The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (22 page)

'Not if I knew your age.'

He frowns. I say he looks older than that but I didn't sleep with nineteen‐year‐olds even when I was nineteen. That doesn't seem to have helped; he's looking even more depressed.

'I'd fancy you. I would. You're a dangerous sort.' How so? he wonders.

Must be careful here. Say something truthful, but nice, and not obviously flattery. It's tempting. 'I wouldn't want to be the first person to break your heart.'

He frowns again. But he shouldn't fret. I'm sure there are plenty of women in the world who would.

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samedi, le 13 mars

Pub Games for Whores, part one in a series of one FRIENDS OR LESBIANS?

The rules are laughably simple: attach yourself to a female friend and ‐ this is important ‐ without resorting to kissing or dirty dancing, convince everyone within a reasonable radius that you are a couple. Why the ban on liplock? Because shaking it with the ladies in public is what straight girls do to pick up straight men.

This went so successfully once that I rebuffed a less‐than-gentleman making advances on a friend. Threading my arm-through hers, I asserted, loudly, 'Back off, mate ‐ the lady is with me. You want to take it outside or do I kick your sorry arse right here?' The sad specimen skulked away from the bar.

Unfortunately this chivalry did not result in a sexual reward from the woman in question.

Popular variant: Plant yourself in the corner of the room and speculate on whether the women you see talking to each other are friends or 'friends'. Many a happy hour at university was spent thus.

THE CRASHING BORE

Embrace the chattering classes for an evening. You're a freelancing consultant; your interests include South American red wines, Japanese culture and season two Buffy on DVD; your topics of discussion range through mortgages, high‐protein diets and why the congestion zone should not extend to Kensington and Chelsea. Enthusiastically recommend So Bar, Front Room et al.

I saw the best minds of my generation smacked out on tapas and talking about parking restrictions in Zone
2.

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I'LL HAVE WHAT SHE'S HAVING

Who hasn't wanted to fake orgasm in a public place? Make like a Bailey's advert and enjoy your drink more than a body ought to.

THE IMPLAUSIBLE OCCUPATION

When a man cracks on to you, make up a fake job to tell him when he (inevitably; men are conversationally predictable) asks what you do. Some tried‐and‐tested favourites include: aerial acrobat; mobile phone ringtone programmer; foot model; gamelan musician. See how long you can continue to make up specialised knowledge for your fake CV. Extra points if he actually holds that job. 'Really? You're an epidemiologist? What a coincidence!'

SPEKEE NO ENGRISH

Self‐explanatory. Especially fun if you are not obviously ethnic.

ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?

'. . . So I was running arms out of Serbia, right? And I was stopped by UN troops at the border. Little did they know I was high on speedballs and had a sawn‐off shotgun cocked and locked in my inside jacket . . .' The Travis Bickle option. Be a scary bastard.

Pepper conversation liberally with references to Kalashnikovs, John Woo films as lifestyle, and
Soldier of Fortune
magazine.

Ninety‐nine per cent of men will run screaming from a sociopathic, possibly armed female. As for how you handle the other 1 per cent . . . well, it might be fun. But be sure not to leave your back uncovered.

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TOO MUCH INFORMATION

The more extreme the better. Discuss at length (and full volume) the specific details of your sex life. Rimming, BDSM, masturbatory fantasies involving Michael Howard and a genetically engineered pig. It's all fair game. Highest points to the person who can make the most customers vacate the premises.

Most of my conversations are like this.

TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK '

Such a pleasure to meet you . . . because according to my basal temperature this morning, I'm ovulating for the next twenty‐four hours. Do you live close by or shall I ring a taxi?'

THE BACK FOOT

Accost a random gentleman. Surprise him with the revelation that you've slept together recently, and he never rang you back, and you are most upset. Loudly recount the ins and outs of your night of random passion. Judicious hints that he was failing in several key anatomical areas are effective additions to the routine.

Do be careful: if he's with a group of male friends, he scores the points, not you. Best catch him out with his partner or alone. And try not to get too carried away. Bunny boiling is an addictive sport.

WHAT THE . . . ?

Pick up a conversation with a complete stranger as if you've known each other for years, and they just wandered in to the discussion mid‐sentence. Be certain to use a lot of familiar body language, such as casually touching their arm, asking after family and so on.

NB: I met A1 this way.

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THE TRUTH

Tell someone you're a call girl. Then laugh. No one would believe it. 'Oh, I'm just having you on. I'm really a nun.'

dimanche, le 14 mars

The end of the affair was written from the beginning. He is a man who hires women for sex, I am the whore, and at some point his taste will move on.

I have grown accustomed to him, and while I do not love him I admit to being just as interested in staying up all night talking as in the carnal transaction.

In the upstairs bathroom is a large tub with gold‐coloured taps and four drawings on the wall of a village in France. He says these are gifts from the artist. I have looked at those pictures so many times while bathing afterwards that when the painters who whitewashed the walls put them back in the wrong order, I noticed before he did.

'So they are,' he said, squinting at the pastels. 'Well spotted.'

He knows a great deal about me, this one. He knows my real name and what I studied, and often mentions ‐ he works in a related area ‐ that should I ever need employment in the future, well . . . and he slips his card in my pocket for the dozenth time.

It's like having a protective uncle. Who fucks you.

Sometimes we don't fuck as such. He doesn't like latex, but I'm not a risk‐taker by nature. So he wanks on me. I stretch out on a bed or couch or sometimes the floor, head propped up with a pillow or two, as he straddles my torso below the breasts. While I play with my nipples and his balls he jerks his shaft over my face.

Afterwards, we'll find a

189

mirror and analyse the result together ‐ points awarded for consistency, accuracy and volume. And because he enjoys washing me, he'll let it dry a little and dab most of the damage off with a damp flannel.

The last few weeks have been difficult to organise. We never had a set meeting day and time, though it was usually a weekday, and usually after 10 p.m. I've been busy lately. So has he. If he doesn't reach me first, he'll take another girl from the agency.

I see I've missed his call and text back. This goes on for several weeks. I'm starting to miss the glass of bubbling Pol Roger he always pours when I come in.

When I went away, he rang three times. He's getting anxious.

It's like the end of a relationship: the clinginess, the unfounded suspicion.

Then, the resolution. Just a text one morning: 'I suppose we are fated to never meet again. Will miss you. X'

I'll miss him, too.

lundi, le 16 mars

I'm not sure if it signifies a significant turn in my thinking, or for that matter my housekeeping skills, but I cannot be bothered to segregate the work knickers from the home knickers any longer.

This doesn't mean I end up in a boring sporty thong on the job, but does sometimes result in going to the grocery store with an inch or so of lace frill and striped satin inadvertently poking out the top of my jeans. I am given to understand that in some cultures, this is a desirable trait. I shudder to think.

190

mardi, le 17 mars

N rang. 'Not seen you around in a bit.' 'No.'

'Is everything all right?' 'Fine.'

'Liar.' He was correct, as usual. 'What's going on?'

'I don't know. First real spring day, perhaps. I was out walking by the river in the sunshine, and it occurred to me that a year ago I was doing the same thing with someone I loved and thought I was going to marry.'

'Must be in the water. I just thought about my ex today, too.'

This is the one who chucked him suddenly, without so much as a fare‐thee‐well. 'I'll come over if you like.' I just sighed heavily. 'I'll be there in ten minutes, then.'

N knocked briefly and let himself in. I was sitting on the couch frowning. 'Hey, gorgeous,' he said, rubbing my hair. 'Why don't we nip out for a bite to eat?' I wasn't hungry. But we went.

'So if you could meet your ex and whomever he's with now,' N

said over salad and a pint at some obnoxious gastropub, 'what would she be like?' Fat, I guessed. 'Mine, I'd like to see her with someone who's perfect ‐ except he's impotent.'

'No, not fat. Stupid.'

'Someone who's perfect, but impotent and has a horrible set of in‐laws.'

'Stupid, and smells funny.'

'Ooh, that's good. The ultimate physical insult. Impotent, bad in‐laws and tells her she can't have a job outside the home.' He finished his pint and started on mine, which was barely depleted.

'Stupid, smells funny and has terrible taste in music' I 191

thought about claiming my drink back but it was clearly a lost cause ‐ he necked at least half of it in one gulp. 'Actually, scratch that, he'd never be interested in someone with bad taste in the first place. He would have vetted that straight away.'

N swallowed a mouthful of bitter. 'Impotent and bald.'

'Mine will be bald in five years' time. I believe that. I have to believe that.'

'Impotent, bald and cheats on her. Because she knows I never would have done that to her.'

'Stupid, smells funny and terrible in bed.'

'Terrible in bed. Now we've hit the heart of it.' N smiled. 'Bald, impotent and won't fist her.'

'Really? She was that into it?'

'Oh yes,' he said. 'I never told you about the fist and the cucumber? Simultaneously?'

'Worse still, you never took pictures, did you?'

'We always said if all else failed in her career there was money to be made in film.'

'Talent. No wonder you fell for her.' I picked at the damp edge of a beer mat. 'Stupid ‐ and not just intellectually challenged, but unable to shut up as well ‐ and sleeps with one of his brothers.'

'Which one?'

'Doesn't matter. No, better yet ‐ his father.' 'She still has to smell funny, right?' 'Absolutely.'

'Bald, impotent, won't fist her and short.'

'What's wrong with short?' I'm not terribly far from the Earth's crust myself and don't think this is a reflection on a person's value. And, I never get dizzy from standing up quickly. So there.

'Nothing, it's just that she was tall. I want her to have to look down and see that bald head as often as humanly 192

possible.' He put the empty glass back on my side of the table.

'Fair enough.' I smiled. 'You still miss her, don't you?' 'Too damn right. You're still in love with him, aren't you?'

'You know I am.'

'I find it strange,' he said. 'Theoretically I'm over her, but if that's so I should probably make an effort to date other women rather than avoid them altogether.'

'Ah, I know that stage,' I said. 'I'm in more of a "sabotaging perfectly good potential relationships" mode.' Not to mention being afraid the Boy might make his reappearance just as I found someone worth hanging on to.

N patted his stomach. The pub was empty of all but a few staff and a couple who looked at their limp, overpriced food in horror.

'Shall we go?' I nodded. 'I've had enough alcohol; I could take you home and piss on you if that would make you feel better?'

I pursed my lips and pretended to consider, then changed the subject. Was it better to be broken‐hearted or to not know what that felt like? Now he knew, he said, he'd never want to cause anyone to feel that way again. You never know, I said. You might break my heart. He wrapped his arms around me and started to tickle. I squirmed.

'You rat bag,' he said. 'I can't break your heart ‐ you don't love me.'

'Stop that,' I said. Stern, but still smiling. He knew I was serious.

Got up, put his coat on, went to the door. I told him I was going straight to bed when I got home.

'After you tap this conversation into your little computer,' he corrected. Said goodnight and left.

193

mercredi, le 17 mars

Ooh, these are one of my favourite pairs: ruched pink silk with antique lace and matching bra. Pity to just be wearing them under jeans and a jumper when I go to the shop for milk.

Once I attended a booking directly from a job interview. This was acceptable but not ideal; the clothing was almost right for an afternoon meeting, and the make‐up certainly was, but it was a bit odd to be walking around with a CV tucked away next to a box of condoms. And I was a little worried that someone may have glanced in my bag and noticed them at the interview.

Would that help or harm the chances of employment? I wondered. And yes, I was offered the job, but didn't take it in the end ‐ just more office admin rubbish that would end up nowhere in a year's time.

Another time I readied myself in a museum toilet. This was very early on, when I was convinced that the punting world would beat a path to my door, and went round with a light summery dress, strappy heels, latex bits and change of knickers in a bag just in case. This was before I realised that I didn't have to work at breakneck pace to make my bills and expenses, and also that most punters would accept a meeting one or two hours later than requested if they really wanted me. If not, well, there are plenty of fish for hire in the sea.

I applied lipgloss and mascara as dozens of tourists trailed in and out of the toilets. If there is a uniform for tour groups, and I assume there must be, it is this: overlong shorts, white trainers, voluminous T‐shirts advertising the last place visited, visor, hair in pigtails, shoulder bag.