mobile are you?â she then asked, wondering if he intended to travel to her house and would need a ramp for a wheelchair to get over the front doorstep. There was probably something in the shed that Alan could rig up.
âOh, pretty mobile. Itâs just the new feet, well youâll see.â
Jenny rather hoped she wouldnât, not seeing their relevance to music. âHave you got your own instrument?â she then asked, and the cheery man laughed again.
âCertainly have, love. Never go anywhere without it!â
âYou got him from an advert? Flute lessons in a shop window? Are you mad? You might as well have put âFriendly fellatio, thirty quid a blastâ!â This wasnât the response Jenny had expected, when she went to see Sue to show off about her new pupil. Sue was in her kitchen, stirring their lunch â Waitrose lentil soup from a carton â and looking over her shoulder at Jenny with an expression of complete astonishment. âAre you the only person on the planet who doesnât know what âflute lessonsâ means when itâs on a sleazy postcard?â
âIt wasnât a sleazy postcard! And no, I may be ridiculously naïve but I didnât know. Thereâs obviously a gap in my education,â Jenny retorted from Sueâs kitchen table, where she was slicing the Waitrose garlic bread (also from a carton). âI put an ad, as I told you, in a perfectly ordinary newsagentâs window. I didnât notice any French lessons, Swedish massage or lists of Miss Whiplashes, anything like that!â Then she stopped slicing abruptly, and, knife poised, stared horrified at Sue. âOh God what have I done?â
âWhy, what
have
you done? Given him your credit card number as well?â
âApart from booking him in for a lesson next Thursday at two, I asked if heâd got his own instrument. No wonder he laughed.â
âNot surprised.â Sue took the soup to the table and giggled happily. âI expect he said he was incredibly attached to it!â She gave a delighted snort, relishing the joke.
Jenny thought she could feel her face going pale. âDonât laugh, he actually did say something like that. Whatever is he going to expect?â
âA blow job of course, and a good one. What will you charge him?â
Jenny still looked pale, and also determinedly prim. âFor a flute lesson I charge £16 per hour, £9 for half an hour. I wouldnât do
that
to a stranger for any amount,â she told Sue archly. Sueâs eyes twinkled, disbelieving. Not these days, anyway, Jenny added to herself. It had been different back in the days when sheâd once found it the only way to keep herself in food and music papers. For a couple of weeks, well into an end-of-term overdraft, it had been that or give up college altogether. In terms of payment sheâd have been happy, if the clients only knew it, with just the sumptuous meals theyâd provided. But that had all stopped when she met Alan and heâd taken pity on her empty fridge. Sheâd never told him. Whatever would have been the point?
Jenny made a decisive start on her soup, but Sue was waving her spoon about and had a hard-thinking expression. âYou could charge a lot more than that, and it would only take a few minutes . . .â she calculated.
Jennyâs spoon splashed into her soup. âNo I couldnât not for any price!â
âBet you would! Bet youâd do it for £50.â Jenny stared back coolly at her, but Sue didnât give up. âOK, but youâd do it for a thousand.â
Jenny laughed. âOh well, for a thousand, I suppose most people would, unless they were filthy rich already. Yes, OK, Iâd do it for that. But Iâm not being offered a thousand, I shouldnât think anyone would be. And Iâm not doing it, Iâm not a tart.â
Sue had a triumphant grin on her face as she