The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (5 page)

lundi, le 24 novembre

Does it seem like Christmas begins earlier every year? I think I saw someone hanging fairy lights last week and I swear my next-door neighbour has had red tinsel in her window since July. Now everyone's at it, and even though the day is a month away I'm sick of it already. Granted, not being Christian, my tolerance is fairly low.

Rubbish 'holiday' occurrences:

Being asked to wear red, fur‐trimmed lingerie, which serves to confirm that only men think this is a good idea. Further, that they must have had very strange childhoods 31

indeed to find Father Christmas a turn‐on. Perhaps it is a relief to know that this is a perversion that must be paid for.

People who use the word 'Crimbo'. That's just wrong.

The drone of fervent Christians begging us to remember what

'this season is really about'. It's about the blessed appearance of Our Lord Harvey Nichols, right?

People who are impossible to shop for. In this category is A3, whose only extravagance is a Man United season ticket each year. What to buy the man who thinks he has everything? I ring A4, who suggests socks.

Customers who ask what I'll be doing for the holidays. Simply because I can't decide what would be a suitable answer ‐ a glamorous lie (pulling Donovan Leitch's cracker) or the mundane reality (schlepping up north to light the menorah).

But the holidays are great because:

Whether by divine right or unspoken charter, the entire country decides to piss off work. As a result, no one really expects reliable communication.

The smell of mince pies. Complicated, passionate discussions involving mince pies. Shopping trips consisting largely of the need to purchase mince pies. Forgoing meals in favour of mince pies.

End‐of‐year anxiety equals a spike in workload for me. I feel like the Samaritan of sex.

Getting to see the people you know and love. Getting to see the people you know and love drunk.

This year, I actually want the terrible gifts from ancient aunties.

Bring on the woolly socks and embroidered handkerchiefs, please!

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mardi,le 25 novembre

I had two customers one hour apart, located only several blocks from each other. The wind and rain were too heavy to do anything but hole up for the duration. So, finding a conveniently located pub near Southwark, I popped in for a drink.

Walked up to the bar and ordered a double rum and soda. One does not often see a stiletto‐clad blonde midweek in a pub, but I am accustomed to tumbleweed moments when entering a local.

The large screen precariously mounted above the (real) fire was tuned to football. Everyone was watching it, and so did I.

The septuagenarian barmaid aside ‐ or should that be barmatron? ‐ I was the only woman in the room. But the looks I got were neither contemptuous nor salacious. Everyone paused, saw me, then turned back to their drinks and football. The match was clearly an important one.

It ended in a draw. A few men came up from the back table to order fresh pints. One of them stood next to my seat while waiting for his lager.

'When we saw you come in, we thought maybe you were the mascot.'

'Is that so?' I said, rather confused.

'Ah well, it doesn't matter much, Celtic are still at the top of the group.'

'So they are. I did my best, anyway.'

He laughed and returned to a far corner. It was then I realised my hat, which I'd left on for the entire hour, was green‐and‐white striped. Some mascot. I drained my glass and left for the next appointment.

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mercredi, le 26 novembre

It's a public health issue, I know.

I understand such feelings perfectly. This job I do, the number of people I come in contact with. Living in a city where disease flies in from all over the world. And the time of year ‐ the festive season when people are out partying, splurging, doing things they wouldn't normally do because they think, hey, it's the end of another year, I deserve a treat. Then they wake up the next morning unsure of what they got and whom they were with. And even if you do remember, you never know at the time who has it and who hasn't.

I'm a disease‐spreading vector. No one is safe, sure, but some of us are more at risk than others, even with all the precautions available these days ‐ the free clinics, the vaccinations, the public awareness campaigns.

And it's important to me. There's no such thing as paid sick leave for call girls. And god forbid you end up in hospital.

So I want to set your minds at ease as much as I can. I want you to know.

I have had a flu jab.

jeudi, le 27 novembre

A late text from the Boy last night: 'We were taken out for free drinks after work. Am now in a tree.'

It's cold out there. I hope his rapidly shrinking boy parts make it home safely and are up for warming again soon.

The first time we met it was his birthday, about one year ago now. He was tearing up the dance floor in a club, almost literally ‐

the bouncers had their hackles up the moment he 34

and his equally large, drunken friends came in the door. They weren't the only ones. I couldn't take my eyes off this man who moved like water and threw his limbs around as though they were only nominally attached to his body.

The otherwise crowded floor cleared a wide circle around their group. They took turns chucking each other around, laughing, like little boys. His eyes were shining, probably from alcohol. His curly hair and freckles stood out in a room of pale poseurs. I demanded a mutual friend introduce us. The club was too loud, he looked down and smiled at me, but didn't hear a word we were saying. I stayed on the fringes and waited. When he went out in the hall to join the queue for the toilets, I followed him.

'Happy birthday,' I said.

'Thank you,' he smiled. He didn't appear to recognise me. He did seem quite interested staring down my top, however. Hey, I thought. It's a start.

I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He seemed puzzled but didn't resist. I pulled at the sleeve of his shirt to drag him to the smaller, quieter room. We found a corner of a red velvet sofa and snuggled together.

'You can't do this,' he said.

'Why not?'

'You don't know me at all,' he said. 'My name, where I'm from.

You know nothing about me.'

'I want to know you,' I said, squeezing my hand around his arm, which was roped with thick muscles. His hands, resting lightly on my waist, were easily the largest and finest I'd ever seen on a man.

Just then another woman ‐ maybe biologically not female, it was difficult to tell in the dark ‐ interrupted us. 'Love the boots, honey,' she said.

'Cheers.' I was wearing leather knee‐highs with vertiginous heels. They were practically hobbling me, but worth it.

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The Boy looked down. 'They are actually rather good,' he said, fingering the skin just under my knee. I melted. 'But I don't think we should go back to the others. You'd likely break an ankle dancing in those.'

'Guess we'll have to find something else to do?' 'I suppose,' he smiled, and we groped a bit longer, until I caught a glance at my watch. It was time for Cinderella to make her escape. 'Come home with me,' he growled in my ear, fiddling with the zip of my left boot. It was the kind of order a woman dreams about. Irresistible.

'I have a boyfriend,' I said. It seemed only fair to mention it. The Boy said he didn't care. I was technically in an open relationship, but knew this man was not one‐night material. He was far more interesting than that, there was too much crackling energy around him. 'Well,' I said, 'you can have me one night or see me again.

Which will it be?'

'I can't not see you again,' the Boy said. I shrugged ‐
tant pis.

'Shameless trollop.' But he was smiling, and took my phone number. He followed me as far as the bouncers. The rest of his friends were still inside. There was a pause. I could have invited him back and wanted to, but also knew, as I walked out the glass doors, he'd be watching me go.

I went home and told the housemates I was in love. The fact that I was also blind drunk and trying to balance four candles in a fir wreath on my head is by the by.

The Boy and I met for drinks later that week but nothing happened. I felt uncomfortable following up on the promise of that first meeting. He did try at first ‐ a lingering glance here, a trailing hand there ‐ but soon learned the boundaries. He may have been a fully paid‐up member of the
bon ton,
but he was no cad. Or perhaps he was biding his time. The relationship I was in was clearly not healthy. By the time I split with that boyfriend and moved to London, the Boy had new digs in Brighton. He drove up to meet me and

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moved everything in to my new flat. We fucked for the first time among the scattered boxes and suitcases and piles of books on the floor. Wooden planks. I had friction scars for weeks after.

samedi, le 29 novembre

I've been cleaning the make‐up shelf, discarding crusty bottles of drying nail varnish and foundation‐sodden sponges. In the beginning I thought this job would just be a stopgap, but it's been absolute months now. It's become almost routine, but I remember when it didn't always seem like that.

Preparing for my first appointment had felt like making up for the stage. I recall laying out a liquid base and a stick one; eyeshadow, liner and mascara; lipliner, gloss. Preparation had started early. Too early. But I had no inkling of how to put it all together, how long it would take.

I showered and dried myself carefully in the white‐tiled bathroom, looking for stray hairs missed by waxing and shaving. A quick blast of deodorant. Applied a drop of cologne to my cleavage and inside elbows. Put on a white lace bra and knickers, stockings, dried my hair. Part it here or there? Which way should it fall? Hair up or hair down? Fluffy or straight? I straightened the ends so they wouldn't curl in the damp night air but otherwise left it alone. Small pearl earrings.

I put the dress over my head then started on make‐up.

Foundation, no powder. A damp tissue applied lightly to take the excess off. Violet eyeshadow ‐ only a touch. A dab of silvery white eyeliner just at the inside corner of my eyes. Cat eyes or not?

Vamp or girlish? My hand was shaking slightly. Unwound the mascara, wiped the excess on a tissue,

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let it sit in the air a moment. Brushed on one layer. Then a second.

My eyes in the mirror stood out a mile from the rest of the face.

I lined my lips, wondering how much to use and how much would come off on him. What would I have to take with me, would there be time to re‐apply? With the tip of my little finger I dabbed a liquid blusher on as lipstain. Gloss. More gloss. I thought of the manager's advice: 'Men love glossy lips.' I suppose it doesn't take a genius to realise why.

A touch of gel to keep the hair off my forehead and cheeks. A clip to keep it back. I put the shoes on and buckled them at the ankles. Black, patent‐leather stilettos showing a long stripe of instep. Incredibly high heels, but I'd once run for a bus in them and had danced till morning in them many times. Fuck‐me shoes.

Then my coat. College scarf or fluffy blue one? The blue would leave fibres on the coat; I decided against it in the end. It was a cold night. Navy gloves with tiny buttons along the wrist. I stuck a pin with a butterfly in the coat lapel. Nervous; took deep breaths.

Still a quarter of an hour to wait.

My mouth had gone dry. Went to the kitchen and poured a drink. Was alcohol a bad idea? Didn't know. One couldn't hurt.

My lips left a crackling pink half‐moon on the rim of the glass.

Packed a handbag. I was sweating inside the coat and scarf and gloves. Still ten minutes until the taxi. Looked at the location for the appointment again in the A‐Z. Didn't want to carry it with me.

It was near a tube station. If I could memorise the directions from the tube station, I should be fine.

Went downstairs and stood outside. The cold wind tickled the damp hair at my neck. Looked down my road. No one was out walking. Very few cars came by. A bus paused at the bus stop. No one was waiting; it drove on. A

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small car came up behind it, a man looking out the window. That must be the cab, I thought. Focus. I'm working as of now. Smile, wave, give him the address. From here on I am not me.

We found the house. Paid the driver. Up the walk, brass knocker on the door. A light on inside. My hair was falling in my face. I took the clip out and shook the hair loose. Smiled. Rapped at the door. No turning back.

The next morning I woke up in my own bed. Held my hand up, stared at it for ages. Was something supposed to be different?

Should I have felt victimised, abused? I couldn't say. The finer points of feminist theory didn't seem to apply. Things felt as they always had. Same hand, same girl. I got up and made breakfast.

dimanche, le 30 novembre

The Boy has been casting around for a new position for some time (working position that is, not sexual, though all offers gratefully received). He's been unhappy at work for so long, but it's secure, but this, but that, well, and so on, and so forth. His workmates are the same crowd he ran with at university. But now one of them has been made redundant and he's starting to feel the full focus of the upper echelons of administration looking carefully at what he does. I keep suggesting military service, and not just because I think he would fill out a uniform in a most attractive manner. So he emailed his CV to see if there was anything I could do.

I returned it within the half‐hour. Almost immediately the phone rang. It was the Boy, and he was laughing.

'This is great stuff, kitty . . . but I don't think I can use it.'

'No?'

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'For one thing, I don't think the Army cares either way about the size of my member.'

'You don't know that for sure. You could get anyone interviewing you.' I hear the services are really very modern these days.

'Nice thought.' I heard him scrolling down the email from the other end of the phone. 'Recovery time between ejaculations should not be in the Other Qualifications section.'