by S. L. Finlay
"What do you mean, 'just got here two days ago'?" She asked, "usually I get girls later than that, that's strange."
"Why do you get them later?" I asked before going on to ask about what she'd said before the comment about how long I had been here, "what do you mean benefactor too? Like a sponsor or something?"
I was confused by what Emilie was telling me, but she didn't seem thrown by that. I assumed that she likely confused a whole lot of people with her unique business.
"We usually get girls later," She began, "Because it takes them a while to need us, I don't know why the estate agent referred you so early. He must have seen some potential in you."
"Okay..." I began, "Why did I need to be referred? I am confused here, I am sorry."
Emilie took a deep breath and stood up. She paced her office slowly, deliberately, like a cat who knew he owned the place and could do as he pleased to the mouse who just wondered in off the street.
"This business straddles the legal lines in France, so people need to be referred. You can't advertise something like this. I know your estate agent and know that his English isn't very good, so he probably didn't know how to tell you what he was referring you for. I am not surprised." Emilie said, her tone was sharp.
I shifted in my seat, feeling a little uncomfortable, "He didn't tell me anything." I told Emilie, "he just took me here when he was showing me places to live."
"We offer more than places to live though." She told me, "What we do, is we get girls, such as yourself, and we introduce them to wealthy men who can look after them. That way you can have the life you want in Paris without the financial stress." She told me.
It was starting to dawn on me what Emilie was saying so I asked in the most polite way I could muster, "So, this is like, escorting?" I was trying not to cringe away from the thought. I was happy helping families improve their children's English, but I wasn't sure how comfortable I would be having some older man look after me in exchange - for what?
Emilie was in a hurry to assail my fears, "No, it's not escorting. Escorting is prostitution. What we do is broker relationships. Mutually beneficial arrangements that help girls like you." She took a breath then went on with a spiel she must have used a thousand times, "we are discreet, so I cannot tell you who but we have brokered arrangements between some of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, international models and artists and men of means. Sometimes these relationships are sexual, but often they are not. That is the business of the people within them and I cannot tell you what to do by law so you know I won't interfere with your relationship."
I nodded slightly, taking in what this woman was saying. I felt anxious but tried to keep my breathing steady. "Okay." I agreed.
"I know one man who you would be perfect for." Emilie told me gently, "he is a bit younger than most of the men who come in here, but he is looking for a woman who is your body type, and who speaks English so they can teach him." She told me.
"Is he?" I asked, thinking this could be no different than the children I could teach English to, only, this guy might want sex. Something I wouldn't have to worry about in other expat jobs.
As if Emilie could read my mind she told me, "I am not supposed to know this, but he did tell me he isn't interested in sex with his charge. He just wants to look after her and for her to wear nice clothes for him, maybe go to the odd work event with him. That's it."
"So, no sex?" I asked, feeling a little unsure that this could be true, it sounded almost too good to be true. Someone who didn't want to have sex with me, but just be seen with me out in public in exchange for money.
"Yes, exactly. No sex." She told me. I tried to stop my mouth from falling agape.
"Well, that's good news." I said. I felt a little odd about all of this still, it had come way out of left field and I wouldn't have gone looking for it, so I asked, "could I maybe have a day or two to think about this?"
Emilie shook her head, "no, if you take a day or two to think this over, he'll be gone. Did you know how many skinny girls who speak English there are in Paris?"
I shook my head dumbly, "I'd never thought about it."
"Well, there are a lot." Said Emilie. "If you go today, I won't put you forward, I have a few others who really want this. Two models, an engineering student and three English girls. No-one speaks English like the English."
I nodded slightly, "okay then. So, what do I do? Is it like a job interview or something?"
Emilie smiled before telling me, "It's nothing like a job interview. I'll coach you."
"Coach me?" I asked.
"To do well, to land the man." She told me as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Oh. Okay." I agreed tentatively.
Emilie was out of her chair and headed for the door. She opened it and told me, "come with me then."
And like an idiot, I followed her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Training commenced immediately. Although I initially felt reservations about this, as I wasn't sure if it was too close to prostitution, the assurances of Emilie that no-one wanted sex from me made me feel better.
My training was similar to an old-fashioned finishing school. I was taught to stand straight and walk elegantly. I was taught how to sit and what conversation topics were okay and which were best to stay away from. I even learned which fork is which when you're eating at a fancy place where they have a special fork for all occasions and the table is set that way, with a heap of forks for you to choose from.
The training was done by other women at the agency and Emilie came in at the end of my week-long training to tell me she thought I was doing very well. Then she sat me down and told me what my back story would be. I was to be a Southern Belle who had come to Paris to learn French, nothing else. Apparently I wasn't to talk about how I expected to earn money, like it was assumed I already had a load of cash back at my holiday rental and was only looking for a rich benefactor for fun. As if anyone would really believe this story.
This whole concept bored me. Of course I was looking for a rich benefactor because I didn't have a whole lot of money, but Emilie kept telling me (as did everyone else at the agency) that this wasn't about me, this was about my benefactor and what he wanted.
Emilie also told me quietly that this benefactor she was putting me forward to, he was a man of fantasy. He didn't want to know about the realities of life as a poor person, because he lived such a rich life and didn't have to deal with them. He had his stresses though having so much responsibility, but those stresses were ones that I was there to help him with. I was there to provide him with a relief from stress, to make him laugh and make him feel special.
"That is what makes us different from prostitutes." She told me bluntly, "They sell sex and we sell attention. The right man lives for the attention."
I nodded as she told me this and smiled a little. I could do that. I could sell attention.
When I left the office on that final day, I was told by the receptionist where I was to have my first interview with my potential benefactor. She gave me an envelope with details inside and a check.
"What's this for?" I asked, alarmed by how much was on the check as I held it up.
The receptionist shook her head slightly and motioned for me to put it away. "It's payment for attending the first interview. We ask you to bank it after the interview with your potential benefactor and also to call the office Monday to let us know how you went."
"Okay." I told her as I put the check away and headed for the door, bidding her goodbye in the graceful way which I had been learning.
This was an odd world I had entered where you received four figures just to attend what was essentially a job interview, but I wasn't going to complain. I was in Paris for new experiences and to see a place I had never imagined.
My new job was one I could never have imagined from my small town, I thought to myself as I walked out of the office and down the sadly dilapidated imposing stair case. I was on the street before I thought to open the enve
lope and see what else was inside.
The envelope held a piece of paper with meeting details - where, when, what to wear. There was a suggestion to go to a Paris boutique and tell them I was referred by the agency and the benefactor was by number as each benefactor has a number and the boutique would provide me with whatever style of clothes the benefactor had indicated preference for - the envelope also held some information on the benefactor including his job and how much he was worth. There was a photo of the benefactor as well.
As I gazed down at the photo, I wondered why the benefactor needed to resort to this process to find an interested girl. I was sure, by looking at him, that he would have a flock of women throwing themselves at him on a regular basis.
He was a good looking guy with dark hair and deep blue eyes. In the head shot he was wearing a suit (I guessed he wore plenty of suits in his line of work) and had a straight, pearly-white smile. He was attractive alright.
I put the photograph away and looked at the address of the boutique. I would be having my interview tomorrow night at one of Paris's more expensive restaurants. Even though I had only been here for just over a week, I knew it. The place was famous. If I went to the shop now, I would be able to get the outfit and they might even be able to take it in to ensure it fit me properly.
Emilie was right when she said I had a figure like a boy. I was straight up and down with very little hip and even less in the way of boobs. I blamed this on my upbringing in the country side, but it was more than that. I also had a super-fast metabolism most women would kill for.
Apparently this was why I was selected for this particular benefactor, so I wasn't going to complain to anyone at the agency about it but the truth was I didn't love the way my body looked. I hoped the benefactor would be happy with the way I looked, as I got the impression it was very important when it came to keeping a benefactor - as well as everything else, from fitting in at a ball to a formal dining setting.
I made my way over to the boutique which was only a short walk from the office. The day was clear with no rain so I decided a walk was better than catching a cab or the underground metro. Both would take more time to board than it would take me to walk.
When I reached my destination, I walked inside and was immediately met by a French shop assistant eager to help. This didn't always happen in French stores, but when it did you knew the store was an expensive one.
I tried my French on the woman. I had picked up a bit more of French since arriving in Paris, but sadly, I didn't have enough French to explain what I wanted. For that I would ask if the women spoke English which was met by a short "oui." And a nod.
"Good." I said before pulling the envelope out of my handbag where I had stashed it. "I am here with the agency and they told me I should look for an outfit for the first meeting with this man." I handed the assistant the paper with the benefactors details - including his number assigned by the agency.
The assistant nodded slightly, looking at the paper before heading over to the computer behind the register.
She put the details into the computer while I waited and nodded again at the computer, not looking up at me the whole time until she finally did telling me, "We can help you."
I smiled and waited as the assistant hurried around the store, picking up different pieces of clothing.
As I waited, she motioned towards the back of the store, "Go back there. To change."
I nodded and walked in the direction she had pointed and found a small cubical to change in. I took off my clothes and put them on a hook, leaving my white cotton panties and bra on. I felt so Plane Jane in this dressing room wearing cotton where even the curtains were satin.
Where most stores I had been in at home - and over here - were sparsely decorated dressing rooms where you would at most get a hook or two for your clothes and maybe a chair to sit on, this one was fitted out with a wardrobe, a leather couch and a beautiful mirror which had the same trimmings as the wardrobe. All of this inside a space that was bigger than my studio apartment. I couldn't imagine how much clothes here must cost. The agency had said that if I bought clothes from here, I was to put them on the account and they would pick up the bill. If I hadn't come here, I would have to buy whatever I chose to wear and there's a chance I would buy the wrong thing and ruin the whole interview by not adhering to what the benefactor wanted in a girl.
Now that I was doing this, I was determined to do it right. I wasn't going to play second fiddle to some model or university student. I was going to win the contest. I had grown up in a house with bigger brothers and sometimes did have to compete with them - my brothers who were bigger and stronger than me - to get what I wanted. I wasn't accustomed to loosing.
The assistant walked right into the stall without knocking causing me to try and cover up. When she saw this she giggled, "don't worry, I have seen it all!" She told me before helping me into some clothes.
All of the clothes she had me try were similar to clothes I might have worn as a child, only now they were full sized garments for adult women in much more expensive materials than those you would see on a child.
There was overalls which appeared like denim but when you got close they were something else. I couldn't quite identify the material but it was lighter than denim, less stiff and moved differently. They could be teamed with a leotard and there were plenty of leotards with different patterns.
There was also little pink dresses that went up to the mid-thigh and were satin and frilled out with petticoats. These had bows all over them.
Then there was a mid-thigh sailor outfit that I thought looked super cute but still wasn't what I was looking for.
I hadn't been expecting the clothes to be so child-like but the man was rich so I guessed he could be as eccentric as he liked. That was fine, only, I needed to fit in in an expensive restaurant and none of these were cutting it.
"I need something a little more, sedate." I told the shop assistant who looked a little unsure of my requirement. Perhaps it was the language barrier, I thought as I found another way to express myself, "something that I can wear to a restaurant without people, you know. Looking at me funny."
"Aha!" Said the girl who put everything she was holding in the wardrobe before rushing out the door and leaving me in my sailor suit. As I looked at myself in the mirror I wondered if perhaps I could still buy this. Not only was it cute, but the material was so soft on my skin that it felt almost as if it wasn't there at all.
Clothes that made you feel naked, now that was something special!
The woman reappeared after a while with a few more pieces in her hands. She had a short black dress which had bows at the bottom hem, some Mary Jane shoes and a blue coat cut to look good over a dress which I could wear over the ensemble. I tried it all on and thought this was a good compromise. I still looked as girly as the benefactor seemed to want while also being able to walk into a restaurant without raising eyebrows.
The shop assistant fussed around me, trying to work out how to give me more hips and more boobs in the outfit when I shook my head, "No, it's fine like this." I didn't want her to make my body look different because then the benefactor wouldn't be seeing the skinny rake he apparently admired.
The dress needed some modifications around the bust to bring it in to my size, aside from that, it was a good fit for me. When I looked at myself in the mirror I actually felt pretty.
I took the dress off and waited while the modifications where made in a cafe next door. Before I was finished my coffee, the dress, the coat and the shoes were all delivered to me by the assistant. I thanked her and she smiled.
Finishing my coffee, I stepped outside into the Parisian rush hour as everyone rushed home from work to metro stations and I walked the short walk to my studio where I would unwrap my new clothes and try them on in the privacy of my own home.
I looked cute, I realized as I smiled to myself. I would be surprised if this transformation they had underwent this week with the polishing of my manners an
d the dressing me in beautiful clothes wouldn't have an effect on this man.
I has as much of a chance of catching him as any one of these girls, I felt sure. Now, it was time to put that feeling to the test.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The evening of my first interview with the benefactor was nerve-wracking for me. While I was getting ready, I was pacing around the room. I couldn't sit still, I couldn't relax. All I could do was pace and fight back the butterflies in my tummy.
I would pace a little, then put my dress on. Then pace some more, then put my make up on while tapping my foot under the table where I had all my make-up supplies spread. The make-up was new, as it was one of the things I had given Jackson back to return when my parents had taken me Pre-Paris shopping. I was glad that I hadn't taken the make-up they had bought me here, I couldn't imagine using something my parents had gifted me when I was about to do something like this.
Eventually, with plenty of fidgeting and wriggling, I was ready. Eventually, Everything was set out and I was ready to go forth and do what I had to do. I imagined myself taking a deep breath before I dove into the pool and felt the cool water on my skin.
But then, it wasn't all ready at the same time. I wasn't really ready to dive head first into this pool, no matter what I told myself, I felt like no matter what I did to prepare, I could never really be prepared for a meeting like this. This was so far outside my comfort zone and I had been stretching my comfort zone since I got here. I felt funny, faint. I felt like I couldn't really recognize myself through all the changes I was going through.
Who was I? Small town Lindsay would never agree to go out on a date for money. Small town Lindsay was so used to not having money or dates that this was just, odd.
I told myself to stop thinking about it, because whenever I did I would freak out. Whenever I thought about what I was doing with my life, I would feel immediately uncomfortable. I would want to stop doing everything immediately. I would want to just stop, to just pack my bag and go home.
