The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (13 page)

I made an executive decision and dragged us outside to flag down a black cab. 'How much is this going to cost us?' the Boy asked.

'Don't worry, I'll cover it,' I said. He leaned in to quiz the driver himself. 'Oh, come on, you silly,' I scolded, bundling him into the cab.

I directed the driver first to an appropriate bank to withdraw cash. The Boy was sulking when I got back in the car. 'The meter went back on while we were waiting,' he grumbled. 'Probably added at least a pound to the fare.'

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I wasn't bothered. 'He was waiting a couple of minutes,' I said.

Also, having grabbed a black cab instead of a minicab, I was fairly certain that ‐ whatever the fare ‐ he wouldn't try to drive us hither and yon. I live out in the relative sticks and £40 round trips into town are not unheard of. In the course of work, naturally it's an expense the client covers. Considering the time and the trip, if we got in for around £20 I'd be grateful.

The Boy pouted, withdrew his hand from mine and sulked out the window.

When we were about two miles from home, he said, 'I think we should get out here, we're close enough.' The meter had just ticked over £20, but I was in heels and uninterested in spending half an hour in the cold when we could be in bed making sweet lurve.

I looked at him sharply. 'If you want to get out and walk, I won't stop you.' I had no intention of going anywhere. This was his birthday, my treat, and what's money compared to being home in each other's arms?

The light turned green. The driver nervously checked his mirror. 'Urn, are you getting out here, mate?' he asked.

'No.' The Boy crossed his arms and sunk lower in the seat.

We were at mine inside five minutes, safe and sound. Mortified at the scene, I tipped the driver £3. We walked up the steps. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. 'Well,' I said.

'Well.'

'Are you going to apologise? Because I am livid.'

'I can't believe you let him fleece you like that.'

'I can't believe you acted like that. It's only money.'

'It's a lot of money.'

'It's my money to spend, and I want to spend it on getting us home together. It's no more than a round at the pub would have cost.'

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Cue a night‐long argument in which, ironically, the whore bears the standard for Money is Meaningless, while her boyfriend recounts favours done and expenses incurred by him throughout the past year. If he truly wants to change careers perhaps accounting would suit. It ended rather abruptly with me writing a cheque for something approaching my hourly fee and shoving it into his hand. 'Will that do?' I asked. 'Does that make you happier?'

He stormed off to chat up the neighbour and palpate her shinier, better techno toys. There is no worse sound than the greedy giggles of a redhead displaying a PDA in juxtaposition with her cleavage.

I spent the better part of an hour scanning train schedules.

samedi, le 10 janvier

We were exhausted from arguing all night. He had a train to make at London Bridge and I was meeting friends, so we left the house at the same time. At the tube station, we sat with an empty seat between us. He pored over a map of London pointlessly.

A Northern Line tube arrived. The carriages near our end were empty. I jogged up and hopped on. The doors remained ajar for a few moments. I sat and looked around ‐he hadn't followed me on.

Popped my head out the door. The Boy wasn't there. The doors closed.

I sat down again, put my head on the large bag in my lap, sighed. A couple of stops passed. People crowded in, some groups, talking. I got off to change at Euston and momentarily thought about going back. No, I figured, he'd be long gone. But I stood on the platform, waited through a few arriving trains, just in case.

After ten minutes I gave up and got on a train. Sat down opposite a young Asian man, a girl

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wearing a headscarf and headphones, and a bored‐looking blonde with her shopping.

Just before London Bridge a face popped in front of mine. I jumped. It was him. 1 was surprised, didn't know what to say. This was obviously the wrong reaction.

'Oh, never mind,' he said, going to stand by the door.

'Where did you come from?' I asked.

'What do you mean? I've been here all along.'

'On this train? On this carriage?'

'Yes.' He sniffed, held the handrail, looked out the window as the train slowed into the tube station. 'Thanks for screaming. Now everyone thinks I'm a mugger or something.'

'I didn't scream. You just startled me. Are you sure you were on this train? You can't have been.'

'I was standing right next to you the whole way.'

'No, I looked around. I waited at Euston. You can't have been.'

He stepped off the train, on to the platform. A stream of people parted to flow around him. 'If you want to talk to me, get off and talk to me.'

I sat down again. 'I can't. If you want to talk to me, get on.'

'No, you get off.'

The doors started to close. I said his name, strained, my voice sharp and high. 'Don't be stupid. Come on.'

The doors closed, we pulled away. Last time I saw the Boy he was waving.

I sighed. The train was almost empty. The blonde woman with the bags leaned across. 'He was lying to you,' she said. 'He got on the tube at Bank.'

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dimanche, le 11 janvier

Anal sex is the new black.

Hands up if you remember when big‐name porn stars didn't go there, when no one said it out loud, when the only people who made regular trips up the poop chute were gay men and prostate examiners. A man who suggested his wife grab her ankles and take it like a choirboy was probably courting divorce, or at the very least burnt suppers for a month.

As with the mass amateurisation of everything, though, anal has gone mainstream in a big way. Girls who used to ask whether you can go down on a boy and still be 'technically' a virgin now wonder whether opening the back door still leaves you theoretically pure.

Hurrah, I say, because anal's wonderful. Then again I had the benefit of being introduced to the practice gently and considerately over a matter of weeks, by a man whose desire for me to be able to take him inspired the necessary patience to persevere. He started with massaging and stimulating the anus, then moved on to inserting his own well‐lubed fingers. It wasn't long before small vibes were introduced. When we finally got to the main event, I was begging him to do it.

And other folks must be catching on too, because simply everyone does it these days. By the time it was mentioned on
Sex
and the City,
all my friends shrugged. 'So what?' they said. 'We've been doing that for yonks.'

I fully anticipate by next year Charlotte Church will have a glittery T‐shirt that reads 'My Barbie takes it up the shit‐hole'.

Maybe I should make one and send it to her.

Yes, anal. The new black. Out there is not so out there any more. Last night N and I were perusing a top‐shelf mag he picked up for me, one page of which featured a woman of 107

grandmother‐age being fisted in both holes. And she was smiling.

I wasn't even phased. Few things shock me, really. But there is one that always gets to me ‐ every time.

I know anal sex is the new black, because my bloody mother just rang to talk about it.

But so long as I had her on the phone I thought I could break the news about the Boy. To her credit, she didn't say a thing until I was finished. 'Poor little creature,' she said, and it was just at that moment I felt the first tears dropping. Yes. Poor, poor me.

What luck I have such a sympathetic mother. Who then made me wait on the line as she turned to tell the whole story to my father, verbatim.

They agreed I should go home for a couple of days. I was powerless to argue.

lundi, le 12 janvier

My head fell further towards the surface of the table. I didn't want the steaming mug of tea in my hands. I didn't want breakfast. My mother sighed. She obviously wanted to say something. 'I suppose at least each failed relationship raises my standards for the next one,' I grumbled.

'Honey, don't you worry that some day your standards will get so high no one will satisfy them?'

If I had the energy to lift my forehead off the rim of the mug, I would have given her the evil eye to end all evil eyes, I don't even know why it happened,' I groaned. 'I mean, I know why it happened, but not globally why.'

Father rattled his paper and looked concerned. 'Don't worry, sweetheart,' he said. 'He was probably seeing some other girl and just looking for a reason to end it.'

'Oh, that helps very much, ta.'

Come to think of it, maybe he was. Oh, there were a few 108

times, a few texts, a few phone calls that seemed odd at the time.

And one big thing, several months back. You never surprise me, he used to say. He said it often. Usually when we were in the throes of a gentle argument, when my attitude rubbed up against his ego and the first word someone said wrong threatened to tip everything into oblivion. You never surprise me, he'd say, and anticipating the coming list of Things I Have Done Wrong in the Last Year, I would go to another room and disconnect: closed door, television, toilet, whatever it takes. I already knew the list off by heart. It ranged from a brief period in which I went back to an ex, to less concrete items like whether or not I introduced him to other people as my boyfriend or as just a friend. Headphones on. One hour of silence would make him apologise.

I was in an expansive mood one morning in December. The sun was just coming up and, for reasons I cannot put a finger on, I woke with the birds. Never surprise you? We'll see. I walked down to the Kentish Town train station and waited for a train on the southbound platform.

A taxi dropped me at his doorstep at the other end. The air was damp and smelled salty. It was still before nine in the morning.

The back door is usually unlocked and I didn't want to wake his housemate. I crept up the stairs and put a hand on the handle of his door.

Turned. No luck. Turned harder. Regency house; sometimes the weather makes the fixtures stick. No. Locked. I tapped on the door. Already my heart was sinking.

There was a noise of whispering inside. The creaking bed.

'Hello?' came a whisper from the other side of the door. His voice.

'It's me,' I said.

'Oh.' More muffled talking.

'Urn, can you let me in?'

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'Wait in the back garden. I'll meet you there.' Heart sinking? It was obliterated. My stomach took up residence somewhere in the middle of my throat. 'What's going on?' I squeaked.

'Can you go outside?' he said, only slightly louder. There was more noise from inside the room.

'No,' I said, raising my voice. 'Let me in.' He came outside ‐ very quickly. Shut the door behind him firmly. I lunged for the door.

He held me off easily.

'For goodness sake ‐ don't embarrass me,' he said. His eyes pleaded with me.

No way, I thought. There's someone in there. But there was no getting past him. He started to walk down the stairs, taking me, struggling, with him.

'What the hell is going on?' I shrieked. I could hear the other bedroom doors in the house opening, and his housemates coming out to see what was happening. He bullied me into the kitchen.

There was a girl in there, yes, he said. Friend of his housemate. In the spare foldaway bed? No, in his bed. Who was she? I screamed.

Don't embarrass me, he kept saying. Don't embarrass me. She was a medic, he said. An Army officer. A friend of a friend, but nothing happened. Like fuck it didn't, no one shares a bed and look ‐

you're not wearing anything under that dressing gown, are you? I dived at his crotch. It was true, he wasn't.

'Trust me,' he pleaded. 'Go to the cafe at the end of the road.

We'll talk about it later?'

'Trust you? Trust you? Can I trust you?'

His face fell. He made accusations. He played the Whore Card.

The phrase 'losing your rag' has always seemed imprecise. I didn't know what it meant, exactly. One of those sayings, like

'what are you like?' and ' 'ave it!' that defy explanation and only make sense in context.

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This was the context. I lost my rag.

'You have never found me in bed with someone else. You never will. This is the price I pay for honesty?' I am digging my own grave, I thought. No one values the truth over perceived fidelity. I fuck other people for a living and yes, I tell him as much as he wants to know, but, oh. Oh. Oh. My heart has always been in the right place, I think. My head stopped using words to communicate.

I left. I went to the shore and waited for the shops to open, bought a bag of coconut‐covered marshmallows. The water was high and the wind against the tide made white horses on the sea.

My phone rang and rang ‐ the Boy. I turned it off. He left messages. Nothing happened, he swore up and down. It was a plot by his housemate, the one who hates me. The medic (blonde, thin

‐ I waited long enough in the bushes over the road to see her come out ‐ but not pretty, not pretty) was very drunk, she fell asleep in his bed in her underwear, he was too tired to set up the spare bed for himself or go down and sleep on the sofa. Whatever.

I didn't ring back. I caught a train home and took three appointments that day. After, smelling of sweat and latex, I listened to Charles Mingus and drank port until the wee hours.

We made it up through texts, over a few days.

Still sat at my parents' breakfast table, the mug of tea cold in my grip. Daddy refolded the paper and left it at my elbow. Go home, go to work, get over it, I said to myself.

mercredi, le 11 janvier

I ran some errands shortly before an appointment and walked to the hotel from the bank in full make‐up, suit and heels. As I passed the park, a man stopped.

'My god, you're beautiful. Are you a model?'

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Cripes, has that line ever actually worked? 'No, I work near here.' Think fast ‐ what's near here? 'The Royal Albert hall.' I couldn't have picked a more unlikely place, could I?