She walks out of the bedroom and heads for the kitchen.  It has been done up in sunny yellow with glossy black granite worktops and surfaces.  There is an island in the middle and stools around it.  When she was young she dreamed of just such a kitchen.  She perches on one of the tall stools, swivels around a few times, and hops off.  She goes to a cupboard and opens it.  It is full of stuff—expensive stuff that is never found in her mother’s cupboards.  Tins of biscuits from Fortnum and Masons, Jellies from Harrods, French chocolates with fancy names.  She takes a few down and admires the exquisite packaging.  She shuts the cupboard and goes to the fridge.

More exotic stuff: truffles, hand-made blue cheeses, gooseberries, cuts of dried meats, wild smoked salmon, a dressed lobster, caviar…  The vegetable drawer is packed with organic produce.  Even the eggs have blue shells.  There are two bottles of champagne lying on their sides.  She takes one out and looks at the label.  Dom Perignon.

‘Hmnnn…’ she says into the silence.

Carefully, she peels back the foil and the wire that holds down the cork.  Holding the bottle between her thighs she twists the cork as she has seen the waiter do, but it takes many tries, and when it finally pops out, she has shaken the bottle so much, it sprays everywhere.

She cleans up with some paper napkins, then finds a glass in one of the cabinets and pours herself a drink.  Carrying the glass she goes back into the living room.  She slides back the doors and steps outside.  She stands there for a moment looking at the wonderful view of the park and surrounding area, but can feel no joy in her heart.  Her thoughts are with her mother.  She closes her eyes and prays that all will be well.  Then she raises her glass to the sky.  ‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispers, ‘be well again.’  Then she brings the glass to her lips.

There is not enough time to try the Jacuzzi bathtub, so Lana has a shower.  The showerhead is wonderfully powerful unlike the weak one she is used to.  The shower invigorates her and she goes into her shopping bags with some measure of excitement.  The bruises from the night before mean that she is only able to wear the Versace silk shirt.  She pulls on the tight leather trousers that end at her ankles and slips on the strappy stilettos.  Then she does her eyes the way Aisha taught her to and paints her lips soft pink.  She is so nervous her hands tremble slightly.  She goes into the living room and pours herself another glass of champagne.

At eight thirty sharp the bell rings.  Peter comes in with a large, flat cardboard box, which he carefully places on the side table.  ‘I was asked to drop this off for Mr. Barrington.  You look beautiful, Miss Bloom,’ he compliments awkwardly.

‘Thank you, but will you call me Lana, Peter?’  The champagne has made her feel light-headed.  She smiles at him mistily.

‘Of course, Lana,’ he says smiling.

The reception desk is no longer manned by Mr. Nair.  A small, white man with small, suspicious eyes is introduced as Mr. Burrows.  He smiles politely, but distantly.  This was a man who did not want to get involved with any of the occupants of the building.

After that Peter drives her to a private club in Sloane Square called Madame Yula.

Eleven

Blake is waiting for her at the bar.  He is wearing an oyster gray lounge suit and a black shirt.  He is even more disturbingly attractive than she remembers. He stands when he sees her and she stops, frozen by his eyes.  Neither move.  It is as if they are again in a world of their own.  Just his smoldering eyes and her strong desire for more from him—what exactly she does not quite know.  Then he breaks the spell by moving towards her.

‘You look edible,’ he says, his eyes lingering on the curve of her hips.

She blushes and touches her bangs.

‘I like the hair, too,’ he murmurs.

‘Thanks.’  Her voice sounds nervous and shaky.

He reaches a hand out to touch her and instinctively she pulls away.  She had not meant to, but her body has its own reactions to him.

He drops his hand and eyes her coldly. ‘Look,’ he says.  ‘We can make it a totally sex thing or we can dress it up a little and it will look pretty in the corner.  It’s up to you.  It’s all the same to me.’

Pretty in the corner.  Strange turn of phrase. She studies him from beneath her eyelashes.  ‘Dress it up a little,’ she says.

‘Good.  Can I get you something to drink?  A glass of champagne?  You’re partial to it, if I remember correctly,’ he says, and leads her to the bar.

Lana looks around the bar.  It is decorated in dark wood and deep red curtains.  It actually looks like an old-fashioned French brothel.  ‘I’ve already had two glasses.’

His eyebrows rise.  ‘You found the alcohol.’

‘It found me.  I opened the fridge and there it was begging me to drink it.’

‘Yes, alcohol has a habit of doing that.’

‘I’m hungry, though.’

‘Let’s get some food into you then.’

They are shown into a private booth.  The sommelier arrives and she listens to Blake order a bottle of wine that she has never heard of, and realizes that the poor and the middle classes have been conned into believing that Chablis, Chateauneuf-du-Pape, Pouilly Fume, and Sancerre are superior wines for the discerning, but the truly rich are imbibing a totally different class of drink.

He picks up the menu and her eyes are drawn to his wrists.  It makes her stomach tighten.

‘How was your day?’ he asks.

‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I really am very grateful, but why did you buy me so much stuff?’

He leans back in his chair.  ‘Did you have a doll when you were young?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you make little clothes for her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did it give you pleasure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.  It was my doll and I wanted it to look good.’

‘That is how I feel about you.  You are my doll.  I like the idea of dressing you the way I see fit.  I want you to look good.  Besides, I like that every stitch on your body has been paid for by me.’

Lana feels a frisson of electricity run up her spine.  ‘I’m not a doll.’

‘To me you are.  A living, breathing doll.’

‘What happens in three months’ time?’

‘Did you eventually get bored with your doll and stop playing with her?’

‘Yes.’ Lana’s voice is soft.  She knows where this conversation is going.

‘So will I and when I do I will put you aside as you did your doll.’

‘Well, that’s clear enough.’

‘Good.  What would you like to eat?’

Lana looks at the menu.  There is fish and chicken.  She hopes he will order one of those.  But there is also foie gras, which she’d rather die than eat.  The waiter appears at Blake’s side.  ‘Are you ready to order, monsieur?’

Blake looks at Lana enquiringly.

‘I’m just going to have whatever you’re having.’

‘Mussels in white wine to start followed by the herb crusted lamb cutlets.’

‘Pommes sables or pommes soufflé?’ the waiter enquires.

Lana looks blankly at Blake.

‘Try the potato soufflé,’ he says.  ‘You might like it.’

‘OK, potato soufflé,’ she agrees.  When the waiter is gone, she takes a sip of wine.  It must have been good, but she is so nervous she registers it only as a cold liquid.  ‘So,’ she says.  ‘You are a banker.’

‘And you have been on Google.’

‘Wikipedia actually.  I was curious.  All my life I imagined bankers were thieves utilizing fractional reserve banking to create money out of nothing, and then they take your house and car and business when you can’t keep up the repayments.’

‘Ah, this is like all bankers are thieves, all lawyers are liars, and all women are whores.’

‘I’d rather be a whore than a banker.’

‘That’s handy then.  I’d rather be a banker who buys a whore.’