The man pulls into a small car park in front of a grungy, run-down building.
“My flat’s just there.” He gestures.
“You’ve got one hour or the rates go up,” Ursula tells him and gets out of the car. Her spiked heels are loud on the pavement. When the man tries to slide an arm around her waist, she pulls away.
“No touching till we get inside,” she snaps.
“Suits me,” says the man and shoves open the street door. The hall inside reeks of puke and cat piss.
Ursula holds her wrist to her nose to smell her perfume. “Jesus Christ.”