ones who insist on the full half-hour – not a minute less – and are determined to try to break some kind of ejaculation record. It’s like some kind of virility test they have to pass. They’re pathetic.’
‘Do you have to see so many of them?’
‘Why? Do you think I enjoy it?’
‘No. But five clients a day at eighty quid a session, that’s four hundred pounds. Five days a week makes two grand.’
‘Let me explain something to you. Firstly, not all punters want, or can afford, the full service, so it’s not eighty quid a time. Then there’s rent. I paid a full rent to Dean West, my landlord. I also paid protection to him. If I’d gone outside him, I’d have had to pay a full commercial rent but I’d also have had to pay someone to take the flat in their name, since no agency is going to lease a place to someone who doesn’t even have a bank account.’
‘What?’
‘That’s right. No bank account, no National Insurance, nothing. And whoever rented the flat on my behalf would probably have skimmed some more off the top. Then I had to pay the maid – she cost fifty quid a day plus ten percent of what I made. On top of that, I had the cards to pay for. That’s twenty pounds for a thousand and ten pounds to the carder for every one hundred he stuck in a phone-box. And now that British Telecom is clearing some phone-boxes up to four times a day, that’s a hell of a lot of cards we’re talking about.’
‘I never really thought about the details,’ Proctor admitted.
‘No one ever does. The truth is, it’s bloody hard work.’
Proctor nodded. ‘It sounds rough.’
‘It is.’ When it looked as though he might be about to say something sympathetic, she cut him dead by adding: ‘But not as rough as the ride on North Eastern Airlines.’
He reached inside the fridge for the bottle and replenished their glasses. She shovelled some of the vegetables into the wok. The oil spat.
She said, ‘Did you know that they never found David? All the others were eventually identified – God knows how – but David was one of the twenty-eight they never recovered.’
‘No. I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’
Stephanie shrugged and seemed surprised at herself. ‘I don’t even know why I mentioned it. I mean, what difference does it make?’
Half an hour later, they had eaten. The topic of conversation had changed and so had the mood.
Stephanie said, ‘It’s my turn to ask you something personal.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Are you gay?’
‘What?’
She wasn’t sure whether he was merely surprised by the question, or angered by it.
‘Are you gay?’
‘What makes you think I might be?’
‘I haven’t seen you with anyone.’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been away a lot.’
‘I know. While I’ve been here. And no one called. At least, no one personal and female.’
He smiled at her analysis. ‘In answer to your question, no. I’m not gay. I’m just busy.’
Stephanie gathered their plates and took them through to the kitchen. Proctor followed. She placed the plates in the sink and turned on the cold tap. Proctor was behind her, but closer than before. She knew he would touch her before he did. He placed a hand on her hip and kissed her on the ear. It was a little peck followed by: ‘Thank you. That was delicious.’
The cold water was running over her hands. ‘It was nothing.’
‘It was thoughtful.’
He hadn’t moved away. He’d waited for a response, some form of rejection. There hadn’t been one and he took this as a sign of encouragement. He placed a hand on Stephanie’s shoulder and slowly turned her around. She let him. This was a moment that had been coming for a while.
Stephanie’s curiosity was marginally stronger than her trepidation. Proctor kissed her. He was tentative and closed his eyes. She kept hers open and never blinked. His hands moved around her, from the shoulders to the small of her back. Her lips felt numb against his.
She broke the kiss.
‘Are you all right?’ he murmured.
She recognized the sensation; the tension of a guitar string on the verge of snapping. Her pulse quickened, her fingers flexed.
He lowered his face towards hers once more, reading her silence as acceptance. But she turned her face away, grabbed his arms and pushed him back. If he was surprised by the vigour of her rejection, he was utterly amazed by the look on her face. Her eyes were aflame. The bitterness in them superseded anything he had seen in her before.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Keep away from me,’ she hissed.
He was dumbfounded. ‘Stephanie, what the hell’s going on?’
‘What did you think was going to happen?’ Even her voice had changed. Instead of rising to a hysterical shriek it had dropped to a growl. ‘That I’d find relief by letting you fuck me all night?’ She spat every word. ‘Is that what you thought? Me with tears on my face, you with a grin on yours?’
‘What are you talking about? It was just a kiss. I didn’t mean to …’
He took a step forward, she took a step back, until she found herself pressed against the sink. Her elbow knocked a wine glass to the floor. It shattered but her eyes never left Proctor. She felt the cold water splattering off the plates on to her arms. And then she felt the knife on the chopping board. She grabbed the handle and thrust the blade at Proctor who froze.
‘Come one step closer to me and I’ll kill you. I swear to God, I will.’
He raised his hands. ‘Take it easy, Stephanie. Just calm down –’
‘I mean it.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if I upset you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘If I misread the signals, I apologize. I didn’t want –’
‘Signals?’
‘I thought there was something … happening. Between us.’
‘Like what?’ Her fury was still building. ‘Do you see some neon sign over my head? You can fuck me if you want. What bloody signals?’
Proctor was bewildered beyond reason. ‘Stephanie, please …’
She was shaking. Her face had reddened at first but now the colour had drained from it entirely. He had never seen eyes so black or so brilliant. Her voice quietened to a brittle whisper: ‘If you ever touch me again …’
Proctor slowly extended his right hand towards her and said, softly, ‘Give me the knife.’
The swipe was so quick that neither of them saw the blade properly.
Stunned, Proctor looked at his palm, at the slice that extended from the base of the index finger to the edge of the wrist. For a second, it was a perfect scarlet line. Then the cut started to flow, streaming over his hand and fingers, curling around his wrist, coiling itself around his forearm, slicking the sleeve of his shirt, splattering on the tiles of the kitchen floor.
It was the sound of the front door closing that prompted him to gather his senses. Stephanie was gone and he needed medical attention.
At two in the morning, the busiest places in London are the night-clubs, the police stations and the Accident and Emergency departments of the city’s hospitals.