Of course one had done jobs for Laura while at drama school, that was not prostitution. I am a virgin and wish to stay that way, Mavis chuckled, remembering Claud fumbling up from the waistband of her jeans, his hand trapped between vest and tee-shirt. ‘And a virgin I will be,’ Mavis hummed. Ah! The signal had turned green, cling cling went the telegraph. She could hear the train shriek on the far side of the hill as it plunged from the cutting into the hillside. If that’s not sexual, I don’t know what is, thought Mavis who, while avoiding personal experience, had read a lot of books. As she snatched up her bags in readiness for the train she felt a surge of excitement as sharp as sex. I shall not be an understudy for ever. She heaved her bags onto the rack. I am not mislaying my virginity. Oh no! she vowed as she settled into a corner seat, not if that’s what it leads to, she thought, as her ears reacted to the screams of an infant across the aisle. Oh Jesus, no! she thought as the infant’s sibling lost its footing and fell flat, its precarious balance faulted by the train jerking into motion. Claud is not all that attractive, she thought. All that can wait, what cannot wait is my career.

Mavis took cotton wool from her bag and stuffed bits into her ears, a practice she had learned when doing prep while her mother watched soaps on television. Settling in her seat, she stared out of the train window but she did not see the scenery flash by. She only saw herself and her future.

Claud watched Laura open the oysters; at any minute he expected the lethal knife to slip and her bright blood gush. Would it look like ketchup or blood orange juice as it dripped over the oysters? He had once watched a large red moon rise from a backdrop of oystershell cloud. ‘Do be careful,’ he said, appalled by the risks she was taking. The moonrise had presaged a violent storm.

Laura eased an oyster from its shell, pinched a drop of lemon juice onto it and handed it to Claud. ‘Try that.’

Claud bit the oyster, swallowed. ‘Heavenly.’

‘Bread and butter, pot boy!’ Laura shouted.

‘Coming, you great bully.’ The boy, who had resumed his apron, came rushing from the back of the wine bar, long strides threatening to trip him. He carried aloft a dish of brown bread generously buttered.

They had the bar to themselves, all other lunchers having long gone. ‘What’s your name, pot boy?’ Laura offered the boy an oyster. ‘Like one?’

‘Yes, please.’ The boy swallowed the oyster. ‘The name’s Terrence, not Terry. Thanks.’ His Adam’s apple wobbled in his thin throat. ‘Looks like you’ve forgotten me,’ he said. ‘I’m the boy you used for that experiment, remember, plaster cast it was.’