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I went through to a small, fitted kitchen where I found a note on one of the work surfaces.

I called him to say thanks, but we didn’t hook up as he was heading to Amsterdam with Rab and Terry. I wanted to get in touch with Gina to thank her but nobody seems to know her number.

So now I’m missing my new boys: Rab, Terry and, yes, Simon too. Especially Simon. I almost wish I’d gone to Amsterdam with them. I’m still having fun with my girls though, as Lauren’s lightened up in the absence of the corrupting sex monsters from Leith, and Dianne, while pretty busy with her dissertation, is game for a laugh and a drink.

On the subject of sex monsters: on Tuesday afternoon we met one, a real one. It was a surprisingly mild day and the three of us were sitting outside the Pear Tree, having a lager, when this sleazy creep approached us and sat down at our table. — Good afternoon, girls, he said, sitting his pint on the end of the bench. That’s the problem with the Pear Tree, the beer garden fills up quickly and the benches are long, so you often end up with somebody you don’t want to sit next to. — You don’t mind me sitting here, do you, he asked, harsh and arrogant. He had a hard, ferret-like face, thin, blondy-ginger hair and wore a sleeveless vest top, showing heavily tattooed arms. It wasn’t just that his skin was deathly white in the spell of this mild weather; he had, to my mind, what Rab once referred to, pointing out an acquaintance of his in the bar, as ‘the stink of the jail about him’.

— It’s a free country, Dianne said lazily, giving him a cursory glance and turning back to me. — I’m up to about eight thousand words now.

— That’s great, how many is it you need again?

— Twenty thou. If I get the sections mapped out I’ll be fine. I just don’t want to bang up the words and then find that I have to chop most of them out cause I’ve gone off on a tangent. I need to get the structure right, she explained, raising her glass and taking a gulp.

We heard a croaky voice next to us. — Youse students then?

I turned around wearily, being in the closest proximity to the guy. — Yeah, I told him. Lauren, sitting opposite was reddening, her face pinching. Dianne drummed on the table in impatience.

— What’s it yis are studying well, the guy asked in a rasping tone, his eyes bleary and his face heavy and loose with alcohol.

— We all do, like, different things? I told him, hoping that this would satisfy him.

It didn’t, of course. He picked up straight away on my accent. — Whaire dae you come fae then? he asked pointing at me.

— Reading.

The guy snorted, then smiled at me and turned to the others. I started to feel really uncomfortable. — What aboot youse two, youse English n aw?

— Nope, said Dianne. Lauren remained silent.

— Ah’m Chizzie, by the way, he said, extending his large, sweaty hand.

I shook it reluctantly, unnerved by the strength of grip, and Lauren did too, but Dianne turned her nose up.

— Oh, it’s like that, is it? this Chizzie character said. — Never mind, he smiled, two oot ay three isnae bad, eh, girls? Ah’m in luck the day, in the company ay such lovely ladies.

— You’re no in our company, Dianne told him. —
We’re
in our company.

She might as well have said nothing for the way this creep reacted. He was off on his own trip and his mouth twisted lecherously as he looked us over. — Youse aw got boyfriends then? Bet yis huv. Bet youse huv aw goat fellys, eh?

— I don’t think that’s any of your business, Lauren said, her voice firm but small and high. I looked at this bully and at her, their difference in size, and I started to feel angry.

— Oh, that means that ye dinnae!

Dianne turned around and looked him straight in the eye. — Disnae matter whether we do or dinnae. If we’ve got a million cocks dancing on the end of a string, you can rest assured that yours won’t be one of them. And even if there’s a chronic shortage, don’t expect a phone call from us.

There was a bit of menace flashing in this guy’s eyes. He was a nutter. I thought: Dianne should shut up here. — You could git yirsel intae trouble wi a mooth like that, hen, he said, then added softly, — big trouble.

— Fuck off, Dianne snapped at him. — Just get the fuck out our faces and sit somewhere else, will ye!

The guy stared at her, at the side of her pretty, poised face, with his big, leering, stupid, ugly alcoholic head. — A bunch ay fuckin lesbos, he slurred. I would have told him the same as Dianne if it had been somebody like Colin, but this guy looked a dangerous, disturbed headcase. I could tell that Lauren was really frightened of him, and I suppose I was too.

Dianne wasn’t, because she stood up, and she was right over him. — Right, you, fuck off, now, ah’m tellin ye! Gaun, git!

He stood up, but she faced him down, her eyes blazing, and for a moment I thought he was going to hit her, but some guys at another table shouted something and a girl from the bar collecting glasses was across and asking what the problem was.

The guy broke into a cold smile. — Nae problem, he said, picking up his pint, downing it and moving away. — Fuckin dykes! he shouted back at us.

— Naw, we’re nymphomaniacs, and we’re totally desperate for it, but even we’ve goat fucking standards! Dianne shouted back. — AS LONG AS THERE’S STRAY DUGS IN THE STREETS AND PIGS OAN THE FARMS WE DINNAE NEED YOUR DIRTY SCABBY NONCEY WEE COCK, SON! GIT USED TAE IT!

The nutter twisted round swiftly and looked absolutely incandescent with rage, then turned and walked away, humiliated by the laughter which rang from the tables around us.

I sat in awestruck admiration of Dianne’s performance. Lauren was still trembling, almost in tears. — He was a maniac, he was a rapist, why do they have to be like that, why do men have to be like that?

— He just needed shagged, the sad bastard, Dianne said, lighting up a cigarette, — but as I said, not this girl. Honestly, some people should have a wank before they venture outdoors, she grinned, hugging Lauren supportively. — Don’t worry about that toss, hen, she said. — I’m going up tae get the drinks in.

We got pissed, and headed home. I have to admit I was a bit nervous on the journey, just in case we ran into that nutcase again. I think Lauren was as well, but I reckon Dianne would have welcomed it. It was later that night, after Lauren had crashed out, that I let her do the first interview with me, which she tape-recorded. — Aggressive men like the one we met today, she said, — have you encountered many of them? You know, at the sauna?

— The sauna’s a very safe place to work? I told her. — There’s, like, no nonsense there. I mean, I . . . I shrugged and decided to go for the truth, — . . . I limit myself to handjobs. I’d never work the streets. The clients at the sauna have money. If you don’t want to do what they want, they’ll find somebody else who will. Of course, there’s the odd one who can become obsessed, they want to show their power over you and won’t take no for an answer . . .

Dianne sucked the tip of her pen, and pulled her small reading glasses down onto her nose. — What do you do then?

And I told her, the first person I’ve ever told, about what had happened that time last year. It was both disturbing and cathartic to disclose. — One guy waited for me, started following me home. Never did anything, just started following me. When he came back to the sauna, he always asked for me. Said we were meant to be together and all that sort of scary stuff. I told Bobby, who threw him out and banned him. He still kept following me around outside. That’s why I started going out with Colin, I suppose, the deterrence factor, I told her, realising that I’m explaining it to myself for the first time. — Surprisingly, it worked. He saw I had a boyfriend so he left me alone.

I had a long lie-in the following day, did some work and shopping, then cooked a casserole for the girls. Later, I called home. My mother picked up the phone and whispered mouse-like greetings I could hardly make out, before I heard a click, the sound of the upstairs line being picked up. — Princess! A voice boomed, and another click indicated that Mum had hung up. — How’s chilly Jockoland?

— Quite warm actually, Dad. Could you put Mum back on for a minute?

— No! I most certainly could not! She’s in the kitchen being a dutiful wife and cooking my dinner, ha ha ha . . . you know what she’s like, he chirped, — happy in her kingdom. Anyway, how is this very, very expensive college course of yours going? Still on for a first, ha ha ha!

— Yeah, it’s okay.

— When are you coming home to see us then, will you get down here for Easter?

— No, I’m working shifts up here in the restaurant. I might make it one weekend . . . I’m sorry the course is expensive, but I’m enjoying it and doing well.

— Ha ha ha . . . I don’t grudge the expense, sweetie-pie, anything for you, you know that. When you’re a famous film producer or director in Hollywood, you can pay me back. Or get me a part in a film, as Michelle Pfeiffer’s love interest, now that would be up my street. So what else have you been up to?

— Just the usual.

— Boozing all my hard-earned cash away, I’ll bet! I know you students!

— Well, maybe a little. How’s Will?

My father’s voice grew a bit distant and impatient. — Fine, fine, I
think
. I just wish . . .

— Yes?

— I just wish that he had some normal friends, instead of the lost causes he seems to collect. That pansy boy he’s hanging about with now; I told him that he’ll get tarred by the same brush if he’s not careful . . .

The ritual of the weekly phone call to my dad, and I initiated it. It shows how desperate I am for company. Lauren’s gone home to Stirling for a long weekend. Dianne’s still in the library most of the time, working night and day on her dissertation. Last night she took me to her family home in some part of the city I didn’t know, and we had a drink with her mum and dad who are really chilled, cool people. We even smoked some grass.

So today I’m hanging around the uni out of boredom, waiting in some anticipation for the boys coming back from Amsterdam. Chris tells me that he’s putting on a drama production for the festival and he asks me if I’d like to get involved. But I know what he really means. He’s nice enough but I’ve fucked so many guys like him in the past; the sex is fine for a month, rapidly growing dull unless it becomes a gateway to something else; what: status, economic gain, love, intrigue, S&M, orgies? So I tell him, that I’m not interested, too busy. Busy hanging around with these strange local guys, some of them knocking on a bit now. Rab, the bastard who rejected me. Simon, who seems to want the world, and who apparently fancies that it’s only a matter of time before he gets it. And Juice Terry, happy as things are. And why not? He’s shagging everything and has enough cash to throw around on drinks. This makes him a formidable power as he’s already living out a dream he’s been preparing for all his life. No need to make it less sordid, or to go more upmarket, no, all he wants to do is just fuck, drink and bullshit.

Terry was so often in the old port of Leith, I’d joke to Dianne and Lauren that he was like Mr Price in
Mansfield Park
, ‘once in the dock-yard, he began to reckon on some happy intercourse with Fanny’. This was something we’d got into after I realised that Terry continually referred to every woman as ‘Fanny’. So around the flat we started calling each other Fanny and began quoting passages from the book.

Now I’m alone, filing my nails and the phone rings. I thought it might be my mum, calling for a chat while Dad’s at work, but I’m surprised, though not unpleasantly, to find that it’s Rab in Amsterdam. At first, I think he more than misses me, he regrets not shagging me when he had the chance. Since he’s got into all this stag stuff, his hormones have raced and he laments not having got his piece of the action. As do I, but I will. Now he wants to be Terry or Simon, for a few weeks, hours, minutes, before his kid comes along or before he ties the knot.

I play it cool, asking about Simon and Terry.

There’s a chilly silence for a couple of beats before he speaks. — Never really seen that much ay them. Terry’s whoring aw the time during the day, and cruising lassies in the clubs at night. I think Sick Boy’s probably daein the same. That and trying tae pull scams. Eh keeps gaun oan aboot contacts in the industry n aw that, n it does your nut in after a bit.

Sick Boy: vain, selfish and cruel. And that’s his good side. But I think that it was Wilde who said that women appreciated downright cruelty more than anything else and at times I’m inclined to believe it. I think Rab does too.

— That Sick Boy, he’s a fascination to me. Lauren was right, she said that he gets into your head without you noticing, I say wistfully, not forgetting that I’m talking to Rab on the phone, but trying to make out that I am forgetting.

— So ye like him, he says, and in what I think is quite a petty and spiteful way.

I feel my jaw tighten. There’s nothing worse than a man who won’t fuck you when he has the chance and then goes all funny when you consider fucking somebody else. — I didn’t say I liked him. I said he fascinates me.

— He’s scum. He’s a pimp. Terry’s just an idiot, but Sick Boy’s a scheming cunt, Rab coughs with a real bitterness I’ve never heard from him before. It’s only then that I realise that he’s a bit drunk or stoned or both.

This is strange. They used to get on well. — You’re working with him on a movie, remember.

— How could I forget, he sniffs.

Rab seems to have turned into Colin: possessive, controlling, disapproving and hostile,
and he hasn’t even fucked me yet
. Why do I seem to have this effect on men, to bring out the worst in them? Well, I’m not taking this. — And you’re having your little boys’ stag night together in Amsterdam. Find a whore, Rab, enter into the spirit of it if you want laid before you get married. You’ve had your chance here.