The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (3 page)

I wasn't feeling tired and neither was he. 'You want to blow bubbles?' N asked, as we drove over a bridge. We turned and went up the leafy Embankment, and the growing light of the morning made the water glint darkly. N knows about the tides of the Thames, he's seen bodies dragged out of the river, he tells me where the terrapins and seals go when the weather is warm. He pointed to a building with a swimming pool in the basement, said he used to swim there when he was at school. And that bridge, he remembers the woman who threw herself off it, pockets full of pebbles, but who didn't realise the air would catch in her layers of clothing so she couldn't sink. When the rescue boats came to drag her out she fought them off‐ 'Put me in, put me in!' I sat back, eyes half‐closed, as he told me more of the city 13

lore. We ended up at Charing Cross station at sunrise, blowing soapy scraps of bubble‐juice diluted with manky Thames water onto the first commuters of the day.

mardi, le 4 novembre

Small handbags, bah. The magazines can tout this or that tiny purse of the season. But considering what I typically leave the house carrying,

a pair of folding scissors (stray threads are the enemy) a pen (my memory is good, but not that good)

phone (to phone agency on arrival and leaving) condoms (polyurethane as well as latex, some people have allergies) a spoon

bottle of tube

lipgloss (reapplying lipstick after a blowjob is too complicated) compact and mascara

smal vial of scent (anything with a citrus note is nice) tissues

spare knickers and stockings

keys, bankcards, ether normal detritus

and sometimes, nipple clamps, ball gag and a multi-tailed rubber whip, a capacious holdall is the order of the day. Packing all that into a Fendi baguette is a black art not even Houdini could master.

mercredi, le 5 novembre

I was reminded of a phrase I had forgotten existed – “turning tricks”.

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Turning tricks! What an intriguing concept! I imagine a Vegas dealer turning over the flop, an Edwardian society belle sifting through a silver plate of calling cards, a domina‐trix flipping bound captives like so many grilling sausages.

jeudi, le 6 novembre

My parents are nice. I know I’m biased, but it's true. In spite of having left home years ago, I’m still in contact with one or both of them on an almost‐daily basis.

They don't know, officially, what I do. They know I'm in the sex trade but that's it. Knowing my mother and her middle‐class sensibilities, she probably tells her friends I'm a sales rep for Myla or something.

So while they officially don't know, I suspect they unofficially do know. Or at least have a clue. They're not stupid.

I rang home for no particular reason. 'Hello honey,' Daddy said.

'Still beating the streets? Ha ha ha.'

'Ha,' I bleated flatly. 'Mum there?'

He grunted and handed the phone over.

'When are you coming home?' she asked. No hello. No asking after my health. No one in her family has bothered with polite pleasantries since antediluvian times. Straight to the point, that's them.

'Couple of weeks?'

'How's the job search going?'

I ummed and erred. I couldn't remember what I'd last told her.

That I was looking for work, or starting on a research project?

Thinking about postgrad programmes, or applying to some? 'Not bad, a few things out there, no interviews yet.'

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Actually, it's not quite all lies, I had a job interview.

Don't get too excited ‐ it wasn't a real one. I was instructed to meet a client at a hotel, and was emailed his specific requirements for my interview technique. He required a shy, almost virginal secretary who would be powerless under his persuasion. Needless to say, A‐levels (not the academic sort) were required.

We finished early and snapped out of character. I found a lime-scented cream in the bathroom and massaged his tense shoulders.

'Do you find my fantasies odd?' he asked. 'Odd?'

'Do you think it demeans women?'

I chose my words carefully. 'I think this is the appropriate outlet for it.' We talked a bit longer. Interestingly, his background was very similar to mine ‐ his mother comes from where my father is from, and vice‐versa. The conversation strayed to places, attitudes, foodstuffs, sport. As we spoke, homesickness hit quickly and hard, and I was suddenly looking forward to the holidays.

My mother seemed satisfied with the evasion of her question.

'Let me know when you're visiting, yes? And if you're bringing anyone? So I can make up the rooms.'

'Of course,' I lied. Setting a date would have been pointless, because she inevitably forgets. On the day I turn up at home, suitcases in hand, she can always be counted on to exclaim, 'Oh, was it today you were coming home? I thought it was tomorrow!'

She put Daddy back on the line. 'Tell that nice boy of yours with the glasses I said hello!' he chirruped. That was a boy called A4, a lovely young lad who was very clever and always smiled. My father still says from time to time that he hopes we'll marry. I don't know if this is a sign of senility or a misguided attempt at match-making. A4 was three

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relationships ago. We're still friends, though. I sighed, wished them a pleasant weekend and rang off.

dimanche, le 9 novembre

Prostitution isn't my first foray into sex work. Not that I'm equating standing behind an attractively arranged display of dildos to real live wetsex. I can't brook the sanctimonious tut-tutting of shop assistants who don't even have wank‐booths to empty. Checking stock of rubber dicks is all well and good, but not an exalted position from which to crap on strippers, porn actresses and prostitutes for not doing their part for the sisterhood.

Anyhow. Perhaps my odd CV did lead to the current job. Here's the executive summary:

As a student, was rather short of money.

Someone suggested stripping. By 'someone' I mean my then-boyfriend A1. By 'suggested' I mean 'used to date a stripper and would take me to the fleshpots with his friends, which I rather liked'.

It was not terribly hard work; the girls were frightening.

Couldn't stop giggling at the men talking to me between sets.

Who wants to go over the finer points of Greek tragedy with a girl in a see‐through bra?

Scratch that; I completely see the appeal. BBC3 take note.

But it was a stopgap and I was dead scared of a tutor walking in. I left.

Then, a couple of years later:

Was at a vaguely witchy party with a housemate.

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Dressed in black and carrying a whip (mine). The housemate was dressed as Miss World, which is not relevant, but interesting.

A woman approached us, talked to me a bit, she had a place and all the kit.

It paid far more than stripping, I managed to control the impulse to laugh.

Stopped when I landed a 'legit' job in a bookshop on weekends, less well‐paid, but access to loads of free books.

In retrospect, did not choose wisely.

But enough reminiscing. Today's my birthday, and I mean to celebrate in style.

lundi, le 10 novembre

At 9 p.m. yesterday, while readying ourselves for my birthday night out (all shaving shaven, all brushing brushed, all scrubbing scrubbed) the Boy and I finished off a sex quiz from a glossy women's magazine.

Yes, as you have probably picked up, I am a call girl with a boyfriend. A boyfriend who knows what I do. We've been together about a year. He doesn't live in the city, though.

Yes, it causes friction. Mmm, friction. Not always a bad thing.

Especially in bed. He doesn't like my job but he has some abominable social habits, too, like sneaking rum into people's drinks when they're not looking and voting Conservative.

He buttoned up a soft dark‐blue shirt, a gift from his mother. I sat at a dressing table, crossed my legs and read out the questions in my sauciest voice. 'At what time is a

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man most likely to be aroused ‐ A, morning; B, midday; or C, night?'

He raised an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. 'Is there a D, "all the time" option?'

10 p.m.: met A2 (one of my exes), A4 (the clever boy) and other friends at the Blue Posts, commandeered the big leather seats by the fire. Set about attempting to fill the greater percentage of my stomach with alcohol.

Midnight: a club nearby, I think. It all grows a bit hazy. Multiple shots imbibed containing schnapps, which is evil. I lost a pair of gloves.

2 a.m.: emboldened by recent gym‐going, asserted that I was strong enough to pick the Boy up. Wobbled on my heels and we both fell back on the floor. Certain if I wasn't so drunk, I would have felt a right twat.

3 a.m.: Oxford Street, everyone marching along and singing

'Seven Nation Army' in unison. No one can remember all the words, except for the part about Wichita. We lose the few celebrants who hadn't yet begged off to bus stops along the way.

Sometime after that, minicab. We collapse in the approximate location of my bed twenty minutes later.

9 a.m.: I get up to use the toilet. When I come back, the Boy is standing in the door. 'Close your eyes,' he says. I do. He puts one arm under my arms and one under my knees and carries me to the bed. Gently, he sets me down. I feel the softness of fleece under my back and toes. 'Open them,' he says, and I see that he has spread the bed with a soft white sheepskin blanket identical to the one on his bed. 'Happy birthday,' he whispers, and we make love three times.

A happy birthday indeed.

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mardi, le 11 novembre

So much for a relaxing break from work — every morning I wake to missed texts and calls from the agency.

That aside, the benefits of taking a few days off ‐ apart from the chance to catch up on laundry ‐ are largely spiritual. But one learns a few mundane things as well. Such as that it's nice to let hair grow out a bit to get a good, clean waxing. Also, you remember what the hair was there for in the first place.

Lubrication. No, really.

Pity the clients will never know this.

mercredi, le 12 novembre

The manager rang. 'Darling, is verrrry nice gentleman who loves your pictures. Are you free?'

Tm afraid not, no,' I say, hoping the Boy doesn't overhear.

'But he is verrrry nice.' 'Sorry, no.'

A few months after the encounter with the older woman and her boyfriend I located what sounded like a small, discreet agency on the Internet. The miracle of information interconnected by technology means that any site is only three clicks away from an escort service, really. The website was modestly designed compared to some others, but the girls were attractive and straightforwardly described. Most of them looked extremely normal ‐ not scary robo‐women, and not shudderingly unattractive amateur cam girls, either, just reasonably normal women, but, you know, naked and straddling a garden wall. After email contact and sending my photos, I finally rang to make arrangements to meet the

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manager at the dining room of a central London hotel. She sounded very young and had a very strong Eastern European accent. Polish, maybe? Should I ask?

'How will I know you?' I asked. 'What do you look like?'

'When I was younger everyone used to say I looked like Brooke Shields,' she said.

'Ah, you must be very beautiful then.'

'No, I am old and decrepit. Now people say I look like Daryl Hannah.'

I ended the call feeling disloyal. After all, my relationship with the Boy at that stage was fairly new, and here I was arranging to meet a madame and work as a whore. Would he have a problem with it? Stupid question, girl. My mind worked through the possible outcomes:

He chucks me instantly, and tells all his friends.

He chucks me instantly, and is too embarrassed to tell his friends.

He doesn't chuck me, but becomes scary and unbalanced as the result of dating a whore.

He doesn't chuck me, but becomes scary because he actually likes the idea.

He offers to join in, pro bono.

He offers to join in, and earns better money than me.

He's okay with it, and things go on as normal.

The first three seemed likely enough while the last four varied in credibility from 'no way' to 'really no fucking way'.

I could have backed out at any time before meeting the manager, of course, but I didn't. A few days passed between making first contact through email and the interview. I went out and re‐stocked make‐up supplies. On the day of the 21

appointment I spent all morning getting ready. This involved no small amount of eyelash curling, hair straightening and wardrobe panicking. Sexy, but not slutty? You'll be wanting the dark silk top, then. Young, but serious? Well‐cut coat. As much cleavage as I could muster. Boots, of course ‐ it is autumn in London after all.

My nails are an acrylic nightmare but there was simply no time to do anything about them. I have a horrible habit of chewing the cuticles, and it wreaks havoc with anything manicurists try to do.

On the way to the meeting point, I passed a movie poster and convinced myself that I looked not unlike Catherine Zeta Jones.

Now pull the other one.

I arrived early and went to the toilet. Make‐up was already coming off in some places, cakey in others. Turning the cold tap on, I flicked a few drops of water on my face, dabbed, and re-applied lipgloss. Better. Little did I know this mini‐ritual would become a central theme in my WG experience. Poking my head into the restaurant, I could see it was deserted on a weekday lunchtime. The single bored Asian waitress walked round and round the planters of fake flowers. I wouldn't want to be there either.

The manager rang and asked me to take a table near the window. Was this so she could spy on me and run off if I didn't fit the bill? Was it an elaborate set‐up, some kind of sting? More likely, she was just covering her back. I ordered coffee and waited.

She arrived, as described. Long blonde hair. Horsey face. Tight dress and killer brocade boots that matched her handbag ‐ my chocolate high street clompers were dull in comparison. 'Darling, hello.' Air kisses.