‘Morning, foxy. What can I do for you today?’
‘When are you free?’
‘Hmm … it’s looking like a late one. Could take a two-hour lunch break, though.’
‘Lunch sounds perfect. Midday?’
‘Blackfriars tube. Wear the green dress. Hold-ups. No knickers. Got that?’
‘No knickers,’ I repeat, my clit puffing up, my silky scanties already wet. Who cares? I will have to take them off before I leave.
‘Don’t forget your perfume, Jane,’ he says softly before hanging up.
How could I forget that? The application of scent is the precious first step in the ritual, setting the tone for all that is to follow.
These are his rules: I must draw back the bedroom curtains and open the window, so that the block across the green is visible to me, and I to it. I must strip naked and lie down on my unmade bed. I must take my vibrator and masturbate to orgasm, plunging it deep inside, juicing it up until it gleams. While I am doing this, I must think of some of the filthy, slutty things I have done for him in the past – easy enough, for there are plenty to choose from. Once I am red-faced and spent, I must take the vibrator and rub it across my pulse points, making sure I am generously anointed before smearing any remainder on to my nipples, breasts, belly, thighs. I must dip the vibrator back in and repeat the process until there is nothing left to apply. Only when my skin is stiff and heavy with the smell of my sex am I allowed to dress.
Today, a sheer white peephole bra, some nude laced-topped hold-ups and the green dress. The dress I was wearing when we met – though that sounds grandiose, as if we have a story or a future. The day we picked each other up, perhaps.
The dress is made of very light cotton in eau-de-nil. It buttons all the way up and has a short, flippy skirt whose hem is only just beneath the lacy bit of my hold-up. The merest breath of breeze is enough to give my thighs a tickle, and on some of the windier tube platforms I have to clamp it down with my palms flat on my legs, shuffling bent double like an ancient babushka.
Then it is time to slap industrial quantities of gloss on my lips and mascara on my lashes before slipping into strappy sandals and running for my train.
Once again, it is a hot day, humid and dirty, the way it was the first time we met. The station platform is crowded – several previous trains have been delayed – so I know I will stand no chance of being able to hide my sex-drenched self in a corner seat away from the masses. I will have to force it on my carriage-mates, mingling it in with their smells of onions and cigarettes and engine oil and boiled aftershave, all with a sweaty top note.
When the train arrives and its doors slide open, I look for the least respectable grouping I can find. I light on a bearded bikerish type and his heavily pierced moll, wondering idly who on earth would wear leather trousers in this weather as I push myself towards them. The smell is heady, though, and powerful, almost cancelling out my pussy perfume. Almost, but not quite. I catch them looking at each other, half-winking, guessing at what I might have been up to. If Shaun were here, he might nod at me, indicating that I was to try and get myself felt up by one or both of them. We’ve done that before. But he is not here, so I hold myself away from them, strap-hanging and concentrating on the trickle of sweat travelling downwards from the nape of my neck, breathing myself in, not daring to catch any eyes.
The train was less busy when we met. We both had seats, opposite each other. About halfway through the journey, I looked up from my book for the eighth time to find him staring at me. He made no attempt to be furtive about it. He simply watched me with a face like stone and narrowed eyes, from Herne Hill to Blackfriars.
What does one say? ‘Do you mind?’ ‘Can I help you?’ ‘Is there a smudge on my nose?’ I could not decide, so I returned to my book, though I did not read another word. I squirmed inside all the way to Blackfriars, where he alighted.
I watched him walking down the platform. Despite the July heat, he was wearing a coat – a light grey ankle-length raincoat. Every few paces he would stop and turn to look at me and my eyes would dive guiltily back to the page. It was strange, that such a simple gesture could be so very sinister. He wanted me to know that he was watching me, and I had no idea why.