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would not lead me into danger.
    With renewed purpose, I strolled up to the Café. As I came closer, I made out more details behind the condensation-steamed window. The shapes were of gorgeous, mythical goddesses – pneumatic and amazonian, with great pompadours of hair – wigs I supposed. Curious to see these creatures at close quarters, I stepped through the door less self-consciously than I might have done, and looked about me.
    ‘All right, darling?’ enquired one of the goddesses, and I smiled so beatifically that they must have mistaken me for some kind of idiot. Of course. They were men.
    Not all of them – some women, relatively dowdy and hatchet-faced, lurked at the counter drinking tea – but the main grouping, laughing and bitching around a large formica table, were transsexuals, transvestites and drag artists. They conferred glamour on to the shabby café, filling the air with their extravagant perfumes, which mixed oddly with the grease from behind the counter. Drawn to their insouciance, I took a tentative step in their direction, but I was interrupted by the harsh tones of the waitress, a faded brass in carpet slippers and a 1960s beehive.
    ‘Saffron?’
    ‘Oh … yes.’
    ‘They’re waiting for you upstairs.’
    She held a door open for me, her face impassive despite my attempt to smile at her. Behind me, one of the men, or maybe a newly-minted woman, sang I’m just mad about Saffron in a light tenor.
    The stair carpet was fusty and smelly, but I made it to the landing before the timer snapped the light bulb off, and blundered through the only open door I could see. In a tiny sitting room, a tall man in a suit sat cross-legged on a torn leather sofa, briefcase at his side.
    ‘Miss Miles?’ he asked, in a distinctive, not particularly reassuring, baritone.
    It took me a second or two to gather the wit to reply in the affirmative.
    ‘I must apologise for the setting. The Café is rather noisier than usual. There is a drag club behind the station and I gather it’s Ladies’ Night tonight. Do take a seat.’
    I perched on a low leather-covered stool, the type of thing that used to be called a pouffe before people stopped wanting to use that term. From my lowly seating point, the man looked forbiddingly long and looming, but he adjusted his spectacles and smiled, transforming his face at a stroke.
    ‘Such an inventive and interesting fantasy you sent us,’ he said warmly. ‘I could not resist it. It took a while to find the perfect venue, but I hope you will not be disappointed. I have hired some people from the very best sources – some will participate, others will merely observe. All are clean and discreet, though naturally, sensible precautions will be observed. I wonder if you would be able, at this point, to give me an idea of the number of participants you might like?’
    I blinked. He was asking me how many men I wanted to be fucked by. In the nicest possible way.
    ‘Well … I’m not sure … if I say a number now, would I be able to add to it later … if I still wanted to?’
    ‘Yes, of course. Conversely, you are, of course, free to stop the action at any time. You understand, however, that I would not be able to offer a refund, should you find the reality less palatable than the fantasy. I am paying for hire of the space, as well as a number of people tonight.’
    ‘Oh yes, of course, I’m sure you’ve gone to a lot of trouble,’ I assured him, a little in awe of this old-fashioned and stern-looking man. ‘It’s … a very interesting job you’ve got.’
    He inclined his head. ‘Interesting, yes. You haven’t answered my question.’
    ‘Oh! Shall I say … three? To start off with?’
    ‘Three is a very good number. I have ten at your disposal, depending on how the night proceeds. On one occasion, ten was not enough for the lady in question, and I had to ring out for more.’
    I laughed, stunned. At the back of my mind had always been the nagging idea that I was a freak,