Not surprisingly, Saturday was fraught. It was too wet for a walk, I couldn’t concentrate on reading or music, and I was all on my own, unsure what to wear, panicking about dinner. Having toyed with the idea of cooking paella I opted for roast lamb with aubergines and carrots and roast potatoes, with prawn cocktail for starters. I didn’t make a dessert but the Victoria sponge turned out quite well. I wished Ken could be with me, or Kathy and May; but since the evening’s conversation would be confidential, any moral support – even from Jen and Nils – would have been de trop.

Time hadn’t healed the wounds Mandy had inflicted, or diminished my gratitude to her. Every few nights I was awakened by the conflict between urges to kill her and hug her. I clung to the straws of superior dress sense and relative pulchritude but resented the facility with which she outthought and outwitted me. And she still knew more about me than I did about her; it was annoying, and slightly menacing. My plans for the evening were therefore simple: look my best, prove I was the better cook, stay sober, and discuss strategy with Sergio, marginalising Mandy as much as possible.

An hour before my guests were due I showered, shaved my armpits and legs, and selected a red tunic with bell sleeves, black trousers and black Sole Diva pointed loafers. The months in the brothel and my subsequent prolonged recovery had slimmed me, so nearly all my clothes were size twelve now, but my shoes would never be smaller than nines. After further reflection I adorned myself with pearl necklace, bracelet and ear-rings, and put on my new Swarovsky Crystal Set silver wristwatch. Attending to hair and makeup and applying a dash of Dior Hypnotic Poison, I sensed mild applause from the mirror. Plumping up my sitting room cushions, I felt more confident.

Mandy and Sergio were bang on time. Sergio was immaculate in a grey Gucci suit; his shoes paled with the anxious reflection of my face. He shook my hand and presented me with a bouquet of fuchsias and a bottle of Chilean Rioja. Mandy took off her Helene Berman large-plaid coat to reveal a Studio 8 Raquel dress and Sole Diva block heel sandals. Her delicate necklace bore a Tree of Life pendant. I hadn’t known she could make herself look so fucking good. She hugged me and kissed my cheek, and her smile said you and I buy from the same store, darling, but my outfit’s more up-market than yours and the difference is obvious. I left Sergio to dispense sherry and open the wine while I escaped to the kitchen to swear quietly and put the finishing touches to dinner. Her hair needs dyeing again, I thought. Grey roots showing. And she’s put weight on around the middle.

Dinner was a success so Mandy’s compliments weren’t forced. Conversation was unchallenging: recent events in our lives, politics, banking, the weather. Devouring a slice of Victoria sponge with his coffee, Sergio mentioned a private company that had taken over Backpage from Village Voice Media, but he gave no details.

“With your permission, Clarissa, we will talk about it later. Now, if you ladies will excuse me I will go out and return” (he consulted his watch) “in one hour. Then we may discuss plans.”

His sensitivity touched me. He knew Mandy and I had unfinished business and needed time for private dialogue. The door closed behind him and the silence thickened.

“Have you any idea how confused I am about you?” I said, finishing my wine and pouring coffee. “No, don’t try to answer. Tell me what’s to be done about that filthy brothel where – ”

“It’s been done, Clarissa. Closed down. Owners in prison.”

My satisfaction was tempered by regret. I wished I’d been there to witness their arrest and trial.

“So Olga Fyodorovna will need another market for her victims. What about her? And what about Hiromi Fucking Takamitsu?”

Mandy professed herself shocked and disappointed by Hiromi, who’d become another of Olga’s puppets and would no longer be welcomed as a castratrix. As for Olga: if she ever dared to sell another upgrade into slavery, sexual or otherwise, particularly an upgrade under Mandy’s protection, then the senior medical staff (Loretta Connelly, Odile Deschamps and others), Bethany McCrimmon (Mistress Dedesa), Zsófia Kurtag, and the remaining pillars of the Castration Festival establishment – including Mandy herself – would all withdraw from participation in the scheme. Not even Olga Fyodorovna Matveeva could afford losses on such a scale or be able to find replacements with the necessary skills and attitudes.

I supposed this assurance would have to suffice. I told Mandy I still didn’t understand why Doug had been abducted, tortured and castrated, since his crimes against women were much less extreme than some men’s, and why I hadn’t been better protected against Olga’s machinations while I was embarking on my new life as a woman.

“What made you choose Doug, of all people? Why do you profess such interest in me?”

She wondered why I needed to repeat those questions. Hadn’t they already been answered? Douglas Hendry had been a solitary male with no close family; he’d been intelligent and educated and had contacts that could be used in the battle against global sexual exploitation; and although his offences were indeed minor compared to some men’s, he was unrepentantly sexist so he merited punishment.

“And I was confident you’d become a successful woman, Clarissa, and a happy one. Wasn’t I right?”

“It’s too early to judge, Mandy. I’m mostly happy, I suppose. Doug would never have believed it, but… The problem is I can’t get into a relationship. Maybe I’ll… Not comfortable with men, that’s the bottom line, but I suppose it’s no surprise after – ”

She nodded and stroked my hand and foresaw a time, not far ahead, when my renewed enthusiasm for sex would override my discomfort with men. To say that Time is a healer is a cliché, but like most clichés it’s true.

“You’ve adjusted to every other aspect of womanhood, Clarissa. Rumour has it you’ve joined a choir and you’ve involved yourself in other activities. So I decided I’d challenge you this evening. That’s why I turned up dressed to maim, if not exactly to kill… only to discover you’d outthought and outclassed me. And then, as if you hadn’t put my nose far enough out of joint already with that gorgeous tunic and the pearls, you proved you can cook better than me. Two nil to you.”

She was obviously lying to make me feel good, but it worked. It was the ideal preparation for discussions with Sergio, and I no longer felt impelled to marginalise her. She always was clever.

– – – – – – – –
“Some people said the financing of Village Voice Media was opaque,” said Sergio, “but it was a reputable holding company with a dozen respected media outlets. It behaved responsibly towards the prostitution adverts on Backpage; when the editors suspected an advertiser of involvement in sex trafficking they alerted the police, especially if minors were involved. But Backpage attracted so many advertisers that a few bad ones escaped the editors’ vigilance, so one or two underage girls were prostituted, which was enough for certain pressure groups to twist VVM’s arm until they ditched Backpage altogether. The surrender cut their income by fifteen percent. It also put Backpage into the hands of less scrupulous owners. And there are lots of other prostitute advertising services with dubious owners.” He gave me a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “You might wish to investigate some of this list. There could be interesting connections.”

I unfolded the sheet. The names and websites occupied almost a whole A4 page in single-spaced type.

“The only online sex-advertising site I know is AdultWork,” I said. “They seem responsible: don’t allow under-18s on the site, report illegal activities, investigate complaints, ban anyone who misuses the service.”

“In principle,” said Mandy. “But AW has incomparably more users than Backpage ever had. And AW takes its pound of flesh from users.” She nodded at the list. “See whether the AIM Group can add to Sergio’s collection, Clarissa, and find out what they think about AW.”

They told me ‘The AIM Group’ was the Advanced Interactive Media Group LLC, an interactive media and classified advertising consultancy that published the ‘bible’ of the advertising world.

“AIM said Backpage carried seventy percent of all prostitution adverts, Mandy,” said Sergio.

“In America, maybe,” said Mandy.

The religious groups who pressurised VVM into dropping Backpage ought to have had more sense, I thought. In the modern world of global communication there was no way of stopping sexual services being advertised, so we need to ensure that all such advertising is responsible and law-abiding. Forcing it underground as the critics of Backpage did will achieve the opposite.

“You’ve given me enough to work on,” I said. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Good, Clarissa. Thank you. Of course, if we find anything new…”

Not until Sergio and Mandy were leaving did I wonder whether they were an item. Probably not. They were close friends, but I hadn’t detected the chemistry that characterises couples. And I wasn’t sure how much Sergio knew about the Castration Festivals. I doubted whether Mandy had told him much. She was a mistress of dissimulation.

– – – – – – – –
Joe Hinchliffe, my downstairs neighbour, aspired to become a matchmaker. He invited me in for a cup of tea so I could meet his nephew, Henry, while he went into town to bet on the horses. Henry, I soon discovered, resembled a cold steamed pudding: soggy, insipid and inclined to cling. I spent several minutes detaching his hands from various parts of my person; he seemed to have an unusual abundance of hands, all of them pale and pudgy and moist. There was a stale odour about him, like clothes that have been hung in a damp place.

Joe was disappointed to learn how comprehensively Henry had failed to arouse my interest, but he didn’t stop trying.

“He’s a genius with electronics, Clarissa.”

‘Genius’ was an over-statement, but Henry did prove adept at enabling my new computer, television, and DVD and CD players to talk to each other and respond to remote signals. He was aided by a rugged Mancunian called Paddy, who did most of the heavy work and cracked a stream of crude jokes. Henry seemed afraid the jokes would offend me; I had to bite my lip to prevent myself telling worse ones. Paddy hadn’t shaved for three days and I suspected he hadn’t showered or changed his clothes for longer. The smell of his body was ugly and intoxicating. His eyes, light brown with black flecks, glowed in his tanned face and roved over my body without subtlety. I felt myself blushing. If he told me to take my knickers off and spread my legs, I thought, half of me would want to oblige. Fortunately, the other half would stop me. It wouldn’t want Henry to be embarrassed[i]. I brewed tea and coffee for them and surprised Paddy by arguing about football. In Paddy’s world, women were ignorant of football; their purpose was to look pretty, make nice meals and suck cock.

After they’d left I lay on the sofa and masturbated, imagining Paddy’s dick pounding into me, his sour body odour cramming my nose and mouth, his face sandpapering me. After I’d finished I used my new computer to order a couple of vibrators from LoveHoney. Old Joe would have been shocked.

He’d have been even less pleased if he’d seen the looks I exchanged with a young man at the gym. Gareth Holmes was big and blond with strong hands and white teeth and impudent eyes. Over coffee I learned he was a lawyer and had good taste in literature. After three weeks of casual chats his effect on me became magnetic. Every time I saw him, every time my mind pictured him, it felt like a pulled muscle. Studying his Lycra-clad torso was like looking at the sun, so my glances were sidelong; nevertheless I made sure he noticed them – and saw my eyes caressing the bulge in his shorts. Mine weren’t the only female eyes in the gym to pursue Gareth, so to ensure I led the chasing pack I had to be unsubtle.

Thinking about him spoiled my concentration on editing and writing and investigating Sergio’s list, and I became distracted during choir practice and literature group meetings. I took to wearing more colourful and revealing clothes whenever I was likely to meet him, and I invested in sexy new bras and knickers in case my burgeoning lust might be satisfied. At the same time, the intensity of my feelings frightened me, and what I might be encouraging in Gareth frightened me more. I’d quite fancied Ken, but (to quote Jen’s delightful phrase) Ken hadn’t made me slaver at the crotch as Gareth did. Katrina’s voice kept echoing in my mind: ‘whore’.

If Gareth hadn’t returned my interest, my new vibrators would have burned out. But he did. A traditionalist, he took me out for dinner and to the cinema before he did what I wanted him to do and feared he’d do.