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already pulling back the chairs, gesturing to us all to take our seats, then proffering bottles of wine.
    ‘Red or white?’ he asked us all as we sat down. ‘We’re keeping it simple tonight: buffalo mozzarella and roasted artichokes, then pasta with a chilli tomato sauce. And lastly my famous home-made chocolate mousse.’
    As he began plating up the starters, Kyle continued to chat, probably aware that I was out of my depth. Not that I couldn’t talk to these people, of course – it wasn’t as if I was shy or lacking in chutzpah. But their
froideur
had raised my hackles: why, I thought, should I do all the running where they were intent on showing me that I was uninteresting to them?
    The talk, through much of the meal, was of the classical music and dance worlds, and of mutual friends of the three of them. It was mind-numbingly boring and I didn’t listen to much of it. I wasn’t inclined to intervene and set the conversation on a more interesting course either. Instead, I drank a little too quickly and I gradually zoned out, thinking instead of what might be happening at the club that night. I didn’t miss it, exactly, but I missed the camaraderie with the other girls, the sense of community. For the first time in my life, it occurred to me, I had belonged somewhere. And then I had thrown it all away, in favour of …
this
.
    I was startled out of my musings by Tatiana’s hand on my arm. It felt cold and clammy, even intrusive. I instinctively flinched.
    All eyes, I realised, were on me, and it became obvious that someone had just asked me a question that I hadn’t heard.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I managed at last. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’
    ‘Tatiana was just asking about your line of work,’ said Kyle, and in his eyes I saw a little warning. I didn’t know what he’d already told them about me, but I was guessing that the word ‘stripper’ hadn’t come into the conversation.
    My smile was so fake it made my cheeks ache. ‘I’m a dancer, too,’ I said, looking at Tatiana.
    She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Where do you dance?’
    ‘I’m – I’m freelance,’ I said. ‘At different venues in Paris. Modern dance.’
    It wasn’t like me to lie. It wasn’t even as if I was ashamed of what I did. But I suddenly felt protective of Kyle, protective of whatever lies he might have told them. Above all, I guess, I didn’t want to embarrass him.
    I felt a foot on mine under the table and, assuming it was his way of thanking me for my discretion, flashed him a smile across the table.
    He smiled back, and in his eyes I thought I saw, once more, something deeper than kindness or casual friendship – something ardent and even a little greedy. Did he want me, or was it the drink talking – in him, in me, or in both of us?
    I stood up and made my way to the toilet. After peeing, I splashed my face with cold water. I had drunk too much, and if I didn’t sober up I risked saying something I might regret. Though my instinct was to protect Kyle, Morgan and Tatiana’s coolness and evident disapproval of me might ignite my temper if I didn’t pay attention.
    Smoothing my hair back and my dress down, I stepped out of the toilet. Morgan was leaning against the opposite wall, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded. A curious half-smile flickered around his lips. I smiled back.
    ‘All yours,’ I said.
    He stepped towards me. ‘All mine?’ he said, and his smile grew more wolfish. I realised then that it must have been Morgan’s, not Kyle’s, foot under the table, telling me something quite different.
    I took a step backward but he continued to approach, and with one arm outstretched, he put a hand on my hip.
    I looked towards the dining room. I could hear the low rumble of conversation, interrupted by the odd tinkle of Tatiana’s glassy laugh. From this angle, we couldn’t be seen.
    But what was Tatiana to Morgan, anyway? I’d assumed they were a couple, but nothing