I offered to fetch my laptop from my hotel and to transfer the money when I got back. But Shea didn't like that idea. She refused to let me leave, fearing that my lucrative custom might slip through her fingers. This struck me as bizarre. Where else would I go? I couldn't imagine a better pastime than a brisk workout with the lovely Shea who was about 48 years old, I would guess, and had a crooked smile which I find far more attractive than those ultra-white Hollywood teeth that look like pieces of Lego. At her suggestion, we went ahead anyway and the issue of payment was left unresolved. I appreciated that. She trusted me.

As we got dressed afterwards, she complimented me on my old walking shoes. ‘Thank you,' I said, feeling baffled that she'd chosen to praise my sorry-looking boots rather than my lean and toned physique. Then she turned shyly towards me with her pale tummy exposed. ‘I'm fat,' she said mournfully. I sprang instantly to reassure her. ‘Not fat. Beautiful,' I said, smoothing my palm tenderly across her stomach. ‘Lovely, pretty, gorgeous,' I added, spraying out synonyms in the hope of finding a word that lay within the compass of her understanding. She seemed satisfied. As we padded about, tugging our clothes back on, I realised we were like a long-married couple observing the conventions of mutual respect and co-operation. We'd known each other for 17 minutes and yet the grooves of domestic harmony, so etched into the human character, brought our disunited interests together and gave our small talk an air of ease and familiarity.

As we tugged our clothes back on, I realised we were like

a long-married couple

‘Back in ten minutes,' I told her. She looked at me uncertainly, without smiling, as I left. When I got back she was at the front desk about to depart for the evening. She might have been any suburban housewife en route to play bridge or to hear a performance by an amateur Handel society. And she was surprised to see me, which I found disheartening. She thought I was a swindler. I opened my laptop and asked her to put her bank details into my Santander account on the ‘new payee' page. She spelled her name ‘Xe' as it turned out. And her second name had just three letters. Her sort code and her reference details indicated that she held an account with HSBC. But of course. Her local bank.

I invited her to type in the fee that I owed and she entered the lower amount with the £20 discount. I gallantly deleted this and offered the larger sum she had initially quoted. She giggled and stroked my elbow affectionately. This casual caress made me feel heroic and magnificent for some reason. One last detail was needed. ‘Payment reference.' I suggested ‘fun'. But Shea, or Xe, had other ideas. ‘Wedding gift,' she said, laughing and rubbing my shoulder again. Was this a marriage proposal? Sort of, yes. But I pretended she'd just made a throwaway joke. My bank approved the payment and she smiled as I headed for the door. ‘See you next time,' she said. ‘I'd like that,' I said. No doubt she spoke insincerely but I didn't. I meant it, privately, secretly. The lunatic I'm chained too is invisible, thank God.

Lloyd Evans

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