I make a snorting noise through my nose and the man who has chosen me to be his for the evening looks at me sideways. Is this little bitch laughing at me? I smile sweetly at him. Not you, kind sir, not you. I’m sitting on an explosion of laughter because I realise that I couldn’t tell Luce, even if I wanted to.

However, Doc O’D doesn’t know this. Why didn’t he ask to speak directly to me? Why didn’t he tell me to lean on him and then escort me out of there? Why didn’t he leave when he saw me? Why didn’t I scream at him, grab him by the coat or fall at his knees, tears streaming down my face? Why? Why? Why? He stands to lose a lot here if he’s exposed. What if he thinks this is my secret hobby or something, my secret shame? He’s probably able to justify the situation to himself: that one, Samantha Harvey, is well able to handle herself, she’s a randy little ticket, and I think back to his wink in the hospital cubicle that night – the wink that said ‘We’re in this together’. We can be the keeper of each other’s secrets.

My partner for the evening has his hand on my arse, now under it; his fingers are creeping up inside me. What is it about these men wanting to put on a display in front of each other? He’s like a tomcat spraying his territory. I must be a white witch or something, cos that’s exactly what this dude is into. He empties himself all over me.

‘Open wide, darling.’ Oh what fun, what power, what humiliation. I hate, with all my body, all my soul. I hate so much I become someone else. Tonight you are Linda Bellarusca and then after, you can become yourself again. I would never let this happen to you, Sammy, but Linda, well … she’s a tough old bird who can handle anything.

After Mr Tomcat has left, I go into the bathroom as Linda and come out as Sammy.

How the hell is Nico getting on with Mr O’D? It’s funny how un-shocked I am now the idea has settled into me. Nothing would surprise me now. Nothing. I’m unflappable – a favourite Ms White expression. I shake my arms like wings and twitch my tail feather. Flap. Flap. Fly away, birdie. Let no birds of worry make their nest in my hair. This was a favourite saying of Mother’s, before the booze took her over completely. ‘The birds of worry are nesting today,’ she used to say before she’d go to her room and pull the curtains. Safe in the dark, I’d put a warm facecloth on her forehead and stroke her hair.