and put my phone away.
‘Who was that?’ Anton is frowning.
‘Just a mate. From home.’
‘No it isn’t. Your eyes did that looking up to the left thing that’s meant to be a classic sign of a fib.’
A plague on pop psychology and body language analysis.
‘Anton.’ I’m surprised and a little perturbed at how much this seems to matter to him. ‘It’s personal. OK?’
‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ he accuses. ‘You went all misty and pink. You’re in love. Who is he? Not Dale from upstairs or I’ll puke.’
‘Jesus, no! Look, I’m too tired for this. I’m going. Thanks for the coffee. Have a good weekend.’
I sail off with my handbag clutched to my chest before he can argue.
* * *
The next day is rainy so I hurry along the Shoreditch alleyways with my umbrella and raincoat. Only I know that underneath the waterproof veneer, I am wearing only a swishy jersey dress and stockings. If going commando is good enough for Dimitri …
To my relief and near-surprise – because I was starting to wonder if I’d dreamed him – he stands in the archway of the Kinky Cupcake door. No umbrella, fatally wounded leather jacket the only thing standing between his rangy body and the elements. His moustache drips when he kisses me an enthusiastic hello.
‘This is London,’ I tell him. ‘It rains.’
‘Oh, rain.’ He shrugs vaguely. ‘It’s nothing. In Moscow right now is first winter snow.’
‘You’re a tough cookie,’ I say, swooning slightly at his manly disregard of the weather.
‘No.’ He points one finger at the dark brick behind us. ‘I am a kinky cupcake. Shall we go in?’
‘OK.’
We nod to the doorman and head up to the café, which is half full of damp Saturday shoppers popping in for their quota of rubber and depravity before the football scores. Actually, a rubber outfit would be good in this weather. Maybe I should get one.
‘So,’ I open, bringing coffee and Danish pastries to the table, ‘what are we doing here?’
‘I book a room,’ says Dimitri, teeth flashing as he smiles his wicked smile.
‘You booked a room? Here?’
‘Yeah. I need to practise my skills for my new career.’
‘Oh, that.’ I bite my lip. I still can’t quite believe he means to go through with it. ‘Is it expensive? To rent the room?’
‘I pay for an hour. Is quite expensive, but yesterday I find a job for while I wait for good-paying clients.’
‘Good idea. What’s the job?’
‘In a kitchen.’ He shrugs. ‘It isn’t for ever.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘So drink your coffee. I book the room one till two.’
‘Which room did you book?’
‘The schoolroom.’
‘I see. And what might we be practising?’
‘I am going to whip you,’ he says, infinitely casual, dabbing coffee from his moustache with a napkin.
‘Lovely.’ I shudder and have the urge to hug myself. I have this sense of being in exquisite danger. Danger I have signed up for.
I linger over the coffee, keeping an eye on the clock, while we discuss my advertising campaign, his associates in the squatty-sounding dive he is staying in, his new kitchen-portering job, until the time comes and I can divert him with light chatter no longer.
He holds out his hand. ‘Come.’
I hope so.
But first I have to descend with him into that sinister basement where all things dark and dreadful take place. No events are taking place this lunchtime – those are reserved for the evening hours – so the corridor is quiet. In the medical room, there seems to be a little activity going on – another booking, presumably.
Dimitri pushes open the door to the schoolroom, as white and bare and chalk-dusty as I remember with its row of little desks and its cupboard of pain.
It is to this last that Dimitri addresses himself, opening the door and pulling out a gown of coarse black material.
‘This fits me?’ He puts it over his shoulders and flaps about like a vampire bat, trying it out for size. It’s a little short on
‘Who was that?’ Anton is frowning.
‘Just a mate. From home.’
‘No it isn’t. Your eyes did that looking up to the left thing that’s meant to be a classic sign of a fib.’
A plague on pop psychology and body language analysis.
‘Anton.’ I’m surprised and a little perturbed at how much this seems to matter to him. ‘It’s personal. OK?’
‘You’ve got a boyfriend,’ he accuses. ‘You went all misty and pink. You’re in love. Who is he? Not Dale from upstairs or I’ll puke.’
‘Jesus, no! Look, I’m too tired for this. I’m going. Thanks for the coffee. Have a good weekend.’
I sail off with my handbag clutched to my chest before he can argue.
* * *
The next day is rainy so I hurry along the Shoreditch alleyways with my umbrella and raincoat. Only I know that underneath the waterproof veneer, I am wearing only a swishy jersey dress and stockings. If going commando is good enough for Dimitri …
To my relief and near-surprise – because I was starting to wonder if I’d dreamed him – he stands in the archway of the Kinky Cupcake door. No umbrella, fatally wounded leather jacket the only thing standing between his rangy body and the elements. His moustache drips when he kisses me an enthusiastic hello.
‘This is London,’ I tell him. ‘It rains.’
‘Oh, rain.’ He shrugs vaguely. ‘It’s nothing. In Moscow right now is first winter snow.’
‘You’re a tough cookie,’ I say, swooning slightly at his manly disregard of the weather.
‘No.’ He points one finger at the dark brick behind us. ‘I am a kinky cupcake. Shall we go in?’
‘OK.’
We nod to the doorman and head up to the café, which is half full of damp Saturday shoppers popping in for their quota of rubber and depravity before the football scores. Actually, a rubber outfit would be good in this weather. Maybe I should get one.
‘So,’ I open, bringing coffee and Danish pastries to the table, ‘what are we doing here?’
‘I book a room,’ says Dimitri, teeth flashing as he smiles his wicked smile.
‘You booked a room? Here?’
‘Yeah. I need to practise my skills for my new career.’
‘Oh, that.’ I bite my lip. I still can’t quite believe he means to go through with it. ‘Is it expensive? To rent the room?’
‘I pay for an hour. Is quite expensive, but yesterday I find a job for while I wait for good-paying clients.’
‘Good idea. What’s the job?’
‘In a kitchen.’ He shrugs. ‘It isn’t for ever.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘So drink your coffee. I book the room one till two.’
‘Which room did you book?’
‘The schoolroom.’
‘I see. And what might we be practising?’
‘I am going to whip you,’ he says, infinitely casual, dabbing coffee from his moustache with a napkin.
‘Lovely.’ I shudder and have the urge to hug myself. I have this sense of being in exquisite danger. Danger I have signed up for.
I linger over the coffee, keeping an eye on the clock, while we discuss my advertising campaign, his associates in the squatty-sounding dive he is staying in, his new kitchen-portering job, until the time comes and I can divert him with light chatter no longer.
He holds out his hand. ‘Come.’
I hope so.
But first I have to descend with him into that sinister basement where all things dark and dreadful take place. No events are taking place this lunchtime – those are reserved for the evening hours – so the corridor is quiet. In the medical room, there seems to be a little activity going on – another booking, presumably.
Dimitri pushes open the door to the schoolroom, as white and bare and chalk-dusty as I remember with its row of little desks and its cupboard of pain.
It is to this last that Dimitri addresses himself, opening the door and pulling out a gown of coarse black material.
‘This fits me?’ He puts it over his shoulders and flaps about like a vampire bat, trying it out for size. It’s a little short on
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