At Your Beck & Call

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “I hardly know them!” she shot back. “It’s only my fifth meeting.”

  “That’s a bullshit reason. You looked like you wanted the ground to open up when I walked in.”

  “I … I was taken by surprise, that’s all.”

  I didn’t even bother to reply, taking out my frustration on the car door, yanking it open for her.

  She sank into the seat without a word, and I slammed the door shut.

  She still refused to look at me, so I pulled out my phone, quickly canceling our lunch reservation.

  Her eyes flicked across as I ended the call.

  “Oddly enough, I’ve lost my appetite,” I spat out.

  My driving was angry—accelerating too fast and braking too hard. I was glad to see her hanging onto the door handle. I realized I was being a dick when I nearly rear-ended a slower moving car in front of us.

  I eased off the gas and fought to get my temper under control. It wasn’t easy around Laura—I felt off balance all the damn time.

  At her house, I didn’t get out of the car, but sat clutching the steering wheel with the engine idling, waiting for her to leave.

  Except she didn’t.

  “Are you quite finished?” she snapped.

  “No, I intend to go home and smash the shit out of something.”

  “Very adult, Hallen.”

  “Well, it’s about the level of maturity you expect, isn’t it?”

  “You completely humiliated me!” she shouted.

  I gripped the steering wheel even tighter, because I was afraid I’d do something I’d regret.

  “No, Laura,” I said, between clenched teeth. “You did that to yourself.”

  She pushed open the car door and slammed it behind her.

  I watched her march into the house. She didn’t once turn to look at me.

  My cue to leave.

  I drove home, forcing myself to drive slowly, the thin veneer of control in danger of cracking. I knew I could have handled it better, but it hurt that she was ashamed of me. I’d been with enough women where I was nothing more than their dirty little secret. I didn’t want—couldn’t handle—that from Laura.

  Back home, I stripped off my clothes and pulled on a pair of running shorts, heading for the beach. It was either that or diving into a bottle of tequila. Plenty of time to do that later.

  The pounding run fit the insistent rhythm in my brain. I wanted to blank out everything. Most of all, I wanted to stop fucking feeling.

  The choices in front of me seemed bleak. Laura couldn’t handle how I’d lived before I met her, that much was clear. She couldn’t handle the difference in our ages. I could understand the first reason, but not the second. Either way, she had to want to be with me. Not just be with me when we were alone—but to have me in her life.

  She’d made it clear she didn’t want that. Picking her up from her damn book club had ‘humiliated’ her apparently. Well, fuck that.

  My chest thumped painfully and I didn’t know if it was from the running or giving up on my dream.

  So what now? If I ever met someone, should I tell them the truth? Or should I live in fear of them finding out instead? Maybe the best choice was to be alone. I sure as hell couldn’t face going back to escort work. Besides, I had my painting. I wasn’t going to be limited by this.

  But it was a lonely feeling.

  Exhausted and miserable, having concluded that I’d be living rest of my life alone, I made my way back to the house. I didn’t know how to feel when I saw Eloise’s car parked out front. Too many emotions rushed through me—surprise wasn’t one of them.

  “Did Laura send you?”

  She sighed theatrically. “‘Send’ is such a definite sort of verb, don’t you think?”

  “I’m not in the mood, Ellie.”

  “Clearly,” she snapped. “Now, go and shower—I’m taking you out to lunch. And before you say anything, ‘no’ is not an acceptable answer.”

  “You’re going to be disappointed, because that’s all I’ve got.”

  “I hope you’re not going to sulk over a little misunderstanding, Hallen.”

  That’s when I lost it.

  “There was no misunderstanding! None! She was ashamed to be seen with me! I don’t need that anymore. Not from her—not from anyone.”

  Eloise seemed taken aback.

  “You know, Ellie, for a smart woman you really don’t see things clearly sometimes.”

  “Meaning?”

  The words ripped out of me.

  “Not everyone sees escort work the way you do. You’ve always talked about it like it was a crusade for women’s rights or something—if you can afford to pay for a quality fuck, why the hell not? Yeah, equality, women’s rights, yadda yadda yadda. Maybe that’s what it’s like for you. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that you’re a pioneer, but the truth is that I’m a whore and you’re a pimp. I’ve been spat on, slapped, punched, whipped, laughed at, jeered at, patronized, pissed on and ignored. I’ve done some degrading shit that makes me sick to my stomach to remember. I’ve been a commodity and passed around and yeah, I made a lot of goddamn money because clients like the packaging, and I fuck any woman who pays for it. You think that doesn’t have a price? You think it doesn’t fucking slay me when someone I actually like for a change is ashamed to be seen with me?”

  I was panting again, but not from the run.

  “Darling boy,” Eloise whispered.

  Then she wrapped her arms around me, hugging me tightly, not caring that I was sweaty and barechested, and a complete fucking wreck.

  And I let her.

  I let her hold me, and I couldn’t help thinking it felt so much like having a mother.

  We stood there for several minutes, oblivious to the curious stares of passers-by.

  Finally, Eloise released me, patted my shoulder and opened the house door with her spare key.

  “Go and shower—we’ll talk later.”

  Drained and feeling oddly emotionless, I dragged myself upstairs.

  It had been a relief to say all those things—to lance the festering boil. I knew it was hypocritical to level any blame at Eloise, but it was there, eating away at me. Maybe now it was in the open, it had a chance to heal.

  Reluctant to face another scene, I finally wandered into the living room. The thick aroma of French-style coffee drifted toward me. I wondered what it would taste like with tequila.

  “Feeling better?” Eloise enquired, kindly.

  “Yeah, sure,” I shrugged.

  I sat on the armchair, my elbows resting on my knees, only looking up when Eloise passed me a coffee cup.

  “How much has Laura told you about Jack?” she began.

  I shook my head tiredly. “Not much. I get the impression that he was pretty controlling.”

  Eloise nodded.

  “Yes, that’s one way of putting it. Given the chance, he’s a domineering man. It was rare for Laura to stand up to him. I think the only time she did was when she asked for a divorce. She put up with a lot over the years, his philandering, for one thing.”

  “So when he knocked up his secretary, that wasn’t the first time he’d had an affair?”

  “Far from it. And I should know—I was his mistress, too, many years ago.”

  I blinked, wondering if I’d heard correctly.

  “But you and Laura are friends!”

  “We are now. You could say we have a lot in common,” Eloise smiled, mischievously.

  Then she waved a hand, dismissing the subject.

  “The point is, he spent years making her look pathetic and ridiculous. Abuse doesn’t always have to be physical. He chipped away at her self esteem for years.”

  I could feel myself tensing up as she described some of the things the asshole had done to Laura. His favorite game seemed to have been putting her down in front of their friends and his colleagues.

  “Laura told me about her petite crise at the book club,” Eloise continued. “She didn’t mean to hurt y
ou.”

  I looked away, my expression scornful.

  “But you’re wrong about her, Hallen. About her reasons, I mean. It wasn’t about your former lovers, or clients, or whatever you choose to call them.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true. Of course, she’s a woman, so she is jealous of all others who have enjoyed your favors—but she no longer believes that you’re simply telling her what she wants to hear. She accepts that what you are creating together is real.”

  “Then why? She couldn’t even look at me, Ellie? She was ashamed to be seen with me!”

  She sighed dramatically.

  “You are too beautiful for her, Hallen. Your youth and looks make her feel undeserving.”

  “That is such bullshit! She’s fucking gorgeous! Any man would want her.”

  “I didn’t say her reasoning was rational,” tutted Eloise. “She sees the way other women look at you, and she feels threatened by it. Remember, Jack belittled her at every opportunity; flirted with women in front of her on many occasions. She’s trying, but it’s easier to believe the voice of uncertainty that we all have whispering in our ear. She believes other women are asking themselves what on earth someone like you could see in someone like her. And I must say, Hallen, I’m curious about that, too.”

  Irritated, I scrubbed my hands over my face.

  “She knows I love her, Ellie. I’ve told her enough times.”

  “Have you?” she asked, sharply. “Because Laura is under the impression that this is simply an interlude for you.”

  “What? No! I love her!”

  “And you’ve told her that?”

  “Yes, of course!”

  But as I thought back, I wasn’t so sure. I’d shown it, tried to show it in everything that I’d said and done, but no, I couldn’t ever remember saying the words. God damn it!

  Eloise saw the conflict on my face.

  “Hallen, dear heart! Love alone is not enough!”

  “Then what the fuck is? Seriously—what am I supposed to do?”

  “You haven’t answered the question: why did you fall for Laura? You have known more beautiful women, younger women. Why Laura?”

  “Because!”

  “That is not an answer!”

  I growled with frustration.

  “Because she sees me. She cares about what I think, she cares that I have an opinion. She inspires me—to paint, to live, to be a better man, a whole man. We laugh a lot and when we’re together, I don’t feel alone anymore.” I glared at her. “And I don’t give a fuck that she’s older than me—I’ll love her at any age!”

  “What do you want, Hallen? You’ve been at everyone else’s beck and call for years—what do you want?”

  “I want a relationship that lasts longer than a night and isn’t billed by the hour!”

  “You have experienced sex, Hallen, not relationships—ones of mutual regard—until now. It’s about true intimacy, not orgasms.”

  Eloise smiled, but I shook my head, still hurt and angry.

  “What I want doesn’t mean anything if she doesn’t want to be with me—I won’t hide myself away for her.”

  “Nor should you, Hallen. She knows this. She knows she made a mistake, but she is trying.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I jeered. “That’s why she sent you instead of coming here herself.”

  Eloise swore softly in French, something that sounded a lot like, ‘C’est des conneries!’ That’s bullshit.

  She fixed me with a glare.

  “Hallen! Accept that she’s sorry. Accept she made an error of judgment. God knows, we’ve all done that at one time. Now get in your car and go to her.”

  Her angry glare softened.

  “Dear heart, you are family to me, and Laura is a good friend. Do not let this end something that is good for both of you. There is already too much sadness in the world.”

  Eloise was right. Life could be nasty, brutish and short.

  As I pulled into Laura’s driveway half an hour later, she was waiting for me. Her eyes were bloodshot and her expression pained.

  “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you—to make you feel like that. I know it’s stupid. I know it is. But I can’t help feeling so deeply inadequate when people see us together. I imagine that they’re comparing us—and laughing.”

  “Nobody’s laughing, I promise.”

  She forced a shaky smile as I pulled her into my arms.

  “If the text messages from my book clubbers are anything to go by,” she murmured into my chest, “it’s more like jealousy. You’re invited next week, by the way.”

  She laughed shakily.

  “Maybe not, but can I pick you up after?”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “Yes, you can.”

  That was all I needed to hear.

  “Take me to bed, Hallen,” she whispered, her voice burning. “I promise we’ll talk later … but for now … please … make love to me.”

  Rough. Urgent. Taking. Giving. Blaming. Forgiving. Hands. Voices. Tongues. Lips. Fingers. Flesh. Biting. Licking. Touching. Tasting. Sucking. Kissing. Kissing. Breathing. Writhing. Pleasure. Pleasure. Pain. Punish. Feeling. Tears. Eyes. Eyelids. Fluttering. Closing. Faster. Faster. Building. Rushing. Pushing. Craving. Needing. Release. Lights. Burning. Slowing. Sighing. Lips. Eyes. Words. Kissing. Kissing. Touching. Hope.

  We lay together, sated, the sweat from our bodies mingling with the scent of sex. Her skin was flushed, her eyes softened and luminous.

  “Your lips are swollen,” she murmured, resting her hand on my stomach as she gazed up at me. “Too many kisses.”

  “No such thing.”

  “And your eyes are the color of the ocean after a storm when that first ray of sun hits the water.” She looked up at me. “Can you see that in your head?”

  “Yes.”

  “What sound can you hear? What does blue sound like?”

  “A flute. The lowest note a flute can make.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Weird, huh?”

  “Yes, you’re a total freak,” she laughed.

  “Oh, yeah?” I smiled, kissing her lips to stillness. “As long as it’s a freak between the sheets.”

  “You already know that!”

  I grinned and lay back, my hands under my head.

  “You can be such a guy!” she huffed.

  “Well, yeah!”

  “I was being all poetic, and you have to go and bring out a score card!”

  She laughed as she shook her head and sat up, straddling my hips so she could look down at me.

  Her hair hung in sweaty clumps around her face, and her mascara was smeared, raccoon-like. But her smile matched her eyes, glowing and alive. She’d never looked more beautiful to me.

  “So I was wondering…”

  “Oh yes?” she said, cocking her eyebrow at me.

  “My buddy Carl is getting married next week. It’s going to be grim, because his fiancée hates me, and my ex-girlfriend will be there with her new husband, and they both hate me, too…”

  “I’m seeing a pattern,” she deadpanned. “Does your friend like you?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Just mostly?”

  “He’s a lousy pool player,” I shrugged. “He hates me when he loses to me—and at golf.”

  “Hmm.”

  “So…”

  “So?”

  “Will you come as my date?”

  “Hallen, your sales skills leave something to be desired…”

  I leaned up on my elbows and took her nipple in my mouth.”

  “On the other hand…” she breathed out, “I think it sounds like fun.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide.

  “How are my sales skills now?”

  “Unbeatable.”

  “Thought so.”

  She pretended to frown at me, but ended up leaning down to kiss me hard.

  Then she sat back
and smiled as my hands massaged her hips. Something had changed in her: there was a new certainty and confidence that hadn’t been there before. Maybe a new belief in us—I wasn’t sure.

  “When did you change your mind about me?” I asked, curious. “I mean, that first night, I kind of put it out there that I was available, but you weren’t interested.”

  “Oh, I was interested all right!” she laughed. “Just too terrified to do anything about it. You were so beautiful with these amazing cheekbones and intense blue eyes, and I was afraid I’d look like week-old meatloaf next to you. I had this image in my head of raddled old hag out of a Hogarth painting lusting after this impossibly lovely youth.”

  I couldn’t help laughing, which probably didn’t help.

  “That’s how I felt!” she scowled.

  “Yeah, well I thought you were hot.”

  “Be serious!”

  “I am! I was disappointed when you didn’t want to make me your call guy.”

  She seemed a little shocked which made me think it was probably too soon to make jokes like that. If ever. Laura looked like she wanted to argue with me, but instead changed the subject.

  Carl’s bachelor party was billed as ‘the party to end all parties’. Bearing in mind he was marrying Tessa, I thought that was probably true—for him at least.

  The whole thing had been planned like a military operation, which was so unlike Carl, I wondered who had done it. I soon found out.

  Some dick named Darren sent me an itinerary that started with going to the Santa Anita racetrack—along with a breakdown of how much money to bring for bets, and a dress code for lunch at the Turf Club, with a note that ‘excessive drinking is not recommended at this fine establishment’. This was a bachelor party, for fuck’s sake!

  Apparently we were allowed to drink at the next venue, Hemingway’s Lounge, where we could enjoy the ‘literary ambience and specialty craft drinks’, with the advice, “Remember, gentleman, as the great man said, ‘always do sober what you said you’d do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut’.”

  I wish someone had told Darren to keep his mouth shut.

  Then he’d written, “Ssh! Don’t tell the ladies, but after that we’ll be sampling the sexy and exotic experience of Jumbo’s Clown Room: the girls are hot, the bikinis are small, and we can buy our boy a ride at his last rodeo.”