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guilt because he’d married her in the first place. She’d have settled down with a different man, maybe cheated once or twice, she was very oversexed, but with children she’d have made the best of it. No children for him. He’d been firm about that. A widow was bad enough, but he wouldn’t leave any orphans … thank God, as things had turned out.
    The man had finished dressing. He smoothed his hair and cleared his throat before he spoke to the woman lying on the bed.
    â€˜How about tomorrow? I’ve got a business lunch, but I’m free for two hours in the afternoon. Please?’
    She was very beautiful. She reminded him of a magnificent animal; a lioness, he thought, staring down at the naked body, arms stretched up behind her mane of thick blonde hair. She smiled up at him, and slowly raised herself off the bed. She wanted him to plead, to beg. She knew how much he liked that.
    â€˜Just two hours,’ he wheedled. ‘I’ll bring you something very nice. Something special.’
    He came close and caught her hands.
    â€˜Don’t make me kneel,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t make me crawl, darling.’
    Suddenly she dug her nails into his hands. He gave a cry of pain and let go. That was part of the game. He looked down and saw that she’d drawn blood. ‘You bitch!’ he mumbled.
    She had turned away from him slipping on pantihose and a silk shift, sliding her feet into high-heeled shoes.
    â€˜I can’t see you tomorrow, Gustav, I’m going away for a few days.’
    She sat down at the dressing-table and began brushing her hair. She watched him through the mirror. She hated him, but then she hated them all. The masochists like this one who wanted to be bullied and humiliated before they could get potent, the other type who liked to be rough, the mummy’s boys who had breast fetishes and paid to sit on her lap and fondle and talk baby-talk. Even the straight ones who wanted good sex and tried to please her. But they paid. They paid big money for Monika. And Monika paid out big money for protection. Not to a pimp. There wasn’t a pimp born who could have run her, and the idea made her laugh. Another kind of protection. From the hit and run driver, the professional waiting round the corner with a knife. More and more money and no guarantee that it would be enough in the end. The client was sucking at his palms.
    â€˜I’m bleeding,’ he reproached her. ‘Why did you do that?’
    â€˜Because you bore me,’ she said not turning round.
    â€˜Don’t say that,’ he pleaded, enjoying himself. ‘I only want to please you. Let me come tomorrow … please.’
    She stood up. She was very tall. She towered over him.
    â€˜My money,’ she reminded him. ‘You owe me Gustav. You’re not coming again till you pay me.’
    â€˜I’ve got it here,’ he fumbled in his coat pocket, took out an envelope. ‘Cash, darling. Count it.’
    â€˜I can’t be bothered,’ she shrugged and threw the envelope down unopened. ‘You wouldn’t cheat me. I’d never see you again if it was one franc short. You know that.’
    He adjusted his tie, buttoned his jacket again.
    â€˜Are you really going away?’
    â€˜I told you.’
    He was jealous; he knew she had other clients but he didn’t like to think of sharing her with anyone. He’d been coming to see her for over a year.
    â€˜Are you going alone?’
    She draped a heavy gold necklace round her neck and fitted earrings into her ears. She looked at herself in the mirror.
    â€˜I’m going to visit my mother in Grasse,’ she said. ‘Now goodbye, Gustav darling. Your time is up.’
    She opened the front door and stood waiting. He paused for a moment.
    â€˜Two days. That’s Thursday then. I’ll telephone. I saw a nice brooch in Boucheron’s window.’
    â€˜I don’t want a brooch.