Authors: Simon Brooke
Oh, and neither should anyone with any sense.
But we all fell for it - the prospect of entering the promised
land of advertising and the media and working in an office in Soho with those settees
in the shape of giant lips and ultra thin plasma screens showing our latest surreally
artistic adverts for bottled beer or aftershave to wowed clients.
Personally I have to say that it was the salary that caught my
eye - oh, of course it was. This is the kind of job you do when it finally sinks
in that you aren't bright enough or sufficiently driven to go into the front line
of the Law or the City and mint it, but you do want to earn some decent money. Anyway,
it's like my dad said: 'Everyone has to sell to someone.' Good, eh? I think he read
it in a book.
In our office, on the second floor, Sloaney girls mix with young
lads from the North who are still attached to their mum's apron strings via a pay
phone in the draughty hall of their bedsit block and a saver return ticket on a
Friday night from Euston or King's Cross.
There are twenty or so of us non-clock-watching, selfstarters
on the phone eight hours day, flogging 3cm-high spaces in a national newspaper's
classified pages to people renting out holiday apartments or promising to improve
your memory in six weeks or your money back -provided you can remember when you
started the course.
There is an older guy (someone told me he was a disillusioned
teacher- as if teachers were ever anything else) who started last week. Apparently
he was once on Countdown. He is so enthusiastic that he still shouts 'Sale!' when
he persuades someone to sign on the dotted line as we were all instructed to do
on the training course.
'Wanker,' I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear. He turns
round and I smile sweetly. What's he going to do about it? Put me in detention?
I first met Jonathon after I read an article about him in the
Evening Standard. 'Out placed' from an advertising agency, he had used his golden
two fingers or whatever they called it to start an agency ('escort agency' would
be too vulgar, he explained) supplying eligible young gentlemen to women of all
ages looking for someone to escort them to the theatre or to dinner.
There was a large picture of him - a reasonably goodlooking
thirty-year-old, with a pleasant smile, ex-public school, ex-Oxbridge and now ex-ad
agency. A female friend of his had been complaining that it was impossible to find
a decent bloke to accompany her for social or work events.
Jonathan had connected this with the fact that a lot of his friends
would have welcomed a bit of extra pocket money for doing no more than taking a
woman out on a date. After all, if you can do something you like and get paid for
it, what could be better? grinned Jonathan.
So he decided to fill what he saw as a gap in the market place.
I would have thought that if there was a gap in the market this was because there
was no demand, but then what did I know? I was still poor. Jonathan's faith in the
enterprise culture and the free market had led him to found Men About Town.
He went on to explain that clients so far included highpowered
female executives who just wanted a relaxing evening out after work, girls who were
'between boyfriends' and women whose husbands were just too busy to pay them much
attention. I read more: But what about sex, surely that issue must arise? Smiling
coyly, Jonathan explains that his escorts offer nothing more than companionship
- anything beyond that is not really part of the service. Vinny, my flatulent flatmate,
who had half-jokingly pointed the article out to me and was now watching the snooker
over his Marks & Spencer Roast Chicken Meal For One, looked round and saw that
I had finished reading the piece and was onto the sport.
'Well, what do you think? That's the kind of thing you could
probably do in your spare time if you wanted to earn some extra dosh. You're always
complaining you're broke. I mean, you know your way around town and you fancy yourself
as a bit of a babe magnet.'
'Mmmm,' I said.
'You might get a bit of sex too.' He belched. 'Take your mind
off things.'
That thought had occurred to me too.
I might also improve my education, learn more about the opposite
sex. I'm not saying that women are a closed book to me but the thing is, so far
I've only read the first few chapters and I'll be buggered if I can work out the
plot.
I rang the Evening Standard the next day from a callbox during
my lunch break. They couldn't put me through to the journalist who wrote the piece
but a bloke who worked with her gave me the number - only, that is, after shouting
across the office, 'Another American gigolo looking for that agency, anyone got
the number?' I thanked him quickly and put the phone down.
Then I rang the agency and Jonathan answered immediately so we
had a quick chat. Part of me hoped that he might not take me on, that I might be
too young or that he might be full already but he sounded quite enthusiastic so
I arranged to go round and see him that evening.
He wasn't far away from us, in another, posher part of Fulham,
fifteen minutes walk from the maisonette I shared with Vinny. Vinny had already
been living there for six months, having moved to London from Birmingham to start
a job in graphic design when I answered his newspaper ad for another tenant nearly
a year ago. The first applicant was a vegan and the second asked where he could
put his skis so when I turned up Vinny told me the place was mine if I wanted it.
'Go on, then,' I said, and that was that.
Our maisonette consists of the first and second floor of a small,
terraced house. The guy downstairs is very quiet and keeps himself to himself so
we naturally assume he is a serial killer and we always watch the local news waiting
for him to show up on it. His only real form of interaction with us is to bang on
the ceiling whenever we are noisy. He has the exclusive use of the garden, which
is a bummer since it would be great for parties but instead on the few occasions
Vinny and I do have social events we always encourage our guests to use the little
patch of grass as an ashtray, so it isn't totally wasted.
Jonathan's place was all stripped pine floors and white walls
with groups of black and white prints on them, including that one of the couple
kissing outside a Parisian cafe. On his glass desk in the living room was an iMac
and a black anglepoise lamp. Jonathan, wearing neat faded jeans, scuffed docksiders
and a pale pink button-down collared shirt gave me a glass of Soave and we chatted
for a while about work and living in London.
He started by asking a few questions about my age and current
occupation. I was going to say something like photographer, pop video director or
war correspondent but he seemed to like Media Sales Executive and I suppose it gave
us something in common - we had both been well and truly shafted by the advertising
business.
'So why do you want to do this?' he smiled. I'd already rehearsed
a sort of answer on the way over.
'Well,' I began, trying to remember it. 'I just want to earn
some extra money, really. For holidays and things.' As well as being what I thought
he wanted me to say it was actually the truth.
'Good. That's what most of my guys do it for. We've got everyone
from resting actors to accountants who have a bit of spare time on their hands.
Makes sense, doesn't it?'
'Yes,' I said a bit too quickly. 'I mean, why not?'
'Why not indeed, Andrew. How old are you?'
'Twenty ... nnnnnine.'
Jonathan looked at me for a moment.
'Was that twenty-nine?' he asked, smiling again.
'Yes,' I said defensively.
'I don't believe you,' he said, casually shuffling some papers
on his desk to make it clear he wasn't even going to countenance twenty-nine. Somehow
I didn't blame him.
'Twenty-six,' I bid. He looked at me again. 'All right, twenty-four.
Really.'
'Yeah, that's possible,' said Jonathan kindly.
'I am ... really.'
'All right, I believe you,' he laughed. 'You're probably a bit
young for my team but what the heck. I'm sure we'll find you some work. You're a
good-looking bloke.' I felt myself blushing. 'No, I've got to say it. That's the
business I'm in. You look Italian, you know, with your dark hair, brown eyes. No?
Just wondered. You wouldn't believe the monsters I've had in here since that piece
appeared.' We both laughed this time. 'What about sex?'
'Sorry?'
'Sex. What if these women want sex?'
'Er, yeah, I'm up for that. Oh, yeah, huh, why not?'
Jonathan shook his head and smiled. 'You are so not up for that.'
'Yeah, I am, I mean if they want to-'
'Don't worry, they won't. Well, ninety per cent of them won't,
anyway. Our clients just want to talk and feel appreciated. They want a bit of flirtation
and they want to be made to feel beautiful. Someone to open a door for them and
get the bill. Sex really is out of the question, I wasn't just saying that for the
Standard, you know'.
'Oh, OK,' I said casually. Christ! That was quite a relief, actually.
What if we got to that stage and things, you know, didn't quite work out? Not that
that's ever happened in the past, of course, but this is a different thing altogether.
Would they want their money back? But Jonathan was talking again. 'Right, admin,'
he said, shuffling some papers around on his desk. 'I'll need some photos if you've
got them.'
'Yep, I can get those,' I said. I decided to give him a few snaps
we had taken for an internal promotion thing at the office.
'Great. Now let me see: hair? Dark brown. Eyes? Brown?'
'Er, yep,' I said, looking away from him for some reason. 'OK,
height? You're what, six two?' I nodded. 'Good height, they don't like men too tall.
You keep in shape, obviously.' Oh, Christ, the sex thing again. I suddenly panicked
that he was going to ask me to take my clothes off or something. He laughed. 'Don't
worry, it's just that a beer gut and drooping shoulders don't look too good, you
know.' I smiled, feeling a bit of a fool for appearing so obviously horror-struck
by something so innocent and obvious.
'OK, payment. You fill in their credit card details on this slip
and then ask them to sign it.' I nodded. 'It's a duplicate, see.' Jonathan nimbly
rubbed the two sheets apart with his thumb and forefinger. 'You give them the bottom
copy for their records and give me the top one. Just pop it in the post the next
day, should be all right. You'll usually get your money about a few weeks after
you did the job minus a few of my expenses but you'll soon pay those off.'
'Sure,' I said. Anyway, the forms seemed easier than the paperwork
we have to fill in at work when one of our clients actually buys a slot in the paper,
I thought, so I should be able to do that bit right even if I do order red wine
with fish and drink the finger bowl.
'I take twenty per cent commission and most of our clients pay
about £200.' I do a quick calculation - £160. Worth having.
'I presume you don't have a girlfriend at the moment.'
'No,' I said, too quickly again. 'I mean I have had one, had
a few, that is. I went out with a girl for over two years at university but then
she started going out with someone else.'
Oh, shit, I don't want to start thinking about Helen again now,
but I find myself remembering that ridiculous conversation while she was planning
to come back from France. My suggesting I meet her at the airport and her explaining
that, don't worry, she would take a taxi with Didier, who was this guy she had met
while she was out there and she was really sorry, she had been going to try and
tell me this before but it had all happened so quickly.
A simple chat about logistics that had changed my whole life,
it seemed.
'Oh, sorry,' said Jonathan, looking away, realizing what a can
of emotional worms he had inadvertently opened.
'I've been out with a couple of other girls in London since but
nothing serious,' I said helpfully.
'Don't worry,' said Jonathan, apparently embarrassed for the
first time in our conversation. 'It just, you know, makes things easier.'
I signed a piece of paper, took some of the credit card slips
and left, having agreed to be available at home the following evening if he needed
me.
So that's it, I thought, as I made my way back through the darkening
streets to my own flat. I was going to escort women to dinner, to the theatre, to
parties, to drinks at the Savoy and make witty conversation with them. I'd have
to make sure I'd read reviews of all the latest films, of course. Read a few books.
Read the papers so I'd know about current affairs. Read Hello! Well, perhaps not.
And sex? Well, if it happens, it happens. As Jonathan said, that's
not really part of the service.
Just as I was pondering this point, a bloke in a pinstriped suit
came striding round the corner carrying an evil-smelling curry in a plastic bag
and yelling into his mobile. 'I know, I know, I thought someone had already done
it. I'm sorry, I'll have it all on your desk by eight tomorrow morning ...'
Call me an escort, call me a gigolo, but going out to smart restaurants
to make interesting conversation and getting paid for it had to be better than that
guy's evening.
Two days after my first date, which Jonathan rings to congratulate
me on, I throw my Sainsbury's bags down on the floor in the hall and pick through
the post - as usual it's just for the mysterious, faceless past tenants of this
hole. Who is this C K Hampson who's always being chased to take out a personal loan?
And where the hell has Davina Highton-Brown gone without telling Reader's Digest
Prize Draw of her whereabouts?