The neon sign of For Your Eyes Only lights up the grubby street. Two large bouncers in white shirts and black trousers stand by the entrance, and for a moment Robin sits in his car and watches. It’s late, just past midnight. A busy time for strip clubs as pubs close and drunk, horny men need somewhere to go.

He gets out of the car and walks to the door. He waits behind two younger guys, their skinheads pink and glossy in the street lights, arms bare and tattooed, then pays his money and goes inside.

The music is loud, pounding out beat after beat in time with the throbbing in Robin’s head. The club smells of old beer, of sweat and cheap aftershave. His feet stick to the carpet as he goes to the bar, buys an overpriced bottle of beer and waits, looking around for Liv. He doesn’t know what she does here. He takes in the sparsely dressed waitresses and the women in less, barely underwear, rotating around the tables, smiling, no doubt trawling for private dances. He’s been to a few of these places in his time, but never this sober, and never this uninterested.

Two women dance on the stage, thrusting at a pole, nearly naked, throwing their hair around to the catcalls of the men watching. He wonders about Liv, about how she got into this. But then, which is better? Dancing and stripping on a garish stage, or shagging men privately, earning money while lying on your back?

Then he sees her, emerging from a door to the right of the stage. She’s wearing a low balconette bra, a thong and a pair of skyscraper heels. Her hair is large, her make-up overdone. He watches as she walks slowly round the tables, knocking a straying hand back, bending down with a grin to a punter, only to get a shake of the head in return.

But then she catches his eye, and her face instantly clouds. She walks quickly towards him.

‘You can’t be here,’ she snarls, a forced smile on her face. ‘I’m working.’

‘Talk to me and I’ll go.’

She glances to the side, clocks someone watching her.

‘Okay, but you’ll need to pay.’

‘What?’

‘You’ll need to pay for a private dance.’

He digs in his pocket for the cash, and then follows her into a small room on one side of the club. There’s no door, just a few low chairs, and Liv pushes Robin down onto one.

‘I don’t want the fucking dance, Liv,’ he replies.

‘They’re watching, now take your coat off and look like you’re enjoying yourself.’ He pauses. ‘Do you want me to get fired?’ she hisses.

‘Fine.’ He does as he’s told, and she slowly twirls in front of him. He doesn’t feel turned on, just awkward, not sure where to direct his eyes.