The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl

First published in Great Britain in 2006 by Orion Books
This ebook first published in 2010 by Orion Books

© Bizrealm Ltd 2006

The right of Belle de Jour to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

eISBN: 9780297861034

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wonders if I’m writing about them.
I am.

This book would not have been possible without the boundless enthusiasm of Patrick Walsh and Helen Garnons-Williams. Thanks also to Ross Jones, Erica Wagner and Joy Lo Dico for putting their reputations on the line to keep me in pennies and cake. Finally, grateful appreciation goes to Michael Burton, who is discreet enough not to recognise me in public.

A1

Ex-boyfriend of long standing. The man who introduced little old me to the world of kinky sex, for which I think we were both eternally grateful. Homeboy, raconteur and all-round living legend. Married. You’ll notice his wife does not appear in this list. Introduced me to A2 and A4. Doesn’t know what I do for a living.

A2

Ex of medium standing. Often mistaken for my sibling; in fact, the bank allowed him access to my accounts for some time before realising we are not in fact related. Luckily he never took advantage. I would have. Introduced me to A3. Does know about my choice of career; never mentions it.

A3

Not so much an ex as a never was. Dour Northerner and ginger to boot; great taste in music which along with a science degree makes him the most desirable man on Earth. Keeps long-term girlfriend well hidden. Colleague of A2. Not aware that I take money for sex.

A4

Ex of fairly recent vintage. Smart, generous and not bad-looking. Can I pick them or what? Unfortunately he un-picked me but we still behave like a couple of old marrieds. Simpatico and all-round brilliant person. Makes a cracking cup of tea. Works for A2. Knows everything and is, if not completely cool with it, awfully supportive.

Angel

Another working girl and friend of N. Party girl rapidly approaching age at which it is no longer acceptable to ride a Ducati round the streets of London in a miniskirt. In state of constant crisis. Always knows more than she lets on.

Belle

That would be yours truly, kids.

Boy, the

Ex of most recent vintage. Ambivalent on my choice of career as result of too-high regard for what his poncey friends think. Can jump off a cliff, for all I care. Unfortunately, knows everything there is to know about me – hopefully, is too embarrassed he dated a whore to tell anyone.

Dr C

Friend of A2 and recent conquest. Built like the proverbial outhouse and no slouch in the bedroom department. He doesn’t know about my … unusual … means of staying solvent yet. Unfortunately, lives overseas but comes back to visit often. At least, I hope so.

Manager, the

Lady proprietor of the escort agency. Legs like a West End dancer, face like a Dartmoor pony. Was previously a call girl herself. Unidentifiable accent; she could be from anywhere: Germany, Iran and Mexico are my current top guesses.

N

Co-conspirator and wing man. Has been in on my secrets from the beginning. Lovable wide boy who works as a bouncer and looks after his aged mum. Always seems to have a string of women on the go, claiming no technique more complex than ‘I just talk to women.’ Peerless source of local info, such as best driving routes, good local cafés and where to buy lube at 2 a.m.

Parents, the

Still living Oop North in the family home. Mum small and dark, Dad slim and fair. Strong Northern accents. Been together since the January of for ever. Either blissfully unaware or blessedly quiet on the subject of what their eldest does for a living.

dimanche, le 5 septembre

‘What I want, what I really want … this probably sounds silly … is to please you.’

The client was fiftyish, dressed office-casual. Oh great, I thought, another half-hour of earnest licking from a man whose wife no doubt thinks her body stops at the waist. ‘That’s a gorgeous idea,’ I purred.

‘Tell me your fantasies,’ he said, tracing the cup of my bra with his finger. ‘What do you desire right now more than anything?’

I thought. ‘Well, it’s a good long time since I had a titwank,’ I said.

‘Pardon?’

‘You know,’ I said, and sat on his lap. ‘All those lovely things you do when you’re a teenager, because they’re very exciting, but never do again when you get to having real sex. Tossing someone off in the back of the cinema. Kissing until your jaw hurts. A titwank.’

‘That doesn’t sound like you’d get much pleasure, though,’ he said.

‘I do actually. There’s something so … satisfying … about the feel of someone using your breasts to wank himself. Or when the come hits your face, just …’

‘Um, that’s nice. How about if I go down on you instead?’ he asked, turfing me off his lap.

‘Oh, okay, whatever you want,’ I said.

‘Oh no,’ he said, slipping his face down to my inner thighs. ‘It’s all about what you want.’

lundi, le 6 septembre

The first thing I do is shower, wash hair, dry with clean fluffy towel. Check all shaving is shaven, all plucking plucked. Moisturise and ample deodorant: even after going through the routine so many times, I still get nervous.

I imagine there are hundreds – if not thousands – of women like me in London, doing precisely what I’m doing right now.

Hair carefully styled. Glossy but not girlish, professional but not stiff. Nice suit, just back from the cleaners. A blouse unbuttoned to the base of the neck – mustn’t go flashing cleavage or people will look at you strangely. Underwear and stockings. The good shoes. Jewellery – just enough, not too much. First impressions are everything. The goal is to be asked back a second time.

Check everything in my bag. Address, phone number, toiletries. Must turn up on time, never early, never late.

I leave the flat, lock the door, and walk to the corner. Hold my hand out to attract the driver’s attention. The hulking vehicle slows as it approaches. I finger the wallet in my purse anxiously. ‘Morning, love,’ the driver says as I flash him my bus pass. I find a seat upstairs. It’s daytime and not night. No taxi waiting for me, not today.

It’s a job interview I’m going to, you see, not an appointment.

mardi, le 7 septembre

I come in from an appointment with a client, strip and shower. Hanging on the back of the bathroom door is the jacket of my interview suit. It went well, I think; so well that going back to trawling the hotel circuit today was a bit of a comedown.

The man who interviewed me was round, fortyish, Chinese; very successful, very chatty. I’d had clients like him.

His eyebrows shot up as he looked over my application again; as the half-hour went on, his voice grew more and more excited. One of his colleagues dropped by – a dour Israeli with a mouth like liver sausages – and commented, ‘Well, it looks like you have this under control. Let me know when you’ve made your mind up, though it looks like you already have.’ I was surprised. Either my luck was in or I was setting myself up for yet another disappointment. I had come home, shed my clothes, and steeled myself for the follow-up. There was a call within the hour. They wanted me to come back.

Phone rings. No name and no number. Either the manager ringing to tell me about a client, I think, or a call from overseas. I pick it up, anticipating the latter.

‘So how did it go in the end?’ Dr C asks.

I smile involuntarily. Even the sound of his voice is enough to make me melt, and I feel my knickers going slightly sticky. ‘Really well, as it happens. I have a second interview.’

‘Oh, that’s great news. I can help you get ready on the morning.’

‘It’s after you’ve gone, unfortunately,’ I say. Couldn’t he possibly have asked for more than a week off work? I bite my tongue: that would sound aggressive. Besides, no matter how little time we have together I am sure the sex will be worth it – I don’t usually send out to California for a takeaway, but in his case I can make an exception. ‘But you can help me prepare.’

‘What was the interview like?’ he asks. ‘Did you bowl them over with your talent and wit?’

‘Actually, they seemed a little more bowled over by my referees.’

‘How do you mean?’

I tell him that most of the interview was spent on questions about A2, how well I knew him, whether I could set up a meeting between him and the company’s directors, and so on.

‘He’s on your CV?’

‘Why shouldn’t he be?’

‘He’s your ex-boyfriend.’