1

There was bubblegum stuck to my shoe. Every other step I took along the grubby pavement was accompanied by stickiness, as if my foot didn’t want me to get there. I stopped and leaned against the window of a classy lingerie shop where a headless mannequin in a tightly laced scarlet corset was banging at the window to get out. I frantically scraped the sole of my borrowed, uncomfortable shoe against the sharp edge of the doorstep to get rid of the gum, and wondered how that corset would look worn on its own, with a spiked dog-collar, black leather pencil skirt, bare legs and skyscraper heels.

I earned a glare from the fat lady inside the shop, cerise lips and furrowed brow demanding silently to know if I was coming in to buy. I shook my head and waggled my foot about some more, scraped and kicked, but the gum was still there when I set off again.

I didn’t have time to get rid of it. I was late, as usual, and the office was proving impossible to find. I crumpled the newspaper ad into a ball in my pocket as I limped unevenly through Mayfair. I’d forgotten how smart and hushed this part of London was compared to how stressful the city could be; one would always be rushing past even smarter and even more stressed people to get to appointments. Despite the cold weather, sweat was prickling in my armpits as I glanced at all the doorways, some of which had no numbering on them at all.

More than half of me wanted to turn tail and flee. I didn’t want a poxy job, here or anywhere else. I wanted to continue living the life of Riley, preferably under permanently blue skies. Whoever Riley was, I wanted to meet him; I wanted him to get me out of this mess. I wanted to forget that I’d run out of money, clothes and a proper working visa, and had nowhere to come but home.

I was rushing past an estate agents’ with huge glossy photographs of stately homes in the window, when the name I was searching for flickered out like a tentacle. ‘Club Crème’ was inscribed in plain black lettering on a neat wooden sign nailed to a little gate. Apart from the luscious name, it could have been an undertakers’. If I’d blinked I’d have missed it.

I came to a halt and the offending shoe flew off. No wonder. Chrissie was several inches shorter and skinnier than me. Her shoes, and the pinstripe trouser suit I had also borrowed, were miles too small. At 28 I was far too young for middle-age spread. Goddam it, I thought I was in pretty good shape. But, trussed up in her miniscule clothes my ribs and toes already felt squashed and bruised, as if they’d done a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. But I couldn’t wear my usual casual clothes to a posh interview, could I? And I needed this job. Any job.

I pushed at the gate and it grudgingly opened with a couple of horror-movie squeaks. I walked up a narrow dark alleyway, all dripping brickwork and distant echoes, and saw a black painted double door ahead. ‘Club Crème’ was inscribed above this door, too. I pushed, but it was locked. One bell, no label. I rang this and waited. I rang it again, and took out the scrumpled piece of newspaper from my pocket. For the umpteenth time I read its enigmatic request:

Versatile, energetic and discreet person required

for varied duties

Private Gentlemens’ Club

Yep, that was me.