I heard the downstairs door open and the sound of voices: Astrid and Owen. I put the picture back, stepped quickly out of the room and went upstairs to my own, where I lay on my bed. I could hear them talking in low voices in the hallway, then their footsteps mounting the stairs together. I folded my arms round my body and screwed my eyes shut. Rain rattled against the window in waves with the wind but it felt as if it was inside my brain. The pair of them were going into Owen’s room, where they would be together, surrounded by those images. I saw the naked bodies of Owen’s women, and then I saw Astrid and Owen naked too and it felt like something swelling in my head. I crept down one flight of stairs and listened outside their door. Astrid was saying something. What? I put my ear against the door.

‘Your women don’t have faces.’

So he was showing her the pictures. I couldn’t hear what they were saying next; just murmurs, his voice, then hers. And then there was silence. Fucking silence. Except the roaring in my head.

Sometimes things come together, as if they were meant. You don’t make plans, but you make yourself ready and available and plans come to you, falling into your lap like a gift.

The next day, I just happened to find myself near the Horse and Jockey at around the time I knew Astrid usually finished work, so I went in, scanning the room for a glimpse of her. She wasn’t there and I turned to go.

‘Davy. Over here, mate!’

It was one of her biker friends. I couldn’t remember his name, though I’d met him there several times and he always treated me as if we’d been friends for years.

I walked over to the group.

‘Looking for Astrid?’ he said.

‘I was just passing.’

‘Yeah?’ He grinned knowingly. ‘She’s not here. Have a drink, though.’

‘Why so generous all of a sudden?’ asked one of the other bikers, who had a shaved head and a ring through his nose.

‘I got a tip today from Queen Ingrid. Can you imagine?’

‘Queen Ingrid?’ asked Buzzcut.

‘You know. That bloody de Soto woman up in the fortified palace in Highgate.’

‘The tan’s real – she has lots of holidays.’

‘And you got a tip? What was it? Additional services?’

There were smirks all around, even from a couple of the girls.

‘No such luck. She needed a bit of furniture moving. So what’ll you have, Davy?’

‘Half of lager,’ I said. ‘Don’t they have servants for that sort of thing?’

‘Didn’t seem to be anybody around.’

I sat in the warm fug, sipping slowly, smiling when they smiled and laughing when they laughed, keeping half an eye out for Astrid, my mind ticking away.

Early the next morning I bought an A-Z at the newsagent up the road, took the Underground to Highgate and walked the rest of the way, map in hand, like a tourist. The walk was all uphill. At the end, I felt I’d arrived at a place that looked down on the rest of us, scrabbling around in the heat of the city.

Century Road was just off the main street, and I needn’t have worried about picking out the de Soto house: set back from the road, behind an iron fence, a burglar alarm blinking above its porched door, its tall windows glinting in the morning sun. Two cars were parked in the forecourt, a Jaguar and a Range Rover. His and hers. I looked around, suddenly feeling self-conscious. It seemed stupidly suspicious to be standing on a residential street staring at an expensive house. I walked along the road and through a square until I got to a shopping street. I returned to Century Road with a newspaper and a cup of coffee. I sat on the kerb, sipped coffee and pretended to read the paper. Now I looked like a dozen boring, explainable, forgettable people.

At twenty to eight a man in a suit came out of the house, got into the car, drove out and away, down the hill. I sipped at my now empty cup and actually began to read the paper. A bomb blast in a Baghdad market. A train crash in Egypt. At twenty-five past eight the postman walked through the gate and up the drive. He pressed a button and spoke into a small grille. After a few seconds the door opened and he stepped forward. He had a package in his hand, but whoever had answered was lost in the shadows. He turned round and I saw a glimpse of a woman disappearing inside, back into that world where she felt so safe. The door closed.

It was obvious that I couldn’t break into a house like that. There were probably alarms of a kind I knew nothing about. I needed to be invited in and I needed to be sure that she was alone, with no builders, butlers or gardeners. That was the challenge. I thought for a moment, then felt excitement ripple through me. I stood up and carefully crammed the newspaper and the coffee cup into a bin. People noticed litterers.

Now that I had decided, I was burning to act but I had a whole day and night to get through. It took about an hour to reach the gallery where Melanie and Laura worked. I pushed the door open and entered the hushed, cool interior. There were no customers, but Laura and Melanie were there. Melanie was wearing a flowery cotton dress that Astrid wouldn’t have been seen dead in. She had pink lips and looked like a child about to go off to a birthday party.

‘Davy.’ She blushed and put up a hand to check her hair. ‘I wasn’t expecting you!’

‘Why would you be?’ I asked rudely. ‘Hi, Laura.’

‘Hello, Davy.’ She looked at me appraisingly and I felt my anger mount.

‘These are a bit expensive, aren’t they?’ I said, flicking my hand dismissively at a canvas.

‘Well, not if you -’

‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’

‘You can go to the stock room,’ said Laura. ‘It’s not as if we’re rushed off our feet.’

Melanie led me into the back. Through the frosted-glass door I could see Laura’s shape moving around the gallery and I could hear her as well, the clack her shoes made on the wooden floor.

‘Are you all right, Davy?’ asked Melanie.

‘Why not?’

‘I didn’t think I’d hear from you again.’

‘Well, here I am.’

‘I was worried.’ As she spoke, she took a step forward and lifted her face. Her expression was anxious and hopeful. I knew she wanted me to kiss her, a chaste and tender kiss to reassure her of my affection.

I didn’t kiss her, but there under the naked bulb, among the box files, pressed against the computer that beeped and whirred, I pulled up her flowery dress and pulled down her demure white knickers, pulled them over her sensible shoes and put them into my jacket pocket. I pushed my hand between her legs. She tried to stop me. Her eyes were wild and she struggled silently, looking over my shoulder at the door. Then she stopped struggling and I unzipped my flies and pushed myself inside her. When I’d finished – it didn’t take long – she put her arms round my neck and pressed her face into my chest and told me it was all right and she understood and she loved me and she was so happy I’d tracked her down. She kissed me on the mouth, called me ‘darling’, and led me back into the shop by the hand, looking mussed and proud.

I’d tried nice. I’d tried considerate. And it hadn’t worked. But when you were cruel, when you were indifferent, they liked you for it. If you treated them really badly, they fell in love with you. It was their own fault.