by Anne Brooke
Rosie by Name
By: Anne Brooke
ISBN: 978-1-927134-35-1
All rights reserved
Copyright © Apl 2011, Anne Brooke
Cover Art Copyright © Apl 2011, Brightling Spur
Bluewood Publishing Ltd
Christchurch, 8441, New Zealand
www.bluewoodpublishing.com
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Bluewood Publishing Ltd.
Special Note: This book contains UK Spellings.
Dedication:
With special thanks to all at Bluewood Publishing.
Rosie By Name
Sometimes I wondered how I'd managed to end up working for an escort agency. I mean lucky or what? Here I was, the queen bee of ‘Rosie by Name Escort Services’
and the girl everyone came to first. I liked to ensure every client left the front door with a smile on their face. Not because I was one of our professionals myself. Oh no, all our girls were very high-class and most had other careers: models, actresses, weather girls, Avon ladies and such like. Me? I was nothing special to look at but my voice was my fortune. Deep and husky with an enticing hint of honey and laughter, it soothed the strained consciences and heavy wallets of all the callers we received. I liked to tell myself that because of my voice on the end of the telephone, many young men—and several older ones who should have known better—had been given that extra little push into sampling our delights. Reception work had always been my vocation and if it wasn't the Dorchester or the Savoy, well what did it matter? I was sure our business provided just as much happiness as those places. So I was enjoying life very much, doing my job, chatting with the girls and arranging their many appointments. Sometimes, the big boss (no pun intended), Mr Marsfield, would pop by to check on our progress and his profits, and we'd all straighten our backs and hold in our stomachs until he was gone. He could be stern on occasions, although he'd never bothered me. Not, that is, until one gloomy September night when he came into the office with a rather different proposition in mind.
“You feeling on top form, young Rosie?” he asked, sweeping into reception on a tide of Pagan Man and cigar smoke.
He always called me Rosie, to fit in with the business image, although my real name was Alison.
“Yes, Mr Marsfield.” I nodded, putting an extra twist of honey into my voice as I knew it gave him a thrill. “And how are you?”
“Very well, my dear. Very well indeed.”
Whilst I took a call, he perched on the edge of my desk and hummed to himself. When I finished, I looked up at him, smiled and waited. You never rushed the boss.
“Rosie.” He leaned towards me and I could smell the crème de menthe on his breath.
“Yes, sir?”
“How would you like to do a little job for me? Something different from the usual.”
“And what would that be, Mr Marsfield?” My expression was calm, but my mind was racing. What was he going to ask of me? I hoped it wouldn't involve drugs, or hiding any items he was retaining on behalf of a friend. I had my reputation to consider and I didn't want to appear in Court.
Whilst I'd been ticking off the possibilities, Mr Marsfield had walked over to the filing cabinet and was studying his sunglasses with apparent interest.
“It's a family matter, my dear. Concerning my nephew, to be precise.”
“Nephew?” My jaw dropped. I'd never considered my boss to be a family man and watched in astonishment as his features softened.
“Yes,” he continued. “My nephew, John. Bright lad. Would you like to see a photo?”
He snapped open his wallet and I found myself gazing at a very fuzzy picture of a young man, nothing more than a boy really, though it was hard to tell anything from the artwork.
“He's always been a good boy,” his proud uncle proceeded to explain. “My favourite of all my nephews and nieces, I suppose you could say.”
He had more? The revelations were crowding the office now like stockbrokers at Christmas and, as with them, I was unsure how many I could handle.
“You see, he's the eldest and I think you always have a soft spot for the first, don't you? And now he's coming up to his eighteenth birthday, I'd like to give him a special treat. So what do you say, Rosie?”
“Good idea, sir.” I nodded, pleased to be asked my opinion on such an important matter. “What about Fatima? Or even Amazonia, if you think your nephew is up to it?
On the other hand, I always recommend Tinkerbell for the young. She's very popular and you never know when—”
“No, no, Rosie my dear, you don't understand.” Mr Marsfield held up his hand to stop my flow of ideas and gave me his oiliest smile. The one he reserved for policemen and solicitors. “John would never be able to afford such delights. He doesn't even have a proper job yet. Remember my personal motto—family comes and family goes, but profit is forever. No, my lovely young woman, I thought I could give him…” He paused for what I assumed was dramatic effect and I stared at him.
“…you. I'll make it worth your while.”
* * * *
No amount of delicate protests could change his mind and, when it came down to it, the boss was always the boss. This explained why I was standing in front of a house at Faraday Gardens at 10pm, squeezed into a skin-tight red leather dress that covered a dusting of white lacy underwear provided by the company. All this was hidden under a long black trench coat which I'd fastened as securely as I could before taking the Number 59 bus to my appointment.
I leant on the doorbell again. It was cold out here and, in my mind, the sooner I was in the sooner I was out. I'd carry out the deal, but no frills or little extras would be on offer. The extra cash wasn't that much.
“I've opened the door. You can stop ringing the bell now.”
Leaping back onto the step, I found myself staring into the puzzled eyes of a young man who had to be Mr Marsfield's nephew.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
Laughing the sexiest laugh I could produce in the night air, I said, “I think it's more a case of how I can help you.”
“I'm sorry, we're not interested in religion,” he countered, beginning to close the door. “Try the neighbours.”
The vision of Mr Marsfield's angry face flashed in front of my eyes and my foot jammed itself in the closing gap.
“No,” I said, “you don't understand. It's me, Rosie. Your uncle sent me.”
“Who? Oh…oh, I see. Cool. Yes, fantastic.” He glanced both ways as if checking out the neighbours, then grabbed me and pulled me inside the brightly-lit hallway, slamming the door shut.
Then he looked at me again and blinked. “But you're not…you're not…”
“Not what?” I said, hands on hips. “Not the one you were expecting? Not the sort who does this kind of thing? Not the woman of your dreams?”
“No. No, not that. It's just…” Still stammering, he backed away from me like a sheep faced with the butcher's knife. “I—I mean…you're lovely, of course. Just like a girl at college I know.”
“Oh thanks,” I replied. Thoughts of dumpy, dark-haired sixth-formers with greasy skin filled my head. “In a good light, some people say I look like Kate Winslet.”
“Do you? Really? I mean yes, very much. Would you like a coffee?”
“No time,” I said, unpeeling my coat and putting it into his trembling
hands.
“Don't we have better things to do before your parents get home?”
Speechless, he nodded, his eyes glued to my chest.
“Then let's get on with it, shall we?”
* * * *
He didn't argue. We hurried into his parents' bedroom, where I undressed myself. Slowly. Until all that was left was a whisper of stocking and a glimpse of lace. Oh, you could pick up some useful tips when you worked where I did. Then I unbuttoned his clothes, breathed, “Happy birthday, John” into his ear, and climbed on top of him across the vast expanse of bed.
If by then I hadn't realised he was a virgin, his way of dealing with the condom would have shouted the fact like a trader at a Saturday market. I've always thought you could tell the skill of a man in bed by the way he approached the matter of protection. John? Well, the moment I reached for his crown jewels, the poor boy shied away as if I was holding a pair of scissors in my hands rather than a small tube of translucent rubber. But once he'd got over the shock, we went at it for a few moments and I could tell he was enjoying it when…Bang! Tap, tap, tap.
“Hello-o-o, darling!” a shrill voice echoed up the stairs. “We're home early. Are you in your room?”
John groaned and I froze.
“Who's that?”
“My mother,” he whispered. “They're back.”
“What?”
“I'm s-sorry. They always go out on Thursdays. Can't imagine why they've come home. I never thought…”
The remainder of his explanations vanished as I sprang off the bed as if wasps had stung me. Racing round the room, I began to gather up stockings, camisole, suspender belt and, most important of all, the dress.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I pulled the leather over my thighs and gave a quick wiggle to ease it into position. “Getting ready to leave.”
“No! There's no time,” he panted, trying to button his shirt and zip up his flies at the same time. “They'll be up any minute. Listen, you hide in my bedroom—it's the second door on the right—and I'll try to keep them talking downstairs. Then when they go to bed, you can leave. Okay?”
“Okay. But what if—?”
But he'd gone and I could hear him clattering down the stairs like the entire Roman army off for another round of fighting. For a slightly-built lad, he was heavy on his feet.
Alone in the bedroom, I realised I had no idea where my shoes might be. I hunted over the bedspread, smoothing down the covers and straightening the sheets as I searched. No joy. They weren't under the bed either. Or on the dressing-table. I was just resigning myself to making the long journey home barefoot when I remembered
where I'd dropped them. There they were, nestling behind the bedside table and winking up at me.
I headed towards the door, just as the sound of three voices grew louder and came to a halt outside the room. It was too late. Where could I hide? Scrambling underneath the bed, I pulled the shoes in beside me as the door clicked open and three pairs of legs walked in. Well, two pairs walked in and one pair stood on the threshold, shifting from one foot to the other.
“Well, Mum, Dad, can I make you a coffee now you're back?”
“Oh, that would be lovely, dear. How very kind.” The voice was the one I'd heard earlier. “Isn't that kind of our boy, darling?”
“Sure,” a voice like gravel grunted a reply and the bed above me creaked with the weight of a large body easing itself down. “But what's he been up to then? That's what I want to know.”
“Nothing, Dad. Just thought you might like a drink, that's all.”
“Of course you did, darling. Now you go downstairs and we'll be down in a tick.”
The bedroom door closed and I wondered how long it would take before John discovered I wasn't in his room, and what he would do when he found out. Squinting into the light beyond the confines of the bed, I saw to my horror that my white lacy knickers, fresh on tonight, were tangled up in the edge of the sheets. If John's father looked down, he couldn't help but see them. The bed creaked again and something fell into my line of vision and on top of my treacherous underwear. A shirt. The moment he stooped down to pick up his laundry, everything would be discovered. How could I be so careless? Why hadn't I realised I wasn't wearing knickers?
Holding my breath, I stretched out my hand and tried to extricate the scrap of lace. John's parents were still chattering on. Maybe with a little luck the conversation would keep them busy long enough for me to claim back what was mine without being noticed. Maybe. The tips of my fingers were just touching the creamy fabric when a gnarled hand reached down and swooped up the offending material, shirt and knickers together, in its grasp.
A shriek ripped through the air and it was all I could do to stop myself joining in. Had John's mother seen my knickers? But her husband was sitting on the bed above me and had his back to her so she couldn't have done yet. Could she?
“Look, darling! Look at that. How awful!”
John's father dropped the bundle of clothing and swore loudly whilst I snatched the knickers back. At the same time, the door was flung open and John ran into the room.
“What is it, Mum? Have you seen—? I—I mean…have you f-found…?”
“Oh, it's horrible, dear. Horrible!”
What was she talking about? I wasn't that bad-looking, was I? Her son hadn't complained earlier.
“For goodness sake, stop yelling. What is it?”
“A spider, darling. A huge black one, just next to the dressing table. You'll have to get rid of it. I can't possibly sleep here with that…that monster in the room.”
“Alright, alright.” The sunken mound over me sprang back into shape as John's father got up and walked over to the direction of his wife's voice. “Where is it now?”
“When I screamed, it ran straight under the bed and you'll just have to get rid of it.”
A spider? Under the bed? Oh no, no, no. I had to get out. I didn't care what anybody thought anymore. Let them throw me to the lions, the dogs—the tax man.
Anything. Just as long as I was a thousand miles away from any eight-legged monsters.
I was just about to explode from my hiding place like a bullet from a gun when John's anxious face appeared at my eye level, one finger to his lips and barring my exit with his body.
“Don't worry, Mum,” he called out. “I'll get rid of the problem for you. No, no need to help, Dad, I can manage. You two just go downstairs and let me handle it.”
As he chatted on, I tried my best to wriggle away from him. But it was no good; his arms reached out and clutched mine.
“There! Got it,” he said. “Hey, it's huge. Do you want me to show you?”
“Urgh, no!” his mother shrieked again and I squeezed my eyes shut in sympathy.
“You sort it out, dear. Come along, darling, let's get some coffee and John can finish the job.”
There was a grunt and a groan and I wondered if John's father might want to join in the excitement instead. But a moment later the door closed behind them and their voices drifted away.
Flexing my wrists against my captor's fingers, I began to sob under my breath.
“Hush there,” he whispered. “It's okay, they've gone now.”
“N-never mind them. Just get this bloody spider out of my hair.”
* * * *
Later, when John had killed the beast, sneaked me into his room, dusted me down and even managed to bring me a large glass of sherry, I started to feel a little better.
“Sorry you never got to…you know, enjoy yourself. ” I smiled at him, shrugged and took another gulp of the golden liquid.
“Oh, but I did, thanks very much.” He grinned, the mischief in his eyes reminding me of the photograph.
“You mean you…?”
“Oh yes. Just when my parents came back.”
“Really? I see. Good, I'm pleased.” Sometimes it was amazing how much a condom could conceal from a girl.
Then I finished m
y drink. “I'd better go. I don't want to be too late back.”
“Okay, if you're sure. But will you be alright at this time of night? You don't want me to see you home and…?” Trailing off, he rubbed his hands up and down on his legs.
“No.” I laughed. “But thanks for the offer. Do you think it's safe to leave now?”
He nodded and we tiptoed downstairs, giggling quietly. At the front door, he handed me my coat, paused, glanced at me, leant forward, thought better of it and coughed.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said, his face solemn. “Perhaps I'll see you around then, Rosie?”
“Maybe. And, by the way, it's Ali…”
“Sorry?”
“Never mind.” On impulse I kissed him on the cheek. “I enjoyed it too. So goodbye and best of luck with…everything.”
With that I turned on my red stiletto heels, tap-tapped up the path and was soon well on my way to the stop for the night bus.
And all, I was sure of it, would have been well, apart from one small fact. Which came to me sideways like a lighting flash on a calm night. Because the first thing I
saw as I turned the corner wasn't the bus stop. Would that it had been. No, it was Mr Marsfield and he was puffing on a big cigar, his forehead creased.
“Mr Marsfield, hello there! I've done the deed,” I said. “And it was…”
“Rosie!”
Before I could say where's my pay rise then? he'd grabbed me by the arm and given me a good shake. Like a duster, but bigger.
“Rosie, Rosie,” he said again and gave a sigh that seemed to rise from the end of his toes to the roof of his mouth.
“What? Nothing went wrong, did it? I did a good job, you won't have any complaints. And I didn't get caught. Though I have to say it was a near thing in there for a while, you know. But I did you proud.”
My boss closed his eyes. I still couldn't work out what was wrong. When he opened them, he folded his arms, looked at me over his dark glasses, which he was still wearing even in the middle of the night, and uttered the words that shattered forever my delusions of promotion.
“Ah, but, Rosie, my dear,” he said. “That's all very well, but you went to the wrong house. ”
