Escort

by Harper Fox

  I’d turned him down on the help. I’d had a feeling that, whatever I found behind the frosted-glass doors, it would be messy, and I didn’t mean Sabrina. Sure enough, as soon as I found my way into the lobby, the lift doors pinged open and Melchior shot out at a dead run. His hair was in his eyes, his shirt untucked. More alarmingly, there were bloody handprints on the cotton. “Christ almighty, Melchior,” I said, intercepting him, trying not to fall over backwards and bash my head on a marble planter. “Where is she?”

  He couldn’t speak. He managed to point backwards to the lift. After a moment I caught on. “You are kidding me. Tell me you’ve called an ambulance.”

  “Yes... But they’re not...”

  “What? Not coming?”

  “Not here. George!”

  I detached his grip on my jacket, put him aside and ran. To my horror, the lift doors pinged again and began to close. I got there just in time, wedged my shoulder against the jamb and hit the emergency stop. And there in the corner was Sabrina, huddled and panting, about to try and deliver her baby through designer maternity sweatpants, already soaked with blood and broken waters. She too grabbed me: twisted her fists into my lapels and bellowed my name for half London to hear. “All right,” I said, rocking her. “Got you. I think your baby’s coming right now.”

  “No!”

  “So we’ve got to get these things off you, sweetheart—the trousers and your undies. Or mini-Mel’s gonna feel like Andy Murray served him into the net.”

  A gurgling laugh escaped her, morphing into a shriek as her next contraction hit. “George, no! Where were you? Why did you stop coming round?”

  “Because you and Melchior were moving in here, for God’s sake. Starting your own lives. I wasn’t gonna hang around for that.”

  “Yeah, but Mel’s no good at life.” She grunted, arched her back, and stared poor Melchior straight in the face as he peered around the edge of the door into the lift. “The doorman lets anyone in anytime. The decorators cheat us. You’d have sorted it all out, George. You’d have...”

  She faded out. Her eyes became distant. I’d only seen the look once before, but you don’t forget. “Melchior,” I said. “Come here and hold her.”

  “Where? How?”

  “Her head and shoulders, in your lap. Right now.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Look after the other end. You’re about to be a dad.”

  I was distantly aware of a siren, of slamming doors and big professional feet on marble steps. By then I’d skinned Sabrina out of enough of her clothes, and a wet, scrunched-up little red face was emerging into my hands. Sabrina gave a yell of despair and triumph mixed, and the shoulders emerged, and then all the rest of it—umbilical, perfect tiny backside, legs and toes, and I managed to keep the slimy thing from hitting the carpet. “There you are,” I said unsteadily, and lifted the squirming body into Sabrina’s arms.

  For all her shock, she took it from me as if suddenly nothing else in the world was real or could possibly matter. Abruptly the lift was full of competent uniformed bodies. The baby began to squall, and I edged back and half-fell out into the lobby, where Melchior grabbed me. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. You’ve got a little boy.”

  “A boy?” He stared at me, and I wondered if he was going to ask me a boy what, as if he’d been expecting an antelope or a giraffe. “George. Don’t go.”

  “I have to. I’m presenting a seminar in...” I glanced at my watch. “Shit. An hour’s time.”

  “But you were so good in there. You knew what to do. You...” He swallowed hard. “You delivered the baby.”

  “Your baby. Look, Melchior, culture shock is one thing. Gay all your life and now you’ve got to go cut your son’s umbilical... I get it. But Sabrina needs you, not me.” I snagged the silk handkerchief out of his top pocket and wiped my hands, then tugged my jacket closed. If I ran for the Tube now, I might just get back to the hotel in time to put on a shirt not daubed with amniotic goop. “Oh, and you’ll want to get the carpet cleaned in there.”

  “Oh. How do I...”

  “For God’s sake. Don’t hire the company over the road—they’ll rob you blind. Brown’s in Chelsea is good. Andrew uses them for his show homes.” I pulled their card from my wallet, gave it to Melchior along with his borrowed hanky. “Congratulations, okay? Get in there and get on with it. Good luck.”

  ***

  I could’ve stayed in the hotel for the third night of the conference. An elaborate breakfast marked the final morning, but it was social, strictly no shop-talk. If there was one thing I didn’t need right now, it was more people. My loneliness had been cured as if by a lightning bolt: I’d been force-plugged back into the mains of life. Poor mini-Mel, born in a lift shaft! Still, by the looks of Sabrina, he’d have no further problems from now on, and God help Melchior if he didn’t step up.

  The four walls of my room were unbearable for a different reason now. I didn’t want to lie, tucked up and blameless, where the night before I’d been tumbled, pinned and made to see colours I didn’t even have words for in the grip of orgasm. Then, I didn’t want to crash straight back onto Andrew and my sister-in-law, not when I’d said I’d be gone for three nights.

  There was a sofa-bed in a back room at the office. That would do, but I could see now that things had to change. Time to stop treating the proceeds from the sale of the Hampstead house like a nest egg. We’d been heavily mortgaged of course, but still there was enough for a down-payment somewhere, a place of my own. I tried and failed to imagine what it would look like, George’s flat, where my long-suffering brother and his family could come to visit me, and where—no doubt, someday—I’d ask a new boyfriend back, and that kind of life would start for me again. The money in my bank was a treasure half London was crying out for: the privilege of being able to secure for myself a home.

  I’d better start acting privileged. I gathered up my things. I wanted my beautiful flowers, so I tucked their cut ends into a plastic bag to take with me. I didn’t stop to sniff at my crumpled shirt in the hope of catching a trace of Silver’s scent. Didn’t allow myself to take longer over packing than I needed, or listen for a tap at the door. Reaching under the bed, I pulled out my bag.

  There was something inside. I dropped my armful of shirts and trousers on the carpet, knelt and took it out. A palm-sized velvet pouch, heavy for its size... Silver must’ve mixed up our holdalls, though how he’d managed that I didn’t know. Mine was plain, his a vintage beauty in fragrant soft leather with brass trims. A folded piece of hotel notepad was sticking out from the top of the pouch. Carefully I withdrew it, fingertips damping with sweat. Look after this for me, George. I bet I’ll beat you next time. And here’s my private number—the one on the card is just for the agency. Best, Sil.

  ***

  “So, wait. He gave you this?”

  I’d set out the board and pieces on my desk in Andrew’s office. Beside them I’d placed a vase, resplendent with chrysanthemums. Andrew, who didn’t know a bishop from a bulldog but still could appreciate a beautiful thing, was sitting opposite me, eyes wide. “I’m not sure,” I said. “He asked me to look after it for him in the note, that’s all.”

  “Don’t tell me he brought you the flowers too.”

  “I thought he must’ve had a tip-off from you about those.”

  “He did ask what you liked. All I could think of offhand was... chrysanthemums.”

  “Boy. I really do need to get out more. Yeah, though, he brought them. Champagne too. He’s, er... He’s a decent bloke.”

  Andrew picked up the dark-horn knight and examined it before raising a mischievous gaze to me. “A decent bloke, George? Is that all?”

  No point in stalling or trying to put him off. I’d spent an uncomfortable night in the back office, but this was a bright new day. I drew a deep breath. “Actually, he was fantastic. He was the best birthday present I’ve ever had, including that Raleigh Chopper bike when I was ten.�
�

  “Whoa. You loved that bike.”

  “I know. So thank you very, very much, okay? I had an amazing night, and he gave me a ride back to Knightsbridge when Melchior phoned to say Sabrina was having her baby in the lift.” His mouth dropped open, and I held up a silencing hand. “He didn’t help her deliver—I did that, as it happens—but I know he’d have stayed with me if I’d asked. So I feel different today, Drew. I feel like it’s time for me to look around and find somewhere to live, so I’ll take a long lunch, if that’s all right, and I’ll work late. Also, I’m going for a jog.”

  Half a dozen expressions tried to chase across Drew’s face at once. I sat back and gave him time, wondering what had astonished him most—my escort’s off-duty kindness, or the lift-shaft baby. Eventually his mouth closed. He pursed his lips for a moment, then said in utter amazement, “You’re going for a jog?”

  “Well, I’ve bunged some weight on, haven’t I?”

  He frowned. He’d never liked Melchior’s insistence that everyone around him should be svelte and fashionable. “Did Silver say that to you?”

  “No. He made me feel like a million bucks, and I’d like to keep feeling that way, that’s all.” I stretched, a morning’s worth of desk work already cramping my muscles and weighing me down. “I’ll go now, if you’ve got a gap between clients.”

  “Er... sure. Have you got running things?”

  “Not at the moment. Thought I’d pop into Selfridges and treat myself.”

  “Selfridges, eh? Third-floor temple to athleisure-wear?”

  “To what?”

  “Never mind. Just go for it.” He waited, staring into the middle distance. I could always tell when he was processing. He let me get as far as the door, then pushed back his chair and spun it round to face me. “Hang on. Sabrina’s had her baby?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you helped deliver it?”

  “Him. A baby boy. He’s, um... he’s beautiful.”

  Andrew held my gaze for a long moment—long enough, somehow, to encompass twenty years of silence. Then he pulled an incredulous face. “In the lift?”

  “I know. My worst moment was when someone pressed the button to call it on one of the floors above. I thought we were gonna lose her, baby and all.”

  “Bloody hell. And the most exciting thing I did in all that time was argue with William Rowley.”

  “The DigiRev boss? Is something wrong?”

  “He’s trying to renege on part of the community resettlement figure we agreed. I mean, it’s voluntary—I can’t force the bastard to help out with costs for all the people we’re gonna uproot, can I? But it greases the wheels, and he knows that.” Andrew shook his head. “Never mind. Go look for somewhere to live, and when you find it, you can jog around the block. Hey, is that Silver’s card?”

  I’d left it by my keyboard on the desk. His picture wasn’t on it, but there was something very him about the colours and silky finish. Stupidly, I’d wanted to keep it to myself. Too late now. “Yes. What about it?”

  “I think I’ll pass this to Jamie in surveying. Someone like Silver might be just the job.”

  “Whoa, Drew. That’s a volatile situation, with Jamie’s other half.”

  “Not anymore. They’ve split up, so Jamie’s as free as you are, Georgie-boy. And you’re looking good on it, if I might say so. Now get out of here and go spread your wings.”

  Chapter Five

  The trouble with men like George Fenchurch was that they had no idea of their charm. Best of British, thought Silver, making his way down Blandford Mews. Been in an ordinary job all their lives, so they think they’re ordinary too. Some of them were soldiers, as Silver had been, of a kind. Faithful to the last, even when the war was over, the marriage dissolved and the ex shacked up with a girl and new baby. Upright, quietly dressed in ill-fitting suits. Their movements small, as if they didn’t expect to be noticed. Not inclined to talk, but surprisingly eloquent—punchy and direct—when you asked.

  How had a guy like that ended up with Melchior Heath? Silver knew Heath of old, not just on account of his rising fame but because of his grandfather Heger, one of East Germany’s last great Cold War defectors, granted a new name and new life in the sixties. Sometimes old sympathies died hard, or got diverted into new streams, new theatres of conflict. Heath had turned out to be just the very foppish, temperamental musician his appearance promised, but he’d needed watching, and Silver had been set to the task.

  All a long time ago now. Heath must’ve taken time off from being a diva to find himself one good man. A pity he hadn’t known how to keep him, but Melchior’s loss...

  Silver shook himself. Might be whose gain? He stepped between somebody’s chauffeur reversing and somebody else’s nanny pulling out without a glance into the road. He liked this neighbourhood, but found it difficult to tell one sumptuous balconied terrace from the next. He shouldn’t have taken a client so soon after George. He didn’t need to. The day had gaped emptily to him, though, and he’d just finished up with an ambassador whose smooth exterior certainly belied the sadist beneath. Silver, who had rules, had had to apply them. He was still tired, his neck and jaw aching. No chance of a kip on Mr de Vries’ bony shoulder. He had a foul taste in his mouth.

  Something inside him stretched and yearned outward, seeking a freshness he’d thought lost to him forever. Finding it in a shabby trade hotel in Edgware had astounded him. But George Fenchurch wasn’t anyone’s lost boy. He was capable and compassionate, and as much as he’d growled and sworn when Melchior had called, he’d gone running. He’d survived the death of his own child.

  Silver got ready to step aside. The pavement was narrow here, and a figure was pounding down it towards him. A jogger, and a new one, too, well out of the New Year’s resolution season. His tracksuit was immaculate, rather a nice one in discreet charcoal. Silver had to bottle back a shout of laughter and recognition mixed: the man himself, as if Silver’s daydreams had summoned him.

  Then, it wasn’t all down to chance, was it? Silver hadn’t had to book a session three streets away from Fenchurch Architects. For God’s sake, he’d have gone back to Edgware last night if not for that white band on his client’s finger, the shadow of unfinished business in his mind and heart. George was oblivious, face set in a mask of furious concentration. When Silver held out an arm, he leapt aside with a long-time Londoner’s lively instinct for a mugger and pounded on.

  Or maybe being seen with a sex-worker on the streets of Edgware was a different matter to meeting him in his own back yard. This thought struck Silver like a bit of flying grit on a windshield, and he shrank back, trying to merge with the brickwork and railings. He was good at such disappearances. Never before had the process hurt.

  Ten yards further down the road, George thudded to a halt. He was a bright guy, sharp as a tack in many ways, yet the sound of the penny dropping was almost audible. He turned round. “Silver!”

  In some untouched Eden, with both of them free of their chains and the houses and streets around them vacant, they’d have run into each other’s arms. The moment lay vivid between them, a shimmer across the limos and black cabs. George was trying to smile, catch his breath and retrieve his earphones all at once. Silver found the solid-looking chaos of him utterly endearing. “Hi,” he said, as casually as he could. He strode towards him and snagged up the trailing wire. “Here. It got caught in your waistband at the back.”

  “How the hell did it do that?”

  “I don’t know. Wait, you’ve lost your iPod too.” Retrieving it from the gutter, Silver couldn’t resist a look at the screen, then wished he hadn’t. “Concerto for Cities In Flight... That’s Melchior’s, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I’m not. Listening to it, that is. He always wanted me to hear his stuff through, over and over, so I could pick up any flaws. And he’d check I was doing it, you know? So I renamed some Dire Straits in my music library and got around it that way.”

  Silver gave a snort of laught
er. This quiet, decent man had found a few jungle tracks through his marriage. “How is Melchior? And... Sabrina, isn’t it?”

  “Proud owners of an eight-pound baby boy. They’ll be fine once they find the instruction manual.” He tucked the iPod into his pocket; looked up shyly. “It’s nice to see you again, Silver. I dunno if I’m meant to say such things in daylight hours, but I loved our... the time I spent with you.”

  He was wide open. And the stupid thing was that Silver, who had effortlessly chatted his way into the hearts of dozens of men, couldn’t do anything about it. The paralysis was new to him. “Do you often run?” he asked, after an awkward heartbeat or two, sounding clumsy and lame to himself. “I haven’t seen you pounding these pavements before.”

  “No. I’m a complete newbie, and I can tell you that, as of now, it sucks.”

  “Well, jogging’s tough. Plays hell with the knees and ankles. I sometimes think people would be better off with a regular brisk walk.”

  Ruefully George glanced down at himself, at the splendid new sports gear. “Yeah, but look at me. I can’t be seen just walking in this lot. However briskly.”

  “You’re fine as you are, you know.”

  His face softened, as if this view of things hadn’t occurred to him. “I guess. I mean, I don’t want to turn into Dina Asher-Smith or anything. I just... when I was with you, I wished I’d felt a bit more trim, more comfortable in my skin.”

  “I was yours for the night. You could’ve looked like Jabba the Hutt and I’d still have had a great time with you. Nothing to do with your waistline and everything to do with the fact that you’re...”

  The look became wistful. “What?”