The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (31 page)

My heart was beating fast. That was good, I thought. Now I have someone on my side.

270

Juin

271

W - Z

W is for Whore

Working girl, prostitute, call girl, woman of negotiable affection, ho. I don't think any one term is any more or less degrading than another. It's simply a label; go with it, have fun with it. Indignation at someone else's moniker for a whore is so outdated. So politically correct, so 1990s. You sell sex for a living ‐

what did you expect, to be billed as an 'erotic entertainments consultant'? 'Sex therapist' wouldn't be too bad, though.

X is for Xerxes

Xerxes was a great king of Persia in the fifth century BC. I couldn't think of a good topic that started with X.

Y is for Youth

Younger is better in the business. This is an iron‐clad rule ‐unless you're over forty, in which case, the agency will probably add a robust decade to increase the naughty granny factor. Expect that your profile will not tell your age accurately.

If actresses can continue to play ingenues well into their thirties, why can't you?

But it's up to you to remember which lie you told to whom and keep up the facade. The client is paying for an illusion, and letting slip that you were old enough to keep John Major in his constituency is not a good idea. Doubly so if he is a Labour backbencher.

Z is for Zippers

Someone once asked me to undress him using only my teeth. While in principle this sounds like an interesting task, there is one thing that cannot be undone with the mouth alone, and that is the zipper of a man's trousers. You know how you have to hold them taut at the top when you unzip your own? You can't do that without hands. It took about eight minutes just to get his trousers down and completely killed the mood.

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mardi, le 1 juin

Angel rang. It was a surprise; I had only caught a glimpse of her from time to time, and had not thought I'd hear from her again.

She was crying. I was in a taxi and couldn't really hear her above the noise of the cab, but it sounded like she was somewhere noisy as well, on a street or by a Tube entrance. I told her I was on the way to meet a friend, and she could ring me later or drop by for coffee if she wanted a chat.

She did drop by. She smiled and breezed in, looking calmer and pulled together, but I knew it was only a matter of time until she broke down. Which she did, magnificently. Someone had just dumped her. A relationship ‐ I had to confess ignorance that she was seeing anyone at all ‐ had ended. By email.

I was shocked. 'No way to treat you, no matter what happened.' I cooed. I poured boiling water in a cafetiere, let it steep, probably too long, pushed the plunger and poured her a beaker of steaming brew.

'So who was it?' I asked, out of mild curiosity.

'Didn't you know?' she asked, looking up, tear‐stained face. 'You'll laugh.' It was First Date.

Bloody hell.

'And the worst part of it all, he is still carrying a torch for you.'

Bloodier hell. How do you comfort someone who has just been chucked for, among other reasons undoubtedly, a 273

memory, and a pretty insubstantial one at that? 'I'm so sorry,' I whispered.

'You're good at things, you're talented,' she moaned. 'I just don't know, I disappoint people.'

'You can't take that personally. Someone else being disappointed in you is their problem.' Cruddy way to soothe someone, I know, but I didn't know what to say. This woman was more acquaintance than friend, and a stressful one at that. But I felt for her. I've been on both sides of that equation.

jeudi, le 3 juin

An invitation came through the post a few weeks ago. I haven't replied yet for not knowing what to do.

It's a weekend in the country to celebrate a friend's engagement, and promises to be a good time, with garden parties and drunken sing‐alongs round a bonfire. And I would ordinarily be there like a shot, but for one thing. The Boy.

The odds that he was not invited are slender. With most exes, I would not mind, but I haven't heard so much as a word from him since the near‐miss at that birthday party some time back, there's been no sign of the mystery car at all, and I therefore have no idea whether he still pines, or hates me, or has forgotten about me altogether. And I can't decide which outcome would be the worst.

It would take only a minute to ring the bride‐to‐be and ask, but that would flag my concern, and if I know this couple at all I know that other people's discomfort is their sport. So best not say anything at all.

I could certainly use a weekend out of town, though, and it's the best option going so far.

274

dimanche, le 6 juin

N and A3 and I dissected the interview. N has no real idea what I studied, but is unfailingly supportive and convinced the job will be mine. A3, on the other hand, works in a similar field and is, it must be noted, grumpy at best.

I feel I've my own personal angel and devil figures, just as in cartoons. Though the idea of carrying their combined thirty‐odd stone on my shoulders is laughable.

mardi, le 8 juin

'They must at least be considering you,' N said. 'I went for an interview in Newcastle once, and they rang up to reject me before I even got to the train to come home.'

'What were you going to Newcastle for?' I asked.

N gave me an odd look. 'Never you mind,' he said. 'Point is, you have to be more patient. They'll let you know in due time.'

He's probably right, but it doesn't stop me fretting. Could I have given a better presentation, I wonder, or answered their questions more professionally? Did something about my clothes or manner put them off? How did I stand up against the others? If I get the job, will I fit in, will I disappoint them? Do any fit men work there?

mercredi, le 9 juin

Possible reasons I have not yet been contacted about the interview include:

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They have decided to hire someone else, and neglected to tell me.

They have decided to hire me, and neglected to tell me.

They are making an offer to someone else first and waiting for a response before rejecting the other applicants.

They are rejecting the other applicants before contacting the successful candidate (i.e. me).

The letter has been lost in the post.

The letter has not been lost in the post, but was delivered to the wrong house.

The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant died suddenly on the way to the door, and no one has found him or the letter yet.

The letter was delivered to the wrong house, and the occupant has a dog, who ate the letter.

The letter was delivered to me, but as a test of my mental acumen, cunningly disguised as one of the thousands of circulars that come through my door daily, and I mistakenly threw it away.

The letter was delivered to me, and rapidly disintegrated.

The letter was delivered to me, and soon thereafter I suffered acute head trauma, erasing my memory of either the letter or the trauma.

And my brain has filled in the erased portions, so not only do I not remember any of this, I do not have any mysterious gaps in my recollection.

I dreamed the interview.

The letter has not been sent.

They haven't made a decision.

276

jeudi, le 10 juin

I couldn't take waiting any longer. I rang the personnel department.

The woman on the other end of the call was kind, though I had to give her the job reference number three times. She apologised ‐

apparently there had been problems with the internal mail and the letters hadn't been posted, though a decision had been made. I gnawed the fingers of my left hand while she looked for the information.

'Ah, here you are,' she said. 'It looks as though you've got it.'

My heart leapt. I grinned. 'Really?'

'You are Louise, right?'

And just as quickly, it fell back to the pit of my stomach. 'Er, no.'

The pudding‐faced girl. How had they chosen her over me?

'Oh, sorry!' she tittered. 'I'm afraid you haven't been successful, then.' I thanked her and rang off.

Phone call from Dr C, who is visiting his parents and wants to drive up and visit next week. I suppose the current situation gives me some free time at least. Silver linings and all that. And I am definitely going to that engagement party. Nothing hath charms to soothe the wounded ego quite like alcohol and flirtation.

So I should be away all weekend. Sod's Law: if in the city with no escape, the days will be blazing hot and sunny; the minute I step foot outside this urban sphere it will chuck it down endlessly. And I will be wearing open‐toed shoes with white trousers. If you experience unpleasant weather this weekend, be assured that it is my fault entirely.

277

dimanche, le 13 juin

The benefits of sex with an ex:

No chance of being shocked by what he looks like naked the first time. That horrible mole is right where you left it.

Not having to ask awkwardly for contact details after. If you don't have them, it's not by accident.

He knows where your buttons are, how many there are, how long they need to be pressed and whether they should go side‐to‐side, up‐and‐down or in little circles.

And the drawbacks:

There's probably a good reason you're not together any more, a very good reason.

One of you will think this means the relationship is back on.

There is absolutely no way you can tell any of your friends without coming off as the world's biggest prat. After all, they had to live with you post break‐up, right?

Cripes. I'm going to commence a head / wall interface now. Back later when I have knocked some sense into myself.

lundi, le 14 juin

So, yes. Sex. With someone I honestly expected never to have sex with again.

The Boy. The effing Boy.

Still sorting it out. It's a mess. He gave me a lift back to 278

London and now won't leave. But I would like to confirm, that at least before the slightly tipsy postcoital glowing phase ended and the horrible, horrible veil of Oh‐Dear‐Me‐Not‐Again descended, it was good.

Better than good. He sat on my chest and fucked my mouth, he took me behind, above and below. I smiled and asked how he'd gotten so good with his tongue, thinking there must be some genius tart showing him the ropes now. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I just think about it a lot.' I came harder, faster and longer than usual, and for a brief moment I thought, 'If he never said anything stupid again, I could be quite happy with this.'

Sod's Law mark two: he will open his mouth and say something stupid within thirty seconds of thinking that. And it was raining outside so I couldn't make some excuse to vacate the flat, walk around for a bit and come back when enough time had elapsed to be certain he'd gone.

mardi, le 15 juin

There's no why to ex sex, only the how (long it will last, soon it will be over, fast can I leave). Most of my exes are friends, and most of my friends are exes, and I don't fuck them afterwards as a rule. But there are one or two who fall out of touch, usually because there was little in the relationship worth building a friendship on, and this was one.

Yesterday, when he left he offered me a lift to a meeting. Thank goodness, I thought, that means he'll be on his way, hopefully never to return. Before we could go, though, he asked if I had any money on me. I didn't. Except when working, I usually carry less spare change than the Queen. He drove us via a cashpoint so I could make a withdrawal and pay him back for the tomatoes he had bought me.

(NB:

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these were replacing tomatoes I already had that he had helped himself to. So, I was paying for my own tomatoes twice.) I emerged from the car shaking my head. Walked to the cashpoint.

Withdrew a crisp tenner ‐ the tomatoes hadn't cost that much, but maybe he was going to impose a surcharge on my own bog roll ‐ and walked back to the car. Put the note in his hand, closed the door, kept on walking.

A text came through a minute later: 'Am just filling up with petrol if you still want a lift. Come back and meet me.'

I didn't reply. He rang. Did I want a lift? he asked. Yes, if you can act like a normal person, I said. I described the direction I was going, said if he wanted to drive me, he could pick me up. He rang again a minute later. Said he was at the end of the road now and didn't see me. I said it was because I was still walking. Hung up. He rang again, asked where I was. Described the road I was on, the building I had just passed, the route I was taking. Hung up.

He sent another text: 'This is really stupid. Pm just 10 metres behind u the whole way. And as per usual, is exactly what I knew would happen.'

A minute later, his car came up on my right. I stopped walking. He reached across and opened the passenger side door.

'I just got your text,' I said. '

And?' he said.

'Goodbye.' I shut the door firmly and walked on. His car lingered a minute until someone beeped a horn, and he drove up to the next roundabout and disappeared. And that was it. Put on headphones.

The next song was about someone walking out the door. I felt good, and smiled so hard it brought tears to my eyes.