Elisa opens the door wearing a Thai silk robe. Light spills from behind her, outlining her body beneath the fabric. I try to concentrate on her face, but my eyes betray me.
"Why are you so late? I thought you were coming hours ago."
"Traffic."
She sizes me up in the doorway, as if not quite sure whether to let me inside. Then she turns and I follow her down the hall, watching her hips slide beneath her robe.
Elisa lives in a converted printing factory in Ladbroke Grove, not far from the Grand Union Canal. Unpainted beams and timber joists crisscross each other in a sort of bonsai version of a Tudor cottage.
The place is full of old rugs and antique furniture that she had sent down from Yorkshire when her mother died. Her pride and joy is an Elizabethan love seat with elaborately carved arms and legs. A dozen china dolls, with delicately painted faces, sit demurely on the seat as if waiting for someone to ask them to dance.
She pours me a drink and settles onto the sofa, patting a spot beside her. She notices me pause and pulls a face.
"I thought something was wrong. Usually I get a kiss on the cheek."
"I'm sorry."
She laughs and crosses her legs. I feel something shred inside me.
"Christ, you look tense. What you need is a massage."
She pulls me down and slides behind me, driving her fingers into the knotted muscles between my shoulder blades. Her legs are stretched out around me and I can feel the soft crinkle of her public hair against the small of my back.
"I shouldn't have come."
"Why did you?"
"I wanted to apologize. It was my fault. I started something that I shouldn't have started."