Davy and Angie rounded the corner at Paddington Underground Station and at a brisk pace soon found themselves in Cleveland Square. He wore a dark blue suit, open-necked white shirt and polished black leather shoes. In every sense, he looked a city gent out with his partner.

Wearing a charcoal grey suit Angie matched his stride.

It was just before seven p.m. when they arrived outside Jay's apartment block. He pressed the door entry code and waited.

"Who is it?" asked the metallic voice from the speaker.

"Hi, Jay."

"Darling, I have a friend here at the moment. Can you return in thirty minutes? Wait, I'm having fun, make that forty-five."

"Okay, no problem." He knew she still entertained the favoured few. For the most part, she was a professional businessperson.

With time to waste, they walked to the Edgware Road and found an Italian coffee shop. They sat at an empty table and ordered two extra-large lattes along with a couple of Danish pastries.

"What will you do next?" asked Davy.

"Start another dirty job."

"Do you enjoy what you do?"

"I'm not sure anymore. I used to love it, but now I'm just the world's shitty little jobs' officer."

He enjoyed her company and sipped at his coffee, "I want to lead a normal life."

"What is normal?"

As they chatted away, a police car and an ambulance, their sirens wailing, raced past, spoiling their ease with each other.

He glanced at his watch. "Time to go. Drink up."

On their way back to Jay's, she spotted a Rolls Royce with diplomatic plates pulling out of the square. "Is that an embassy car?"

Davy chuckled. "Are you that naive or did you sleep through the lesson on diplomatic immunity?"

"You don't mean they visit Jay for sex?"

"And why not? Politicians paying and playing with a prostitute isn't new. From memory, Nell Gwyn, King Charles' mistress, said, 'I was but one man's whore' and her mother ran a brothel. It's no big deal, and who cares?"

This time when he pressed the flat number, the door opened automatically.

Jay wearing a red velvet suit waited for them to arrive, ushered them into her lounge. "Take a pew."

They chose the luxury of a well-padded black leather sofa.

From a drawer, Jay produced a leather-bound folder. "I've given your proposal lots of thought and selected girls who are prepared at a price to attend your dinner party. I've told them what is necessary. They'll e-mail me a report on their man's performance."

Davy studied the photographs of the girls and read their critiques. They were Russian, in their mid-twenties, well educated, and beautiful. "What are the arrangements?"

It's simple," said Jay. "My girls will act as hostesses at your little party and mingle with your men."

"What details do you need?"

"Date, time and place."

He handed her the information, which she inserted into the folder.

Jay sat back in her chair, placing the paperwork on a side table. "Now our business is ended, fancy a glass or two of wine? Red or white?"

Davy admired Jay; she had come a long way from being a common street prostitute. Now she was quality and dressed in the latest fashion, her whole image had changed.

"Red, please," said Davy.

"That'll do for me," agreed Angie.

Jay's next statement surprised them both. "I have a Superb Beaujolais, or if you prefer, a Merlot or a Cabernet Sauvignon."

"Good God," exclaimed Davy. "Since when did you become a wine connoisseur?"

Jay's eyes sparkled. "In this life Davy, you learn what's necessary. I have friends who enjoy high-quality wine with their dinner. It pays to appreciate the difference between good and bad. Let me show you." She uncorked a bottle of Beaujolais. "Look at the cork." She tossed it at him. "What does it tell you?"

Bemused, he replied, "Not much."

She laughed. "It tells you the winery and, by the fragrance, if it's drinkable." She poured out three large glasses, handing one each to Davy and Angie. "What do you see?"

He smelt the wine, drank and swallowed a mouthful. "It tastes fine to me."

"Peasant. It's a full-bodied, bright red, with ruby highlights and an exquisite bouquet."

Angie agreed it was of outstanding quality.

Their wine lesson lasted well into the evening.

They left, staggering arm in arm into the street. Jay's ample measures of good wine ensured they were drunk.

Davy hailed a passing taxi, and they fell into the back seat, laughing.

"Where to, guv?" asked the driver.

"Hammersmith Bridge." Said Davy

The taxi moved its way through the evening traffic and within ten minutes, stopped close to the Bridge.

They got out. "Here you are, mate, ten quid. Keep the change. Come on, Angie, hold my hand. We're going to my local for a nightcap."

The barmaid flashed her eyes at him and beamed a smile.

Angie staggered to a table and flopped on a chair.

"Damn," he muttered as he sipped his pint. "I suppose you'd better stay in my place."

"What did you say?" she mumbled.

"It doesn't matter. Let's get you into bed."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

He supported her drunken frame and covered the short distance to his flat. Climbing the stairs carrying a drunk was not his idea of fun. Somehow, he managed to drag her through the front door. He guided her to his bedroom. She tittered and fell onto the bottom of the bed. He pulled her to the centre and covered her with the duvet. She tossed it to the floor. He moved forward to replace the cover. She reared up, grabbed his shirt, pulling him on top of her. With her inhibitions at zero, she smothered his lips with hers. The more he tried to get away, the tighter she held him.

"Davy Jones, make love to me."

He kissed her on the lips, and she relaxed. He slid away to escape her clutches.

She shouted, "Get your kit off, Jones."

"Angie, I must go to the loo. I'll be back in a minute."

When he returned, she was asleep. He picked up the duvet and covered her. Tired, he collapsed into the spare bed, stared at the ceiling. He turned out the light and closed his eyes.

Daylight woke Angie, and she wondered where she was. Her head ached, and eyes hurt. Through bloodshot eyes, she stared at an unfamiliar duvet. Her befuddled brain made an effort to come to terms with reality whilst trying to remember what had happened. After a while, she moved to the side of the bed and raised herself into an upright position. The room spun, and her stomach churned. Overwhelmed, she fell back and closed her eyes.

Davy rose at seven and went for his morning run along the river to Putney Bridge and back again. As he jogged the length of the dry earth path, he saw the rowing club crews and single sculls out in force. Although better, his head remained a trifle delicate. The drinking of a pint of ice-cold milk, from the corner shop, worked wonders. A hot shower, followed by a cold rinse and he was ready to face another day.

He opened his bedroom door and checked Angie. The duvet was on the floor. Although clothed, he let his eyes follow the contours of her body. She rolled over as he gazed at the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. He took a deep breath, shook his head but memories of the past, flooded back. Emma was great sex, Tracey he cared for, but the chemistry with Angie was different. No matter, until this was at an end, he could not get involved. Under the circumstances, he let her sleep.

At two in the afternoon, she tottered from his bedroom. "Where the hell am I?"

He laughed. "My, God. You look like shit. You're in my flat. I thought you might be better sleeping it off than waking you. Tea, coffee, or an Alka-Seltzer?"

She staggered across to a chair and sat. "How did I get here?"

"Life's one big mystery," he said. "Although pissed out of your brain, you walked, well, with a little help.

She ignored his remark. "Can I have a large black coffee, please?"

"Do you remember anything?"

"No... Should I?"

"The bathroom's over there. Take your skirt off. I'll give it an iron. If nothing else, it'll make it presentable."

"Why did you let me sleep in my suit? No wonder-"

He spoke more hurtfully than he intended. "Oh, if I'd taken it off you might have accused me of rape. Once this lark is over, I'll be off faster than a jackrabbit with its arse on fire. What you have to offer, I can get anywhere."

"So I observed in Spain."

"You must be on the mend. Have a shower, and when you're ready to face the world, I'll call a cab."

"You're a patronising sod." She finished her coffee and disappeared into the bathroom.

Seconds later, the door opened, and she handed him her skirt. "Be careful, it cost a fortune."

The shower energised and revived the memory of her, wanting him to make love to her. She inspected herself. "You bastard," she screamed. "Damn you, you fucking bastard."

Now she understood she was nothing to him.

"Your skirt's on a hanger outside the door," he shouted.

Washed and dressed, she strolled from the bathroom.

His eyes remained fixed to the television screen.

"I'm off."

He turned towards her. "Okay, I'll ring you. My fixed phone number's by your handbag. Oh, and by the way, if you tell Harman-Smith where I am, I'll be gone, and you'll never find me. Understand?"

She walked out, slamming the door.

***

Five days later, Davy's telephone rang.

"Davy, its Jay. It was a great party. The service at the Café Royale was superb and the food wonderful. I have the report on your men."

"Good or bad?"

"Do you want me to read it?"

"No. We could meet for lunch."

"Sounds good. Where and when?"

"The Miranda Restaurant, Shepherds Bush High Street. I'll meet you there with Angie at midday I've never eaten there, but the menu in the window looks good."

"Okay, see you."

When he arrived, Davy spotted Jay at a table well away from the door.

The restaurant was small, the tablecloths were clean and the cutlery stainless steel. Somehow, it retained an old-world charm, reminiscent of Lyons Corner Houses. The waiter, a handsome young Greek, came across with the menus and a pitcher of water. The far door opened and in walked Angie.

"How's the head?" he asked with a smile.

Her face, hardened. "Fine."

He shrugged and busied himself by looking at the menu.

Davy soon finished his meal. Whilst his companions continued talking and eating, he perused the folder, Jay had given him. Four out of the six men were possible. He laughed at the comments:

Peter Pinder: Nice person when sober – poor manners – couldn't make it after the wine.

Jeff Maine: Not a nice man – perverted in his sexual orientation – no sensible woman would go out with him more than once.

He removed the sheet of paper, folded and shoved it in his inside jacket pocket. "Thanks for this," patting his pocket. "I'll soon have a few more nights out arranged for your girls."

"When? They don't mind, its easy money."

"A month."

When they left the restaurant, Jay leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks." She turned and walked away.

Davy and Angie returned to his flat. He sat in his favourite armchair, removed the sheet of paper Jay had given him and began to read. Angie busied herself in the kitchen, making coffee while he contacted Ghashide.

"Mr Ghashide, can you arrange for four packages to be ready for collection?"

"No problem."

"Where, doesn't matter. But, I need these sooner rather than later."

"I'll make the arrangements this afternoon and get back to you."

The next item on the agenda was to contact the four men. His first call proved beneficial when Andy Davis, who lived in Wapping, suggested they meet at his place.

Davy agreed and arranged the meeting for eight that evening.

"What can I do?" asked Angie, drinking her coffee.

He gazed at her beautiful eyes. "You tell me.?"

"Let's go for a drink."

He glanced at his watch. "Okay, one."

They went to his local and found a quiet corner.

"Angie, I'd prefer it if you backed off and let me run the show. I promise if I find out anything, I'll keep you in the loop. For the sake of repeating myself, if this goes wrong, I've nothing to lose. You have."

"Not interested. Forget it. I know you don't give a shit."

He moved his hands and covered hers. "That's not true. Maybe under different circumstances, life for us could be different. What you must understand is every woman I've become involved with is dead. I don't want you to end up in a pine box."

Confused, she pulled her hands away. "I'm the professional, and I intend to be here at the end."

"Okay, but do me a favour; go home. I will call promise."

She finished her drink and left.

He smiled at the way her skirt defined her thighs. Lewd ideas flooded his mind as he tried to concentrate on the pointers for the men selected.

On arriving home, he rested and dozed for the remainder of the afternoon. He arrived at Andy's studio flat before eight to find the others already there. The scene was a disaster zone; empty beer cans lay abandoned on the floor, indicating they had been partying for a while. Not amused, he shouted, "Shut the fuck up and listen." In a quiet voice, he explained the rules of the game. They thought the idea was brilliant. "The kick in the arse is. No package, no payment. Succeed, and you get another bite of the apple. I recommend you do not fail."

Andy asked, "Where and when?"

"I'll let you know soon enough." He was content; these men were capable of doing the job.

Archie Russell was next. "Now the business is over, can I finish my beer?"

Davy smiled. "Of course you can. Where's mine?"

Their consumption of beer increased relative to the volume of their voices. When the beer finished, they started on the spirits. Much later, Davy ordered a cab to take him home.

Life, fate, whatever, is never a straight line, he thought. Whilst he was paying the cabbie, he sensed someone close. Unhurried, he prepared for a fight aware that the latest craze was to mug the unwary on their doorstep. He paused; a full moon lit the star-covered sky. Bemused, he could not see the threat his guts implied.

A sound, the scrapping of feet, he turned to face a threat. From the shadows stepped Angie. "For fuck sake, I could have knocked your head off. What's your problem?"

"I'm here to repeat my offer of the other night, and I'm sober."