by Paula Daly
I declined the option of a starter and went for John Dory with clams for the main course. Under normal circumstances, I would choose something slow cooked and indulgent – roasted pork belly with a port wine jus – something I would never cook for myself at home. But this was work. And I was nervous. And, as I mentioned earlier, Scott was in good shape. The night could turn athletic on a sixpence, and I would be sure to regret a heavy stomach.
This was what was going through my head when Scott leaned in and whispered, ‘You’re frowning. Relax.’
‘I’ve never done this before.’
‘It doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy the evening. I asked you here because I want you to have a good time, I don’t want you to be on edge.’
I dropped my head.
‘Do you regret coming?’ he asked.
And I hesitated.
Reaching out, he touched the skin of my throat with his middle finger. His manner was lazy, as though he’d done this action a thousand times before, and I found myself casting around the room, furtively, as though he’d performed something terribly illicit. ‘I don’t regret it for a second,’ he said, and then our table was ready.
Though the British countryside was enjoying another hot summer evening, the light inside the dining room was subdued and dim. Dark, heavy curtains lined the windows and the walls were covered in a chocolate, hessian-type of wallpaper, which gave the room an elegant, sultry feel.
For no reason other than I was programmed to do so (every twenty minutes), my thoughts turned to George. Instinctively, I opened my handbag to check for the red warning flash of my mobile.
‘All okay?’ Scott asked as we were seated, and I nodded.
‘No disasters to report.’
I went to speak again and thought better of it, closing my mouth.
‘You were going to say something?’ he said.
‘It’s not important.’
‘You were going to tell me about your son.’
It was true. I was.
‘Go ahead, please,’ he urged.
So I rambled on for a while about nothing in particular, all the while Scott regarding me with a keen interest, as if what I had to say was both enlightening and humorous, neither of which was accurate. I’d been around enough people to know that divorced parents of an only child can talk about the kid until hell freezes over if allowed to. Parents of three or four children barely mention them. I made a concerted effort not to bore people about George and had decided before the start of this evening that the whole point of it was to let Scott talk about himself. He wasn’t paying to hear about me.
Except now it seemed as though he was.
He poured more wine and, when I’d got to the end of my anecdote, I leaned forward, rested my chin on top of my hands.
‘Tell me why we’re here,’ I said bluntly.
He laughed, replying with, ‘I thought I’d made that clear.’
I shook my head. ‘I want to know why. Why me? Why like this?’
And he shrugged.
‘Scott,’ I said in a forced whisper, ‘there are plenty of options available for a man in your position. I mean, if we’re going to get real about it, I’m quite sure there are women – plenty of women – you come across in your everyday life, who would be willing to become your mistress for free.’
‘For free?’ he answered, his tone cynical. Meaning nothing was for free, as far as he was concerned.
‘Okay, maybe not for free,’ I said. ‘But you get my drift. You could throw in the odd mini break, and a nice necklace now and again, and you would get what you needed out of it.’
I raised my glass to my lips, studying his face. His expression was neutral, but there was a playful quality in his eyes and I was unable to hold his gaze. It was the first time I would sense that there was more to Scott, more going on beneath the surface than he was ready to reveal.
‘Mistresses don’t quite work out like that,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘They want more. They always want the whole package. Sure, they start off saying what it is that you want to hear. They don’t want a relationship, casual meet-ups suit them fine, and so on and so forth. But these women want romancing, they want two or three dinners before they’ll even entertain the idea of…’
He paused. Tilted his head to one side to let me work out the rest for myself.
‘I can see that could take some time,’ I said.
He leaned in. ‘Basically, it becomes hard work. And once the initial sex is out of the way, they want more. They’re not happy with being on the sidelines, even though they protest it’s not like that. They sulk because they want to take Nadine’s place. And I can understand it, I really can. But I just don’t need the earache, frankly.’
‘Well, what about the more straightforward approach?’ I suggested.
‘You mean an escort?’
‘Yes. Why go to all this trouble, all this expense,’ I said, making a sweeping motion with my hand, ‘for a normal person like me? Christ, I’m no expert in this stuff, Scott. I might not be able to give you what you’re expecting.’
A smile played across his lips as he weighed his response. The room was now filling with diners, couples pausing as they entered the room directly from the garden, their eyes adjusting to the reduced light. Men in pressed short-sleeved shirts, their foreheads shiny from the sun, waited for their partners before proceeding. The women tottered in on platform heels, carrying champagne flutes, each with a rosy blush developing at the top of their cleavage.
Scott placed both palms flat on the tablecloth on either side of the cutlery, and tapped his fingers twice.
Unusually, he seemed reluctant to talk. After a minute, he said ‘I have explored the other options available in the past and without going into too much detail, I can tell you they were not for me. Each has its own drawbacks.’
‘What about Nadine?’ I asked softly.
‘What about her?’
‘Do you still love her?’
His eyes widened. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course I love her.’
‘But …?’ And then a thought occurred. ‘Scott,’ I said quickly, panicked, ‘she doesn’t know about this, does she?’
He shook his head in bafflement, as if to say, Why would I ask such thing?
‘Nadine doesn’t know,’ he said. ‘Nadine will never know. This is not some game, Roz.’
‘Then what is it?’
He reached for his wine and downed the remainder from his glass. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll do my best to explain. I love Nadine. I will always love her. We have a good life together. It’s just—’
‘She doesn’t understand you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not that.’
‘She doesn’t enjoy the physical side of the relationship any more?’
He gave an awkward laugh. ‘Not so much, no. But that’s not it either.’
I sat back in my chair. ‘Oh,’ I said quietly.
The food arrived and the waiter made a big show of listing all the ingredients in each dish. I felt impatient, wanting to interrupt him and say, ‘Yes, I remember what I ordered, thank you.’ He was doing that thing they do on Masterchef, trying to make the food sound more upmarket, saying he was serving me a fillet of John Dory on a potato rosti, with a artichoke and clam …
A artichoke.
When did people lose the ability to speak?
I rolled my eyes at Scott as the waiter rattled off his list of ingredients, and Scott smiled. With the mood lightened, I said, ‘You don’t need to explain further. I didn’t mean to pry. I suppose I just needed clarification.’
‘That I’m not a lunatic?’
I nodded. ‘I think I assumed that the men who pay for this kind of thing are looking for a different experience. Something they cannot get from their wives.’
‘You mean paying entitles them to do whatever they like to a woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not looking to dominate or demean,’ h
e said. ‘Nadine and I have lost our connection, that’s all. We still have a sex life, but there’s no intimacy, no real feeling there. And I miss it. Just as it’s necessary for some men to see an escort as a means of release, a means of getting rid of their stress, for me it’s the opposite. I need physical love to function and, for a variety of reasons, I cannot get it from Nadine any longer.’
‘But why me? Why all night?’
‘You mean as opposed to a professional?’
‘Yes.’
‘Simple. You’re exactly what I think a woman should be. You’re sexy without trying, you exude a kind of warmth that’s missing from most women. And with regards to a professional, I don’t want to be where another man has been.’
I coughed, inhaling a small amount of wine. ‘I’m no virgin, Scott.’
‘No,’ he said, smiling, ‘you’re not. But I don’t want to be where another man has been just hours beforehand. It feels unclean. It really is a conveyor belt. That’s not for me. And I don’t mean to sound boastful when I say this, but I’ve reached a stage in my life when I can afford to do it my way. I can afford to have the experience as I want it. Real intimacy with a real woman.’
The full weight of his gaze upon me, he leaned back in his chair. ‘In short,’ he said, ‘I can afford to have you, Roz.’
13
THERE IS A memory I have of watching the film Indecent Proposal. A gaggle of us who were home from university for the spring bank holiday went to the Royalty Cinema in Bowness. It’s one of those quaint old cinemas that are becoming obsolete. Back in 1993 it had just a single screen and the girl who issued the tickets also showed you to your seat, as well as appearing with a tray of ice creams (hung by a strap around her neck) as the film was about to start. She would stand at the front, self-consciously waiting for people to approach, valiantly ignoring the sweet wrappers aimed at her from the balcony above.
Indecent Proposal was the one film that we came out really talking about. As a group, we were split right down the middle on the would you?/wouldn’t you? issue.
Would you spend one night with Robert Redford in exchange for a million dollars?
Those of us who were naive and highly principled at that age exited saying, ‘Definitely not. You can’t buy love.’ (But then we all quickly agreed that Demi Moore’s black strappy dress was amazing. To die for, in fact. And who knew what you’d do if someone presented you with such an item? Sure, Robert Redford was getting on in years by then, but that dress was so nice.
How uncomplicated our lives were. Silly girls, each of us certain we were going to set the world on fire and that, if we didn’t manage that for some reason, there was still a chance a good-looking guy would come to our rescue, because that’s what happened in the movies.
Before leaving for my assignation with Scott, I’d stood in my underwear, examining my reflection, wondering if it was really possible for a man to pay to have sex with a normal woman like me. I had big doubts. Physically, I was no horrorbag but I was a long way from the images on the front of the lads’ mags, a long way from the quintessential male fantasy. Now, though, from what Scott had just said, and the fervour with which his small speech was delivered, it appeared that I was wrong. Scott was more than willing to pay for a normal woman like me. Normal was exactly what he craved and couldn’t find.
But could I actually do it?
Could I lie next to a man, let him inside me? For money?
I thought about the past couple of years since Winston and I had parted. There had been drunken sex, sex with a couple of sad fellows whom I went to bed with because I felt sorry for them. There’d been that sex with Winston that I pretended didn’t happen but Winston liked to bring up every time I asked him for money. And there’d been sex with a guy I didn’t really like, but it did my ego some good on account of him being younger and attractive and the school football coach. Every woman over thirty would flick her hair excessively in his presence. All this to say that I had enjoyed sex with each of these men, despite none of it being perfect, or hearts and flowers, so yes, I thought, I could go through with it.
Except now I was nervous.
Facing Scott Elias, I realized that this wasn’t drunken, no-strings sex. This was an intelligent, articulate man who expected an experience. As we pushed our chairs away from the table, and he took my arm, gently, guiding me away from the other diners, I just hoped to hell I could give it to him. Because the spark of attraction I would normally feel before going to bed with a man had just diminished. Sure, I was flattered by his words, because, who wouldn’t be? It was nice to be talked about in that way. And I have to admit when I first met Scott there was a real magnetism between us. But the way he was so sure of himself just now, the way he assumed that money could buy whatever he liked, whatever he wanted, had the effect on me of making him somewhat undesirable. He’d crossed a line few people would ever think of crossing and his remarks about buying me had left a sour taste in my mouth.
Even though he was just being honest. Even though I was here for that very reason – to be bought.
So I hoped I could go through with what I’d signed up for. Because in less than two weeks I would be evicted if I didn’t do something. And, up to now, praying for a miracle hadn’t helped at all, so the way I saw it, this was the only chance I had.
‘Would you like another drink at the bar?’ Scott asked, and though I didn’t, I accepted, deciding that another drink would take the edge off my nerves and also delay things a little. I ordered a gin and tonic. I did have to go to work the following day, after all, and I was always better in the morning after a long drink rather than wine. It was only as we were well into a conversation about Scott’s electronics business and how he was forever faced with losing clerical staff for weeks at a time due to repetitive strain injury and other such work-related illnesses that I noticed I was beginning to drift a little, not really concentrating on his words. So I excused myself and headed to the Ladies to splash a little water on my face.
Passing the cloakroom, my attention was caught by a man sitting at the small second bar just a short distance from the reception area.
It was the insurance agent who’d taken blood from me. He wore a white shirt, a tie was loosened at his throat and he’d rolled up his sleeves on account of the heat. He sat side on, alongside a heavy-set man whose bulk appeared too much for the stool and they were both drinking pints of bitter.
My heart stuttered.
On realizing who he was I must have blanched white, or else my expression froze, because he smiled at me before tilting the rim of his glass my way. It was an almost imperceptible gesture – his companion didn’t turn around to look – and then he continued talking happily, taking a handful of whatever snack had been placed on the bar.
My pulse thumped in my throat as I hurried to the Ladies. I hadn’t expected to bump into anyone I knew, least of all him, and the riskiness of what I was doing suddenly hit home.
When I returned, Scott asked, ‘Are you okay? You’ve gone a little pale.’
‘What? Oh, no, I’m fine. I was thinking I could probably do with freshening up a little before … What I mean is,’ I stammered, because hadn’t I just done exactly that? ‘What I mean is, I didn’t get chance to unpack my things on arriving.’
‘No problem,’ he said, realizing it was probably nerves making me so jumpy, ‘I’m happy to remain down here. Whatever you need to feel comfortable.’
He reached out and stroked his thumb along the back of my hand.
I stared at it, fixated. The urge to check over my shoulder was overwhelming, but I kept my eyes downcast.
‘Roz?’ Scott asked. ‘You’re sure you’re okay? Your hand is shaking.’
‘Is it?’ I pulled it away. I smiled at Scott and started to stand. ‘Give me fifteen minutes?’
Walking towards the staircase, I stole a look across to the second bar. The insurance agent was standing now, ready to leave, laughing as his drinking partner made big expansive gestures
with his hands, as though waving in aircraft. I got the impression it was forced laughter. Perhaps he, like me, was here on business.
He glanced over and, when he saw I was watching, he winked.
Embarrassed, I hurried away.
Cards on the table: The night was not what I expected.
Money changes everything, that much I know for sure. If you were to speak to a random selection of my patients they would report that Roz Toovey physiotherapist was kind, attentive, a remarkably good listener, non-judgemental and always happy to listen if someone needed a good moan or to give out advice if asked.
Of course, I wasn’t always those things. I was being paid to be those things. Think about it, when was the last time you said exactly what you were thinking to your boss? Or to anyone at work, for that matter?
When you’re self-employed, the customers are your bosses. If you don’t give them what they want, you don’t get paid. Simple as that. And even though I was no longer self-employed, I was very much aware that if I didn’t perform well as a clinician, if I didn’t give the patients exactly what they expected, I would be replaced. And so I gave my best physical self: performing back-breaking lifting and manoeuvring, bending over for extended periods, my thumbs losing their feeling from the unremitting pressure put through them. I gave my best empathetic self: listening to patients’ worries, concerns about their lives, their children’s lives, their money worries, their health issues. I gave my best educational self: repeating facts about healing, posture, about the links with stress and myofascial pain, facts that I’d been reciting all day, every day, year in year out. And I gave my best in merriment and entertainment, acting as though the patients were the funniest, wittiest, most enjoyable people in the world to spend time with. I listened, smiling accordingly, as old men recited tedious jokes, as old women discussed how funny Alan Carr was. At the end of each day I would have so little left for George – so little left for me, in fact – that the most I could do was sit mute and expressionless, until it was time to go to bed.
