The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (32 page)

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mercredi, le 16 juin

Had a call late last night. Not work ‐ A1 was having some sort of crisis and his woman was nowhere to be found. He left four missed calls and a garbled message. When I tried to ring it went straight through to the answerphone. Boys. It was late, but I put myself at the mercy of the London Underground and went to his.

The tube route between my place and A1's involves two changes.

And I worry at that time of night about missing the last train and being stuck in Earl's Court with a Travelcard and distinct lack of clue.

The tube is, by far, the most anti‐social mode of transport yet invented. On the bus, you can shield others from your germs by sneezing into the back of their heads. On the tube you are forced to share breathing space with every phlegmy disease vector from here to Uxbridge. And in spite of being nose‐to‐armpit with complete strangers and mingling more viruses than a Crichton novel, you are Not Allowed to Stare.

In normal circumstances this would not be hard. City dwellers are masters of the Appraisal Glance, in which a person is sized up and dismissed in the split second they come into view. But when you're trapped in a hurtling canister on a bumpy track to Dollis Hill, the eyes literally have nowhere to go. You have to stare. But you're not allowed to. This is why paperbacks are so popular; it gives you a shield to hide behind as well as an excuse not to hold on to the rail and stumble over the snowdrift of Metros cluttering the aisle.

Waiting for a District Line train, I was aware of someone looking at me. I pretended to check my watch and look up and down the track.

Some youngish man, wearing a suit. Probably just idly checking out everyone on the platform.

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Fair enough. I needed a shower and some sleep and probably didn't merit a second glance.

The train arrived. I sat down. The man sat opposite me. Was that another look? No. Ignore it. I looked at his hand. It was a fine, well-shaped hand. Very attractive. I rested my forehead on a side handrail.

In peripheral vision I could see him looking me over a couple more times. Definitely more than necessary. But he didn't seem predatory.

Probably just wondering why I'm out, as I do with people all the time.

Probably drunk. Who rides the tube in a suit this time of night sober?

I looked up. His blue eyes were staring at me. Cool as. I couldn't help myself and grinned like a loon. He didn't crack a smile. We both looked away quickly.

Argh, I thought. Giddy moron. But I can't help it; if someone looks at me and I'm not expecting it, I laugh. I must have seemed a complete idiot.

Two stops. His head turned back towards me. I looked at him.

Smiled. Stuck out my tongue.

And he laughed. Looked away again.

Right. Two more stops. Both looking obviously in other directions.

Quite obscene eye‐avoidance, actually. My stop was approaching. I stretched. I could see him glance at me but refused to meet his gaze.

What was he going to do? I could wave as I stepped off. I could say something.

I stood up. The train slid into the station. The doors opened. Go on, at least nod, I thought. Then: follow me off, follow me off. I stepped on to the platform. No, wait, don't. He didn't. Just some drunk lad in a suit, going home. The train moved into the night.

(A1was fine, by the way. A bit tired and emotional is all. By which I mean drunk.)

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samedi, le 19 juin

Was standing with a female friend, C, at the bar of a club. N was meant to be meeting us later, but had texted to say he would be late.

We stood at the bar with our drinks, coolly avoiding eye contact and in complete denial of the terrible, cheesy music the DJ was pumping out.

A man careened in our direction. 'Say, ladies,' he said, and I thought, isn't it a bit early for someone to be this drunk? 'It's my friend's birthday, like, and he's just standing over there . . .' He pointed into a crowd of disorganised faces.

C was already putting her polite smile mask on. Wasn't it obvious we were not waiting to be chatted up?

But chatting up was not what the young squire had in mind. 'And he was wondering, would you two show him your tits?'

C's mask didn't crack. 'Sorry, no,' she smiled politely, turning back to her cocktail. I smirked.

'You sure, ladies? It is his birthday and all.'

'No,' I said less politely, and looked away. C and I ordered more drinks. N was being very tardy. We tried to have a conversation over the music, which was much louder now, but could not, and ended up just smiling vaguely at each other. C toyed with the furry fringes of her exceptionally tactile jumper.

Two more men lurched in our direction. We only half‐turned to acknowledge them. It was the same young man again, and another.

'Hi, ladies,' the second man said. It occurred to me that men only call women ladies in a mockery of chivalry. 'It's my birthday tonight, and I was wondering, would you two please show me your tits?'

Well. At least he said please. C's mask was impenetrable. 'No.'

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'No,' I echoed.

'Are you sure?' he asked, pulling a look of false pleading.

Does this ever work? I wondered. He didn't even offer money, for goodness sake. So women are expected to act like whores for free, and this is considered being a good sport, while actual prostitutes are objects of mockery and revulsion. You have to wonder.

'No,' a voice behind the boys said, and it was N, a head taller than either of them. They scarpered.

N gave me and C a lift. She's young, almost a teenager, really.

Actually she's in her mid‐twenties but acts eighteen. In the nice sort of way.

We were talking about marriage. She was curious about N's situation, why he's still single. She asked if I wanted to marry and have children some day. I said no. She said she didn't, either.

'Oh, you'll cave,' N said to her. 'You'll find the right man and it will just happen.'

She bristled but didn't argue with him. 'So what do you think about my future, then?' I asked N. 'Spinsterhood?'

He looked at the road. He was being careful with his words. 'I think you've chosen your own path and don't want anyone to interfere with that,' he said. 'You value your freedom above everything else. So yes, I think that's what you will have if you want it. I'm not saying you'll never change your mind, but it would take a remarkable man, and I think you'll want to be single for a long time still.'

dimanche, le 20 juin

I was flopped on my bed, reading. The phone buzzed. Dr C.

'Top of the road, you said?'

'Bottom of the road.' Actually, I'm never quite sure which 284

is which, but if he didn't see the number he was probably at the wrong end.

He tapped on the door a minute later. 'Bottom of the road?' I grinned. His smile was nicer than I'd remembered. He had a single bag and an old blue car. His brother's, he said. I let him in.

He dropped his bag next to the sofa. Ack, I thought. Should have put out some pillows and blankets. Wouldn't want him to think I assumed he'd be sleeping with me. We faced each other, said nothing, just smiling.

'So.'

'So. Go for a walk?'

'Walk it is.'

We wandered for hours. I didn't even notice the time until the sun went behind the trees. He talked about his family, his work. He talked with his gorgeous mouth and his hands. We sat on a bench and watched round women walking their tiny, even rounder dogs.

'Home?'

'Home it is,' he said.

I offered to cook something for him. 'To be honest, I'm not really that hungry,' he said. I wasn't either. He brought a large bottle of liqueur out of his bag. There must not have been room in there for much else. We sat at my kitchen table with a bowl of ice and finished the bottle.

I was tipsy, so was he, but in a nice way, like the night we were first together. When the glasses and bottle were finally empty I took him up to my bedroom. We kissed and fondled each other through our clothes. 'Your breasts look great in this,' he said. 'May I ask you something?'

Anything, I almost said. 'What's that?'

'May I whip your breasts? Through the shirt, I mean.'

I produced a rubber multi‐tailed whip for him. He started with light taps at first. I laughed. 'You can go harder than 285

that,' I said. He did. It hurt. It wasn't the hardest anyone had ever whipped me, but it felt like the most fun. I kept laughing. He didn't say anything, but he smiled too, it seemed so ludicrous. When he finished he put the whip down and his hands under the shirt.

'The flesh is warm,' he said. Lifted the shirt. I wasn't wearing a bra.

'They're pink.' He pushed me up against the wall and had me like that. Then we fell into bed and were almost instantly unconscious.

lundi, le 21 juin

The phone woke me. I was groggy and answered without looking to see who the call was from. 'Hello?'

'Hello.' It was the Boy. I shivered. I should have hung up. Didn't.

'Where are you?' he asked.

'At home.' No point lying. No time to think. 'Where are you?'

'Outside.'

'Oh.' I put down the phone. Stretched, gently pushed the sleeping man beside me awake. 'Urn, I have a guest downstairs,' I said.

He must have heard something in my voice. 'Who is it?'

'My ex.' A frown flickered across his face. He asked what I wanted to do. 'Answer the door, I suppose.' He said I didn't have to. That I could ring the police. I said I knew that. We dressed. He went down to the kitchen. I answered the door.

The Boy stood there. Shorts and a T‐shirt. His car was pulled up opposite. He was alone. The street was quiet. He asked if he could come in. I let him.

He nodded at Dr C in the kitchen. I introduced them.

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Asked if anyone wanted tea, breakfast. They said yes. I put the radio on. Everything seemed far too calm. I turned to the cooker and scrambled eggs; put bread under the grill to toast. Made light chatter with both about the weather (pleasant) and what was on the radio (rubbish) and the news (depressing). I dished up and put plates of equal size in front of them.

The Boy dug straight in, his head bowed over the plate. It was odd to see him sitting at the table after these few months.

'Aren't you having any eggs?' Dr C asked. 'Just a slice of toast,' I said.

'Lightweight fuel,' he said, smiled and ate. The two of them were quiet. I couldn't sit down, just paced lightly in front of the sink nibbling a crust. The Boy finished quickly and asked to use the toilet.

I said he could. He had never had to ask before.

When he was out of the room Dr C turned to me and whispered,

'Why didn't you tell me about him?'

'Didn't think there was anything to tell,' I whispered back. 'Haven't seen him in months.'

The Boy came back in. He asked if he could talk to me. I said he could. We stood there, in the kitchen, silent, Dr C watching us. The Boy asked if he could speak to me in my room. I said yes. We went up the stairs. I left the door open. He sat on the bed, motioned for me to sit next to him. I sat. I knew we were within earshot of the kitchen.

'I have to ask you a question, I want you to be honest,' he said.

I bristled. What right did he have to ask me anything? And when had I ever not told him the truth? 'Yes?' I said. 'Are you sleeping with this man?' 'Yes.'

'He slept here last night?'

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'Yes,' I said, and it occurred to me to wonder how long the Boy had been outside.

'I can't believe you would do this to me,' he said. I was mystified.

Was I supposed to be keeping a tally of lovers for him? Was I still supposed to answer to him, care what he thought of me, care what anyone thought? I asked him to go-He was calm. Oddly calm. Usually the Boy is fidgety and talkative, but he was silent and composed. He said he could let himself out; I insisted on walking him down. To the door. Out of the door. I stepped outside after him and pulled the door shut. Dr C was still in the kitchen. Heard the lock close after me. I didn't have the key.

Whatever the Boy was going to do, I wouldn't let him do it to a stranger. He would have to do it to me.

The Boy realised this. He turned, the colour back in his cheeks. 'I have to talk to him,' he said with sudden urgency. 'No,' I said, and crossed my arms.

'I have to talk to him,' the Boy said. 'He can have you, I just want him to know what . . . what he took from me.'

'He took nothing. He doesn't even know who you are. Why should he? You let me go. Twice.' The Boy asked to go inside. I refused. He asked again, several times; I refused.

I knew it was beyond his code of conduct to hit me, but I didn't depend on that and I wondered just where his breaking point would be. A few people were starting to come up and down the road in the course of normal morning business. I counted on that to save me, if I needed saving.

The Boy was clearly getting nowhere simply by asking to be let inside. 'Come on,' he whined. 'The man's big enough. He can clearly take care of himself.'

'You wouldn't touch him?' I asked.

'I wouldn't touch him.'

'Liar.' I could see his arms were crossed but his fists were 288

clenching and unclenching over and over, turning the knuckles white then pink then white.

We stood. He looked at me. 'Go to your car and drive away,' I said.

He stood unmoved. I repeated myself. He went. I followed him out of the garden gate. Watched him get in the car. He was slow to put the key in the ignition. I waited until he drove away. Went back to my door and knocked. Dr C let me in. We went up to my room and fucked.

mardi, le 22 juin

In the morning Dr C left. He had to drive back south. I smiled and made the bed as he packed his scant belongings. I didn't know if we'd see each other again; the bruises across my chest were already faint but may last longer than the two of us being together. I didn't know and didn't mind.

There was a car on the corner, could see it from my window, and he knew it too. The Boy. I walked Dr C to his car and waved him off the street, went back inside, locking the door behind me. The phone was ringing. I didn't answer.