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

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I felt inexplicably happy and walked home instead of taking a cab.

Neither high heels nor drunken idiots frighten me much ‐ when you spend a life in stilettos, pavements are no hardship, and I've shrugged off enough come‐ons that I could write the book on losing losers. I sang aloud, a song about lovers who want each other dead. Several empty night buses rumbled down the road. A man on a bicycle passed me and said, 'Great legs!' He slowed down and glanced over his shoulder to gauge my reaction. I smiled and thanked him. He rode on.

It was cold and clear. I looked up, and was surprised at the number of stars.

dimanche, le 14 decembre

The manager rang to deliver the details of a client to meet near Waterloo. 'This man, he is verrrrry nice,' she said.

I decided on top‐to‐toe white, mainly because I had a new lace basque that had never seen the light of day (or night, for that matter), also because all my other stockings had ladders. He'd booked two hours, which I took to mean that he wanted something odd or that he wanted conversation.

This was the latter. I rattled the brass door knocker and a shortish man answered. Older, but not ancient. Deep characterful grooves on either side of his thin‐lipped mouth. Charming house and nicely decorated. I tried not to look as though I was assessing the interior.

We drank our way through two bottles of chilled chardonnay, discussed the Sultan of Brunei's gambling habits and listened to CDs.

'I suppose you're wondering when we're going to get down to it,' he smiled.

'I am.' I looked up at him from the floor, where I was sitting barefoot. He leaned down and kissed me. It felt like a 59

first‐date kiss. Tentative. I stood up and stripped the dress over my head.

'Just like that,' he said, running his hands over my hips and thighs.

The thin fabric of my basque whirred against his dry palms. Standing up, he turned me around and bent me over a table. His mouth pressed to the gusset of my knickers and I felt the hot steam of his breath through the fabric. He stood again to slip on a condom and, pushing the gusset to one side, took me from behind. It was over quickly.

'I'll take you on my next holiday, baby,' he said. 'You deserve to get out of the city.' I doubted this, but it was nice to hear.

He had loads of fluffy towels and a giant bath for afterwards, and we ate crisps and drank wine a full hour past when I was supposed to go. It was odd; I felt the cab turned up far too soon. He asked for my real name and direct number. I hesitated ‐ against agency policy.

Then again, the manager herself had indicated that more than a few girls do this. I gave it to him and texted the manager to let her know I was on my way home.

It was cold outside, even the few steps from the door to the cab. I had a long coat and woollen scarf on and was secretly pleased I wouldn't even be going as far as a tube station or bus stop. The cab driver was from Croydon, and we chattered about Orlando Bloom, New Year's fireworks and Christmas parties. I told him I worked at a well‐known accountancy firm. I don't think he was fooled for a second. Instead of going home, I directed him to a club in Soho.

When I pulled out the cash to pay him, the bills made an unfeasibly large lump in my hand.

N is a bouncer at a gay club. Among other things. I popped in to see how he was getting on with his cold, and hopefully to raise his stock a little. This ploy might work if we ever met in a place where straight people go.

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'Darling, is it wrong to be jealous of a drag queen?' I sighed, as the very image of Doris Day slid past me in a white fur capelet.

'Who's the object of your envy this time?' he asked. I nodded towards the blonde goddess. 'Oh, don't be," he said. 'I hear she spends three hours every day just removing hair.'

It got me to thinking about my own trials and tribulations. There is no optimal method of depilation. Razors leave terrible stubble, worse when it's winter. I have clocked the time between smooth skin and goosepimpled hell at about three minutes. Cream removers smell terrible and never quite get all the hair anyway. Those vibrating‐coil epilators should be marketed to masochists only, and waxing is usually administered by a sixteen‐stone Filipina woman named Rosie.

Also, it leaves the most horrible rash for the first day.

This is not a complaint ‐ it is a statement of fact on the condition of being female. Probably something to do with the Tree of Knowledge.

In return for all this suffering, we do get a few benefits. Baby‐soft nether regions. Easy clean‐up. Increased sensitivity. I have to stay on top of it, being blessed with a follicular thickness that is the envy of most arctic animals. My mother by contrast used to joke that she shaved her legs once a year 'whether they need it or not'. I struggled with a razor as soon as I could get my hands on one and, as a teenager, flirted with the notion of shaving the hair off my arms, too.

My hair removal regime involves a combination of waxing and shaving, largely because of an aversion to having things ripped out of my armpit. Crotch, though, that's no problem. Go figure.

'I know how she feels,' I joked as N stepped to the side and let a group of hooting students through.

'So, how did it go?' he said, looking back out at the street.

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'Fine,' I said. 'Nice man.' 'Single?'

'Could be divorced.' I shrugged. 'Photos of his wife or ex‐wife everywhere.' 'Children?' 'Two, both adults.' 'Man, I would never,' he said. 'Liar.'

lundi, le 15 decembre

We sat in the car, silent. The light was on inside.

'I thought he was supposed to be out,' I said.

'He was,' the Boy said. 'At least, I thought he was.' He looked as though he might start crying. 'Please, come in. You're my guest. I want you here and I'm sure he can stand it for a minute if he's on his way out anyway.'

I knew there was a reason why the Boy always comes up to see me instead of the other way round.

When the Boy last visited, we met his friend S for breakfast. Now, S

had been recently dumped by H. What S didn't know was that H had been sleeping with the Boy's flatmate for several weeks beforehand, and we agreed not to tell him. S seemed fairly chipper though and is commencing motorbike lessons now that there is no girlfriend around to forbid it. S already planned to christen the bike he will buy

'The Crotch Rocket'. I promptly offered to test drive his giant machine once it's up and running. Anyway, that same housemate who was sleeping with S's ex was simultaneously two‐timing his own girlfriend F, who lived in the house, with an average of three girls a week. And while E had no idea, the Roy and I harboured no illusions about what sort of a man his housemate was.

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And in such situations, what can you do but hold your tongue?

Taking my bags, we went to the door. The Boy opened it and put his head round the corner carefully. 'Why, hello, you're still in situ?'

he cheerily queried of the Housemate. 'I just wanted to let you know, I'm here with the lovely—'

'NO,' bellowed the Housemate. 'I will not have THAT WOMAN in my house.'

Ostensibly, the Housemate dislikes me because of my job. He hasn't always hated me. In fact, I have another theory altogether: he is annoyed because I am one of a very few women he could never, ever have. Not even if he paid for it.

For the Housemate is young, attractive, smart and wealthy. Has no trouble with women at all and knows it. He has cracked on to me at least ten times in three years with no luck whatsoever. I could never go off in secret with the Boy's ersatz best friend. And his girlfriend E

really does not deserve one more secret affair happening under her nose. Funny how and when morals decide to jump in, eh?

A cheater, I can take. But a liar I have no time for.

'Listen, she's leaving quite early in the morning, and you won't have to—'

'I said NO, didn't I?'

The Housemate can do this; he owns the house. The conversation continued in this tedious vein for the better part of ten minutes. Less than charmed, I went to the car and waited. When the Boy returned, we nipped to the chip shop for a snack and, certain the Housemate must surely be gone, snuck back after an hour. But my temper and libido had suffered from the episode. Nothing a few cups of chocolate and an hour‐long massage couldn't cure, of course.

'What are we going to do, kitty?' he said, half asleep. 'What are we going to do?'

'Come up to London and live with me,' I blurted. It's time 63

I moved to a more sociable area of the city anyway, one where the crack addicts may stagger by the door but don't collapse just inside.

'Money's an issue,' he said.

'You can live off me while you look for a better job up there, then,' I said. 'I can afford it easily.' Oh, cringe, shouldn't have said that, don't remind him!

'This is all rather out of left‐field,' he said.

'You would be able to fly to see your family instead of drive,' I said.

'True.'

'And you have nicer furniture.' My flat is furnished in the naff flowery vein favoured by landlords of the aspirant class. 'You don't have to decide. I won't take offence if you say no. But it's an offer, anyway.' Ah, negotiating the terms of modern cohabitation. Who said romance was dead?

It would solve one problem ‐ that of the belligerent Housemate.

Though perhaps faced with the day‐to‐day of my comings and goings, the Boy would soon go off the idea. But I sure could use a friendly face and a foot rub with the beating these stiletto‐clad feet take on a daily basis.

mardi, le 16 decembre

As I am paid in cash, I find myself at the bank rather often and tend to use the same one every day. Cashiers are naturally curious people who would have to be brain‐dead not to wonder why I come in with rolls of notes several times a week and deposit into two accounts, one of which is not mine.

One day I presented the deposit details with a slip, on the back of which the Boy had been sketching. He studied art, at some long-forgotten time in the past, and still tends to 64

doodle and scratch at odd pieces of paper. The cashier turned it over, looked at the drawing and at me. 'This is good. Did you do this?' she asked. 'Yes, well, I'm a . . . cartoonist,' I lied. The cashier nodded, accepted this. Which is how the people at the bank came to believe that I draw for a living. Whether they took the next logical leap of questioning why any legitimate artist would demand payment in cash is unknown to me.

One advantage of this job is not being limited to the lunch hour for running errands. Therefore, I tend to go shopping in mid‐afternoon.

'Live close to here?' the grocer by the tube station asked one day, as I picked out apples and kiwifruit.

'Just around the corner,' I said. 'I work as a nanny.' Which is blatantly unbelievable, as I never have children visibly in tow and, unless the Boy is staying over, am only buying for one. Still, he now occasionally asks how the kids are doing.

I tend to bump into neighbours very seldom, except in the evening, at which time they see me dolled up in a dress or suit, full make‐up and freshly washed hair, meeting a cab. 'Going out?' they ask.

'Best friend's engagement party,' I say. Or, 'Meeting people from work for drinks.' They nod and wish me well. I slip out the door and wonder what story I'm going to tell the taxi driver.

mercredi, le 17 decembre

Met the As for lunch today. They don't always hunt in a pack, but when they do, no eating establishment is safe.

A1, A2, A3 and A4 were already waiting at a Thai restaurant. I was unexpectedly the last to arrive ‐ at least

65

three of them are tardy by nature. We exchanged kisses and settled at a corner table.

A1 squeezed my knee and affected a dirty‐old‐man cackle.
A2

winked over his menu. A3 glowered in the corner ‐ as is his custom ‐

and A4 grinned brightly into middle distance.

'So what are you lads up to today?' I asked.

'Nothing very much,' said A1. His measured words were like those of a schoolteacher.

'Nothing much at all,' said A2.

A4 smiled towards me. 'Wasting as much of your time as possible.'

'Don't you fellows have jobs to go to?' They don't all live in London, but business brings them through on a semi‐regular basis.

'Theoretically, yes,' grumbled A3. He's the ginger one. Dour northerner. And I mean that admiringly.

'Rubbish,' said A2, turning to me. 'And your good self? Things to do, people to see?'

'Not until later,' I said. The waitress came by to take our orders. A1

ordered the special for everyone. None of us knew what it was. Didn't matter. A3 seemed reluctant to give up his menu. A2 asked after the Boy.

'I've asked him to come up here and move in with me,' I said.

'Mistake,' said A1.

'Big mistake,' A2 said.

A3 mumbled unintelligibly.

A4 continued smiling for no good reason. That's why I like him best.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was the manager of the agency.

She asked if I could be in Marylebone for four.

'The time or the number?' She meant the time. I checked my watch.

Very doable. The As pretended not to eavesdrop.

66

Most people raise an eyebrow when they find that my closest friends are mostly men, and for the most part, men I've slept with.

But whom else are you going to sleep with besides the people you know? Strangers?

Don't answer that.

I count the time I've spent enjoying sex from the first time I slept with A1. I remember the afternoon clearly. His large frame blocked the light from the single window of his flat. I smiled up at him. We were naked, entwined in each other's limbs. He reached down, put his hand round one of my ankles, and moved my leg until it crossed my body. He bore down on my doubled body and entered me.

'What are you doing?' I squeaked.

'I want to feel the fullness of your arse against my body,' he said.

Though it was not my first time ‐ far from it ‐it might as well have been. Here was a man, finally, who knew what he wanted and, better still, knew what to do to get it.