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

mardi, le 21 septembre

Positive aspects of breakup:

– Money saved on travel expenses

– Never having to have awkward conversation about being a call girl

– Noticed some hairs growing out of his nose when we were on the sofa. Will not have to deal with that

Negative aspects of breakup:

– Phone bill for calls to California not coming for another three weeks

– Having to announce yet another failed relationship to family

– Looking at phone so hard likely to cause blindness, if not insanity

jeudi 23

‘It’s an impressive CV, all right,’ the young man said, flipping through my application. ‘And your references are impeccable. My colleague was very impressed when he met you. But I’d like to ask, where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’

I smiled weakly. I hadn’t had breakfast or lunch, and was constantly checking my phone. But Dr C took me at my word and hadn’t rung. I’d turned it off before coming into the room for the interview but was starting to regret that; surely the man sitting across from me could tell how distracted I was?

Possibly not. ‘Because in this company, we’re interested not only in our bottom line, but also in our people. Developing your skills to the best they can be. Investing in you. Yes, we think we’re just the right size to be able to deliver excellent service to our clients, while still maintaining a family atmosphere among the associates.’ I had the distinct feeling he was eyeing the line of my cleavage through my shirt, which, given that it was a very conservative, high-buttoned stripey number too starchy for call-girl work, was an impressive feat.

I crossed my legs at the knee. Excellent service to the clients, eh? I noticed his eyes following my leg from conservative, mid-heeled shoe to conservative, mid-knee skirt.

So that’s the way it’s going to be, I thought. Fine, if that’s what gets me through this, he can check me out. Then I can go home and cry myself to sleep. I leaned closer to the desk, pulling my arms in to emphasise my bust. Let him do the talking. And he did, for almost an hour.

‘The fact is, we’d like to offer you a job,’ he said eventually.

‘The fact is, I’d like to take it,’ I said. Fucking Dr C. When was he going to realise what a mistake he’d made and ring me? I’d better get out of here and fast.

The young man seemed taken aback with my answer. ‘Ah, uh, okay. Well, when can you start?’

‘When will you have me?’ I raised an eyebrow. If he’d been a client this would have been the part where he pushed me back on the bed. In real life this is where he stood up and offered me his hand.

‘Immediately. Please call me Giles, I’ll be your supervisor.’

‘Splendid, Giles.’ I stood and shook the offered hand. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

vendredi, le 24 septembre

Turned up early to be shown around the offices and meet my co-workers. Everyone seems keen to ask questions, most of which I don’t know how to answer. Smile and glide, I think. Stay cool. Smile and glide.

The mobile rang repeatedly in my handbag; I peeked at the number. Cripes. It was the manager. How was I going to talk to her without anyone in the office noticing?

‘Just off to the loo,’ I announced. Giles nodded. I scampered off to the toilet to ring the manager back.

It wasn’t my lucky day. There was a queue for the toilet. The woman in front of me smiled and half shrugged, as if to say, My, isn’t this terrible? She had no bloody idea. All she was doing was trying to keep from wetting herself. I was a prostitute trying to manage her appointments.

I waited until the last cubicle was free and phoned the manager back. ‘Darling, hello,’ she said. ‘There is a lovely man who wishes to meet you Sunday—’

‘Um, wait,’ I cut her off. The woman in the cubicle next to me was wrestling with the toilet roll dispenser; how much could she hear? ‘I’ve been thinking that, well, you know, perhaps it’s time that I, I mean we … What I want to say is, er … I’d like to consider, you know, quitting.’

‘Pardon?’

The rustling on the other side of the toilet wall stopped abruptly.

‘Well, yes. My schedule outside work has been very busy lately, and I’d like to … consider … other options.’

‘Haven’t we had this conversation before, sweetie?’ she cooed reassuringly. ‘I’m sending only the most carefully selected men to you now.’

‘Yes, but maybe it’s time for me to stop for good.’

‘Oh, darling,’ the manager sighed. ‘If it’s a matter of more money …’

I turned in to the corner of the cubicle. I swear my voice was echoing. ‘It’s not about the money. I have enough. It’s more, well, it’s taking a lot out of my personal life,’ I whispered hotly. And what if someone here stumbled across the website? It had been hard enough to land a job; that would kill any career for certain.

‘Sweetheart, darling,’ the manager laughed. ‘That happens to everyone.’

I froze. The woman in the next cubicle hadn’t gone yet. She must be eavesdropping. ‘Yes, well, I’m worried about my’ – I lowered my voice to almost subaudible level – ‘privacy.’

‘Your what?’ the manager asked sweetly.

‘My privacy,’ I whispered, only a touch louder.

‘Darling, I’m sorry, you must be losing signal, I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’

‘My privacy!’ I shouted. ‘I’m concerned about my privacy!’

A snort from the next cubicle. ‘You might consider not taking phone calls in the toilet,’ a voice said.

‘Oh, darling, if only you’d said,’ the manager cooed. ‘It is a very simple matter. I can anonymise your photos on the website, so that no one recognises you. Okay? Okay. Good. Now I’ll text you the details for the weekend and we’ll speak tomorrow.’ She hung up.

‘Great. Talk tomorrow,’ I said to the dead line.

dimanche, le 26 septembre

The client was younger than me. We met at a private address. He said it was his house, but I wasn’t sure. How many twenty-somethings have homes over four floors of a building in central London? Apart from someone you’d recognise in films, I mean. Exactly. Probably his parents’ house.

I was rushed up to the top bedroom. ‘You’d better undress,’ he said. I untied the wrap dress but left on the suspenders and stockings – he’d requested them specially. He looked at me a few minutes.

‘All the way,’ he said, indicating the lingerie. I did.

He wanted oral; I gave it. He sat back in the half-dark and I sensed he was bored. ‘Okay, enough,’ he said, pulling me off his member. ‘Tell me something dirty.’

I started a story about me and a girl at a club, in the toilets.

‘Would you ever do a threesome?’ he interrupted.

‘I’ve done plenty,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

‘Yeah, of course.’

‘Were they friends or strangers?’

‘Two girls,’ he said. ‘Strippers. I made them both come.’

It seems to me that there is no need for a man to try to impress a woman he is paying for sex, but then the male of the species is an odd creature. Maybe they look on it as practice for the women they meet in real life. Maybe they can’t help themselves.

I rolled a condom on him and we went at it, me sitting on him facing away – the classic Reverse Cowgirl position. An absolute lifesaver when you have to make like you’re enjoying the experience, but aren’t up to looking the part. It appalled me to think that I was counting down the minutes until it would be over.

Maybe I got a little carried away with the counting, because even with ball-tickling and toe-licking he was still going soft. Without any clues to go on, I didn’t know what would help. Talking dirty? Squealing girlishly? Struggling a little?

No luck there. He asked me to suck him again. Oral sex after a condom is always distasteful: the shaft tastes strongly of latex, and before long my lips start to swell and will be painful for the rest of the night. But the hour was winding up, and I didn’t think he’d take the suggestion to have a wash first very well.

The effect was minimal. ‘You can stop now,’ he sighed. I smiled and tried to hide my relief; my lips were aching already. So what if he didn’t come? What a world-weary little worm. We sat in silence for a few minutes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was a bit nervous, and took a Xanax before you came over. Do you think that would have an effect on … ?’ and he indicated his penis.

I felt guilty about judging him harshly. ‘You poor thing,’ I said, stroking his chest. ‘I suppose it would. I hope you didn’t find me too frightening.’

‘No, I think you’re a nice girl. I’ll call again next month – it’s my birthday.’ In spite of feeling sorry for him I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t. ‘I think you should take the full fee anyway.’

Well, duh. If I’m going to turn up at work tomorrow on three hours’ sleep it had damn well better have been for pay.

lundi, le 27 septembre

Meeting people for the first time is something I’m used to.

The stilted conversations, the awkward questions as I negotiate my way round a new set of rules, the polite introductions and biting of the tongue. I’m well practised in the art of nodding and smiling; it’s served me well thus far.

Reserving my judgments of people encountered at work for a late phone call with N, tick. Remembering not to wear too short a skirt in a professional setting, handled. Repressing the urge to imitate the flat accent of the Canadian sitting behind me, this I can do.

Having to come back every day and do it all over again is a bit harder.

mardi, le 28 septembre

Home from yet another half-hearted assignment on the call-girl front. I can’t blame the man, he was unobjectionable; I blame myself and an inability to say no. Sometimes I think the manager is trying to punish me. Maybe I’m simply at a low ebb but it all feels terribly tedious sometimes. On the other hand, any job probably feels this way. It’s simply that there are a number of conversations I never want to have with a client again, such as:

1 What’s a Nice Girl like you doing in a place like this?
Do you ask the woman at the Superdrug till why she’s not frolicking in the stacks at the library? Do you question a building-site manager’s choice of career when you walk past? No.

2 My wife doesn’t understand me.
Honey, it goes without saying. That you’ve decided to call a professional in on the job pre-empts further explanation.

3 Tell me about your manager/the other girls/your other clients.
They’re all shining examples of humanity, impeccably behaved and jewels among the dross; every man a gentleman. Oh, and they’re all Nobel laureates, too. Please, please don’t ask if I’ve slept with anyone famous. I have, it was unremarkable, and no, I will not name names.

4 How did you vote in the elections?
Are you kidding? You selected your evening’s companion based on a picture of me bending over in hot pants. Unless this is a research project seeking to connect labial size with political leanings, it is about as relevant as asking Jordan what she thinks of joining the euro. And the odds are I will just tell you what you want to hear, anyway.

mercredi, le 29 septembre

The Canadian came round and introduced herself today. ‘Hi, I’m Erin,’ she chirruped. ‘How’re you finding it so far?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ I said. By now everyone in the company has made a reason to stroll by my desk at least once. I don’t know if there’s something on my blouse or if they’re simply curious. And I’ve learned more names than I can possibly remember.

Worse still, she probably wants to be friends. And if there’s one thing I can’t take it’s making friends with women.

Don’t get me wrong; I have female friends, though they are admittedly outnumbered by men. But ‘making friends’, that pink-covered, sugar-coated state heavily promoted by women’s magazines (Is she your Bessie Mate 4-evah? Find out on page 42!) in which two people audition each other over the course of months, years, or possibly the rest of their lives, applying criteria higher than you’d use for selecting a gynaecologist or partner, I have no patience with it.

As a result, I have few female friends and the exceptions are people of some character. Such as Angel, another working girl, who is about as batty as they come but rarely sticks around long enough to be too annoying, and L.

When L and I meet – sometimes after a gap of months or even years, but that’s okay, because we’re friends, not completing some creepy tick list of ‘friendship’ – it’s as if we never left off. The two girls who used to pass filthy notes about their teachers written in schoolgirl French are much the same, but with wider hips and better shoes. I’m really not counting on making friends at work.

‘Well, if you need anything, just gimme a shout,’ Erin said. Given her general volume I suspect that was meant literally.

‘Cheers, I will do.’ I leaned over and ran a finger inside my aching instep. When you’ve been used to either stilettos or flats, court shoes are murder. ‘Bye.’

‘Byeeeeee.’

jeudi, le 30 septembre

Great Pub Games #1 – Obscure claims to fame.

• A2’s lady friend: Was at school with Richard E. Grant in Swaziland.
‘Not bad.’
‘I propose having been to Swaziland is obscure enough.’
ObScore: 6/10

• A2: Sent threatening letters to Cliff Richard when Sir Cliff was dating Olivia Newton-John.
‘I was young. It was a confusing time.’
‘How young?’
‘Around twelve.’
‘That’s no excuse.’
ObScore: 2/10

• A1: Was in Berlin when the wall came down.
‘Eh, you and everyone else.’
‘But it was historically important!’
‘That’s a different game.’
ObScore: 1/10

• A4: Is named for an ancestor of his who was hanged for being a Luddite.
‘Oooooh.’
ObScore: 8/10

• Me: Was kissed by the singer from Franz Ferdinand.
‘It was only a peck. His girlfriend was right there.’
‘Not that you would usually find that a problem …’
‘I was on a date with his brother’s friend, you see.’
‘Did the friend get to kiss you?’
‘He didn’t even try.’
ObScore: 4/10

• N: Lives round the corner from Cynthia Payne.
‘Britain’s première prostitute. She ever invite you in?’
‘Hey, I resent that!’
ObScore: 6/10

• A3: Had a ticket for one of what turned out to be one of Joy Division’s last ever gigs; it was cancelled when the singer had an epileptic fit; everyone rushed the stage.
‘I don’t think any of us can top that.’