As the settings on the rowing machine ratchet up and up, so does his flirtation. There are the low-spoken compliments and the almost-but-not-quite jokey remarks. There is the encouragement, the 'believe in yourself, baby, believe you're the best' that makes every new inductee wonder if he thinks she is Special. And yes, she is always Special, for that one day.
He moves to the next stage, the touches, the hands on her calf, the massage of her shoulders, the tactile demonstration of the workings of her muscles. She feels his rock-solidity, begins to wonder if such steely flesh can ever yield or melt in the blast furnace of passion. She realises that she would very much like to know the answer to this question. She holds his gold-flecked chocolate eyes a little too long, and then he knows he has won.
'There's another kind of workout I'd like to give you, baby,' he might say. Depending on the quarry, there will be giggles, or coquettish looks, or a straightforward acquiescence. He will fetch his master key and lead her towards the sauna and shower room, which will remain locked for the next half-hour.
The shower is the wet-room sort, large and tiled in black. He will put two exercise mats down on the rubberised floor, then he will hook one enormous forearm around the small of her back and curve her against his chest. He will wait for her gasp of realisation that the swollen mound pressing into her stomach is not a skittle. Then he will capitalise on her wide eyes and gaping mouth, lifting her into his arms and kissing her into submission en route to the exercise mats.
There will be an agonisingly slow peeling off of Lycra and cotton. There will be awestruck tracing of the ridges and inlets of Lincoln's physique, which he will respond to by finding her corresponding softnesses. There will be marvelling at the satin smoothness of his shaved head and the iron rigidity of his biceps and triceps.
Now the two sets of limbs will entangle, legs within legs, arms over arms, more often than not a colour contrast of skins. Her streamlines will mould sweetly against his bulk; together they will work through a series of poses that would inspire any sculptor. Large hands over firm breasts, faces merging at the lips, manicured nails pressing into taut dark buttocks. The scanty underwear, now salty with their excitement, is finally discarded. She might find herself on her back, flexing her toes over the broadest shoulders they will ever encounter, showing off her Brazilian, or American, or French waxed mons to his single-eyed conqueror. She might find herself straddling his pelvis, hovering above that thick, straight stalk, summoning the nerve to lower herself on to its prodigious girth. Or she might be sandwiched between the shiny black tiles and his shiny black six-foot frame, drilled to the wall like a soapdish by his hardworking tool. There are many variations on this picture, enough to fill a catalogue, but they always end the same way. Whether it's hard and fast or slow and sensual, she is brought to the screaming bucking orgasm of her life while he congratulates himself on another job well done before filling the rubber sheath within the heated flesh.
'Babe,' he'll say, every single time. 'Oh, babe.' And then he'll turn on the jets and they will lie there on the drenched exercise mats, panting and moaning while the pearly droplets cleanse their steaming bodies.
They have both had what they wanted, but woe betide the woman who wants more. Lincoln has only that much to give. It is good, oh yes, is it good, but it is all you can ever expect. Or at least, it was.
Mostly, we would shake ourselves off, dust ourselves down and accept that the Special Induction was our last taste of Lincoln. Sooner or later, the women moved on. It took some of them a long time, but eventually, after fruitless months on the treadmill or the rower, they would see him work his magic on the next new girl and realise how the land lay. The thing about Lincoln was that he was always travelling towards the next peak on the horizon, always passing through and never staying. There would be a girl with bigger tits, or longer legs, or – most importantly – a more famous name along soon, and he had to be ready for her. Lincoln did not have emotions so much as an endless bedpost, incompletely notched, stretching away to infinity, representing his ego and his self-worth. Poor vulnerable Lincoln. In the end, you had to feel a little sorry for him.
I was not feeling particularly sorry for him, though, on the day his nemesis checked in.
'Hey, Sophie,' he hailed me, jogging over the lobby to the jingle of gold jewellery. 'You heard who's signed up for Inductions?'
'The Queen?' I hazarded, scarcely bothering to veil my indifference.
He unleashed that rich chuckle, the one that made every female nipple within a half-mile radius tingle.
'No, baby, you know who I mean. Our famous friends.'
'Uh huh. Kitty and Kat. I know. Did they sign up separately, or do you get them as a tag team?'
So successful had Kitty and Kat's TV sketch show proved that they were now filming a movie in the city. The plot was basically the same as all of their sketches – Kitty is beautiful but dim; Kat is frumpy but saves her friend's bacon time after time. Startlingly original premise, no? I was not a fan, I had to admit, but the girls had been friendly enough at the Reception desk and had made no ridiculous diva-ish demands of the staff, so I was prepared to accept that they weren't as annoying as their show might lead one to suspect.
'Well, I've got one after the other. Kitty at ten, Kat at eleven. I might not have time for Kat though.'
'And she doesn't have the model looks,' I pointed out sourly.
'Hey, she's a name, baby. A name doesn't need the looks. Besides, the homely girls have compensations to offer.' Lincoln winked, flashed his teeth and bounded off towards the basement health complex.
'Arrogant twat,' I mouthed in his wake, and thought no more of it.
The following day, Kat – real name Karen – rolled up at the desk to ask whether she could have another newspaper delivered to her door.
'Sure,' I said with my professional smile (which is slightly wider than my ordinary one and comes with an incline of the neck). 'Is there anything else you need?'
'No,' she said lightly, then she frowned. 'Well . . . actually . . . Kitty has been asking whether there's a decent gym in the area.'
'Oh? I thought you did the Induction at our health complex yesterday?'
Kat sucked in her cheeks and made a number of her trademark comedy faces, although there didn't seem to be a punchline at the end this time.
'Yeah,' she said at last. 'That's the problem.'
I regarded her from lowered brows, hoping my silence would tease a confidence from her. It didn't.
'Problem?' I finally said. 'Lincoln will be mortified. He prides himself on his . . . track record.'
Kat barked with laughter. 'So I see. He's quite impressive in action, isn't he? Look, it's not a complaint as such, so please don't treat it as one, but he's a bit . . . predatory, isn't he?'
'Many bear the scars of his cross-training techniques,' I told her. She smiled. She was warming to me. Now I needed the dirt.