“Jeez,” the freely perspiring, oversized hunk of man beef said, opening the car door. “How come it always rains in your country?”

I wanted to ask if a man who clearly had hyperactive sweat glands didn’t find England more congenial than California, where he spent most of his time, but it wasn’t my job. I also wanted to ask him if he didn’t have bigger fish to fry.

There was a media scrum at the airport. Revelations about Bianca’s past had become breaking news with her and her minder half way across the Atlantic. I wasn’t privy to the details of what was clearly a delicate public relations situation, but I could imagine what was going through Bianca’s mind; it wasn’t in her nature to roll over and make excuses. I adjusted the rear view mirror the better to see her. I’d ferried enough transatlantic celebrities to various five star hotels to know that most preferred to dress for comfort on their travels. Perhaps Bianca had too, but I couldn’t be sure. I could make out a surfeit of cleavage where her leather jacket was partially unzipped. Yellow material emerged from the bottom of the jacket, but mostly her bottom half consisted of leggings like black ice and fuck-you heels. She might have changed at the airport, or she might not, but at some point I felt sure she’d seek to make the most of her sudden notoriety.

She was on the phone the instant the car door shielded her from intrusive camera lenses. With tinted windows there was no need for her to keep her sunglasses on. I fancied she shot me a glance as we pulled away, green eyes full of trouble, just as I remembered. I filtered out the jabbering in the back, both Bianca and her minder – him with a flashing blue light behind his ear – concentrating on the morning traffic, wipers sweeping aside the nine o’clock drizzle.

Bianca Bigboobs. That was the name all over the papers, social media, whatever. That was what we’d called her at school. It wasn’t a particularly imaginative name, but for some reason it amused Bianca to use it later on, before she went to the States. There were lots of puns and somewhat smutty jokes doing the rounds, along with the expected flurry of moralistic sentiments from opposing camps united only by their outraged sensitivities. Did she care? The Bianca I’d known wasn’t the kind of girl who’d care. But could I be sure? People change, and the times had certainly changed.

Given her movie career up to that point, a man could be forgiven for wondering why it came as a surprise to anyone that Bianca had a titillating past. She’d spent three years appearing in weird straight-to-DVD fantasy movies, clad in whatever skimpy approximation of animal hide would prove the most stimulating on the walls of teenage boys’ rooms. But now, having landed a part in a proper, big budget Hollywood movie, every aspect of her life was open to indiscriminate investigation and opinion. On the way to the airport I’d listened to the tittle tattle on a morning breakfast show, pundits waffling on about role models and the like.

Traffic slowed. We were on a motorway high above an urban landscape that came in fifty shades of ditch water; grey skies, grey sentryesque tower blocks, grey office complexes, even the new build full of luxury flats was grey. I pulled up behind an articulated lorry. Two lanes of traffic going nowhere; the two lanes in the opposite direction made sloths look like Olympic sprint champions. The hunk of man beef leaned forward, “What’s goin’ on?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, sir. There’s been a pile-up. There’s a reason we in the trade call this the Great Western Snarl-Up.”

“Couldn’t you have gone another route?” the man said accusingly. He pronounced ‘route’ as ‘rout’, as in trouncing the opposition. It made me wonder if this was indicative of how roads were viewed in the United States.

“I’m sorry, sir. The news came through just too late for me to turn off.”

“So how long we gonna be sittin’ here?”

“They’re saying it’ll take thirty minutes to clear the wreckage, which probably means upwards of an hour.”

“Jesus Christ!” the man blasphemed. “Don’t you know we’re on a tight schedule?”

“Sorry, sir,” I said. “There’s really nothing I can do about it. Besides, choosing another rout would probably take just as long.”

The man shot me a row of expletives before leaning back and shouting into his mouthpiece. I didn’t care. He had more right to be angry with me than he probably realised. I’d got the news about the accident in my earpiece early enough to avoid it. A jack-knifed lorry full of paint and an overturned saloon blocking both lanes. Emergency services on their way. I could hear sirens desperately trying to carve their way through the gridlock.

I took a good look in the rear view mirror. Her minder may be close to meltdown, but Bianca was looking both unflappable and amused. The odds were that she knew what I was doing, that I wanted to keep her in the car as long as possible, get an eyeful of her in the mirror and relive old times. She always knew what other people were doing because she always knew exactly what she was doing.

Man Beef was still shouting, glaring at the persistent runnels of rain on the tinted window. Bianca gave a wink and adjusted her position. Fingers unzipped the leather jacket, exposing the low cut of her yellow top, a stark contrast to her black nails, giving her boobs a quick hump as if she’d grown uncomfortable, but I knew she was watching my reflection, just as I was watching hers. The lorry in front had a yellow sign on the back, the same colour as Bianca’s top, “Authorized personnel only.”

There was no movement in the traffic. I leaned back, waiting for the inevitable words in my earpiece. “Worse than expected.”

Bianca leaned forward. “You wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette on you,” she said. Her years in the States had rubbed off on her accent, but not by much.

I turned, getting an eyeful of mouthwatering cleavage and loving it. “Sorry, ma’am. There’s no smoking in the car, and it’s against the law to get out.”

“Bugger.” A very English expletive. She wasn’t that far from the Bianca I’d known.

Nor did she seem put out about the lack of a smoke. She was smiling. She knew asking for a cigarette would take me back. That’s how it had started. Me lurking behind the allotments. My parents would have had a fit if they knew I had the occasional fag, so would the teachers.

We were both seventeen. I knew who Bianca was, and what the other boys called her; we went to the same school, after all, we just moved in completely different circles. Yet there she was. “Lend us a fag.”

I hated it when people said that. They never actually meant ‘lend’, since there was never any intention of returning the favour. Especially not with Bianca. I knew that, even though I only knew her to look at. “I’ve only got three left,” I complained.

Bianca made a face, then she made a show of thinking. “Suit yourself,” she said. “But I’d let you feel my tits.”

That changed everything. Especially as she angled her body to maximize the impact of her offer. Especially since I was as untouched by female hands as females of any age were by me. “Seriously?” I said, trying to play it cool.

“Seriously.”

That was it. I offered Bianca the packet, she took a cigarette and placed it between her lips, long nails varnished purple to match her hair dye. I gave her a light. She took a long drag, then used her free hand to take my hand. Suddenly I was touching her, a girl, for the first time. I had my hands on a girl’s breasts, massive ones at that. There may have been a sweater and a bra in between, but that didn’t matter. I made the most of the situation, squeezing and fondling with unpractised fingers. Bianca took her time over the cigarette. I got the feeling she was amused, either by the ease with which I was manipulated, or because it was obvious that it was the first time I’d done anything like this. Once she’d finished her cigarette she just pulled away, flashed me a wicked grin and said, “Later, loser.”

I didn’t feel like I loser; I felt like I’d just won the lottery. I ran all the way home as hard as a brick and went straight up to my room.

Performing a very brief and very energetic hand jive, all I could think about was Bianca taking her sweater off and letting me shove my meat between her whoppers. I even whispered it as I jerked my cock. “Tit fuck, tit fuck, tit fuck! Oh Bianca, I’m gonna cum all over your big tits! Please let me cum all over your big, meaty tits, Bianca!”

It sounds ridiculous, but I was a seventeen-year-old virgin, remember.

Even more incredibly, it was as if Bianca had heard me. A few days later, I was back behind the allotments, indulging my secret vice, when I heard a voice behind me. “I need a cigarette, loser.”

Even though the only thing that dwarfed my inexperience was my desperation, I still had some pride, though summoning it was a gamble. I swallowed. “What’s in it for me?”

Bianca looked amused. “Depends,” she said. “How many you got?”

I took the packet out and counted. “Twelve.”

“And if you could have one wish?” Bianca asked.

That was when I lost my cool, always assuming you can lose what you never had. “Tit fuck,” I blurted.

Bianca cocked her head to one side. “What’s it worth to you?”

I would have given her the lot, but I needed to keep some back for myself. “Go halves? Six?”

“Make it seven.”

I wasn’t going to quibble about that. There was just one other thing. “Where?” The place may have been next to deserted, but it was still out in the open.

“You know Mr Anderson had a stroke recently?”

“Everyone in the neighbourhood knows that.”

“So he won’t be using his shed, will he?”

It felt very wrong taking advantage of Mr Anderson’s misfortune, but there was no way I could resist. The shed was cramped, filled with tools and bags of fertilizer and foldable canvas chairs. It smelled of residual compost and mildew. We squeezed inside. It was impossible for us to move without brushing up against each other.

Bianca wriggled out of her jacket. Underneath she was wearing a black top with thin shoulder straps that showed off plenty of cleavage. She pulled that down quickly, before reaching back and unhooking a black bra that looked like it had its work cut out supporting the mass of flesh that was soon exposed to me in all its glory, along with perfectly circular pink patches topped off with nipples that I rather fancifully felt resembled on-off buttons. I began to salivate.

“What are you waiting for?” Bianca said. “Hurry up before I change my mind.”

In no time I had my trousers and underpants round my ankles. Bianca crouched, getting her tits level with my cock. I grabbed my erection. We were so close to each other I didn’t have to move an inch to push the bulb between those meaty magnificents. I was oozing pre-cum as I grabbed at Bianca’s boobs, digging my fingers into them, making sure the masses of soft flesh massaged my rock hard cock. I moved my hips, making weird stabbing motions. The head pushed up from the abundance of flesh, then disappeared again.

“Two extra ciggies and I’ll jerk you off on my tits,” Bianca said.

That did for me. I howled like some beast of the field. Thick white spurted up under her chin and bubbled out between her fleshy delights.

“Someone’s a mucky pup,” Bianca teased.

I was embarrassed, but practically exploding with joy at the same time. Bianca was bringing paper towels out of her jacket pocket to wipe herself off. It was as if she’d come prepared.

Outside I gave her the seven cigarettes. She immediately put one between her lips and I lit it for her. I was desperate to conceal my embarrassment, and equally desperate for a repeat, one that lasted a bit longer. I tried for casual, it sounded stupid. “You want more fags, you know where to find me.”

“Later, loser,” Bianca said, over her shoulder.

I made sure to keep extra cigarettes on me after that. I wanted to have as many on me as Bianca wanted. I didn’t care that she called me a loser. I could see her point, and if ciggies was the price I had to pay to be less of one, that was fine by me. Word getting around would certainly have made me less of a loser in the eyes of my peers, but that was very much a double-edged sword. If word ever reached my mum… Well that didn’t bear thinking about.

Since no tittering or knowing glances ever came my way, I imagined that Bianca wanted to keep our little arrangement to herself. Perhaps she felt being associated with me would be bad for her image. I really didn’t care, all I cared about was that she appeared again, a few days later, in the usual place.

“Got a fag for me?” she asked casually.

“How many do you want?” I asked, trying for equally casual.

“Depends on what you want,” Bianca told me.

I wanted anything she was prepared to let me have. I’d certainly wanked off enough times imagining pretty much everything a randy young boy could imagine. There were too many options. I was caught between asking too little and asking too much.

“Hurry up,” Bianca said. “Before I change my mind. “Hand job, tit job or blow job. What do you want?”

My fragile cool slipped from my grasp and shattered as my mouth opened wide. “You’d do that?” I said.

Bianca shrugged. “What? Suck your dick?”

I nodded.

“Sure. But I’ll want a packet of 20.”

Perhaps she didn’t think I’d have that many on me, but aside from the two fags left in an opened box, I had a new packet, shiny, still wrapped in cellophane. I brought it out and waved it at her.

“Great,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Mr Anderson’s shed smelled even stronger of horticultural debris, but I didn’t care. Bianca got down to business straight away. I was amazed at the casual way she unzipped me and began stroking my cock, like it was something you just did. A long handled tickling fork slid to the floor when she got down on her haunches.

Bianca was very businesslike. There was a quick flick of the tongue, and then her lips were over me. She wanked more than she sucked, but I didn’t care. Her mouth was warm and moist, and given my sorry track record with girls, it was as incomprehensible as it was mind-blowing. Besides, this wasn’t just any girl, it was Bianca Bigboobs, the girl every boy at school ogled, even if most were shit scared of her.

“That’s fantastic!” I said, feeling I needed to say something complimentary.

Bianca didn’t answer, but she did wriggle her tongue a little. Her lips were barely moving, but her hand worked faster. Then she seemed to get into it a little more. There was definite suction and more tongue action. Her lips pushed down. I screwed up my face, afraid to breathe, cursing myself for having so little stamina. The impending ejaculation was avoided by Bianca leaning back and holding her hand steady. “Do you want to cum on my face?” she said.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m fine with it. But there’s a surcharge. Five extra ciggies.”

The word surcharge seemed strangely out of character, but this wasn’t a time for me to be considering questions of vocabulary. “We could get some more after.”

“OK.” She let go of my cock. “Do it!”

I was feeling that for 25 cigarettes she should keep on sucking until I blew, but I didn’t want to spoil things. I aimed my cock at her and began wanking.

In retrospect I realised just how apprehensive she looked. She didn’t urge me on, or put out her tongue or even open her mouth. She just sat there, staring at my cock as I did the hand jive, as if the price she had to pay to get what she wanted was just about acceptable. At the time I was too consumed by how miraculous it seemed to me to give any thought to this.

Bianca flinched when the first spurt struck her, narrowly avoiding an eye. She closed both eyes after that and screwed up her face, sitting in silence as the rest of my load spurted forth, thick ropes criss-crossing her face. Given how regularly I emptied my balls, having such an amount to give seemed a minor miracle in and of itself.

“That’s amazing!” I said.

Bianca didn’t answer. Keeping her eyes shut she felt for the paper towels in her jacket. Once she’d wiped herself off, she said, “Dirty fucker. Now let’s go and get those extra ciggies you promised. I think I’ve earned them.”

It was a ten minute walk to the newsagents. It was my regular haunt; the couple who ran the shop being none too particular about such details as age limits. I was very conscious about being seen with Bianca as we walked. We were, after all, from two almost entirely separate worlds. My mother would have had a fit if she knew the money my Saturday job paid was enabling me to “consort” with such a girl. I wondered if Bianca was free with her favours with boys other than me, but I imagined she’d be as reluctant to answer such a question as I was to know.

“We’re looking at forty minutes before the traffic starts moving. We’ve assigned your ten thirty to Rufus.”

I relayed the first part of the message to the pair in the back. Man Beef exploded instantly. “What kind of goddamn show is this? How did you ever manage to run an empire when you can’t even run a traffic system?”

Bianca reacted with unflappable calm, saying quietly, “I’m not going to have time to change at the hotel, am I?” I wanted to say that she’d easily knock ‘em dead as she was, but contented myself with adjusting the mirror, the better to revel in the black gloss clinging to her thighs.

“Goddamn right, you won’t,” Man Beef replied. “It’s a total screw up…”

Bianca cut him short. “Be a dahling and get my pink suitcase out of the trunk,” she said.

I noted both the affected pronunciation of ‘darling’ and her use of the American ‘trunk,’ but more importantly there were rules. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s strictly against the law to decar here.”

I thought my choice of vocabulary rather witty and satirical, but neither passenger reacted to it. Instead Man Beef snarled, “So who’s gonna bust their ass arresting me?”

As if in reply, a police car, sirens wailing, zigzagged through the traffic which was still moving, if not exactly freely, on the other side of the barrier separating westbound from eastbound. Bianca leaned forward, filling the mirror with deep cleavage. “Surely these are extraordinary circumstances,” she said softly.

I pretended to think about it, mainly to keep her tits in my line of sight for as long as possible. “All right then,” I grumbled, unlocking the door on Man Beef’s side. I didn’t bother telling him to make it quick. I didn’t want to rush him.

The minute the door slammed shut, Bianca leaned further forward, gentle fingers connecting with my shoulder. “What I wouldn’t do for a cigarette,” she said.

With Man Beef gone, I turned around, looking into eyes I’d looked into as a randy young teenager unable to believe my luck. “What’s in it for me?” I asked.

Bianca laughed like bubbling wine, the cheap kind you get in supermarkets. “You could easily find out,” she said.

I could. And I couldn’t. If I returned to the depot with the car reeking of tobacco, I’d face the sack and a bill for vehicle fumigation. Nevertheless, I reached into my pocket and brought out the packet of smokes I had there, holding it open for Bianca. There was rummaging in the back, but I was barely aware of it as I watched her immaculately manicured black nails pick three out. “Save them for later,” I cautioned. “Get out and have one… People and their phones, y’know?” I was gasping for a fag myself, but wasn’t going to risk it any more than I was going to allow Bianca to.

The car boot slammed shut. Bianca leaned back and dropped the cigarettes in her purse. “They were good times though, weren’t they?”

“They were,” I agreed.

Man Beef opened the car door. “Any update?” he demanded, sliding a pink case across the back seat. There was a spread of damp across the shoulders of his blazer.

There had been a voice in my earpiece, but I hadn’t been paying attention. “No news is good news,” I offered.

“There’s only one piece of news I want,” Man Beef snarled, “For this motherfucking farce to end.”

“That’s out of my hands, sir.”

Man Beef grunted. Bianca was unzipping the case. She took from it two items before grabbing her top and pulling it over her head with the kind of brazen calculation no man can remain indifferent to. I kept my eyes on the mirror, spellbound as she reached behind to unclasp her bra. She lifted her massive boobs one at a time, as if for ventilation purposes, but I wanted to think it was a down payment on the cigarettes.

“Son of a bitch! Keep your eyes on the road!” Man Beef snarled, obviously spying the direction of my gaze.

“Relax,” Bianca told him. “I’m sure he’s not seeing something he hasn’t seen a thousand times.”

The figure may have been a slight exaggeration, but it amused me to think that Man Beef couldn’t possibly know how true those words were. As Bianca wrestled her leggings down, I wondered if she favoured the sweaty man the same way she’d favoured me. Somehow I didn’t think so. I had that over him. Nor could he imagine that I’d in effect performed his job for Bianca once.

Not that I was cut out for it. If there’d been trouble I’d have been useless at handling it. It started two days after Bianca’s eighteenth birthday. “I’m going to see a guy about a job,” she told me. “I want you to come with me to make sure there’s no funny stuff.”

“Why would there be any funny stuff?” I asked.

Bianca cocked her head to one side. “Because,” she said.

The guy in question was called Michael. He had a studio on the top floor of an old warehouse. In spite of everything, I was still a bit naïve, but that all changed very quickly.

The first time we went it was just a straight photo shoot. Michael provided Bianca with a schoolgirl uniform, and she adopted various poses designed to appeal to the barely legal crowd. There were more visits, Bianca graduating by degrees to full fetish wear and light bondage, and from stills to moving images.

I didn’t remember the tassels, though there must have been tassels, since most of the tabloids favoured pictures of Bianca wearing them. It must have been the closest she’d come to showing any nipple. I wasn’t party to the agreement between her and Michael, but I do know that she never showed any nipple or genitalia. If it wasn’t exactly in the best possible taste, it was far from the worst.

Bianca told Michael I was gay, presumably to disabuse him of the notion that we were an item. Nor were we, but I was happy to go along with the subterfuge, because I was always well rewarded for my “services”, and always directly after the various shoots. There was a little alcove in the stairwell between the third and fourth floors. This was where it happened. The rewards followed the set pattern from the cigarette deal; Bianca would use her hands, mouth or tits, or a combination thereof, according to her preference on the day. She never thanked me in so many words, however, still using her eternal parting shot, “Later, loser!”

I still didn’t feel like a loser, even though I wanted so much more. I would go home and immediately fantasise about that so much more, spurting until I could spurt no more. Not that I fancied my chances, particularly, and nor did I want to spoil a good thing by raising my demands. Something more was forthcoming, regardless.

It happened the first time Michael decided to equip Bianca with a vibrator beneath a latex catsuit. I’d never seen anything like it. Bianca had her arms handcuffed behind her back while she writhed on a bed to the loud hum of the vibrator, moaning loudly. From what little I’d gleaned from my elders and betters, I had an idea that women in porn never actually climaxed, but always faked it. Though I had no frame of reference to speak of, I felt that Bianca’s orgasm seemed genuine enough.

After she’d changed back into an outfit vaguely approximating respectability and we were in the alcove one and a half flights down, I couldn’t help but ask. “Did you fake it, or did you really…?”

Bianca gave the kind of smile that told me not to bother asking. Then she hitched up her skirt and pulled her knickers down a short distance before grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand into position. “You can touch me if you like,” she said, leaning back against the wall.

I was already touching her. My fingers were grazing her labia and I could hardly believe my luck. I was also astonished, so astonished that when she let go of my wrist, I seemed unable to move my fingers. At least not until Bianca said, “Don’t you want to put your fingers inside me?”

If I passed up on this opportunity I’d be forever kicking myself. I made a bit of a meal of getting my fingers between her flaps, but she continued smiling what I took to be encouragement. Once I’d finally found her opening, things were a bit easier. Bianca felt very slick and slippery, which I took to be a good sign. “Feel how wet I am!” she breathed, and I was only too happy too push two fingers as far as I could inside her.

Once there, I felt obliged to provide some pleasure, but had little idea how to accomplish this. I wriggled my digits experimentally, Bianca responding with a moan, which was encouraging. Quite aside from being deliriously happy about touching a female down there for the first time, I felt relieved that my attentions seemed to her liking. Even better, as I stood there flicking my fingers about in her moist canal, Bianca reached out and unzipped me. Satisfied that things were going well, I moved my fingers with greater force, my head swimming as Bianca closed her fingers on my swollen cock. “My clit!” Bianca breathed. “Rub my clit!”

There was no way I was going to give up on the sensation of her warm, moist walls. Fortunately I had enough knowledge of the female anatomy to accommodate her wish with my thumb. Beyond that, I can’t be sure what I was doing, to be honest it was all a bit of a daze. I moved my fingers and thumb with no great plan whatsoever, hoping that I was doing something right. If nothing else I was only too well aware of her hand closing on my shaft as her pussy grew tighter and tighter, until I could barely move my fingers. By then I’d added a third finger, or at least that’s how I remember it.

“Don’t stop!” Bianca breathed, as if there was any danger of that. Her hands were moving with no sort of rhythm, the one holding my cock, the other now gripping my wrist like a vice. I forced my fingers to move inside her, pushing my thumb against her clit with all the force I could muster. “Yes! Yes!” Bianca exclaimed, thrusting her legendary chest at me. I shoved my free hand down her top, grabbing at whatever flesh my fingers came into contact with. I remember a long moan. It may have been three or four. Then Bianca exhaled the words, “I’m gonna cum!”

Everything was just a blur of excitement. Bianca was squeezing my cock and my wrist; my fingers were beyond control, clawing and digging, gripping and rubbing. “Oh yeah!” Bianca breathed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m cumming! Shit! I’m cumming!” Her mouth opened as her eyes closed. There was more moaning. “I’m cumming! I’m cumming so fucking hard!”

She hadn’t been so voluble in front of the camera, when she’d been satisfied to just moan a lot. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? I didn’t know. All I knew was that she was pulling my hand away. I didn’t like that. I wanted my fingers to stay in there forever, it felt so good. But then she had the head of my cock up against her. There was a mischievous look on her face as she began wanking it properly, sliding the bulb in her slick slit. “Your turn,” she said.

I’d been on edge all the while I’d been fingering her. Those words alone were enough to make my turn arrive. Bianca kept those mischievous eyes on me as my sperm spewed out between her labia. I’d imagined myself fucking her properly, doggy style (as young men are prone to imagine), but this was somehow even better, even kinkier in all its messiness. Especially when Bianca pulled her knickers up without bothering to dig any paper towels from her bag.

The only thing I could think of sitting next to her on the bus home was how my spunk was still there, on her pussy, in her knickers. It was so dirty I grew hard again, but I would have to sort that out myself later, since the unspoken deal was one session for every photo or video shoot. As we were parting, Bianca said, “So, did I fake it, or did I really…?”

I knew what she meant, but not what to say. Every answer might easily be the wrong one. Fortunately it turned out the question was rhetorical when she followed it up with, “Later, loser.”

“Things not as bad as first thought. You should be moving again in five minutes. But slowly.”

I relayed the message to the pair in the back without turning my head, but with my eyes glued to the mirror. Bianca was now wearing a leather top cut to reveal her midriff and huge expanses of boob.

“About goddamn time!” Man Beef responded.

“You might want to put the case back in the trunk,” I said.

There was no reason to, since it would clearly reach its destination with us whether it was in the boot or not, but Man Beef fell for it, grabbing the case with one hand and reaching for the door handle with the other.

“And while you’re back there,” Bianca said. “Be a dahling and find my make-up kit. It’s in the light blue case.”

Man Beef sighed heavily. Maybe he even slammed the door a little harder behind him than was necessary. I turned, feeling myself start as I found myself staring straight up an extraordinarily short leather skirt at transparent black knickers. It was the kind of skirt designed to preserve a woman’s modesty on the strict understanding that she stood bolt upright at all times. “Planning on giving them all a heart attack?” I said.

Bianca smiled her mischievous smile, the one I remembered so well. “I know what I’m doing,” she said.

I was sure she did. Man Beef was rummaging in the back. “It’s good seeing you again,” I said, my eyes still focused up her skirt rather than on her face.

“You too,” Bianca said. She paused. “No-one special in your life?”

“I thought there was, but it didn’t work out.” I didn’t have to ask Bianca about her situation. The papers were very forthcoming about that.

“Shame,” Bianca said. There was another pause. “We should meet up. For old time’s sake.”

My heart leapt. There were very few things I wanted more, regardless of whether anything happened or not. But surely it was never going to happen, not given Bianca’s current status. She was just saying the kind of thing you said. “I wouldn’t have thought that was possible,” I told her. From the noise and the movement of the stationary car, it seemed as if Man Beef had turned himself into a one man Californian wrecking crew.

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” Bianca said. “Besides, those cigarettes are worth a trick or two, don’t you think?” I grew as mute as I had as an insecure teenager, but Bianca was as unfazed as ever. “Give me your card, and I’ll give you a call.”

I didn’t have a card. Or rather, the cards I had were for the rental service, not me personally. I took one of them and scribbled my private number on the back, handing it to her just as Man Beef slammed the boot shut.

“Any update?” he demanded the moment he got in. I had no idea. All I could think about was what Bianca might mean by a trick or two. As if by magic the articulated lorry in front started moving, albeit at a snail’s pace. The wipers juddered against the windscreen, alerting me to there being no need for them anymore. Eventually we reached the scene of the accident, the road narrowed to just the one lane, the rest still occupied by emergency vehicles with flashing lights and a neon flurry of hi-vis jackets. “How long now?” Man Beef demanded.

“Twenty to thirty minutes, sir.”

The man immediately began bellowing into his phone again. I adjusted the mirror, the better to get a good view of Bianca’s immense assets whenever I looked in it. She seemed to have settled down now, eyes closed as if she was taking a cat nap. She stayed that way for the remainder of the journey, while Man Beef fidgeted impatiently once his phone calls were done.

There were paps outside the hotel, a whole host of them, cameras chattering like so many boisterous monkeys. They could have been avoided, but Bianca was having none of that. She swung her legs out of the car as if the main entrance to the hotel were a catwalk. I couldn’t see how she could possibly emerge from the vehicle without flashing her knickers, but that was her business. All I cared about was the way she whispered, “Later, loser,” as I decared to pull her luggage from the boot. I still felt like a winner.