Pretty mess, p.4
Pretty Mess, page 4
“Hardly.” His lips twist into a naughty smirk. “I’m a whore.”
three
The silence is absolute in the room for a few seconds. I’d feel less shocked if he’d brained me with a brick. I shift on the sofa. “Sorry? What did you just say?”
Maybe I misheard him.
He shrugs. “I’m a whore.”
Nope. No mishearing.
I hesitate. “Should you be saying that?” I finally say tentatively. “It’s a bit of a derogatory word.”
He stares at me. “Are you actually sitting there telling a whore that he can’t call himself that?”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. It’s not very nice. What about sex worker?”
“What has niceness got to do with me taking dick for money?” I snort, and he adopts a thoughtful look. “I don’t like sex worker. It makes me sound like I have a clocking-in card.” His eyes twinkle. “Maybe I have a cocking-in card. How about calling me an escort if your sensitive nature hates the word whore?”
“That’s a bit better.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am about that. You know I exist to calm your mind.”
“You seem to exist mainly to be snarky,” I say honestly, and he laughs. My lip twitches at the unexpectedly merry sound.
His face turns serious, and he edges closer. “I want to say something, but I’m not sure if I should,” he says in a hushed voice.
“I bet that’s a rare occurrence in your world.”
“You have no idea.” He runs a hand through his hair restlessly and then takes a breath, obviously committing to what he’s about to say. “You could do what I do.”
“Random acts of sarcasm?”
He shoves me, laughing. After a moment, he sobers. “I mean you could get into whor—escorting.”
I wait a few beats. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that. It’s a nice offer but—”
“Don’t say no yet,” he says quickly. “Just let me tell you this. Do you know how much money your face could fetch?”
“That’s… incredibly creepy.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not in a serial killer sense, although don’t tempt me. I mean your face is a very valuable commodity.”
I eye him. “I’m not sure about this, but are men really going to be looking at my face when I’m bent over in the back seat of some stranger’s car?”
He looks stunned. “How do you think I get my clients? A street corner?”
“Well, yes,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “Mostly while they’re looking for directions.”
“Are you thinking of Pretty Woman?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s my only cultural reference for prostitution.”
“That’s a terrible film.”
“You don’t like Pretty Woman? Are you dead in your soul?”
“It’s a very unrealistic portrayal. And that happy ever after was just catering to society’s sugary expectations of life and relationships. If they were being true to life, she’d have probably ended up dead in a ditch with a needle in her arm, and he’d have married someone who only had sex once in a blue moon.”
“Thank you so much, sunshine.” I pause. “So, you don’t stand on a street corner, then?”
“No, I fucking don’t. That would be hell on my back and my posture.”
“So, what do you do? This is fascinating. Here I was thinking you were just a pompous twat with nice hair, and it turns out that you have all these deep, dark secrets.”
“Thank you. I do have nice hair. I suppose it’s hardly surprising that you focus on that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he says innocently as I attempt to smooth down my untidy hair. “I get my client introductions through a bloke I know.”
“Ooh! Is that your pimp?”
He grimaces. “No. Fucking hell. I don’t have a pimp. He’s an…” He hesitates. “I suppose you’d call him an introducer. He has a place in Mayfair where men go. Very rich men.”
I twist to face him, pulling my feet up so I’m comfortable. This is just what I needed to take my mind off my problems. “How rich is very rich?”
“Way beyond whatever you’re imagining.”
“I don’t know. I can imagine a lot.”
“Who are you thinking?”
“Erm. Richard Branson.”
“Pah. He’s small change compared to some of the men who go there.”
I blink. “So, is it like a private club?”
He gets up, goes to the kitchen, and comes back with two bottles of water. He chucks one to me and sits back down, opening his own bottle and taking a sip. “That’s exactly what it is. These men come from all over the world to fuck beautiful young men with a clear bill of health. Young men who know how to behave impeccably in polite society and can talk knowledgeably on any desired subject.” He eyes me. “That part will take some work with you.”
“Hey,” I say indignantly, but he ignores me.
“The owner of the club is a facilitator who introduces boys like me to these incredibly wealthy men.”
“And then what happens?”
His mouth twists. “Well, Wes, then the two men kiss, fall in love, and hold hands for eternity.”
“I feel like you’re taking the piss.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
This whole thing is like a TV drama, and I’m so intrigued. “So do you all shag in a room somewhere like the back area of a club?”
“Good god, no. What part of rich and discreet did you not get? There are rooms upstairs at the club where we take the men. We perform, and if we’re lucky, the men decide to take us on.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “They keep us. We get a flat and an allowance. Plus, they pay for clothes and all the bills.”
“And does this introducer take a cut of your money?”
“No. The men take care of his fee. We keep our own money.”
Realisation dawns as I look around the expensive flat. “Is that what’s happened with you?”
“Yeah. I’ve been with my gentleman for a year, which is a fairly long time.”
“What’s he like?”
He immediately looks cautious. “Let’s call him Mister X. I can’t give you too many details.”
“Of course not. But is Mister X good to you?”
For the first time, he looks discomposed. “Good?”
“Yeah. Does he treat you nicely?”
He considers that. “He pays my bills and for this flat. I have accounts with numerous designer shops and an unlimited budget.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I frown. “Is he nice to you?”
He laughs. “Darling, one should never expect that.”
“Yes, you should,” I say firmly. “You should always be treated with kindness.”
A frown wrinkles his forehead. “Maybe you aren’t made for this sort of life after all. You don’t have to do it. You can stay here for as long as I’ve got the place.”
The thought of having a bed for a few days makes me feel weak with relief, but I can’t cause trouble in his life just because mine has imploded. That’s not fair. “Just like that?”
“Of course. I like you, Wes. I don’t want to see you get into any more trouble.”
“Thank you,” I say, touched. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Please don’t. Gratitude is incredibly tedious,” he says haughtily, but he can’t help the flush of pleasure on his cheeks.
“I’ll pay you rent.” I pause, and my financial situation slams back into my head like a car crash in slow motion. “Shit. I can’t actually do that.”
He waves a careless hand. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t need the money.”
“But will your bloke mind me being here?”
“He’s not my bloke. He’s my client.”
“Well, won’t your client be pissed off that you’ve moved another man into a place he pays for?”
“I’ll explain that you’re a friend, and he’ll be okay with it.”
I stare at him. “Am I?”
This seems to discombobulate him for a second, but then he shrugs. “Maybe.”
“I think yes,” I say boldly.
He arches an eyebrow. “You don’t know me very well.”
“That’s probably a prerequisite to get over your personality.” He pinches me, and I flinch, laughing. “Does it matter if I don’t know you? You helped me. That makes you my friend, and I want you to know I would do the same for you if you need it.” I look around. “I really don’t want to upset your situation, though. If Mister X is going to mind, I’ll clear out.”
“There’s no need, and it’s ending anyway. He’s moving to New York, so our arrangement will end next week.”
“Will you miss him?” I ask impulsively.
“Well, I’ll certainly miss his wallet.”
I used to think Julian was such a snob. In truth, he intimidated me with his expensive clothes and posh accent. So while being polite, I kept my distance. I’m regretting that now. I’m beginning to see his snootiness is his way of covering his emotions, and there’s something so endearing about that.
I wonder if it’s possible to fuck someone for an entire year and not develop feelings. “Will you have to get out of here when Mister X goes to America?”
“No. He’s paid the lease for another six months.”
“That’s very generous of him. It can’t be cheap.”
“Darling, I’m not cheap.” He shrugs. “It gives me a bit of wiggle room, but I’ll be going back to Jack’s soon to pick up another client. I don’t like not having someone on the hook.”
“Jack’s? Is that the…” I hesitate, searching for the word.
“Jack of Clubs is the name of the business.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Were you going to say brothel?”
I sag. “I’m sorry. I think my vocabulary is rooted in my mum’s old historical romances.”
He eyes me consideringly. “So, what do you think? Do you fancy it? I’ve got to go back to the club to pick up a new client next week, so you’d have company on your first night if you want to do it.”
I swallow hard. “So soon?”
“I don’t like to be without an arrangement. There’s an introduction evening on Friday, so it’s perfect timing for me.”
“Introduction weekend? That sounds like my first week at uni.”
“Think less alcohol and vomiting. I heard all about you on fresher’s week.”
“Reports of that were wildly overexaggerated.”
“An introduction evening is exactly what it sounds like. The members come to the club and choose the boys they want. The details of the arrangements between clients and escorts are sorted out on the night. It’s all very civilised.”
I hesitate. My heart is racing, and my brain feels chaotic. And no matter how hard I try to distract myself, I’m constantly thinking about those credit cards that Tyler took out. “Would I really earn a lot of money?”
“Your first time with a client? You’re looking at twenty to thirty grand. However, it’s your first time with anyone in this game, so you’re looking at a lot more. I’d say maybe fifty grand.”
I’ve just taken a sip of water and promptly spit it over him.
“What the fuck?” he squeaks, jumping off the sofa and patting his jeans.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to say that much money.”
He looks up from where he’s fussing over his clothes. His eyes are very blue. “You won’t make that much again, not after your first time at the club. But with your face and body, you’ll make close to that.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m really not. I don’t joke about this,” he says very seriously. “You can expect to pull in extremely good money.” He hesitates. “Are you really thinking about doing it?”
Am I? I consider my empty bank account and the credit cards that, if I don’t pay, will affect my credit score until I’m dead and probably beyond that. Fifty grand would clear the cards and allow me to pay some of the tuition fees for my master’s.
I get up and walk to the window. Down below, the paths are busy with people. The river glints in the sunshine, and in the distance, the roofs and towers of London crowd the skyline. All those people out there, and yet at this moment, I’m alone with my problems. No one can help me. I have to do this myself.
I think of the money and what I’ll have to do to get it. Would it be so bad? Prostitution is probably not considered a great career move by most people, but where else could I get that kind of money so quickly? I need to stay at university. It’s my dream that I’ve put so many years of hard work into. With everything that’s happened in the past two days, my dream feels like the only thing I have left.
Sex isn’t something I shy away from. I shag strangers for free on most weekends, and choosing someone in a private, exclusive club, where members are fully vetted, might be safer than what goes on in the clubs my friends from uni frequent. And if someone is paying to get off, would it be that much different? Just like that, I realise I’ve already made my decision.
“I think I’ll do it,” I say, turning towards Julian.
He considers me for a moment and then gestures. “Come along.”
“Where?”
“My room. I want to show you something.”
“Well, that’s never been said before.”
“I would advise that if you do this, you bury your sense of humour somewhere deep and dark and hope it never sees the light.”
I snort and follow him, looking around curiously when we enter the room. It’s big and airy, with windows that look down on the river.
I gesture at the huge sleigh bed. “So that’s where the magic happens.”
“The magic of commercial transactions, yes.”
“Oh, be still my heart.”
I start to laugh, and his mouth twitches. Then he pulls me toward a huge mirror that takes up most of one wall. I notice that it’s angled for a direct view of the bed.
“Look,” he commands.
Obeying, I stare into the mirror. My hair is messy, my expression pinched with the worry I can’t put away for even a second, and my lips drawn thin. “Admittedly, I’ve looked better.”
“Hush,” he orders. He stands behind me and holds my shoulders. “Shall I tell you what those men will see?” I nod slowly. “They will see blond, wavy hair that makes you look like a surfer. For some godforsaken reason, businessmen really go for the laidback surfer look. Some days I’ve been convinced that rather than waxing my genitals and brushing up on current affairs, I should just turn up with a surfboard, call everyone dude, and wax lyrical about A-Frames.” I laugh, and his eyes twinkle. “The men will notice you have a beautiful face with high, sharp cheekbones, pouty lips, and a pretty nose. Smile,” he orders, and I hasten to obey. He grimaces. “Well, usually you have a very pretty smile, but not even a gargoyle would have been proud of that. Do it again and put your back into it this time.”
I snort and attempt another smile, and this time he nods approvingly. “It pulls out a little dimple to the right of your mouth, which gives you a naughty look, and that’s very appealing to men. Stand up straight.” I do as I’m told, and he walks around me. “Hmm,” he says, thoughtfully tapping his finger on his teeth. “You’re tall but not too tall. That’s good.”
“This is like being a cow at market.”
“Let’s just hope they want your milk, Daisy. You have broad shoulders, but you’re slim, which will appeal to men who’ll want to look after you. You look athletic but not appallingly hearty. Do you have all your own teeth?”
“Who else’s am I meant to have? Rachel Reeves?”
He ignores me. “Any dental implants?”
“No. Are they actually going to check?” I demand as he pushes his face near mine.
He steps back, still frowning in thought. “With a little attention, your appearance will be acceptable.”
“What sort of attention?” I ask warily.
“Maybe a bit of self-tan, although you seem to have naturally golden skin. Then a trim to your hair so you look a little less like a Hobbit, eyebrow shaping, a manicure, a pedicure, and waxing.”
“All that this year?”
He ignores me. “You will look okay in clothes.”
“What do you mean? I’m already wearing clothes. Don’t I look good now?” I say indignantly.
He gives me a pitying look. “It’s probably best not to mention the monstrously awful athletic wear you seem to favour. I’ll get my tailor to come round. You’ll need a suit.”
“Will I?”
“Did you really think you’d go to the type of event I just talked about and wear your Levi’s and those old Adidas trainers?”
Panic stirs. “But I can’t afford anything new.”
He waves a careless hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll use my card, and Mister X will pick up the bill.”
“You can’t do that,” I say, scandalised.
“Of course I can.”
“What if he finds out?”
“The tailor is my contact. I’ve used him for years. He’ll keep his mouth shut, and Mister X will think I’ve just bought another suit. Besides, I’ll need a new one too, if I’m attending the event.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
He studies me for a long moment and then winks. “That’s my business. Okay, strip.”
“Sorry?”
“I hope you’re better at taking orders than this.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Maybe we’d better say you’re a little touched in the attic. Some men like that.”
“Why have I got to strip?”
“I need to see if there are any potential problems.”
I blanch. “I can assure you that there aren’t,” I squeak.
“Do hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
“Is this your bedside manner in operation?” I shake my head and strip off my clothes, my skin pebbling in the air conditioning.
I cup my hands over my groin, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh, for god’s sake. It’s like stripping a nun.”
“Have you done a lot of that?”
“Release the cock.” I sigh and let my hands fall away as he nods in approval. “Lovely. I’d guess it’s seven inches when erect, yes?”
three
The silence is absolute in the room for a few seconds. I’d feel less shocked if he’d brained me with a brick. I shift on the sofa. “Sorry? What did you just say?”
Maybe I misheard him.
He shrugs. “I’m a whore.”
Nope. No mishearing.
I hesitate. “Should you be saying that?” I finally say tentatively. “It’s a bit of a derogatory word.”
He stares at me. “Are you actually sitting there telling a whore that he can’t call himself that?”
I shrug. “Well, yeah. It’s not very nice. What about sex worker?”
“What has niceness got to do with me taking dick for money?” I snort, and he adopts a thoughtful look. “I don’t like sex worker. It makes me sound like I have a clocking-in card.” His eyes twinkle. “Maybe I have a cocking-in card. How about calling me an escort if your sensitive nature hates the word whore?”
“That’s a bit better.”
“I can’t tell you how relieved I am about that. You know I exist to calm your mind.”
“You seem to exist mainly to be snarky,” I say honestly, and he laughs. My lip twitches at the unexpectedly merry sound.
His face turns serious, and he edges closer. “I want to say something, but I’m not sure if I should,” he says in a hushed voice.
“I bet that’s a rare occurrence in your world.”
“You have no idea.” He runs a hand through his hair restlessly and then takes a breath, obviously committing to what he’s about to say. “You could do what I do.”
“Random acts of sarcasm?”
He shoves me, laughing. After a moment, he sobers. “I mean you could get into whor—escorting.”
I wait a few beats. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that. It’s a nice offer but—”
“Don’t say no yet,” he says quickly. “Just let me tell you this. Do you know how much money your face could fetch?”
“That’s… incredibly creepy.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not in a serial killer sense, although don’t tempt me. I mean your face is a very valuable commodity.”
I eye him. “I’m not sure about this, but are men really going to be looking at my face when I’m bent over in the back seat of some stranger’s car?”
He looks stunned. “How do you think I get my clients? A street corner?”
“Well, yes,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “Mostly while they’re looking for directions.”
“Are you thinking of Pretty Woman?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s my only cultural reference for prostitution.”
“That’s a terrible film.”
“You don’t like Pretty Woman? Are you dead in your soul?”
“It’s a very unrealistic portrayal. And that happy ever after was just catering to society’s sugary expectations of life and relationships. If they were being true to life, she’d have probably ended up dead in a ditch with a needle in her arm, and he’d have married someone who only had sex once in a blue moon.”
“Thank you so much, sunshine.” I pause. “So, you don’t stand on a street corner, then?”
“No, I fucking don’t. That would be hell on my back and my posture.”
“So, what do you do? This is fascinating. Here I was thinking you were just a pompous twat with nice hair, and it turns out that you have all these deep, dark secrets.”
“Thank you. I do have nice hair. I suppose it’s hardly surprising that you focus on that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he says innocently as I attempt to smooth down my untidy hair. “I get my client introductions through a bloke I know.”
“Ooh! Is that your pimp?”
He grimaces. “No. Fucking hell. I don’t have a pimp. He’s an…” He hesitates. “I suppose you’d call him an introducer. He has a place in Mayfair where men go. Very rich men.”
I twist to face him, pulling my feet up so I’m comfortable. This is just what I needed to take my mind off my problems. “How rich is very rich?”
“Way beyond whatever you’re imagining.”
“I don’t know. I can imagine a lot.”
“Who are you thinking?”
“Erm. Richard Branson.”
“Pah. He’s small change compared to some of the men who go there.”
I blink. “So, is it like a private club?”
He gets up, goes to the kitchen, and comes back with two bottles of water. He chucks one to me and sits back down, opening his own bottle and taking a sip. “That’s exactly what it is. These men come from all over the world to fuck beautiful young men with a clear bill of health. Young men who know how to behave impeccably in polite society and can talk knowledgeably on any desired subject.” He eyes me. “That part will take some work with you.”
“Hey,” I say indignantly, but he ignores me.
“The owner of the club is a facilitator who introduces boys like me to these incredibly wealthy men.”
“And then what happens?”
His mouth twists. “Well, Wes, then the two men kiss, fall in love, and hold hands for eternity.”
“I feel like you’re taking the piss.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
This whole thing is like a TV drama, and I’m so intrigued. “So do you all shag in a room somewhere like the back area of a club?”
“Good god, no. What part of rich and discreet did you not get? There are rooms upstairs at the club where we take the men. We perform, and if we’re lucky, the men decide to take us on.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “They keep us. We get a flat and an allowance. Plus, they pay for clothes and all the bills.”
“And does this introducer take a cut of your money?”
“No. The men take care of his fee. We keep our own money.”
Realisation dawns as I look around the expensive flat. “Is that what’s happened with you?”
“Yeah. I’ve been with my gentleman for a year, which is a fairly long time.”
“What’s he like?”
He immediately looks cautious. “Let’s call him Mister X. I can’t give you too many details.”
“Of course not. But is Mister X good to you?”
For the first time, he looks discomposed. “Good?”
“Yeah. Does he treat you nicely?”
He considers that. “He pays my bills and for this flat. I have accounts with numerous designer shops and an unlimited budget.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I frown. “Is he nice to you?”
He laughs. “Darling, one should never expect that.”
“Yes, you should,” I say firmly. “You should always be treated with kindness.”
A frown wrinkles his forehead. “Maybe you aren’t made for this sort of life after all. You don’t have to do it. You can stay here for as long as I’ve got the place.”
The thought of having a bed for a few days makes me feel weak with relief, but I can’t cause trouble in his life just because mine has imploded. That’s not fair. “Just like that?”
“Of course. I like you, Wes. I don’t want to see you get into any more trouble.”
“Thank you,” I say, touched. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Please don’t. Gratitude is incredibly tedious,” he says haughtily, but he can’t help the flush of pleasure on his cheeks.
“I’ll pay you rent.” I pause, and my financial situation slams back into my head like a car crash in slow motion. “Shit. I can’t actually do that.”
He waves a careless hand. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t need the money.”
“But will your bloke mind me being here?”
“He’s not my bloke. He’s my client.”
“Well, won’t your client be pissed off that you’ve moved another man into a place he pays for?”
“I’ll explain that you’re a friend, and he’ll be okay with it.”
I stare at him. “Am I?”
This seems to discombobulate him for a second, but then he shrugs. “Maybe.”
“I think yes,” I say boldly.
He arches an eyebrow. “You don’t know me very well.”
“That’s probably a prerequisite to get over your personality.” He pinches me, and I flinch, laughing. “Does it matter if I don’t know you? You helped me. That makes you my friend, and I want you to know I would do the same for you if you need it.” I look around. “I really don’t want to upset your situation, though. If Mister X is going to mind, I’ll clear out.”
“There’s no need, and it’s ending anyway. He’s moving to New York, so our arrangement will end next week.”
“Will you miss him?” I ask impulsively.
“Well, I’ll certainly miss his wallet.”
I used to think Julian was such a snob. In truth, he intimidated me with his expensive clothes and posh accent. So while being polite, I kept my distance. I’m regretting that now. I’m beginning to see his snootiness is his way of covering his emotions, and there’s something so endearing about that.
I wonder if it’s possible to fuck someone for an entire year and not develop feelings. “Will you have to get out of here when Mister X goes to America?”
“No. He’s paid the lease for another six months.”
“That’s very generous of him. It can’t be cheap.”
“Darling, I’m not cheap.” He shrugs. “It gives me a bit of wiggle room, but I’ll be going back to Jack’s soon to pick up another client. I don’t like not having someone on the hook.”
“Jack’s? Is that the…” I hesitate, searching for the word.
“Jack of Clubs is the name of the business.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Were you going to say brothel?”
I sag. “I’m sorry. I think my vocabulary is rooted in my mum’s old historical romances.”
He eyes me consideringly. “So, what do you think? Do you fancy it? I’ve got to go back to the club to pick up a new client next week, so you’d have company on your first night if you want to do it.”
I swallow hard. “So soon?”
“I don’t like to be without an arrangement. There’s an introduction evening on Friday, so it’s perfect timing for me.”
“Introduction weekend? That sounds like my first week at uni.”
“Think less alcohol and vomiting. I heard all about you on fresher’s week.”
“Reports of that were wildly overexaggerated.”
“An introduction evening is exactly what it sounds like. The members come to the club and choose the boys they want. The details of the arrangements between clients and escorts are sorted out on the night. It’s all very civilised.”
I hesitate. My heart is racing, and my brain feels chaotic. And no matter how hard I try to distract myself, I’m constantly thinking about those credit cards that Tyler took out. “Would I really earn a lot of money?”
“Your first time with a client? You’re looking at twenty to thirty grand. However, it’s your first time with anyone in this game, so you’re looking at a lot more. I’d say maybe fifty grand.”
I’ve just taken a sip of water and promptly spit it over him.
“What the fuck?” he squeaks, jumping off the sofa and patting his jeans.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to say that much money.”
He looks up from where he’s fussing over his clothes. His eyes are very blue. “You won’t make that much again, not after your first time at the club. But with your face and body, you’ll make close to that.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m really not. I don’t joke about this,” he says very seriously. “You can expect to pull in extremely good money.” He hesitates. “Are you really thinking about doing it?”
Am I? I consider my empty bank account and the credit cards that, if I don’t pay, will affect my credit score until I’m dead and probably beyond that. Fifty grand would clear the cards and allow me to pay some of the tuition fees for my master’s.
I get up and walk to the window. Down below, the paths are busy with people. The river glints in the sunshine, and in the distance, the roofs and towers of London crowd the skyline. All those people out there, and yet at this moment, I’m alone with my problems. No one can help me. I have to do this myself.
I think of the money and what I’ll have to do to get it. Would it be so bad? Prostitution is probably not considered a great career move by most people, but where else could I get that kind of money so quickly? I need to stay at university. It’s my dream that I’ve put so many years of hard work into. With everything that’s happened in the past two days, my dream feels like the only thing I have left.
Sex isn’t something I shy away from. I shag strangers for free on most weekends, and choosing someone in a private, exclusive club, where members are fully vetted, might be safer than what goes on in the clubs my friends from uni frequent. And if someone is paying to get off, would it be that much different? Just like that, I realise I’ve already made my decision.
“I think I’ll do it,” I say, turning towards Julian.
He considers me for a moment and then gestures. “Come along.”
“Where?”
“My room. I want to show you something.”
“Well, that’s never been said before.”
“I would advise that if you do this, you bury your sense of humour somewhere deep and dark and hope it never sees the light.”
I snort and follow him, looking around curiously when we enter the room. It’s big and airy, with windows that look down on the river.
I gesture at the huge sleigh bed. “So that’s where the magic happens.”
“The magic of commercial transactions, yes.”
“Oh, be still my heart.”
I start to laugh, and his mouth twitches. Then he pulls me toward a huge mirror that takes up most of one wall. I notice that it’s angled for a direct view of the bed.
“Look,” he commands.
Obeying, I stare into the mirror. My hair is messy, my expression pinched with the worry I can’t put away for even a second, and my lips drawn thin. “Admittedly, I’ve looked better.”
“Hush,” he orders. He stands behind me and holds my shoulders. “Shall I tell you what those men will see?” I nod slowly. “They will see blond, wavy hair that makes you look like a surfer. For some godforsaken reason, businessmen really go for the laidback surfer look. Some days I’ve been convinced that rather than waxing my genitals and brushing up on current affairs, I should just turn up with a surfboard, call everyone dude, and wax lyrical about A-Frames.” I laugh, and his eyes twinkle. “The men will notice you have a beautiful face with high, sharp cheekbones, pouty lips, and a pretty nose. Smile,” he orders, and I hasten to obey. He grimaces. “Well, usually you have a very pretty smile, but not even a gargoyle would have been proud of that. Do it again and put your back into it this time.”
I snort and attempt another smile, and this time he nods approvingly. “It pulls out a little dimple to the right of your mouth, which gives you a naughty look, and that’s very appealing to men. Stand up straight.” I do as I’m told, and he walks around me. “Hmm,” he says, thoughtfully tapping his finger on his teeth. “You’re tall but not too tall. That’s good.”
“This is like being a cow at market.”
“Let’s just hope they want your milk, Daisy. You have broad shoulders, but you’re slim, which will appeal to men who’ll want to look after you. You look athletic but not appallingly hearty. Do you have all your own teeth?”
“Who else’s am I meant to have? Rachel Reeves?”
He ignores me. “Any dental implants?”
“No. Are they actually going to check?” I demand as he pushes his face near mine.
He steps back, still frowning in thought. “With a little attention, your appearance will be acceptable.”
“What sort of attention?” I ask warily.
“Maybe a bit of self-tan, although you seem to have naturally golden skin. Then a trim to your hair so you look a little less like a Hobbit, eyebrow shaping, a manicure, a pedicure, and waxing.”
“All that this year?”
He ignores me. “You will look okay in clothes.”
“What do you mean? I’m already wearing clothes. Don’t I look good now?” I say indignantly.
He gives me a pitying look. “It’s probably best not to mention the monstrously awful athletic wear you seem to favour. I’ll get my tailor to come round. You’ll need a suit.”
“Will I?”
“Did you really think you’d go to the type of event I just talked about and wear your Levi’s and those old Adidas trainers?”
Panic stirs. “But I can’t afford anything new.”
He waves a careless hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll use my card, and Mister X will pick up the bill.”
“You can’t do that,” I say, scandalised.
“Of course I can.”
“What if he finds out?”
“The tailor is my contact. I’ve used him for years. He’ll keep his mouth shut, and Mister X will think I’ve just bought another suit. Besides, I’ll need a new one too, if I’m attending the event.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
He studies me for a long moment and then winks. “That’s my business. Okay, strip.”
“Sorry?”
“I hope you’re better at taking orders than this.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Maybe we’d better say you’re a little touched in the attic. Some men like that.”
“Why have I got to strip?”
“I need to see if there are any potential problems.”
I blanch. “I can assure you that there aren’t,” I squeak.
“Do hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”
“Is this your bedside manner in operation?” I shake my head and strip off my clothes, my skin pebbling in the air conditioning.
I cup my hands over my groin, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh, for god’s sake. It’s like stripping a nun.”
“Have you done a lot of that?”
“Release the cock.” I sigh and let my hands fall away as he nods in approval. “Lovely. I’d guess it’s seven inches when erect, yes?”
