← Back
“Dinner,” I said. “If that’s allowed.”
“It’s encouraged.” Vivienne slipped her arm through mine as we walked to the lift, as if we’d done it a hundred times. “Men who feed me first are usually men I like.”
The restaurant on the ground floor was all candlelight and white linen. The maitre d’ gave us a corner table and didn’t blink. Vivienne ordered the scallops and a glass of Sancerre, and asked me about my pitch, and actually listened to the answer, which was more than my ex-wife managed in eleven years.
She was funny. Dry, quick, a little wicked. She’d studied art history, she told me, and done this for four years, and owned a flat in Leith with a cat called Bishop. She told me some of it was true. She didn’t say which parts.
Somewhere around dessert, her foot found my ankle under the table and stayed there.
“Here’s the thing, Graham,” she said, licking chocolate off her spoon. “Most men who book me want one of two things. Some want a girlfriend for the night. Someone who kisses them like she means it and lets them pretend. Others want something they can’t ask for at home.” She tilted her head. “Something wilder. Me in charge. A game. A bag of toys I don’t carry for decoration.”
She signed the bill to my room with a flourish.
“So which one are you?”