Juliette slowly brushes her lips against my cheek, then move them down to my neck. She whispers something I cannot understand. “What,” I ask. ... “I’m nervous,” she repeats, just loud enough for me to understand this time. “I’m actually fucking nervous.” Together we break into half restrained laughter that fades quickly into an intimate silence, but the moment has dissolved the tension.Sometimes the girls at the spa are made to do it with each other for the lewd worms. My first time was. But they had been conditioned not to get worked up over it. The living room smelled of Febreze, and the window had just been closed to clear the cigarette smoke, so the air was cool. The face in the photo on the coffee table, belonging to some aging, bald, jowly man in an expensive suit, was vaguely familiar. Beside that photo was another, a stern-looking mature woman with a mane of blonde hair. ‘His name is Arthur Michaels. He’s a spad. Er, special advisor,’ Tamsin said. ‘They say he’s in line. More

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