One last secret, p.8
One Last Secret, page 8
People in my profession are not the only ones who trade sex. We’re just the most blatant.
Everything to do with sex is a transaction in some way, shape or form. People trade looks, wit, brains, wealth, social status, fame or security, all for sex. People trade sex to say thank you for a really great date and, more surprisingly, to say sorry for a pretty piss-poor one. Sex is traded for jobs, for attention, for power. Sex is traded because once, twenty-five years ago, you stood in a church in front of a God you don’t believe in and made promises that you hadn’t really thought too deeply about, to a guy with a cute grin and straight teeth. And now that guy – well, it’s his birthday and he’s washed your car and popped to the supermarket this week; he even drove your youngest up to university, helped her unpack, fixed a wobbly shelf, so you owe him a blow job. You trade sex. And you are a good wife, he is a good husband; society agrees on that. He did the weekly shop, looked out for the kids, it’s his birthday, you’d be a monster not to put out.
Husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, bosses, colleagues, starlets, directors, people trade sex. People trade sex for hope and despair.
I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying it is.
We’re not necessarily very different. Not that far apart. I think what offends people is that I don’t choose my sex partners for their physicality. I choose them for their bank balance. But really, is one thing more shallow than the other? I trade sex for straight cash and that might offend you. You think it gives you the right to judge me? Go ahead, if you must. People have been judged for far less: what shoes they are wearing, how they hold their knife and fork, if they have or have not read the novels on the Booker longlist. We’re a judgy species. We judge everything, even desire. We probably ought to be nicer. Involve ourselves elsewhere.
It’s been hot this past week in London, sticky, but arriving in the south of France is something altogether different. The heat feels heavy and permanent. Walking just the short distance from the steps of the aeroplane into the terminal and then out the other side to a waiting chauffeur-driven car gives opportunity for sweat to pool in the crook of my elbows, the back of my knees, the base of my back. I blink behind my sunglasses and discreetly blot under my eyes to catch any mascara that might have run. I’m paid to be immaculate, perfect. The air conditioning inside the car is ferocious and therefore a relief. I wonder whether it will dry out Daniel’s shirt, which is blooming dark pink patches under his arms, down his back. I never understand why rich men travel in pastel-coloured shirts and linen trousers; they arrive at their destinations looking wrung out. But then, he does not have to be perfect for me, or anyone. The idea of straining to be flawless has probably never crossed his mind. He keeps dabbing his face with a handkerchief, mopping the sweat that is bubbling like soup. He’s more nervous than I’ve ever seen him before, even when he first visited me. I am increasingly curious about his friends, and Sisi in particular. Any woman who can have this sort of effect on a man is interesting to me.
We drive for an hour, leaving the airport behind, skirting around the dusty, noisy city, heading out towards the more bucolic scenes that city dwellers love to step into temporarily and romanticise. We trundle past rows of tall, proud poplar trees and hand-painted signs advertising rustic vineyards and weekend brocantes. We pass through small French villages where attractive dark-haired children sit on picnic blankets with their vivacious, gossiping mothers and wrinkled pensioners play boules. The A roads slim down to B roads, and soon we are travelling down the sort of rough tracks where potholes are a concern. This place we are heading to is very remote. I already miss the smell of the city. Wherever we are now smells of earth and dust, not even grass. I close my eyes to counter the waves of travel sickness that are beginning to swell in my stomach. Maybe I doze off, because when Daniel shakes my arm, I feel disorientated, and it takes a moment to understand where I am.
‘We’re here,’ he says with an excited beam.
The chateau is breathtakingly beautiful. Not the mismatch of turrets of my imagination, but a Georgian-style sand-bricked manor. Elegant, symmetrical, purposeful. It’s also enormous. I’m looking forward to roaming around the rooms. I imagine parquet flooring, high ceilings, feature fireplaces – all that sort of stuff interests me. Elegance isn’t something that sex workers are oblivious to. We see the same as you do. More maybe.
Daniel points out Giles and his wife, Melanie, waiting in the distance at the door of the chateau. At first, they are nothing more than small dots to me, as the driveway is incredibly long, but as we approach, they start to loom into focus, and I have the opportunity to assess the hosts.
Daniel hasn’t provided a great deal of detail about anyone I’m going to meet, other than Sisi, but this doesn’t faze me. I’m used to walking into rooms and dealing with whoever and whatever I find. Every time I arrive at a hotel or a villa or a party, it’s like the first day in a new office and I don’t know where the photocopier is, but I can never let the client know that. Confidence is all. Fake it until you make it. They may be nervous. I can’t be.
The couple are standing framed in the open door, artfully, like a tableau. They each have an arm slung around one another and their free hands held high in the air, waving a welcome to us. The very picture of marital harmony and warm hospitality, which is usually only demonstrated by a newly married couple, or if there is an issue with fidelity. I wonder who he’s shagged. I’m not a cynic, but I am a sex worker, so forgive me if I don’t easily buy into the myth of domestic bliss. The open door creates a black gap behind them, so they appear mounted or suspended. I wonder how long they have had to wait there to greet us, and I wonder why they aren’t busy entertaining their other guests. I assume their self-conscious formality is because they are curious to meet me, or at least curious about Daniel’s girlfriend.
Giles is wearing the uniform I would expect from a man his age and class: khaki shorts and a pale blue collared shirt – linen, of course. He is a wiry man, handsome until he smiles, and then I notice his teeth are too small for his mouth; I see a lot of gum. The wife is in a striped sundress. It’s not especially flattering, nor does it look particularly comfortable; it clings around her gently rounding stomach. She’s too old for her belly to be blooming with fecundity; it’s engorged with evidence that she’s at the other end of the reproductive scale. Her metabolism has slowed, her waist has thickened. If she feels loved, she’ll be comfortable with the protrusion; if not, she’ll be neurotic. Her curves will taunt her, disappoint her. Our bodies are rarely the friends they ought to be.
They move forward in unison, welcome us loudly. I’m introduced, Giles casts an appreciative glance the length of my body, Melanie smiles at me without her eyes – let alone her heart – bothering to get involved. I don’t blame her. I’m suspiciously young and beautiful on Daniel’s arm. Still, they talk of their delight at us being there, instruct staff to take our bags to our rooms, urge us to join everyone at the pool. ‘Do you want a drink? Anything at all? How can we make you feel most comfortable?’ Melanie asks solicitously.
‘I’d like to change if I can,’ I comment. I step into the cool entrance hall. It is large, impressive. The tiles are black and white, the walls are wood-panelled and painted a pale grey. There are benches where people presumably pause to swap flip-flops for boat shoes or hiking boots. There is an enormous fireplace, but because of the heat outside, it is not lit. A sweeping double staircase stretches left and right; it’s designed for people who like to make an entrance. Or maybe an exit. Before I can ask to be shown to my room, I feel Melanie’s hand firmly on my back as she steers me outside once again.
‘Of course, of course you want to change, and you can, but after you’ve had a drink. Everyone is dying to meet you. They are all waiting at the pool,’ she adds.
I see how it is. Behind the impeccable manners, there is a steely determination. I might be asked what I want to do, but I’ll be doing exactly what Melanie wants. No doubt she’s been planning and scheduling Giles’s promotion party for months, and she doesn’t want anything as inconvenient as free will to detract. ‘We’re just picking over lunch. Nothing special. Charcuterie and fruit, mostly. We’re keeping lunches casual. Dinner tonight is seven courses.’ She widens her eyes as though she has delivered bad news, but it’s obvious that she’s delighted to be serving such an indulgent dinner. ‘You’re not anything dreadful like a vegan, are you? We kept asking Daniel about your dietary requirements, but he never responded to our emails.’
‘No, not a vegan,’ I assure her. ‘I like my food far too much to be a vegan.’ I laugh at my own small joke, but Melanie’s gaze just drops to my flat stomach, scepticism oozing from her face. I want to tell her it’s my genes that have provided the enviable figure, but even if I do, she won’t believe me. She’ll think I stick my fingers down my throat after every meal, and that will probably be some comfort to her. Charming a heterosexual woman who isn’t paying for my services is not something I’ve ever attempted. I have been paid to have sex with women her age because they or their husbands wanted it – those women I could charm or reassure, depending on what was required. I guess a whole new skill set will be needed with Melanie and the wives of Daniel’s other friends.
‘I’m sure Daniel told you I’m allergic to raw egg,’ I add.
‘No, he never mentioned it.’ Melanie looks irritated. ‘Well, we’ll manage to work around that, I suppose,’ she says in a manner that suggests I’ve just ruined not only her menu plans, but her life.
13
Dora
As Daniel, Giles, Melanie and I walk around the side of the chateau towards the pool, I take in the beautifully manicured garden and grounds. It is a perfect example of a formal, symmetrical jardin à la française. A style of garden based on equilibrium and the principle of imposing order on nature. The epitome of this style is generally considered to be the gardens of Versailles, designed during the seventeenth century for Louis XIV. I was told this by a client of mine who was a professor at a prestigious Parisian university. I pick up quite random bits of knowledge shagging wealthy men; their hobbies and interests are varied. Their desire to hear their own voice is a constant. What I’m saying about the garden is, it’s anything but modest. There are colourful planting beds in precise geometric shapes, various parterres leading to a fountain where fat cherubs are immortalised playing under perpetual cascades of gushing water. We walk through a series of stairways and ramps that unite different levels of the garden; Melanie points left and says there is a grotto that way – ‘Strange little dingy place, quite frankly’ – then right, where she tells me there is a labyrinth: ‘Such fun, you’ll love it.’
I gaze out past the formal gardens to see what lies further afield. The grounds are vast – there are no neighbouring properties in sight – so it would be impossible to tend the entire enormous space with the same level of attention and formality as the area close to the house. Consequently, the geometric spaces ultimately fall away and spill into fields or woodland. The expanse of corn and maize crops stretches as far to the horizon as I can see, until it becomes blurred with a heat haze. The woods are dark and closed. The leaves on the trees don’t so much as tremble, as there’s not a breath of a breeze.
I spot a gardener bent over a rose bed. I assess him. It’s habit. I assess all men. He is dressed in baggy ripped shorts, no top. His skin is tanned to the colour of a polished mahogany table. He has grey hairs on his chest, arms, torso, shoulders, back. This I’ve seen before. The men I service expect me to be waxed within an inch of my life, but they don’t hold themselves up against the same standards. The gardener’s torso is muscled from manual work. That’s new; none of my clients have that. He’s shaking his head, irritated, muttering aloud to no one in particular. I don’t speak French well enough to understand, but as we pass him, I see that the plants he is looking at are blighted with black spots on the leaves. A second glance and I notice that the entire bed, ten metres in length, is quivering; crawling with an infestation of a sap-sucking black bug. The garden’s perfection is marred. That’s why I’m not a fan of the countryside. You can’t trust it. It’s too mercurial. Full of living and dying plants and creatures. Moss, mould and weeds that overflow, climb, leach. Insects, mice and rats. Pests of one form or another that breed, chew, kill. Melanie doesn’t acknowledge the gardener or his plight; I shrug in a way that I hope communicates my sympathy.
We hear the chatter drifting upwards from the pool area before we turn the corner and see the other guests sitting at a long trestle table, nestling under a cabana. The white tablecloth and the gauze curtains of the cabana hang poker straight, like walls, but the rest of the scene oozes animation. I don’t like swimming pools. I can’t swim; it’s a regret of mine that I’ve never learnt. Bodies of water unnerve me unless I know I can put my feet flat on the bottom. I always turned down jobs on yachts, even though they generally paid brilliantly. I told Elspeth I got seasick, which stopped her putting me up for that sort of gig. No one finds a retching sex worker hot. This pool is bigger than most you find in private homes; the water looks black, because it’s lined with trendy noir mosaic tiles. This makes an impactful contrast against the lush lawn, but I’m not a fan; water is scary enough without it appearing murky. I won’t be telling any of the guests that I can’t swim. It’s been my experience at pool parties in the past that if I admit as much, there’s always some jerk who sees it as a challenge. There have been several occasions when I’ve been picked up and hurled in the deep end, sometimes fully clothed, sometimes naked. I’ve always managed to scramble to the edge and haul myself up to safety, looking no doubt like a drowned kitten. Apparently, streaming mascara and blind panic is a good look on me, a number of men have said so.
Bastards.
There is a man swimming in the pool right now. He’s cutting energetic butterfly strokes, breaking the water into a thousand dancing shards. Three women and two other men are sitting at the table. They are laughing at something someone has just said. Giles shouts to them, announces our arrival. For a moment everyone freezes, and then they seem to collect themselves, shudder like birds in a bath shaking off water, and in unison turn to us, smiling broadly. I’m so distracted by the strange artifice of their greeting – did I imagine it? – that I can hardly keep up with the blur of introductions that Giles is making. I struggle to pin a name to a face, work out who is with who. Were they talking about us when we arrived? It’s possible. I’m sure Daniel bringing a new woman along is cause for gossip, but it felt like more than that. Daniel sits down suddenly, folds his legs beneath him, tucks his arms neatly into his sides, not taking up much space the way most men do. There’s something about the gesture that suggests he’d rather not be here at all, which is odd when you consider how hard he worked to persuade me to come with him. He was determined then, but seems reticent now. I wonder if he is feeling overwhelmed by the charade he’s constructed.
I’m introduced to Chen, who tells me he’s Singaporean, and Liling, who says she’s Chinese American. ‘We just get that out there straight away, because you guys never know where we are all from and your ignorance embarrasses everyone.’ Liling laughs as she says this, a hard, cold sound.
‘Us guys?’ I challenge.
‘English people. You’re all so phoney-polite and weird when it comes to talking about race. It’s awkward.’
‘Actually, I’m Serbian heritage. I’m not polite about anything much,’ I point out. The moment I do, I want to kick myself. I never give away personal details when I am on a job – normally I’m scrupulously disciplined – but there was something about Liling’s prejudice that irritated me; I just wanted to prick her balloon of self-righteousness.
Rather than be embarrassed by the inaccuracy of her own generalisation, she laughs out loud. ‘That’s brilliant. Well done. I like her, Daniel,’ she announces, as though I have passed a test. Daniel looks startled. Unsure as to why her approval of me might relate to him. I reach for his hand, squeeze it to remind him that we’re supposed to be a couple.
He remembers his role, kisses my forehead, nods. ‘Everyone does.’
His eyes are not on me, though; he’s looking past me at the leggy black woman sitting at the table. She’s exquisite, and I don’t blame him for being drawn to her. She’s wearing a yellow bikini, and an orange silk headband is holding her magnificent afro off her face. Her limbs are supple, tapered, sexy. Her stomach is a wall of muscle. She’s holding a half-eaten apple in her hand. When she takes a bite, I find I’m mesmerised by her wide mouth, generous lips. Sisi, I presume. Daniel is punching above his weight, even in his dreams. The only way he’d ever be able to have a woman as beautiful as her is by paying her, but Sisi is not in my game, so having her is an impossibility. I study Daniel and note a slight tightening around his mouth. He knows it too.
Sisi is the only one around the table who is wearing swimwear; all the others are in sundresses, or shorts and T-shirts. Middle-aged people dress for lunch because they can’t stand seeing their own bellies when they eat; younger people aren’t as self-conscious. Daniel is ten years older than I am, although he thinks the age gap is bigger than that. His friends, I assume, are also around their late thirties or early forties, as they went to college together. However, Sisi is a lot younger, around my age in fact. ‘You must be Sisi,’ I say, smiling. She smiles back and nods. ‘Daniel has told me so much about you. He talks about you all the time,’ I add.
‘Really? He’s hardly revealed a thing about you.’ This comment comes from the other man at the table. ‘Neo, Sisi’s husband,’ he adds with a nod of his head. He doesn’t wave or shake my hand; he’s holding a penknife and busy peeling a kiwi. I think that maybe he is aware of Daniel’s crush on Sisi. He’s probably bored or embarrassed by it. I think his comment a tad blunt, since he believes he is delivering it up to Daniel’s new girlfriend. If I weren’t being paid to be here and my investment were an emotional one, I’d certainly feel intimidated or hurt.
