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       Open-Minded

       Justine Elyot

      The advert had asked for an ‘open-minded’ flatmate, and, when I asked her what she meant by that, she replied with breathtaking frankness. ‘I moonlight as a sex worker,’ she said. ‘Specifically, kinky stuff, a dominatrix. But you don’t need to worry about weirdos hanging around the place. I know all my clients very well and they’re one hundred per cent decent, respectful guys. Most of them pretty well-off, too. No shifty types in raincoats, I promise.’

      It took me a while to reply to this. I needed to take stock of her answer. The fresh-faced thirty-something woman, sitting in front of me in sweats and a messy ponytail was a …?

      ‘I know, it fazes most people when I tell them,’ she sighed. ‘If it bothers you, that’s fine, I’ll re-advertise …’

      ‘Er, no, no, hang on,’ I said. ‘So you’re saying you meet your clients here?’

      ‘I’ll have made enough for a deposit on a serviced apartment in the West End, soon,’ she said. ‘The plan is to move operations out of here as soon as I can. It’ll just be for a few weeks, I hope, until I’ve made all the necessary start-up costs.’

      ‘Start-up costs?’

      ‘You know, marketing, a new web page, maybe some hush money for the concierge. That kind of thing. I’ve already got everything I need for the job itself.’

      ‘The job itself,’ I echoed. ‘You mean, like, whips and stuff?’

      ‘Yeah. Thigh-high boots, all that.’ She grinned suddenly over the rim of her coffee mug. ‘I know I don’t look the type. You can’t picture it, can you?’

      ‘I can’t really,’ I confessed. Shona seemed such a very typical kind of London woman: gym, office, wine bar, home. Not gym, office, wine bar, walk all over a man’s back in stilettoes. But then, perhaps there was no ‘typical London woman’. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have my own secret dark side, after all. In fact, Shona and I could almost be birds of a feather. Perhaps it was right that we should flock together. ‘I thought you had to be about six foot tall and built like Wonder Woman.’

      ‘Hey, are you saying I’m not built like Wonder Woman?’ she said with a fake pout and a laugh. ‘No, you’re right. But you can dress up to look like anything, really. And it’s all about confidence. If you can say the right things in the right way, at the right time, you can look like a Cabbage Patch doll and still get clients. OK, I might be exaggerating that last bit – you do have to make an effort with your appearance. But it’s not as prescriptive as you might think.’

      There was a pause.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can see this has knocked you sideways. I’ll let you get on.’

      ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head for emphasis. ‘No, it’s OK. Honestly. I said I was open-minded, and I am. I’m more fascinated than repelled, definitely.’

      ‘So you might take the room?’

      ‘Well, it’s a really nice one. And the location’s perfect, two minutes from the Tube. Price is right. I haven’t seen anything else half as good.’ I muted my thoughts, to put the minus side to myself. But it could be noisy, what with all

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