"I'll just slip into something more comfortable."
Eight words later, she's decked out in a scrap of black satin and lace, ink on show in the few places it's not covered by Agent Provocateur's finest. She was a good find at the club, one of my best yet. Hardy's doesn't seem her kind of place but I'm not going to question it when she's sat on my lap.
Three months on, we're sat on the sofa. She's telling me about her day, only I'm not really listening. I'm thinking about that slip of a negligee, wondering when she'll get it out again. She tries to get my attention, but I'm too busy ignoring her new black bob. She tries to tell me she's getting a promotion. I smile but I don't mean it. I suppose this promotion means more business suits and sensible haircuts.
She shifts position again, tugging at the waistband of her skirt. It's grey and sexless, but she tells me it's designer. Some Italian guy whose name I can't pronounce. A white blouse covers most of her tattoos, and delicate silver studs replace the hoops and spikes in her ears, now hidden by that awful hairdo. She leans toward me.
"I'll just slip into something more comfortable."
My heart leaps to think of the black negligee and I settle myself on the sofa. She comes back downstairs in a faded sweatshirt and mismatching pyjama bottoms. I take one look at the fluffy slippers and I forget why I'm there. She goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on and I take the opportunity to leave. I won't be back.
I think I might stop in at Hardy's on the way home.
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