm to make a punter put a lid on it! I couldn’t even get the guys in school to wear one, so what hope if the guy is paying? When he’s paying he is a god – I’ll have to work on strategies for that one. I wonder why they don’t put us on the pill and pump antibiotics into our system.

Roomie doesn’t look like she’s moved since the morning, glued as she is to the bondage book. I wonder if she’s preparing herself for the worst, learning some tips of the trade. I tell her there’s chicken curry in the fridge, full of veggies and homemade goodness. Someone, somewhere, is cooking good wholesome food for us girls. Important to present a glossy package. She thanks me and closes the door without making a sound. Ok, I get the point, Princess, I’m a bit of a heffalump with my slamming of doors and thumping around – a habit I acquired in the early days, just to get a rise out of Mother. Habits are hard to break, even when getting a rise out of her wasn’t necessary any more – her rage had permanently risen.

Just as Roomie leaves, Irina appears with her bag of tricks. ‘How was your first night?’

I tell her about him not using a condom, a lid, a cap, a sheath, a protective cover (just so she gets the picture) three times.

She shrugs. ‘It happens. Here.’ She hands me a morning-after pill.

‘I can’t take that now. Last time I took one of those I was sick for two days.’

She roots in her bag and takes out another kind of a pill. Hello, Floaty, my old friend.