He hoped to discover Macklin and Mark waiting for him in the foyer, or just pulling up in a cab, because what if somebody he knew - a friend, perhaps, maybe even a gallery owner - spotted him as he walked inside alone? How would that look? A married man of thirty-two using lap-dancers for kicks?Moving north into residential Hampstead, he noticed red rope cutting off a section of pavement and a chunky, stubbled bouncer breathing clouds of air into thickleather gloves. A blue neon sign hung over the door and two skinny office boys wearing chinos and polo necks had just mustered the courage to go inside.‘Evening, sir.’The bouncer was built like a bag of cement. With a single, murderous flick of his eyes he analysed Ben’s shoes, trousers, jacket and tie, and then waved him past the rope. Ben moved towards a small booth inside the door and paid an entrance fee of fifteen pounds. The girl who tookthe money had a copy of OK magazine hidden beneath the counter.‘Just head down the stairs, love,’ she said, music thumping from below.
