Stephen is already sitting at the restaurant table when he realises who I am. I approach quickly and he starts to stand with an awkward ‘oh’, but I’m moving too fast. Before he can step away, I take his wrist and squeeze.

‘Sit,’ I say.

Seeing his face up close makes my memory of the other night so much clearer. He’s not quite the image of perfection I’d convinced myself he was. There’s a spot under his chin and the hint of wrinkles around his eyes – but he’s still good-looking. He’s got dark designer stubble and his hair is thick and swept back as if he’s on a cliff-top photoshoot.

‘Do you want to make a scene?’ I ask quietly.

The restaurant is far from full but Stephen glances around at the meagre number of patrons and retakes his seat.

The person from the agency who I spoke to on the phone chose well. Marco’s is a nice place. It’s all high ceilings, bright lights, potted plants and gentle music. I imagine it’s the type of place with a wine cellar, or where companies will book the whole place out for a Christmas party.

Stephen is looking anywhere but at me. I was ten minutes late, wanting to make sure he was in place so that he couldn’t spot me early and disappear.

Before either of us can say anything else, the waiter has swooped, filling glasses with water. He has a Mediterranean accent that sounds a little exaggerated and says he’ll be back shortly for drinks orders.

I sip the water, waiting for Stephen’s attention.

He stares at a spot towards the door, doing all he can to avoid my stare.

‘You were far chattier the other night,’ I say.

‘Yeah, um… I think I should probably go.’

‘I think you should stay.’

He doesn’t move, so I reach into my bag and remove the envelope, pushing it across the table. ‘That’s your five hundred,’ I say. ‘Count it if you want.’

Stephen reaches for the envelope instinctively but withdraws his hand without picking it up.

‘My daily limit at the cash machine is three hundred,’ I tell him. ‘I had to split it between my credit and debit cards. It’s all there.’

‘You should keep it. I’ve got to go.’

He starts to stand but I grab his wrist once more, squeezing harder this time. ‘Sit down and listen to me.’

The woman two tables away has noticed something’s happening and is starting to stare. Stephen flashes her a toothy grin to let her know all is well and then he slips back onto the chair. He’s in a slim-fit suit, with a skinny tie and glimmering cufflinks. It’s a bit overdressed for an afternoon in this Italian – but I’m not fussed if he stands out.

‘What do you want?’ he asks.

The waiter arrives before I answer and I order a sparkling water. Stephen says he’s fine with the standard table water and the server scuttles off once more, clicking his heels as he goes. That’s his actual heels. He’s wearing a pair of Cubans, adding at least half an inch to his height.

I have a large sip of my own table water, taking my time.

‘I think you know what I want,’ I reply.

Stephen’s fiddling with his cufflinks, spinning the crystal stud one way and then the other. It’s far too shiny to be a real diamond. He says nothing.

‘Is Stephen your real name?’ I ask.

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s probably a work name.’

He shrugs.

‘You get paid to spend time with women.’

Stephen undoes the cufflink entirely, dropping the two pieces into his jacket pocket. He wriggles his shoulders and slips the jacket off before starting to roll up his shirt sleeve.

‘You spent most of an evening with me and yet I never paid you,’ I say. ‘That means you either did it out of the kindness of your heart, or someone else paid you.’

He undoes the other cufflink, puts that into his pocket and rolls up the second sleeve. That done he presses his forearms onto the table, interlinks his fingers and leans forward.

‘That’s private,’ he says.

‘Are you joking?’

‘Does it sound like I am?’

He stares at me now and there’s little trace of the flirty stare I so remember. He’s not angry; he’s cornered and doesn’t know what to do. He’s older than I thought; older than his profile claims. There’s no way he’s twenty-four, he has to be at least thirty. The creases around his lips are the giveaway.

‘How can it be private?’ I say. ‘I thought you were interested in talking to me. I thought we had a fun evening. If I’d known you were being paid—’

He cuts me off: ‘Then what? What would have been different? All of that still happened. Why does it matter?’

‘It matters to me.’

He holds up both hands. ‘How? Explain it. Is music better if you get into a gig for free? Is a meal better if someone else pays? The experience is still the same. If you enjoyed something, then what does it matter about the other stuff?’

I start to reply but realise that I don’t have an answer. I’m not convinced it’s the same thing and yet there’s an element of his argument that’s unquestionably true. The parts of the evening I remember were good.

He shows no joy at leaving me speechless and I get the sense he’s argued this point in the past. Probably to friends, possibly to girlfriends. Maybe even his parents.

Before either of us can say anything else, the waiter hustles over with glass of fizzy water for me. He asks if we’ve had a chance to look at the menu but I tell him I think we need more time.

I wait until he’s well out of earshot and then lean forward, speaking firmly but quietly. ‘You conned your way into my bedroom.’

His eyes widen: ‘Now you are joking.’

‘Why would I be joking?’

He stares, his perfectly manicured eyebrow twitching: ‘Don’t you remember?’

‘Remember what?’

‘That evening.’

‘Flashes – that’s all. I remember eating by the window and then going back to the bar. I remember the lifts kept dinging while we were waiting to go upstairs. You lowered me onto the bed in my room. That’s it. I think I drank too much.’

He leans in slightly and then presses away again. It’s like he’s trying to read my mind, to make sure I’m not lying.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘I really should go.’

I end up banging the table with my palm. It’s louder than I meant and the three or four couples dotted around the restaurant all stop to look. The envelope of money remains untouched on the table.

‘You owe me an explanation,’ I hiss.

Stephen glances around and sighs. The other sets of eyes slowly shift back to their own tables. Of course, it’s at this minute that the waiter reappears, full of a thin-lipped smile.

‘Have we had a chance to examine the menu yet?’ he asks.

‘Can I have the spaghetti bolognaise,’ I ask.

I’ve not looked at the menu but spaghetti has to be a solid bet in an Italian.

The waiter smiles and makes a note on a pad before turning to Stephen: ‘And you, Sir?’

He sighs again but doesn’t touch the menu.

‘Order something,’ I say.

The waiter turns between us and there’s a moment in which it feels like we’re all looking to each other. He knows something odd is going on but can’t delve into what. Instead, he asks if we need another minute.

‘No,’ I tell him firmly and then turn back to Stephen, repeating that he should order something.

‘Lasagne,’ Stephen says. He hasn’t looked at the menu either.

‘Very well, Sir.’

The waiter collects both unopened menus and does a very good impression of someone who has witnessed a perfectly normal occurrence.

‘Who paid you?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on. That’s rubbish.’

‘It’s really not.’

‘So how was it set up?’

‘It’s private.’

Stephen squirms like a kid on a church pew and I realise that the confidence is all a shield. He’s immature, probably broke. This is one of the few things he has going for him.

‘This was off the books, wasn’t it?’

I’m not sure how I know but Stephen gives enough of an answer by wriggling even more.

‘I’m going to call your boss,’ I say. ‘That woman from the website. Ask her if she knows you were working for someone else on Monday night.’

‘Don’t!’

He hisses the reply and then glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s not being overheard. ‘Please don’t,’ he says, far more quietly.

‘So tell me.’

He sighs again, checks around to make sure nobody can hear and then lowers his voice so that I can barely catch the words. ‘It was all on email,’ he says.

‘How did someone get your email? I thought it was done through a website?’

‘It is… well, it usually is. I’ve got two mobiles – one for work, one for me. I’ve also got a few email addresses. Sometimes I give my actual number or email to a client.’

‘The person who contacted you is a former client?’

He bites his lip and shakes his head: ‘I’ve been doing this for years. At first it was just the odd woman but then I started telling people they could pass it onto their friends. I probably get half a dozen emails a week from people I’ve never met. My details have been passed on so many times over that it’s not really a secret any longer.’

‘What does that mean?’

Stephen presses back and runs a hand through his hair. He glances across to the waiter, who is perched on a stool at the bar, pretending not to watch us. He’s well out of earshot.

‘It means I often meet women who’ve not gone through the agency,’ Stephen says. ‘They say they got my email or phone number from a friend and I take it at that.’

‘You make more money if you arrange things yourself…?’

‘Obviously.’

I don’t know enough about the industry to know how things work but it sounds genuine enough. I have another sip of water, taking a couple of seconds to think it over.

‘Who emailed you asking you to meet me in the hotel?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

He’s unrolling his sleeves now: ‘It’s the truth.’

‘How much were you paid?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘How were you paid?’

‘PayPal.’

‘Is DBA Enterprises something to do with you?’

He looks at me blankly and pouts a lip. ‘Should it be?’

I try to look for any sort of tic to say he might be lying – but there’s nothing. I’m not convinced I know when someone’s telling the truth anyway. I couldn’t spot the truth from my own husband a few hours ago. Just because Stephen doesn’t know DBA Enterprises, it doesn’t mean the thousand pounds that left Dan’s credit card wasn’t funnelled through some other account before being sent via PayPal to him. That’s low on my priorities for now.

‘What happened in the hotel?’ I ask.

Stephen bites his lip and frowns. He seems confused. ‘We ate, we talked and we drank.’

‘Then what?’

‘We didn’t sleep together.’

I was almost certain of that anyway but breathe out in relief. I might tamper with evidence but I’m not an adulterer. Bully for me. ‘You were still in my room, though…?’ I say. ‘You helped me into bed.’

‘I made sure you were safe.’

The word stings. I start to say something and then stop myself. ‘Safe from what?’

His eye twitches as he realises he’s said too much.

‘What did you do?’ I ask.

He rubs his forehead and squeezes his eyes closed tight. As I watch him, an ominous creeping sensation starts to ripple through me. The dawning realisation of something I should have figured out before.

‘I only had three drinks,’ I say. ‘You spiked me, didn’t you?’

Stephen doesn’t reply, instead screwing up his lips and chewing on them. His allure has long gone and he looks like a man whose life is crumbling in front of him.

‘What was it?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come off it.’

‘I really don’t.’

‘So how did you get it? Why did you do it? Were you going to rob me?’

He shakes his head. ‘It was all in the email,’ he replies.

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s said.

‘Someone emailed you asking to spike my drink?’

It’s barely there but he nods. He glances to the waiter again but nobody has moved. No one can hear us. ‘They wanted me to befriend you and then slip something into your drink. They said it would be funny – that you’d find it hilarious.’

‘Hilarious? Are you joking?’

‘I wish…’

He can’t look at me – but the same is true of me. I can’t stand the sight of him. It feels like I’ve been invaded.

‘I thought you didn’t know the person who paid you?’ I say.

‘I don’t.’

‘So how did you get the pill or whatever it was you put in my drink? Do you have that sort of thing lying around?’

Stephen is barely moving. His head is in his hands and he’s staring at the tablecloth. ‘I got it in the post,’ he says. ‘They said they’d send it and it arrived a day later. They said it would dissolve in a drink and it did.’

‘What was it?’

‘I don’t know. Probably Rohypnol, something like that.’

‘You put Rohypnol in my drink and thought that was fine…?!’

I’m on the verge of shouting but also on the brink of not caring. He shushes me and I’ve never been closer to hitting someone in the face. I’ve never been violent, never had those urges and yet my fists are clenched. The whole of my upper body is coiled. I’m not sure how but I manage not to shout or lash out.

Stephen must see the fury in me because he leans in again, his voice low and pleading. ‘They said it was a joke. That you’d think it was funny. They said you prank each other all the time. I wasn’t going to do it, but…’

‘But what?’

He shrugs, not needing to say he did it for the money. He’s either an idiot, dangerous, or both. Someone sent him a pill in the post which could have been anything. It could have poisoned me but he slipped it into my drink anyway because of the pay-off. I can barely comprehend it – but, if I’m honest, when it comes to money, people have done far worse things for what would likely be far less. Junkies have mugged and killed for pound coins. Pensioners have had their houses burgled while they sleep for the contents of their purses and wallets.

‘Why’d you need the money so badly?’ I ask.

‘Do you care?’

‘Perhaps.’

With all sense of decorum gone, he wipes his nose the back of his hand and cleans it on his trousers. ‘Online poker,’ he says. ‘I spent over a hundred grand last year. I’m constantly moving money between three credit cards just to pay rent.’

He’s right that I don’t care – but at least I have a degree of understanding.

As if reading my mind, he glances to the envelope on the table but doesn’t reach for it.

‘Is there anything you won’t do for money?’ I ask.

He’s past caring as well. ‘Not much.’

‘How much were you paid for me?’

There’s no delaying this time. He answers straight away: ‘A grand.’

I wish I could be surprised but I’m not. I wonder how Dan got hold of Stephen’s details, or how he knew about Stephen’s financial problems. It could have been luck, or perhaps Dan cruised a host of websites and tried multiple people before stumbling across Stephen. Perhaps someone turned his request down but gave him Stephen’s email address and said to try him instead. I’m not sure it matters. It’s the here and now that counts.

‘What did you do after taking me to my room?’ I ask.

‘Put you to bed.’

‘And…?’

‘And I left you. The email said to put the door on the latch so they could walk in. It said they were going to surprise you.’

There’s something terrifyingly creepy about the way he says it. He must have known how vulnerable I’d be. I was left on a bed, barely conscious, with the door unlocked. Anyone could have walked in.

It’s hard to contain my emotion. I’m scared of what might have been and I’m so furious that I have to grip the arms of my chair to stop myself shaking. I can barely get the words out.

‘What was the name on the email?’ I hiss.

He shakes his head. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘I still don’t believe you.’

He looks around, hoping the waiter will save him. Either that or a meteor.

No such luck.

‘You’ve still got the email, haven’t you?’

He swallows and rolls his eyes. I know I’m right. Without me having to ask, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a phone. He shields the screen with one hand, scrolling with the other and then re-pocketing it.

‘What was the name?’

He shakes his head but I push the envelope across the table towards him. He takes his time, looking for the absent waiter, then to me, and then he picks up the money. He folds the envelope without checking the amount and pockets it.

‘Tyler,’ he says. ‘The name on the email was Tyler Lambert.’