The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl (33 page)

A few minutes later it rang again. 'Hello,' I said.

'May I come in?' the Boy asked. I said no, I'd meet him outside. I locked the door behind me and slipped the keys in my pocket. Kept the mobile in my hand, just in case. He walked out of his car and met me at the gate. Asked to come in again. I refused. Said we talked in his car or not at all. He tried again, saw I wasn't giving in, and I followed him back to where he was parked.

I sat in the passenger side and half‐closed the door.

'I'm sorry, I know I've done so many things wrong, I'm so so sorry,'

he said. His eyes had gone red, and his shoulders turned in. I was struck with a pang of tenderness. I said nothing, though. He kept on apologising, crying. I let him. I

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thought of all the times when we were dating when he hadn't apologised, and it tore me up, or the few times he did and I'd hurry to soothe him and reassure him it wasn't his fault.

No interrupting this time. I just let him get it off his chest.

It was hard to watch. I knew I could lift him, end what he was feeling. I knew I could make the next ten minutes a lot easier for us both ‐ maybe even the next ten days, if we were lucky, until we argued again ‐ by saying I'd have him back. But I knew there would always be an argument waiting round the corner. And whatever he said, people don't just change. Not that they can't change, but no one does overnight, and I had had enough.

And that's what I told him. I just whispered that I'd had enough. He sobbed but didn't keep begging.

This really is it, I thought. I thought about what N had said in the car. Was I dooming myself to the fate I'd chosen? Was this the last chance not just for him, but for me, forever?

'I loved you so much,' he said finally. 'I loved you too,' I said. Knew this really was the last time. And knew he knew it.

jeudi, le 24 juin

Just back from the gym, sweating and tired. Switched the kettle on more out of habit than a need for a hot drink. Still, they do say tea when you're hot.

The phone buzzed away on the kitchen counter. I looked at the screen. It was the manager.

I thought a moment, almost let it go to voicemail. Didn't.

Answered.

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'Darling, there is a booking for two hours . . .'

Had I misheard? 'Oh right.' Weeks of silence and now a booking out of the blue? 'How have you been?'

'Good, darling, good. Have I just woken you up?' Just back from the gym, I said. She approved. 'Must keep in shape,' she said, and moved on quickly. 'Listen, this gentleman, he is staying at Claridge's, he has asked for you at ten o'clock.' A two‐hour booking with travel and all services. At the highest hourly rate we charge short of extras for odd requests.

I bit my lip. Gift horse, mouth and all that. But I'd already said I was going to meet A3 at the pub later. And I hadn't gone for a wax in ages.

Cutting the pubic hedge alone would take an hour. And I was tired, and hadn't eaten yet, and a thousand things. 'I'm sorry, I'm afraid I can't do it. I'm certain one of the other girls would be happy to,' I suggested softly.

'He liked your profile, wants you specifically, darling. I can make small lies, but not a big lie like sending another girl.'

My goodness. Unheard‐of honesty in a madame. Perhaps I'd just had the wrong end of the stick after all?

My voice grew stronger. 'I so wish I could, but I have other plans,' I said. I could have made it ‐ just. The money would have been useful.

But I didn't want to. A3 would be waiting, and I could imagine no better evening than letting him finish my pints and drone on about work.

'Okay, darling,' she sang. 'You are always such fun. I will speak to you soon?'

'Speak to you soon. Goodnight.'

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samedi, le 26 juin

As it's sunny, and because there is an outdoor portion of my home that is actually rather private, but gives the thrilling illusion of public nudity, I have been kebabbing myself since the weekend.

Health professionals will tell you that only total abstinence is a guarantee to staying healthy; I believe in the practice of safer sunbathing. When exposing delicate girl‐flesh to the sun's radiation, protection is always necessary.

Also, I wonder if the time has come to start considering incalls. The world, as they say, is my oyster.

Not that I've ever had an oyster. Kosher laws and whatnot. Perhaps instead:

The world, as they say, is my chopped liver.

dimanche, le 27 juin

I'm an author, the client said. Really, I said. What kind? Genre fiction, he said. He quoted a New York Times bestseller standing and a familiar title. Ah, I said. Like Mickey Spillane. That's right, he said. I always liked that part at the end of My Gun is Quick, I said. Where Hammer tears the negligee off the heroine. Their single night of passion together.

I sat on his lap and he ran his hand over my thighs.

'Feels like holdups,' he said. (They were.)

'What do you want tonight?' I asked.

'Simple man, simple pleasures,' he said. 'I just like to come in a naked woman's mouth.'

This transaction may seem expensive, but if you think about the money and effort you might spend on a business 292

trip, trying to court someone just to get to the possible stage of her naked and you coming in her mouth before it's time to fly home, it's not so pricey. And the result is guaranteed.

He removed my knickers and we undressed each other. He lay on the bed. 'You remind me of someone I was once in love with,' I said.

He looked doubtful. It was true ‐ he had the same high waist and ascetic limbs of a fourteenth‐century tempera saint. An identical form and face to A2. I tickled the high arch of his foot and kissed the inside of his thighs.

After sucking him for a few minutes I asked what else he liked.

Rimming, he said. 'Giving or receiving?' Receiving, he said. I spread his legs wider and felt between the rounded cheeks of his arse. 'Here, I think it will go better with a pillow under you.' He obliged. The pucker was tender, pink and hairless. Clean, it tasted slightly of soap.

I put my lips back around his cock and tickled the hole with a damp finger. He came quickly and hard, filling my throat.

'It's only been thirty minutes,' I said. He was paying for an hour. 'I don't suppose you could manage again?'

'No, sorry,' he said. 'Too old. Too tired.'

'Shall I stay and we can chat, or leave you? Or you could turn over and I could pummel your back in a poor imitation of a massage.'

'I'd be fine if you left. I'll just go to sleep happy and satisfied.'

'I'd wish you luck with the books but it sounds like you don't need it,' I said. 'Must pick up a copy.'

'Get one in paperback,' he said. 'See if you like them first.'

I dressed, applied a fresh coat of lipstick. The money was in a hotel envelope. 'Wasn't it Dashiell Hammett who said you don't pay a call girl to do what she does, you pay her to leave afterwards?'

'Probably,' he smiled drowsily. I closed the door softly 293

behind me. There was only one taxi outside. I stepped in the back and was whisked home in the light and sound of a city evening.

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