One last secret, p.3
One Last Secret, page 3
It was about two thirds of the way into the evening when I spotted Evan, standing alone in the corner of the room, near a vodka ice luge. By the look of him he had indulged in his share of free alcohol. He was glassy-eyed and swaying a little. I noted his youth and felt almost sorry for him. I made a beeline in his direction and started chatting, the way we are instructed to.
‘Wow, this party is amazing,’ I commented, all astonished and awestruck, even though I’d attended several similar parties that season in London as well as Dubai, New York and Milan. I thought he might be finding the set-up rather extraordinary and therefore would appreciate someone else appearing amazed and excited. I hadn’t factored in his extreme wealth, which meant he’d attended sumptuous events such as these since he was a child. He wasn’t particularly impressed. Later, I understood he had drunk too much because he was bored rather than overawed.
He smiled good-naturedly and nodded. ‘The women are extraordinarily hot.’ The way he said this wasn’t a come-on. In fact, he blushed the moment the words were out of his mouth as he clearly recognised it could be taken as such. He rushed to clarify. ‘I mean, the canapés and champagne are great, of course, but there seems to be an especially high count of beautiful women here tonight. Are all the women who work in banking totally stunning? If so, I’m definitely in the wrong field.’ He grinned. Still a boy, but even then, I could see the man he would become; it was clear he’d never have to worry about attracting beautiful women.
‘These women don’t work in banking.’
‘Oh, then they are the girlfriends of the guys who do,’ he asserted, nodding.
‘You think? Look closely. Are any girlfriends ever that adoring, that obliging, that fascinated?’ I asked. He looked confused, possibly at my cynicism. I realised it was entirely possible, since he was young and rich and handsome, that he had only ever experienced entirely adoring girlfriends. ‘They are escorts. They are hired to tart the party up. Literally,’ I explained.
‘No way?’ And it was a lovely reaction, because he didn’t judge; he seemed amused rather than disgusted or lechy, which are more standard responses.
His reaction inspired me to push on. ‘I know because I’m one of them. I’m an escort. I’m being paid to be here.’
‘Really, and how do you go about getting into that sort of work?’ he asked seriously, without skipping a beat. He tried to pull his face into a more sober, attentive expression. Exactly the sort of expression a drunk might aim for if he was asking someone how they became a brain surgeon or a circus ringmaster or a librarian. He was curious about my unusual career choice and wanted to take me seriously, which was novel and kind. Most men ask what my hourly rate is.
‘I was a drama student. I view this sort of work as decent role-play practice. Not quite qualifying for points towards the Equity card, but arguably more dignified than being a Legoland entertainer.’ He smiled. I had dropped the breathy, astonished voice and was being straight. ‘It offers flexible hours and decent enough cash. More than I could earn as a barista.’ I threw out a big grin. The explanation I gave him as to how I got into this work wasn’t the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. There was more to it than that, nuance, but in a nutshell, those were the advantages as I saw them.
‘Was a drama student?’ Evan asked. ‘Have you graduated now? Will I have seen any of your work?’
‘No. I never graduated.’ I was grateful that he didn’t ask why. I didn’t want to have to lie to him.
‘I’m in property.’ He said it as though he was trying out the phrase. ‘Not as glamorous as your line of work.’
‘It’s not all parties.’
‘Oh.’ The tips of his ears turned pink as he gathered my meaning.
‘Escorting earns a few hundred quid for a couple of hours’ work. Easy money. Good money, I think you’ll agree.’ I cast my eye over his suit. It cost way more than a few hundred quid by the look of it; maybe he’d think an escort’s salary was loose change, so I qualified, ‘Well, most people would class it as good money. But once you take off the cost of a blow-dry, a manicure, dress hire, taxis and a manager’s commission – all necessary costs – I earn less than half that. At some point – and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when, as these things sneak up insidiously – it is no longer good money. It’s not even just enough money.’ I shrugged, paused, took a sip of my drink and then clarified, ‘So, you know, needs must.’
‘Right.’
I think I was testing him. Could I scare him off? Did I want to? My conversation was unguarded, potentially incendiary, certainly challenging. I wanted to catch and hold his interest. That was vitally important to me from the get-go. I didn’t have many friends. I still don’t. There was a connection, straight away; I felt that.
I didn’t want him to pity me, so I added, ‘Keeping trim is crucial in my business, but even I can’t live on fresh air alone.’ I hoped my beam would take him far away from the reality of the poverty I’d fought and lost. Of course, it did, because he couldn’t envisage my life. He did not know what it was like for your stomach to rumble embarrassingly, painfully, as you sat in an interview trying to persuade someone to give you a job that paid the basic minimum. I didn’t suppose he’d ever come home to a freezing-cold flat that had had the electricity cut off, or worse still, returned to find his possessions piled outside and the lock changed because he’d failed to meet the rent. Food, rent, electricity, gas, council tax. Living in London is expensive. So yes, the plan was to simply escort, to smile, nod and laugh, but when the bills stacked up, earning a bit extra for a hand job, more again for a blow job, seemed like the only solution. By the time a client suggested he’d just like to put his tongue between my legs, how much for that exactly?, the lines were so blurred it seemed squeamish to say no. Churlish. Foolish.
‘Let’s just say my career has been more snakes than ladders,’ I commented wryly. Evan laughed out loud, and I found I liked making him laugh. I still do. More than anything.
5
Dora
Evan has never tried it on. Not that night we first met, nor in the weeks that followed when our friendship blossomed, or indeed since. Naturally, I wondered whether he was gay. Look, I’m not so arrogant that I think every man on the planet has to fancy me, but most twenty-something men do have a crack at their female best friends sooner rather than later, usually when they are going through a bit of a dry patch romantically. And since Evan and I spend an inordinate amount of time talking about sex, you’d think that curiosity alone would be enough of a motivator for a drunken miscalculated grope. It has never happened.
For the record, I’ve never made a move on him either.
Some working girls do manage to have boyfriends and sustain their careers, but it’s never appealed to me. Too confusing. I deal with enough emotional situations without coming home to a jealous boyfriend. It’s easier to keep things platonic. Cleaner. Keeping sex separate from love keeps the mind focused; avoids any unnecessary, debilitating fog. I realise that makes me sound damaged or callous. Go figure. Look, I’m not a man-hater, which, when you think of the sort of men I meet on a daily basis, basically demonstrates a level of hope in humanity that puts me on a par with, I don’t know, the Pope or something. I mean, if I wanted to be a man-hater, I have evidence enough to write them off as dumb, selfish, cruel. So yay me, right?
But yeah, Evan and I do a lot of talking about sex. Mostly we talk about his sex life/romantic life/love life, call it what you will, and my work. He says my honesty on the matter is refreshing and helpful in relation to understanding women. I’ve tried to warn him that understanding a hooker’s point of view on sex is unlikely to be relatable when dealing with the trust-fund girls he dates. The conversations we have about sex run along the lines of him asking me things such as ‘But isn’t it, like, gross? Touching all that old-man flesh?’
‘Sometimes. Not always.’
‘How do you get off on it?’
‘I don’t get off on it. I never come at work.’
‘But you don’t have sex outside work,’ he pointed out.
‘Correct,’ I admitted. He knows far too much about my life.
He paused, ruminated. ‘God, that sucks.’
‘You get used to it.’ You never get to like it.
‘Do you ever do women?’
‘Occasionally.’
‘But you’re straight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then how?’ This showed more insight than most men generally muster. The majority of men simply enjoy the thought of a bit of woman-on-woman action; few reflect on what it must be like to have this sort of sex if your proclivities are not aligned.
I tried to explain. ‘It’s not a million miles away from the work of a beautician who waxes, a nurse who carries out smears, midwives who have ringside seats. It’s just a body part.’
‘I don’t think you are comparing like-for-like.’
‘My point is, for many different professionals, handling flesh is just part of the job. I think being a chiropodist might be worse. Feet are hideous.’
‘Or a dentist,’ suggested Evan, understanding me. ‘That weird smell on floss is disgusting.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What’s it like to be, you know, you?’
‘A sex worker?’
‘To be you.’ I think this is one of the best questions he’s ever asked me. I’m not sure it really falls under the banner of ‘conversations I have with Evan about sex’. At least, that’s not how I interpreted it.
‘It’s like being everyone else, I guess. In some ways. I mean, I feel the things everyone else does. I get excited, scared, happy, fed up. People don’t think that. I mean, it’s obvious if you think about it for, I don’t know, maybe a nanosecond, but people don’t think about us for that long. Not the people who use our services, or even those who don’t.’
Evan shook his head. ‘You are not like everyone else, Dora.’
‘That’s rude.’
He smiled. ‘No, it’s not meant to be. I say you’re not the same, because you are more. You are your own person. You’re wild.’
Another time he asked, ‘What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever been asked to do?’ I liked this question. It showed he wasn’t hung up on the weirdest, the most demeaning. Men who ask you to retell shameful moments are not that far apart from the men who create them in the first place. Evan’s question showed compassion and a sense of humour.
‘One man once wanted me to wear nothing other than an apron he’d brought along. Then he wanted me to spank his bare bottom with a wooden spoon. He strained to watch in the mirror as his wobbling arse turned slightly pink. The apron smelt of chocolate cake. As he left, he told me it was his mother’s and he that he’d never washed it since she died. The spoon was hers too. I really don’t want to unpick that fantasy.’ Evan laughed out loud. I did too. We both laughed until it hurt. Until we couldn’t catch our breath.
He’s not laughing now as his eyes roam over my bloody lip, my black eye.
‘Have you been to the hospital?’
‘Yeah, I went last night. I needed them to glue my eye. I thought my ribs were broken.’
‘Are they?’
‘Luckily not.’
I hobble through to the kitchen, trying not to wince too obviously. I clearly fail, as Evan insists that I sit down; he makes tea, sets the bagels on a plate, tries to behave normally. I can see from the way he is holding his shoulders – high around his ears – that he is furious, scared. ‘Have you been to the police?’
‘No.’ Evan asks a lot of good questions; this is a stupid one.
‘Won’t the hospital report it?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe, but I said I fell down the stairs.’
‘And they believed you?’
‘Probably not. They’ll think my boyfriend did it to me. Not much can be done about a domestic if the victim won’t call it out.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then,’ Evan says sarcastically as he slams down the just-boiled kettle onto the kitchen counter. I see drops of water jump out of the spout and splash on his hand.
‘Careful,’ I mumble.
He doesn’t seem to have noticed the scald and looks confused. ‘It’s you who has to be careful, Theodora.’
‘Oh, my full name, you really are serious about this.’ I try to smile, but it hurts my cut lip. Laughing is out of the question.
‘Don’t joke, how can you joke? Look at you.’
Actually, I haven’t been able to bring myself to check my reflection in the mirror. I don’t need to. The severity of my beating was reflected in the faces of the taxi drivers I encountered last night – the one who refused to take me to the hospital – ‘Nah, love, you’ll get blood on my seats’ – and the one who tenderly helped me into the car and refused to accept any money for the fare. I saw my injuries on the face of the receptionist, the nurse who glued me, the one who X-rayed me, and now, most tragically, on Evan’s face.
‘Who did this to you? I can go after him.’ I roll my eyes. ‘I can send people after him. You know I have the resources.’ He does. He doesn’t talk about it directly, but over the years, I’ve come to understand that he is spectacularly wealthy, or at least his family is. He has the sort of reserves available to him that most of us can’t even conceive of. I suppose he’ll inherit shedloads in the future.
‘He said his name was Jonathan, but I don’t imagine it is. Elspeth can’t reach him on his numbers or trace him through his transaction. I’ve described him as best I can to her so that he doesn’t find his way to any of the other girls, but he was wearing a mask throughout. There’s nothing more to be done.’ I shrug.
Evan carries two strong, hot mugs of tea to the small kitchen table where I am sitting. He spoons three sugars into one and stirs it vigorously, I don’t take sugar, he knows that. He pushes the mug my way and then stirs vast amounts of sugar into his mug too. We both need help with the shock.
‘Why do you do this?’ he asks. His upset and frustration make him sound impatient and defeated in one sentence. ‘There are other ways to make a living, you know.’
This is the question he returns to most frequently. He’s right, I should get out of this. I know that, but I haven’t got the energy to pore over websites advertising poorly paid positions; I dread the thought of writing the necessary sycophantic covering-letter emails. How would I explain what I’ve been doing with myself this last decade? I’ve painted myself into a corner.
‘A job for life,’ I reply.
‘However long or short that might be,’ he adds sardonically.
I try to strike a note of cheerful nonchalance. ‘I’m attracted to the sense of tradition. Women have been doing this forever. Jesus’s best friend found gainful employment this way.’
‘Stop it, Dora.’
I bounce on, hating the compressed intensity that is clouding the room. I always try to make a joke when I hurt the most. It means I sometimes come across as a bit weirdly dismissive, but better that than appearing vulnerable. ‘Hey, at least there are always job opportunities. Whores and funeral directors, can’t do without them.’
‘Don’t you like yourself?’
I pretend not to hear him. I’m not up to going deep on this right now. ‘Who am I harming?’
‘No one other than yourself,’ he mutters. He drops his head into his hands, takes a deep breath, then straightens to look me in the eye. He knows not to be overly judgy with me, because no bestie relationship can withstand an excessively robust examination of behaviour; humans are too imperfect for that. The point of a bestie is to offer support, understanding, make tea, pour vodka. He tries to make it clear that I don’t disappoint him, but the world does. ‘I could get you a job,’ he offers, not for the first time. He sees me behind the reception desk in the impressive lobby of his father’s London office. Lots of glass and chrome. No doubt I’m wearing a pencil skirt and killer heels in his imaginings.
I don’t know anything much about Evan’s daddy’s industry – property – but I do know, for certain, I don’t want to work there, even if his father would agree to the idea. I don’t want to owe Evan. I can’t think of a polite way to say as much, so I just keep quiet. The silence gnaws.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
He sighs again, frustrated, sad. I match his sigh with one of my own, hating that I’m taking on his pain too. He should keep it to himself. I have enough of my own to handle. I agreed to him coming here because I thought he would comfort me, cheer me up. My mind flings itself back to the hotel room last night, even though it’s the last place I want to be.
‘It’s all a bit of a blur. One minute I was on my back, eyes closed, giving a good impression of being in the throes. It seemed, as Elspeth had promised, straightforward. The cuffs came from nowhere. Click, and my arms were pinioned to the headboard. The blow was a surprise too.’
Evan winces.
It’s been my experience that life is full of surprises, few of them good.
I take a sip of my tea. It’s not enough. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ I ask.
