I am 23 and it is 1996 in a park in the middle of the city. I am on lunchbreak from my first job as a lawyer. The day is hot, so I have taken off my black leather heels and am pushing my bare toes into the cool grass. A man sits down beside me.
‘You have beautiful feet.’
He reaches out a hand. I straighten like a meerkat.
‘I’m a masseur.’
He starts to touch my feet.
‘This is what I do. Have you ever had a foot massage before?’
‘No, and I don’t…’
‘Well then, I’ll give you your first for free. Everyone’s a bit uncomfortable the first time.’
‘I would prefer it if you didn’t touch…’
He starts running his hands over my small, white, wide, sweaty feet.
Cars swish past on the street. People chew their lunches and chat with their friends. The stranger touches my feet. I sit rigid, my face flaming.
Finally, he takes his hands away.
‘There,’ he says, ‘now you know.’
I slip on my shoes, grab my handbag and run.
In my office on the top floor of a high rise behind mirror glass windows under cool air conditioning, I drench my feet with tea tree oil spray from the Body Shop. One of my colleagues steps into the corridor nearby,
‘What is that godawful smell?’