The Accidental Call Girl

by Portia Da Costa

  ‘A treat? Yes, I like that. It sums up my entire philosophy, John. I’m glad we see eye to eye.’ Her voice sounded confident, worldly, assured, even to herself, but suddenly, inside, there were the strangest stirrings. Unsettling thoughts. Yearnings.

  No, don’t be daft. This is all there is. Enjoy the ride, you silly mare. There’s nothing more.

  ‘Excellent. Let’s eat, then, shall we?’ Still smiling and pleased with himself, John lifted his head a little and made the slightest gesture with his fingers and, just like in the movies, the waiter appeared at his side with menus, as if he’d been on tenterhooks, waiting for and watching the hotel’s most favoured of all guests for the tiniest bit of body language indicating his requirements.

  ‘Champagne, Bettie? Let’s be a total cliché, shall we?’ said John, quirking his eyebrows at her like another movie standard, the wicked Lothario.

  ‘Lovely! But I mustn’t drink too much if we’re supposed to be going for a walk.’

  He’d texted her earlier, suggesting more sensible shoes, rather than hooker heels, because the grounds at the Waverley were particularly green and tempting looking, and he fancied an after-lunch stroll.

  ‘Very sage. We can’t have you getting sloshed and falling over in the shrubbery, can we? I might accidentally fall on top of you, and then who knows what might happen?’ He snagged his lower lip with his white teeth for a moment, and Lizzie’s stomach quivered.

  Ooh, a bit of al fresco . . . that was what he had in mind. She’d really been hoping so.

  ‘I thought that was the whole idea, for you to fall on top of me. It’s pretty much our raison d’être here, isn’t it?’ Feeling giddy before the champers had even arrived, she kicked off her shoe and ran her toes up and down his calf.

  ‘Amongst other things.’ His smile became darker, more saturnine and, under the table, he nimbly defeated her in a clever bit of footwork, so that the toe of his leather shoe was taunting her leg instead. Slowly, he slid it upwards, amongst the net petticoats that gave her skirt its bounce, pressing against the soft skin at the inside of her knee. He left it there a moment, almost threateningly, then withdrew again, punctuating the retreat with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Lizzie opened her mouth to speak, but then the waiter scurried over, and there was the usual ritual dance over ordering food, and the Champagne. Despite her claim, her appetite was barely in existence. All she really hungered for was the man sitting opposite her, looking so cool and appetising in his smudged blue summer suit and toning shirt, with his worldly angel face and tousled blond hair.

  If he’d asked her to have sex with him across the table, right now, she probably wouldn’t have done it . . . but she’d be tempted. And the fantasy of it gripped her mind, irresistibly.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Bettie?’ he enquired once the wine was poured and they were alone again in their little cocoon of intimacy in a busy, crowded room.

  ‘Just imagining myself on my back on this table with you hammering away between my thighs.’

  John beamed. ‘Well, I’ll drink to that!’ He clinked his glass to hers.

  The Champagne was superlative, crisp yet somehow unctuous too. Lizzie was grateful for its cool, invigorating zing, and drank half a glass straight down.

  ‘Remember the shrubbery,’ John warned.

  ‘It’s OK. I can take it.’

  Table. Shrubbery. Anywhere . . . with you.

  To her surprise, he began to chat. Casual, light talk that, despite the fact she still wanted to eat him far more than the delicious meal they’d ordered, Lizzie found easy. Over the rosemary braised lamb cutlets, she was able to ask him about himself, and why he was staying at the Waverley, and she wasn’t in the least bit surprised to discover he was indeed the very plutocratic tycoon, or whatever, that she’d suspected. He had a number of acquisitions ongoing in the area, a leisure complex, a shopping centre, a couple of light, artisan industry projects that had interested him. The way he talked about it all, in a natural, enthusiastic way, completely without any trace of ego, was enthralling. It was a different world to hers, like night and day, but he gave her a glimpse of it, and the way it both drove him and fascinated him.

  In a natural pause, John seemed to study her, somehow in a completely non-sexual way, for a change.

  ‘And your friends, didn’t they fancy lunch with us, then? It would have been OK, you know . . . Well, just for lunch.’ He winked.

  ‘I asked them . . . but Shelley, well, she was tempted, but she’s the soul of discretion and she doesn’t, um, like to get in the way of things.’ This was slightly perilous ground, but hopefully she was dancing over it OK. ‘And Brent just wasn’t in the mood. It would have probably done him good, though. He’s not doing so well at the moment and he seems to be having a bad day. He . . . he lost someone last year, in a road accident, and we’re coming up to the anniversary of it. He blames himself. You know how it is . . .’

  Lizzie’s tongue seemed to freeze, as she looked at John. His face was stricken again, in another of those weird, dark moments. She flailed around for something more to say, a slick way to change the subject, but before she could try, his expression altered, smoothing out somehow, and he said, ‘What happened?’ in a soft voice that sounded genuinely interested.

  She found herself telling the story of Brent, and his lover Steven, and the smash that Brent believed he shouldn’t have survived if Steven hadn’t. From what she’d gleaned from other sources, Brent wasn’t to blame, but no amount of telling him that would convince him. All he knew was that the love of his life was dead.

  As she fizzled to a halt in her account, John reached over and lightly touched her hand. Good grief, she was supposed to be entertaining him, not telling him all this. But when she opened her mouth again to apologise, he cut her off.

  ‘It sounds like you’ve been a good friend to him, Bettie, and done all a friend possibly could.’ He looked serious. He wasn’t just trying to sway the conversation back to her and himself. ‘Perhaps he should seek professional help? I know a very good man. He’s pricey, but he does see one or two National Health patients. Or I could put in a good word . . . He’s London based, but it might be worth a trip, if Brent’s willing.’

  For a moment, intense curiosity gripped her. Had John had cause to see this good man? About his sleeping alone ‘thing’ . . . and possibly other stuff?

  He smiled. Lizzie willed him to open up to her. Go on, go on . . . tell me!

  ‘Do you want to call Brent now, and check he’s OK?’

  She shrugged, sensing the little crack of an open door being firmly closed. ‘I should have called him anyway. He’s my “safety” person.’

  ‘I thought as much. Now phone him, or your friend Shelley, and put everybody’s mind at ease. And then we can enjoy our lunch.’ He quirked his eyebrows, in that characteristic way of his. ‘And other things.’

  He was right, and with a nod, she rose from her seat and made her way back to the foyer, not wanting to inflict a phone conversation on other diners.

  ‘You all right?’ Brent said fairly brightly, on answering. Lizzie was glad to hear what sounded like motorbikes in the background. Which meant he’d perked up considerably. In the background, she heard Shelley’s voice too. Is it her? Is it her?

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just worried about you.’

  ‘Don’t fret, love. I’m OK. I just felt a bit rough this morning but I’m fine now. I’m sorry if I was a git. We’re all watching last weeks MotoGP on catch-up, even Mulder. The “thing” Shelley made for lunch was barely edible, so I’m afraid I ate that special Chinese dinner for one of yours out of the freezer.’ There was a squawk of protest in the background, Shelley defending her culinary arts.

  ‘I was saving that.’

  ‘I’ll get you another. Now, you, get back to your hot guy. All OK with him? Not too freaky? You are safe, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course. We’re having lunch. He’s a bit frisky but I think he’s a good guy, really. So do
n’t worry.’

  ‘You’re playing a risky game, Lizzie. You should tell him.’

  ‘I will . . . I will . . . soon. Now, put Shelley on.’

  ‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ demanded Shelley. ‘Any acts of desperate passion yet? And more to the point, has he rumbled you?’

  ‘Nothing much. No. And, no. We’re having a really delicious lunch, and we might go for a walk afterwards.’

  Lizzie could almost hear Shelley’s frustration. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound much like Belle de Jour. Sounds more like Sunday lunch with my Auntie Mae. I’m very disappointed in you. You’re letting the side down. I thought you’d be banging him by now.’

  ‘It’s a busy dining room full of people, you dolt! John might be fond of call girls, but he behaves like a perfect gentleman and is a pillar of society in public.’

  There was some tittering then about John’s ‘pillar’, and after tasking Shelley with making sure Brent stayed cheerful, and assuring her friend that she was perfectly safe and would tell all later, Lizzie rang off. Brent’s low mood still worried her, but at least Shelley seemed to have things under control and it sounded as they were having fun back at the house.

  Which left her ready to really engage with John Smith.

  ‘Everything OK?’ He rose to his feet again as she arrived at the table.

  ‘Yes, everyone’s fine. They’re watching MotoGP with our cat and scoffing my food. Situation normal.’ She slid into her seat, watching John as she did so. Was he still concerned? ‘And now I suggest you and I stop being so “normal”! Discussing the problems of someone you don’t know from Adam isn’t really why you’re here, is it? It’s certainly not what you’re paying for.’

  John smiled and took a sip of his Champagne. ‘Well, I’m not such a sex-crazed monster that I can’t feel for other people’s difficulties. But, yes, if all’s well at home, I’d love to return to the business in hand.’ He licked a drop of the wine from his lower lip. Good God, surely he knew how provocative that looked? ‘And perhaps revisit our conversation this morning?’

  ‘Oh that . . . What do you want to know? I told you everything at the time.’ She picked at a little of her food, her appetite still languid. ‘What I’m amazed at is you . . . not . . . well, concluding.’ She glanced around. Everyone appeared to be concerned with their own dining companions and their own food and wine, but you never knew if some sly character might also be earwigging. ‘That was weird, John, and I’m a bit insulted that you wouldn’t do it for me.’

  ‘Would you like me to do it now?’ Blue eyes blazing, he beamed at her, laid down his fork and made as if to slide his hand beneath the table.

  ‘No!’ He was incorrigible. She half believed he might do it.

  ‘What’s the matter? Are you scared someone will know what I’m doing?’ His hand was still hidden. ‘Perhaps that’s what I’m paying you for . . . to bear witness? To watch me? It doesn’t always have to be you that’s doing things, Bettie.’

  Her eyes wide, she stared at him. At his face. At his arm and shoulder. After a moment, he half closed his eyes, the gorgeous fans of his lashes sweeping down, and he let out a little sigh.

  Good God . . .

  But then he withdrew his hand, took up his knife and fork and casually started eating. ‘I had you there, didn’t I? You really thought I was going to do it, didn’t you?’

  Lizzie let out her breath. She’d been holding it, she realised. ‘Well, yes, I did half wonder if you might. I hope you’ll beg my pardon for saying it, but I think you’re just a little bit crazy, John Smith.’

  ‘I’ve been called worse,’ he said amiably, pausing to take a sip of water. ‘And if you really, really wanted me to do it, I would.’

  Lizzie set her cutlery neatly on her plate. She couldn’t eat any more, lovely as it was. This beautiful, slightly mad man had stolen her appetite. The only thing she felt hungry for was him. ‘Perhaps in a more private setting it would be nice. I’d actually prefer to see you at it. You’ve got such a splendid appendage.’

  He grinned, wicked lights in his eyes. ‘Well, if you won’t watch me, the least you can do is let me watch you. It’s easier for girls . . . with their skirts.’

  Heat sluiced through her veins. It was crazy . . . risky . . . mad. But she wanted to do it. Not just for the devilment, but because suddenly she was wickedly aroused. Desire knotted in her belly, plaguing her with that slow, heavy tug on her clitoris. Her heart was beating wildly, and her clit seemed to beat along with it in a silent siren song, calling to her fingers.

  Mouth suddenly furiously dry, she took a sip of water. John’s eyes bored into her soul.

  ‘Oh, go on . . . Nobody will see.’ He leant in closer. ‘We’ve got the most secluded table, and the cloth is long enough to cover a multitude of sins.’ He did his wicked thing with his tongue, gliding over his lip. ‘I bet you wouldn’t be the first one to do it here, not by a long shot. This place is the very den of iniquity. Dear God, you should see the in-house porn they have on the TV in the rooms.’

  ‘Really?’ Momentarily distracted, Lizzie wondered. Given what Brent had told her about the Waverley, anything was possible.

  ‘Really. Now . . . are you going to oblige me, you gorgeous woman?’

  Taking a deep breath, Lizzie let her hand drop to her lap, in what she hoped looked like an innocuous gesture. Then she reached down, as if looking for her bag or something she might have dropped on the floor, and as she did so, she adjusted the fall of the tablecloth so it spread in more concealing fullness over her thighs.

  As John idly toyed with a floret of broccoli with his fork, his eyes flitted to hers, watching, monitoring, she began bunching her skirt and her petticoats up and up, working her way through the fullness of layers. It would have been easy with a simple, light summer frock and no slip, but the way she dressed was the way she dressed, and she would have to manage somehow.

  Soon she found her stocking top, then her suspender, and naked skin. Wiggling her fingers, while at the same time trying to project a motionless calm, she inveigled her forefinger and middle finger beneath the elastic in the leg of her panties, and touched her bush.

  ‘Everything all right, my dear?’ John enquired archly, then turned towards the waiter who’d suddenly appeared from nowhere, to take their plates.

  Sweat popped out on Lizzie’s skin. She could feel it trickle between her breasts, and gather between her legs, blending with other fluids there. Her face must be rosy, and her cleavage too. Would the waiter notice?

  ‘I think we’re finished with this,’ said John, leaning back and nodding to his plate and hers. ‘Perhaps you’d give us five or ten minutes, and then bring the dessert menu, if you would?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the young man, efficiently clearing away. Were his eyes solely on his task? Or was he wondering why the female diner’s face was so pink and why her hand was hidden beneath the cloth? Perhaps he was imagining what was actually happening? Perhaps that was his kink as well as John’s, and he fantasised about beautiful women playing with themselves furiously beneath the voluminous damask tablecloths of the Waverley restaurant?

  Lizzie gasped with relief when he sped away. It seemed like he’d been hovering over her half an hour, when really it was barely ten seconds.

  ‘So, how far have we got?’ drawled John, toying with the stem of his wine glass. ‘Have we reached the heart of the matter?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re doing,’ replied Lizzie tartly, ‘but I’m not quite there yet. I don’t like to rush.’

  ‘Admirable. But in this instance, I’d really rather like you to achieve your goal before our young friend comes back with offers of almond gateau and strawberries and cream.’ He leant forward a bit, his voice sinking to a whisper. ‘Touch yourself now, Bettie. Do it for me.’

  She wiggled her finger, diving through her pubic hair. Things would have been so much easier if she’d been groomed to a skimpy Brazilian, but as John had stated his preference for
a more natural look, she’d left it that way.

  With a little gasp, she achieved her goal, her fingertip sliding and skirting her clit. Good lord, she was dripping, she was a swamp down there. It was a good job she was wearing a couple of layers of petticoat, to give buoyancy to her skirt, because if she’d been wearing just a thong beneath her dress, she’d have been sitting in a wet patch, her arousal was so lavish.

  ‘Have you ever travelled in a tropical rain forest at all?’

  The question was innocuous, but the demonic curve of John’s lips told quite a different story. He was enquiring as to her condition. And he wanted an answer.

  ‘No, but I can easily imagine the conditions. Hot. Wet. Everything lush and dripping.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. I’d love to be travelling there now. Perhaps you can describe a little more what it’s like?’

  She didn’t want to talk about it. She just wanted to touch it. To fondle herself while looking deep into his provocative blue eyes. They were much darker now, with pupils dilated. He was as aroused as she was, and she could imagine that, under the tablecloth, he was as hard as a rock.

  ‘You’ll just have to use your imagination, John. It should be easy enough, if you’ve travelled in that area before. You know it’s dark and warm and . . . um . . . humid. And there’s a very sensitive little creature that hides in a grotto.’

  He let out a laugh, shaking his head and, despite everything, Lizzie smirked too. It was all a bit silly, along with the sexiness, but somehow that was OK. There was a time for dark games, and rituals, but it was also good to act a bit daft sometimes too.

  ‘Ah, yes, I’ve encountered that little beast, and a very tender and demanding little organism it is too. Capable of extraordinary responses.’

  ‘Yeah, and especially to your investigations, Mr Attenborough. You seem to have exactly the right skills to get the best from it.’

  John seemed to be struggling with a straight and studious face, as if it was hard not to laugh. ‘Well, I’m not in a position for exploration right now, so maybe you could examine the little beast for me? Test its responses to stimuli?’