‘The girls loved Francis. I mean I know it’s their job to make every guy think they love him, but they really did. It wasn’t just that he was young and good-looking and generous with tips, whilst most of their clientele were tight and ugly, though I’m sure that was part of it. And I know that everyone loved Francis, but these were people who looked like they weren’t much used to loving anybody, you know? I think Francis chose that place specifically, I mean it wasn’t a dive, but he could have afforded much better. The girls were just beautiful enough for you to fall in love with them, but not so beautiful they wouldn’t be interested in you. The place was so seedy it reeked of exploitation, and I think he liked that too, because he came in like a breath of fresh air. All of the girls had accents: Eastern European and African mostly. Anyway, the first time Francis took me upstairs to the brothel, he chose this sweet girl called Misha. She was Polish, but she spoke fluent English. I think she must have been about nineteen. She had only worked there a little while, and she told me the other girls didn’t like her very much, because she got a lot more attention and made a lot more money than they did. Francis would go downstairs and pay – it was always payment first – for a couple of hours of her time, and she would take off her clothes. She let me arrange her with her arms behind her head and the cum-stained rug lying loosely over her thigh, just like the girl in the picture, and I would draw her. At first she felt ridiculous, you could see it in her eyes; she would fidget and even try to initiate sex through sheer awkwardness – you know, tug the corner of the cloth away and start touching herself, or put a finger into her mouth, as if that was what she really wanted. After the first few times, though, she started to like it. Francis told her that I was a brilliant artist, that the paintings were going on display in galleries and rich people’s drawing rooms, and she began to love the idea of being part of something important. Of being valued, of being essential even, a kind of muse. Francis would stay in the champagne room playing with the other girls, and leave us alone. She used to talk to me while she posed, as we spent more time together, and tell me about herself, and I started to like her. I really felt that some element of her, of her reality, entered the drawings, and made them come alive. By the end, for a couple of hours on a Saturday night, I think the two of us felt genuinely happy. The room smelt like semen and cheap perfume and sweat and champagne, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had been done in there, what she had done in there, in that little scarlet box near City Road. But still I forgot why I was drawing, and she forgot where she was, and that was when I created the best version, the version we finally used. I remember I used to wish I could draw her in my own style, paint her in my own way. I promised myself that after the picture was done I would come back and draw her for myself. I used to think about what it would be like to take her out for lunch, how she would look in the daylight without her make-up on.’