When I come to, I find Lloyd standing over us, smiling down, his eyes all shiny.
‘That wasn’t fair,’ I say, my voice coming out as a harsh whisper.
‘No, but it was amazing.’
He holds out his hands. I swing my legs off O’s lap and let him hold me, too weak and shivery to knee him in the groin as I rightly should.
‘Failure never looked better.’ He kisses the words into my ear, then addresses our guests. ‘Wonderful work. Truly wonderful. You are artists of erotica.’
They go back to sipping cocktails, still as immaculate as they were when they entered the room. It’s just me that’s a big old sex mess.
‘Can I get dressed now?’
‘No.’
‘But …’
‘The night is young. And the fish is cooked. I’ll go and sort it out while you do the wine, yeah?’
He leaves me, naked and streaked with sweat and come, to entertain our guests and set the table.
‘Thanks,’ I say to them. It seems polite.
‘Pleasure,’ they chorus, not inaccurately.
I don’t spill any hot sauce on my naked flesh, but I am extremely careful to make sure each mouthful is securely pronged on my fork first. As we eat, we chatter about the club, about Mal and Dr Lassiter, about the hotel, about things I could discuss with perfect unselfconsciousness if only I was clothed.
Then Lloyd clears away the plates and orders me onto the table.
‘What?’
‘You heard. Get on the table.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
He doesn’t wait for my answer, elbowing his way into the kitchen, and I presume he doesn’t hear my yell of ‘I don’t know!’ because he is too busy clattering about with the dishwasher.
‘I think you’re dessert.’ O enlightens me with a sly smile.
‘But we bought fruit and cream … oh …’
‘Fruity,’ giggles Rachael. ‘Very fruity. If you ever get bored with Lloyd, can I have him?’
Bored with Lloyd. Could that happen? I ponder this as I climb aboard the table with its snowy-for-now cloth. I move the candles in the centre to the end, blowing them out. I don’t know if Lloyd was planning on a spot of wax play, but on the other hand, I’ve no plans to burn the hotel down.
‘What do you think, girls? On my back?’
‘I guess so,’ says Rachael. O merely shrugs.
They sip their wine and watch me lay myself on the smooth linen, legs together, hands crossed over my breasts like a statue atop a medieval tomb.
‘I did something a bit like this,’ O remarks. ‘At one of His Lordship’s house parties. Were you there, Rachael? The Roman orgy?’
‘Oh yes, I was. I was a slave girl. Not as much fun as I thought it would be, actually – I spent most of the evening refilling wine glasses.’
‘At least you weren’t the vomitorium attendant,’ I remark.