I painted it. V2. Looking at it from that perspective, I had to admit I had some talent. A guitar leaned against the wall on the other side of my bed....A desk I recognized as being from IKEA had my computer on it. Dark. My dresser had a bunch of crap on it that looked like hell. I couldn’t even identify what the cards, dice, figures, and oddball junk were. I wondered if any of it was valuable. My closet door was closed so I had no idea if I owned any decent clothes. I’d worn a one-legged pair of. Rosie gave me an advance so that I could get some new clothes for my new life, so I splashed out on some sexy new lingerie and a pair of high heels; when I tried them on in the shop I felt like a real tart, but, let's face it, that was exactly what I had agreed to be. In fact, I found myself wondering more and more what exactly I was: tart, prostitute, e(s)cort, courtesan, whore, hooker – so many different ways of describing a woman who sold sex, each one subtly different and implying a. More

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