The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (27 page)

'Really?' The client nodded and pursed his lips. 'Really.'

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He was tall, well over six feet. Thick‐framed and strong. Probably mid‐forties. Bald. And single, which seems, from what I've seen, as likely in clients as not. 'I find that . . . fascinating.'

What is it about men who know seven ways to kill you with their bare hands but just want to be pussycats in the bedroom?

'Have you ever let someone take control?' I asked. He was sat in a stuffy chair, and I was curled up at his feet drinking Shiraz and stroking the back of his legs.

'I always wanted to, but—'

'Sweetie,' I said, and reached up to stroke his chin, 'don't be shy.

That's what I'm here for.'

A first‐time submissive is usually easy to handle and eager to please. It takes months before they start trying deviously to control the action from below. I asked if he would let me tie him up. He said yes, what with? I wasn't prepared, so I asked for a handful of ties. He led me upstairs to the bedroom and produced them.

I told him to undress. He did, as I sat cross‐legged on the bed. I ordered him on to the bed. He hesitated for a moment. 'Get down, face up, legs and arms straight,' I said abruptly. He did. I pulled my skirt up and crawled over him, heels still on. Straddling his chest, I tied his hands to the bed. At the foot of the bed there was nothing handy, so I looped the ends of the ties round the wheels of the bed‐frame and hoped they would hold. I could feel him craning his neck, trying to get his mouth closer to my bottom. 'Lie back,' I barked. 'If I want you to touch me you'll know it.'

It was standard SM, nothing challenging. Tease and (extremely) light torture. But I did end up with the cleanest shoes outside of a Russell &c Bromley.

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dimanche, le 18 avril

N has taken a hiatus from his usual running commentary on sport and tits to focus on pussy. His cat, that is.

Unlike my dearly departed feline, who would take to spring like a cat to a nest full of little flightless baby birds, using her cat‐like reflexes to jump cattily from branch to branch scaring the living kittens out of any and all tree‐dwellers, N's pussy has been dragging along, unable even to pull herself up the steps.

She came back from the veterinary clinic with a bandaged paw and a pinched look, as it was explained to me, having had a thorn the size of another cat drawn out of her foot. It had formed an abscess and ‐ well, something too disgusting and technical to go into, really. But I gather it involved 'draining', which I presume has nothing to do with kitchen sinks. N has been looking after her with the tender mercy of a ward sister. It's rather sweet.

Last night, as we left the gym, he did not offer me a lift home, nor suggest a drink or a meal somewhere. Mumbling something about changing a dressing, he all but ran to the car park.

I smirked. 'If I didn't know better, I'd say you were getting a little pussy on the side.'

mardi, le 19 avril

Coffee and N and A1 for no better reason than to dissect my love life. Again. 'So what happened to that trolley dolly?' N asked, sipping an Americano.

'Could have been something. But he called it off, by 234

phone, this weekend,' I reported. It was annoying. Admittedly, he was probably more often in the air than in town, but this should be no barrier. In my opinion some of the best relationships involve not seeing each other.

'Did he have a reason?' N asked.

'Too busy with work. Couldn't be bothered.'

'Did he actually say that second bit?' N looked puzzled.

'No, I'm paraphrasing.' It is probably too great a leap of faith to believe a man would be so guileless as to say that he was too busy with work and for that actually to be the case.

A1 shrugged. 'Well, here's hoping he realises what he's missing.'

'Doubtful. We never got past snogging.' Three dates, lots of conversation, a torrent of email. Resulting in nothing more than a couple of awkward hugs and a bit of tongue‐tying before Cinderella had to drive home. Wary of what happened the last few times, I didn't think it right to push him too fast. But whatever his buttons were I clearly was not pressing them.

'Really?' spluttered N. 'I would have at least slept with you first.'

'Cheers, darling,' I said, blowing him an ironic kiss. 'I have a friend,' A1 ventured. 'A bit on the short side, though—'

'Is that a euphemism? I've already seen your little friend, thanks,' I said, glancing at the crotch of his jeans.

'Ouch,' A1 said, and turned to N. 'She's getting angry,' he said.

'She's never this sharp when she has a regular shag.'

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mercredi, le 21 avril

I know a girl. A nice girl, a well‐brought‐up girl, whose vowels are all very round and correct and whose manners are exquisite.

This girl, I've known her a few years, since we both were students. Like me, her degree was mostly useless; like me, she'd moved to London to find her way. And found it mostly a drain on finances. Moving from temp job to temp job, or stringing two or three part‐time and freelance projects together at a time to make enough money to keep her tiny, not‐terribly‐expensive flat.

And this girl doesn't really know what she wants. She might fancy the academic life, but really more as retreat from the rest of the world than a genuine love for the world of letters. When I see her in pubs with friends, every few weeks or so, she always looks like a slightly shabby librarian, but I've noticed the way she moves and she could be so much sexier than that. Her legs are fantastic. I also know she's been struggling with depression for some time, with ‐ literally ‐ the scars to prove it. And the men in her life are either abusive or doormats.

I buy her a pint, knowing it's too late in the evening for her to get the next round, but that's fine because she really couldn't afford it. The money she does spend freely goes on books. She loves reading, this one, and get her on the right subject and her milk‐white arms will be flying about, lit fag in one hand, expounding this or that theory or proclaiming this or that writer an unsung genius.

More often, however, she'll mumble through a conversation and I will try twice as hard as I would with anyone else to keep it going. Because she is always honest in her answer to the question:

'So how are you keeping these days?' And it's always something depressing.

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What might make her life better? Who knows? Chronic money shortage is one problem. Feeling intimidated by every woman who comes within a quarter‐mile radius of her current boyfriend doesn't help (oh yes, she's probably pulled that accidental pregnancy scheme once or twice. Not faking it, of course, but conveniently forgetting a pill or three here and there, when the leash had to be tugged on a bit).

So maybe, it occurs to me, well, it's no cure‐all, but a few months in prostitution might do her the world of good. Have to primp and smile for once. Put the overdraft back in the black. Get her mind off herself every now and again.

But I can't say anything. She's waiting to hear on Ph.D. funding for this autumn. In a mostly useless subject.

jeudi, le 22 avril

Result

Etymology: Middle English, from Medieval Latin
resul‐tare,
from Latin to rebound, from re‐ +
saltare
to leap. Function: noun, intransitive verb.

1.

To proceed or arise as a consequence, effect or conclusion.

2. Beneficial or tangible effect.

3. Something obtained by calculation or investigation.

4. What I will say when I make N look like the fool he is.

Because it's not about the money, it's about the principle.

N and I went out to a club he worked at a few years ago. They were playing the usual pop trash, but the doormen knew us and waved us through.

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It was packed with the usual bodies. A few on the floor, shaking their money makers, more at the bar looking everyone over. A meat market but not unfriendly for it. I leaned on a white leather sofa and looked round. A familiar face in a small clutch of men: Ten Pence Bet. I elbowed N.

'Told you,' he said. Or would have said, but I couldn't hear him over the music. Mouthed. I knew what he meant. I shrugged.

Being with other men is not ipso facto gay. And the bet stood, regardless.

I saw Ten Pence Bet detach from his group and spin out in the direction of the bar. Alone. Good, because I didn't think a confrontation would work in front of a crowd. I followed him.

Tapped him on the shoulder.

'Yes?' He turned around, saw me, smiled.

'This is going to sound odd,' I said apologetically. 'But I win a ten pence bet if you're not gay.'

'Pardon?' The music in the club was loud, he bent his head very close to mine.

'I said I win a ten pence bet if you're not gay.'

'Who's the bet with?' he asked.

'I really mustn't say. Does it matter?'

He smiled. Thought a bit. Leaned forward and kissed me. His lips were soft, slightly moist, lingered a moment. 'You win,' he said. I smiled. We walked away in opposite directions.

I found N, leaned heavily on his arm. 'I win,' I shouted in his ear. 'Do you hate me?'

'I'll prove you wrong,' he said, digging through his pockets.

'Yes, well.' I smirked. 'Until then, hand over the coin.'

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vendredi, le 23 avril

Escape hatches ‐ a brief consideration:

Kyle of Tongue

Pros: favoured by child molesters and lovers of cold weather. They clearly go for the fantastic scenery.

Cons: bleak isn't the word. What can you say about a place where the incoming tide swallows up the main road?

Home counties

Pros: so soul‐destroying, so boring, so obviously bad, that no one would think their new neighbour is me.

Cons: so soul‐destroying, so boring, so obviously bad, that no one would think their new neighbour is me.

West country

Pros: dairy products, moors, beaches. Pasties. Ponies. Dreamily gazing at bronzed surfers in summer‐time.

Cons: while the trains go there, am not certain they come back.

North America

Pros: charming accent might attract general goodwill, free drinks.

Cons: am frightened by the concept of Texas.

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South America

Pros: sunshine, interesting food, mountains.

Cons: rumoured expatriate contingent of Nazis in hiding may prove constricting to social life.

Australia and environs

Pros: a few acquaintances, rumoured good weather, decent confectionery.

Cons: rumoured expatriate contingent of Brits in hiding may prove constricting to social life.

The Med

Pros: excellent weather, superlative food, inexpensive housing, reasonable entertainment possibilities and not terribly far from home.

Cons: Costa del Croydon is not quite the vibe I'm after.

Fulham

Pros: the transport links are decent.

Cons: what does it say about a place if the ease of escaping is its highest selling point?

Israel

Umm, no. Just ... no. Not yet.

East Anglia

Pros: good beer. Oh, I don't half fancy a pint of IPA on a sunny afternoon.

Cons: aesthetically displeasing 'bump' bit of map.

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Africa

Pros: no idea.

Cons: once I had a client from Zimbabwe. It doesn't sound a terribly nice place at the moment.

New York

Pros: extremely menschy.

Cons: if television is to be believed, pressure to meet and mate is all‐consuming. I am the alpha stiletto‐wearing, lingerie-obsessed, Pulitzer‐reading female here and competition could be disheartening. Particularly if the quarry is an unemployed finance graduate still living at home in the Bronx.

Lately it feels I am spending more time out of town than in it. The current good weather in London is pleasant and welcome, but an unfortunate case of too little, too late. I am packing again ‐

knickers (all varieties), books
(Dodsworth, My Name is Asher
Lev,
some silly crime thrillers and the ever‐reliable
Princess
Bride)
and sunblock.

In search of beaches. Will report back with detailed analysis of several of the locations discussed above.

dimanche, le 26 avril

We took a holiday every year when I was young. Never anywhere too exotic, and never with my father. He claimed exhaustion from his business until he retired and couldn't use the excuse any longer. By the last year of school, my best friend was one of my male cousins. We have the same

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colouring, the same small sharp features and freckles. People think we are twins. We still acted like children, taunting and hitting each other. But that year there had been a new undercurrent of tension: we started to watch one another cautiously, for signs that one of us knew something the other didn't.

So, that year, our mothers took all the kids on holiday together.

We drove to Brighton. I'd never been so far south. And with six of us in the car, it was cramped. The journey felt a lot longer than it must have been. My mother's sister, my cousin's mother, brought a bag of cassette tapes to keep us entertained. Her taste in music was nothing like ours, but thankfully nowhere as antique as Mum's. We knew all the lyrics to her tapes, and we sang loudly, car windows down. It was a sunny day. We thought the holiday would be perfect.

When we got there, the beach was horrible, wet and windy.

There was nothing to do for three days. The mothers stayed in and watched telly; we kids went out looking for an amusement arcade. I beat allcomers at air hockey until no one would play me any longer. We spent all of our money on candy floss, penny arcades and chips.

I remember coming back to the hotel one day; the mothers were still watching television. My cousin was in the bathroom, singing, obviously unaware that the echo that makes singing in the shower sound so good also means everyone outside could hear him. He was singing a Madonna song, and the frankly sexual lyrics

‐ not to mention his falsetto ‐disturbed me. Without meaning to, I imagined him imitating the dancers in the video.