The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (15 page)

'It's a hotel call.'

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'The hotel management. Whomever,' I said. 'Darling, what I tell the other girls is, just use a bit of sponge.'

A bit of sponge? 'A bit of sponge?' What was this, some demented nineties contraception allusion, or the start of a slippery slope involving Greek diving‐suit fantasies?

'You just cut off a corner of a clean sponge, darling, and put it up your—'

'Yes, okay, I think I see where that's going.' I shuddered. Having once ‐ years ago ‐ inadvertently forgotten a tampon during sex, I was not keen to repeat the experience. The thought of someone banging away at my cervical door as I grew ever more worried about the chances of retrieving a scrap of synthetic foam and, by extension, the inverse chances of ending up in A&E, sounded distinctly untempt‐ing. And what if he was hoping for a deep dive of the digits into my finger‐licking nether regions?

'It should last the hour. When the other girls are on their time, I never book them for longer than an hour. You will be fine, darling.'

She was right, of course, though perhaps explaining the missing bit of washing‐up implement to whomever next walks through my kitchen will be awkward. As for retrieval, truth be told, the client never even came close to troubling the sponge.

vendredi, le 23 janvier

To my great surprise, First Date rang back. He hadn't taken my guilty conscience as a hint ‐ in fact, he'd been hiking in the north and simply not been able to ring. So much for my surgical brush-off, then. But just hearing his voice did make me smile. Perhaps it is worth pursuing after all.

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He invited me out to a play. Unfortunately, I do like to keep evenings free for work, and haven't been terribly in the black of late. Must be that pesky habit of spending all my money on smalls. I politely declined, but said we must get together later in the week.

'You can brush me off, I won't take offence,' he said.

'Oh no, I'm not at all,' I back‐pedalled. 'I really would like to see you soon.' It's not every man who offers to take you on the town after knowing he can score with you regardless. Most would take first‐date sex as an excuse to crack open a can of cider and watch Grand Prix on all forthcoming dates.

But First Date, I suspected, was nicer than that. Much nicer.

'You promise?' I could hear the smile in his voice.

'Guarantee,' I said, smiling back.

samedi, le 24 janvier

It is the Chinese New Year celebrations. This is not something I would usually know, except today on leaving an appointment the client gave me two gold‐foil‐wrapped fortune cookies. I didn't think cookies were particularly traditional, but enjoyed the thought that perhaps a randomly chosen slip of paper in a biscuit holds the key to one's future. It's no less likely to be true than looking in the back of the
Metro,
anyway.

The first fortune read: 'You will receive a cheerful call next week.'

This amused me no end. Was that meant to be the next week after the fortune was printed, the week after the cookie was opened, or just 'next week' in general? A pedant could thus claim that if said cheerful call does not materialise 122

between now and the twenty‐ninth, it was in fact meant to mean the next week.

The second fortune read: 'You will appear on television in the next year.'

This is at once more frightening (bloody hell, I certainly hope not) and yet subject to the same restrictions as the first fortune. If I don't appear on TV in the Year of the Monkey, then clearly it will be during the Year of the Cock.

For completely unrelated reasons, I am looking forward to the Year of the Cock.

dimanche, le 25 janvier

An odd side‐effect of this job is the sensitivity to personal smell.

I don't usually shower straight after the appointments. There's one regular client who bathes me at his house with a sponge and almond soap, but I tend to wait with others and shower at home.

So I may be walking out to a cab, or going up the stairs of my flat, and catch a whiff. Not of sex, not specifically ‐ just someone's scent. The smell of their skin or hair or hand cream that rubbed off on my skin and clothes. Sometimes it's mixed with my own smell as well, and I know as soon as I can I will undress and sniff the creases of my clothing.

Will I remember these men if I smell them again? They say scent is the most powerfully memory‐associated of all the senses.

And that it is also the most neglected. It is so ephemeral. You become quickly tired of strong odours, but can't get enough of the tease, the slightest waft of an almost‐remembered association.

The Boy smelled strong but not unpleasant. He used to sweat incredible amounts. After a long session in the bedroom 123

he would lift himself up, sweat dripping down his back and chest.

The smell was light, the taste salty, sometimes I would lick him dry. Even a bit of heavy petting will cause droplets to come out on his back. One touch and his palms go damp. He swore high and low that I was the only woman to have had this power over him. I joked that he must be part dog: a panting animal.

Crossing the street, I smelled a cologne that must have been the same as the psychoanalyst used. I remember touching the smooth green bottle in his bathroom. One morning I put on a pair of shoes that inexplicably reminded me of a client from earlier in the week. Did I think at the time 'this man smells of leather/old trainers/sweaty socks' ? No. But there was a deep note of similarity, and by lunchtime, I had to take them off because I couldn't stop thinking about work. But these were both recent, and no test of long‐term memory.

Sometimes a man will walk by who smells of A1. We've been friends so long our intimacy seems an epoch ago. He smelled of hot sand. I am always tempted to follow these people wherever they are going. To catch their elbows before they disappear into the crowd at a tube station, or scribble a note to slip into their pockets. I want to know what scent they use. To ask what right they have to smell like sex itself.

lundi, le 26 janvier

N has a friend, Angel, who is also a working girl. I see her around occasionally ‐ we share some of the same haunts.

I've always admired her figure but never really wanted it. All womanly curves have been banished in favour of narrow thighs and a perfect arse. She's a sculpted triumph of 124

engineering, all legs and long hair, and toned to within an ounce of her life. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to wake up one day in her Versace‐clad body. It possibly would be the worst thing in the world to try to achieve that shape.

I was out and about a few nights ago and nipped to the ladies'

to re‐apply lipstick. Unhappily, it was one of these ultra‐modern places with a trough‐like sink where the water splashes everywhere, and a too‐narrow mirror lit obliquely from below, which reflects the space between your collarbone and chin.

Flattering to exactly no one.

Having ascertained that the toilet was designed by someone who hated women, I turned round to see Angel crouched on the floor, sobbing. I almost didn't stop. She hadn't seen me yet. But something about the fragile bow of her heaving shoulders made it impossible to walk away. 'Are you okay?' I whispered, kneeling beside her.

It all came out in fits and starts ‐ first man trouble, then family problems, then a recent surgery gone wrong, then the reason for the surgery. It turned out Angel was the victim of a notorious attack several years ago. It was the anniversary of the incident.

'That was you?' She nodded. 'I'm so, so sorry.'

She showed me the cuts from the reconstructive surgery she'd been undergoing, just at her hairline. I hugged her gently. I told her about my last few years, losing family and futures, how sometimes you feel like a cork tossed around on an ocean. How being told to buck up and stiff‐upper‐lip it often makes things worse. Yes, the world really is an unfair place. Yes, these things are sent to try us. No, you don't have to smile all the time, every day.

How it wasn't her fault.

I stayed in there for almost an hour while people walked in, walked out, stepped over and around us. Then Angel 125

stood up, straightened her clothes, ran a brush through her hair.

And while I didn't expect this was the start of something beautiful between us, I thought perhaps a connection had been made.

Not mates watching telly on a Friday night and scarfing Milk Tray. But maybe a gentle, unspoken acknowledgement. A subtle nod across the room. A sorority of two.

So I saw her again last night. Another club, another toilet. I said hello. And she utterly blanked me. I ran straight to N, wounded by the snub. 'Yeah,' he said. 'I would have a lot of time for her, but she can go from needy to brittle in about ten seconds, and you never know which one you're going to get.'

mardi, le 27 janvier

Rang the manager to discuss upcoming work schedules. She was giggling too much to talk, which is not in keeping with her Eastern‐European, glacial uber‐babe facade.

'Er, are you okay?' Maybe I caught her at a bad time, or gleefully administering cracks of the whip to laggard customers, or something.

'Darling, have you heard The Darkness?'

'Yes?'

'Oh, they just crack me up. They are so funny.'

'Well, in their way, I suppose.' Perhaps I am excessively judgemental in believing that anyone who looks like the bastard child of Robert Plant and Steve Perry via Austin Powers's dentist has no business as a rock god. 'Is it okay if I have Monday and Wednesday nights off until further notice?'

'Of course, darling. Take as much as you need.' She then broke into a warbling rendition of 'Get Your Hands Off My 126

Woman', which was marred by the fact that her falsetto was singularly incapable of approaching the stratospheric heights of the original. I sincerely hope she wasn't prancing around in a pair of lace‐up white PVC trousers at the time. Then again, there would probably be unheard‐of prices for such a performance (if indeed it hasn't already become a regular feature of the Spearmint Rhino oeuvre).

Someone asked recently what services I would be unwilling to provide, and I was unable to think of anything good. Now

'imitating a stick‐insect Freddie Mercury from Lowestoft' has become the first entry on the list.

mercredi, le 28 janvier

Last night I had friends over, not so much a celebration as an excuse to clear the pantry of bottles that have been hanging around since time out of mind. Rang a few people, sent a few emails, all very last‐minute. Happily chez Jour is just large enough to accommodate the dozen or so who saw fit to turn up without anyone having to go out on the roof. And I'd hate to do that to a body in this weather, really I would.

At one point, discussing the painting of the Italian renaissance and the Low Countries, the conversation segued elegantly to the revelation that there is an exhibition at the Royal Academy of pictures of women with come on them. If true, I am so there.

By 3 a.m. I was left with two rather drunken but helpful guests who collected bowls and glasses, loaded the dishwasher and shooed out the neighbour's cat. But they were clearly not in any condition to drive. Sleeping arrangements had to be sorted.

Unfortunately, the two remainders were N and First Date, the fellow I disastrously slept with last week.

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We hung on to the last shreds of conversation until it was far too late to do anything else. N was clearly not going anywhere in a hurry, and neither was First Date ‐1 expect he wanted to get me alone again. It was well past my accustomed bedtime and I hoped one or the other of them would give up and go home, but they did not. 'Well,' I said, 'the bed sleeps two and there are three of us ‐ so it's the sofa for some unlucky soul, I believe.'

They looked at each other. They looked at me. Neither volunteered for the sofa. Neither volunteered for the bed.

'Seeing as the two of you are both tall, why don't you boys take the bed? I'm the only one short enough to sleep here easily.'

Again, no response. 'Don't all volunteer at once, guys.'

Another minute of silence passed while I tried to decipher the eyebrow semaphore that passed between them. 'I'll have the sofa,'

First Date offered. We took turns changing in the bathroom and I brought out a quilt and two blankets before turning in. First Date spread out the blankets.

'It's going to be cold tonight,' I said. 'Won't you use the quilt?'

He shrugged. 'Leave it out, just in case.'

N and I went up to the bedroom. N shut the door. 'Don't do that,' I whispered. 'He'll think we're having sex.' I pulled it ajar.

'Why do you care? Besides, he's probably already asleep.'

I didn't know why I cared. It just seemed a bad idea to close the door completely.

A few hours later I woke, mouth dry from too much alcohol.

Walked down to the kitchen for a glass of water. First Date was curled tightly on the couch. He'd put on the quilt and looked very cold indeed. I went back up to the bedroom, took out the sheepskin, and wrapped it around his feet. He didn't wake.

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jeudi, le 29 janvier

People are either more trusting than I expect them to be or I appear more trustworthy than I am. Recently I successfully strong‐armed the landlady into a spot of redecoration at my place.

With the excuse that most of the kitchen fittings need replacing anyway, I have made the case for a full‐on Chintz Removal. This will hopefully culminate in a pagan ritual in which all Colefax and Fowler prints are gleefully thrown onto a crackling blaze.

In the meantime, I will be experiencing minor household disturbance. Not unliveable, mind, just inconvenient. I was talking to one of the A's about the impending re‐design recently.

'Well, if they get their pants together at work I'll be at a conference the next fortnight. Do you want the keys to mine?'

'Surely, darling, but aren't you afraid I'll spill something on the carpet?' A is notoriously fussy about his home and has been known to reserve only a single shelf for his girlfriend's belongings.

Even if she lives there.