Wandering towards the back of the auction room, I want to kick myself. Or I’d prefer to kick Catalina for interrupting us when we were finally about to kiss. Thomas better not run away from me after his speech because he’s sobered up by then or changed his mind about me yet again. Now I’ll have to ply him with more champagne and prise him away from everyone else later.

A flock of women in brightly coloured dresses flutter past and I’m left wondering whether I should sit down or hover at the back so I can slip out before the auction begins. I don’t want to bid on the sick kids’ crappy artwork. The entire auction will be a tedious affair. I lean against the wooden panelling, nearly knocking over a fire extinguisher with my arse.

Jamal meanders over and stands by my side, presumably to check on my progress. Earlier he told me that he’d set up cameras in each room when he conducted his ‘security check’. He didn’t tell me exactly where they are though, or what excuse he’ll come up with to remove them after tonight. He must know what he’s doing though; after all, he was right that Christine wouldn’t come to the party. Which is worrying. Did he poison her?

‘Everything’s going according to plan, Master,’ I whisper to him in a fake Igor-like voice.

I expect him to say something evil in return, but he disappoints me by simply replying, ‘Good.’ Then he leaves my side, weaving around a group of old women, to sit down on the other side of the hall. Do I smell or something?

It feels weird knowing that I’m being paid to screw Thomas on camera tonight, but then this whole week has been strange. Maybe I should have told Amelia about everything, back when she was talking to me. I miss talking with her. She hasn’t replied to any of my daily grovelling texts saying, ‘I know I’m a shitty friend but I’m sorry.’ She would have helped me with Jamal if I’d told her the truth about him; she would have told me not to work for him.

I have no idea how dangerous he is though. What would he have done if I didn’t comply? Poison me too?

The room falls quiet when Catalina steps up to the lectern and introduces Thomas. She showers him with praise and mentions all of his charity work, how he became partner at his company and that she’s watched him ‘blossom into the man he is today’. She says how much of an honour it is to work with him and his company, and how she’s sure that he’ll go on to do even greater things in the future. At times it sounds like he’s dead and she’s standing next to his coffin reading out his eulogy.

There’s a deafening round of applause when Thomas walks towards the lectern. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. Happier than when we were at uni and he was drunk and high on weed. Happier than when he was fucking me and, weirdly, happier than when he came.

He starts his speech and I watch his ego grow, the room falls under his spell, and he probably gets a hard-on beneath the lectern because he thinks his speech is so fucking great. But in reality he’s only talking to a room full of his friends and colleagues, who of course listen to his every word as most of them have known him for years, some since childhood.

He says a million and one generic things, like how he wants the best for our community, for this city, for the country. He drones on about the importance of traditional family values, but then quickly drops in a mention about ‘culture’ and that he embraces everyone equally, and will fight for everyone’s voice to be heard. Yawn. He talks about everything apart from the reason he wanted to become a politician in the first place: because he has daddy issues and wants to morph into his father in front of our very eyes. At least I’m not being paid to sleep with Matthews Senior.

Suddenly everyone is clapping again and Thomas is standing there beaming with pride, but also staring straight at me across the entire length of the hall like he’s undressing me with his eyes. Damn, maybe he does want to shag me. Or giving a speech turns him on.

People stand up and carry on clapping, and I take advantage of the distraction and slip out of the room. I need a breather before I have to do the dirty deed. If he wants me, that is. Maybe he’ll run after me and we can go into Catalina’s office and fuck on her desk surrounded by all of her paintings of half-naked ladies.

Then suddenly I walk straight into Mark. What the hell is he doing here? He definitely wasn’t on the guest list. Tonight I was trying to forget about him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asks guiltily. ‘I thought you had a work thing.’

A blonde woman walks up behind him and puts her arm through his. She’s gorgeous and wears a skin-tight purple dress that just about covers her arse. Who the fuck is this harlot?

I try to play it cool. ‘I helped organise tonight,’ I tell him, trying not to glare at him or his date with evil, jealous-bitch eyes.

‘Oh. If I’d have known… Umm… This is Ursula,’ he says.

‘Hi,’ I say. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. Not only am I pissed off that Mark is a two-timing scumbag, but Jamal will kill me if he sees Mark here talking to me. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to check on something. You should go in. There are a few seats at the back. The auction’s about to start.’

After my award-winning performance of a scorned woman pretending to be an oasis of calm, I sprint away from the two of them. Away from the sickeningly gorgeous couple. Away from the man who I thought I had a connection with, but it turns out that I don’t because I was hopelessly deluding myself that he actually wanted something more than just sex. Away from the man that I slept with at the expense of my friendship with Amelia, and now I’ve lost her too. Away from all of my regrets.

‘Julianne –’ Mark calls after me, but I don’t hear what he says.

Amelia was totally fucking right about Mark. When he found out that I was busy tonight, he decided on Plan B: Ursula. At least she’s not Plan A. But was I ever Plan A? Were there other women above me?

I run into the main gallery again and spy the door to the small dining room where I almost kissed Thomas earlier. The gallery is empty with trays of leftover canapés, dirty napkins and champagne glasses littering the tables at the side of the room. Grabbing another couple of full glasses, I make my way towards the dining room, where I can hide again and drink in peace.

It’s dark in here, only a small table lamp lighting the room. Slumping down on the sofa, I listen to Catalina introducing the auction and talking about the children’s hospice and some of the kids’ stories. As I down my first glass, I try to blot out Mark’s shitty toothpaste-commercial face and the image of him dressed up like sex on legs in a tux.

Instead I imagine the elite snobs next door who are probably weeping into their monogrammed handkerchiefs when they hear of the pain the children are forced to endure, realising how lucky they are to have their vast piles of money to pay for decent private healthcare.

I put down my empty glass and pick up my second drink, picturing Ursula begging Mark to buy one of the worst pieces of art. Maybe the one that looks like two stick insects mating in an orgy of red blood (what the fuck was the kid trying to paint?). Then Catalina describes the first painting, not the stick insect one but a picture of a horse, and a bidding war begins.

Thomas bursts into the room, sees me and marches over. Oh, is this it? The moment I’ve been waiting for? Or that Jamal has been waiting for? Or the moment the anonymous creep who’s paying me to fuck on camera will wank over later?

‘Your speech was –’ I start, but then Thomas is kissing me, his tongue is in my mouth and the champagne glass slips out of my hand.

The glass bounces and rolls across the fancy Persian rug and champagne spills out in a wet arc, but Thomas doesn’t care as he feverishly covers my mouth with his.

Right now, I don’t care about the lying, cheating, bastard, son-of-a-bitch Mark. Or maybe I do, but I desperately want to forget about him. I don’t care that I’m being paid to sleep with a guy I barely know. I try not to think about the cameras pointed straight at me or what my flabby arse will look like when I’m naked. I lose myself in the headiness of what I hope will be heated, amazing sex.

Thomas’ hands are all over me; suddenly he’s slipping my dress from my shoulders and sucking on my nipples. He’s sliding my dress down further, kissing every inch of my torso, my collarbone, shoulders, biting into my neck. He catches my heel in the lace of the dress when he pulls it down around my ankles, then he throws the dress across the room.

For some reason I decided against wearing underwear tonight. Maybe because I knew that I wouldn’t need any. Thomas plunges between my legs and I have to bite down on my bottom lip so I don’t cry out when he goes down on me.

What if someone walks in on us? What if someone hears screaming from the room next door and comes to investigate? Fuck it, I don’t care. This is what I need right now. I want to fuck someone who isn’t Mark. I want someone else’s body to mark my skin, fill me up, make me moan beneath him.

Thomas tears off his jacket, then pulls down his trousers, avoiding the champagne on the floor. Sprawled out on the sofa, I watch him undress, praying that no one interrupts us. I grab a condom from my clutch and hand it to him to put on, desperate for him to hurry, desperate for him. I really, really need sex right now.

Suddenly he’s inside me, thrusting hard, and I’m gripping onto the sides of the sofa and trying to stifle my screams. He’s kept his shirt on, and I pull it up, wanting him to be completely naked. He stops and pulls his shirt over his head, throws it next to my dress, then carries on thrusting.

He’s better than he was over a decade ago – faster, harder, thrusting deeper. He’s bigger than I remembered and needier too, as if Christine’s never given him what he fully wants. He wants to feel as if someone wants him. He’ll want me on top soon, riding his cock like he’s got the biggest dick in the world and he’s everything I want and more.

The sofa starts to creak, groaning on every thrust, and Thomas tries to go slower but that doesn’t satisfy either of us. We change positions, and then I’m on top and closing my eyes, just focusing on sex instead of everything else fucked up in my life trying to push its way into my mind. I don’t want to think about anything else. I don’t want to be anywhere else.

I open my eyes and stare into Thomas’, his pupils wide and bleeding into his dark irises. Leaning down, I kiss him as I change pace and ride him slowly. There’s something sexy about knowing we don’t have much time until someone walks in on us, but wanting to go slow anyway and enjoy this moment. I carry on rocking my hips gently, watching how much he loves me dictating the pace, pleasure building up inside of me, and I moan against his mouth when I come.

He sits up and kisses me and then we half-roll onto the floor. I laugh and try to wriggle away from the wet champagne, but then I lose all sense of my surroundings when he starts pounding hard inside of me. I’m lost in an ocean of ecstasy. I’m trying hard not to scream; my legs are shaking, my hands braced against his chest, fingernails digging into his skin.

He puts his hand over my mouth so I don’t make so much noise, then instead slips two fingers between my lips and I moan around his fingers. Somehow he speeds up and thrusts inside me even harder. My elbows scrape against the hard rug on the floor, I feel sticky champagne wet against the back of my head, and it feels like I’m burning from so much friction.

He closes his eyes as he feels the pressure of his orgasm building, and we both buck our hips faster, desperate to come. I come when he does, trying not to bite down on his fingers, and he groans into my shoulder as his cock finishes pulsing.

We lie exhausted on the floor, still and panting. He opens his eyes and looks at me like he’s looking at me anew, maybe wondering how we got here and what happens now. I’m not sure whether guilt will overtake him and he’ll just get dressed quickly and leave, or whether he’ll be more of a gentleman, think that now we’re having some kind of affair, and we’ll kiss and leave the room together.

Does he want more than just tonight? Tough shit, if so. Now that I’ve slept with him, this gig is over. When I get the rest of my money, I’m out of here. No more office job, no more getting up early, no more being bored out of my mind, no creepy Jamal standing over me, no histrionics from Millie, no more wishing I could flirt so much better than I actually can.

Maybe I should feel guilty for what I’ve just done, for leading him on when I’m not interested. But he brought this on himself. If he didn’t want to cheat on his wife, Jamal wouldn’t have caught him on camera, and then he wouldn’t be blackmailed or whatever in the future.

Thomas sits up and doesn’t say anything for a while. He just looks at me like he can’t figure me out. I feel vulnerable lying on the dirty floor, so I sit up too. I don’t want to say anything and neither does he. An awkward silence fills the room and we both stand up and get dressed in the quiet.

I’ve no idea where he stashes the used condom. While he finishes adjusting his bowtie in the mirror, I pick up the empty champagne glass from the floor. Miraculously the champagne has blended into the pattern on the rug.

Then he turns and simply says, ‘I’m married.’

Like, what, he’s only realising this now? Is this his crappy explanation of telling me that this is just a one-night stand?

‘It’s fine if you don’t want anything more.’ I only needed to screw you once anyway.

I’m elated that this ordeal is nearly over. Maybe I’ll go on holiday. Somewhere hot and sunny; an all-inclusive tropical island paradise where I can relax for a month and figure out what to do with all of my money. Maybe that’s how I’ll make up with Amelia: I’ll offer to take her on holiday and it can be her luxury hen party before she ties the knot with boring David.

Thomas walks over to me and sort of clings on to the top of my arm, as if he’s patting me on the shoulder and about to tell me that he ran over my cat. Not that I’ve ever owned a cat. ‘I don’t know what I want. I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘That’s okay.’ It’s more than okay, because I’m not interested. Can I leave now?

‘I need to figure out what I want,’ he says, frowning, his confused thoughts playing across his face.

Then he pulls me towards him and kisses me, a slow and gentle kiss, before releasing me again.

He bites his lip when he thinks about what to say next. ‘I don’t want you to feel awkward at work. Just pretend that nothing happened between us.’

‘Okay.’ That won’t be difficult. Then I smile. ‘Like before.’

Suddenly a laughing couple bursts in on us. They’ve downed too much wine and look at us guiltily.

‘Sorry, wrong room!’ the woman exclaims and quickly shuts the door.

‘We should go,’ I tell him, grabbing my clutch and heading towards the door. I want to go home. And I want to avoid Mark and Ursula.

‘Julianne –’ Thomas calls out, and I turn back to face him. He grins stupidly at me and confesses, ‘I can’t get you out of my head.’

I smile back and the narcissist in me falls in love. ‘Don’t try to.’

Then I’m swinging open the door, avoiding eye contact with everyone traipsing out of the auction, and bolting towards the exit. I weave in and out of the crowd, not caring who anyone is, not having to make idiotic small talk or pretend that I find strangers’ conversations scintillating.

At the cloakroom, I hand my ticket to the woman behind the desk and wait impatiently for her to fetch my coat. I wait for several minutes in the large, cold hallway. It’s freezing and I want to be out of here. What the hell’s taking her so long?

Should I call up for a taxi? No, it’d be quicker to get the bus. Plus I don’t want to hang around here waiting for a taxi where Mark can find me.

Finally she returns and I slip on my warm burgundy coat, feeling relieved that I’m going home. I’m about to head out the door when a male voice calls out behind me, ‘Julianne?’

Fuck, too late. I nearly managed to avoid him completely.

I turn around and Mark hurries towards me. At least his blonde bitch isn’t in tow.

I wonder whether it looks like I’ve had sex. Are my cheeks flushed? Is my hair messed up? I should have checked the mirror before I left.

Mark tries to kiss me but I pull away, and he frowns. ‘I know what it looks like, but I only work with Ursula. She wanted to come tonight and tout for business.’

I bet she did, probably hoping that she could fuck Mark afterwards. He looked guilty earlier and Ursula is just his type.

‘So you’ve never slept with her?’

He rolls his eyes and sighs. ‘Once. About a year ago.’

Of course, I was right. Earlier his guilt told me that he was on a date and got caught out. Why should I trust him now?

‘It was nothing serious,’ he tries to persuade me.

‘It’s fine, Mark. You can see other people.’ Just not me anymore.

‘I don’t want to see other people,’ he says convincingly, grabbing hold of my arm. It sounds like he’s telling me the truth, but how can I tell?

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Stay for another drink. Then we can go home. Together.’

What, does he want me and Ursula to go home with him for a threesome? He tries to kiss me again, but I step away. ‘I’m tired. I’ve been here for hours. I’m going home.’

He sighs. ‘Okay... Are we still –? I’m still seeing you tomorrow night, yeah?’

He smiles, but it looks like he’s hurting inside. Good, because I am too, although I’m not going to let him know it.

‘I don’t know... I have to work late,’ I lie, heading towards the exit. ‘I’ll text you.’

I rush out the door and down the stone steps. I don’t want to see him again.

He doesn’t follow me as I hurry down the wet street towards the bus stop. At least it’s stopped raining, but I have to hitch up my dress and avoid the puddles.

I try not to feel disgusted with myself because I’ve become a whore officially now. A fully-fledged ‘I-was-paid-for-sex-once’ prostitute, not just an ‘I-love-having-sex-with-men’ slut. Why is a woman labelled a slut for sleeping around, whereas a man can call himself a stud – or worse, an ‘eligible bachelor’? Mark would call himself that. Bastard.

An old man sits at the bus stop and smiles at me when I sit down. I scowl back and try to ignore him.

I text Jamal: ‘Mission complete.’

‘Where’ve you been tonight then, young lady?’ the old man asks, trying to start up a conversation.

How am I supposed to reply? ‘I just whored myself out at a party’?

What is it with stupid wankers who think it’s perfectly acceptable to start chatting up a single woman when she clearly doesn’t want to be approached? Was my scowl not clear enough? I’m blatantly not interested and don’t want to be talking with a strange old man at a bus stop in the middle of the night.

‘Piss off!’ I yell at him, standing up and running down the street to get away from him. I’ll call a taxi. I don’t want to be hounded by strangers.

I hate all men right now. I hate Mark, I hate Thomas, I hate Jamal, I hate the presumptuous bus stop bastard who thought that I actually wanted to talk to him. They’re all so fucking selfish, judging everyone and thinking that other people’s feelings aren’t as important as theirs, labelling women ‘stupid’ for our fucked-up feelings while they’re desperately trying to repress theirs.

What about what we want? Do they ever stop to just ask us what we actually want? They’re so distracted in life figuring out what they want, who they are, who they want to be with, that they stop thinking about other people entirely.

I don’t know whether to believe Mark or not. Sure, he might not have been on a date tonight, but I don’t know whether he’ll ever stop being a player. Does he want to stop screwing around and just settle down with yours truly? I guess it’s too late to find out the truth.

Then again, what do I want? Do I want to be with him? Not after tonight.

I’m alone right now. I don’t have family, I don’t have Amelia, I don’t have Mark. I don’t have anyone in my life who I trust. I only have myself.