you say?'
His request had sounded in my ears as if someone had shouted from the past. He was holding out his palms.
'I'm sorry?' he said, and I took a breath.
'I just read your mind, that's all.'
'I'd better be careful what I'm thinking.'
'Yes.' I took a beat. My heart was going pitter-patter, like rain on a window. 'Don't they say we are what we think?'
'Do you believe that?' he asked, and I shrugged.
'I have a friend who reads the Tarot.'
'Did she say you were going to meet a dark handsome stranger?'
'She doesn't like giving me bad news. Anyway,' I said, glancing around the room. 'Who is this handsome stranger?'
He grinned and threw his jacket on top of my own, pinning it down.
'Music,' I suggested, and scrolled down my iPhone: 'Avril Lavigne, Bach, Gypsy Kings, Hotel Costes, KD Lang, Melissa Etheridge, Mozart, Pink Floyd, Tribe 8…'
'Tribe 8?'
'You like them?'
'Never heard of them.'
'It's a dyke band. How about random?'
'Isn't that a compromise?'
'No, it's eclectic.'
'No, it's a compromise. Hotel Costes,' he then said, and I set the iPhone in its dock.
The room vibrated with drums, brass, maracas, a mélange of sound roaming the space.
'So, Tom Bridge, you were saying?' I continued, and he sat in the armchair.
'I said, will you do something for me?'
'You already know I will,' I replied.
He crossed his legs. 'Take your clothes off for me.'
I stared back at him.
'I am a doctor,' he added, and it made me smile.
The thing is, like that day long ago at Black Spires, it was hot and my jeans were sawing into my crotch like a cheese wire. I was desperate to strip off my clothes. Did he know that? Had I beamed out my subliminal desires and he was responding to them?
'You want me to take my clothes off?'
'Yes.'
I raised my shoulders, as if surprised, and tried not to show that I was rather pleased as I unhooked the first of the row of brass buttons on my jacket, one button leading to the next like I was playing an accordion. Being naked for a woman isn't the same as it is for a man; our clothes acquire different associations. We don't dress in clothes, we masquerade in the robes of contrivance: too tight, too small, the contours outlining shapes and displaying slivers of flesh like promises, like the trailers for a film. Nudity is a logical progression.
An idea for a story jumped into my mind, a continuation of my experiences with Roger Devlin. After being seduced, the female protagonist becomes obsessed with the camera watching her during sex and puts the films online – she always wears a mask, of course, and charges customers 99 cents to see the edited movies. She is in league with her web guy, a facsimile of my web guy, Bradley, a boy devoted to barter – he'll fix my laptop for free if I fix the irritation in his blue jeans.
'Bradley, you're twenty-two years old.'
'In my prime, right? You know what, Katie, I could give you a real good seeing to.'
'Bradley, if you put all that testosterone into repairing my machine it wouldn't keep going down on me...'
He did a little shimmy. 'You've got a way with words, Katie, I'll give you that.'
My face must have showed my thoughts; I'm an open book, a blank page.
'What are you thinking about?' Tom asked.
I stared back across the room. 'I'm not telling you,' I replied, and held the jacket out for him to inspect; it was rather gorgeous – a shade of blue that's not quite blue and not quite anything else, cerulean, kingfisher, lazuline.
'Do you like the colour?' I asked, and he didn't answer the question.
'You should wear more green,' he said instead, and paused, 'to match your eyes.'
'Yes, doctor. Would you like me to change my hairstyle as well?'
He smiled. I liked his smile, natural, full-lipped. The low sun edged his face in gold, making it hard to see his expression. I dragged the rollneck over my head and shook out my hair. He leaned forward to watch as if he were at the theatre following a scene on stage. I took a step towards him and