One last secret, p.2
One Last Secret, page 2
2
Dora
It’s not late, so I decide to catch the Tube home rather than take a cab or an Uber. I usually take cabs to jobs so I can arrive looking my glamorous best, not windswept by the elements or flustered by train delays, but I like to save money where I can and so opt for public transport when leaving, if possible. I like stations. I enjoy the sense of purpose and energy that people who have to get somewhere inevitably have. I don’t mind if they selfishly push to the front of queues or jostle for space on platforms; I can forgive that human frailty of assuming their journey is more important than mine if I experience the vitality and assurance in return. Sometimes after a job, even an easy one like Daniel’s, both things seep away from me and I feel a need to be recharged.
The platform isn’t especially busy this evening. There are a few very tired-looking commuters, who really ought to have escaped the office a few hours ago; a couple dressed up, ready to embark on a date night – I notice that the tag is still attached to the woman’s dress, and I wish I could pull it off for her before her date spots it. I can’t, so I can only hope that the label scratches her slightly and she gets the opportunity to discreetly remove it herself. My eyes drift to a gaggle of students who have yet to learn how to handle their booze and have clearly peaked too early but seem unperturbed about the fact. Some of them are sitting on the platform bench, two deep, as girlfriends sit on their boyfriends’ laps. Those who can’t squeeze onto the bench at all loll on the tiled floor. I used to sit on platform floors. Not in abandon or despair like a homeless person might. The opposite. When I was a student, I’d sit like I was king of the world. Not queen. King. Even then I knew being a queen was still second place to being king. I wanted to be top of the world, cream of the crop, number one. I was going places from A to B, C to D, on to E … it was limitless. Endless. I thought.
I notice that one or two of the students are surreptitiously checking me out whilst continuing their rowdy, cliquey, attention-grabbing conversations. The boys are wondering whether they’ll ever lay a woman like me (answer: you should probably hope not). The girls are wondering whether they’ll ever afford the Burberry trench coat I’m sporting (answer: it depends on what you are prepared to pay). The station is towards the end of the line and therefore above ground. There is a waft of hash in the air and an occasional breath of cigarette smoke, despite the constant stream of public address that blares out reminding us that all forms of smoking are illegal on stations. I glance about and notice a man in his fifties furtively flick a butt to the ground. He grinds his heel to stub it out.
I turn back to the students; I marvel at their verve, their carelessness. It’s beautiful and painful to watch the very young people. Like looking at a photo of your favourite place and knowing you’ll never visit there again. My clients are often older than I am. Quite a bit older. Sometimes more than twice my age. There’s no point in my getting hung up about that. Fastidiousness about age or attractiveness is not something I can nurture. Everyone looks for something different in their career: I benefit from job security, rising wages, flexible hours and excellent working environments. I must be accepting visually, and I am. By contrast, the men who pay what I cost get to be extremely specific about the sort of woman they want to have sex with. They can, and do, tell us what clothes, nail gel and scent to wear. They can specify black, white, Asian; blue, brown, green eyes; curly, straight, long, short, blonde, brown or red hair; tall, tiny, full-breasted, small tits, voluptuous bum, androgynous limbs; freckles, long legs, dimpled thighs, big bush or no hair down there. The list goes on. We are laid out like chocolates in a box, waiting to be devoured.
There have been a lot of men. That’s possibly the thing people find most difficult to accept about me. It’s not just that I’m paid to have sex; it’s the fact that I’ve had sex with very many men. I’m often asked how many exactly. I don’t know the answer. Most women have been sold the la-la, soulmate, fidelity thing, and even if their search for the elusive One means there are several along the way, that is palatable. Romantic even. I, and everything I embody, debunk the world’s most comforting illusion. No one wants to hear that we’re mammals, led by instinct; that sex is one of the most powerful impulses, just after hunger. Even my clients shy away from that.
I pull out my phone and tap in some notes about Daniel. Details about the day he first met Sisi, which he revealed during our post-coital conflab. Naturally I keep notes. It’s nothing sinister; it’s simply a level of professionalism, organisation. I haven’t always kept my files up to date, which is why I can’t say how many men I’ve had sex with. As my career progressed, I realised that laissez-faire attitude towards my clients was unacceptable. Even a one-off encounter is now recorded. I keep notes on who they say they are and their profession; if they talk about a wife, or family, or friends; bosses or competitors often feature. It’s all part of the service. They like me to remember things about them. They expect that. They are wealthy men, often important in their own field, in their own way – even those who I consider a bit sad – so they expect to be remembered. They are more alike than they imagine; than they’d like to imagine.
I want to count the cash tip Daniel gave me. He handed me an envelope as I left. He usually does. Some men tip. The fee goes directly to Elspeth, electronic transfer. Strictly speaking, I should declare the tips. I don’t, and I don’t know a single working girl who does. I don’t declare them to Elspeth or the taxman. There is a certain type of man whose tips rarely have anything to do with my sexual prowess; more often than not, they are to do with his. If he thinks he’s really pleased me, that he’s done really well, he tips heavily. I’m a confidence boost. That’s why I always behave as though I’m having the time of my life.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s Elspeth. ‘Darling, where are you?’ she asks without any preamble.
‘Richmond station.’
‘Good, you are heading back into town?’ I live in north London, as does Elspeth; neither of us really accepts Richmond is London, even if it is on a Tube line. It’s Surrey. Practically provincial.
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to take another job?’
‘Tonight?’ I’m surprised. Elspeth rarely books back-to-back appointments. She knows the importance of down time.
‘I wouldn’t ask, but the gentleman requested you particularly. You’ve been referred by a friend of his.’ Neither of us is convinced the sort of men I deal with deserve the term ‘gentleman’. It’s a laughable euphemism, but, as such, useful. I try to limit the number of clients I take on to sixteen a month. Tops. My hourly rate is at the highest end of the sex-worker scale, so sixteen clients offers me the financial security I need. I do four a week, or some months I like to do five in a week and then take a week off when I have my period. Two to four hours, four times a week doesn’t sound like a full-time job, but it can be exhausting. They grab at me, needy and greedy; expectant, entitled, like badly behaved toddlers. Besides, there are extras. Shopping for underwear and, if requested, specific outfits, visiting the beautician and hairdresser, health checks, that sort of thing. Believe me, it feels like a full-time job. However, since the pandemic, maintaining sixteen clients a month isn’t always achievable. This month has been lean; I shouldn’t turn away work. On the other hand, I am tired. I’ve just smiled for one and a half hours straight, breaking only to pout or suck.
‘I don’t have fresh underwear with me,’ I point out, buying time to weigh it up.
‘I don’t think that will be a deal-breaker.’ Probably not, but I have my own standards. In an ideal world I wear fresh, straight-out-of-the-expensive-packet lingerie for every liaison. Afterwards, I wash them and take them to Bravissimo, as they have bins for unwanted bras in their stores. For every kilogram they receive, they donate to charity. All the bras are apparently recycled. The usable ones go directly to women in developing countries across the world. Although I’m not sure my sheer, skimpy, peekaboo numbers make that cut; most likely they are broken down into recyclable parts. Still, at least I’m not adding to landfill. ‘From my conversation with him, I think his needs are very straightforward,’ Elspeth says encouragingly. ‘It shouldn’t be especially arduous.’
Elspeth knows my limits. She jokes that I’m the most conservative whore on her books, but she never tries to wrench me out of my comfort zone. She knows we can both make a living because many of the clients like the fact that I have a strict ‘no’ list. They see me as almost wholesome – well, if that’s a stretch, then at least I’m not too intimidating. I enthusiastically partake in all the sex acts that cheerful girlfriends offer on special birthdays, but I don’t entertain the suggestion of anything that might be demeaning, painful or cruel. There’s no place for it in the fantasies I invent. The men who come to me have to be made aware of that. I might agree to be tied up. Ribbons, yes. Ropes, maybe. Handcuffs, no. There are men who like to think of me as classy and unattainable. Setting limits creates that illusion. It’s amazing what people tell themselves.
‘It’s just with him being recommended by one of your regulars …’ She leaves the thought hanging. Sometimes this is how regulars move on. They pass us on. You can’t let it worry you. They are paying for sex, not a relationship. Men bore of sex they are paying for just as easily as they bore of the sex they are not paying for. It’s not jealousy I feel when they move on, it’s irritation. A gap opening up on my calendar is a pain. The more thoughtful regulars are perhaps aware of this and so try to suggest a replacement. It’s still irritating. I guess this is how a schoolteacher must feel if a child leaves her class mid-term and a newbie arrives, all keen but anxious, needing to be shown the way of things.
‘He wants to meet at …’ Elspeth names a luxurious hotel in Mayfair that I know well. Some of the hotel rooms I’m invited to are bigger than my apartment, certainly markedly more sumptuous. This is one such place. The reception is enormous, and easy access – a quick in and out – seems appealing. If I agree, Elspeth will be pleased with me. Our working relationship is good. She likes it that I’m clean, sober, prompt, reliable. Not traits that can be attributed to every sex worker, but important if you are charging what we do. It’s a profession. The oldest profession, we all agree on that, right? As Elspeth is ultimately responsible for my cash flow, it’s important to keep her respect and goodwill.
So I say, ‘I can be there by eight thirty.’
3
Dora
The loos in the hotel lobby are dimly lit, but I make do. I rummage in my handbag and see what I have to manage with. My lenses feel gritty, so I take them out. I’m long-sighted, so his features might be a bit fuzzy, but that might be a bonus. With the tip of my finger, I dab a little lipstick on my cheeks and then on my lips. I apply lip gloss. Glad I slipped it into my bag at the last minute. Men like lip gloss. Wet lips. Obvious. I pull my hair into a messy updo because Daniel has mussed up my blow-dry. It’s fine. Men like my hair off my face. They want to see what they are paying for. I fish out my lacy pants and change back into them, although doing so feels grim. I swap back into my heels. I’m not a fan of keeping heels on in bed, although I’ll do it if asked. It takes some careful choreography not to tear sheets or puncture a shin with stilettos and yet still deliver the sort of service I’m famed for.
I regret accepting the job the moment I enter the room. When I was growing up my mother liked to bake. I remember she sliced vents in pies to let out steam. His eyes look like those dark slits. It’s his eyes I focus on, because he’s wearing a face mask that covers his chin, mouth, nose. This is not necessarily a kinky thing; it’s just as likely to be a hygiene thing nowadays. I’m vaccinated and very regularly tested; he will have been given those assurances from Elspeth, as it’s part of what they pay for. So the mask suggests he is particularly paranoid or considers me particularly dirty. Both things potentially lead to complications I could do without. He might be mistrustful; he might be cruel.
On the other hand, he’s not expecting to be kissed on the mouth. No slobbering, no acrid breath. That’s a bonus.
He is already wearing the cream towelling robe that the hotel supplies when he opens the door to me. A sign that he’s keen to get down to business. My phone buzzes. Elspeth confirms he has deposited the fee for three hours of my time. Undoubtedly good money, but I’d have been happy with committing to just half of that. As my lack of eagerness is the last thing I want him to be aware of, I pull my face into an expression of virtual ecstasy; I’ve yet to meet a man who can read my mind. Being in the mood is not a luxury afforded to sex workers. The clue is in the name. It’s work. Some girls drink champagne or do drugs to help them get there. I never do drugs but will drink the champagne if that’s what the client wants. When they ask me to eat with them, I follow their lead. Some working girls limit themselves to salads when they eat with clients. I don’t know why: maybe to keep a flat stomach, maybe to perpetuate the myth that women – attractive women – don’t need anything as base as food to sustain them. I do not sign up to this bullshit. Firstly, I have twice almost choked on a peppery rocket leaf, and secondly, because women do eat and besides men like women with appetites. Appetites for life and sex and food. Most important of all, I eat well when they are paying because they are paying – basic maths. If they order a rich, buttery dish, I do too. I’m a fan of thick, carb-rich pasta dishes, so dense and glutinous that I have to bite at the spoon. I know this one won’t be wanting to dine.
He pours himself a glass of champagne, comically edges his mask to the side, knocks it back, pours another, sips that, and only then does he turn to me. He holds the bottle up. I take it from him and drink from the neck, never breaking eye contact, letting the frothing alcohol spill down my chin. The liquid singes the back of my throat. He takes off his robe, pushes me to my knees and we take it from there.
4
Dora
‘Fuck, what the hell happened?’
‘I walked into a door,’ I offer. When Evan called me this morning, I was in two minds about letting him see me this way. I knew he’d be distraught. I didn’t want to traumatise him. I sometimes think it’s almost unfair of me to be in Evan’s life at all. Without me, his life is shiny perfection, but my existence smears and stains that perfection; today, I’m more likely to out-and-out shit on it. However, I’m only human, and I needed the comfort, so when he rang and said he wanted to pop over with some freshly baked sourdough bagels, bought from the new artisan bakery that has just opened near his apartment, I didn’t have the strength to push him away. Which may be a bit selfish of me, but you have to understand my life is the reverse of his. Sometimes I think he is my glimmer of perfection in a big fat turd of a life. Today is one of those days.
Evan looks like he is about to cry. A sweet response from a twenty-seven-year-old heterosexual male. He is a trust-fund baby, set to inherit millions; he works for Daddy in a huge international property and land management company. I don’t think anything truly awful has ever happened to Evan in his life, but instead of that fact making him annoying or condescending, he is the most sympathetic, humane being I’ve ever had the good fortune to encounter. Honestly? I don’t think I’ve come across anyone quite so lovely even in a book. You couldn’t make him up. He hesitates in my doorway. Normally we hug when we see one another, but he doesn’t know where he can touch without causing me pain. He tenderly kisses my forehead. He is my best friend and he hates what I do, but he loves me. So, it is what it is. He plays with the cuff of his jacket. A habit of his when he is nervous. He sighs. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’
I met Evan through work, four years ago. Don’t worry, he isn’t one of my clients. We haven’t had sex. It’s that fact that makes him so special to me. Not all my work involves sex. Theoretically, legally, none of it should. You see, it’s not illegal to hire an escort; if that’s all I do – escort, accompany – then I’m within the bounds of the law. Men – or women if they want – can pay me to attend parties, make conversation with them and their clients: flatter, fawn, laugh at their jokes. I met Evan at one of those parties. It was fairly adorable really, looking back on it. He had just turned twenty-three, out of his depth but thrilled to be playing with the big boys even though it transpired he had no idea what the game was, let alone the rules. The investment bank that was throwing the glamorous Christmas party has a lot of cash tied up in Evan’s father’s company, apparently. Evan and his father had been invited along, although only Evan had accepted the invite. When I say glamorous, I mean dozens of four-metre-high Christmas trees sparkling with decorations custom-made by Tiffany’s. I’m talking dancers from the Royal Ballet and singers from the Royal Opera House offering entertainment, and waiters dressed in Paul Smith offering unlimited vintage champagne and Russian caviar. No one attending wanted subtlety.
No party is complete without pretty girls, and whilst there were a few female employees and clients in attendance, they were definitely in the minority. Besides, as I heard a senior-looking employer comment on the night, ‘You can’t shit on your own doorstep nowadays. HR are all over it. Fucking hashtag MeToo. Death knell to fun.’
‘Would you want to, though? Hardly any of them are worth a second glance,’ responded his colleague. ‘Bring in the clowns, I say.’
We were the clowns. The escorts. Girls discreetly sprinkled throughout the party, there to be noticed, but we had to go under the radar of HR. It was fixed up at a high yet untraceable level. We were all dressed in our black-tie best: beautiful, nubile, consequence-free women, ready to divert and decorate. A job like that one isn’t particularly hard work. Accepting obvious compliments, laughing at not especially funny jokes, chewing on your bottom lip when you listen to an explanation about a company’s fiscal policy doesn’t really stretch a RADA-trained actress. Even a part-trained one. However, I knew that the job would get increasingly tiresome as the night wore on. Some of the guests would not be satisfied with flirtation. Inevitably the question of whether I provided extras would be broached. I wasn’t above that. Indeed, by that point in my career, I was a fully fledged, no-holds-barred call girl, but I’d had a busy week and wanted an easy night. Plus, I’d borrowed my dress and didn’t want to return it damaged, so it was best if I avoided ending up on my knees. Rebuffs always had to be delivered carefully so not to cause affront; a drunk, offended man is never a pleasant prospect. I knew it was important to find someone who wouldn’t embarrass either of us by asking for extras in the first place.
