‘I guess I’ll just have whatever you’re having.’
‘I’m actually having steak tartare.’
‘Then I’ll have the same.’
He looks at the waiter. ‘A dozen oysters to start then steak tartare and side orders of vegetables and mashed potatoes.’
‘I’m not really hungry. No starter for me,’ she says quickly.
When the waiter is gone, he raises his glass. ‘To us.’
‘To us,’ she repeats softly. It sticks in her throat.
She takes a small sip and tastes nothing. She puts the glass on the table and looks at her hands.
‘You have very beautiful skin. It was the first thing I noticed about you. Does it…mark very easily?’
‘Yes,’ she admits warily.
‘I knew it,’ he boasts with a sniff. ‘I am a connoisseur of skin. I love the taste and the touch of skin. I can already imagine the taste of yours. A skin of wine.’ He eyes her over the rim of his glass. She has tried her best not to look at the dandruff flakes that liberally dust the shoulders of his pin-striped suit, but with that last remark he has tossed his head and a flurry of motes have floated off his head and fallen onto the pristine tablecloth. Her eyes have helplessly followed their progress. She looks up to find him looking at her speculatively.
‘What will I be getting for my money?’
Lana blinks. It is all wrong. She shouldn’t be here. In this dress, or shoes, sitting in front of this obscene piece of filth hiding behind his handmade shirt, gold cufflinks and plummy, upper class accent. This man degrades and offends her simply by looking at her. She wishes herself somewhere else. But she is here. All her credit cards are maxed out. Two banks have impolitely turned her down. And there is nothing else to do, but be here in this dress and these slutty shoes… Her stomach is in knots, but she smiles in what she hopes is a seductive way. ‘What would you like for your money?’
‘Forget what I would like for the moment. What are you selling?’ His eyes have become suddenly hard.
‘Me, I guess.’
That makes him snort with cruel laughter. ‘You are an extraordinarily beautiful girl, but to be honest I can get five first class supermodels for your asking price. What makes you think you’re worth that kind of money?’
‘I’m a virgin.’
He stops laughing. A suspicious look enters his pale blue eyes. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’ Well, she will be in two months’ time.
He frowns. ‘And you say you’re still a virgin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saving yourself up for someone special, were you?’ His tone is annoying.
‘Does it matter?’ Her nails bite into her clenched fist.
His eyes glitter. ‘No, I suppose not.’ He pauses. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’
Lana swallows. The taste of her humiliation is bitter. ‘I’ll undergo any medical tests you require me to.’
He laughs. ‘No need. No need,’ he dismisses. ‘Blood on the sheets will be enough for me.’
The way he says blood makes Lana’s blood run cold.
‘Are all orifices up for sale?’
Oh! the brutality of the man. Something dies inside her, but she keeps the image of her mother in her mind, and her voice is clear and strong. ‘Yes.’
‘So all that is left is to renegotiate the price?’
Lana has to stop herself from recoiling. She knows now that she has committed two out of the nine sorts of behaviors her mother has warned her are considered contemptible and base. She has expected generosity from a miser and she has told her need to her enemy. ‘The price is not negotiable.’
His gaze sweeps meaningfully to her champagne glass. ‘Shall we give this party a go first and bargain later, when you are in a better mood?’
Lana understands. He thinks he can drive the price down when she is drunk. ‘The price is not negotiable,’ she says firmly. ‘And will have to be paid up front.’
He smiles smarmily. ‘I’m sure we’ll come to some agreement that we will both be happy with.’
Lana frowns. She has been naïve. Her plan is sketchy and has no provisions for a sharp punter or price negotiations. She heard through the office grapevine where she worked as temporary secretary that her boss was one of those men who are prepared to pay a ten thousand pounds a pop for his pleasure and often, but she had never thought he would reduce her to bargaining.
While Rupert stuffs himself with cheese and biscuits she excuses herself and goes to the ladies. There is another woman standing at the mirror. She glances at Lana with a mixture of envy and disgust. Lana waits until she leaves, then calls her mother.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Where are you, Lana?’
‘I’m still at the restaurant.’
‘What time will you be coming home?’
‘I’ll be late. I’ve been invited to a party.’
‘A party,’ her mother repeats worriedly. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know the address. Somewhere in London.’
‘How will you get home?’ A wire of panic has crept into her mother’s voice.
Lana sighs. She has almost never left her mother alone at night; consequently her mother is now a bundle of jittery nerves. ‘I have a ride, Mum. Just don’t wait up for me, OK?’
‘All right. Be careful, won’t you?’
‘Nothing is going to happen to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ her mother says, but she sounds distracted and unhappy.
‘How are you feeling, Mum?’
‘Good.’
‘Goodnight, then. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Lana?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I love you very much.’
‘Me too, Mum. Me too.’
She flips shut her phone with a snap. She no longer feels cheap or obscene. She feels strong and sure. There is nothing Rupert can do that will degrade her. She will have that money no matter what. She has hardly eaten—just watching Rupert gurgle down the oysters made her feel quite sick, and how was she to know steak tartare was ground raw meat. She reapplies her lipstick and goes out to meet Rupert.
Three
‘Shall we go?’ Rupert asks, and before Lana can agree, imperiously clicks his fingers for the bill. They leave the restaurant and once outside, Rupert hails a black cab. It is such a warm evening that Lana carries her coat in her hands. Rupert gives the address to the cab driver and they climb in. Lana’s dress has ridden up her thighs, but when she tries to pull it back down, he puts his meaty, white hand over hers and in a firm voice orders, ‘Leave it.’
Embarrassed, Lana looks into the rearview mirror. The taxi driver is observing them. Wordlessly, she drapes her coat over her knees and turns her face away from Rupert, to stare out. Damn him. As she gazes unseeingly out she feels his hand slide under her coat and settle on her thighs. Biting her lip she tries to ignore the hand, but it is slithering up her thigh. When it is almost at her crotch she catches the offending hand in hers. She turns to him and looks him in the eye.
‘We don’t have a deal yet.’
‘True,’ he says, and retracts his hand, but the smile on his face is taunting and smug. He knows she needs the money.
The rest of the journey passes in silence while Lana’s stomach churns. She is so nervous she actually feels afraid she will lose the few vegetables she has eaten on the floor of the cab. Fortunately, the taxi turns into Bishop’s Avenue and they 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 they walk up a short flight of steps to a set of black doors. Rupert rings the bell and through the tall windows Lana sees the kind of people that she has only seen in magazines. Immaculately dressed and dripping in jewelry. She looks down upon her cheap orange dress in dismay. She pulls at the hem, but her efforts at modesty are counter-productive, as more of her cleavage falls into view.