The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (11 page)

Nevertheless, even the most reluctant leopard may exchange her stole, and I have given some thought to what good deeds and resolutions I could enact in the next twelve months.

It is hereby resolved that I will never buy an own‐brand bottle of lube again. Never. I believe there is some chance of keeping this one.

dimanche, le 28 decembre

Ah, the bosom of home. So comforting. So convivial.

So stiflingly the same as it is every year. I'm off down south again, before Mum notices the dent in the side of the car.

lundi, le 29 decembre

The phone rings.

Me: 'Hello?'

Manager (for it is she): 'Darling, are you asleep?'

'Urn, no?'

'Oh riiiight. You just sound so relaxed. I think to myself, I 84

am so relaxed, but you are always much more relaxed than me. Do you read a lot?' 'Urn, yes?'

'That would be why, then. People who read are so relaxed.

Anyway, I have a booking for you right away. I don't know what it is all of a sudden, but everyone has gone mad for you.' They say that madames are known to play favourites with the girls, promoting some more heavily than others according to personal whim, but I have not yet noticed this. The business seems to have up weeks when I'm turning down offers and down weeks when I wonder if there'll be anyone at all. But the manager always seems uniformly businesslike.

'Urn, good?'

'Verrrrrry good, darling. I will text you the details. Enjoy your book.'

I had to take a different minicab from usual. The new driver did not endear himself ‐ first he started going east, then seemed to be making a very elaborate loop that took in most of Islington. I was on the phone to A4 and only paying scant attention to the road.

Twenty minutes later, when we turned back on to a road three blocks south of my house, I exploded. 'I could have walked here faster!'

'Yes, well, traffic, this time of night,' he said.

I looked right, then left. There were no cars in either direction.

'I can't believe this.' At this rate, I reckoned I'd be ten minutes late and rang to let the agency know.

South of Hyde Park, he turned into a mile‐long queue of traffic even I would have known to avoid. 'Excuse me, do you know where you're going?'

'Of course.'

'Ha. I'm running late for a meeting.' You know, the sort you go to in the middle of the night wearing lace‐top holdups and matching bra and knickers under a flimsy dress.

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'You know a better way to get there?' he sniffed. 'No, but it's not my job to.'

'The traffic, this time of night, there's nothing I can do about it.'

'Nonsense. You could have taken any of a dozen other routes.

You drive me around my own neighbourhood for twenty minutes?

And turn straight into gridlock? Come on, I wasn't born yesterday.'

He checked his mirror to confirm this was, indeed, true. 'Like I say, there's nothing I can do.'

'An apology would be nice.' No reply. We sat in silence for ten minutes while the traffic crawled along. I fumed and boiled and generally stewed. 'Can you just let me out?'

'Sure, lady, whatever.' I got out of the taxi without paying and stepped into solid traffic. We had just passed a minicab stand at the top of North End Road; I headed straight for it. The second driver had me at the appointment in five minutes for the bargain price of four quid, so I tipped another six.

Luckily the client was very understanding and offered me a drink. I love English archetypes: public schoolboy, thirties, MD of his father's company. The sort of person who says 'chin chin'

before a drink. Fan of Boris Johnson. I stripped down to underwear at the bottom of the stairs and he watched me slowly walk up.

I paused at the top of the steps, turned and looked over my shoulder. 'So what do you want to do?'

'I want to make love to you.'

'Like the full‐on Barry White kind?'

'Oh yes.' We wrestled in the bedsheets for the better part of an hour. His hair was soft and thick and smelled slightly metallic.

'What can I do to make you come?'

'It's very complicated. We'd be here all night.' I don't come with clients. Some people don't kiss, which I think is rubbish. It's just lips after all. But orgasms I save for some-86

one else. This isn't difficult ‐ I've never reached orgasm too easily.

'That sounds ideal.'

'Yes, but do you have a drill press and six goats? Also, the planets are not in the correct alignment.'

'Fair dues. I'll know for next time.' He slipped me his card on the way out, said he wanted to meet for a drink sometime. 'The ball is in your court,' he said, as I tripped down his steps to the waiting taxi. In the staccato beams of the streetlights through the car windows, I peeked at the card. Pink and green, engraved, fashionable font, and would have been tempted if I was single, though I can't imagine how a couple that met in such a situation would explain it to their friends.

'I do not like his type,' the manager said when 1 rang her on the way home. 'Surely he will write a report.' There are websites dedicated to punters reviewing the charms of various escorts, and even what you might think was a successful encounter does not guarantee a positive review. If only we could turn round and review them right back.

The cabbie circled a random block in Kensington for the third time. They must think I don't notice.

'So what was he like?'

'Perfect gentleman, actually.' A disbelieving snort down the other end of the phone. 'Had him wrapped round my little finger.'

Very quickly I got into the habit of saying that whether it was true or not. I don't want her to worry and I don't want to fall out of favour.

mardi, le 30 decembre

'There is a client, he wants to pee on you,' the manager said. 1

swear if someone ever got hold of transcripts of my phone calls, they'd probably think I was a ‐ oh wait, I am.

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'He wants to what?' I asked, knowing very well what she said.

'Pee. On you. Don't worry, darling, not in your clothes. You will be in a bath.' 'A bath of what? Urine?' 'No, just a normal bath.'

I sighed weakly. 'You know I don't do degradation.' Not at work, at any rate. I know it sounds odd, but even when W was treating me worst, I knew it was because he cared. I'd be reluctant to let a stranger do anything similar.

'Oh, no, not like that at all, darling,' she said. 'He doesn't want you to be degraded. He wants to pee on a girl who enjoys it.'

Eventually I agreed, but only with a significant mark‐up in the usual fee. The client was rather nice and seemed exceedingly shy.

We talked for a little while and had a drink ‐spirits for me and a large beer for him. The better to fill the bladder with, I suppose.

When it came time to do the deed I stripped him from the waist down, got all my kit off and knelt in an empty bathtub.

He looked at me, looked at the wall above me and sighed.

Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. I was starting to get cold. 'Is everything okay?' I asked.

'It's not going to happen. I'm too turned on,' he said. He looked down again. 'If I look at you, I'll get hard. If I look away, I'll think of what's going to happen, and get hard.'

'Try thinking of something that doesn't turn you on.'

'Such as?'

'Your mother shopping for underwear for you. With you in tow.

Aged thirty‐five.' He started to laugh. I felt the first trickle hit my neck, roll down my breasts.

Afterwards I showered while he watched me. He started to make vague shy‐guy noises as I dried my hair and dressed. 'Are you okay?' I asked.

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'I think I have some more,' he said, blushing, gesturing towards his knob. 'You don't have to say yes, but I don't suppose I could put it in a glass and—'

'Er, no, thank you,' I said. 'Health and safety and all that.'

'Some people drink it for their health,' he offered.

'Yes, and some people think an all‐meat diet is good for you.' I put my coat on and kissed him on the cheek. 'Perhaps another time, when I've had more warning.'

mercredi, le 31 decembre

In London alone for New Year's Eve.

The Boy was supposed to visit ‐ at least that's what I was told.

Last night he rang after midnight to say he couldn't come up. In fact, he had gone skiing, perhaps I could fly out and join him instead? With less than twelve hours' notice. On 31 December.

I hadn't even known he was on holiday. Why couldn't he get here? Because it would be too expensive to change his ticket, of course. I'm amazed that someone who professes so little ready cash can throw a pile together to hit the European slopes but not to see in the New Year with his girl. Nevertheless I scoured the web to see if by some miracle I could be waking up in France. BA were booking no flights before 2 January. It was even too last-minute for Lastminute.com.

So I regretfully declined. He didn't seem that bothered, to be honest. Suspicious? Of course. His travel companion on this little jaunt is none other than the housemate who hates me.

Went into town for lunch, a haircut and to wander round the V8cA. I spied with my little eye . . .

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Everyone who got on the tube at King's Cross got off at Knightsbridge, leaving the crowded carriages virtually empty.

A man walking two dogs ‐ one huge rottweiler, one tiny pug.

They were both burly, black‐coated, and the rott took one step to every three of the pug's.

An adolescent girl tucking in to salmon and cream cheese bagel, with chips.

Three men walking together in matching black knitted caps.

And three girls coming the other way in mismatching pink knitted scarves.

On Exhibition Road, just outside the Natural History Museum, leaves from this autumn have been mashed by thousands of tyres to leave an orange‐gold pattern in the street.

90

Janvier

91

H - J

H is for Hobbyist

A hobbyist is a man who is a habitual user of escort services. These range from the experienced and infinitely charming high tipper to the boorish tightwad who compares you unfavourably to every other prostitute he's been with. Be sure to treat every hobbyist as if he is the former. They will most likely write a report on you.

I is for Invisibility

Don't stand in the lobby of a hotel on the way out talking to your manager about the customer and her cut of the take. I've seen people do it; it's horrid.

What are you waiting for, hordes of adoring fans? Get out, get a cab, go home. Be discreet.

J is for Jealousy

When a regular customer ‐ especially one you like or who tips well ‐ moves on to another girl or otherwise inexplicably drops you, take it in your stride.

They're not paying for sex because they want a relationship, silly. There will be others. There always are.

J is also for Jet Set

Very few girls will travel outside a hundred‐mile radius on a regular basis. A repeat client may well offer to take you around the world on his yacht, but don't be disappointed if it never materialises. Even when they're paying for the sex, men are apt to inflate their income and connections to impress and amuse you, so don't count your frequent flier miles before they hatch.

92

jeudi, le 1 janvier

N and I met in town last night for mutual holidaytide mis-anthropy. I hate going out on New Year's, but being alone is infinitely worse. N's preferred tipple these days is Bailey's on ice, which is virtually pudding in a glass. As I lifted my drink, a man we knew pushed past, spilling half of it on my jeans. 'What's her problem?' I sniffed.

'Nothing a fortnight in a Turkish brothel wouldn't fix,' N said.

Thus inspired, we spent the rest of the evening compiling a list of people whose attitudes we thought would be much improved by such a holiday:

Naomi Campbell

Penelope Keith

Princess Anne

Cherie Stair

Jordon (though she may actually enjoy it)

Sam Fox;

Blair' s Babes

(E)liz(abeth) Hurley

Lady Victoria Hervey

Myleene Klass

any Jagger ex or offspring

Theresa May

Tara Palmer Tompkinson

Sophie Ellis Bextor

any blonde for whom the descriptors ' It

'

Girl and ' double-barrell '

ed apply

93

vendredi, le 2 janvier

Regarding orgasms at work:

I don't. I don't equate number of orgasms with the level of enjoyment of sex, nor good sex with the ability to produce an orgasm. At the age of nineteen, if I remember the person and the conversation correctly, I realised that sex was about the quality of your enjoyment and that doesn't always mean coming.

On the other hand, I also remember that conversation largely consisting of comparing experiences with dropping acid.

Nevertheless, the realisation that sex is just an end in itself stayed with me.

Let's be honest, this is a customer service position, not a self-fulfilment odyssey.

They're paying for their orgasm, not mine. Plenty of the men ‐

more than you might think ‐ never even come at all. They never imply it's a failure on my part. Sometimes they're just after human contact, a warm body, an erotic embrace. Most times, come to think of it.