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I kept arguing. I’m not sure why. It’s a reflex, like ducking.
“Look,” I said, “all I’m saying is in any other industry…”
“Goodnight, Graham,” Vivienne said.
She put her coat on. She picked up her bag. She walked to the door, opened it, and then turned back as if she’d forgotten something.
“In any other industry,” she said, “if you spoke to a supplier like that, they’d also leave. And they’d also keep the deposit. And they’d also tell everyone they know.” She smiled sweetly. “Velvet Hours has a very active group chat.”
The door clicked shut. I stood in the middle of an empty suite with a glass of whisky and an erection that was rapidly losing interest.
I tried to book another agency the next night. Then another. Unavailable. Unavailable. Fully booked for the foreseeable. One of them sent back a polite message that just said, in full: No thank you, Mr Whitlock.
On the last morning I went down to breakfast and the waitress, who couldn’t have known anything, smiled at me with what I swore was pity.
I flew home to Leeds and told nobody. A month later my sister set me up on a blind date. She was a lawyer. She asked me what I did for a living.
“Contracts,” I said, and for some reason she laughed.
Ending 16 of 16: Terms and Conditions. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.