The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl (10 page)

N came round last night with Lemsip and sympathy. I was lying feebly on the sofa recounting the events of the day (which were, it must be said, few; but when you’re ill they take on weighty significance). These included meeting the neighbour for a postponed, brief, and extremely frustrating coffee during which I sneezed and moaned a lot.

‘Let me see if I understand,’ N said, stirring powder and boiling water into a mug. ‘He has a girlfriend he’s not going to leave, he doesn’t appear to fancy you and always cancels meetings with you.’

‘Yes.’

N set the mug on the table and looked me over. ‘You’re getting a touch podgy,’ he said.

‘I would smack you, but am too weak to lift my fat arm.’

‘Are you fucking mad?’

‘Well, he did bring me a coconut,’ I said in the neighbour’s defence. ‘And we had a nice time in Dartmoor.’

‘A sexless nice time,’ N said. ‘If you’re going to masturbate in front of someone you’re not having sex with, I’d rather it was me.’

I thought about what N had said. Texted the neighbour late: would he like to meet for breakfast in the morning? He replied quickly: yes. So there, I thought, and went to sleep.

Woke early to another text. The neighbour. Was out for a run. Was going to a meeting after. Breakfast not possible. I groaned, turned the phone off and went to work still shivering and ill. I hope those miserable cows sitting behind me catch whatever I’ve got.

vendredi, le 26 novembre

Met N and A1 after work for a drink. ‘Hey, sugar,’ A1 said, putting his arm around my waist. ‘So your Tory friend is meeting us, is he?’ The first time they met A1 and N spent the entire night arguing politics, and ever since, N’s been my ‘Tory friend’ to A1. N walked in and the two men shook hands. ‘Good seeing you.’ ‘Always a pleasure.’

N and I were discussing the perfect mate – A1 is exempt, being married and all.

N’s criteria total three:

• Ample-chested, and

• High pain threshold, and

• Gets on with his mum.

My list is somewhat longer:

• Tall and thin, or

• Tall and muscular, or

• Neither of these but physically appealing to me, and

• Nice hands, and

• Nice voice, and

• Someone who either likes to talk or likes to listen, and

• Ideally fits into my knickers, not habitually, just once or twice for effect, and

• Lives about two hours away – not more, not less.

‘Hmm, I think we can say something about men’s and women’s relative chances of finding what they want in life,’ A1 said. I glared at him. ‘Of course, I wouldn’t dare.’

The last criterion is important; I like my space, I like it a lot. So much so that I typically live alone in quiet areas and don’t appreciate a boyfriend who just ‘pops round’ when he wants to.

‘Yeah, if that dork keeps barging in I’d show him the door,’ N said of the Boy.

‘What, you two are back together?’ A1 asked in confusion.

‘Nothing’s definite,’ I said and shot N a nasty look.

‘I never liked him, anyway,’ A1 said. ‘Not in your league.’

See, someone who lives a moderate drive or train ride away is never round your house at all times, eating all the food, leaving mysterious stains on the carpet and getting it on with your neighbour in your bed (far preferable that he plays away with his own neighbour in his own bed). On the other hand, he’s not so far that he can’t be there at short notice if needed.

However, this was before I moved to London. The relationship between space and time is altered here. Hauling myself from NW5-ish to a central location might take twenty minutes, might take two hours. In any normal place it would take minutes. Has someone contacted the Royal Society to investigate? Once I considered seeing a man in Leyton, and I assure you that the thought of the time it would take to negotiate that distance was a large part of not pursuing the affair. The thought that someone could live only a few miles from me and it would take longer than the two-hour ideal to reach him (n.b., this includes the walk or bus from Tube station at each end) was, frankly, blowing my fragile mind.

(I’m sure, in a fitter and more motivated past, I would have ignored the squillion or so people and rat’s nest of streets between where I lived and where he lived and hoofed it over. But I am a spoilt lady of leisure now and demand nothing short of first-class comfort. Or, failing that, tributes of love in direct proportion to the effort I make. Such as a small island of my very own.)

Then there was the man who lived several counties away, but could drive to my house in less than two hours. He didn’t survive the cutoff, either, because while he could drive to me I could not drive to him. I have no car. Before you think me unnecessarily harsh when it comes to men, I should say in my defence that it was he who ended things with me. I’m not the only one with a two-hour rule.

So I have been trying to have coffee with the neighbour, who lives round the corner from me, and it has taken us, with all the to-ing and fro-ing, about two days to meet.

Extrapolating from this, someone who lives two hours away might be assumed to reside in my kitchen.

samedi, le 27 novembre

The Boy seemed in an odd mood. ‘Are you here because you want to spend time with me, or because you just wanted to get out of the city?’

What’s this now? Justify your holiday? ‘Um, both, really.’

He didn’t say anything. Was that the wrong answer? I can not fathom men. Then he nodded, and held my hand, and we finished reading the paper. Later, I licked lemon sorbet off his body. He followed the sweet with a savoury chaser. Most refreshing.

dimanche, le 28 novembre

The Weekend, a quiz

1 The weekend just gone, I went to

a) France

b) Flitwick

c) Fulham

correct answer: a

2 I was accompanied by

a) a committee presenting me with the Légion d’Honneur

b) paparazzi

c) the Boy

correct answer: c

3 The Boy gave me, as a gift,

a) a bunch of bright orange daisies

b) a jar of jam he made

c) a sex swing he made

correct answer: all of the above

4 I came back from holiday with

a) a Tour d’Eiffel paperweight

b) rope burns

c) Lance Armstrong

correct answer: b

5 It has been ________ since I last saw the neighbour.

a) one week

b) two weeks

c) who cares?

correct answer: c

‘This means we’re back on, right?’ the Boy asked nervously. The train pulled slowly out of the station, and I silently said goodbye to the trees, the houses, the sun. According to the forecast it was raining in London.

‘We’re back on,’ I said, and he squeezed my hand. My heart did jump, I admit. And we held hands the whole way home.

mardi, le 30 novembre

A hand waved in front of my computer screen, startling me. I looked up. Giles. I took off my headphones.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Helps me concentrate on work.’

‘Can we have a chat?’ he said.

‘Of course.’

‘Good. How about tomorrow? I’ll have my secretary book something.’

For a horrified moment I thought maybe he meant a hotel room. Then I realised he meant food, and smiled. ‘Great.’ What the hell is he after? I wondered as he walked away. A chat? Or something more?

Dear Belle

Dear Belle,

Me and my boyf enjoy doing it in the out-of-doors but we find Wimbledon a bit too dark and scary. Can you recommend a top ten list of outdoor love locations?

Dear Al Fresco,

I would do, but none of them are in London at this time of year. Have you considered a nice cosy pub toilet instead?

Dear Belle,

I’ve been seeing my boss for months and have just received a very generous pay rise. I can’t help but feel that this is his way of saying thank you for the pleasure he derives from our liaisons. How do I maintain the upper hand while simultaneously working under him, as it were?

Dear Moral Upper Hand,

I don’t understand – you feel bad about being paid for something you would have done for free? I assume from the phrase ‘secret liaisons’ that either he or you is attached, or you risk being fired for carrying on like this. Decide whether the risk of losing your job is worth the money (and the fun), and stay on or leave as appropriate. And if you do go, be certain he writes a damn good letter of reference. You put in a lot of overtime, no?

Dear Belle,

I’m a respectable Cambridge graduate, and recently met a beautiful girl I want to settle with. She’s been honest about her sexual past and she says we must share everything. A month before we met I spent a month in Thailand gorging myself on $10 hookers. I don’t dare tell her. Also, sex with the hookers was far better than with her. I don’t want to upset her, but do I ’fess up and tell her my past, or just keep a cosy relationship?

Dear Love You Long Time,

There is a time and a place for honesty, and prostitution is simply not it. If having guilt-free, anonymous sex wasn’t the original intent, you wouldn’t have gone for a working girl in the first place, am I right? Of all the useless and overrated virtues, giving a full and total account of your past lovers and how they rate tops the list. Tell her you fooled around a bit on holiday and leave it at that – only a masochist would beg for more details. As for the other part of your question, if you want the sex with her to be better, sweetie, maybe you should remember that her experience is nowhere near that of a Thai hooker’s and take the lead yourself.

mercredi, le 1 décembre

‘I hope you like Chinese,’ Giles said, spreading a large napkin over his lap.

‘Love it,’ I said. Eating out in Chinese restaurants is a Jewish family tradition; I don’t know how or where it started, but by the time I left home I’d probably had more black bean sauce than HP.

‘Splendid.’ We ordered. I wondered what the etiquette was: does he pay for this? As a call girl, the answer was always yes. I had no idea how businesspeople run things. Would I be expected to pick up my share of the bill? I played it safe and ordered the second cheapest thing on the menu.

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ he said after the food arrived. ‘This departmental reshuffle is not going to go in your favour.’

‘Oh,’ I said and looked down at the food. It smelled of hot chilli and garlic, but I suddenly felt less than hungry. Was this my last meal? Was I really going to get the heave-ho on a Tuesday lunchtime surrounded by loud men in suits?

‘I don’t think it’s any secret that you haven’t really gelled with your team members,’ he said. His hands were long and elegant, but he clearly didn’t know from chopsticks. He gave up and waved the waitress down for a fork. ‘And since Erin has more experience and seniority than you, the only appropriate thing to do is to make her your supervisor.’

I stared at the steaming pile of rice between us.

‘But I’ll tell you something, and I’m counting on your discretion here,’ he said.

This is it, I thought. The moment where he asks me to fuck him so I can keep my job.

‘You’re wasted in this place. Sure, you do fine work, and it probably doesn’t tax your mental faculties very much. I bet in a year you’ll be bored of it and looking for something new.’

Classic man move #361: Let me down easy, make it sound like it was what I really wanted anyway.

‘Come the New Year, you won’t see me around any more. I’ve managed to secure some funding, and am striking out on my own. And I want you to be there.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I’m offering you a job. More pay, and hopefully more interesting than what you’re doing now.’

‘You mean you didn’t bring me here to fire me or fuck me?’

He half coughed, half laughed into his hand. ‘Flattering a thought as that is, no,’ he said.

Great, now I’d put my foot in it. ‘You really think I’m any good?’ And, wouldn’t he be in trouble for poaching people away from the company?

‘I think you have potential,’ he corrected. ‘That’s a lot more than most people in there.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘Put in your notice but don’t tell your team,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk more later.’

jeudi, le 2 décembre

N and I went to the gym together, met A1 and A2 for a late supper at our second-favourite Italian, and repaired à deux to mine for digestifs and chat.

I made a note to myself, so I wouldn’t forget to write it down later: Mia Farrow must give good head.

Conversation went along these lines.

Me:

Ironically, by sleeping with men for money, I have managed to avoid anything lascivious or shady in the non-adult-entertainment industry.

He:

A pity the casting couch seems to have passed into legend. Joan Crawford, they say, has a couple of blue movies making the rounds somewhere.

Me:

Yeah. And the famous quote attributed to Marilyn, when she signed her first big contract: ‘No more blow-jobs.’

He:

Who said ‘There goes the good time that was had by all,’ and about whom?

Me:

I don’t remember.

He:

Me neither. [n.b. the computer wasn’t on and I couldn’t be bothered to check. We are a very civilised salon de jour.]

Me:

It can’t have been someone who wore the label of slut with pride, like Mae West. Maybe Jean Harlow?

He:

Could be. But what about Bette Davis? I bet she was one dirty fucker. Pretty in an average way, and possibly the best actress of her generation – but with that face, she so must have done anything to get her big breaks.*

Me:

Well, it can’t have been Katharine Hepburn or anyone like her. Ice queen.

He:

I bet not. I hear she swung both ways.

Me:

Ava Gardner?

He:

You know that quote of hers about Frank Sinatra?

Me:

About his being a ninety-seven-pound weakling who was ninety-six pounds of cock?

He:

That’s the one. Of course, I read once that he had the equipment, but no idea what to do with it.

Me:

Honestly, why would he have to? He was Frank. And what did he do with Mia Farrow, anyway? She’s like a lollipop woman. She’d break under the strain.

He:

Big mouth, though.

Me:

I suppose. But Mia Farrow? Married to Sinatra, Previn, Allen? Three guys at the top of their professions? And a skinny little body like that. Hysterical cow, to boot. What’s the deal?

He:

She must give great head.

*It was said by Bette Davis, not about her.

vendredi, le 3 décembre

Being a working girl had its drawbacks, but being this kind of working girl isn’t so hot, either. For one thing I have to conduct most of my business among co-workers who are significantly less forgiving than your average client-stealing, rumour-spreading, put-down-making ho. Every time my mobile rings Mira and Erin lean closer – my private life being, obviously, a topic of much speculation since that time the Boy turned up outside work.

(T)he (Boy):

What did you do last night?

Me:

Gym, food, sleep.

He:

Did you eat out or in?

Me:

Out.

He:

Who with?

Me:

Some people.

He:

Including N?

Now, he and N know each other, and everyone has assured me everything’s cool. N and I are no longer sleeping together, after all. I know N well enough to know that he’s telling the truth. But I’m starting to suspect the Boy wasn’t and in fact is not cool with this.

I’m also starting to suspect Erin is taking notes, but can’t be certain. I try to keep my side of the conversation as neutral as possible. Is the legit life always going to be like this? I have the sneaking suspicion that even if I jump ship there will be office politics wherever I go.

Me:

Does it matter? [There is the part of me that thinks this response is probably confrontational and damaging, but it’s on holiday this week.]

He:

I just don’t want to feel like you’re lying to me.

Me:

I’m not lying to you. Why does it matter whom I ate with?

He:

Because I saw you walking with him, is all.

Okay, I’ll gloss over the fact that he just happened to be in London last night without saying so. He spotted us. And instead of saying hello, and may he join us, he rings me up the next day to plant conversational minefields? Whoah. Fuck. Creepy. Wrong. Can I date a normal person, someday, please? He goes on about how great Sunday/last month/ France was, and why can’t I be more like I was on Sunday/ last month/France. And how he would never lie to me, and how can I be so two-faced, and so on. Anyway, interminable minutes more of this before:

Me:

Are you really willing to lose me so you can make a stupid point about what a perfect person you are?

He:

(silence)

Me:

I think I have to go now.

Ah, now I remember why we split up the first time. Silly me. I left the phone off the rest of the day.

samedi, le 4 décembre

Switched on the mobile yesterday afternoon to find three missed calls and a dozen texts. The Boy has got out of hand, and this has ballooned into what he is calling ‘The Lie’.

From the way he was reacting, you would have thought I’d told him there was no Father Christmas.

I don’t really class our last conversation as a lie – more an evasion. Can I help being on edge, especially as I think he’s been going through my things? I went out with friends, one of them was N, and I didn’t immediately ring and tell him. I didn’t tell him when I showered at the gym, either, or the last time I had a bowel movement. Do those count as lies as well? There are people who will say the concepts are one and the same. He certainly proclaims how honest he is with me often enough to have taken up permanent residence on Moral High Ground. But since he had been spying on me, and was clearly setting me up to accuse me of something, I don’t feel terrible about what happened.

I was meeting L and didn’t feel like ringing the Boy. Unfortunately, tact being one of my weaker suits, we did trade a few texts on my way out. So while I tried to be calm and hold back, telling him ‘This is not what I need to come home to’ is about as kind and lovey-dovey-girlfriendy as it got. Wittering on about these things in an endless circular discussion is not on my agenda.

I really do make a rubbish girlfriend.

And he didn’t change his tone at all. Finally, exhausted by the text tennis, I replied: Good night. I hope your righteous indignation keeps you warm.

Several hours later, after spending a wholly civilised evening with L, draining bottles of white and talking about our respective holidays, I did wonder why things could be so light and easy with almost everyone else in the world. When I checked the phone later, the Boy had texted a goodnight kiss. It’s something he never would have done when we were dating before. I waited only a few minutes before sending one back.

dimanche, le 5 décembre

‘How’s the new place?’ I asked. I was holding the phone between my shoulder and ear, simultaneously installing software on the computer.

‘Great,’ Daddy said with enthusiasm. ‘I put a poster on the wall of different types of tuna.’

Was this some sort of newly-single-man-thing? ‘Pictures of tuna?’

‘You know, to brighten the place up a little. In case I have people round.’

Okay, whatever. Maybe Mum never let him have pictures of fish, or something. I don’t know. A little window came on the computer screen: Installation successful, restart now or later? I restarted, tried the password to hide the program, then unhid it. Perfect. From now on every keystroke made on my computer would be logged and stored, with no sign to the user – say, the Boy – that anything was amiss.

‘Don’t you worry, honey, I’ll make you a deal, not to date anyone younger than my daughter.’

What? Date anyone? The ink on the papers was hardly dry. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘Well, it would be a little strange if you ended up with a stepmother younger than you, wouldn’t it?’

‘Okay, number one, no one you marry will be my anything-mother, because she didn’t raise me. And number two, you’re dating already? Isn’t there some sort of cooling-off period? Some mourning that must be observed?’ I said, trying (and failing) not to sound hysterical.

‘Honey, calm down. I’m not seeing anyone yet. It’s a hypothetical.’

‘Cripes, Daddy, don’t scare me like that.’

He laughed. ‘There’s such a thing as being too honest, I suppose,’ he said.

‘I thought you always told me the most important thing was honesty.’

‘It still is. But I’ll give you a handy tip. Anyone who goes around telling anyone who’ll listen about how honest he is, isn’t.’

‘That’s a comforting thought,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless, if and when you do start dating, I expect you to be honest with me about it.’

‘Well, I think we should make a reciprocal deal – I won’t date anyone younger than you if you won’t date anyone older than me.’

I think I have a new contender for Creepiest Conversation In History Ever. ‘Agreed.’ He didn’t say anything about sleeping with them for money, mind. Though I suppose that meant he could see a prostitute who was younger than me.

Okay, now I’ve made myself squirm twice in two minutes. New record.

lundi, le 6 décembre

I’ve never been the most conscientious about ringing home, but could always count on my parents ringing me when they wanted a chat. Now they both ring less often – and I can’t say it troubles me. It’s not that I don’t care what’s going on in their lives, I do; but after the last conversation with Daddy I’ve decided I don’t want to hear about it.

‘You sound a little down, honey,’ my mother said.

‘What, me? Oh, just things getting to me. Stressful at work lately. You know.’ I still hadn’t decided what to make of Giles’s offer, and had only broached the subject with N, who I knew would offer an opinion only if asked.

‘That’s a pity. I had so hoped you’d find it less of a strain than your last job.’

Keeping in mind that supposedly my mother had no idea I was ever a call girl, I wondered what she meant by that.

‘You know, right after you graduated, when you were in that bookshop.’

‘Right,’ I sighed. ‘The bookshop. It’s just different, that’s all. That job was boring more than actually stressful.’ To be fair, this one was pretty boring as well.

‘Changing tack slightly,’ she said, by which she always means changing tack entirely, ‘I received the most unexpected call the other day. From your cousin, you know.’

‘Which one?’ I asked. There are so many I’ve lost count. My mother’s family are numerous and each one more fertile than the last. That she managed to keep the number of her own offspring down to fewer than five is nothing short of a miracle.

‘You know, J,’ she said, as if that was obvious.

‘How is he?’ I asked. Even though we are of a similar age, and grew up together, I had no idea what had happened to him after I went to university. I knew he hadn’t, and that was all – the rest was implied with whispers and gestures, the sort of thing usually reserved for instances of cancer and divorce. From the emphatic nature of the signals I’d guessed he’d married a cancer-ridden divorcee, or similar.

‘He’s well, and living in Central America of all places,’ she said. ‘Mexico, or was it Belize? Anyway, you’ll be happy to know that all his problems with the law over that drug-dealing charge are long behind him and that he’s really cleaned up his act. Been off the stuff for a year, he says.’