Another brutal week at the bank. Market's been unforgiving and my team's been pushing hard on this infrastructure financing deal. By Friday afternoon, I was wound tighter than a City trader during Brexit.
Sophia was exactly what I needed. High-end Chelsea girl, mid-20s, Cambridge educated. We've seen each other three times now and she understands the game perfectly. Not just a transaction, but a carefully choreographed escape from corporate madness.
I booked her Mayfair suite at the Connaught. Two hours, no rush. She arrived in a black Wolford dress that suggested everything and revealed nothing. Expensive perfume. Intelligent conversation before things progressed. We talked about her dissertation on international economic policy while sharing a glass of Ruinart.
The physical release was almost secondary. Don't get me wrong. She's stunning and knows exactly how to handle a man like me. But what I craved was the complete absence of professional performance. No emails. No spreadsheets. No managing directors breathing down my neck.
Sometimes I wonder if my colleagues would understand. Probably not. But they're not the ones managing 18-hour workdays and the constant pressure of multi-million pound deals.
Money buys discretion. Money buys relief. And right now, that's worth every pound.