4. Jessica

Jessica

At three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, I arrive outside 66 Troubadour Street carrying an overnight bag and some homemade peanut butter sandwiches to tide me over until this evening. Never expect a free lunch, Cynthia always says, so I've ensured I have enough to eat to quell my grumbling tummy. When I enter Jane's office, I find her sitting behind her desk sifting through stacks of important looking documents. She flashes a half smile and gestures for me to be seated.

"Hello Jessica, how are you?"

"I'm good. A little nervous, perhaps."

"Don't be. Everything will be fine, I promise."

"So, um…" I brush a stray hair out my face. "Are you able to tell me more about my date tonight?"

Jane peers at her watch. "Yes. In about an hour, a lady called Beatrix Kingswood will be coming to pick you up. You will then be chauffeur-driven to her son Alex's 21st birthday party. The plan is for you to spend the night in Claremont Hall, their fabulous home in Surrey. I haven't personally been there, but I've seen pictures of it and the place looks amazing."

I raise my eyebrows. "Wait, you say I'm being taken to her son's birthday party?"

"Yes. For want of a better word, you are his birthday present. Oh, and you are under strict instructions from Mrs Kingswood not to let on to Alex that you are being paid to be there. Under no circumstances must her son know that your presence there is anything other than by chance. You must behave as naturally as you can and whatever happens between the two of you after dinner must appear to be genuine."

For a moment, I'm struck dumb. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

On the one hand, I'm relieved my first sexual experience is going to be with someone closer to my own age. At twenty-one, Alex Kingswood is only a little older than me, so that is at least some consolation. However, I find it deeply disturbing that a mother would behave in this way towards her child. When I think of my own mother's circle of friends, I can't imagine a single one that would be happy to pay for their son to take a girl's virginity as some sort of bizarre birthday gift. It just seems plain weird and more than a bit creepy. What sort of a parent is Mrs Kingswood? Who in their right mind would hire a prostitute for their son's birthday? A complete weirdo, that's who. Ah well, Amina always said the wealthy are not like the rest of us, and I think she's right. In the words of Jim Morrison, (rich) people are strange.

"Who am I supposed to be then?" I ask.

"Come again?" Jane frowns.

"Well, you said you want me to behave naturally, Alex mustn't know that I'm an escort. When I get to this party, who am I supposed to be exactly? I don't exactly talk posh, do I?"

"Mrs Kingswood says you must pretend to be the daughter of her old friend Douglas. Don't worry, she will give you all the details when you see her. But Jessica, there's something else I need to discuss with you." She pushes a contract towards me.

"What's this?"

"It's a Confidentiality Agreement. It was drafted by Mrs Kingswood's lawyers. Before you meet Alex this evening, she has insisted you sign it so that she can be assured you will not speak a word to anyone about what happens tonight."

"Sure," I say. "I have no problem signing it. I mean, who would I want to tell anyway? I'm as keen as she is to keep this thing private. It's not exactly something I want to broadcast to the world." Briefly, I scan the legal jargon and then happily put my signature at the bottom. I also fill out a separate form with my bank details so that the money can be transferred accordingly.

"Okay, all set," I smile, putting down my pen. "What happens now?"

Jane grins mysteriously. Silently, she leaves the room and returns carrying a tight black Versace dress made of silk and lycra with a plunging neckline and a pair of high-heeled Louboutins.

I cover my mouth. I have never seen such beautiful clothing. "Oh my goodness, do you really want me to wear that?"

"Yes, didn't I tell you I was going to make you the Belle of the Ball?" She points to a vintage tri-folding divider in the corner of the room. "You can get dressed over there. Now hurry, we haven't got long before Mrs Kingswood gets here. I want everything to be perfect for her arrival."

Hastily, I gather up the clothes and race behind the divider to get changed. Ten minutes later, I emerge feeling stiff and a little unsure of myself. The Versace dress clings to my curves like a second skin and I'm not used to wearing something so tight and revealing. However, I've got to admit the Louboutins are surprisingly comfortable to wear, considering how high the heels are.

"Ravishing, simply ravishing," Jane gushes. "You look even better than I thought you would. You could pass for a princess. That dress is simply divine on you."

Lowering my lashes, I bow my head and smile shyly. I find her flattery hard to take but it helps my confidence to grow. Opening her desk drawer, she produces a black jewellery case and walks over to me. I watch with bated breath as she flips open the case to reveal a delicate diamond necklace with a matching pair of earrings inside.

"These are on loan," she says sternly, "but you can wear them just for tonight. Guard them with your life. They are worth a fortune, and I need you to return them. I'll send over a courier to pick them up from you tomorrow afternoon."

I nod dumbly.

Carefully, Jane slips on the necklace and earrings and then gathers my hair into a chignon, securing it with an antique diamond pin. The transformation is complete.

"Are you ready to see yourself now?" she whispers.

"Y-yes," I reply.

"Close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you to." Gently, she takes my hand and leads me over to the full-length mirror propped against the wall. "Okay, you can open them now."

I gasp when I see my reflection. Wow, I look like a completely different person, so cool, so sophisticated. I can't believe that's me. Oh my God, I feel like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady.

"Do you like what you see?" Jane purrs.

"Yes," I nod. "I like it very much! These clothes are so lovely, I can't believe that's actually me."

"Good, now put this on, we need to be quick, the car will be here soon." Carefully, she helps me into a pale pink cape made of finest cashmere and then finally, passes me a pretty black handbag to complete the fabulous ensemble. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. "That will be Hobbs, Mrs Kingswood's chauffeur. Come on, time to go."

My pulse is thudding like a machine gun as I follow Jane downstairs to the hall. Jesus Christ, this is it. She unlatches the door, and we are greeted by a tall, sallow-faced man dressed in a black chauffeur's uniform. His eyes look strangely haunted, like a soldier just returned from war who has witnessed horrendous atrocities on the battlefield. I wonder fleetingly what happened in his past to make him look that way.

"I'm here to collect Miss Gardner," he says quietly. "Mrs Kingswood is waiting in the car."

"This is she," Jane replies, gesturing to me.

"Very good. Walk this way, ma'am."

"Remember what I said. Be natural." She gives my arm a little squeeze. "Good luck."

"Thanks, I think I'll need it," I whisper back. Hesitantly, I follow the chauffeur outside to a waiting black Rolls Royce. Politely, he opens the car door for me to get in and I find myself sitting next to an elegantly dressed woman in her mid-fifties. She has short black hair, deathly white skin and a careworn face that looks prematurely aged. Her expensive clothes hang loosely on her body which is so painfully thin I wonder if she is afflicted by some sort of eating disorder.

Forcing a smile, I put out my hand. "Hi, I'm Jessica."

"How do you do," she replies, giving me a limp handshake, "I'm Beatrix Kingswood."

"Pleased to meet you."

The car starts moving and the sudden jolt reminds me to clip on my seatbelt. For a long time neither of us says anything. Mrs Kingswood remains rigid, staring straight ahead as if in a trance. This, together with the total lack of interaction between her and the driver Hobbs, leaves me feeling nervous. Just what have I gotten myself into?

Gripped with unease, I stare out the window and watch as Kensington's museums, embassies and elegant Victorian terraces transform into non-descript high rise estates as we move towards the outer London suburbs.

Sometime later, the view gives way to a picturesque landscape of woods and meadows. It truly is a marvel. The Surrey countryside is a jubilee of natural beauty filled with old churches, stately homes and quaint little hamlets that give one the sense of entering a world from days gone by.

As nice as the view is, I can't help feeling a little nauseous. I often get travel sick plus my stomach keeps growling as I haven't eaten since this morning and forgot to bring my sandwiches when I switched handbags. Worst of all, the chilly vibes coming from Mrs Kingswood are growing unbearable and I cannot wait to reach our destination, if only to break the sombre atmosphere. I just don't get it. We're supposed to be going to her son Alex's birthday party, which should be a cause for celebration, but she acts as if someone's died. It's so peculiar. This is a birthday party not a funeral for God's sake.

After what seems forever, we finally pass a sign that reads: ‘Welcome to Grimschurch.' Hobbs takes us off the main road and we enter a charming village comprised of cobbled streets, independent shops and pretty chocolate-box cottages. Then we ascend a hill and after about ten minutes, cruise through a pair of tall entrance gates and up a sweeping driveway, where a beautiful eighteenth-century manor house set in rolling Surrey parkland comes into view.

"Just to let you know, Jessica," Mrs Kingswood says suddenly, breaking the deadlock. "If Alex asks, you are the daughter of my old friend Douglas who works for a large oil company. For the past few years, you have been living abroad and only recently returned to the U.K. having spent time travelling around Africa. If Alex asks about your education, tell him you went to various international schools because your family moved around a lot. Do you understand?"

"Oh, yes of course," I reply. "I lived in Africa, went to international school, father is called Douglas. Got it." Fuck, I hope I'll be able to remember all of this. I hate telling lies and this all just seems so…so shady. Poor Alex. What kind of a mother would do this to her son? For a moment, I contemplate turning back and going home. This is all so weird, I am not sure I want to be part of this deception anymore; it seems so cruel. If you're going to hire a working girl for your son's pleasure at least have the decency to tell him the truth so that he knows what he's getting into. Why all the secrecy?

I have so many questions I want to ask but know it wouldn't be appropriate. So I just stay bitterly silent with my arms folded. My head is telling me something isn't right, to get out this car right now and run for the hills. But then I think of my mother and how great it will be to have that ￡50,000 for her medical treatment, and I force myself to go on.

Five minutes later, Hobbs pulls up in front of the grand main entrance and we get out. As I follow Mrs Kingswood up the magnificent stone steps, I gaze upwards at the sprawling property and marvel at its size and the beauty of the architecture. It's so big, my God, you could fit three Terrapin Road estates in there. I can't believe this is home to just one family or that they own this much land. Rich people certainly live in a different world, requiring enormous rooms and huge swathes of space whilst consigning the rest of us to live in matchboxes by comparison.

And then an odd thing strikes me.

From the second I stepped out the Rolls, something didn't sit right with me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Now I realise what it is. Everywhere is oddly silent. No sound of life anywhere. We are in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by a thick belt of trees, yet there are no rustling leaves, no wind, no nothing. There's not even birdsong, let alone the patter of a rabbit or squirrel. It's like someone has turned down the volume on everything, like we have vacated the world of the living and entered some bizarre parallel universe of silence. It's an eerie sensation, almost uncanny, and I'm not sure I like it.

Nevertheless, against my better judgement, I continue following Mrs Kingswood up the steps into the house where we are met in the hall by an old woman who is introduced to me as Mrs Bullivant, the housekeeper. With her gaunt face and hunted eyes, she too has the peculiar air of one who has survived some cataclysmic event that has left its indelible mark on her. It's as if Mrs Kingswood and her staff are living in purgatory, or like they are in constant fear of some hidden, unnameable foe.

After taking our coats, the housekeeper leads us silently through the house towards the dining room and I take the opportunity to admire the stunning interiors. Gold leaf adorns every high doorway; crystal chandeliers hang from the ceilings and the walls are covered with High Renaissance art that must be worth a fortune. Each room is enormous and contain exquisite, oversized furniture covered with sculptures of gilded bronze, reminding me of the sort of thing you might find in the palace of King Louis XIV. Claremont Hall is without doubt the loveliest house I have ever seen, yet just below the surface, I sense a dark atmosphere, like a shark waiting to strike beneath a sea of tranquil waters.

At last, we enter a spectacular dining room and the housekeeper seats Mrs Kingswood and I together at one end of a long table. Staring down the never-ending expanse of oak, I notice far at the head is an empty high-backed chair. I wonder briefly if this is meant for the Birthday Boy to give him a sense of being king for the day.

"Are you hungry?" Mrs Kingswood asks.

"Yes," I reply.

"Mrs Bullivant, please could we have some soup?"

"Yes ma'am."

Once the old woman has gone, the two of us slip into the uncomfortable silence of strangers. My mind goes completely blank, and I struggle to strike up a conversation. It doesn't help that Mrs Kingswood seems totally disinterested in me. She doesn't want to make small talk or get to know me. Clearly, this is strictly about business and very little else.

"What time are the other guests getting here?" I venture. "What time does the party start?"

She cocks an eyebrow. "What other guests?"

"Jane, that is, Miss Waters from the agency told me that this is your son Alex's 21st birthday party, so I assumed there would be other people coming."

"No, there are no other guests," Mrs Kingswood clarifies brusquely. "It's just you and me and Alex. That's it. No one else is coming unless you want to include the domestic help."

"Oh. Okay."

"Does that bother you?"

"Er, no, not really. It's just I was told one thing and it's turned out not to be what I thought. But like I said, it's fine."

There's an uncomfortable pause. I can hear a distant clock ticking somewhere in the house. Jesus, I can't wait for this night to be over. Everything is just so weird and creepy, the truth is I really don't want to be here anymore. I mean, who has a birthday party with three people in attendance, one of whom is paid to be here? Dammit, I thought I was strange but even I can see how odd this set-up is.

And that's when I feel it. A sudden drop in temperature; an icy burst of air that seems to come out of nowhere and soon the room is so cold my breath is visible. It's like someone has opened a massive fridge and let all the heat out.

Then I notice Mrs Kingswood's hands are shaking. Nervously, she glances up and I follow her gaze to where an enormous man dressed in black is standing in the doorway. The blood freezes in my veins. Every hair on my neck stands up. My jaw drops and for a moment, my body is gripped by almost indescribable terror.

He is extremely tall and powerfully built, with tanned skin, black, shoulder-length hair and designer clothes that are well-tailored and clearly expensive. But his face—my God, his face is absolutely terrifying. I've never seen anything like it. It's hard to put your finger on one specific thing that's wrong, because it's pretty much everything. I can only describe it as the personification of evil.

His forehead is deeply furrowed and etched in a constant frown, punctuated by thick, bushy eyebrows. He has high cheekbones, an imposing hooked nose with large nostrils and a chiselled angular chin textured with dry, leathery skin. His thick extruding lips barely contain a mouthful of discoloured teeth and his eyes—Jesus, his eyes are the most chilling—an intense blue-green that seem to glow with malevolent intensity, reaching into the depths of your soul. Ostensibly he's hideous, yet at the same time his features possess a certain brutal ruggedness that I find bizarrely fascinating. It's not a face you can stare at for long. No. One glimpse is like a shock to the system; a sucker punch that makes your heart seize up and sends you reeling.

Almost instantly, I'm forced to avert my gaze and focus back on the table, so violent is my reaction to him. It's not just his physical appearance that disturbs me, it's the dark atmosphere that follows him, sucking all the air from the room. It's overwhelming to the point of being almost suffocating.

Mrs Kingswood clears her throat. "Happy birthday, Alex. I want you to meet the daughter of a good friend of mine, Jessica. She's going to be having dinner with us tonight. Isn't that nice?"

Wait, hold on a minute. This is Alex? No, no, no! No way!

There's a short, seething silence. I can sense her son's eyes burning into me, looking me up and down, drinking me in. Then…

"How much did my mother pay you to be here?" he demands. Flabbergasted by the directness of his question, I'm struck mute, not knowing what to say.

Mrs Kingswood gives a shrill laugh. "What are you talking about? Jessica is the daughter of my old friend Douglas Winters. You do remember Dougie, don't you? The one who lives in Kenya and works for the oil company."

"Yes, I dimly remember you mentioning someone called Douglas," Alex concedes. "But you haven't seen him in years, and I don't recall him having a daughter. Let's cut the crap, shall we? Mother, you're so transparent it's laughable. This is very clearly a call girl you have paid to be here."

"No, she's not," Beatrix Kingswood splutters. "You've got this all wrong, I would never, ever hire a call girl. I can't believe you think I would ever do such a thing…" Her sentence dies, her protestations diminishing to nothing. The game is up. We both know she's been busted.

Still with my eyes fixed on the table, I listen to the heavy thud of Alex's footsteps as he moves across the room to the head of the table and sits down. He sighs audibly.

"There's no point denying it," he continues. "Come on! What girl in her right mind would come anywhere near this house unless she'd been paid to? Please don't insult my intelligence. Let's just be honest with each other and get this out in the open, shall we?"

As he speaks, I'm struck by his voice: deep, seductive and velvety as chocolate. It's hands-down the sexiest voice I've ever heard and with my eyes closed, I would never imagine he looks the way he does.

"Why do you think I would hire a call girl?" his mother stammers, attempting to dig herself out of the ditch. "What possible reason would I have to do something like that?"

"Simple," he replies. "We haven't been getting along lately. I've been moody, we're at each other's throats and you think it's because I'm sexually frustrated. You think I have all this pent-up tension that needs to be released. You think all I need is a good, hard fuck to get it out my system and then I won't give you such a hard time. Well, I've got news for you. I'm not that easily bought and there's no way I'm going to sleep with this girl as some kind of demented therapy session."

My shoulders sag with relief. Thank fuck for that! Please can I go home now?

I've decided I need to get out of here fast. I no longer want to be part of this sordid set-up and most of all, I need to get as far away from Alex Kingswood as possible. He absolutely terrifies me and the sooner I can leave this place and forget any of this ever happened, the better. As far as I'm concerned, they can keep their money. Nothing is worth enduring this insanity.

Moistening my lips, I finally muster the courage to speak. "Listen guys, it looks like you have a lot going on and I wouldn't want to intrude in your private business. If I am no longer required to be here, then I'm happy to go. If I leave now, I could probably catch the last train home."

I stand up in preparation to exit stage left.

"Sit down!" Alex bellows. The fury in his voice makes the whole room shake.

Instantly, I return to my seat, quaking with fear. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That wasn't a request, it was an order and I dare not disobey him.

Closing my eyes, I let my breath out slowly and try to keep it together. Shit, I've never been so scared in my life. Do they plan to keep me captive here? If I try again to leave, what will they do? Restrain me? Dammit, I just want to get the hell out of this place.

Then an awful thought hits me. If I went missing, nobody but Jane Waters knows I'm here. Not my family, not Amina, no one. I could be kept a prisoner for days and nobody would know where to come looking for me. I am such a cretin. Why, why, why did I ever come to this crazy house with a woman who is clearly unhinged? If I make it out of here alive, it will be a miracle.

"So, Jessica," Alex drawls, addressing me directly for the first time. "Now we have established you are indeed a call girl, would you mind telling me how much my mother is paying you to be here?"

I remain silent. Lord Jesus, I still can't look at him. I want to be brave and stare him straight in the eye, but my body won't let me. It's almost a reflex action. Fuck, how on earth did I end up in this situation? Someone please rescue me from this nightmare.

"Alex, stop it," Mrs Kingswood admonishes sternly. "Leave the girl alone. This is all my doing. She is not answerable to you."

"Then I repeat, how much did you pay her? I'm not going to let this matter drop until you've answered the question. What is the going rate for a woman to be forced to endure the night with me?"

"All right, I'll tell you. Excluding agency fees, I'm paying her ￡50,000."

"Are you serious? ￡50,000?" Alex gives a bitter laugh that sounds more like a snarl. "Wow, am I really that repulsive? My God, I knew things were bad but this…this is on another level. You've got to pay that amount of money just to get a girl to come here and fuck me? I have no words."

The room is now so cold I actually fear I might freeze to death. Yet at the same time, my heart goes out to Alex. I can understand why he is hurt. What Beatrix did is indefensible. What son wouldn't be distressed to learn his own mother had conspired to hoodwink him so deviously? This situation is so perverse it's unreal.

"The fee I agreed to pay Jessica has no bearing on your attractiveness," Mrs Kingswood says quietly. "The high price I'm paying is because she's a virgin."

"A virgin?" Alex sounds stunned. "Wow, what a birthday present. You've really outdone yourself this time. You've found me a good girl prepared to do naughty things for money. What a supremely tantalising prospect…"

My cheeks flush and once more, I can sense his demonic eyes scorching into me. My muscles stiffen. I don't enjoy being the object of his attention at all. The very thought of him looking at my body or making any type of sexual advance makes my skin crawl. Fuck, this feels so surreal, like something out of a horror movie. I can't actually believe I'm sitting here with these people, discussing my virginity like it's the most normal thing in the world. It's like some weird Gothic nightmare from an Edgar Allan Poe story. Please someone pinch me and wake me up.

At that moment, the door opens, and Hobbs and Mrs Bullivant enter the room carrying silver trays of French onion soup. So much has happened, I totally forgot about the starters Mrs Kingswood ordered earlier. It looks delicious but sadly, my nerves are so jangled, I have completely lost my appetite and doubt I'll be able to eat much. Right now, food is the last thing on my mind. All I want is to go home.

And then a funny thing happens. The freezing cold air suddenly melts away and the room begins to heat up, as if all the radiators in the house have been turned on. It's an uncanny sensation, almost like a swift changing of seasons, and for some reason, as crazy as it sounds, I am convinced Alex is responsible.

A bowl of soup is placed before me in a delicate silver bowl, but all I do is stare at it. My limbs are rigid with fear. My head is all over the place and I don't know whether I'm coming or going.

When Alex next speaks, his tone has softened, and I sense he's now trying to appease me. "Jessica, I would like it very much if you stayed for dinner. You've taken the trouble to come all this way so you might as well stay."

"I'm not sure," I mumble. "I really think I should be getting back. I've got some stuff to do tomorrow and must be up early so—"

"I'm prepared to pay half the money. That is ￡25,000 for you just to spend a couple of hours here with me. It's my birthday and I could do with the company, plus it will be nice spending some time with someone around my own age. How sad will it be if I end up spending my 21st birthday alone with just my mother? Stay until ten, and I promise I'll arrange for Hobbs to drive you home safely. What do you say?"

Tentatively, I glance across at Mrs Kingswood. Her face has a strained expression, but she doesn't say anything. The decision is clearly mine to make. My mind races. Of course, I'd been bluffing when I mentioned catching the last train home. The nearest train station is miles away and without a car, I'm pretty much stuck in the middle of nowhere. I realise the best way to get out of this house in one piece is just to play along. Plus, there's his amazingly generous offer of ￡25,000 just to stay for dinner. Who could pass up that kind of money? With Mum's medical treatment hanging in the balance, I decide it's too good an opportunity to miss.

"All right, I'll stay," I whisper.

"Fantastic." Alex sounds genuinely thrilled. I still can't look at him.

An uncomfortable hush descends. After we finish eating our soup, Mrs Bullivant serves up a superb fillet steak in mushroom and whiskey sauce with vegetables for mains and peaches and cream for dessert, all washed down with bottles of expensive red wine. For the next hour, the three of us barely speak. We just sit around the table, eating our dinner, and as I suspected, Mrs Kingswood barely touches anything, continuously pushing the food around her plate to give the illusion of participating. Something is definitely wrong there. Having said that, I too have very little appetite but force myself to eat every scrap out of politeness.

All throughout the meal, I can feel Alex staring at me constantly. It's like he's obsessed, and I find his relentless attention deeply unnerving but do my best not to let it get to me. In my mind, this is just a job, so I need to behave like a professional. If he wants to pay ￡25,000 to look at me all evening, then why not? It's a small price to pay and certainly better than having to sleep with him.

As the wine continues to flow, the room starts to spin and my head gets woozy. Never much of an alcohol drinker, it takes very little to get me tipsy, and midway through my second glass, the booze begins to loosen my tongue and I gain enough confidence to strike up a conversation.

"You have a really beautiful house," I slur. "I've never been anywhere so grand. It's like a palace."

"Yes, I suppose it is," Alex replies. "Although, after spending 21 years locked up here, I now see it more as a beautiful prison."

Mrs Kingswood squirms but continues to stay silent, her eyes fixed resolutely on her plate.

"You've spent your whole life locked up here?" I gasp. "Are you joking?"

"No, I wish I was. As soon as I was born, my parents decided I was too hideous for the world to see me, so they locked me away and had me home schooled for my own protection. Children can be so cruel, and I was constantly picked on, so I think my parents thought they were doing the right thing. Also, it was the ‘80s, people did things differently then. Plus, I think it saved them from embarrassment, they didn't want me around to spoil their image."

"That is not true, and you know it," his mother says quietly. "Your father and I only ever did what we thought was in your best interests, Alex. Home schooling you was never anything to do with saving face. We never hid you from our inner circle of friends and you know that."

"Perhaps that's true," Alex agrees. "All I know is, throughout my childhood, I barely went out, barely had any contact with anyone. It's been a lonely existence."

My heart breaks for him. I can't believe any parent would be so heartless to do that to their child. How can Mrs Kingswood live with herself every day, knowing she has locked her son away in this prison? Once more, I ask what kind of a person is she? It's like she wants him to be apologetic for even existing, and that's not on in my book. He didn't ask for the card life dealt him, so why the hell should he be kept hidden from the world? No matter what, Alex deserves the same shot in life as everyone else. He deserves to be able to live his life freely, see the world, make the most of every opportunity, and to hell with what people think. How dare she lock her son away to please others? How dare she?

"Oh my gosh, that's awful," I say. "It must have been so hard for you being so isolated from everything."

"I thought so too, at first," he replies. "But you know, Jessica, as the years go by, I think it might have been a blessing in disguise. When I was younger, I used to long to go out and be part of society, I thought I was missing out on something. But every time I come into contact with people, I'm thoroughly disappointed. More often than not, I find that they are cruel and prejudiced, unwilling to accept anything that challenges their narrow perception of the world. With a few exceptions, they are a scourge on this planet and if I'm honest, I much prefer the company of animals. Animals never judge you, are loyal to you, love you unconditionally and never let you down in the way humans do." He pauses. "You have gone silent. Tell me, am I wrong?"

I think of all the years of torment Georgina Wickham subjected me to at school, all the pain and misery she put me through, and I've got to admit I agree with him.

"No, you're not wrong," I say. "A lot of people are the way you have described. Cruel. Prejudiced. But not everyone is like that, there are some good ones, so you shouldn't tar everyone with the same brush."

"How old are you, Jessica?" Alex asks, changing the subject.

"Nineteen," I reply.

"Where do you live?"

"London."

"Where specifically?"

"Clapham Common. I live on a council estate."

"Who do you live with?"

"My mum and my brother Freddie. It's just the three of us."

"And your father, what about him?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I never knew him. All I know is his name is Carlos, he was an art student and he scarpered back to Spain pretty quick when he found out my mother was pregnant. He hasn't been part of my life for 19 years, never tried to make contact, never sent a birthday card, so I don't really think about him, to be honest. As far as I'm concerned, he doesn't exist."

"Then we are both fatherless. My dad died when I was ten."

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that."

"Don't be," Alex says coldly. "He wasn't a very nice person."

There's a short, uncomfortable pause. I take a large swig of wine to calm my nerves.

"Was it hard for your mother bringing up two children on her own?" Mrs Kingswood asks, suddenly finding her voice. "Growing up without a father must have been difficult."

"Yeah, sometimes it was hard," I admit. "We struggled financially, and there were times we had to go without, but I can't complain. Where it counted, I always felt I had everything I needed. You know, there's a lot of love in my house, my mother always supported me and that's what's important."

There's another short pause. Then Alex resumes: "Tell me about your mother and your brother. What are they like?"

My face instantly brightens. "Oh, my mum, Cynthia, she's great. She's an artist, really, really talented. A bit of a feminist, loves Tracey Emin. She's sort of crazy but in a good way. She has such a cool sense of humour, makes her own clothes, would do anything for anyone, everyone loves her. Let's see, what else…she likes salsa dancing, oh, and world music, she does yoga every Tuesday…"

"And your brother, Freddie?"

"Oh, Freddie's such a great kid. He's my whole world. So intelligent, so funny, just amazing. He loves his numbers, loves architecture, collects toy cars. He can write backwards, oh, and he recently learnt how to swim, which he loves. So um, yeah, just a wonderful little guy. I don't know what I'd do without him."

For a split-second, I glance up and my gaze settles on Alex's terrifying face. Despite my fear, I see something warm in those blue-green eyes. A trace of kindness and humanity. I look away hurriedly.

"When you're not with family, what else do you do? Are you at college? Do you work?"

"Yes, I work at a burger bar on Clapham High Street. It's cool. I like the people I work with, we always have a laugh, so um, yeah, it's great…" My sentence peters out. I take another swig of wine. The room begins to rock and sway. Nervously, I check my watch and notice it's almost a quarter to ten.

Not long to go, thank goodness.

"Do you have any hobbies?" Alex asks. "What are your interests?"

"I like old musicals," I reply. "You know, My Fair Lady, West Side Story, Gigi, that sort of thing. And I love to read."

"I love to read too," he says eagerly. "Who are your favourite authors?"

"Got to be Edgar Allan Poe."

"I love Poe! The Raven is one of my all-time favourites."

"Mine too! Have you read The Tell-Tale Heart?"

"Of course. An absolute masterpiece."

"I agree! Oh my gosh, you're the only other person I've met who's read it. I just love it. One of the best short stories ever. Some of the passages were so creepy I had to keep the lights on for weeks! But the writing is just beautiful, so poetic, so vivid…" Finally, the conversation dies. I have nothing more to give.

Hastily, I finish up the last of my dessert and place the spoon to one side. I am now literally on pins and needles waiting for the opportunity to broach the subject of my departure.

"Mother, can you leave us for five minutes?" Alex asks suddenly. "I want to speak to Jessica alone."

At first, she seems surprised by his request. Then, wordlessly, Mrs Kingswood wipes her mouth on her napkin, stands up and abruptly leaves the room. My heart skips a beat. Flipping hell, what does he want to talk to me about? I don't like the sound of this…

Slowly, Alex rises from his seat, strides down the length of the table and stops beside my chair. I draw in a sharp breath. At over 6ft 5in, he completely towers over me, and I find his size extremely intimidating. Once more it feels as if all the air has been sucked out the room.

Jittery with nerves, I cast my gaze downwards as he rests one large, powerful hand on the table in front of me. I study it out the corner of my eye. His fingers are long and elegant and covered with solid gold rings that look antique. His nails are immaculately clean and polished but curiously, sharpened into points that give his hand a frighteningly devilish quality. As he continues to close in, I get a whiff of his cologne: a smoky mixture of chocolate, vanilla and tobacco and something else I can't quite place. Whatever it is, I find it strangely intoxicating.

"I've changed my mind," he says softly. "I've decided that I do want you to stay after all. For another ￡25,000, I want you to spend the night with me."

"Spend the night with you? You don't mean…?"

"Yes. I want to revert back to the original agreement with your agency. For the full ￡50,000, I want you to spend the whole night. I want to go through with it."

Oh, dear God, no!

"Please, Jessica, I want you to stay. We're getting along so well and…I think you'd enjoy it."

When he says the word ‘enjoy,' my pussy starts to throb. I can't help it. His voice is like a sensual caress, stroking my clit and casting a spell over me to make my body do things it shouldn't. This shit needs to stop!

Awkwardly, I scratch the side of my neck, trying to think of a way to let him down gently. "I'm so sorry." My voice breaks a little. "But I can't. I've had a lovely evening with you, the dinner was wonderful, it's been great, but I just…I can't. I'm sorry."

"Why not?"

"Because…because…"

"It's because of the way I look, isn't it? You find me disgusting. If I looked normal, you'd want to spend the night with me in a heartbeat. Don't deny it. You've shown that you can be bought. Money is clearly a motivation for you. For ￡50,000 you were prepared to sleep with a stranger, regardless of who that person turned out to be. You want money, I'm more than willing to pay, yet still you refuse me. It can only be that."

"Well, I, that is…" I break off and run my fingers through my hair. I'm so flustered, I don't know where to look. The truth is, there's much more to it than that. If only it were that simple. It's not just his physical appearance that turns me off—no, there's something else too. A dark aura that is hard to fathom; something malevolent and corrupt, something almost supernatural that consumes everything he touches and makes it difficult to breathe. A violently unstable energy that suffocates and terrifies me, causing my whole body to recoil.

Sleep with him?

I would have to be out of my mind. But the last thing I want is to upset him and risk changing his mind about paying me what he already owes, so this situation will need to be handled with the utmost delicacy. If I fuck this up, there goes my mother's medical treatment, and I simply cannot allow that to happen.

Stay strong, you can do this.

Hugging my shoulders, I try to buy myself some time. "Please don't take this the wrong way," I say. "But you've got to understand it took a lot to psych myself up and come here. I'm so nervous, I've never done this kind of thing before and when you said you didn't want it to happen, well, I sort of got used to the idea. Now you're saying you've changed your mind…I'm sorry, but my head just isn't with it anymore. I hope that makes sense. It's not you, it's me. This is my issue, not yours."

Mentally, I facepalm. It's not you, it's me? How corny is that?

For what seems forever, Alex continues to stand over me, silently processing my words. I can hear the heavy rise and fall of his breathing. Can almost feel the disappointment rushing through his veins. But my mind is made up. I simply cannot go through with it. There's just no way I can sleep with him.

When he speaks again, his voice is low and icy. "Fine. Okay. I respect your decision. I'll arrange for Hobbs to drive you back home. Thank you for coming, Jessica. Also, I just wanted to say, I really enjoyed our time together and wish you a safe journey home. I'll see to it that the ￡25,000 is paid into your bank account by Monday morning latest. Have a good evening."

Without another word, Alex sweeps out of the room, and I start breathing again. Jesus, did that actually just happen?