In the kitchen, stirring my coffee slowly, waiting for news.

Finally, Neil.

I'm sorry to hear you're ill, he said. He reached for one of his cleansing teas and something in the rare clarity of his gesture said that he, Neil, would never get ill and, furthermore, illness and disease were very likely moral issues. I was over the moon. I summoned a gravelly voice, said a mournful thank you, and left. To add to my joy, Helen was off sick.

Helen had saved me, but couldn't face me. Or herself, perhaps.

In order to dispel a sudden, unbidden plan to cancel my clients and continue my seduction of Helen at her home and onto her sick bed, I threw open the window and lit a fat cigar. The gratitude, the pity, the sickness. I actually wanted her. Helen. Of course, in feigning desire I may have created a real desire. Or was it, perhaps, that a real desire for her only began when knowing of her desire for me and so, as I tapped ash onto an awning below, I considered if this were a case of desiring the desire of the other. I am always susceptible to this view, implying as it does the theatrics of want.

Client R.

A good session.

Aside from one or two hazy moments trying to gauge her level of nipple arousal and from there to considering the question of who was a surrogate for whom, it was a reflective and meaningful piece of work. I can be good when I give a toss.

Gareth must be sulking.