At Your Beck & Call

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “Close your eyes,” she whispered, a tease in her voice.

  I wondered if it was a booty call to get her in the mood for later, but she surprised me by pushing something into my hands.

  I opened my eyes to see a small, square box with Bvlgari embossed in gold on the lid.

  “Open it,” she commanded.

  Resting on a bed of yellow satin was a pair of solid gold cufflinks, engraved with the letter H.

  “Happy birthday,” she said, pressing a sweet kiss onto my cheek. “Only one day late.”

  I was stunned. Beyond stunned.

  I’d been given presents by clients before but this was something new. It was … I fished around for a word that fit. It was thoughtful.

  I knew the cost meant nothing to her, and she’d probably hadn’t chosen the design personally, but still ... she’d remembered.

  She pulled my hands toward her and removed the gold plate and onyx cufflinks that I’d been wearing, pushing the new ones through the buttonholes at my wrists.

  “There,” she said. “Now you’re officially perfect.”

  I gave a quiet chuckle. “I’m far from that. But thank you, Emma.”

  “My pleasure,” she smiled. “Or rather, it will be later.”

  She took my arm and we headed out.

  Have you ever wondered what money smells like? I mean real money. Not just a lot of money, but vats of money, swimming pools of money, whole oceans of money. It smells of sweat and sex, wrapped in silk.

  That’s the scent that filled my lungs walking into the Casino de Monte Carlo.

  The building was bathed in bright yellow lights, turning the white stucco into a shimmering facade. A marble fountain seemed to pour molten gold into the piscina at its base.

  And the women. My God, the women. Birds of Paradise in gowns of every color, shade, texture and tone. You noticed the dresses first—the faces above were all the same—rich, privileged, aware.

  “By the way, Emma, what’s it for?”

  “What?”

  “The fundraiser. Which charity is it for?”

  “Christ! I don’t know!” she said, distracted by a blonde woman in skyscraper Laboutins. “Whales or tuna or goldfish or something! Who cares?”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  At the door, we were greeted by a well dressed staff member who knew both our names, and handed us each a €50,000 casino chip.

  Fifty-thousand Euros! Sixty-five thousand dollars!

  Emma smiled, watching with vulpine amusement as I tried to cover up my astonished reaction.

  “Enjoy!” she said, stroking my ass. “If you’re a good boy, there’ll be more where that came from.”

  It must have been obvious who and what I was. I wouldn’t say I was oblivious to the barely hidden contempt from those who saw us together, but I’d learned to ignore it. The burn was a little less.

  As we strolled into the belly of the pleasure palace, I realized that Eloise had been right. I suddenly needed to be confident in the correct way to address a Prince of Bavaria, a British Baroness, a Viscount from the Netherlands, and a Swedish Friherre, who was in paroxysms of delight listening to my clumsy execution of her language. I hadn’t expected that fighting my way through Henning Mankell in the original would be useful on this gig.

  The raddled old Friherre tucked her arm through mine and dragged me away to the roulette table. Emma gave the tiniest of nods, a gesture of acknowledgement that agreed a billionaire divorcée was of a lower social rank than an ancient if impoverished European of minor nobility.

  “Kära söta pojke!” she said. Dear sweet boy. “How long have you been in Monaco?”

  “Just a few days, Your Ladyship.”

  She nodded as a roaming waiter offered us each a glass of champagne.

  “And what do you think of our fair city?”

  “Very beautiful, Your Ladyship.”

  “Ah, but it is beauty and the beast, my dear. Like you and I, it seems!” she chuckled, brushing her fingers down my cheek.

  I started to shake my head, but she rested a quavering hand on my chest.

  “No, no, my dear. Do not deny it merely to stroke my ego.”

  I gave her a real smile and quoted something Eloise was fond of saying: “Wrinkles show where smiles have been.”

  She laughed delightedly.

  “Yes, indeed! That is true. And the afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.”

  Then she sighed theatrically.

  “If only I were a decade or two younger. Never mind, my dear, I will play the fond aunt while I stare discreetly at your ass.”

  I choked on my champagne as she smiled wickedly.

  At the roulette wheel she gambled recklessly, giddy with abandon. She had a smile and a word for everyone, provided they abided by the intricate etiquette of knowing their place. I knew mine.

  But she was good company, too, telling me scandalous stories of royalty from a dozen different countries, and she embodied the spirit of joie de vivre. I caught glimpses of Emma laughing and talking to other people. She seemed happy to leave me with Baroness von Buxhoeveden, who insisted I call her ‘Moster Margit’, Aunt Margaret. Now and then I felt Margit’s hand on my butt or my thigh, and once I had to stop her trying to check out my package. She was shameless and I kind of loved her for it. She smiled up at me, her teeth as yellow as a horse, her hair a wisp of baby down. Her glittering tiara wouldn’t have been out of place in a Winterhalter portrait.

  “Dear boy, you must place a bet,” she insisted, waving toward the roulette wheel. “Red for you. It is the color of love, after all—hot and jealous and passionate. Yes, you must bet.”

  I was reluctant, feeling the hard disc of the €50,000 chip in my pants pocket. I couldn’t stand the thought of throwing away so much money, but she was adamant.

  The dealer changed it into €5,000 chips, and with the eyes of the other players on me, I placed a single bet on red.

  It felt like playing with Monopoly money. I didn’t even know if I’d be expected to hand the chips back to Emma at the end of the night.

  But then the ball landed on 19 red. I’d bet one-to-one even money—and had just won €5,000.

  Margit shrieked with delight and immediately put her own chip on red.

  We won again, and she hugged me happily.

  “You are my lucky charm, dear boy!” she said.

  After an hour of winning and losing that left me €15,000 ahead, Margit admitted she was tired and I helped her to a chair in the dining room, where I filled a plate with small delicacies for her. I was hungry, too, and about to sit beside her to eat when Emma reappeared, a familiar expression of anger darkening her face.

  Margit patted my knee sympathetically.

  “We all have to make our way in the world, my dear boy. Tonight has been such fun. Think of me sometimes.”

  I kissed her hand, promising that I would.

  Emma grabbed my arm, forcing a porcelain smile across her face.

  “My bastard ex-husband is here,” she snarled. “We agreed he wouldn’t come tonight!”

  She towed me toward the main room. I wasn’t quite sure what my role was meant to be—I hoped she didn’t want me to punch the guy because, frankly, I thought he deserved a freakin’ medal after being married to her for 15 years.

  But the moment we were in public view, she fastened her hands at the back of my neck and pulled my face toward hers, pressing her lips against mine, and pushing her tongue into my mouth.

  So that was my role: ardent lover.

  I could feel her body change the moment I kissed her back, the hard tension of anger softening and heating into something more malleable.

  Eventually, she dropped her hands to my shoulders and shoved me away, her face pink and her eyes bright with lust.

  Over my shoulder I could see a man watching us with weary contempt. His gray hair was swept back from his head, his mouth sharp and small, his eyes glittering with fierce intelligence.

  He wa
lked toward us, his gaze dismissing me.

  “Bonsoir, Emma. You seem to be enjoying yourself tonight. Please introduce me to your friend.”

  His lip curled as he laid the faintest emphasis on the word ‘friend’.

  I glared back at him, earning his amusement immediately.

  Emma didn’t miss a beat.

  “Mathieu! I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” she simpered. “I don’t think you’ve met Hallen.”

  “It is indeed hard to be certain,” he smiled, coldly. “They are all alike—beautiful young men under the age of 25. The next few years will be educational, and I await with great interest the day your lovers are younger than our sons.”

  Her eyes hardened and snapped with rage.

  “You’re a pig!”

  He shrugged with typical French indifference, sauntering away.

  Emma followed him with her eyes and I couldn’t help thinking that there was the smallest hint of disappointment in them. But then she grabbed my arm and dragged me away, out to the lush gardens at the back, cursing and muttering under her breath. The lights from the opera house opposite blazed brightly, the tall palms throwing long shadows across the luxuriant flower beds. Hidden behind the thick, glossy leaves of a carob tree, her back pressed into the bark, I fucked the fury out of her.

  Satiated, we sank to the cool grass.

  “He’s a bastard,” she said, quietly.

  I didn’t answer.

  “He is,” she insisted. “You don’t know how it feels. You don’t know what it’s like—to never be good enough, never living up to his holier-than-thou high standards. He always lets me know I’m second class.”

  I didn’t reply, because I did know how it felt.

  The rest of the week followed the same pattern. We fucked all night, I slept till lunchtime, and then I’d have a few, brief hours to go ashore or take a swim. One afternoon, some of Emma’s cronies came aboard for cocktails and gossip. I was admired, petted, and passed around like a new toy.

  By the end of the week, I was sick of rich food and rich people and couldn’t wait to get on a plane home.

  Emma had no intention of getting up early to say goodbye, so on our last night, as we sat in the Jacuzzi watching the first rays of sunrise ripple over the sea, she kissed me with easy familiarity.

  “It’s been a great week, Hallen. You’re very good,” she sighed, smudges of mascara ringing her eyes as she rubbed them tiredly. “Maybe we could do this again some time.”

  I kissed the top of her hair.

  “That would be a dream come true.”

  She laughed deeply, and used my shoulder as a prop to lever herself out of the water.

  “I’ll call your agent,” she said, covering her mouth with a yawn.

  Those were her last words to me.

  I sat there for a while longer, contemplating finishing the flat champagne that she’d left behind. In the end, weary in body and spirit, I slunk back to my room and set the alarm on my cell phone for 7AM, just two hours away.

  When the insistent belling tone jarred me awake. I cursed tiredly, showered quickly and ate greedily from the breakfast tray that had been left outside my door. I wondered if Abby had put it there. She’d avoided me all week and I hadn’t seen Mel either. I suspected that Silvi, with her consummate Teutonic efficiency, might have kept them both away.

  Arnaud, the launch boat pilot, was waiting for me when I left my cabin for the last time. But just as I was about to step off the yacht, Abby came hurrying toward me.

  “Hallen!” she called.

  I turned, giving her a small smile.

  She didn’t return it, staring at me with hurt and distress in her eyes.

  “I just wanted to know,” she whispered.

  “Know what?”

  “What it’s like to kiss you.”

  It felt like it had been a long time since I’d kissed a woman because I wanted to.

  I ran my fingers down her cheek and her eyelids fluttered. I closed the distance between us, moving against her stiff body, wrapping my arms around her waist. She rested her head on my shoulder and I kissed her hair.

  Suddenly, she raised her chin and pulled my mouth to hers, kissing me hard. Her lips were dry, and she tasted of peaches, as if she’d just dabbed gloss onto them. Her kiss was sloppy and inexperienced, but all the sweeter for it, and I felt myself getting caught up in the moment. Because that’s all it was—a moment.

  She broke away from me, her eyes sad and full of questions.

  “Perhaps I could look you up if I’m ever in LA?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  We both knew she wouldn’t.

  I never could stand to look at my sketches of Monaco after that. In fact, I stopped drawing altogether.

  I saw Emma once more.

  That winter she requested me for a week of skiing and fucking at her chalet in Klosters—Switzerland’s premier winter resort. None of the crew from the Emma Dee was there.

  She passed my name to several of her friends, but after one particular experience, I declined any further contact. Let’s just say that her friends tended to be the rougher end of the market.

  I later heard that she married a ski instructor but divorced him six months later.

  If Emma was fire, Sophie was ice.

  She was British, an icy blonde, a princess who knew what she wanted. She was my second foreign assignment.

  It was a pretty cool gig and came about by way of one of those Hollywood parties that everyone wants to be invited to, but few ever are. You know, movie stars, rock stars—real Hollywood royalty. Definitely no wannabes or hanger-ons. So why was a nobody like me there? Well, when the crazy-famous and crazy-wealthy really party, there are no holds barred. I wasn’t the only escort working, and I know for a fact that some of the most beautiful women there were in my line of business.

  Champagne and coke were the new Highballs. It might have been a eighties invention, but it was still on-message to dip your martini glass in coke, then fill it with Krug Brut. Two rushes with one mouthful. The ones wanting speedballs were more discreet. No one minded if you were seen snorting coke, but shooting up was frowned on; probably because it was desecrating the body beautiful. Yeah, right.

  Sophie Kellan was 26 and the younger sister of Karen K, a successful Britpop singer who was trying to break into the US charts. A rising B-list star. Nice tits. When I say ‘little’, it was only in the sense of being younger, because she had an impressive rack, too.

  Like I said, I was working when I first met Sophie, but I was bored out of my brain. I’d been temporarily cut loose by my date for the evening because she was furthering her career by blowing some big shot producer in the bathroom.

  I’d already chugged the best part of a bottle of Dom Perignon, ignoring all Eloise’s rules about staying sober, just for something to do. When I started feeling fuzzy around the edges, I was tempted by the good quality coke that was going around, but was wary of losing control again. I was trying to save money, too—I didn’t want it disappearing up my nose if I had to start paying for it myself. Most of Eloise’s escorts used occasionally—but regular testing made sure it stayed occasional. She had her reputation to consider.

  Sophie was bored, too, but had come along for the ride, for the rush. It didn’t take her long to figure out that I wasn’t someone who could further her sister’s career; that made her relax, and her perpetually wary look eased for a while.

  I hadn’t planned on telling her who or what I was because that was a big no-no when I was out with a date. Eloise would have had my balls if she’d thought I was touting for business. She said it made both of us look cheap.

  But Sophie was smart and figured it out for herself. She’d been watching, and seen me get hit on by guys as well as gals, and blow them all off. I looked bored and pissed, which was why she’d come over to talk to me.

  “So, you’re an escort?” she said, raising her professionally shaped eyebrows.

  I took in her cool blu
e-gray eyes and quietly amused expression. The accent was a real turn on, too. Since meeting Abby in Monaco, I kind of had a thing for British women. They sounded sexy and classy all at the same time.

  So I smiled back at her, checking out her long legs, before giving her my best panty-dropping grin.

  “That’s what my business card says.”

  She laughed. “A business card, really? I’d like to see that.”

  I smiled, and passed her Eloise’s details. She studied the card closely for several seconds, and her eyes narrowed in thought. Then she looked up, assessing me coolly as she slipped the card into her tiny clutch purse.

  “How did you get into this business?” she asked, hesitating slightly on the word ‘business’ as she flicked long blonde hair over her shoulders.

  I couldn’t tell if she was lining herself up to be a client or was just curious. It could go either way; women were always curious. I don’t know, maybe they thought they could save me or something.

  “Why escort work?”

  “I can’t sing,” I replied.

  She snorted loudly.

  “Like that means anything in the biz. Half the ‘star’ acts in this room are practically tone deaf. Even during a live show a good sound tech is a like a wizard,” she shrugged. “But you’re right in one respect, talent isn’t enough.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t talented,” I replied, trying to crack her out of the cool, emotionless mask she was wearing.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep.”

  “So what are you good at, Hallen?”

  “Painting.”

  She blinked. Definitely not the answer she was expecting.

  “Pardon?”

  “And hockey. Ice hockey,” I clarified, not sure whether she’d know the difference.

  She smiled coldly.

  “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  I leaned back in my chair.

  “Not especially.”

  She pursed her lips.

  “So why are you by yourself tonight?”

  “I’m not. My client is … networking. She’ll be back sooner or later.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll have to go.”

  “Can I ask you something?” she said, her voice more serious now.