‘OK then, you can whip me all you like but I’m not … er …’
‘The point, Sophie, is taken. Like you will be.’
‘Sh. That man’s looking at us. I think he knows where we’re going.’
‘Maybe he’s going there too. Maybe he knows that, underneath that coat, you’re wearing nothing but a rubber dress and thigh-highs.’
‘Lloyd.’
‘Oh, this is the stop. And he’s getting off here too, how about that?’
We follow the gentleman in question along the platform and up the escalator. I am grateful for my long coat as we ascend through a draughty hall, past ad after ad for West End shows and exhibitions.
Thankfully, Kinky Cupcake is not too distant from the tube station, tucked away in a warren of tight-knit streets and alleyways full of transformed warehouses and industrial buildings. Sweatshops are now art galleries, grain stores have become artisan cheese shops. The raggedy waifs and strays who used to wander these cobbles have been replaced with students and young professionals trying to use their iPhones and ride their bicycles simultaneously.
We swerve one such, Lloyd pulling me into the wall and saving me from a knickerless sprawl.
‘You OK?’ He pats my hips, rubbing the lining of my coat against the smooth rubber that encases them.
‘Yeah, think so. Is this it?’
We look up at an archway over a large black door. There is no name on the wall, nothing to identify the building. But it’s the right address.
‘What do we do? Knock?’
‘I suppose.’
Lloyd knocks on the battered black door, then stands back and smoothes his hair down yet again, waiting for admission.
‘I wish I knew what this interview thing was about,’ he mutters, then there is rattling
and jangling from the inside lock and we grip each other’s fingers instinctively.
The door opens a crack – a face appears above us, impassive and silent.
‘Oh, the password!’ says Lloyd. ‘Um, Lacoste.’
The door opens a little wider and a hand, presumably belonging to the owner of the face, waves us in.
‘Names?’ asks the doorman. Maybe Lloyd could borrow some leather off him – he certainly seems to have the full set.
We supply our identities, which are ticked off against a list.
‘You have an appointment,’ the doorman tells us, which we already knew, but we follow him up some stairs to a very ordinary-looking waiting area. At least, so it seems, until I realise that the magazines on the table aren’t exactly Woman’s Own.
‘Nice gimp mask.’ I pick one up and show it to Lloyd. ‘That’d suit you.’
‘Don’t. I feel naked. Do you think I should get a tattoo?’
‘Lloyd, you’re really nervous, aren’t you?’ I take his hand and hold it tight. It’s clammy.
‘I feel like I’m going to be asked to prove something. I feel like I’m going to be found out.’
‘What could they possibly find out about you? We do this stuff! We do it for real. You’re as eligible to join this place as Lassiter is, or Max Mosley, or … anyone.’
He smirks. ‘I’d rather not end up on the front page of the papers.’
A door opens and a sleek, beautiful woman in a perfectly cut trouser suit smiles out at us. ‘Lloyd? Sophie? Please come in. We’re always so delighted to meet new members,’ she continues, as we cross the deeply carpeted floor of her office. ‘Take a seat. My partner, Mal, will be up shortly. Can I get you anything to drink?’