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This happened about five years ago, when I was still young enough to think every filthy impulse was just a bit of fun and every older man’s stare was an invitation I could answer or ignore as I pleased. I used to go around with one of my friends; her name was Caroline. We were both in our early twenties, restless, always looking for the next laugh or the next chance to feel wanted. I didn’t know until a few months after we’d met that her dad owned his own pub. She wasn’t that close to him. They’d had a long stretch of silence after her mum left, the usual messy family stuff, and then, slowly, they’d started talking again. She mentioned it in passing one night while we were sharing a bottle of cheap wine on her sofa. I never asked questions. None of my business. If she wanted to rebuild something with the man who’d raised her, that was hers to sort.

One ordinary Thursday evening she looked at me over the rim of her glass and said, “Come to the pub with me tomorrow night. Have a drink. Meet him properly. He’s not a monster.” I said, “Yeah, let’s do it.” It felt harmless. A night out, free drinks maybe, a chance to see what sort of man had produced someone as wild as Caroline.

Friday evening we both took our time getting ready. I remember the way the air in her flat smelled of perfume and hairspray. We chose matching short skirts that sat high on our thighs, soft tops that clung to our tits, and hold-ups, black for me, sheer, with a little lace band, for her. The hold-ups stayed up without garters, the elastic biting just enough into the soft flesh of the thighs to remind that they were there. We stepped into heels that made our arses lift and our legs look longer. I caught my reflection in her full-length mirror: long mousy blonde hair brushed smooth down my back, pink nail varnish still wet and glossy on my fingers, a thin black thong already damp between my legs from the simple thought of being looked at. Caroline laughed and called me a tart. I called her worse. We both knew we were going out to be seen.

We got a taxi. The driver kept glancing in the rear-view mirror at the flash of thigh every time we crossed our legs. Neither of us corrected him. When we stepped into the pub the warm beer-and-polish smell hit me first, then the low murmur of conversation. Her dad came from behind the bar the moment he saw us. He was in his mid-fifties, still solid, still good-looking in that lived-in way some men keep. Grey at the temples, strong hands, a smile that reached his eyes when he pulled Caroline in and kissed her cheek. She introduced me. “This is Lacy.” His eyes flicked over me once, quick and polite, but I felt the second glance linger a little longer. He said it was nice to meet me. His voice was low, easy. I liked it.

We sat at the bar. The stools were high enough that our skirts rode up without much effort. I let mine settle so a long stretch of stockinged thigh was on show. Caroline did the same. A few of the regulars noticed. One older bloke further down the bar kept looking. He was well into his sixties, grey all over, face lined, but there was still something sharp in the way he watched. My belly tingled the first time our eyes met. I smiled. He smiled back. After a few minutes he drifted closer, ordered another pint, and started talking. Ordinary things at first, weather, the football, how long the pub had been in the family. Then the talk slid sideways, the way it does when a man has already decided he wants more.

“I bet you’re good in bed,” he said, voice low enough that only I could hear.

I laughed softly. “I have my moments, yes.”

“If I was a few years younger I’d offer to take you out.”

“You’re not too old to ask me.”

His eyes darkened. “Are you serious?”

“Ask me.”

He swallowed. “Will you come out one night for a drink?”

I leaned in so my lips almost brushed his ear. “What’s in it for me?”

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