My fingers were shaking as I retrieved my platinum Amex card from my Prada purse and read out the numbers to her. I was doing this. I was really doing this. The following transaction produced a rush of adrenaline far outstripping any previous shopping high, let me tell you. I get excited buying a new designer bag, but this was in a different league entirely: I was hiring a man, and a very good-looking man, too.

The operator gave me a cell number to call next Friday afternoon and let me know the score: Olivier would pick me up in a cab at the appointed time, accompany me to my function, and I'd be charged by the hour depending on how long I wanted him for. I assured her we'd be done and dusted by midnight, one a.m. at the latest, and she gave a little laugh.

"That's what they all say," she said. "You'd be surprised; a lot of women want the guys to stay on even longer."

Friday rolled around really quickly, and I took the afternoon off for some serious pampering. Although I wasn't hiring Olivier for sex, I had a Brazilian bikini wax and donned new matching underwear-a wine red bra and panties set-so that I felt sensual and romantic, feminine and confident. I had my hair teased into soft waves that framed my face and caressed my shoulders, and my face done by a professional makeup artist. I had to admit when I checked myself out in the mirror that I looked good: glossy and groomed, and rich and successful, every inch the corporate career girl. The final touch was to slither into my dress, a clingy, green silk number with a plunging neckline and a fishtail skirt that made me feel like a mermaid and encouraged me to walk with a sexy wiggle. Just as I was hooking a pair of diamond chandeliers in my ears, the doorbell rang. It was Olivier, right on time.