John saw, with relief and trepidation, that she was there, across the road ahead of him. He walked on, passing her with a glance, making sure of he knew not what. The glance lingered a little too long; she looked over and smiled. He looked away sharply, carrying on down the street, hoping she couldn't tell he was flushed by the back of his neck. Assuming she was even looking.
At the bottom of the street John hesitated. This was ridiculous. He turned and walked back. As he approached her his courage failed again; again he walked on. Five yards past he glanced back, quickly but not quickly enough. Now her smile was openly amused. Cringing inside he walked on. He was pathetic. Utterly pathetic. At the top of the street he forced himself to stop. He took a deep breath then turned and went back down.
Seeing she was watching him from the first his courage failed completely. He would walk past and forget the entire escapade. Eyes fixed ahead he marched on, committed. It would look odd if he turned back now. No doubt he looked odd already, but... oh, hell. From the corner of his eye he saw her watch his awkward pass, then she was gone from view. A few yards further and he began to breathe again. A few yards further still and he heard footsteps behind him. He kept walking as the footsteps caught up. His shoulder was tapped. John turned and there she was, smiling, amused. "Hi," she said.
"Hello," John replied. "Can I... help?"
She laughed. "Yes," she said. "You can stop walking backwards and forwards. You're giving me vertigo."
"I forgot something," he said. "I had to go back."
"But you didn't go anywhere. You went to the top of the road and turned round again."
"I... I realised I hadn't forgotten it after all."
She shook her head and grinned. "What's your name?" she asked.
"John. What... what's yours?"
"Jayne."
"Are you waiting for someone?"
"Yes," she said. "I thought it might be you."
"A blind date?" he asked.
"A blind date?" She smiled happy wonder. "John, you are precious. It'd be one sick joker who arranged a blind date with a woman and asked her to wait on a corner in Blackstock Road. Sweetheart, I'm a prostitute. You know I'm a prostitute. I've seen you down here before; you know the Blackstock Road."
"It's a short cut to college," John said, too defensively.
"I knew you weren't a customer," she said, "though today's not the first time you've looked."
"Only at you," he said. "And not because you're... that. Not because I'm curious or anything. It's because you're, well... worth looking at."
"I brighten your day?" she smiled.
"Yes," he said. "Actually, you do. You're very attractive. Not like... well, not like some."
She clapped her hands in a pastiche of glee. "Heavens, an admirer! If it makes your day, John, go ahead, no charge. Only today I had the impression you didn't want to be... quite so distant?"
"I... wanted to talk to you, yes."
"Well," she said, "we're talking."
"Yes," said John.
"And?"
John steeled himself. "I'm a student," he said. "I haven't got much money."
"Yes?"
"And what I want you to do is a bit unusual."
"How unusual?"
"It's a bit hard to explain."
"John, you won't shock me. I might say `no' to whatever it is, but you won't shock me."
He looked up from where he'd been rubbing the toe of his shoe on the pavement. Jayne's smile lingered, but behind the smile was something else; caution, perhaps. "I don't know where to begin," he said.
"Just begin."
He began. As he told her what he wanted she relaxed once more; by the end, she was laughing. "I know it's a lot to ask," he said, finally, "and like I said I haven't got a lot of money..." He shrugged.
She shook her head. "Sweetheart," she said, "this one I'll do for free."
"Really?" He was stunned.
"Really. You said a Thursday? Tomorrow's Thursday."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," she said, settling it. "What's your address?"
John told her.
"Eight o'clock?"
"Eight o'clock," John confirmed.
"See you then," she said, then turned and walked back to her corner.
John watched her, stunned. "See you then," he murmured, relishing the words. "Unbelievable."
He turned for home with a bemused smile.
Once there, he began to doubt Jayne's sincerity. By the next morning his doubts were a virtual certainty. Given her profession why would she do something for him, a total stranger, for nothing? Something which would take up so much time and effort? Still, he set about tidying and cleaning his room in preparation for her arrival, had a shower, made sure he had enough tea, coffee, milk and sugar then settled with some college work to pass the time.
It passed slowly. He'd skipped lectures that day to prepare everything, finding there was only so much he could prepare, done in a few hours of an otherwise wasted day. He was good in his attendance of lectures, inexperienced in creating the excuses he would now have to make.
However slowly, time passes. Around six he had a large tea to see him through the evening ahead. His house mates were in the sitting room arguing about football and he had the kitchen to himself. Seven o'clock and he made a final check on everything, marvelling at how much difference a duster, a hoover, a bit of soapy water and a lot of shuffling of possessions could make to his room. At half past seven, unable to concentrate on anything else, he settled to a long wait for the event he was certain wasn't to be.
At one minute past eight he started pondering on how long to wait before giving up on her. Two minutes past and the door bell rang. Someone left the living room, calling back a cheerful obscenity at some muffled remark on his leaving. Vaughan. Then the front door opened.
"Is John in?"
John could barely make out her words but he remembered her voice. Jayne had arrived. Her arrival clearly had an effect on Vaughan. There were some seconds of silence before - "Yes. I think so. Come in." The door was shut. Another pause. It was unlike Vaughan to be lost for words; not to come out with some light remark at every meeting, flirtatious, mocking or bored depending on the recipient. "Do you want to go up? His room's the first door on the right when you reach the landing." Unaccustomed politeness.
"Thanks," said Jayne.
John heard her footsteps cross the hall and begin their ascent of the stairs before the living room door opened again to release a hoot of laughter at some lost joke passed between Roger and Liam. The noise continued for a few seconds after the door shut, then silence. Clearly, Jayne's arrival was being furtively relayed to curious ears.
Jayne's footsteps came to a halt outside his door. A firm knock. "Come in," seated on the settee in carefully posed nonchalance. The door opened. Jayne came in and John understood Vaughan's loss of habitual cool.
He was used to seeing Jayne pretty, even seductive in a casual short skirt and tee-shirt on Blackstock Road. Tonight the skirt was perhaps a little longer, black and silky. Black nylon sheathed her legs and, in place of her usual trainers, her shoes were feminine; not high heels, but heeled high enough to accentuate the perfection of her legs. A black jacket matched her skirt, a white shirt beneath. She looked like a demure businesswoman. Her hair - shoulder length and fluffed out darkness with the occasional blonde streak - was familiar enough, but tonight it seemed fuller and silkier than usual. Her face, ever beautiful, was made up just a touch, the lipstick subtle, the thinnest of dark lines under her lashes. She looked incredible. She had made so much effort; her clothes amongst her best, surely, and her hair and face must have taken an hour to prepare. He wondered what on earth he'd done to deserve it.
"Like it?"
John nodded, dumbly.
"Aren't you going to say hello?"
"Hello," said John.
She laughed. "Can I take this inability to speak as a compliment, sweetheart?"
John smiled, still looking at her, at all of her. "You are stunning."
"I know. Aren't you going to offer me coffee?"
"Have you got time?"
"We're not going for it straight away; that would ruin everything. My evening's yours."
"The whole evening?"
"Provided I'm home by midnight. One sugar."
"Sorry?"
"Coffee. Milk. One sugar."
"One sugar. Right." John continued staring.
"Move, lummox."
"Yes. Sorry." John stood. "Make yourself comfortable."
"I'm coming with you," she said.
"Oh," he said. "Oh, right."
John was filling the kettle when Roger came out of the living room. As the door opened, Jayne linked with John's arm. He prickled at her touch. Roger gaped at Jayne as he entered. Jayne smiled sweetly back. "I used some of your milk," said Roger, absently, staring at Jayne. "Was that all right?"
"That's fine," said John. "No worries." As Roger stared at Jayne, John looked at Roger, glorifying in his stunned wonder. "Roger, this is Jayne," he said. "Jayne, Roger."
"Hi Roger," said Jayne.
"Umph," said Roger and disappeared back to the living room as his face began to flush.
"Sweet," Jayne said. "I'll have to come here next time I need my ego boosting. That's three men so far who seem to have lost the power of speech upon meeting me."
John smiled. "As if you weren't expecting it."
Liam emerged from the living room as John and Jayne were about to take their coffee upstairs. He walked boldly into the kitchen, looking frankly at Jayne. "I just had to see if the stories were true," he said.
Jayne looked frankly back. "Are they?"
"Nothing could have prepared me for this moment," Liam replied, ending with a melodramatic whimper. "You are exquisite." He turned to John and bowed from the waist. "I hate you," he said, and returned to the living room, Jayne's laughter his reward for the performance.
"Not dumbstruck," Jayne observed when he'd gone.
"Liam never is," John replied. "You've met all my house mates now. The one who answered the door was Vaughan."
"That's Vaughan, then."
"That's Vaughan."
They went upstairs with their coffee.
For a while they sat together and chatted. At one point, Jayne removed her shoes and dropped them to the floor from an unnecessary height. "Preparatory work," she said.
"Oh," said John, not too sure what she meant. The conversation continued.
John was entranced by Jayne. Her favourite composers were Debussy and Jarvis Cocker. Her favourite film was Terry Gilliam's Brazil; "1984 with jokes. Have you seen it?"
John shook his head.
"You must," she said.
He would, he vowed.
Her favourite artist, Caspar David Friedrich, was someone of whom John knew nothing. "19th century Romantic," she said. "German." John silently promised to seek out a book of his work the next day.
In turn, John told her of his likes, his dislikes, how bored he was by the work he was doing at college, how he wished he'd opted for the arts instead of sciences in sixth form, feeling trapped now in a course on Chemistry that seemed so dull, all boiling test tubes and meticulous measurements of things that seemed to mean nothing.
John was entranced by Jayne; by her words, her appearance, her expressions, her tone; above all, by her very being there.
It was more than half an hour after they'd finished their coffee when Jayne said, "Right - let's go for it."
For a moment John had to think; then he remembered and smiled. "Let's," he said.
Jayne led the way to the bed and sat. John hesitated, then sat next to her.
"Right," she said.
"Right," he said.
"Let's go," she said, and shut her eyes, tipping her head back.
Her first moan John by surprise, so much so he jumped. Then he giggled.
She opened her eyes and turned to him. "Shh! You'll ruin everything."
"Sorry," he said.
Jayne resumed her meditative pose and, after a few seconds moaned again, louder this time. John forced back a laugh and heard the volume of the television in the living room below decrease noticeably.
With Jayne's third moan and beyond she began to build up a rhythm, staccato gasps punctuating. She began to bounce on the bed and the springs creaked under the unaccustomed onslaught. "You too," she whispered, in a pause between moans.
"What?" he said.
"Bounce," she said. "And groan."
He bounced as she moaned and the springs redoubled their complaints.
"And groan," Jayne whispered a reminder.
"I can't," he said, stifling a giggle.
"Do it," she said.
He had to force out the first groan; it sounded strangled and unconvincing. Jayne carried on moaning as if nothing were untoward. With greater courage he moaned louder, getting into the swing of it. Soon a duet was building nicely.
"Bounce faster," Jayne whispered.
They bounced faster.
"Oh God, John, John," she wailed, unexpectedly.
John had to stop bouncing and moaning, clutching his mouth to hold in the laughter. He heard a disguised snort from Jayne and looked to see her smiling, near laughter herself. "Control yourself," she managed to whisper. Recovering, she resumed her moaning.
After that the two of them staged a duet which built to titanic proportions. John was getting into the act in a way he hadn't intended; his trousers were becoming very uncomfortable. He hoped he wasn't alone.
After some 15 minutes, Jayne decided enough was enough and rose to her zenith. "Jesus," she screamed. "Oh Jesus, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes," bouncing faster and faster, ending with a cry John suspected could be heard clear across the city. In perfect synchrony they slowed their bouncing, their moaning, bringing the volume down to dramatic gasps and on into comfortable quiescence. Finally, face flushed, Jayne turned to him with a conspiratorial smile. "Bloody hell," she said, "that was more knackering than the real thing."
John hardly dared to smile back, worried something about him might betray he was feeling considerably more than exhaustion.
"Was it good for you too, darling?" she asked.
"Yes," he muttered, and dashed for the settee to be away from her disconcerting presence.
He looked up to see her looking back, quizzically. "That good, huh?"
"Yes," he admitted.
She crossed over to the settee and put on her shoes. "Think it did the trick?"
John laughed. "If it didn't, nothing could."
Shoes back on she sat next to him. "Feel better?"
"I suppose so. I won't know until I see their faces."
"John, can I ask you something?"
"I guess so."
"Why is it so important to you?"
John frowned. "It's not... that important. It was more a joke. Really."
"Sweetheart, you were scared stiff of me that day. You needed a lot of courage to make your approach."
"I failed," he reminded her. "It was you who approached me."
"It was important though, wasn't it?"
John hesitated, nodded.
"Why?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I started to take the digs seriously. Liam's got a steady girlfriend. Vaughan's dead up front - makes his interest known to any woman who takes his fancy and pulls as often as not. There's a steady stream of attractive women in and out of that attic. Roger seems to get by pretty well on Vaughan's conquests' companions; if Vaughan gets someone there's often a friend in tow and Roger, as Vaughan's sidekick, gets happily lumbered. I've not seen anyone since I moved in here a year back and - well, I stand out for it I suppose. Vaughan's the worst, forever making remarks. He's nasty with it; he seems to use it to keep me down, somehow. `Our virgin', he calls me. In public given the chance."
"You're not, are you?"
"What?"
"A virgin. That was quite an act you put on earlier."
John smiled, ruefully. "Not quite. There was a woman back home. She had her own flat and my folks didn't mind me staying over. It ended after a year; she was my first, I wasn't hers, and I guess I got too involved for her liking."
"So why not do it properly? Why not find yourself a girlfriend, bring her back here and show them for real?"
John snorted. "They're hardly queuing."
"Sweetheart, on the whole they don't. You have to go out and find them."
"It's not that easy."
"It never is. But believe me, if Vaughan can pull, you can."
John looked at her, curiously. "You mean that?"
Jayne laughed. "John, listen. Women like sex just the same as blokes. Someone passably attractive comes along and offers it to them and there are a lot who'll take it. They might slag them off for it, but given the chance the most unlikely women will go off with a bloke who brazenly offers. It doesn't make Vaughan every woman's dream; just a dick with a dick when a dick's what's needed."
"He still succeeds."
"Maybe you're not trying?"
"I couldn't be like Vaughan."
"I should bloody well hope not. You don't need to be like Vaughan. Be yourself. Someone will come along."
John sensed the danger of the conversation descending into a drawn-out whine on his part; the last thing he wanted to do given the company of this beautiful, vivacious woman was bore her to tears. Besides, he had his own curiosity. "Can I ask you something?"
"Like why I'm on the game, maybe?"
John shrugged, embarrassed. "I suppose you're asked that a lot," he said. "You just don't seem the type."
"Known a lot of prostitutes, have you?"
The question was an affectionate put-down. Still, it stung. "I've seen a lot. On Blackstock Road," he mumbled.
"The heartbreakers," Jayne said, softly. "You mean I'm not like the heartbreakers."
"I'd have thought you were the only heartbreaker on the Blackstock Road," John said. "The others... well..."
Jayne frowned. "Why? Because I'm young? Pretty? Christ, John, is that the only way a woman can break hearts? There's a lot of women on the Blackstock Road hurting; pain breaks hearts."
"I'm sorry," John said, smitten by her deprecation. "I mean... they seem hard as nails, most of them. Thick skinned. That's another reason you seem so... different."
"A thick skin keeps things in, John; it doesn't keep anything out. Get under the surface of a lot of those women, catch a glimpse... that's why I call them the heartbreakers. There's Vera. Hard as nails? She's a classic. I've seen her in a pub put down a gang of yobs with a `Fuck you'. You'll have seen her on the street. She's there more than anyone. Has to be. She's nearly 50. She's got a scar down her right cheek where a trick pulled a knife on her. She's an alcoholic, needs the cash to keep the bottles coming in and doesn't know any other way of getting it. She can't be choosy. She's been raped three times in the three years I've been there because she can't be choosy. She's been on the game since she was 13. Her first pimp was her stepfather. Her stepfather, for Christ's sake. He was good to her before her mother died of cancer. Then he hit the bottle, changed. Vera was 12, then. It wasn't long before the man who'd been so loving as a father for nearly as long as she could remember started shagging her. He despised himself for it when sober but that just made him mad when he was drunk. One night one of his drunken mates was round, made his own interest known and swapped Vera with him for a bottle of Scotch. After that, when her stepfather wasn't shagging her, he was selling her to someone else. When she was 16 he killed himself. She had no other family and hit the street. And you know something? She still mourns the shit. Still calls him `Dad'. Says he loved her as a dad should, deep down, and blames the booze. And you call me a heartbreaker? Christ!"
John was cowed by Jayne's rising anger, by the ugliness she'd described. "I'm sorry," he said, a child who'd blundered with the insolence of innocence into a strange and dangerous adult world.
Jayne sighed. "No," she said, "I'm sorry. It's not you I'm mad at. It's Vera's stepfather. It's the pimps who present my mates with dangerous men to fuck and my mates fuck them because they're more afraid of the pimps. It's the pushers who'll pay in heroin. It's the police who think that rape's all part of the game and don't take it seriously if a known pro comes to them. It's the bloody government who keep it all unsafe by keeping it all illegal."
Jayne fell silent; in spite of her apology, John was afraid to break it but had to know "Why, then? Why you?"
"Because I've got the choice. And I'll get out long before the choice is gone. I'll get out the instant something better comes along and if it's too long in coming I'll get out and find it. I'll get out the instant I lose something I value through being in. I'll get out the instant I no longer feel in control. I had a pimp approach me once. I knew he was going to. He wanted control. He bust into my flat at three in the morning, walked round it like he owned the place, picking things up, looking at them, putting them down, talking to me all the while, telling me I was `bad for business', how a pretty little thing like me was taking good customers from his girls and how I could come in with him or I could wind up too fucked over to ever turn another trick unless it was some real weirdo turned on by scar tissue. I opened a drawer in my bedside cabinet and pulled out a letter, told him to open it. He wasn't used to being given orders, but the guy isn't a complete fool. The letter gave all the details I'd gleaned about his personal empire. His immoral earnings. His dealing in crack on the side. A couple of nasty beatings he'd been behind. He read it, acted mad but I knew. Like I said, the guy isn't a complete fool and this was obviously a photocopy. I let him swagger a bit, make a few more threats then told him the original was with a friend. If I gave the word, or if anything happened to me, the letter went to the police. He didn't say anything else, just left. That was nearly two and a half years ago. When he sees me now he walks past me as if I don't exist. I have the quietest life of any girl on the Blackstock Road; he sees to it. Like I said, I knew he'd try to get at me."
"Was it true?"
"The letter being with a friend? It was true. An old boyfriend who'd kept in contact even after I went on the game. One of the closest friends I've ever had, though I don't see him much; he lives in London. He's a solicitor. A useful friend for a girl to have."
"Why didn't you just get out?"
"Because I wanted to show him. Because at least two of the heartbreakers are on crack because of him. Because one of them spent six months in hospital because of him and started working for him again as soon as she came out. Because I wanted to show him that he didn't make a jot of difference to me and I wanted to show that to the others... not that it made any difference."
"But why did you start? It doesn't seem... you."
Jayne shrugged. "It was an accident."
"An accident?"
Jayne laughed. "An accident, sweetheart. When I was 17 I left home - a village about 20 miles away - to move in with my boyfriend. My first. I was smitten. The same as you. The same as most. My parents couldn't stop me leaving and didn't try; just told me I could move back whenever I wanted to. I got myself a job as a secretary with a small firm here; I thought I was set up for life. Only, of course, I wasn't. Things started to go wrong early on. He wasn't much older than I was, not much less naVve; he'd never lived with anyone, neither of us knew what it was like. Once we got over the initial excitement of being with each other all the time instead of having to snatch kisses and making love in the back of his car, the rows started. I thought he wanted things all his own way, he thought the same about me... we were both right. I'd been spoilt at home; he'd been spoilt by his own brief bachelorhood. It got to the point where I had to leave.
"I didn't want to go back home; too galling. Luckily a friend at work told me of a flat going on Blackstock Road - there's a lot of rented accommodation there, students mainly - and I moved in. Not long after the firm I was working for went bankrupt and I lost my job. Income support is a sick joke for anyone coming on 19. You can't live on it. I started to build up debts. Anyway, one night I was supposed to meet a couple of friends in town. I went to the phone box at the bottom of Blackstock road and called a cab. I was told it would be 15 minutes and, rather than go back home, I decided to wait for it there. I knew about the women on the game in the area, of course, but, like I said, I was still pretty naVve. I thought I was obviously an innocent young girl waiting for a cab. I noticed a bloke coming up the street, late twenties, good looking. It crossed my mind it'd be nice to go to bed with him; the next thing I know, he's looking at me. I smiled, pleased he'd noticed me; he approached. I should have known from his expression. His smile back was polite, businesslike; when he reached me, he said "Are you free?" Then I realised. And then I thought, well, why not? I'd thought of sleeping with him anyway. Sleeping with him, having some fun and getting some much needed cash at the end of it seemed like the best of all worlds, so I said yes. The whole thing seemed like a glorious gag. It was all too easy. I forgot about the cab and led him back to my flat. As soon as we were there he started to undress as if he was... I don't know... buying a newspaper or something. It was all so casual. He hadn't so much as touched me or asked me my name and here he was undressing. For a moment I thought of asking him to stop, then I decided to brazen it out. I started to undress myself. I tried to do it casually and succeeded; he was only the second man ever to see me naked, remember, but the whole atmosphere of it was just so pragmatic, as if my nudity meant nothing. He lay on the bed, watching me. He was obviously interested - he had an erection -but even that seemed businesslike, a necessary and unremarkable adjunct to the matter in hand; an erect penis in the boudoir like a fax machine in an office. I was about to lie on the bed with him when he handed me a condom. He must have taken it out of his jacket pocket while he was undressing. He asked me if I'd put it on for him. So it was that the first part of him I touched was his penis. My hands were shaking, but he didn't seem to notice. In all honesty I was beginning to get excited. The whole thing was like some bizarre sexual fantasy. It was all so easy, so clinical. Once I got the condom on him, he asked me if I'd kneel astride him to do it. No foreplay, no nothing. I didn't even hesitate. I was well into the idea of it now. I knelt over him, pushed him inside me and began to move on him. He moved in response, but nothing else; he didn't touch me; he even shut his eyes while it was going on. If that was the way he wanted to do it, that was fine by me. I was going to get something out of this. I didn't, though. We'd only been at it a minute or two when he suddenly grabbed my breasts and groaned. I couldn't believe it - he'd come. I was as frustrated as hell but couldn't show it. I got off him quickly; he went to the bathroom taking his clothes in with him and was out again in five minutes, dressed, as if nothing had happened. I'd put on my dressing gown. There was a sense of us being complete strangers about to bid a polite farewell to one another at the end of a dull party. Before he left he asked me if ,30 was enough and I said fine. He pulled out three ten pound notes and put them on the dressing table. Then he asked if he could become a regular. I said fine to that as well. The whole thing was so unreal I think I'd have carried on saying `fine' to anything he said. Mondays at six and Thursdays at six-thirty? Fine. Here? Fine. See you Thursday. Fine. Then he was gone. So there you go, sweetheart. An accident. Of sorts."
"And he came back?"
"Twice a week for a year and a half. In the whole of that time we failed to get any closer. He'd been so easy that I decided to go for it properly. I got a few more regulars - I looked for those - but none of them were like him. Many of them needed at least the sham of an emotional commitment and genuine interest though I always got rid of anyone who seemed to be getting genuinely involved. Davey, though - that was his name, though it took him a long time to tell me - kept his distance. In the end I found out why. One evening things had followed the usual routine, just like the first night. I liked his brief simplicity. I never had to listen to his troubles, never had to fake interest or welcome - I'd just undress, get on top of him for five minutes and that was that. He left the three notes on the dressing table as usual but he also pulled out a letter. He asked me if I'd read it when he'd gone, told me we could discuss it the next time he saw me, then went. Davey was the last person I'd have expected a letter from. It's not unusual to get letters. I'd had one from another trick just a few weeks earlier, telling me he couldn't live without me, how he wanted me to give up the game and leave the country with him; I refused to see him after that. Davey though; I couldn't work it out. I'd opened it before the front door closed behind him. It turned out to be from his wife."
"He was married?"
Jayne shrugged. "It's not unusual. Marriages get stale. I'm not condoning it but it's always happened - always will. But Davey; I'd known him nearly eighteen months and hadn't even known he was married. Anyway, the letter explained everything. It seemed Davey had been married some five years. Two years in there'd been a motor accident. Davey was driving, blamed himself for it though his wife insisted it wasn't his fault. He escaped unhurt; his wife came out of it paralysed from the waist down. Davey had proved a more dedicated, more loving husband in tending her than she had ever dreamed him capable of but, amongst other things, sex was now out of the question. A pragmatic woman, and perhaps a woman slightly afraid, she pestered him to find himself someone he could go to for sex. A prostitute rather than a girlfriend. That was how he met me. He wasn't just my first, I was his. She said he felt guilty about it all. She thought it might help if I went to their home one evening for a meal. If Davey could see the two of us together perhaps that would convince him all was well. She added that she knew it was an imposition on me and offered ,100 to cover my time. That letter explained Davey."
"What did you do?"
"I agreed. No charge. I felt it was only fair. They had a nice place out of town. I learned more about Davey in the first few minutes there than I'd learned in all the previous months. I could tell he loved his wife very much, she him. But she made me so welcome, an aide in their marriage, not a threat. That's what she kept telling me. It was so strange.
"Davey drove me home afterwards. He thanked me for coming; still very formal, but he allowed himself the occasional joke, the odd remark about himself - it was certainly a more comfortable journey back than it had been out. I thought it would help lower the barriers a bit more if I told him something about me, so I told him I wasn't just his first prostitute; he'd been my first customer. That was a big mistake. He asked me what I meant; I should have known but I told him the whole story. He was quiet for the rest of the journey, only speaking when he'd pulled up outside my front door. He told me he wanted me to come off the game. I asked him why and he said he felt responsible for me being on it in the first place. That it wasn't healthy, it didn't seem right for me to be doing it, that it was his fault I'd started. I began to get angry. I told him I was able to make my own decisions in life; that it was arrogant of him to talk to me as if I was some sort of puppet that was acting in response to some string he'd accidentally pulled; and in any case, if he went to someone else, wouldn't they themselves have started somewhere? Did it make it so much better that they hadn't started with him? It didn't make any difference; that was the last I saw of him."
"I can see his point."
Jayne shrugged. "I suppose I can. But I make my own decisions and I know what I'm doing. My customers tend to be regulars and nobody gets to be one of my customers unless I'm confident they'll play things straight."
"So why do you stand on Blackstock Road?"
"One of my regulars moved out of town; another stopped coming for some reason, I don't know why. They need replacing if I'm going to carry on living in the manner to which I've become accustomed. I've turned the occasional trick, turned a lot more down but no regular. It's dodgy but I tend to hang out in the early evening before the nuts start wandering and I'll only go for someone who looks decent. There aren't many nuts around who make the effort to shave and put on decent clothes and anyone who can't afford to do that sort of thing can't afford me, so why are they asking? Play it right and it's probably no more dodgy than going to a pub in town on a Saturday night, maybe less so." She smiled. "I'm talking too much. How about another coffee?"
Jayne stayed way beyond midnight, talking, laughing. She told him of some paintings she'd done, poetry she'd written, how much she loved having free time for art classes and reading. John found himself in the company of a woman for whom prostitution was peripheral; she was Jayne the artist, Jayne the writer, Jayne the romantic, Jayne the wit, Jayne the storyteller, Jayne the observer, Jayne the philosopher, just Jayne, good company, a friend.
When he walked her home that night it was her suggestion that they repeat the evening's performance. "It'll be better if they think I'm coming back for more," she said.
"Next Thursday?" he suggested.
"Make it sooner if you like."
They agreed to her coming round that Sunday and John went home thinking back over the evening, enjoying the memory, looking forward to the next.
He returned to find that the evening's events had had a mixed effect on his house mates. All three were still in the living room when he entered, gathered around the television and a late night horror film. Liam turned with a broad smile. "Nice one, sunshine; she's a cracker."
John smiled back. "She is that," he said.
Roger spoke, not turning from the television. "So how come she's not staying over?"
"She lives out of town; she's got to be up for work."
"Work?"
"She's a beautician," John replied, the first thing that came to him.
Roger turned. "A beautician?"
John could see he'd increased Jayne's reputation. "Doesn't it show?" he asked, in mock surprise.
"It shows," Liam concurred. "Doesn't it, Vaughan?"
There was an edge to Liam's shift of focus to Vaughan which John noticed, was intended to notice. "What," said Vaughan, dully, signalling by his still turned back that he was much too interested in the film to be bothered with the trivia of the conversation, whatever it was about.
"John's girlfriend's a beautician. I said it shows," Liam persisted.
"If you say so. Shut up. I'm watching this."
Liam shrugged at John. "I just can't understand it," he said. "If I didn't know better I'd say Vaughan was sulking."
At that Vaughan stood and glared at Liam. "Jesus fuck," he said, "can't I just watch the film in peace?" He slammed out of the room.
Roger hesitated, then "I think I'll be getting to bed," he muttered. "I've got a 9 o'clock tomorrow."
When the door shut quietly behind Roger, Liam waved to Vaughan's vacated chair with a grim smile. "Sit, dear boy; tell me about your new love."
John didn't feel inclined to carry the joke any further with Liam and besides, Vaughan and Roger needed some explaining. "What's up with them?" he asked.
"Roger is disturbed for his master," said Liam. "As for the master himself... isn't it obvious?"
"No," John replied, "frankly it isn't."
"Sweet innocent," Liam said with a theatrical sigh. "Male pride. This evening in walks a woman at whom our resident cave man wouldn't dare so much as glance and trots off upstairs to have rampant - and, I might add, noisy - sex with our resident virgin. You're not supposed to do that. You've got dear Vaughan all confused."
"What's it to him?"
"Pecking order. In his book you don't even get to peck. Bluntly, you've stepped out of line with your pecker."
"Good. Then Vaughan can revise his bloody pecking order."
"And we'll all be lads together?" Liam laughed. "It doesn't work like that. You're so uncompetitive, cherub; you don't understand Vaughan's pack mentality. In this house, he is king, Roger his faithful and humble sidekick, me the maverick who minds his own business and you, dear heart, the runt, worth nothing more than the occasional growl to keep him from getting uppity. When a prime female of the species strolls in, ignores the king and mates with the runt... well, imagine what it does to his kingship. I've not seen Vaughan so mad since he contracted the clap from Lucinda in second year sociology. Only tonight, of course, he couldn't say anything; anything he said would have been an admission you'd got to him. So he sat in that seat and silently stewed while you noisily screwed. I'm afraid you've started a war."
"You're joking."
"I wish I was. Vaughan will make things unbearable with plots for the retrieval of his throne from the young pretender. If it's any help, I'm with you."
"Why?"
"Because Vaughan's a jerk."
John frowned. "I thought you thought I was a jerk."
"No. Just stand-offish."
John raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"My mistake, angel, I admit. But you're not entirely blameless. I worked it all out tonight. You had me lumped in with the enemy. Quite the opposite; I find the pair of them hideously dull. You were never exactly forthcoming and so, all in all, I've had a lonely old time of it. Now I realise your stand-offishness was just self-containment in the face of the enemy, things are beginning to look up. Think back - have I ever joined in with Vaughan's barracking?"
John thought back. "I suppose not," he conceded. "But still -why fall in with me now against Vaughan and Roger?"
"One, it's nice to think there'll be someone in the house I can actually communicate with and if I'm going to communicate with you Vaughan and Roger won't like it much. Not now. Two, it's nice to see Vaughan discomfited. I can't pretend I haven't relished his little mood this evening. I owe you one. Now, tell me about the beautiful Jayne."
John felt uncomfortable. He didn't want to carry the joke any further with Liam; nor did he want to end it. Word might get back to Vaughan once he'd owned up, and he would make his life unbearable. At least at the moment his discomfiture was a sign of back-handed respect.
Liam mistook his hesitancy. "I understand, my dear; fear not. I shan't pry. No doubt I'll meet the famous beautician in the course of time. Meanwhile it's bed for me." He rose. "Pleasant dreams, lover."
John was left to mull over the evening; its delights, its surprises; its complications.
The complications turned out to be more niggling than problematic. Vaughan's barbed bantering was transformed into outright sneering contempt which, for want of its traditional focus, swerved haphazardly from target to target. John could do with getting himself another tailor; he looked a mess. Had he been to the barber's recently? Was that his pile of pans in the sink? So what if John was still eating, Vaughan wanted to cook now. And did he have to have his music so loud? It wouldn't be so bad if he listened to something decent. John waded patiently through the steady stream of remarks, leaving Liam to undermine Vaughan's pettiness with the occasional bright observation. Vaughan fell short of making life in the house unbearable, but the atmosphere was becoming increasingly strained, John keeping his peace while Liam mocked Vaughan on the one side, Vaughan making himself unpleasant while Roger joined in half-heartedly on the other.
That Sunday, when Jayne returned, the atmosphere spurred John on to greater heights as he and Jayne bounced and groaned their way to a perfectly faked mutual orgasm. As they recovered their composure, Jayne remarked "Sorry, lover, but it wasn't as good as last time."
"No? I thought it was better."
"Maybe in terms of performance. Not in terms of fun."
John smiled, wryly. "Sorry. It's Vaughan." He told of events in the house to a deepening frown.
"I don't like it," she said.
"I'm not wildly keen on it myself."
"I mean what we're doing. I enjoyed being an aide in a practical joke on your arrogant house mates; I don't want to be fighting in a war."
"Vaughan won't do anything to you."
"That's not the point. The point is it was fun last time; this time it isn't. Faking sex seriously is just plain daft. If that's the way things are going then I want out." John started; she saw his expression and laughed. "I don't mean out altogether. We're mates. I mean cutting the fakery. Let Vaughan think I'm with you, let's just stop making the point quite so noisily."
Relief was instant, unmarred by any disappointment at the end of the game. Mates. John liked that. "No problem; Vaughan and Roger are regular in their evenings out. Come round then. They'll hear you leave when they get home from the pub; the rest we can leave to their imagination."
That settled upon, the evening regained the tone of the previous Thursday. John realised as the evening passed that his company was important to Jayne; that her prostitution had led to her being paradoxically isolated from companions who shared her interests, her ideas. Looking at this beautiful woman, John began to wonder if he was her only real friend.
The pattern for the next few months was set that evening, sometimes going out to a pub far enough away from Blackstock Road that Jayne wouldn't be recognised from its street corners, often at John's, occasionally at Jayne's own flat where she showed him samples of her drawings and writing. Mainly poems, her writing dwelt on small things of the every day; shopping at the supermarket, an urban fox she'd seen around Blackstock Road raiding dustbins, memories of school, dreams of the future. It was her drawing, though, which most captivated John; painstaking pen-and-ink realism, often landscapes in which John sensed the mood of the Friedrich paintings he'd seen in the book he'd bought the day after her first visit. One picture in particular he fell in love with; a stunted, bent, windswept tree isolated in the barren grandeur of alpine scenery, humble and brave. Jayne made a present of it to him against his protestations. He had it framed and hung it in his room the next day.
In the house, meanwhile, Vaughan and John made a point of avoiding one another, the barrage of Vaughan's insults seemingly taking their toll on both of them. John had Liam by way of compensation. He enjoyed the bright web of his conversation, the sharpness of his observations, his wry humour. One night Liam and his girlfriend made a foursome with John and Jayne going out for a meal, an evening of companionship which made Vaughan and Roger seem increasingly isolated in their waspishness and dull devotion.
John no longer went to and from college via Blackstock Road. Jayne never alluded to her prostitution after that first night; John found himself increasingly wanting to forget it.
One evening, John telephoned Jayne to ask her to come dressed in her best clothes. When she arrived wearing those of that first Thursday she found John's room transformed into a temporary photographic studio. She frowned. "What's going on?"
"I want a photo of you."
"Why?"
"You're my girlfriend, remember?"
Her frown softened. "Do I get copies?"
"Of course. If you want them."
"Where did you get all this?"
"Liam. He borrowed them as part of his media course." John started fiddling with the lights, lining them up on and around the bed. He glanced at her. "Come on - get seductive."
Jayne laughed and flung herself down on the bed.
A week later Jayne pouted seductively in John's room from a photograph which Liam suggested might see John in a new career. Jayne was delighted with the copies he gave her. She was never to know that, as well as the picture on the wall, the rest of the session he had lovingly stored in his wardrobe. Few days passed when he didn't get them out to gaze at the beautiful woman who gazed back, marvelling that anyone so perfect could want to spend so much time with him.
But it wasn't enough.
His time with Jayne was increasingly tinged with frustration. Talking, laughing, exchanging ideas - all meant so much to him; but he wanted, too, to gaze in silence, to smile with her at things unsaid, to hold and be held in something more than an occasional companionable hug too soon broken.
It was late one evening, as they sat together on his settee, that he allowed his gaze to linger too long and had no choice but to show his feelings. Leaning forward, he put his arm around her shoulders. He felt her tense. She didn't move away, but her rigidity put distance between them. "Don't spoil it," she said, quietly.
John withdrew his arm. "Sorry," he muttered, dropping his gaze. "It's just... we're close, aren't we?"
"Of course we're close."
"And I hoped..." He allowed the thought to trail away along with the hope itself.
"You're forgetting."
"What?"
Jayne sighed. "John, I'm a prostitute."
"You're Jayne!"
She met his defiance with rueful silence. Then - "Jayne is a prostitute."
"Not to me."
"No, not to you. But if we were more than friends?"
"It wouldn't matter."
"Don't be ridiculous," still quietly, without chastisement. She stood, wearily, picking up her coat from the back of the chair. "I'd better go. I'd rather you didn't walk me home. Look, John, I don't want this to affect anything. But before I see you next you're going to have to think."
"I've thought."
"No you haven't." She put on her jacket. "Do you still want me to come round on Friday?"
"Of course. Do you want to come round?"
She smiled. "Of course. I don't want to lose you. That's why you have to think." She crossed to the door, hesitated. "It's my fault, I'm not blaming you. I've encouraged a fantasy of another Jayne."
"That Jayne is real."
"Yes, she's real. She's me, more than the Jaynes anyone else sees. But if you start thinking of me as more than a friend... that's when the Jaynes others see make me a fantasy. You have to see that; I really don't want to lose you." She smiled sadly and left.
For the next few days he found himself unable to hide his despondency. It was on the second day that Vaughan came into the kitchen to find him brooding over a boiling kettle. "Woman problems, John?" John hunched further over the kettle. At the obvious hit, Vaughan hardly bothered to hide his glee. He shrugged. "That's the way it goes, John; a good looking woman like that. Found somebody better, has she?"
John wasn't aware of himself until it was too late; he swung round from the kettle and continued the swing through his fist. He came to stunned realisation as Vaughan staggered back, his nose already bleeding. He'd never hit anyone before. Never. As Vaughan recovered his balance John squared up to him, knowing he was committed. Hunched, Vaughan lifted his hand to touch his nose, withdrew it to look at the blood on his finger tips. He seemed surprised and wary more than hurt. To his own surprise, John found himself calculating not how to escape the situation with words or flight but instead how to make his next assault do as much damage as possible. Not all the tension of the previous few days had gone into that punch; he had plenty to spare. He could think of no better target for it than Vaughan. He wondered how many punches he could make count before he fell to what he assumed would be Vaughan's superior strength but never found out; Vaughan, still half-bent, still nursing his nose, walked slowly and silently from the kitchen. John knew there would be no retribution; Vaughan's face had said it all. Vaughan knew he'd gone too far, had always gone too far and knew now, too, that John couldn't be relied upon to be passive. The war was over, making way for a peace of mutual disregard. With his hand starting to hurt from the impact, shaking slightly, John reached for a clean mug.
Jayne was due the following evening, John convinced she wouldn't come for the first time since that first Thursday. When she arrived, on time and smiling, relief surged through him. Coffee made, retiring as ever to his room with her, sitting as ever on the settee with her, John half listened as Jayne continued her story of a shopping expedition the day before, in quest of a dress, how she'd been unable to find one she liked and had gone to the cinema instead. "It was a great film. French. I wouldn't have bothered normally, but -" cut short as John put his arm around her. He held her firmly against her renewed tension, a hug which emphasised his determination. "I've thought about it," he said, "and it doesn't matter."
Jayne looked at him intensely, then deliberately lifted his hand from her shoulder and moved away. For a while she sat in hunched-over silence, then - "I didn't tell you what made me go out to buy a new dress. A customer. Probably a regular. He paid me ,60. He seems like a decent bloke. Likes a bit of S & M - low level. I don't mind that, so long as it doesn't really hurt, doesn't leave bruises. I've got a belt for the purpose, light, hardly noticeable. I've used it with other tricks and he seems satisfied with it. He likes to slap it across my arse a few times before he fucks me."
John steeled himself against the words, moved closer when she fell silent, put his arm again around her still hunched shoulders. "It doesn't make any difference," he said. "I want you."
This time she didn't remove his arm. Instead, she turned to him with a steel-bright smile. "Sure," she said. "Got thirty quid?"
John frowned, stood, went to his jacket and took out his wallet. He pulled out a ten pound note and dropped it on her lap. "It's all I've got for the moment," he said. "Can I owe you the rest?"
For a dazed moment she looked at the note then snarled and flung herself at him, slapping his face again and again until he grabbed her wrist. Only then did he see she was crying. "Bastard!" she said, flinging away his hand. She grabbed her coat from the chair.
He took her arm, spun her almost violently to face him. "I'll pay," he said. "I'll pay this time, next time, again and again until you know how I feel; until you start showing those feelings back."
For a moment he thought she was going to slap him again. Instead, worse, her expression shifted from anger to sneering derision. "You idiot. I fuck for money. I don't make love."
He dropped her arm, defeated. He waited for everything to end with the slamming of his door. Instead she sagged with her release, weary and confused. "Listen, John," she said, "I meant what I said last time. I don't want to lose your friendship. But this romantic fantasy of yours... it has to stop. It won't work."
"But not because you're not attracted to me."
She became cautious. "What makes you think that?"
"Because it was the obvious thing to have said last time; the obvious thing to say this time, even if it isn't true. Especially if it is."
She shook her head. "I suppose so. Perhaps I should have lied. But John, I don't feel enough. Enough to give everything up."
"Perhaps you would. In time."
"Perhaps. But there's only one way to find out. Give it all up and hope. And I'm not prepared to do that."
"Then don't give it up. Not until you've given it time."
"Be your girlfriend between turning tricks? John, for heaven's sake, it won't work. I'm not sure I'd like you as much if I thought it could." She sighed. "Listen. I don't want to see you for a few weeks. I want you to use that time to get it through that thick skull of yours that I'm a prostitute. I don't want you to see me that way - not because I'm ashamed of it, but because you're the only person I know who sees me as anything else. But if we're going to stay friends you've got to accept the fact. You're oblivious to it, and I don't know what it takes to open your eyes." She put on her coat. "Leave it a few weeks, then call me. Yes?"
"It won't make any difference," John said.
She shook her head. "No, John. It's got to. If it doesn't, don't call. I don't want to lose you, but I will if that's the only way I can stop you getting hurt. Oh, don't look so dejected." She gave him a quick, friendly hug, broken too soon. "A couple of weeks, yes?"
"Yes."
She ruffled his hair on her way out. He listened to her descend the stairs, to the closing of the front door, then lay on his bed and thought about her, waiting for the tears to come.
He cut all his lectures the following week, spending the time miserably, looking over his photographs of her again and again trying, as she'd asked him, to see in them a stranger who sold her body. All he could see was Jayne. His Jayne. His mind shied away from the other. Depressed, confused, the only thing of which he could be certain was that he'd ring her when the fortnight was up, tell her he'd sorted himself out, lie to her if lying was the only way he could carry on seeing her, faking as best he could for as long as he could until she saw through him, until he really had sorted himself out or until, as he hoped, something changed, something happened to make Jayne possible.
It was Sunday morning, nine days after he'd last seen Jayne, that he was woken up by a tap on his door. "Who's it?" he called, groggily, raising himself on his elbow as if to raise himself from sleep.
"Liam."
"I'm still in bed."
"I've got to talk to you."
"Can't it wait?"
Liam walked in, closing the door quietly behind him. "Not really, no."
Liam serious was something new to John, driving away the last dregs of sleep. "What's wrong?"
"It's Jayne."
John sat up, grabbed his trousers from beside the bed. "What's wrong with her?"
"Hang on, calm down. Nothing's... wrong with her. It's... awkward."
"For Christ's sake, Liam -"
"Sorry. Listen. I like Jayne. OK? Like her a lot. I thought you two made a great couple. Only... John, she's a prostitute."
John slumped back. "Oh," he said.
Liam was incredulous. "You knew?"
John nodded.
"So all that stuff about her being a beautician..."
"A cover story. Yes. Sorry."
"Nothing to apologise for. Jesus, you knew."
"You're not mad at me?"
"Why should I be mad at you?"
"For lying."
"Of course not. It's hardly something you'd broadcast, is it? `This is my girlfriend. She's on the game'. I just don't know how you can stand it."
John winced. "That wasn't the lie I was apologising for. Jayne isn't my girlfriend. Never was."
"But... we heard you. You mean... you paid her?"
John flared. "Of course not!"
"Then... what?"
"We were faking it."
"Faking it? John, will you please have pity and explain?"
"I picked her up on Blackstock Road. I was sick of Vaughan's jibes. The plan was to pay her to come back here and fake it; a joke to shut everybody up. She thought it was amusing and so offered to do it for free. After that we got on well so we carried on seeing each other as mates. That's all."
"A joke to shut everybody up?"
"Well... Vaughan and Roger mainly."
"Mainly?"
"For Christ's sake, Liam, we've been through this. I had you lumped in with them at the time, remember? I was wrong about that just as you were wrong to think me stand-offish."
"And later?"
"Later..." John shrugged. "Later I should have told you."
"It might have been nice, yes."
"Now you are mad at me."
Liam sighed. "Fear not, cherub. I'm the only mate you've got in this house and I'm not hard enough to abandon you alone to the lions."
"Vaughan and Roger? That ended the week before last."
"I think it's about to resume. Vaughan was the one who told me about Jayne; he's very excited about it."
"Jesus Christ. How did he find out?"
"He was making his way to one of his girlfriends yesterday evening; his route took him along Blackstock Road. Jayne didn't recognise him - she's only seen him once, briefly, that first night. Since then Vaughan's avoided her. But she makes a great impression; he remembered her."
"Shit. He didn't give her any trouble, did he?"
"It's you he's got it in for. As you're not seeing her, his retribution makes him look a bit stupid."
"What retribution?"
"Vaughan thought you were going out with her unknowingly, so what would be a better prank than to fork out thirty pounds for a quickie? He thought that would ice the cake when he told you."
"You mean..."
"He lost money on the icing but he still has the cake. He's going to be unbearable."
"Vaughan slept with Jayne?"
"Thirty quid for thirty minutes? I doubt he slept much. Vaughan didn't get what he wanted but he certainly got what he paid for."
John couldn't take it in. It was so incongruous. Vaughan and Jayne. His Jayne. She hadn't remembered him - hadn't been motivated by love, even lust - just money, just part of the game; another customer, another thirty pounds. But the thought of them, together there in her bed... He winced. "Jesus..." He couldn't imagine it, couldn't think of anything else. Vaughan and Jayne. Vaughan and Jayne...
"John? Are you OK?"
"No, not really."
Liam looked at him, puzzled, then put his forehead in his hands and groaned. "Sorry - I didn't realise."
John shrugged. "There's nothing to realise."
"You're really into her, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"But... John, she's a pro. She's a great lass. I'm not knocking what she does, but... John, Vaughan is what she does."
"Christ, you think I don't know that?" But he knew he didn't, even now. Jayne and Vaughan. Jayne and fucking Vaughan. And she didn't even know. He jumped out of bed. "I'm going to see her."
"What for? You can't do anything, John."
"What if she calls round unexpectedly? And Vaughan's in?"
"Oh. Right. I'll make you a coffee, OK?"
On his way to Jayne's half an hour later, John tried to face up to what had happened. He had to be unemotional at Jayne's, had to tell her what she'd done factually, as a problem to be sensibly dealt with. But... Vaughan and Jayne. The thought of it... When he knocked on Jayne's door he was shaking.
Barely awake, in her dressing gown, Jayne clearly wasn't pleased to see him. John was afraid she might close the door on him. "I know I said I wouldn't see you for another week," he said, hurriedly, "but something's happened."
Jayne opened the door wider for him to enter and shut it behind him. He sat on the room's only chair, she on the bed. Christ, the bed. Vaughan, in that bed...
"Do you want a coffee?"
"No. Thanks. Sorry about calling round."
Jayne sighed. "You and I are supposed to be friends, John. You shouldn't apologise for calling round. I don't like things degenerating to the point where you feel you have to. The sooner we can get back to relaxing with each other the happier I'll be. What did you want to tell me?"
"Yesterday. You... were with someone."
"I had three customers yesterday. I lost another regular since I saw you last; he needs replacing."
John felt himself crumbling. He pressed on. "One of them was Vaughan."
She looked up at him, piercingly.
John left no room for her to speak, for things to get complicated. "That's why I came round. To tell you. In case you turned up at the house when he was in."
Jayne squeezed her eyes tightly shut. "John, I... knew it was Vaughan. That's why I thought you'd come round. To make a scene. I didn't expect you to think it was an accident. Don't worry. He doesn't know I recognised him."
John stared at her in disbelief. She'd known? Then the emotion he'd held in check broke in bitter anger. Recriminations tumbled in his mind, too confused for speech. He was looking at a stranger. "You knew," he said, all he could say. He stood and turned for the door.