If Ester could not take personal credit for the younger woman beginning to open up, then the wine was certainly doing its job: she was getting chattier by the sip.

“Oh, he’s not my boss – well, just for the evening – but I’m freelance,” Ester explained: she was an artiste, who picked up these pornographic modelling jobs here and there, or anything that suited her tastes. “An actress, sometimes. And a free spirit in most things.” She batted her eyelashes.

“And if I’m pretty, I simply don’t have the words for you,” she protested, teasing the woman by skimming her hand through a lock of hair that framed Hazel’s face, tracing the line of her cheek and her jaw. She must have inherited her dark hair and looks from her exotic Ottoman father, too. Ester was a little jealous of her, of her youth and good looks and the shape of her smile. “I have at least six artistic friends in London who would love to paint you. But then,” Ester added, in a low tone, “perhaps I’d rather keep you a secret just for me.”

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