The man in the blue safari suit

"He'll be wearing a blue safari suit and waiting for you in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel".

I picked up the brown paper package and headed out into the sticky warmth of a typical Sydney summer. Lunchtime traffic was heavy, but soon I was on my way, the cabbie carefully dodging the flurry of vehicles to George Street in the city.

The doorman briefly eyed my thighs, then smiled submissively while opening the heavy gold door.

To the left was a long, beige counter with neatly coiffed receptionists smiling politely at weary travellers. To the right were the lifts, efficient and silent except for the pleasant bell that tingled upon arrival. Before me were dozens of tastefully arranged peach chairs and tables, inviting you to lounge and drink. A mother stroked her tired sons head while rocking her newborn back and forth. Her husband slouched in the chair, exhausted. Everyone else was busy - dragging suitcases, checking in, checking their watches.

He was on time - a portly man, hair slicked dexterously across his head, eyes on my thighs and hands in the pockets of his blue safari suit.

"Hi", I chimed.

Ignoring me, he pushed himself up out of the plush chair and ambled towards the lift. I stepped in after him. I stared at the buttons on the wall. I counted them. I then looked up at the lights above the doors and counted them. I estimated how long it would take for us to reach Room 904.

With the sleight of a magician, he produced his door card and beckoned me in.

I quickly chose a chair near the window, but he followed and guided me straight back to the bed. I laid down, desperately eyeing the brown package left unopened on the chair.

"I just need..." I pleaded. It was too late. He had shut me up mid-sentence and with gravity, I gurgled and gulped.

"You're a good little girl", he said sweetly. His grandfatherly fingers fumbled deep into his top pocket and handed me a roll of notes. He turned and admired his reflection in the mirror, licked his finger and slicked a stray hair into place before disappearing out into the corridor.

The ceiling was so clean, its pristine sheen hurt my eyes. The sheer curtains were open, so the light was barely filtered. In a futile effort, I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them to find I was still in the same empty room. I rolled across the bed and sat on the edge staring at the brown paper package in the distance. I could see where the sweat of my palms had permanently altered the paper, now forever distorted by innate nerves.

They rolled those packages so tight and neatly secured them with a thick band of sticky tape. A plain brown paper bag filled with what I needed to protect myself - useless until opened.

I decided to count what I'd scored.

The paper tore easily where it was wet. I ripped open the package and twelve rows of shiny Easter-egg coloured packets toppled out onto the starched sheets. I knew 12 x 4 = 48, but I decided to count them anyway. One by one, slowly, methodically, carefully. Then I shuffled them and recounted. I lay them out like tarot cards, then I admired the patterns. Crimson, amber, green and gold. Like 9 carats. Real gold.

I left them glistening in the sunshine while I wiped off the black trails that streamed down my cheeks. That mirror made me look ugly, so I tried the bathroom one. I turned on the tap, but the water came out warm, so I shut it off quick and hard.

I didn't know what to do.

Finally, I straightened my hair.

I disappeared out into the corridor, fist clenched protecting the roll of notes.