«I think it’s about time we faced up to the fact that some women just enjoy sex»

Paloma lives in the basement of a tall, regal-looking building on a smart street in west London. Hers is a spacious studio flat with a neat patio area, just big enough for a potted herb garden and wrought-iron table with matching chairs.

Inside, the living quarters feature buffed wooden floorboards and neutral walls; there are rows of reference books, Penguin Classics, National Geographic and Vogue. Below these, taking centre stage on the mantelpiece, is a framed graduation photograph. It's nothing extraordinary, just a typical post-ceremony portrait of a slightly startled looking twentysomething with a fixed grin, clutching a rolled certificate. But in its present context, the image of Paloma with chestnut ringlets spilling erratically from under a mortarboard is somewhat incongruous.

For today ─ some five years later ─ almost directly below where the photo stands, the former Economic History student is squatting in the middle of her living room carpet, rummaging through a suitcase stuffed with lace garters, feathered face masks and beaded nipple tassels. Paloma pulls out a silver sequin suspender belt which she hoiks over faded denim jeans: "What do you think?" she teases, giving a flamboyant twirl. Her friend Camilla, a long, sinewy creature who is curled up on the sofa, looks up briefly: "I think you'll be the belle of the ball, babe," she purrs, before returning her attention to painting her fingernails.

(+)

THE INDEPENDENT