I move towards her and she leans backwards. Two steps away from her I reach into my pocket and she flinches. Again, I have to stay my hand from striking out. Such timidity in one so obviously unused to feeling fear is but a goad to anger. Pulling out a small sheaf of notes, I count out forty eight pounds and pass them to her. 'Six months,' I say, holding my hand out until she puts the key into it. As she does so, I grasp her hand and she lets out a short shriek. 'And I do not wish to be disturbed. Ever.'

Again, the frantic nod, and I let go of her hand, the strain with which she was pulling causing her to stumble away from me. With a quick backwards glance, she scurries down the stairs and after a moment I hear a door downstairs slam shut.

My grin threatens to split my cheeks as I realise that after her first, rude, single-worded enquiry, she hasn't said a word.

Now it is just a matter of getting rid of this ratty furniture and moving in something decent as befits a gentlemen of pleasure.