I’m on the way home thinking over the conversation with Gavin by the secret smoking corner. None of it makes sense. Stephen was paid to talk to me? It makes no sense.

Gavin’s snidey giggle about talking for money is true. Who pays someone to talk to them at a bar for an hour or two?

I’ve only gone a couple of miles when I pull into a layby and turn the engine off. My brain is hurting from trying to force the memories. It would explain why Stephen chose to speak to me instead of the smattering of other people in the bar. It now fits why I found him so charming and why he seemingly thought the same of me. I wondered those same things at the time, suspecting that perhaps he had a thing for older women.

In all honesty, I didn’t care. He was young, handsome, intelligent and charismatic. I’ve not had anyone like that pay attention to me in a long time. I’m not sure about ‘MILFy’ but there was a big part of me that hoped he did have a thing for older women. It was exciting, making me feel important and wanted.

I now remember a really clear thought from the time. We were sitting at the table by the window, looking out over towards what I know now is a chapel. We were trying to figure out what it was, speculating that it might be an elaborate shed for a demanding gardener. It doesn’t sound like much now but, at the time, it was hilarious. I turned to him and took in this beautiful man and thought, why should all the skinny gym girls have all the fun?

It crossed my mind that I would be cheating on Dan. I’ve never been with another man since marrying him, despite the way we’ve argued in recent years. We had already agreed to separate and I wondered if this counted as adultery. I was still wearing my wedding ring, yet Stephen either didn’t pick up on it, or didn’t care.

My relationship with Dan in recent times has very much been something like don’t ask, don’t tell. He’s had weekends away at teaching conferences, nights away for courses. More recently, he’s been at the gym a lot; or he’s said he’s at the gym a lot. I’ve considered that he might be doing his own thing with another woman – or women – but I’ve never asked because I didn’t particularly want to know. Without the truth, the illusion of our marriage could continue for Olivia; with it, everything might come tumbling down.

I thought about all of that in the moment by the window with Stephen – and I decided that if he wanted me, then I wanted him.

But I don’t remember much after moving from the table back to the bar with him. It’s only vague flashes after that. After waking up in my car, I assumed I’d been drinking – but Gavin says I only had three glasses of wine. That sounds about right. Two or three is my limit nowadays, especially when I’m out.

There is a blurry flash of the lifts, that jackpot machine dinging which I found hilarious for no reason. I was leaning on Stephen as I giggled myself stupid and then… we were in my room. Another smoggy memory of him lowering me onto the bed. He was telling me I was fine. The sheets were tucked hard and he lowered me down. I leaned in, kissing him on the neck, feeling that prickle of stubble against my lips. He said something like ‘that’s nice’ and then… I was in the car in that field.

But none of it was real. Stephen was paid to be with me.

So who paid him? It wasn’t me.

And was he paid to sleep with me?

If he was, then I’m almost certain he didn’t. Perhaps it was because I was too drunk, perhaps he changed his mind. I’m sure I’d know if we’d done that and am about as convinced as I can be that we didn’t. It didn’t stop me wanting to. It didn’t stop me kissing his neck, or spending the night flirting.

---

Googling male escorts is an eye-opener. There is so much bare flesh on display that I could’ve accidentally clicked onto an advert for a butcher’s shop. I narrow things down to this area and find a couple of online agencies advertising ‘male company’. I never realised there was such demand for this sort of thing and it all looks so official. On most sites, there are price lists and a phone number to call. On the first site, there is a ‘companion’ page, with half-naked photos of twenty or so men. Their heads have all been cropped out but each man has a good dozen professional pictures.

It feels creepy but I’m not sure what else to do, other than scroll through the images. As people say: it’s hard work but somebody has to do it.

There’s nothing that seems familiar on the first two sites – but that’s hardly a surprise. I don’t hang around with many bronzed, muscled gym-goers.

It’s on the third site where I find myself staring at one of the photos. I’d clicked past it and have to go back, eyeing the spiky tattoo on the man’s upper arm. It’s the type of tribal markings that are sometimes on display at the beach or the pool. The sort of thing appropriated from Pacific Islanders without context or care.

This man is a little different from many of the others. He doesn’t have the thick chiselled muscles, nor the bloated upper body. He’s tall and lean, with definition but nothing over the top. His torso is waxed smooth in a couple of the photos and he’s wearing a suit in some others.

I return to the tattoo photo and stare. It seems familiar and yet I don’t remember seeing one like it up close before.

None of the companions have been given names, they’re anonymous bodies categorised under various search terms, such as hair colour and body type. There is a button at the bottom, which reads: ‘To book, click here’.

I do precisely that – and then I’m left open-mouthed at the result.

There is a phone number but no other contact details. My heart flutters as I hover a thumb over the button to call. Calling an escort agency isn’t the type of thing I’d ever thought I’d do. Should I? Stephen must know that I wasn’t the one who hired him and I can’t imagine he’ll tell me over the phone who paid him. Why would he?

I suppose there’s only one way I’m going to be able to talk to him properly…

As I press the button to make the call, I close my eyes and hold the phone to my ear. It rings once, twice, before it’s answered.

It’s a woman’s voice, though it’s hard to judge the age. She sounds officious and organised.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Can I help?’

‘Oh… I was hoping to talk to Stephen. I might’ve got the wrong number.’

‘This is the right number. I take Stephen’s bookings for him. How can I assist you?’

She’s calm and it sounds as if she’s done this a lot. It dawns on me that she’ll be the person who takes all the bookings from the site – not only Stephen’s. She will get a cut of whatever they make and it’s probably her who organised the professional photos. As with the stun gun, I have no idea if this is legal. This is all a new world to me.

‘Oh…’ I’m stumbling still off guard from hearing a woman’s voice. ‘I was hoping to book a meeting with him. I, um… not a meeting. Sorry, wrong word.’

She sounds warm, as if she’s heard all this before. ‘It’s okay, my love. I know what you mean. When were you thinking?’

‘Today…?’

‘I’m afraid Stephen’s all booked up for today. I do have some lovely other options you might be interested in?’

‘No. I really wanted Stephen. When is he next free?’

There is a brief pause and I can hear my heart thundering through the silence.

‘Stephen has some time tomorrow,’ the voice says.

‘Okay, that’s good.’

‘Where would you like to meet?’

‘I’ve not really thought about it. Where do people normally meet?’

I’m stumbling over my words like a nervous child about to go on stage for a Christmas nativity.

The woman remains perfectly calm. ‘Some prefer a public place like a restaurant,’ she says. ‘It depends what you’re after. Sometimes it’s more private, like a hotel room.’

She lets that hang but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what is being implied.

‘A restaurant,’ I say. ‘I’m only looking for company, not for, erm…’

‘That’s absolutely fine, my love. Do you know which restaurant?’

The only one I know in this area is at the hotel – and I can hardly suggest there, not if either Peter is on reception or Gavin’s at the bar.

‘I don’t know the area well,’ I reply. ‘I’m here on business. Can you suggest somewhere?’

‘Of course. What type of food do you like?’

If I was being honest, I’d say chips from the chippy but that’s not the best of ideas. I tell her Italian instead because it’s neutral enough. ‘Somewhere quiet,’ I add.

The woman says she knows the perfect place and asks for a time. I ask if an afternoon is fine, assuming it won’t be, but it’s starting to sound like anything is doable.

We set the time for four o’clock at some place named Marco’s. She asks if I need directions but I say I have maps on my phone. I can barely remember the time when everything was atlases with curled corners tucked into a car door.

‘Are there any other requirements?’ she asks.

‘Like what?’

‘Any specific outfit you might want? Aftershave? We can accommodate many things…’

‘Just normal,’ I reply, not knowing what to say.

‘We can do normal.’

There’s an awkward pause because there’s only one thing left to discuss. It’s her who brings it up. ‘Have you seen the rates on our site?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how long were you looking for?’

‘An hour… no, two.’ I take a breath. ‘How do I pay?’

‘You can pay with cash placed in an envelope at the start of the appointment, or via credit card. It will appear as something discreet on your statement.’

‘I’ll pay cash.’

I hear the faint tapping of a keyboard in the background but it doesn’t stop the woman’s flow. She sounds cheerier now. ‘We’re all booked in that case. Do you mind if I take your name?’

There’s a split second in which I panic. I’d somehow not realised that she hadn’t asked for my name until now. I’ve started to say ‘Rose’ when it occurs to me that I’ve already told Stephen my real name. There’s no point in making him suspicious.

‘Olivia,’ I say. The first name that popped into my head.

I feel terrible straight away, even more so when the woman repeats it back to me.

‘In that case,’ she adds, ‘Stephen will see you tomorrow.’

I hang up and then finally open my eyes. The brightness of the sky burns green and pink stars into my eyes. I can’t afford five hundred pounds but I’m going to have to find it somehow.

The bar at the top of my phone is blinking red. My first mobile phone had a battery that would probably still have charge all these years on if I’d not chucked it out. Luckily, there’s a cable in my glovebox precisely for scenarios such as this. It was a birthday present, which sums up how much Dan and I have enjoyed our recent celebrations.

I unclip my seat belt and stretch across the gearstick, fumbling in the glovebox until I reach…

Something that isn’t a charging cable. Something far more ominous.

It’s a chain with a rectangle piece of silver attached to a clasp. The letters TY are engraved on one side; OD on the other.

Tyler and Olivia.

I stare at it, chasing the rough shape of the links with my fingers. It’s real, precisely as Olivia described to the police. Her birthday present to her boyfriend.

Tyler’s dog tag.