And then I do it. I jab in the number so familiar it’s almost part of my DNA – but a number I have not called for years.
I hear the phone at the other end ring.
I think it’s going to ring out.
And then she answers.
I hear her voice. Crystal-clear, as if she’s huddled in the phone box with me.
‘Hello? Wavertree Printing and Photoshop?’
Ah. So that’s the business she has today.
I say nothing. I can’t. I can’t think what to say.
She waits. And then I hear her say, ‘Jocelyn? Is that you?’
I can’t even bring myself to say yes.
‘Jocelyn?’
Why? Why can’t I answer her?
‘Jocelyn. If that is you. I am so, so sorry.’
I quickly hang up. Those are words I never expected her to say. I am dizzy with shock.
She’s sorry.
I should have stayed on the line. I should have said.
Which bit are you sorry about, Mum?
My phone buzzes. Another message for Jamie-Lee.
A picture of a hangman’s noose.
MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE, BABES.
Paris, 1999
It was snowing as I stepped outside the airport and despite my humongous fun-fur coat, I was freezing. Mind you, I was wearing very little underneath. As well as shivering, I was starting to panic. This evening was not panning out as intended. I was meant to get off the plane, come out of departures and immediately see a sign that read ‘Miss Smith’ – then be whisked away to my secret destination. Well, my pretend secret destination. The client wanted to think I had no idea where I was going, but of course Tina had told me everything. Now I had to decide: did I make my own way to meet the client, or hang on and see if this bloody limo turned up?
I scoured the carriageways outside Arrivals to check there were no limos waiting or errant signs with ‘Miss Smith’ on them and, satisfied there weren’t, headed back into the warmth for a cigarette. Once I’d located the cosy indoor smoking area I settled down, lit my cigarette, then took out my beautiful mobile phone and called the office.
‘Hello, Black Orchid?’
‘Tina, it’s Jocelyn.’
‘Ah. Miss Smith!’ she said, then giggled, as it was of course a nom de plume. Very apt, seeing as how I was in Paris. ‘Everything OK?’
‘No. Bloody car hasn’t turned up.’
‘Oh. Shit. Maybe it’s the traffic. OK, give me five minutes. I’ll call you back.’ And without saying goodbye, she hung up.
I was just sitting there minding my own business when I saw a woman walking towards me. I assumed she was heading to use the cordoned-off smoking zone, so I looked the other way and took a nonchalant drag on my cigarette. But then I heard her calling, ‘Jocelyn? Is that you? Jocelyn!’
The voice was familiar. I swung round to look, but couldn’t for the life of me place who this demented creature was. She was practically jumping up and down with excitement that she recognized me.
Oh God. A crazed fan. Someone who had bought my record. Just what I needed when I was about to start work.
‘Don’t you recognize me?’ she said, suddenly deflated.
I shook my head and responded icily, ‘So sorry. I meet a lot of people.’
To which she threw her head back, and shrieked with laughter. I really willed my phone to ring and for Tina to save the day and get me out of here, but then the woman said,
‘It’s coz of my nose job. Jocelyn, it’s me. It’s Kathleen!’
Well, right here, right now, you could have knocked me over with a feather. She looked incredible. She looked so different.
I jumped up and hugged her, mortified and delighted.
‘Oh my God, Kathleen, you look amazing! God, I didn’t recognize you!’
‘Shit, was I that ugly before? We can’t all be dusky Page Three stunners like you, you know!’ And she threw her head back and roared. Again.
Dusky? I could have hit her.
‘Anyway, what are you doing in gay Paree?’ She laughed again, as if she was the first person in the world to come up with that pronunciation.
‘Oh . . .’ I blustered, ‘I’m here for a job interview.’
‘Blimey! For what?’
‘Oh, to . . . present a TV programme on some kind of Eurotrash channel.’
‘Are they looking for someone who dresses like a high-class hooker?’ This time she poked me and looked me up and down. Then did her hilarious high-pitched shriek thing again.
And this time I joined in, as if I found it incredibly funny. But actually all I kept thinking was, Shit. Do I really look the part?
My phone was ringing.
‘What are you up to now?’ she was asking.
‘One sec, I’ve just got to get this.’
‘Oh my God, you’ve got a mobile phone! That is so funksy spunksy!’
Funsky spunksy? I’m SORRY?
It was at this point that I realized Kathleen was a little bit tipsy. Actually, she might have been more than a little tipsy. I backed away from her to answer the call.
‘Babe, hi, it’s Tina. Car’s outside. Sorry for the confusion, silly prick had gone to the wrong terminal. All sorted now. Phone if there are any more problems. Good luck.’
‘Thank you.’
I hung up and saw that Kathleen was laughing at some unheard joke.
‘Kathleen, I have to go now. Are you OK?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Being here on your own. Are you OK?’
‘Need to get back to my thingy.’
‘Your what?’
‘Hotel. I just came here to see my pal off.’
‘You’re on holiday?’
‘No, I fucking live here. Duh! Course I’m on holiday. I brought my new nose on holiday. We’re having a great time!’ And again, shrieks of laughter.
‘And will you be all right getting back?’
‘To where?’
‘To your hotel.’
‘Are you coming to my hotel? Fuck, are you staying in the same place?’
‘No. I have to go somewhere else, and I need to go immediately. I’m just wondering if I can drop you somewhere.’
‘Oh, wonderful, are you driving?’
‘No, I’ve got a car. Well, a driver. D’you know where it is you’re staying?’
‘Jocelyn, I’m not completely fucking stupid. Come on.’
And she was marching out of the arrivals hall, out into the snow. I followed her out, worrying how I was going to square it with the driver. What if he reported back to Tina that two of us had got in the car? Maybe I could just explain I was giving a lift to a friend in need who was stranded at the airport. Well, it was sort of the truth, though it wouldn’t look good.
By now a man was walking towards the entrance with a sign reading ‘Mis Smith’. The misspelling reminded me he probably spoke no English, so I launched into my best French accent, explaining,
‘Ah oui. Je suis Miss Smith et malheureusement je dois prendre mon amie a son hôtel, merci beaucoup.’
‘My God, Jocelyn! You’re really good! Bonjour!’ She was actually waving at the driver. He looked Sudanese to me, skin as black as mine, though under the panoply of stars and falling snow it looked almost blue-black. And he was tall, athletically so, and he looked completely unimpressed.
I linked Kathleen’s arm, as she was looking perilously close to swaying so much that she’d fall over, and I followed the disgruntled driver to an awaiting blacked-out limo.
Why? Why did I have to bump into her tonight, of all nights?
Once in the car, we set off, and it was at this point that Kathleen decided she couldn’t remember the name of her hotel.
‘You must remember it.’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘I said, you must remember it.’
‘Remember what?’
‘The name of your hotel.’
‘Do you?’
‘No, I don’t, I’m asking
you. D’you know what arrondissement it’s in?’
‘Le week-end.’
‘Do you know where it’s near?’
‘Are we near?’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Kathleen!’ I’d never seen her like this before.
And then she started pretending she did remember what it was called. But she kept making up French words, as if by sounding French, it would be an actual name of a Parisian hotel. She kept saying stuff like, ‘Vrababababab haw hee haw heee haw vravra vra vra oui oui nonnnn’.
The driver was looking at me through the rear-view mirror now as if to say, in French, ‘What the six-foot baguette do we do with this crazy chick now?’
And unfortunately, I had no answer to that.
‘That’s not a word,’ I pointed out.
She leaned in to me. ‘Do you like my nose?’
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Normally I’d entertain such pleasantries, but tonight I really wasn’t in the mood. I had a job to get to. I pawed at her coat and tried to pull some evidence from the pockets. A room key. A map of Paris with ‘this is my hotel’ written on it. Anything.
She seemed to find the rifling through her pockets routine highly amusing and, thankfully, didn’t stop me, even when I – BINGO – managed to pull out her purse. I tore through it, looking for evidence of where she was staying. I found nothing. I sighed. This was ridiculous. What did I do now? Why had I been so kind? Why had I offered to take care of her, to get her home?
This would teach me to be altruistic. What lesson had life taught me thus far? Look after number one. Always look after yourself.
I checked my watch. It was nearly eight in the evening. I knew from my itinerary that my client was expecting me round about now. I was sure that Tina would have called him to explain the nature of my late arrival, but that was to do with my car being stuck in traffic, not because I’d picked up some new-nosed nightmare I used to know.
Damn, what was I going to do now?
I could hardly take her with me to the job. Even if she was half cut and would probably fall asleep in the corner. It just wasn’t the done thing. Not when so much money was changing hands. Fingers crossed.
I had to take decisive action that would get rid of Kathleen, but also make sure she was all right.
I snapped. ‘Kathleen. I need to know which hotel you’re staying at because I can’t take you to my job interview.’
She started scratching at her stomach. Oh God, that was all I needed. She had scabies. Or worse, crabs. Keep her away from me! KEEP HER AWAY FROM ME!
‘Kathleen, I’m being serious!’
But then I saw, as her coat opened, that she was wearing a bumbag round her waist. She unzipped it and pulled out a large triangle of green plastic. Hanging off it was a key.
‘I told you,’ she said, ‘The haw hee haw hee haw hee croissant oui oui.’
I grabbed it off her and thrust it under the nose of the driver.
‘Vous savez où est cet hôtel, monsieur?’
And he nodded. And I felt a stab of relief so strong I could have wept.
‘GOD, YOU ONLY HAD TO SAY,’ Kathleen said really sarcastically, like she was shouting out of the window. And then she threw herself on me, hugging me. ‘God, I love you, Jocelyn!’
I shoved her off me and told the driver to put his foot down and go to her hotel first. But by now I knew I was so befuddled my French had deteriorated, and I had probably told him to put his shoes on and go quickly to the supermarket.
Oh well – he seemed to get the picture. And we didn’t go to the supermarket, not that there would have been many open at this time in the evening. We went to her hotel. As soon as I saw the neon light flickering its name like a nightclub lighthouse I leaned across her to open her door and practically shoved her onto the pavement before the driver had applied the brakes. She fell onto her arse as I told the driver to take me to the assigned address. I didn’t even say goodbye. I didn’t even look back to check that she was OK. Blimey. I’d got her to her hotel. What more did she want?
At least I’d never have to see her again while I was in Paris.
I’d been in some very weird and wonderful situations since working for Black Orchid, and tonight was no exception. The client’s name was Mal Kerrigan and, despite having an apartment in central Paris, a stone’s throw from the Sacré-Coeur, he actually came from Basildon. All Tina had said ahead of my visit was he was an ‘NCG’ – a no-contact guy, my favourite type of clients as they were happy for you not to touch them – and that he was into role play, and I would have to pretend to ride around his apartment on a horse, shouting ‘Clip clop!’
Despite the bizarreness of this request, Mr Kerrigan treated the start of the evening like a date. He showed me in to the apartment with a flourish of the hand, asking if I’d like the grand tour. I agreed willingly, always interested in posh places like this, and he took me on an endless guided tour of black-walled rooms, chrome tables, mirrored doors and floor-to-ceiling windows. At one point he took my coat from me, the fur slid down my skin and he looked impressed by the leather pencil skirt and matching leather bra I was wearing. Well, those and my fuck-off Dior heels. He practically licked his lips, possibly wishing he hadn’t stipulated no contact. And then . . . back to the tour!
‘Look at this!’ he’d splutter, then press a button and a net curtain would cover the window, purring along slowly like a modesty blanket train.
‘Oh! You must think me so rude. I haven’t offered you a drink!’ he said as we made our way into the stainless-steel kitchen. Standing on a butcher’s block in the centre of the room were two ready-made Manhattans. Much as they were crying out to be drunk, I demurred.
‘Actually, might I have a gin and tonic? Sorry.’
You never knew when a guy might try and drug you. Better to be safe than sorry. Of course, Mal was insistent this was fine, and went about fixing me a drink before my eyes. No drugs in that, thank you. We clinked glasses.
‘Here’s to a very successful evening!’ He smiled.
‘Indeed!’
I was always a bit surprised when people who had a particular fetish seemed normal and down-to-earth and polite, and treated the evening like a first date. It was quite sweet, really. And he seemed sweet. He suggested we go and relax in the lounge. As we settled into his mile-long leather settee, staring out over a view of Paris, he kicked off his loafers. I thought I heard him trying not to sneeze, but when I looked to him, he was in fact crying.
Believe it or not, this was quite common. Some men were so relieved to finally be able to act out their deepest, darkest, weirdest fantasies with someone that the relief they felt made them emotional. They didn’t feel alone, strange, weird; finally someone got them, and it was OK to be whoever they wanted to be. I let him sniffle on for a while and took a sip of my drink. But when it felt like the crying might never stop, I said softly, ‘It’s OK, Mal. It’s all OK.’
To which he clenched his fists and his face and said, ‘Thanks, Shirley-Rose. Thank you so much.’
Please don’t ask why I had called myself Shirley-Rose. Tina was of course well aware of my real name and she said that some clients would recognize me from my days on Page Three or in the lower rungs of the pop charts, but she also claimed this work was smoke and mirrors. The fantasy was more important than the reality. If I said my name was Jocelyn, that was it. They were paying money to spend time with me, that was it. But the more confusing notion of, ‘Could it be her? Wait, no, her name is Shirley-Rose, it can’t be. And yet it looks like her. It really does,’ would apparently add to the excitement, even though I hadn’t at the time quite understood that.
I did now. Oh boy, did I get it now.
I didn’t like to use the word ‘prostitute’ for what I did. Maybe I was in denial, but on nights like this I certainly didn’t feel like one. I didn’t fit the image of the street-corner crack whore out to get her fix, or to give money to some violent pimp. I didn’t fit the image of the matronly neighbour in a local b
rothel with no-nonsense carpets and a makeshift jacuzzi. I did, however, fit the image of the high-class hooker who travelled the world and earned a fortune doing very little. Particularly if, like tonight, it was an NCG.
I knew better than to ask Mal why he was crying. He was the boss, he could do whatever he wanted. He was paying five thousand pounds an hour for the privilege. He’d paid for my first-class flights over and back. He’d put me up in the George V hotel for the night, the best the city had to offer. What were a few tears compared to that?
Eventually he calmed down. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Must be an emotional evening.’
He nodded. Then he started crying again. ‘It’s my girlfriend.’
The fact that he had a girlfriend came as no surprise. Often the NCGs were partnered. Even though they were spending a fortune for your company, it felt like if they didn’t actually sleep with you, it wasn’t infidelity. Fair play.
‘Well, my ex-girlfriend.’
Oh, OK, so they’d split up. Still, my rationale still stood.
‘I feel so bad I split up with her. I wanna put that right tonight.’ And he looked at me, pleadingly.
‘And is that where I come in?’ I asked coquettishly, licking the rim of my glass and then taking a dainty sip. I leaned my head back and swallowed the G&T in the most pornographic way I could muster. I knew he’d appreciate it. He then talked me through what he wanted me to do. It was simple enough. He directed me to the other side of the room, and I readied myself to perform the little sketch he had in mind.
It was one of the most ridiculous things I had ever had to do in my life. But I could not laugh. I could not go, Are you for real? I could not refuse to do it.
The History of Us Page 20
