‘Shall we go?’ Rupert asks, and before I can agree, he imperiously clicks his fingers for the bill. Outside, Rupert hails a black cab. It is such a warm evening that I carry my coat in my hands. Rupert gives the address to the cab driver and we climb in. My dress rides up my thighs, and when I try to pull it back down, Rupert puts his meaty, white hand over mine and in a firm voice orders, ‘Leave it.’

Embarrassed, I look into the rearview mirror. The taxi driver is observing us. Wordlessly, I drape my coat over my exposed thighs and knees and turning my face away from Rupert, stare out. Damn him. As I gaze unseeingly out I feel his hand slide under my coat and settle on my thighs. Biting my lip I try to ignore the hand, but it is steadily slithering upwards. When it is almost at my crotch I catch the offending hand in a firm grip. I turn to him and look him in the eye.

‘We don’t have a deal yet.’

‘True,’ he says in a mild and reasonable way, and retracts his hand, but the smile on his face is taunting and smug. He has already figured out that I need the money desperately and my body is my last option.

The rest of the journey passes in silence while my stomach churns. I am so nervous I actually worry I will lose the few vegetables I did eat on the floor of the cab. Fortunately, the taxi turns into Bishop’s Avenue and we come to a stop outside a large, white, three-story Regency house. There are fancy cars parked bumper to bumper along the length of the street.

Rupert pays the cab driver and we walk up a short flight of steps to a set of black doors. Rupert rings the bell and through the tall windows I get a glimpse of the kind of people that I have only seen in magazines: immaculately dressed and dripping in jewelry. I look down upon my cheap orange dress in dismay. I try to pull at the hem, but my efforts at modesty are counter-productive, as more of my cleavage falls into view.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rupert lies cheerfully. ‘You’ll do.’

A round man in an old-fashioned butler’s uniform opens the door. His manner suggests disdain. He can tell instantly we do not belong. Rupert haughtily informs him that we are guests of Blake Barrington. The man’s eyes register recognition and a glimmer of a smile surfaces. He nods politely and stands aside to allow us in. I fill my lungs with as much oxygen as I can and enter the grand hallway. Inside I stifle a gasp at my splendid surroundings.

From outside it had not appeared so large and spacious. Now I understand what Rupert meant by the smell of old money. I have never been anywhere so beautiful. The walls are covered with museum quality paintings. I gaze up with awe at the cherubs and Madonna-like women looking down at me. They are so beautiful that I want a closer look, but Rupert is guiding me firmly by the elbow towards a sort of anteroom where a young woman takes my coat in exchange for a ticket.

From two open doorways live classical music and voices emanate. A waiter carrying a tray of champagne stops in front of us. I hardly drunk at the restaurant in an effort to remain sober and level-headed, but now I know I must be drunk or I will never be able to go through my deal with the devil. A pasty white devil with dandruff.

I take a glass, and with a restraining hand on the surprised waiter’s arm, drain the tall flute. The bubbles hit me at the back of my throat and make my eyes water. I return the empty glass to the tray and snag another two.

‘Thanks,’ I say breathlessly, and the waiter, a young Mediterranean type, allows his dark, restless eyes to wander down to my chest.

Rupert watches me with feral, excited eyes. He wants me drunk. He has plans for me. By the small of my back he guides me into one of the rooms. Surreptitiously, I note the other women’s clothes. Classy, understated and expensive, very expensive.

I feel many pairs of eyes on me and it is impossible not to be aware that I stand out like a sore thumb. I turn resolutely away from their openly condescending gazes and look towards the string quartet only to find their eyes on me too. Damn that Barrington guy for inviting us here. Defiantly, I suck my champagne glass dry. Another waiter passes and I pull another glass from the tray.

‘Go easy,’ Rupert warns.

I turn towards him with a bright smile. ‘I thought you wanted me drunk and pliable.’

He takes my elbow and leads me deeper into the room close to a large palm plant. With his back to the party he says, ‘I don’t like fucking inert bodies.’

My eyes widen. Still the champagne must have already gone to my head for I feel inordinately courageous. I’m ready to talk terms with him. ‘Right, you don’t want inert bodies. What do you want, Rupert?’

From the camel’s lips came cold breath. ‘Have you read Fifty Shades Of Grey?’

Almost all the other girls at the agency have read the book and I have been present while they have raved about it, but I have been confused by its popularity. Did women really have a secret desire to be owned by a powerful man? Could it be love when a man wants to tie you up and flog you raw? When I mentioned it to my mother, she smiled and astutely remarked, ‘The Western woman sneered at the woman in the purdah and now she dons a dog collar and worships at the same altar.’

I look into Rupert’s pale eyes. ‘No, but isn’t it about a sick man who abuses his lover?’

‘Perhaps it is not a sickness, but a matter of taste.’

‘Is that what you want from me?’

‘Not quite. What I really like is taking a woman by force. A dangerous activity likely to end me behind bars, so I am willing to settle for consensual rape. You will meet me in parks and alleyways, or I will pick you up in my car from a street corner and you will pretend to resist while I overpower you and rape you. There will be a bit of pain and sometimes it will involve a little bleeding, but I will never mark your face or leave any permanent scars. And when I am finished I will leave you in the gutter to make your own way back. Would that be acceptable to you?’

Shocked to my core, I hear my own voice as if from far away ask, ‘How many times would you expect this…service from me?’

‘Let’s say five times?’ Rupert’s face freezes into a cold, calculating mask. A businessman to the end. Ten thousand must be the going price.

I feel as if I am a stick-figured bird precariously perched on a thin wire. Can I really agree to let someone rape me? Even with all the champagne sloshing inside me I find I am unable to speak. I nod.

‘Perhaps I should let you lick the brim to taste the poison,’ he murmurs, and moves closer to me. Instinctively, I take a step back on my tall shoes, and if not for the solid wall against my back, I would have fallen. With the trailing fronds of a palm tree and his big body hiding me from the party his hand comes up to pinch my right nipple. So hard I gasp in shock and pain.

He takes that opportunity to crash down on my parted mouth, bumps his teeth against my lips, and pokes a pointy, muscular tongue into my mouth. His tongue tastes coppery and bitter.

Copious amounts of saliva pour into my horrified mouth making me want to gag. The oysters I have not eaten but watched him eat flash into my mind. His tongue feels slimy and dirty. It makes me want to brush my teeth, rinse, spit, and rinse again with the extra-strong mouthwash that my father used to have in the bathroom cabinet. I truly, truly need to go somewhere and be sick, but pinned tightly to the wall by his strong ox-like body I am totally unable to move.

I feel his hand force itself between my thighs and slide up quickly. His rough, sausage-like fingers are already grasping the rim of my knickers and pushing the material aside. And there is not a single thing I can do about it. Helpless tears gather at the backs of my eyes and begin to roll down my face.

Suddenly he removes his smelly mouth and looks down at me. My face, I am certain, must be white with horror and I am gasping for breath. My distress seems to please him and my suffering appears to have brought him pleasure. Without knowing it I am playing the part perfectly. If I had enjoyed it, it would have spoilt it for him.

He brings up a hand and touches my face. ‘For most part the symptoms of excitement and fear are so similar most men cannot tell the difference. I can,’ he whispers close to my ear, the thick fingers of his other hand moving into the folds of my flesh. ‘I am going to finger-fuck you amongst all these high and mighty people and none of them will ever know.’

At that moment I am filled with an unspeakable loathing for him. My brain scrambles for escape. ‘Don’t you care,’ I whisper back, ‘what these people will think of us? Of you? I thought you were pleased to be in the company of the crème de la crème of society.’

His laugh is harsh and sudden. ‘Did you see anybody come to greet me or talk to me? I am as invisible as you are, probably more so. Nobody is looking at us, because nobody cares about us. We are the outsiders.’

Desperately, I push the palms of my hands against his chest. The nausea is already almost in my throat. I must be sick. ‘I need the toilet,’ I gasp.

He hesitates for a second and then he smiles. It is the smile of a man who is too pleased with himself. ‘It’s not very posh to say toilet. This lot call it the loo. Go on, then,’ he says, and steps aside.

The first thing my shocked, ashamed eyes meet is Blake. There is a blonde in a long red dress wrapped around him, but he is staring at me with an expression on his face I cannot fathom. His eyes are blazing.

For a moment I stare back. Then I snap my mouth shut, tear my eyes from his, and pushing myself away from the wall take a step forward. My knees feel shaky and I am terrified I will fall, but I do not. I just need to get away. Away from the scene of my humiliation. I sense heads turning to watch me, disgusted expressions and haughty whispers. I stumble away towards the doors hardly able to control the rising nausea.

I don’t dare open my mouth to ask anyone where the loos are, but I spot two young women disappearing down a corridor and I stagger after them. They lead me to a cloakroom and I rudely push past them, ignoring their offended cries of ‘Hey’. I run into one of two cubicles and falling to my knees violently throw up the bits of vegetables I have eaten and almost all the champagne. One of the girls asks if I am all right and I choke out, ‘Fine’.

I hear them go into the other cubicle and lock the door.

I sit back on my heels and the hot tears come. I cover my mouth to muffle any stray sounds. I have made a complete fool of myself. What do I do now? What can I do? Numbly I hear the girls in the next cubicle giggling about what all girls giggle and chat about—men. Then my ears pick up the sounds of them snorting lines of cocaine. When they leave I flush the toilet and open the door.

Miserably, I walk towards the very large ornate, gilded mirror stretched across the wall. The other toilet seems to be in use and a thin woman with immaculate hair is perched on one of the gold and cream chairs waiting her turn. There is an air of superior calm about her. Her eyes meet mine briefly but curiously, before she enters the cubicle that I have vacated.

I stare at myself in the mirror. My face is deathly pale and the cheap mascara I purchased from the market is smudged and running; my lips look as if I have smacked my mouth on a wall, and my eyes are red and puffy from crying. This is what Blake Barrington saw. I look like I feel. Soiled.

The woman in the other cubicle comes out. She looks identical to the woman who had perched on the chair before. With a quick, surprised glance at me, she goes to stand at the other end of the mirror. She pats her immaculate hair, brushes away imaginary specks of dust from her soft pink dress suit and leaves.

I turn on the tap and rinse my mouth with plenty of water. Scooping water in my palms I wash my face with hand soap and scrub it dry with a paper towel. Without my make-up I feel defenseless and naked. But I’m not going to try and put lipstick on these swollen lips.

I hunker down and weigh my situation.

There is a sick pervert out there who wants to rape me and leave me torn and bleeding in alleyways. Five times. I could walk away. Say fuck you. Actually, no I can’t. It is so much money. And he knows it. I need that money. I consider taking the money and not delivering. What could he do? It’s not like he could go to the police or I would be running a refund desk. Then I remember his eyes. How cold and dangerous. No. Anyway, I have always said, I’d rather be the one who bought the Brooklyn Bridge than the one who sold it.

Again my thoughts turn to the Barrington man. Why is he still in my mind? Probably the way he looks at me. No one. Absolutely no one has looked at me like that.

I indulge in a moment of fantasy. Perhaps he really wants me. He is filthy rich so he will simply give me the money I need. Gallantly, he will then fall in love with me and we will marry. As I am standing inside my dreams another woman opens the door and enters. It is the blonde in the red dress. She is tall and severely beautiful with an aristocratic nose and bottle-green eyes. She has the same superior air of all the people at this party. The same air that Blake Barrington has claimed for himself.

I cannot help but watch her through the mirror. Our eyes meet for a second, then hers slide away, but in that second there is pure speculation. Everybody knows I do not belong.

I look at my reflection. Who am I kidding? Blake Barrington is the biggest cheese on the board. Simply the way Rupert behaved in his presence told me that. He was probably looking at me because I am dressed like a hooker and he thinks I am one. The only real thing I have is my mother. And there is nothing I will not do for her. I think of my father. How easily he had walked away when we had needed him most. How weak his love for us had been. Mine is different. I will not walk away even if I have to walk upon a path of thorns. Bleed in alleyways I will. And that will be the test of my love.

I will not let myself be distracted by anything. I will survive any sexual humiliation Rupert can dish out. Five encounters? My champagne-addled brain scoffs, that’s fucking nothing. The beautiful blonde has turned away from the mirror and entered one of the cubicles.

Blake Barrington is welcome to her.

I straighten my spine. I can do this, I tell my reflection. I love you, Mum, better than Dad did, much, much better. I practice the smile I will bestow on Rupert in the mirror, and despite the revulsion in my belly I tell myself that when I am old and wrinkled I will be glad I made this sacrifice. The price will always be worth it. Then there is nothing left to do in that opulent loo, but to walk out of it, and face my decision, and the lengths I will go to for my mother.

I open the door and my heart drops.

Blake Barrington is lounging casually against the wall of the corridor.