Number 49 was not what she had expected. A small anonymous terraced house in a line of other anonymous houses. The plastic windows didn't seem like something he would have chosen.
Lena rang the bell and waited. The house was entirely devoid of life. She no longer understood why she had come. She was tempted to turn away.
Then someone was working the locks. A moment later his soft serious face was looking down at her.
"You came," he said.
And he smiled.
"You're sure you want to come in?"
The party had already been winding down when she first noticed him. The girl draped round his neck was much younger than he was. As the music ended he detached himself and moved over to the drinks where Lena was standing. The girl continued to turn slowly to the music in a willowy bubble of her own. Lena was a little drunk. She wasn't conscious of their conversation starting. It seemed to have begun in the middle.
"I know, I know," he said, selecting an open bottle of Malbec. "She's far too young. I should be ashamed of myself."
"But I'm guessing you're not", Lena said.
"Not in the least. Top up?"
Lena offered her glass.
"What are you wearing under that dress?"
Lena smiled over the rim of her glass. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
He stopped pouring abruptly.
"Yes. That's why I asked."
His tone had hardened. The effect was immediate. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Lena looked at him in surprise.
"This is where you tell me what you're wearing and something interesting happens. Or you decide not to tell me and life goes back to being ordinary."
For a moment she was incapable of speech.
It came to her she didn't have to say anything. She could simply turn away.
"Lace briefs," she said. "And a bra."
He seemed to consider this.
"Show me."
The room was emptying slowly. But a few people hung on reluctant to abandon the embers of the party. A couple stood unmoving on the dancefloor, locked in an embrace. A girl reached past Lena, looked at the open bottles, then moved away empty handed.
"Show me."
Lena could feel her heart beating. His young partner was still dancing, lost in the music.
He was watching Lena carefully.
Slowly she reached to her neckline and pulled aside the dress to reveal a thin strap and part of the lacy cup.
There was no acknowledgement. It was as if she hadn't moved. He waited.
The world seemed to stop. Lena forced herself to breathe. Something ballooned in her chest.
She took the edge of the cup and lowered it.
"Never choose ordinary", he said. "Promise me."
Lena nodded.
Later, as he was leaving, he gave her a card.
"Come and see me ", he said. "But only if you're serious."
She'd waited a week before calling the number.
She had been wrong about the house. The room was tiny - even smaller than the exterior of the terrace had suggested. But it wasn't what she had imagined. The walls were covered in paintings. A powerfully breaking wave hung on the chimney breast, the oil paint loaded onto the canvas with a palette knife. The narrow alcoves on either side of the stove were filled with books. A small but beautiful antique rug lay on the floor.
He took her coat, laid it over the back of a chair and moved past her onto a sofa.
He hadn't asked her to sit. She found herself standing in front of him staring at an old cartoon above his head. Characters in wigs and frock coats.
She expected him to take her hand then, to bring her down onto the sofa - though somehow when she imagined this encounter, in the familiar surroundings of her own room, the details of these opening stages had refused to come into focus.
He seemed content to let the silence go on indefinitely. Lena wondered if she had made a mistake.
"Lift your skirt for me," he said.
The night before she had dreamed of the African plains. In the final hour before bed she chanced on a documentary about a pride of lions. One sequence stuck with her. A lone bachelor male came across an injured impala. It was clear what would happen from the outset. Normally she would have switched channels but there was something about the inevitability of the unfolding drama which obliged her to watch.
The lion seemed surprised the impala did not flee. The camera was close enough to see the frightened stare of the antelope. The taught musculature of the big cat. There was a moment of unexpected stillness. And then the lion exploded into life. The massive jaws closed on the extended neck of the impala. She watched the eyes dull as the life drained out of it. As it died Lena felt herself grow weak.
Later, she woke in her bed in sheets soaked with her own sweat. She was astonished to find herself aroused. Her hands moved between her legs. She climaxed quickly, her nostrils filled with the dust and the animal heat of the plains.
He was watching her carefully. She could reach the door in two strides. Turn the handle, step out into the freedom of the street and fill her lungs with the night air.
But in the tiny room a vast empty space seemed to have opened around her. There was no way of crossing it.
And then because she had chosen this - hadn't she? - she reached down and took the hem of her skirt.
The skirt was tight. Lifting it was difficult but she peeled it back to expose the tops of her hold-ups and a glimpse of her mound encased in black silk.
"I'm not easy to please", he said. "I think you can do better than that."
She tried again. This time working the skirt over her thighs until it was inside out.
"You have good legs", she heard him say. She felt absurdly grateful.
"Open them for me."
Another point of no return.
He still hadn't touched her.
"I think we need some music" he said.
He moved past her and began to busy himself with the stereo. "I'd like you to keep still," he said. Each sentence was like a soft restraint, limiting her movement.
So she remained where she was, standing, legs apart in front of the cartoon.
She would have liked to take off her shoes. Her ankles were beginning to ache. But he'd asked her to wear the heels. Taking them off now would be a mistake.
The room filled with what sounded to her like church music. A choir. Long looping phrases that wrapped around each other and pressed themselves into the corners of the room. She felt herself enfolded by the sound. And then he had slipped by her and was seated again, looking not up at her exactly, but straight ahead levelling his gaze at her parted legs. He was cradling a glass of wine in his hand.
