by James Grey
“The code of understanding is very effective in this business, remember. Considering that nearly everyone in the upper strata of society has something that they’d like to hide – the kind of thing newspapers like to write about – everyone knows it’s not wise to spread rumours. It will almost certainly backfire. It’s a bit like the Cold War, really. Don’t fire, because it’ll come right back at you.
“Never be tempted,” he goes on. “No matter how perfect and skilled you are at what you do, rumours that you’re indiscreet in any way will amount to professional suicide.”
I pause. “I get that. But at the same time…I could tell Lucy if somebody made me uncomfortable, couldn’t I?”
He sits up in mock horror, whipping his hand off my thigh like greased lightning. “Why, what have I done?”
“Don’t be silly, Charles, you’re perfect, I can assure you!”
And he really is. I mean, he’s even told me that he’s put all the other girls he used to see out to pasture. One night a week with me is all he needs. It’s the whoring equivalent of a marriage proposal, I suppose, and it does something similar to me.
He relaxes again and, this time, puts his arm around my shoulder. “Of course, you’d tell Lucy anything. Your agent is part of your business and needs to know everything. Like I said, she’s discretion personified.” His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Why do you ask? Has someone been making my Emma unhappy?”
Fuck. I didn’t engineer that very well. Damn amontillado. “No, no,” I say in a hurry. “I mean, everything is new, and I’m still just figuring out what’s normal…”
He doesn’t look convinced, but I can tell he won’t pester me. He knows I wouldn’t like that. So I’m emboldened to push on with the questions.
“What about the psychological games thing?”
“That happens, too, and could take a lot of forms,” he replies. “I have heard of a couple of men who occasionally take a girl for verbal abuse and don’t even touch them.” He stops for a moment and shakes his head. “What a waste. There are some very weird ones out there.”
“I’m not surprised by that! Can’t wait for that booking to come in…not!”
He chuckles, and I think he’s now sold on the idea that I’m just asking hypothetical questions.
“There’s another thing I worry about,” I say, feeling the tips of my ears go warm. “What if a client recognised me? Or knew me?”
“You mean you turn up to a booking and it turns out that the guy is your family dentist?” he grins.
His words bring the unwelcome image of Doctor Fisher to my mind’s eye. Dentists: they earn pretty well, don’t they? And he has known me most of my life…
“Hello? Emma?”
Jeez, I’ve just slipped into a reverie about whether he could in fact be Doctor Fisher, the man who prodded relentlessly in my mouth from an early age, and who made me wear braces for a year in my teens. He could hardly have chosen a more disturbing example.
“Erm, sorry! Yes! That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Look, it can happen, for sure. Sometimes London isn’t as big as you want it to be. In fact, I once had a girl who was in my class at school!”
My eyes turn to saucers. “Wow! And…?”
“We had a laugh about it the moment she walked in, pretty much. I had no clue she had gone into that line of work. We had a good time comparing notes about how well we were getting on in life, in our own very different ways. Then she admitted she’d actually fancied me in school! So it ended pretty well…”
I actually feel a bizarre twinge of jealously as he speaks about sleeping with another woman. I try and slap it out. Rupert feelings are a bad idea. I know that. I can love, but not jealously. I can love, but never take anything for granted.
“Well, it’s good to know that it doesn’t have to be horribly embarrassing every time, at least.”
“Absolutely,” he says in a cheery tone. “The more you’re honest – within the boundaries of discretion – the better off you’ll be, Emma. Be proud of what you do.”
“Yeah, that’s easy to say! Have you told your mum that you use prostitutes and are never going to get married?”
It’s a rather personal question, but I feel comfortable enough with him to ask it.
“Actually I have, as a matter of fact,” he admits. “She’s not thrilled about it, but trust me, it’s so much better not to keep secrets about yourself. We even have the odd jibe about it now. Hey, maybe I’ll take you over to meet her next Friday!”
“Don’t you dare,” I snap, safe in the knowledge that he’s kidding.
He laughs, and I decided there and then that we’ve chatted enough. Proudly and spontaneously doing the initiative thing Miss Jackson loves so much, I sink to my knees in front of where he sits on the sofa. I begin to massage the bulge in his trousers, then set about undoing that Louis Vuitton belt of his.
Chapter XIII
Walking through Hyde Park with Miss Jackson makes me feel like one of those quintessentially English ‘ladies who lunch’. As a hard-working, no-frills London girl, the thought is almost – but not quite – as embarrassing as the idea that I’m a full-blown prostitute.
But there’s no escaping the fact that I’ve never had so much free time on my hands. And, like the prostitute thing, I’m kidding myself if I pretend it isn’t kinda nice. I never knew you could have so many coffee and lunch dates in the middle of a weekday, but I love that I can.
It’s a crisp, mild Monday afternoon, and the sky is blue as we enjoy the early winter sun on our backs. Cyclists and joggers weave past us in their own haughty way, while we saunter past children feeding ducks. None of our fellow park-goers could possibly guess – not in their wildest imagination – the bizarre relationship between these two innocent-looking (I hope) women out on a stroll. It’s surreal for me to think about it. Especially with the image of my companion’s moist, pink pussy in my face so fresh in my mind.
This should be weird and awkward, after all these weeks. A teacher and a former student, meeting together for social chit-chat. But Miss Jackson – who is now trying to teach me to call her Miranda – makes it all seem perfectly normal. She cracks a few jokes and confronts the elephants that would otherwise be clogging up the proverbial room. She even compliments me on how well I did that day. The day she sat back on top of her desk and spread her legs before me, of course.
Soon, nothing seems remotely awkward any more. And I shouldn’t be surprised by that. Miranda Jackson – I can’t get used to the first-name thing at all – is the one woman whose wisdom and way with words can put even Lucy’s into the shade. I have been in awe of her since day one at training, but now the slight barrier of her assessing my every move is gone. She’s treating me as an equal, yet sharing her knowledge without ever coming across as superior.
She wants to hear all of my stories. That’s another thing that shouldn’t surprise me, given this is the woman who so clearly enjoyed watching my sexual antics on screen and in person. I share a few juicy tales with her, and she mockingly chides me for looking over my shoulder before I embark on the really lewd parts.
“Sorry,” I mutter, coming over terribly English again. “I’m getting there, really I am. I’m starting to think about telling my parents, at last. Seriously.”
She stops and looks me in the eye for a moment. “I hope so,” she says. “And good for you. You should be proud. Remember, I’d love to do what you do. I just don’t quite have the look for it.”
She smiles, and gazes up at a red-and-yellow kite flapping above the treetops. I look at the noble Miss Jackson. I’ve never thought she might have desires like that, somehow. I don’t know what I thought, but definitely not that. It’s probably true, what she says. Her look is not only on the plain side, but it’s far from girly. In fact, following our encounter in the office, I assumed I was right in assessing her as a lesbian.
“Are you…bisexual, then?” I ask, a little timidly. Although I know perfectly well she’s not goin
g to get offended.
“I’m more lesbian, to be honest,” she says. “That’s the other problem I’d have. Women don’t pay for sex all that much.” She sighs. “And that’s a shame. But you can’t go changing the laws of supply and demand when it comes to nature! And if I did men, then I’d have to do a lot of faking. And as you were very well taught, that’s a long way from professional.”
“I guess so,” I agree. I’m finding it odd to feel sympathy for Miss Jackson. “How did you become a mentor at Cranleigh then?”
“I used to do what Lucy does. My method was a little unusual, though, because I would always go along and watch my girls in action. It gave me peace of mind that they were safe, and – funnily enough – the men loved it. It added to their fantasy that their girl was a slave and I was her keeper. So that was my speciality.”
“Wow!” is all I can muster. There’s so much I want to ask. But she goes on without me needing to.
“Anyway, doing things that way gave me incredible insight into what the males want and how they respond. Or even couples, on occasion. I learned what girls do right and wrong. A rare privilege, because for all the great work they do, not many agents actually see their girls in action.
“When Cranleigh started its operation seven years ago, I was about ready to stop working full-time. Doing a couple of courses a year at the school, where I could share my knowledge constructively, was the perfect way for me to start winding down. Only I’ve ended up staying a little longer than planned. I just love meeting the new talent too much!”
Cranleigh. I’m still mad with curiosity about that place. Such a shame it’s the epitome of discretion and all that.
“I’m not going to get much more out of you where details of who’s who in that school are concerned, am I?” I ask her with a wry grin.
She laughs. “You know I can’t, Emma. All I will say is, keep your ears and eyes open. Everyone knows everyone in our world, and sooner or later someone may let something slip. Or you’ll just make a connection for yourself. It’ll be a eureka moment for you. Something to look forward to.
“So I might figure out who owns the place at some point?”
She purses her lips. “Maybe…”
“Do you really think I might run into anybody who worked or mentored…or whatever you’d call it…in my new job?”
“It’s a possibility, yes,” she says, with admirable patience. “But you’ve met them anyway, Emma!”
“I know I have. I just…I’d love to know if there’s a hierarchy. Or if there are people involved that I never even saw. And what some of the men are like when they’re not in teacher mode. I mean, how many people were playing roles? And what about that guy who woke us up each day?”
“Your fascination with individual men lives on, I see, Miss Carling,” she says, suddenly going all sage and teacher-like on me. I feel like I’m back in her office, in trouble again. But then she grins. “Not still thinking of Rupert, are we? Oh dear, I really hope you’re not falling for clients like you did for him…”
I go red as I think of Charles, and wonder if it is quite the same. Would I cry, now, if he cancelled on me or took my clothes or suddenly treated me like the whore I really am? I’ve got a feeling that I’d be stronger this time around. But her words are a timely reminder to watch myself.
I change tack slightly, coming to the one thing I’m really curious about. “What about the guest speaker we had? Can you at least say anything about him?”
She looks at me in surprise, her head turning sharply in my direction. “Oh…it’s funny you should mention that.”
My blood runs cold.
“He asked about you.”
I stop walking straight away.
“What??” I yelp.
I am completely forgetting that I’m supposed to be staying cool about this.
“Yes, I remember now,” she muses. “As I was showing him out, he asked if that brunette’s name was Emma Carling.”
Fuck! And fuck again. The expletives are stampeding in my head. So that bastard, Spurring, most definitely did recognise me at the school. My prayer that he didn’t know who the hell I was; that this particular ex-employee was utterly faceless to him, just another body on the shop floor, wasn’t answered.
“Oh,” I say, in what I hope is a more even tone. Though really I want to strangle her for forgetting to tell me of this vital little conversation at any point since it took place. Of all the moments for her to switch off…really! “And did you tell him?”
She frowns. “Of course not! I explained that we could never divulge personal details of any of our school learners. For similar reasons I can’t tell you his name either, of course.”
“I see,” I murmur, my mind working furiously. Well, her confirmation would have been neither here nor there. The man recognised me – that was the point. I decide to come clean with Miss Jackson.
“Don’t worry, I know his name already. That guy was the CEO of the company I just left before coming to the school. Still is, I presume. And I’m not sure if you might have heard, but my departure from that job wasn’t exactly amicable. Or quiet.”
She seems genuinely stumped – for once. There’s a long pause as we walk on. Finally she pulls me over to a sunny bench next to the path, and we sit down.
“I had heard that you left with a bang, Emma. But this is an incredible co-incidence. We had no idea you had any connection with him. I’m so sorry that happened. It’s unheard of. One in a million – quite literally.
“I know I’ve told you to be proud, and all of that, but I can see that must be an awkward situation buzzing about in your head. I mean, of all people!”
I nod glumly, although I’m a little perked up by her understanding. I feel better to have it off my chest, though I don’t think I am going to tell her any more. My suspicion that Spurring is my psychological torturer is back with a vengeance. Even if he can’t possibly have known me since I was thirteen…I think?
“We’ll have to be more careful with guest speakers in the future,” declares Miss Jackson. “But right now I can only apologise.”
I give her a weak smile. I’m not angry at her or the school. Just at my luck. “It wasn’t your fault. Was it his first time there?”
“Yes, we only have guest speakers as one-offs. It’s a much sought-after treat for certain men in London, and it’s given as a sort of client loyalty prize by an association of top agents who help us line up students – ”
She clasps a hand over her mouth. “Shit, I’m saying too much here. Keep this to yourself, please, Emma.”
I nod as I brush a stray autumn leaf from my lap. “Of course, of course.”
It’s all I needed to hear, anyway. The man regularly uses the services of whores and is clearly one of London’s best-paying clients. And he’s the only person I can think of who may have an issue with me after my public assault on his company and his management. Things are adding up. Holy crap. He must be him.
I wish I could seek more clues from Miss Jackson, but I know this is all I’m going to get.
Yet she does volunteer one more thing. “Emma, I don’t want you to worry, okay?” She’s looking me right in the eye, and apparently she’s right back into mind-reading mode. “This is an unusual situation, but the laws that keep discretion in place apply now more than ever.”
“Go on?” I urge her.
“You may feel concerned that he has some kind of dark secret on you, and that he might want to do you some kind of harm. But you know some secrets about him too, don’t you? And he knows that you know them. Remember that. Who has more to lose, huh?”
She’s right, I suppose. He can’t doubt that I would have recognised him at Cranleigh. And if he’s the one blindfolding me and threatening me, well, he’s taking a massive risk on his part. Because, if memory serves, his ‘corporate image’ is a squeaky-clean one. For him to take the chance he’s taking…this must be one almighty power trip.
All things considered, would he really
do anything? Could he?
“Come,” says Miranda, standing up from the bench. “Let me buy you a coffee. I’m dying to hear more wicked tales of your adventures. We can even sit outside up on Bayswater – it’s such a lovely day!”
We spend the rest of the afternoon sipping lattes. And I don’t have to worry about the caffeine keeping me awake all night, since that’s when I do most of my work. Another very neat thing about my job.
We marvel at the weather as she listens, enraptured, to the news that Sarah is living with me, and that Latifa and Alyssia are coming to London for a visit. I ask her advice about Sarah’s quest for work, and she says she thinks Lucy’s being harsh. “I’ve watched that double penetration assignment you did with her more than once,” she says, casual as if she were discussing a soap opera, “and I think she’s got a lot of potential. I understand Lucy’s reservations, but Sarah just needs a bit more time and practice pleasing men. I gather she’s already a dream lesbian lover…”
She gives me a wink.
“Ah yes,” I murmur with a smile, closing my eyes and leaning back in my metal chair. I’m surprised with the ease and candour of my reaction. “We have fun!”
“I love it!” cries Miranda Jackson. “We’ve obviously seen many supposedly ‘straight’ girls explore their bisexuality at the school with some success, but I don’t think we’ve had something resembling a couple come out of it before. You scored in more ways than one! I really think Lucy should let the two of you work as a pair. I’d get off watching that every time. Clients would too. They’re not stupid: they’d detect the chemistry between you for sure.”
I shrug. “Well, Lucy’s made her final decision. I already tried pleading.”
“For now,” admits Miss Jackson. “But Sarah can take her own initiative. And then things may change. Here, look.”
She pulls out her cell phone and I lean forward to take a look. She shows me an app. It’s simple enough, she explains. Men use it to find and book local prostitutes. There are photos, ratings, reviews…wow! It’s pretty neat. I can’t believe it hadn’t occurred to us that something like that existed.
