The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl (8 page)

I met S earlier than my normal appointments. Mid-afternoon at a central hotel. He had requested no stockings, and ‘pretty’ shoes. Non-specific. Not a shoe fetishist, then, I wagered. I wore the violet peep-toed ones, with the open instep and little shiny bow on the side.

There is always the moment of doubt on meeting a client. Will this work? Is he nice? Is this even the right person? On meeting S, he smiled, looked me in the eyes, and his gaze dropped immediately to the floor. I knew we were on, and this definitely the man.

He led me into the suite. I sat. He poured drinks, handed me one, and sat on the floor by my chair. He was average height, slim, narrow-shouldered with a cut-glass accent and a plump lower lip. With one hand he slipped my right shoe off. He nodded, as you imagine a jeweller would on seeing a fine gem. ‘Five,’ he said, referring (one assumes) to the size of my foot and not the number of toes.

‘Yes,’ I said. He had asked, before booking the appointment.

He put his drink on the table and unsheathed the other foot, turning its underside towards him, running his thumb along its length. ‘Ticklish?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’ His warm fingers pressed lightly on the top of my foot. ‘Clean?’

‘As per instructions,’ I said. I had worried that not wearing stockings might make them a little sweaty in transit, but if this was the case he did not seem to mind. ‘Why no stockings?’

‘I’m not interested in your legs,’ he said, nuzzling the undersides of both feet together.

Fair enough. I’m indifferent to them myself. S removed his clothes and spent the next twenty minutes on the floor, shuffling his naked body under my feet as I held my legs bent, thighs raised from the seat. He especially lingered with my feet over his face. But he was not a toe-sucker, and seemed to prefer that I keep the feet together.

Having discerned that he didn’t want me to do very much, my eyes wandered towards the window. The curtains were open but a sheer privacy curtain was drawn. There was street noise outside, but we were fairly high up, so nothing was distinct. And the sound of his back moving over the carpet. I wondered if he wouldn’t get burns. My feet were over his face again, and he moved his head from side to side.

‘Wmmph hmmph mmph mmp,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘Wiggle your toes.’ Finally, he brought the two feet down to his crotch, cupping them round his balls as he masturbated.

‘Nails,’ he said. ‘Dig the nails.’ I dug the nails. He came. Lifting my soles off him, I could see the pink crescents some of the nails had left in his thigh. I held the feet in midair again as he tended to the mess with a baby wipe, then he dressed and poured me another drink. We turned on the television and watched a gardening show.

vendredi, le 5 novembre

Flagrant violation of company policy #2: Did not wash up own tea mug.

My approach to tea is this: as I’ll be having something like my body volume in tea per day, it makes no sense to wash the mug with soap and hot water each time. It’s my mug, and my tea, and I’ll get round to washing up when I get round to it.

Not everyone sees my point of view on this. Came back from lunch to find mug not on end of desk, where I had left it. Searched for the better part of half an hour before discovering it half full of soap in the tea room drying rack. Returned to desk and note in a tell-tale cramped North American hand:

YOUR MOTHER DOES NOT WORK HERE
CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF

Idly wondered whether someone whose mother did work here would have been exempt from such advice.

samedi, le 6 novembre

‘So what are you up to today?’ the neighbour asked.

Trying to avoid men with girlfriends, unless it’s a business arrangement? ‘Nothing special.’

‘Well, why don’t you come round – I’ve been needing to get out into the hills for a weekend, and was thinking Dartmoor.’

Er, what about his girlfriend? ‘What about your girlfriend?’

‘She’s visiting relatives in Spain.’ I said nothing. Was he really going to be as casual as that, and not even apologise for not telling me about her earlier? ‘Come on, it would be great fun.’ Yes, indeed he was.

And yet I couldn’t see that good a reason for saying no. I’d justified having married clients, after all, by thinking it was their business, not mine. And to be honest I didn’t think the neighbour was particularly boyfriend material. Quite apart from the fact that he already was, to someone else. After Dr C, after the Boy, what with the thoughts I’d been thinking lately about previous relationships, it wasn’t a good time for me to be leaping into something serious. So what, really, was the problem? ‘I’ll be over soon.’

I sat on the sofa in his flat while he packed. Photos, his and hers; books, his and hers; a double desk; little cushions scattered everywhere, definitely the girlfriend’s. Resisted using the toilet for fear that I would not be able to stop myself going through their cupboards.

It was a longer drive than I thought. An hour or more out of London I started to get the familiar twitchy feeling. ‘I was thinking of masturbating,’ I said to the neighbour. ‘But you were going to stop soon for food, weren’t you?’

‘I’ll give you plenty of warning if I decide to stop,’ he said.

‘And let me know if you’re about to pass any lorry drivers?’

‘I will.’

Unzipped my jeans and reached into my knickers with the left hand – already soaking wet. I slipped two fingers inside, then a third, rubbing my clit with the thumb. The radio was on, some droning Radio Four drama. I turned it down. It was distracting. Turned it down again so the actors’ voices were just a whisper. Closed my eyes. I don’t know how long it was before I came, twitching and grunting, but the same play was still on when I finished. Pulled my hand out, licked the fingers. We stopped soon after for a cream tea.

We’ll share a bed tonight, but I bet nothing happens, I think. He’s a tactile creature who responds well to touch but is strangely passive. He either doesn’t fancy me enough to go through with cheating, or is frightened, or perhaps a bit of both.

We sat outside a pub drinking bitter, watching mother ducks and their fluffy ducklings play in a shallow stream. He told me about girls he had flirted with, girls he had pursued. ‘I believe infidelity is essential to the health of a long-term relationship,’ he said. Perhaps. But he hasn’t done it yet with me or anyone else. Maybe he feels he needs to establish some kind of emotional feeling for the other woman before he cheats. Which makes him rather a different creature from the clients I used to see, who by the time they book a girl have already decided to go through with the cheating, regardless of who she turns out to be. Maybe punters are punters because they went that route first and found the fallout too damaging to their primary relationships. I don’t know.

dimanche, le 7 novembre

Conversations I’m glad are firmly in the past.

1 Mum, I’m not a virgin any more.
It happened the term before I went to university. I thought I sort of loved the boy, he wrote me (very bad) songs and compared me to heroines in (very bad) books. He was ginger. It didn’t last. It wouldn’t have done to go to uni a virgin, anyway. My mother cried.

2 Can you just test me for everything?
Now instead of troubling my GP with a rundown of reasons (invented) of why I need the full complement of tests for sexually transmitted infections (and then some), I go to a clinic. You almost don’t even have to ask. Blessed, blessed understanding.

3 Take me off the agency books, and I mean it this time.
It really was as simple as that. I called up the manager and didn’t even say hello. Just that we were over and she could expect a final deposit into her account on Monday. And she didn’t try to talk me out of it. Suddenly, I feel lighter.

lundi, le 8 novembre

I was still feeling buoyant about leaving the agency when I came to work. The bag under the desk – no need for that any more! No need to work extra-strength condoms into my weekly budget, nor to keep two separate underwear drawers, one for clients and one for everyday. I was whistling as I came in the office and didn’t care much if Erin and Mira heard.

Giles was sitting in my chair. ‘Um, good morning,’ I said. As far as I knew there was no team meeting this morning and I was not behind any deadlines. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘I’ve good news and bad news,’ he said, arching his fingers. ‘Which do you want first?’

Was this some sort of sophisticated trap? Had my effort to extract myself from the sex trade been too slow, and someone had found my pics on the website? Was I about to be fired? Ho hum, good while it lasted, then. ‘Bad news, I guess.’

‘The bad news is I’m not going to be supervising your work any more,’ he said, nodding to Erin, who was arriving at her desk. ‘I’ve been transferred over to the development cluster, so this group is being reshuffled. I’m sure whoever takes over will be pleased to have such an effective team to look after.’

That makes it about two weeks until they find out I haven’t been doing anything, then. Better start looking for a new job today. ‘That’s a shame. I’m pleased to hear you’re doing well, though. What’s the good news?’

He grinned. ‘Well, seeing as I’m not your direct supervisor any longer, we can have an affair now.’

I smiled weakly. I imagine the crash behind me was the sound of Erin’s jaw hitting the floor.

mardi, le 9 novembre

Flagrant violation of company policy #3: Took breaks in excess of contractual agreement.

I can’t help it. It’s bloody Erin and Mira. Now they’re telling anyone who’ll listen that I’m sleeping my way through the management. It’s like being at school all over again.

To the extent that I spent the better part of an hour hiding in the toilets.

mercredi, le 10 novembre

Half one this morning, a noise at the door.

It was warm. I was half wrapped in a blanket. I had been sleeping soundly, and wasn’t sure if it was a knock I’d heard.

Someone outside? Checked the clock. At this hour? Went to the kitchen and looked out a small window. It wasn’t the right angle. I couldn’t see if there was anyone at the door. Tried the window in the toilet. Same: I couldn’t have looked down without sticking my head out. Put on a white towelling dressing gown.

Crept down the stairs. Peeped out. Ah.

The Boy was outside with a rucksack. He smiled. ‘Is there room in the bed? You look all fluffy and cute.’

‘Mmmmphhfff,’ I said, standing aside so he could come in.

‘Is that sleepy for “Take me to bed and ravish me”?’

I am truly an idiot. I have no reason to let this man back in my life. But it is late, and unless the neighbour decides to make good on his sexy promises soon, I need servicing. ‘No, that’s sleepy for “Hurry up, before I wake up properly,” I said.

jeudi, le 11 novembre

Flagrant violation of company policy #4: Had non-work-related visitor to office.

Actually, this wasn’t by choice. The Boy rang at lunchtime and asked if I wanted to meet him. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Look out the window,’ he said.

Oh, fucksticks. He was standing on the pavement looking up, dressed in a horrible pinstripey suit and holding what appeared to be flowers. I waved limply. Mira and Erin hurried over to coo behind my back: ‘How darling!’ ‘How adorable!’

‘Nice suit,’ I said when I finally got down to the door. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘No occasion,’ he said.

‘Bit outside your usual remit.’

‘I’m trying to impress you,’ he said, handing the flowers over. I had to admit, it was a sweet gesture. But I wasn’t prepared to let my guard down just because we’d had (admittedly great) sex again. I smiled tightly and we walked off to the café.

His train back south wasn’t for ages so he stayed at my office another two hours after lunch. And while I tried to explain how incredibly busy I was, with loads of work to do, he insisted on using my computer to read news headlines and made tea for everyone. Needed to use toilet but had to sit there in cramped, waterlogged agony, in case Erin decided to let on to my visitor that our ex-supervisor had a crush on me. When the Boy left I ran to the toilet, unbuttoning on the way, and plonked myself down on the porcelain to release a hot, urgent stream of piss. It was then I realised I’d neglected to shut the toilet door.

Not embarrassing at all, then.

I rode the bus home, berating myself the whole way for my poor judgment. This man had made a ruin of most of the last year of my life; what was I thinking? At home, I noticed my desk looked odd: nothing was out of place per se, but it just looked as if everything had been moved and then carefully replaced so as not to arouse suspicion.

Ugh, not again. That’s my payback for a moment of weakness, then – evidence that the Boy may talk nice but hasn’t changed a bit. Still jealous and suspicious where he has no reason to be. Still looking for someone he can keep on a leash, and not just in the bedroom, where it’s acceptable. Too tired and fed up to consider the matter further.

vendredi, le 12 novembre

The Boy rang at suppertime. I’d taken the flowers home with me; they were in an old milk bottle. He suggested another rendezvous. I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help being flattered. And in spite of obviously going through my computer, he was staying mostly in line. And the sex was awesome. I’d have to keep a closer eye on him, is all. I could handle it. ‘Why don’t I come visit your place this weekend?’ I said.

‘Why? Are you trying to keep me away from your friends? Are you seeing someone there?’

Eh? What the hell? ‘No, I just haven’t been out of town in ages. It would be nice to have a walk on the beach or something. Feel the fresh air.’ Might as well enjoy the fact that he lives by the sea, if nothing else in this perverse arrangement.

I’ve found you can gauge the extent of a man’s lie by the pause that precedes it. He was silent almost a minute. ‘I have some people I need to meet in London this weekend,’ he said.

‘Great, we can meet them together.’

He paused again. It could go either way – he could be cagey and belligerent, and blame me for starting an argument later. Or he could give in. He gave in. ‘Fffffine,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you at the train station.’