He even looked like her, albeit with the encumbrance of a goatee beard which wouldn't have suited Fetishdoll at all, though I suspect if she could have found a way to wear one she would have, just for the shock value. He had the same look in his eyes, a sparkle, an irreverent gleam which suggested something out of the ordinary, and his mouth formed into a gaping chasm when he laughed, a huge all-embracing roar of a laugh emanating from deep within him; just like his sister.

But he was different as well. Where Fetishdoll's brashness spilled over into domineering, the absolute assurance that she was right and everyone should do as she expected, Paul was more diplomatic, more inclined to discuss and ask my opinion. He was quite solicitous too, enquiring after me when I returned from work, asking if I had had a hard day and making me a cup of tea. Fetishdoll's world didn't include such niceties, revolving as it did around her own needs and wants. Paul, though, was much more reflective. He seemed, despite his confident demeanor, almost in awe of me. I quite liked him.

But that evening, when I got home, I was in a foul temper. I had had a terrible day which started with me unwittingly copying my boss in on an email in which I called him a fat-arsed dullard with badger breath and shocking BO. After being carpeted for three quarters of an hour and warned as to my future conduct, I lost my temper on the phone to a customer, and suggested his talents might be better suited to pimping outside Kings Cross Station. It was at this point that I decided I would be best developing a sudden diplomatic illness and retiring hurt for the day.

A bit of retail therapy to cheer me up, I thought, and headed for Regent Street. Just in time to get caught in a bomb alert. I was in Debenhams, trying on a particularly fetching brown skirt (Fetishdoll would have hated it) when the alarms rang and that peculiarly British sense of orderly panic set in, with everyone hurrying politely towards the exits. As I was about to step into the skirt the curtain was snatched open and a red-faced assistant asked me to leave the premises.

"What, in my knickers and tights?" I cried. "Bugger off!"

I pulled the skirt on and fastened the button; it was too tight and I couldn't get the zip up, leaving my thigh bulging out like a wrestler with a hernia. I was about to change back into my own skirt when the assistant pleaded with me to leave and manhandled me out of the changing room. The store was deserted and we hurried to the exit as the wail of a number of police sirens rent the air.

Standing on the kerb outside the store I weighed up my options. I was still wearing the skirt which didn't fit me, and my own was lying on the floor inside. Did I care, I wondered? I could just leave and head for home. The idea of a cup of tea and the chance to flop down on the settee was very attractive and I started to jostle my way through the vast throng of people milling about like cows at milking time. Then I realised my bag was still in the store. I couldn't leave.

Three hours. Three hours I had to stand in Regent Street, body busting out of a skirt which I now loathed with a passion, enduring the curious stares of everyone around me. Three hours in the freezing cold, with a biting wind whipping round me and pummelling at my kidneys. Three hours standing in high heels which were too small for me and were gripping my toes and squeezing them tighter, tighter, ever tighter. Three bloody hours. And then the Bomb squad blew up what turned out to be a non-stick frying pan left by a careless shopper and we were allowed back in to the store to collect our belongings.

So I was in a truly foul temper as I turned the key in the lock and swung open my front door, to be assailed by a fearful cacophony, a snarling, wailing wall of noise which vibrated through my chest the moment I stepped into the hallway, ripping up and down my body in corrugated waves, threatening to loosen my fillings and making my eyes water with the sheer intensity of it.

"What in the name of Christ is this?" I roared, striding through the flat and heading for the source of the noise, the music system. Snapping it off I turned, to be met by Paul wearing my rubber gloves and a happy smile.

"Hiya," he beamed. "You're a bit late. Have a good day?"

The frustrations of the day exploded out of me. "No, I buggering well haven't had a good day! What is that fucking racket?"

He looked a bit crestfallen. "That? Bought it today. My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult. A Daisy Chain for Satan."

I was none the wiser.

"You're gibbering, man. What's that supposed to mean?"

"The band. My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult. The song is A Daisy Chain for Satan. 'I'm the white rabbit, I live for drugs'" he continued, quoting from the song.

"Hmmph," I snorted. "Bloody day I've had, I could do with some myself."

"Well," he rplied "I've got some weed if you want. Got it today. I wasn't sure whether you did that sort of thing or not." Again, he was looking at me solicitously, like a little worried puppy.

I didn't do that sort of thing, to be honest, but I had had such a bad day the idea was too tempting. I nodded and Paul began to roll me a juicy joint, telling me to sit down and relax. Sweeping my hateful shoes off and massaging my groaning toes, I did as he suggested. Meanwhile, Paul lit my joint and went back to the bathroom.

"Just finishing off," he shouted through the open door. "The bath was a bit grimy, so I gave it a good clean. And the toilet. And the sink." I was about to take offence at this perceived slight on my housekeeping skills, but instead dragged deeply on the joint. After my coughing fit had subsided, about two minutes later, Paul continued to tell me of his day.

"I found your vacuum cleaner under the stairs. Is it new? Looks like it hasn't been used."

I was vaguely aware that I ought to be offended by that too, but as my mind began to swim and I started to float around the room, lazily and tunelessly humming a Rachmaninov melody, I lost the sense of what he was saying; I grappled with it for a few moments before finally realising I couldn't remember a word of our preceding conversation. I shrugged.

"I've cleaned the living room, and scrubbed the kitchen. Some of the cupboards were a bit dusty. I threw out your flour, because it had weevils. And some of your tins were past their use-by date. Quite a lot of them, actually. So I threw those out too. I'll get some more stocks in tomorrow." All the while the noise of him scrubbing at something in the bathroom filtered through the doorway.

"Hmmm," I giggled, "I quite like this. It's like having your own servant. I should keep you on." I turned and shouted at him. "What do you say?"

"What?" he asked, drying his hands on a towel.

"I ought to keep you on as my servant, have you look after me. You do a pretty good job."

"Good idea," he said, and returned to the bathroom.

I giggled again, drawing once more on the massive joint. I was getting the hang of it now, not trying to drag too deeply. Everything around me had developed a beautiful, natural green hue, and a sense of utter serenity overwhelmed me. I became hyper-sensitive to my own body and my own thoughts, feeling at once slightly detached from the world but also, paradoxically, more attuned to it. All of a sudden life seemed perfect, with the exception of my poor, aching feet. I winced and rubbed them through my tights.

"You okay?" asked Paul, switching the bathroom light off and returning to the living room. Mr Caring again.

"Feet are killing me,"

"Can I give them a massage for you," he enquired. I looked up at him. He seemed serious, keen even.

"Okay," I said. I went to the bedroom to take off my tights and settled back on the settee. Paul sat down on the floor beneath me and gently drew my left leg over his shoulder. His fingers began to massage my foot, pressing hard against the sole, kneading and cajoling. He began to work on my toes, one after the other, the touch of his hand against my tired skin welcome and pleasant. I leaned back and closed my eyes, drawing again on the joint, thrilling to the tender, but firm touch of his hands. He was good. He pressed firmly between each toe, fingers easing them apart, then rubbing at them, invigorating them, each one individually, before gripping my whole foot in his hand and squeezing hard, as though he were trying to throttle it. It was forceful, and deliciously painful, raising the blood and bringing my weary feet back to life.

He was a strange one, I thought. Even when I snapped at him he just smiled back, a little cowed perhaps, but still friendly, still reassuring, still keen to please. He seemed to be so genuinely eager to please, tidying the house, cleaning up, sorting out my messy kitchen shelves. He had already written a shopping list for the next day, I noticed. Strange, indeed. He was almost deferential, I thought, compliant and obeisant. I rather sensed that he would do whatever I said.

Unused to the dope, I was feeling distinctly out of it by now, giddy, dizzy and relaxed. My limbs felt floppy and I could sense the tensions of the day draining out of me. I looked down at the back of Paul's head as he sat between my legs, still tending to my foot. My mind began to wander and I flitted off into a dream world where I was alternately yelling at recalcitrant clients, throwing buckets of water over my smelly boss and issuing tart instructions to Paul as he ministered to my needs. Bomb alerts were laughed off with a dismissive shrug, and high heels, no matter how high, no matter how tight, were too goddamn sexy to ever dare being painful. I was in charge in this dream, I thought, and no-one was going to mess with Harriet.

Paul was still giving his undivided attention to my foot, and I could feel his hands kneading firmly. Then I thought I felt something else, something softer, warmer and, I fancied, wetter. I opened my eyes and looked down to see my foot in Paul's mouth; he was sucking abstractedly at my toes, his eyes shut, a look of contentment on his face. He took each toe into his mouth, one after the other, rolling his tongue around them, sucking them, drawing them in; opening wide he slipped all five toes in together and his tongue started licking, tickling, toying along my sole. It was exquisite. I felt a surge of excitement pulse through my tummy and alight on my pussy, sending tentacles of nervous energy rippling through me. Hmm, I thought, I liked this. I stretched my other leg over his right shoulder.

"Now do the other one," I said.