He had been vague about who he was; she knew that he was in some position of power in the government, he was secretive about his personal belongings, his whereabouts, his work, his wife and his three children, and he travelled a great deal. Where to? she would ask. He would answer by giving her gifts. Chocolates from Switzerland. A wool shawl from Russia. A rug from Afghanistan. Jewellery from Morocco and Istanbul. He has taste, she thought. Apart from the rather dubious fire-red Ferrari he drove whenever he came to meet her.

A man of mystery. A man of some taste. A man of interminable lust.

Whenever Marina met him, she would be summoned via SMS to a hotel and be greeted by a butler at the entrance of the hotel and taken to a room that smelled like a boudoir. There were always fresh flowers, lilies and orchids, and champagne in a bucket. If he was running late, Marina would surf through the channels on the television, drink, order room service and prepare herself for him. Her legs smooth, nipples darkened with rouge, her privates waxed completely, and her desire growing by the minute. And when he appeared, he would come to her, kiss her all over, tell her how beautiful she was. And his penis was always hard, always, timing those blue pills perfectly, so they would fuck again and again, eat, drink, and fuck again, until the sun rose and he would rise to leave after breakfast—a full English breakfast with real bacon—and she would lie in bed, have yet another shower, drink until the bottle was empty, nap under those Egyptian cotton sheets, order lunch, eat, watch silly sitcoms, and then finally, leave.

And Mr Ferrari would SMS her or call, and say—Thanks for a lovely evening, I look forward to seeing you again, soon. X

Always the same message. Such a creature of habit, she thought. But she liked it, she had come to treasure it. She needed consistency in her life, and now she had it. From a man who was greying, portly and squinty-eyed, but a man who obviously felt for her, and maybe even loved her, a man whose name she did not even know.

It was this that kept Marina going, and when she was back in the back alleys of Chow Kit, giving a blow job to an Indonesian construction worker who smelled of concrete, cigarettes and sweat, she knew that Mr Ferrari would be there again next week, and the week after next, waiting for her.

* * *

Marina had been ill so I went to see her in Chow Kit. I brought her herbal chicken soup from a Chinese restaurant in PJ. It came in a clear plastic bag inside a larger pink plastic bag. Alba insisted on carrying it as we walked back to the car.

I want carry, she said. I want.