There was an awful pause, and I saw the look on Alysha’s face shift from one of seductive confidence to abject horror, as she sensed that she had misunderstood the situation. I was mortified for myself, and I could have become angry if I had wanted to, but I felt a rush of sympathy, an odd sensation, since my feelings towards her were usually confined to desire and shame. After a few seconds, Jessica burst out laughing.

She offered Alysha a coffee, and had the grace to slip out into the kitchen, closing the interconnecting door behind her. Alysha apologized profusely, stroking my arm and repeating herself in her confusion. It was the work of a moment to discover the mistake – Laura had gone down with flu, and though I wasn’t due to see Alysha until two weeks later Laura had called her and asked her to cover. Laura had not picked up her messages that evening, as she was in bed at her mother’s. Someone in my building had left the downstairs door on the latch, and rather than exposing herself to the cold and the whistling of passing bankers she had simply come straight up. She peppered this explanation with further pleas for forgiveness, and begged me not to tell her boss at the agency about the mistake. I assured her I would not, and found myself trying to explain my relationship with Jessica, quite as inarticulate and stumbling in my way as she had been.

‘She’s not my girlfriend, I mean she’s a friend, an old friend from college.’

‘I’ve gone and fucked things up, yeah?’ Alysha asked, and the look of panic crept back into her eyes.

‘No, no, it’s not like that at all. As I said, you know, she’s a friend, and she’s pretty broad-minded. She won’t think too badly of me . . .’

She looked away, and nodded to herself. I was afraid I had insulted her. Then she folded her bare arms over her chest as if cold, though the flat was warm. I could see she suddenly felt ridiculous in her beautiful clothes, not seductive but overdressed and silly. A terrible notion suddenly struck me, that she might think I had meant Jessica did not mind that she was black, rather than that she was a prostitute. Or ‘escort’. She reached up with one hand and began unconsciously to finger the lobe of her ear, a gesture I had never seen in her before. Again, I felt compassion like an irritating itch at the back of my skull. To fight the feeling off I summoned an image of her from some weeks before, kneeling naked in my living room with her hands on my buttocks, pressing her face down against my crotch. I pictured the scene from outside myself, from the perspective of a voyeur standing in the far corner. She gave head like the girls in the movies. The image could not hold, and I saw her again standing in front of me, her arms wrapped protectively around her chest, cradling her dignity. I did not want to see her like this, and I did not want either of these people to get a glimpse of the other part of my life.