The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (19 page)

Defrosted? Don't they do that themselves if left long enough, as with the decade‐old wellies at the back of the closet which I fully expect to have sealed any holes if and when I need them again?

'Not sure I ever have done.'

He surveyed the wasteland landscape of icicle‐coated bread loaves and mummified bottles of vodka. 'Do you realise the build-up in here keeps the vacuum‐sealing mechanism from working properly?'

Whazzat? 'Pardon?'

'The door doesn't close. That sound is the freezer constantly trying to replace the cold air seeping out.'

It would explain the draft in the kitchen. 'I don't suppose this means I get a new freezer?'

'It doesn't.'

'And I don't suppose defrosting freezers is part of your remit?' «•

'It isn't.'

Pity the neglect of household appliances does not warrant getting new ones off the landlady. I really must look over the contract more carefully come renewal time. So while the builder looked on during his break, sipping tea and enjoying the many and varied delights of one of the country's finer tabloid dailies, I attacked the ice storm with hands swaddled in tea towels, vegetable knife at the ready, like some intrepid polar explorer or demented suburban cannibal ‐ take your (ahem) pick. And the tile still hasn't been repaired, either.

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vendredi, le 20 fevrier

A2 of the latex love, so happy in his new‐found fetish, is extremely concerned about my romantic well‐being. I do my best not to comment that if the alternative to being single is smelling like an explosion in a rubber factory, I'll pass, thank you.

We met for a cup of coffee and to check out the talent in town.

Or rather, he eyed the talent as I did my best to deflect the inevitable match‐making.

'Over my left shoulder,' A2 hissed and I looked to see who lay beyond. 'No, don't look straight at him. Just have a quick look.'

What was this, junior school? Do You Want to Kiss Me? Tick Yes or No. 'You're starting to sound like my mother,' I sniffed.

'Anyway, too short.'

'How do you know? He's sitting down.'

'Oh, believe me, I know.' Button‐down blue cotton shirt, tucked into too‐high trouser waist. 'He probably has all the Patrick O'Brian novels, too.'

'You have to be kidding.' A2 clearly cannot see the forest for the rubber trees. 'You can't reject someone on taste ‐ no, not even on taste, on your
assumption
of their taste.'

'Can do, will do, done.'

Some minutes later, as we picked at a shared pain au chocolat, he spotted another likely suitor. 'On your left. Tall. Reading.'

I looked over. Sure enough, a long drink of water was unfurling his limbs under a table, holding a paperback copy of
Requiem for
a Dream.

'Not bad,' I mused. Oh wait ‐ no. 'Eep, smoker, forget it.'

'But you've dated smokers before.'

'So over that,' I said. 'If someone's going to have an 158

expensive, pointless hobby, I'd rather it was skiing. Or better still, buying me expensive, pointless things.'

'If you carry on like this, you'll die alone.'

This from the person who once told me, at the age of twenty-three, that he hadn't had sex in six months and was therefore taking himself permanently off the market. This from the person who perennially lusts after his first lover, whom he hasn't seen since they were both seventeen. With friends like this, who needs relatives?

I scoffed. 'What, at this wizened old age I'm already past it?

Besides, my talc‐coated friend, we all die alone anyway.'

samedi, le 21 fevrier

There is a client, I've seen him twice now. Hard face, high cheekbones, water‐clear eyes and eyelashes to envy. A cool person, handsome in a harsh way, gentle. Smart. We talk about books, he's an engineer of some sort and hates his job, and we talk about plays and films. I enthuse about Ben Kingsley in this or that role, about Anthony Sher. He half‐smiles. No idea why he's single.

Perhaps he just wants to be alone?

I walked out of a block of flats towards the river to find a taxi.

On the way to the rank I passed the entrance of a tube station, where a legless man was soliciting donations.

'Help the disabled, please help the disabled,' he chanted.

A drop of sweat ran down the inside of my thigh, perhaps the only part of me that felt truly warm. When it reached the top of my stocking I felt it soak in, dissipate. A moment later, the legless man's voice again. 'Help the disabled, please help the disabled.'

His cadence was flat but sing‐songy, in time with the beat of footsteps from people

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streaming around him. 'Help the disabled, please help the disabled.'

I stood in a queue but there were no taxis for a few minutes. A short, round man with overflowing plastic bags came up to me.

'Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord?' he asked. It sounded like reflex, devoid of meaning, as automatic as a 'hello'.

'Afraid not, Jewish,' I said. Stock answer. More a cultural than a religious thing for me, but usually sufficient to drive the crazies off.

He nodded in sympathy, his eyes never rising above the level of my shoulder. 'The Jews wanted a king, and God gave them a king, but he was manic depressive, you see, and would go out and hide in bushes screaming at people.'

'Not a very effective king, you might say,' I said.

'I'm going to freeze standing on the bridge,' he said, and, gathering his shopping bags, walked away.

dimanche, le 22 fevrier

Today, I have been given:

a £1 coin change (from, a £2 coin; took bus)

a pair of white socks (from the gym where I’d left them) a personal alarm (from a friend)

a silver and amber bracelet (from a client)

five of those weirdly day-glo daisies (from a non-paying admirer) the bill from the builders (wasn’t the Owner supposed to handle this) strange looks from a taxi driver (so he knew) a cold (see first item on the list)

So Ken Livingstone's much‐vaunted improved public transport proves itself quite capable in the 'public' criterion, if 160

not so much the 'transport'. Ah well, good time to tuck up with some good books and demand pancakes from my nearest and dearest.

lundi, le 23 fevrier

The mystery car is back; I don't want to look but can't look away; I'm not convinced it's just paranoia; must remember to lock all the locks; the builders are giving me strange looks; am thinking of investing in a bubble wig and giant pair of Jackie O sunglasses and not just for the sake of rocking the vintage look.

Otherwise, a bit better today, thank you for asking.

mardi, le 24 fevrier

He: 'Urn, you have a . . . I'm not sure . . .'

Me (looking over shoulder at man kneeling behind me): 'Is everything okay, sweetie?'

'There's a ... I don't quite know how to tell you this . . .'

I was suddenly quite worried ‐ what? Razor bump? Spare thicket of missed hair? Week‐old tampon? The stub of a tail?

'Yes?'

'You have bruises on the backs of your thighs.'

'Oh, that. Just means you're not the first to tread this road vigorously, dear. Is it okay? We can do it another way.'

'Well, actually,' he said, growing harder and somewhat more forceful. 'You could tell me how they happened.'

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mercredi, le 25 fevrier

A1 hit a milestone birthday. His partner made the arrangements and booked a table at an over‐rated Indian in Clerkenwell, which was acceptable, as she has no taste.

I was looking forward to getting out in a large group. Work can be intense. It's like having a series of blind dates over and over again, struggling to keep your end of the arrangement effortless and light, while knowing very little is going to come of it.

Draining. The current spate of real first dates hasn't helped either.

And while I enjoy hanging in cafes and coffee bars with a small group of friends, there is always the danger that by knowing too much about each other, all useful conversational skills will be lost.

Only with people who've known you since puberty can you be entertained by:

'Remember the . . .' Vague band gesture.

'Yes, just like in the movie.'

'Oh god! And the arm thing B used to do.'

Random
Star Wars
quote.

Reference to mid‐1990s politics.

Satisfied silence, or fits of inexplicable giggles for half an hour.

It's not a fortress that admits new champions easily, and girlfriends of N and the A's usually find themselves on the outside regardless of their charms and abilities. There was the one who was raised on a commune in South Africa, built her last house from the ground up and had never been to a McDonald's (actually, an admirable trait). But she couldn't quote freely from
The Princess Bride,
and thus found herself in a constant state of puzzlement, especially when A2

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tried ‐ and failed ‐ to propose to her by explaining that Life is Pain.

We need to get out more. With other people. Normal people.

I arrived late, looking swish in a black silk shirt and tailored trousers. Hair pulled up, subtle pearl earrings. Okay, so I looked like a Goth PA. No matter. The table was lively, the drinks were flowing, the conversation was achingly, happily, beautifully normal. I sat across from N, who'd brought his friend Angel, the other working girl with whom I'd had a run‐in last month. But she'd seemingly come to her senses and appeared lovely and chipper.

Halfway through the meal, Angel begged use of my phone

‐ her battery had gone ‐ to send a text. And yes, I'm a trusting soul, and was busily flirting with the blue‐eyed Adonis on my right, so didn't check to see what she'd sent or to whom.

So I was surprised when First Date turned up as the gifts were being opened. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He looked round the table and sat next to Angel. Interesting. I should have known they knew each other, but never would have figured them for a potential couple.

The Adonis smiled, introduced himself across the table. First Date shook his hand. 'And you're with . . . ?' Adonis enquired.

'Her,' he said, nodding at me.

I laughed nervously. 'Are you?'

'Didn't you just invite me?'

I glared at Angel, hard. 'I suppose it might look like I had done,'

I said. 'I'm not responsible for this ‐ sorry for the confusion.'

The tail end of the supper I spent lavishing my attention on the pale, shy girl next to me while Adonis and First Date

‐ whom, it turns out, had mutual acquaintances – chattered 163

about university days. N begged off quickly, Adonis made his excuses, everyone at the other end of the table was going to some random's house to continue drinking and I was left with Angel and First Date. She went to collect her car, suggesting the three of us move on to a late bar she knew.

First Date and I stepped into the street as she dashed round the corner. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

'Water under the bridge,' I said, though it clearly was not.

'I didn't know that text wasn't from you.' 'I know.'

'Am I ... am I in the way?'

I turned to him, angry at the situation, angry at feeling manipulated, even if he wasn't the cause. Angry for feeling angry; why get mad at all? Most of all I was angry at his woundedness, his need to be needed by me. His voice had the timbre of . . .

'Because I love you.'

Yeah, that.

I sighed, closed my eyes. We stood on the pavement for a long time in silence. I looked at my shoes, he looked at me. This wasn't what I wanted and this wasn't how I wanted to be. A man asked for directions; we sent him off to the next block. The fear was coming over me, a black mist, the feeling of being trapped by well‐meaning friends, by fate. 'I'm getting a cab home,' I said finally. 'Alone. You go meet Angel at the bar or she'll think we've deserted her.' Or gone home together, I thought.

jeudi, le 26 fevrier

The next morning I woke to three missed calls and a text. The first two calls were from numbers I didn't recognise.

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No voice mail. Not too unusual, but I smelled a rat. So I rang them back.

'Good morning. Did you by any chance ring my number last night?'

Both were confused, because they were clearly people who didn't know me but, if the call register was an impartial judge, had tried to call. Turns out Angel sent more than one text. And they tried to reach her on my number.

I am such an idiot. At least they weren't international calls.

The third missed call was from First Date, sometime in the wee hours. The text was from him, too: 'Are you still seeing N? If so, are you aware I didn't know?'

Sigh. I rang him as well; he was already at his desk. 'Hello, sorry to disturb you at work.'

'That's okay.' He sounded surprised.

'I read your text.' He didn't answer. 'I'm not seeing N. I haven't in ages. Who told you we were?' Still no answer. 'That's okay, I really don't have to ask, do I?'

'You still seem so close, and with you both being single—'

'That automatically means we're more than just friends?'

'Well, no, it doesn't.' He paused. 'But Angel was very surprised when she found out you and I were a thing, and she said, didn't I know about you and N?'

'Excuse me ... us two . . . we're a thing?'

'Umm.'

'Okay, that aside ‐ someone you barely know is a more reliable source of information on my life than I am?' 'Well—'

'This is bullshit.'

'Hey, calm down. I love you. I care about you. I—' Argh, those stupid words again. 'I don't feel the same way. If you didn't know that, you do now. I'm not going to belittle your feelings and say you shouldn't feel them, but

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you know nothing about me. Either way the things you feel entitle you to nothing.' Argh, stop it, I know I'm yelling now and this is coming out all wrong. It's not that I want him, but I want to make my point clear without him thinking I'm an arse.

No. Forget that. The sooner he understands this the sooner he can go looking for someone he really loves. I don't want to talk to him. I don't want this. I'll be a jerk.