The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (20 page)

'It's all just a misunderstanding, I'm sure we can talk about this with her—'

'Oh, just . . . quiet. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want to talk to her. Or you. I'm not really interested in this at all.'

'But I—'

'Goodbye.'

A pause. I could imagine his face, what I would and have done in the same situation. Bargain for time or accept it gracefully? To his credit he chose the latter. 'Goodbye. Good luck to you. I'll miss seeing you.'

'Thank you.' I hung up. And went to the computer to send that woman a blistering email about the mystery numbers and her conversation with First Date. I felt a coward hiding behind the inbox, but I was not sure I could keep from raising my voice on the phone. Type, revise, send. And then I ate breakfast, and felt a bit sad, and a bit of a twat, and even the thought that none of this matters anyway didn't really cheer me.

vendredi, le 27 fevrier

After a bit of time passes it can be difficult to remember how, why, when you liked someone, and nice to re‐visit it from a safe distance. The boy who felt me up in a public

166

swimming pool when I was fifteen. The relationship at school that ended because of his aversion to cunnilingus. A1, whose skill in manipulating my body was as funny as it was frightening. The first time with someone I still think of fondly, someone I fell quickly and hard for, and the thousand or so times we were together after that, and the last time with him, too.

The few I could not get enough of. The way they smelled, felt, tasted. The number of times I was with the Boy and wished he would just shut up and fuck me, because I had never come with anyone that way, ever. The times sex felt as much a spiritual calling as a biological need. And how those moments kept me going for weeks afterwards, like pearls dotting the cord of our moribund relationship.

These are nice, these little sketches of people I have enjoyed. It passes the time on trains and in taxis.

samedi, le 28 fevrier

Am spending some quality time with my family before they go abroad on holiday, catching up with the local gossip and generally causing trouble and getting in the way, as is the eldest daughter's prerogative.

So, my mother is going to a wedding next month. A commitment ceremony in which the two brides will be dressed in white and will exchange rings and live happily ever after. Old family friends. We couldn't be more pleased. Except that Mum can't find a date for the date. Because her usual squeeze, my father, has been deemed Not In the Right Spirit.

It's not that he disagrees with the notion of lesbians (what man really does, at least in theory?) or has some bizarre hang‐ups about the sanctity of marriage (note to world leaders: in an age where the highest selling female artist

167

worldwide can drunkenly trip down the aisle in jeans and a garter only to have the transaction annulled twenty‐four hours later, but committed life partners cannot call each other wife and wife, something is a little rotten in the state of Denmark). No, it's actually Dad's over‐enthusiasm for the blessed event that has led to him being struck off the guest list.

Because he insists, completely seriously, on hiring strippers to come to the reception. My father is not the sort of man who makes jokes, and worse still, he has social antennae legendary in their insensitivity. We were lingering over bagels and he was relating the story to date. Mother rolled her eyes as if it were a genetically encoded reflex, which I suspect it is. 'Male strippers or female strippers?' I asked with just a touch too much interest.

'Oh, honey, no,' Mum groaned.

'Female strippers!' he cried. 'Naked ladies everywhere!' Have I mentioned that my father is an embarrassing perv? Runs in the bloodline, I suppose.

'I'm not certain that's entirely appropriate for the wedding,' I said.

Mum nodded sagely, her enamelled black bob bouncing. 'You're right.' She turned on Daddy. 'You see? You see?
No one
thinks it's a good idea—'

'Yes,' I said. 'No good at all. Now, a hen night with strippers, that would be cool—'

'Don't encourage him!' Mum shot me the evils as he gleefully contemplated the possibilities.

dimanche, le 29 fevrier

Yesterday Mum and I went shopping. We haven't been unleashed on a retail palace together in years, but believe 168

me, the shop girls will be telling the tale to their children and their children's children. We're loud, we're efficient, we're armed with serious credit and cannot be stopped as we tear a smoking trail from shoes to lingerie.

She's after the Palm Beach look (well, what matron at her age isn't?). Lily Pulitzer‐esque prints, bright brights, silky jumpers, white trousers. I'm genetically programmed to want the same, but live in a grimy city and you can't wear cream‐coloured wool where there's any chance of sitting in schmutz.

We hit the shoes first. Same size, same taste; she cleaned three shops out of strappy sandals in spring green and blue; I did the same, with versions in camel and black. Handbags, suits, smalls: all fell before the might of our campaign of terror. She must have bought at least three outfits to wear to the wedding, as well as enough holiday gear to clothe an army of Mum‐clones. I had forcibly to restrain her from beaded, flower‐printed twinsets while she advised me my ankles 'look chubby' in vintage‐style shoes.

Such is the power of unconditional love. Only a mother can shriek 'VPL!' to her daughter at a volume loud enough to rock the foundations of the building and live to tell the tale.

She: 'Honey, you looked so adorable in the green! Are you not getting that?'

Me: 'I don't know, it makes me look too busty.'

(thrusting her own ample chest to the fore): 'There's no such thing as looking too busty. What, you want to look like an adolescent?' And she threw the garment back on my pile.

I quiver in the shadow of a superior intellect.

169

170

Mars

171

O - P

O is for Oil

Never acceptable as lube. If you don't know about the unfortunate interaction of oil with latex, I refer you to any and all HIV‐related literature of the last two decades.

Aside from degrading barrier protection, it's a rubbish lubricant in general. A man once suggested (whipping out a tub of Vaseline as he did so) attempting to fist me with a petrolatum‐based aid. Are you joking? That stuff traps heat and makes it feel like someone's deep‐frying your labia.

It's not a bad idea to carry a small bottle of massage oil, though, for the odd massage. Men like that, and often tip after. More often than they do for the actual sex. Weird creatures.

P is for Plastic

Tits, not credit cards. Do men prefer perfection or the real thing? Are all the other girls in the agency that naturally buoyant, or is there surreptitious cantilevering at work? Should you save your profits for an upgrade? Even, the most down‐to‐earth girl will start to wonder if her career wouldn't enjoy the boost pumping up the volume might bring. If you wouldn't do it in real life, though, I can't say I'd recommend doing it at all.

P is also (obviously) for Porn

There's a fair amount of snobbery from those who buy tastefully‐shot, hardbound picture books on Neolithic erotic cave paintings against those who appear in hardcore porn. Believe me, honey, the snobbery goes both ways.

African tribal sculpture of a man with, an erection does not a libertine make.

Basically, if there isn't the possibility of come staining something in the process of its creation, it's class‐B porn. Sorry to burst your bubble. Jenna Jameson, massage parlour attendants and the guy who mops the booth at the peepshow work in sex. People who wear pink babydoll tees and stand behind a counter selling organic, recycled non‐phallic vibrators don't. Saucy art house films set in France during the

172

1960s

student protests are not porn. Double fist penetration while blowing a dog is. Rule of thumb: the more likely couples are to view a sex product as a relationship‐strengthening tool, the less hardcore it is.

lundi, le 1 mars

Am still up north, sleeping on a sofa of one of the A's, looking for a good local massage therapist and drinking too many tequila-based concoctions. There is this cat, and whenever she sees me she makes for my lap, rattling her purrbox like a rusty motor.

Extremely cosy and warm‐fluffy at the mo, and vaguely toying with the notion of never going back to London.

Kidding! I'll be home in a day or two. Wearing my brand‐new gossamer pastel‐blue underwear to boot.

mardi, le 2 mars

It is probably the lot of everyone to fear old age. When you are young, it does not seem possible that some day you will be as ancient as your relatives, and similarly impossible that they were even, in their turn, young.

It's when you leave the first flush of youth that the fear starts to creep in. The eyes of old people on the street ‐people you did not even notice not so long ago ‐ seem to bore straight into you. You will be here soon, they seem to say.

Only recently I saw my own future. Or to be more precise, heard it.

I was at home. My mother and grandmother were talking in the kitchen, unaware that I, checking my email in a room 173

around the corner, could hear every word. But I paid them no attention until my ears seized on one phrase: pubic hair.

Specifically, my mother saying to her mother, 'I feel old. Why, only the other day I noticed my pubic hair is now almost completely grey.'

To which my grandmother replied, 'You think that's bad? Wait until they start falling out.'

I think I had better top myself now, before it's too late.

mercredi, le 3 mars

Of the four A's, there's only one of them I haven't slept with. This is A3. When we first met, there was immediate, overpowering chemistry. We snogged but didn't go any further.

He lived in a neighbouring city, and when he went home, I was lonely. You know the feeling when all the pent‐up energy goes straight to your legs, and you just want to run and run until you jump off a cliff? I confided in A2, and told him what happened. I'd fallen hard and had to see the man.

We devised a plan: I would turn up at A3's door at the weekend as a surprise and see what happened. Meanwhile I had four days to plan and fret. So I did what any girl would do. I slept with A2.

Confused yet?

No? How about this, then: I was seeing A4 at the time. We were on the outs, but still an item, just. Jumping ship was high on the agenda, and this looked like a good opportunity.

So, A4 is out of town on a conference, I'm sleeping with our mutual friend A2 and planning to throw myself at the feet of A3.

When the weekend comes, I turn up at A3's door.

He had a girlfriend. I had no idea. Until she answered the door.

Her confused smile said she had no idea what was 174

going on, and I felt exactly as low as I was acting. I made like Paula Radcliffe on speed.

A4 and I split properly; A2 and I made a brief go of things and it didn't work out. But it's water under the bridge now: they're all friends with each other. Most people who meet us reckon A4 is my husband, A2 my brother and A1 our uncle ‐ not because he looks old, we assure him, he just oozes manly authority. But there is the slight lingering problem of A3. After all these years, he's still seeing that girl. And sometimes on a night out he gets a bit pissed and overly friendly with me.

Too little, darling. Years too late.

We were all at a restaurant a few nights ago. A2 introduced me to a colleague of his. As if he had to point him out at all. I noticed the man as soon as he came in the door.

'Nice,' I whispered to A2.

'I thought he was just your type/ he smiled.

He was. Neatly dressed, fit body, hands I could imagine all over me. Smart, polite, gorgeous mouth. 'So where's he from?'

'South coast, originally.'

'Mmm. Where've you been hiding this one?'

'He lives in San Diego.'

'Ugh. Why?'

A2 shrugged. 'Job.'

I frowned. I didn't want a repeat of First Date. A 7,000‐mile long‐distance affair is out of the question unless handsomely remunerated for travel expenses. I've crossed the ocean for a heart of gold before, only to find it not worth the effort. But in the interest of social lubrication I flirted with him and the other boys over the meal. Afterwards A2 was feeling tired and went home, leaving Dr California in the capable hands of me, A3 and A4.

We went on to a pub. A3 was obviously drunk. 'I like 175

your pigtail,' he said, stroking the bell‐pull of my hair. His fingers curled around the end and tugged. The skin on the back of my neck tingled. Don't get me wrong, I still fancy the pants off this man, but can't be doing with painful love polygons any more.

'Thank you,' I said, turning my head so it slipped out of his grasp.

Dr California racked up a set of billiard balls. We four toured the table for a couple of hours, me on a team with Official Ex A4, he with Unofficial Crush A3. A couple of people I hadn't seen in years walked by; we exchanged updates and laughs. My eyes followed Dr C's lithe form around the room ‐ eyeing the table, setting up a shot, the confident swing of the arm below the elbow on the follow‐through. Competence so turns me on.