He hesitantly and awkwardly ascended the stairs, he'd never met anyone like her. Throughout the night he had caught glimpses, that wonderful woman with the dark red dress clinging tightly to her hips.

Caught in dull conversations and even duller arguments about politics and literature with dull people, God he hated these parties. But every so often he saw her, but could never follow, never escape from the banal conversations.

The night had drawn on, began to end, one by one people slipped away. He had stayed, hoping to see her again but she seemed to have vanished. Until that moment when she seemed to emerge from nowhere, smiling coyly and handing him a card before vanishing once more. He understood then she was a whore, but he didn't care.

And so he had eventually left, gone to the apartment addressed on the card, knowing this was the stupidest thing he could do to his career, but not caring.

Eight floors up in the surprisingly up market apartment he found her room. He lingered for a moment, but those nagging doubts were so easily ignored. Catching his breath he composed himself, then pressed on the buzzer.

A few moments later the door opened and she was silhouetted against the light, still in that same red dress which clung to every curve, still that same ravishing woman he had longed for all night.

She beckoned him inside and he followed meekly, agreeing her high price, paying on his card, his reputation be damned.

And it was wonderful, it was everything he could have hoped and more, she took him on a visit to paradise, stopping off at debauchery along the way. Yet eventually, too soon, it was over. Slowly and reluctantly he dressed, wishing her goodbye, wanting to stay. But he had to leave.

Leaving was hell, she was incredible, beguilingly perfect. Yet he knew he shouldn't be there, the realisation of how stupid he had been dawning. He didn't regret coming, but for God's sake why hadn't he been more subtle. If the press found out...

He was blinded momentarily as a camera went off on his face, he was standing at the entrance to the apartment, and facing him was a grinning paparazzi.

'How was the hooker Minister?'� the man asked with a leer. 'Hope she was worth it. What will your wife say when she finds out you were here?'�

He panicked, and lunged for the man, he knew how to fight, he was no nancy Oxford politician. A blow knocked the photographer backwards, then he grabbed the camera and darted back into the building, slamming the door.

As he ran back up the stairs he realised what he'd done, he'd destroyed his career. Attacking a paparazzo in the street after visiting a prostitute, that would finish him.

A madness took him, he only wanted one thing, he didn't stop until he reached her floor and pounded on her door.

Eventually a voice called through nervously, asking who was there. He told her, told her he needed more, needed to see her again.

Her voice sounded scared, she called for him to leave, he begged and pleaded with her through the door, then, that hot headedness coming over him once more, he barged through, breaking its lock.

And stopped, shocked. It was still her, he could recognise the face and the body. But suddenly she was old, very old, her figure and looks gone. She was wearing a nightdress and he saw she was pressing something to her arm.

And before his eyes she changed, back into the wonderful, beautiful woman, but she had applied it too late. He could only stare mutely into her unsympathetic eyes.

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