There is a wine bar on the next block that she takes me to, and I begin to realise that this has all been set up meticulously. The choice of salon, the fact that she was in the reception, the venue to retreat to afterwards to talk. She doesn't say anything as we walk, and I can't help myself, stealing glances at her.
"Do I get to know your name?" I ask.
"Do I get to know yours?"
"Fair point. But, your husband already knows a lot about me."
"We," she emphasizes, "We know a lot about you. Where you work, where you live."
"What?"
"Your pictures, the data."
"Oh crap."
Of course, I've been suckered again. Sending the pictures from home: the geolocation information the phone put into the picture metadata automatically.
"Relax. It's down to the apartment block. There must be a hundred units within that radius. Still, I know where I can suggest to catch up for coffee when I'm in town."
As she talks, my mind is racing. I'm desperately trying to work her out from the clues I'm given. So, they don't live here, which means she's probably flown in from somewhere else. Her jacket and pants are smart; she's used to power-dressing, effortless in low heels, black hair carefully braided. The rocks on her finger and the designer label on her bag point out that she has money and she's used to being heard. The accent is Jamaican, I'm almost sure, but even without it there's an aura about her of being so very, very unlike me. Whatever her name is, she's in control, well put together.
"You just here for a visit?" I ask.
"Came in for a meeting today, staying over tonight because I wanted to meet you in person. Two birds, one stone."
"Who's looking after the kids?"
I keep my voice level. It's a shot in the dark; I want to see how much information she's willing to supply.
"He is."
"How many you got?"
"Two, girl and a boy."
She isn't giving much away. We cross the road to the wine bar in silence and she holds the door open for me.
"Let's find a spot in the back," she tells me.
We go through to the rear of the place, and there are a few tables for two in a little garden area out the back. It's fully dark now, and there are little downlights in the vine-festooned arches that form a canopy over the area. She selects a table in an area that no-one else is sitting. The waitress comes over to us and we order a glass of white wine each. It's just a glass. I need to keep my wits about me.
I look her in the eye. "We, you said."
"When?"
"We know a lot about you, those were your words."
She smiles, stretching like a cat in her seat, rolling her shoulders back. The v-cut neck of her smart jacket gapes open a little and I realise that I can't see anything underneath, except her smooth dark-coloured skin. The idea that she's topless under the jacket does something to me. I'm topless too, under my dress. I don't have any panties on either, because that was the deal I made with him. Then my eyes go wide.
"You do this together?" I ask.
"Yes. He's obviously the business end, with the pictures and the contact. I'm more of an advisor. Whether that's also my day job, I guess that's maybe what you're curious about."
"You tell him what to do?"
She laughs again, and I'm captivated by the way her brown eyes sparkle in the subdued lighting. The waitress returns with our wine, interrupting my flow. I wait until she's out of earshot again before continuing.
"Do you?" I persist.
"No. I'm like I said, an advisor. I can cover the other angles that his man brain can't work out. Like, when you sent your list of favourite pictures to us."
I blush furiously. This woman has been privy to my innermost fantasies and I know absolutely nothing about her. I'm so completely out of my depth. I try to regain some semblance of control, taking a sip of wine, composing myself again.
"And what did you conclude from those pictures?" I ask.
"That you're what we've been looking for, for a long time."
Her eyes are dark and wide, boring into mine with unexpected intensity all of a sudden. Caught in the full beam of her attention, that little feeling deep inside me flares into life. I know what's happening here and I'm terrified and excited at the same time. My heart flutters in my chest. She really means it.
"Am I being propositioned?" I ask.
I try to keep my tone even, but it almost comes out as a squeak. She grins because she knows she's got me. But she doesn't answer back.
Instead, her hand goes to the top button of her jacket. The v-neck opens a little wider. She pops the next button too, then stops. I find myself waiting, unable to move or break the trance as her fingers tug the lapel slightly. She scans the surrounding tables briefly and then leans forward.
I'm right. She's naked beneath the jacket. Her smooth skin is revealed, then the curve of a modest breast, as she leans further forward. Her fingers grip the fabric, opening herself fractionally wider to show me her thick, dark nipple. I gasp.
There is a glint there, a steel bar threaded horizontally through her tip. I'm transfixed, staring at another woman's pierced breast in public in the back of a winebar. It's all my fantasies at once. Then, she leans back in her seat and the jacket falls back into place, covering her. My mouth is so dry that I can't speak, my pulse hammering. I look up and meet her dark eyes and get a shock.
She has been staring at me the whole time. There is a flush beneath the colour of her cheeks, her mouth parted. But her eyes tell me everything.
"I'm the same as you," she whispers.
I'm sitting next to a stranger who is wildly aroused by having exposed herself to me. I can still see the curve of her breast in my mind's eye, burned into my brain, the perfection of her body. Her eyes are locked on mine, like a confession, revealing herself. The mask of control and civility has been torn away and she has stripped herself bare.
His wife was his first model because she asked to be. She feels what I feel, the terror and the bliss of displaying herself for strangers. Her lips press together and she swallows, and I'm suddenly staring at her lips instead. They're so close. My body is burning and she is right in front of me.
"Can I show you more?" she whispers.
I gape at her, but I know that if I nod, I'm going down a path I've never been and I don't know where it leads. I'm not gay. I'm not. This beautiful siren is calling me down into the sea. I can't think.
But I nod, and it's all she needs. She gets up, buttoning her jacket again, reaching into her purse to deposit some money on the table. I find myself standing too, and then following her as she walks away, like I'm on a leash. I watch the way she walks, her hips rolling in her elegant pants, the tight, firm curve of her rear. My hands are shaking.
She leads me in silence to a hotel just down the road. It's all been planned with exacting attention to detail. I have been acquired and now I'm going to be exercised. We enter the hotel and go up to her room, but at the door, I hesitate.
"I've never done this before," I confess. "I'm not...."
"You are a lot more than you think."
"At least tell me your name."
"No."
She opens the door and steps into the room. I follow. The door closes behind me with a heavy thud that makes me jump.
"What about your husband?" I blurt out.
She kicks off her heels, dropping a little in height, then turns back to me.
"He knows who I am. He's the only one in the world who knows who I am."
"And who are you?"
She turns to me and begins to unbutton her jacket again. My attention is focused on each button as she unfastens it.
"I'm his wife. I'm the mother of his children."
She pops the last button and the jacket opens a little, exposing a section of her torso. I see a glint in her belly button.
"I'm his muse. I'm his art."
Her fingers go to the waistband of her trousers, popping the button and opening the zip. She pauses.
"I'm his art," she repeats, solemnly. "He turned me into art and exposed me to the entire world."
