The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl (16 page)

Type 2: Invisible local.
Who are they? Where do they live? Whose offices are in the shiny-windowed buildings scattered through town? No one will say. Possibly conspiracy of some sort, though unless involving coconuts I don’t see what it could be.

Type 3: Long-term resident.
Also known as ‘Gone native’. Has tanned self to deep shade of shoe-polish brown. Has mastered six words of Spanish to be used at all opportunities and without embarrassment. Does not own socks; is in fact close to forgetting what they are for. Rides bicycle.

Type 4: Recent convert.
Has bought a wardrobe of vomit-patterned shirts and is determined to wear them all in effort to enforce ‘relaxed’ lifestyle. Has mastered six words of Spanish to be used at all opportunities, but still apologises for not knowing more.

Type 5: Honeymoon couple.
From daybreak to 11 a.m., horrified by the other people populating the carefully selected location of their dream holiday – the brochures never showed quite this much vomit. From 11 a.m. to next morning, too drunk to notice.

Type 6: Tourist.
Called ‘tourons’ by the English-speaking expats. You know, as in ‘tourist’ + ‘moron’. Tourons drink a lot. They scream a lot. Pay for things you can find for free on the beach. Consider volume of hot chilli intake at mealtimes to be in direct proportion to level of manliness. Bit like being at home, really.

lundi, le 24 janvier

I love J, I fucking love my cousin. How did I manage so long without him in my life? He is so the man, for reasons including, but not limited to:

• His taste in music fucking rocks. That is to say, he owns all the CDs I never quite got round to buying. All of Dr Dre’s solo releases? Check. The entire back catalogue of The Donnas? Check. Granted, these were probably all purchased with drug money, but I don’t think that makes it ethically wrong to borrow them.

• He uses my face creams. Without asking. This might not seem like a good thing. But you expect male relatives to ridicule your collection of toiletries, not raid it. One day I came home and he was on the sofa, watching the football, face slathered in a pore-tightening clay-and-sea-mineral mask. Okay, so he was probably using twen ty quid’s worth of product without my permission. On the other hand, he’s not asking me for rent. It seems a fair exchange.

• He loves scary movies. I love scary movies! At last! Someone I can watch them with! More gore = more better. Apparently Tomás has a wide collection of horror films as well. Ace.

• J is an unashamed consumer of junk food. I have always felt that one of the privileges of being an adult is the ability to eat chocolate for breakfast every morning and porridge be damned. J lives the dream.

• J makes faces at me whenever the Boy calls. Inevitably I start giggling. ‘What’s going on?’ the Boy asks, worried. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I say. ‘Just thought of something funny.’

• He completely understands when I don’t want to return the Boy’s calls for a few days.

• J loves hugs. In fact, his sense of personal space is distinctly un-British. I don’t know, maybe that’s something you pick up in prison.

mardi, le 25 janvier

Over at Tomás’s for supper with J and some random girl. J doesn’t introduce her as his girlfriend so I don’t assume she is. I just hope she’s not a screamer; the walls at home are thin.

The sky is still light long after the sun goes, and it goes here far later than it does during British winter. I love the twilight, the open windows and ceiling fans, the sound of insects in the half-night. The food is excellent. J brought over a few things, and I admire the gusto with which he eats everything from crab to sausage. He never asks what is in anything and never appears squeamish. I love that. I like the food, too, but am a bit more cautious, finding J’s habit of eating everything with his hands a trifle disconcerting.

Growing up, we rarely ate anything explicitly non-kosher, so things like lobster and pork were relatively unusual to me as an adult. I can’t get over the ingrained response that there’s something wrong with this kind of food. It tastes great, but unlike with sex, I can’t quite let myself go all the way.

Missed call from the Boy when we come home. I check the clock and figure it’s too late to ring back; anyway, I’m not long for the waking world. I bid J and his lady goodnight and toddle off to bed.

She is a screamer.

mercredi, le 26 janvier

I woke up in a right mood. J threw the phone in my lap on his way out the door. ‘If you’re not going to ring your man, ring your mum,’ he said. ‘And when I come back, either be somewhere else or be smiling.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mum let the call go to the answerphone before picking up. ‘Hello, honey,’ she said brightly. ‘What are you doing? I’ve just come back from a date, would you believe.’ I made a gagging noise. ‘He’s a lovely man, I’ll have you know.’ I gagged harder.

‘I’ve been thinking about things since you and Daddy told me your news. It’s really a huge life change, you know. Puts things in perspective.’

‘Oh, darling, don’t take it too much to heart,’ Mum sighs. ‘It was coming for a very long time.’

‘Yes, but it’s got me thinking about family and things. Heritage. Stuff like that. I’ve been thinking about going back to kosher.’

Mum chokes on a laugh. ‘Are you kidding? Please tell me you’re kidding. Unless of course you’ve met a single doctor on holiday by the name of Cohen, in which case tell me you’re not kidding.’

‘I haven’t met a nice boy. I’m not kidding. I’ve thought about it, and I’m serious.’

‘Please, think about it some more before doing anything rash. When was the last time you were in shul?’

‘Er, some time ago.’ As in when Wet Wet Wet were in the charts and I thought blow-dried hairspray was a good look. ‘But don’t you think I should go back?’

‘Religion isn’t something you pick up and put down like a fashion. People die for these things. Plus you love shellfish and going out on Friday nights. What are you going to eat there if you go kosher? Seaweed?’

I hadn’t thought of that. ‘I won’t miss the food,’ I say. ‘Besides prawn crackers smell of foreskin.’

‘The fact you know that would tend to indicate this isn’t a good idea, honey.’

jeudi, le 27 janvier

I try ringing Dad and reach his answerphone. I check the clock. Surely he should be home from work by now, maybe settling in front of the news with a bite to eat? ‘He’s probably out with a lady,’ J says. ‘Or in.’

‘Ugh, don’t say that. It chills me to the bone to think of my parents screwing other people. Thinking of them having sex with each other was hard enough.’

‘They’re grown-ups too, Boo. They’re allowed a sex life.’

‘But do they have to make it so obvious?’

‘Goes with the territory,’ J says. ‘I’ve had longer to get used to it.’ His parents split before his first birthday and J was raised by his mother. They lived off benefits and the generosity of others while she trained to be a nurse. His father was rarely in the picture, if at all.

‘I bet your mother doesn’t tell you about her dates. It’s as if she thinks we’re sisters now instead of mother and daughter.’

‘No,’ J says, idly picking at his nails. ‘She tells me about her multiple orgasms.’

‘Okay, you have officially won the Creepy and Wrong Award for the day.’

J smiled. ‘Was it even a competition?’

samedi, le 29 janvier

Tomás’s brother owns the restaurant he works in. Is good because Tomás usually has something extra sent out for us that doesn’t make it to the bill. I’ve already learned the Spanish for ‘You don’t have to pay’ (No tiene que pagar). Is bad because Tomás’s brother is hot. Distractingly so. Enough to turn a girl’s mind away from her nominal boyfriend.

It makes me feel a touch of sympathy for Tomás, who is lovely and kind and never in a million years would I find him physically attractive. To grow up in the shadow of someone who is … well, let’s not mince words here, godlike, must be frustrating.

Of course, Tomás does have one up so far: for all the smouldering looks the brother and I have exchanged, he does not speak or understand very much English. I may have to put a little more work into my study. Although asking Tomás what the Spanish is for ‘Your brother is so fucking fit’ might not be a good idea.

lundi, le 31 janvier

Odd, odd conversation with the Boy. Something has clearly unsettled him – Susie, I’ll bet, or some other bit of brainless fluff – and all he does is ask me, over and over again, if I care about him (yes, or, if I’m being honest, sometimes) and if I’m sure (as far as I’m willing to tell him, yes). I ask if he’s okay. He doesn’t answer, just says ‘Good, because if anything ever happens – if anyone ever rings you about something weird – I just want to know …’

Well, whatever. But it puts an odd thought into my head. What will happen if and when the Boy and I split up for good? He was relatively low-key about our last breakup: of course he went and told anyone who’d listen what a rotten human being I am, but at least he didn’t tell everyone everything. For instance, Magnus is not aware, as far as I know, of my former profession. But I shudder to think what might happen if he did tell.

It frightens me so much that I’m a shaking wreck when J comes home. ‘I want to ask you to make me a promise,’ I say to him. ‘If anyone ever rings here, anyone you don’t know I know, don’t tell them I’m here. Don’t let on you even know me.’

‘Are you in trouble?’ J says, taking my elbow and leading me to the sofa. ‘Because I hope you know that I will support you whatever—’

And I suddenly realise how ludicrous this is, worrying about such stupid things to someone who’s been an addict, been a drugs dealer, been to prison. To someone who literally hit rock bottom – thankfully, before he died – my problems are small beer.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing … it’s nothing that level of serious. I’m not ready to tell you yet.’ It’s not because I think he would object, disappear from my life, or judge me. He’s been honest about his past and expects nothing in return; I’m just picking the moment.

I talk around the subject, drop oblique hints, and decide to leave it for another day.

J smiles gently. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ he says. ‘And remember, you’re my cousin. Whatever happens, I got your back.’

Dear Belle

Dear Belle,

I have found a stash of porn under my girlfriend’s bed. I can’t mention it because I shouldn’t have been so nosy. But looking at the guys whom I presume she is fantasising over has left me feeling a little inadequate in the bedroom department, and a bit demeaned. Can you give me some tips about how to make myself into her dream porn pin-up?

Dear Double Standard,

You haven’t said so, but I’m assuming you’re the man in a hetero relationship.

In which case, HELLO? You probably download more porn in a week than she’s ever seen in her entire life. Do you think she feels entirely comfortable with the thought of her man ogling a picture of some double-D implanted ‘model’ being fisted in both holes?

Porn is fantasy and (usually) strictly that. No one expects to win an Oscar, but I bet you’ve practised an acceptance speech at some point, am I right? Porn is on the same level. And often, it’s so overtly out of the realm of normal human experience that no one – not even the consumer, provided they’re normal – expects the things that happen in porn to come to pass. In fact, I believe porn is far less damaging to your self-image than glossy magazines, because nothing in porn expects you to actually be Jenna Jameson, whereas every shot of every seventeen-year-old model (male and female) advertising wrinkle cream demands a standard that can never, ever be met in the real world.

You’ve nothing to fear, and I wouldn’t mention it to her unless she does first. Unless she starts hanging out with Ron Jeremy, in which case I would worry.

Dear Belle,

I am plagued by desire for a lover to write Shakespeare’s sonnets all over my body during foreplay. The trouble is I always go for hard guys who wouldn’t be caught dead reading poetry and get a bit snippy when I bring out my Arden edition. Can you suggest some poetry that would not compromise my lovers’ masculinity?

Dear Sei Shônagon,

Have you considered Philip Larkin? Even the densest knuckle-dragger can probably spell ‘fuck’.

mardi, le 1 février

Oh, for fuck’s sake! So that’s what the Boy was on about last night? That’s what had me so worried?

Apparently Susie’s chucked him. He must be worried she’ll contact me or something, and then his world will truly come crashing down. Well, let it come if that’s what happens. I’m ready for it.

mercredi, le 2 février

Tomás is clearly working on expanding his English vocabulary, just as I am trying to get to grips with a Spanish one. So maybe he’s just trying out different words to see how they sound – even if the results aren’t entirely accurate.

Today he called me ‘wholesome’.

I know, I’m just as surprised.

jeudi, le 3 février

Belle’s Guide to Your Holidays, part 1: Shopping

From this point on, you must resolve to never spend money on holiday again. Apart from the essentials, of course – room, board and condoms. This is for the simple reason that all products for sale in the coastal regions of the world have no use.

Take, for instance, the attractive bottle stopper tastefully emblazoned with the name of your holiday destination. So perfect as a memento of your trip. So useful for saving the remains of a bottle of wine. Sorry to burst your bubble, but national binge drinking trends show we haven’t had leftover wine since rationing ended. Plus, used wine always smells of bread and tastes of dishwater the next day. The wisest move you could make would be to leave that silly thing gathering dust on a shop shelf rather than your own.

Other typical holiday purchases are so ludicrous in their intentions that I think we deserve a collective MBE for services to optimism. But be honest – you’ll never wear that sarong back in Huddersfield, straw bags only go with swimming costumes, and the local aperitif tastes of petrol. Also, the real currency exchange rate is nothing like the quick and dirty approximation you’ve been using while making these purchases, and you’ll return home to find not only have you paid seventeen quid for a shot glass that can’t even go in the dishwasher, but that the people at NatWest know it.

The tourist shop itself is a masterpiece of modern capitalism. Seeking an authentic native experience there is something akin to doing your weekly shop at Fortnum and Mason. The grumpy harridan at the till is no more selling lovingly handcrafted local antiques than Asda is. You know how cringe-worthy it is to see a group of tourists stumbling out of a Wee Scotland Shoppe on Regent Street, bags bursting with tartan tablecloths? Think of those poor souls and step away from the tchotchkes.

And whatever you do, however you choose to spend your money while on holiday, do not have a tattoo or piercing done. At least you can be rid of a regrettable T-shirt easily.

samedi, le 5 février

The tourist boat outing was my birthday present to J. Twice-daily tours out in the Gulf, no guarantee of seeing dolphins but a possibility. It reminded me of going to Greenwich with Magnus. The sort of thing you only do when someone else buys the trip for you, so I did.

The sky was blue, bright and heavy. The rows of grey fold-down seats were empty. There was a woman standing near the rail, looking down, watching the bow cut through the water. She smiled at me. J was busy taking photos with his hands; neither of us had a camera. ‘Man, I should have brought a camera!’ Then a few minutes later: ‘Damn!’

The woman was wearing a flimsy dress and an open coat. I knew that dress from Topshop last year, knew she had to be British, too. She said her name was Vic.

‘Aren’t you hot in that?’ I asked.

‘Not really,’ she said. I reflexively looked at her chest. Large breasts, and no, I couldn’t see her nipples. She caught me and laughed. I smiled and shrugged. She wasn’t embarrassed.

Vic stepped off with us at the end of the two hours and we three walked together as far as the turnstiles. She mentioned her hotel name and room number, and I thought she was friendly. J wanted to go for a meal where Tomás worked, so we did, and I promptly forgot her.

mercredi, le 9 février

Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh. They say knowledge is power but I’m not convinced. Discovered an email the Boy sent to Susie today, after an apparent attempt at reconciliation:

oh, little lass, hope the smell of me on your pillow convinces you to open your heart and your loins again. [Loins?? Cripes.] when are you coming to visit? Cannot forget the memory of you greedily ridding me [sic.]. You will have to help me get fit again, in any way you choose.

Went for a run on the beach. On the way back could see my footprints from the way out, the depth and vigour of them, each a well waiting to be filled with unspoken hatred.

samedi, le 12 février

J and Tomás went night fishing together. I said I wasn’t feeling up to it but really I had sort of had it with practising my broken Spanish for an evening. I was bored and restless and decided to go to one of the hated tourist bars instead. I perched on a stool and wondered when my going-out uniform of tight jeans and silky top started to look too conservative. Everyone around me was pouring out of Day-Glo bikinis.

Vic, the lady from the boat, was there. I didn’t recognise her at first, the hair was different, worn up. She smiled and talked to the man next to her. She had a wedding ring, he didn’t. Friend? Lover? Husband? I lay across two empty seats, head on one hand. Vic looked at me and smiled. We started chatting. The man looked dejected – not her husband, then. Nothing to worry about, she giggled at him, just catching up on girl talk.

‘I thought I recognised you.’

‘You never rang.’

‘Would it help if I said you looked fantastic?’

‘Maybe.’

‘And your handbag is great, too.’

Once upon a time I swore I would never sleep with a married person, but time and a job as a call girl changed that. And tonight I was feeling turned on and mildly malicious. The Boy’s words to Susie running a circuit in my head: cannot forget the memory of you greedily ridding me. Well, great, thanks to that email I’ll never forget it, either.

I was tired of reading about the Boy’s conquests. Tired of his ringing up every night hinting about my helping with the air fare. I never asked him to come.

I was feeling no sympathy for men, no quarter for their pathetic teenaged fantasies and clunky seduction techniques. The obvious befuddlement on the man’s face when Vic made it clear she’d rather be talking to me than having his awkward, sweaty palm travelling up her skirt – priceless. Sorry, mate, I grinned at myself. You’re not even going to get a look in here. She’s going home with me. When half the group go back to their rooms and the other half go out clubbing, you’ll lose her in the crowd, and she’s going home with me.

Clubbing on holiday is the antithesis of Englishness, the polar opposite of the pub. The mating rituals that evolved over millennia – namely, talking about work over a pint – just won’t work. It’s a Darwinian world, see, and those skills are not valid after last orders. Here’s why.

• Move away from the timid banter and engorge your glands, because you’re going to have to learn to display, and that means having upper and lower limbs that can move simultaneously.

• Credit to those of you who are trying. Standing in the corner holding your drinks. Looking down the barmaid’s top when you think she doesn’t notice. Lurching around to half a Robbie Williams song, then launching yourself at the next female who walks past. You are, at least, in the arena. But you brought the wrong weapons entirely.

• But avoid becoming the saddo who strikes a ludicrous pose and gyrates towards groups of women, hoping to grind his hips with a gaggle of lovelies. Just between you and me, I wouldn’t do that. Your desperation precedes you. Next time, love, try to try without looking like you’re trying. Let them come to you instead.

• Doesn’t matter, in the end. You have a cheap hotel room and lines she’s heard a thousand times before. I have the house, the energy, and the moves on the dance floor. Not to mention the tongue.

• Oh, and the clothes? I would have felt bad about it, but you turned up in a brown shirt and dumpy loose-fit jeans. You had desperation written all over your face. I was dressed for the beach and looked like freedom. It was too easy.

• Here how it’s done: throw my bag at the corner table and hit the dance floor. Eyes closed, loud music, pretend there’s no one watching. Once you get to the club, it’s too late to impress with chatter. It’s all about raw sex appeal. And not giving a fuck about getting a fuck.

I cornered the DJ and made a few requests. He played one, but that was enough. It was my dance. The song wasn’t even half over before she found me and grabbed my shoulder.

‘I was looking for you.’

‘You found me.’

‘You like to dance?’

‘Fucking love to.’

I pushed her against the wall and kissed her neck. She laughed and grabbed my hips. We walked hand in hand to the next room and started kissing outside the ladies’ toilet. Her breath tasted of smoke and Guinness. ‘You don’t see that every day,’ I heard a man shout at his friend. That’s a pity for you, sir, but I do my best.

They started spinning a tune she liked. Vic made to rush back to the other room. ‘One song,’ I said. ‘Then we’re going home.’

We danced together. Kissing, grabbing, and generally making a scene. Her top was low-cut, showing impressive cleavage. I ran a finger along her neck, down into that crevasse. She had a tiny tattoo on one shoulder. Vic was narrowly built under those curves, and my arms went all the way round her. Below that her hips flared out, ample and fine. She was laughing, falling over, and certainly drunk. I wondered what she was after, and thought about what I knew: two children, a mortgage, a husband who was only in it for the kids now. Decided it was probably what I would have done, if I was her, if it was my holiday.

‘You aren’t scared, are you?’

‘Women don’t scare me.’

‘I didn’t think so. Just making certain.’

I closed the door softly, but knew from the absence of lights that J was still out. ‘A shower?’ I asked. ‘I know I need one.’ My clothes were a heap on the floor before she even had her shoes off. The bathroom was small with large mirrors.

Vic came in a few minutes later. She was naked and glorious. ‘Mind if I join you?’ Of course I didn’t. I asked if she wanted a cooler shower – I like it very hot. She said she was fine. There was a squeezy bottle of shower gel, I squirted some out, and soaped her.

She looked better with her clothes off. She wouldn’t stop kissing me. I held her face and it was small, fine-jawed; I wondered if it felt strange to her, having a woman’s face so close to her own. My tongue felt every inch of her face, neck, shoulders. Her ears were tiny and soft. Closer now, in the light, I could see the tattoo on her shoulder was a lily. Why a lily? It didn’t seem the time to ask. I licked down to her chest. She had the kind of nipples that stand right up, the kind perfect for nibbling.

Water and steam filled the room quickly. On my knees I soaped her torso, those unbelievable breasts, So heavy they slid out of my hands. The tiny scar inside her hip, the gently purple-grey stretch marks. Her legs were long and still thin. I was jealous and aroused at the same time. She had natural pubic hair, though, and it spread through her inner thighs. Vic pulled my hair, but I stayed down. Spread her legs and felt her with a finger. Her labia were dark and prominent, she was starting to swell and flush. I washed her carefully. Just touching, just exploring. Bent down so low I could see her reflection alone in the mirror. Her face was a picture, a mixture of surprise, curiosity and pleasure.

‘Look at me.’

‘I am.’

‘What colour are my eyes?’

‘They’re perfect.’

We dried each other and went to bed. She was small and girlish, and looked years younger without the makeup. I always feel conscious of looking like a teenager even now. I knelt between her legs and she raised her hips towards me, a question in her eyes. She was willing and ready, but what now? She said it was her first time with a woman.

Between her legs, I had a strange drunken flash, a sort of gynaecological moment. I was about to screw someone’s mother. Hadn’t done that before, not to my knowledge. A new milestone. Then the moment passed, and I was in that hairy thicket, and her hands were at my hair again, but leading me down instead of up.

What can I say? This isn’t a sex education course. You know what’s down there and what to do. Or maybe you don’t, and are looking for pointers. Afraid I can’t give you many. Sorry, but it’s just that I was born with the equipment and have been test-driving my own for some time now. Clit-oral stimulation, oral pleasure? Not even the introduction. I can make a woman come with my pinky, the back of her knee and a well-timed exhale. You’d be carpet-bombing her pussy for days with no result.

If it makes you feel any better, I truly do believe that men should be allowed to give other men blowjobs on a strictly friends basis. After all, how could a woman really know how a man wants it?

‘Don’t you ever leave me.’ The things we girls say when we’re drunk.

I smiled. ‘I’m right here.’

‘What about tomorrow?’

‘We’ll see about tomorrow when it comes.’

She was happy to kiss me, she seemed fascinated by my breasts, far smaller than hers. She asked me to show her how I masturbated and looked at my cunt for ages. ‘I want to see how you look when you come,’ she said, and I laughed.

We held each other for a long time, though it was late and we were both tired. Her legs were wrapped round my left one; my right hand was buried in her thick hair. She smelled dark and warm like mushrooms. The moisture between her legs was dripping down the back of my thigh.

Eventually we went to sleep, spooning together in the bed. It was warmer in the room than she liked, so the covers were off. When morning came, I got up to shower and boiled the kettle. When I came back she was still half asleep.

‘Coffee or tea?’ I asked.

‘Is there real milk?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll have tea, please.’

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I watched her drink the hot tea in tiny sips. She reached over and put the television on. Cartoons and news. I was worried about her turning up at the hotel and the children waiting for her. Watching their mum stagger in hung over, hair in all directions, would probably scar them for life. Then again, it was a holiday.