by Heidi Lowe
“Nope. But your mom did want to know if I knew... That was a bit awkward.”
Disinterested in getting into it with my parents, I’d sent Jo to get some more of my things. I wasn’t ready to face them again, not yet.
“What did you tell her?”
“That it wasn’t nearly as scandalous as she thought. She didn’t buy it.” She shrugged, then regarded her surroundings for the first time. “This place is horrible!”
“It’s fine. It gets the job done.”
“You’re raking it in, you could afford something better.”
“Are you forgetting why I’m doing all of this? The dollar to GBP doesn’t convert well. I have nowhere near enough.”
She went to check the bathroom out, shrieked, then came back to me, shuddering. “You need more clients, pronto.”
Since my threesome three days prior, no one else had contacted me. And then, this morning, two messages. One from a new woman, and one from Dana, both of whom wanted me that evening. As much as I longed to see Dana, I’d had to prioritize — money over love, at least for the time being.
“Maybe we should put the site back up,” I said.
“We could but, honestly, word of mouth is what’s selling you. Get Trigonometry or whatever you call her to reach out to more of her buddies. She must know loads of broads with deep pockets.”
I laughed. “Algebra. I guess it can’t hurt to ask. Maybe I should get fliers made or something.”
She sat on the bed, helped herself to a packet of chips.
“What are you going to do about your parents? Your dad?”
It wasn’t something I wanted to think about. How long my mom would hold off telling him was anyone’s guess. Eventually she would. She’d never been good at keeping secrets from him; she ratted me out to him without a second thought when I was growing up. She must have been so embarrassed of me that she hadn’t brought herself to tell him yet.
My shoulders hung. “Hopefully I’ll be back in London by the time my mom opens her big mouth. At least I’ll have nine months away from the shit storm.”
“Temporary solution, dude. What happens when you get back?”
I shrugged dejectedly. No matter when he found out, I would have to face him eventually, and no amount of money would insulate me from that.
The new woman didn’t get a nickname. Call me psychic, but something told me I wouldn’t need to give her one.
It took her forever to answer the door when I rang, several times. I stood on the doorstep of her house, feeling silly, on the verge of turning around and going home, when finally the door swung open.
“Hey,” I said with a little wave.
She gave me a tight-lipped smile and pulled me inside, looking out as though someone might have been watching.
“Did any of the neighbors see you?” she questioned.
“I don’t think so. But even if they did, I could just be a friend.”
She gave a derisive laugh. “I’m a forty-five year old married woman. What would I be doing with a friend in her early twenties?”
“Stranger things have happened,” I said in a jokey tone, trying to lighten the mood. She was so tightly wound, from the conservative way she dressed to the way she wore her dark-blonde hair. She wasn’t bad to look at, and the power suit only worked in her favor. Still, her vibe was off. I’d become somewhat of an expert at sensing when someone was into me, and I didn’t get that from her.
“I should offer you a drink,” she said, starting to the kitchen. I followed her. “Alcohol or no?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“Do people really say that?” She laughed, her tone mocking. “What do you actually want? Orange juice, wine, something stronger?”
“I’m fine.” She was getting on my nerves. All I could think was that I’d blown off Dana for this crap. Postponed the woman I desired above everyone and everything to be insulted and mocked by a prude.
She poured herself a glass of wine, then we went into the living room. All around us were pictures of her with the husband and children. I looked at the happy family, how real their love for each other was, and I felt a stab of envy. Would my family ever take pictures like these again, once my secret was known by all parties?
Behind me she said, “This is the first time I’ve had the house to myself in fifteen years, and what do I do, hire a hooker.”
“I’m an escort,” I said dully, resenting her use of that term to describe me.
“Same thing.” She sat down, and I sat beside her. She avoided eye contact, sipped and sipped nervously from her glass.
“I’m not gay or bi,” she explained. “Just curious.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t do this type of thing, with men or women.” The speed with which she spoke had increased, her face becoming red.
I had to take the initiative because it didn’t look as though she would make a move. As she brought the glass to her lips again, I took it from her.
“W–what are y–you—”
I smashed my lips to hers, shutting her up. Then I tore her blouse open, the buttons flying all over the couch and carpet. I was glad to ruin it, a bit of payback for the hooker comment.
I kissed and sucked at her neck, her chest, working my way to her breasts, and kissed the tops while they remained in the bra. From her heavy, staggered breathing, I knew that all thoughts of her sexuality had departed. Who needed labels?
While my tongue did battle with hers, dominating the whole time, I slipped my hand between her legs, under her skirt, and into her panties. A river of wetness awaited me. How long had she been keeping that a secret?
The way she wailed and groaned as my fingers caressed her bean suggested no one had ever touched her there before. Married with kids yet hadn’t been sufficiently stimulated. She probably wasn’t alone in that.
She held on for about four minutes, before her body gave in. I was glad when her wolf-like howling subsided.
Before I could do the honors myself, she yanked my hand out of her crotch.
“I think that’s enough,” she said, and got to her feet slowly, unsteadily. She went to her purse, took out some money, then handed it to me. Two hundred, my new rate for website clients.
“You still have about forty-five minutes,” I said, alarmed.
“That’s enough. You can go now.”
I stood up, frowned, then started to the door. She followed me out.
“See you again?” I said.
“I don’t think so.” Then she slammed the door in my face.
The easiest two-hundred bucks I’d ever made. A mere five minutes of actual work, and I’d only had to finger her. But it infuriated me no end that I’d wasted my time with her when I could have been...somewhere else.
I practically sprinted to my car, started up the engine and drove over the speed limit across town, like a madwoman.
When I pulled into her drive, I took no care in parking straight, and jumped out of the car. Dana’s surprised smile upon opening the door and seeing me melted my heart, my soul.
“Didn’t you blow me off?” Arms folded, she leaned against the door frame, smiling wryly.
“Don’t I get to change my mind?”
“What makes you think I’m not otherwise engaged? For all you know I could be entertaining someone else.”
“You’re not,” I said, stepping up to her, my eyes focused on her mouth. I mentally counted how many seconds it would take before we kissed.
“Why are you so sure?”
“Your smile when you opened the door.”
She laughed, pulled me inside, and pressed her lips to mine. We kissed with the type of fervor I'd reserved just for her.
She’d been beneath the covers for half an hour or more, giving my sex a tongue lashing. As I gripped onto the pillow, I watched the sheet bobbing up and down as her head did, her movements slow and meticulous, methodical, surgical in their precision.
My murmurs filled the room. Hearing myself, an
d hearing her lap me up, only intensified the sensation. And although I couldn’t see her face, she had a distinct way of going down on me that was unique to her.
Once I climaxed, she threw the bed sheet back, then crawled up to kiss me.
“Have a guess as to what my favorite pastime is,” she whispered against my lips.
I giggled.
We kissed and said nothing for several minutes. That was how it was sometimes — words were unnecessary, lacking even, when it came to me and Dana. Then we cuddled. She was always the big spoon. I didn’t complain. She squeezed my hand, planted little kisses on the back of my neck.
“Can we talk about the gala, Erica?” she said after some time. I knew it was coming and dreaded it.
Playing dumb: “What about it?”
“Why were you in such a foul mood when I came to find you outside?”
Because I saw you with your husband and it broke my heart, my inner voice said. And why was I so heartbroken? Because I’m madly in love with you and I want you for myself. “I was tired.”
“Tired?”
“Uhm-huh.”
“Okay.” I could tell by her tone that she didn’t believe me, but she decided to drop it anyway. Perhaps she knew the real reason and didn’t want to open Pandora’s box. “So how’s the new clientele treating you?”
I told her about the date I’d had prior to meeting her, without saying any names. No kissing and telling, not even with her. If I got a reputation for blabbing, no one would hire me again.
She chuckled at the end of my tale. “I wouldn’t be so sure she’ll never call again. You have a funny way of growing on people.”
“Not everyone finds me as irresistible as you do,” I joked. “I kinda don’t want her to, even though I could do with the money, you know, what with the motel bill...”
I’d said it before I could stop myself. This, too, was a regular occurrence — telling her all of my secrets when she didn’t even ask. Her calm, cool, affectionate handling of me made me want to tell her everything.
“You’re staying in a motel? Why?”
“Just some stuff with my parents. It’s nothing. I kinda like it.”
“It’s a motel, Erica, what’s to like?”
“My freedom; my space.” I turned around to face her, to show her that I was being sincere. It wasn’t the worst place in the world. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
“Are you sure? I don’t like to think of you sleeping in a motel. Is it even safe?”
I laughed at her concern, then kissed her. “Trust me, the apartment isn’t much of an improvement. Now quit worrying.”
We spooned again once she was satisfied that I was satisfied. But she went quiet for a while, and I knew she was deep in thought.
“I had my first ever threesome the other day, with Katja of all people.”
She laughed. “That must have been a riot. How did it go?”
“We managed to go the whole session without clawing each other’s eyes out, so I think pretty well.”
“Katja’s definitely a character.”
A beat as I gathered the courage to bring up Katja’s lie. Then, “She told me she slept with you for money...”
“I’ve never slept with her, for money or any other reason.”
“Good to know.”
She didn’t say anything else, but I sensed that something was on her mind. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Disoriented, my head foggy with sleep, I jumped out of my slumber when the light flashed on. Dana woke up too. I had no idea of the time. When we looked up, her husband was standing by the door, a look of pure agitation on his face. I quickly covered my chest with the bed sheet so he couldn’t see. Dana pulled the under sheet off, wrapped it around herself.
“Grant, what are you doing back so early?” she said, and rushed over to him, before kissing him.
“I took an early flight.” He looked over her shoulder at me, shot me a loathing glare. “I thought we agreed you don’t bring your little girlfriends here when I’m in town.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you would be back early.”
“Obviously.” He kissed her again. “You've got ten minutes.”
She nodded, then watched him leave. When she turned back to me, she said, “I’ll call you a cab. My driver’s already gone home.”
She didn’t see me glowering at her as she searched for her cellphone, or as she made the call. She didn’t see the look of pure agony that I shot her as I got dressed. And she didn’t receive a parting kiss.
When the driver asked me why I was crying and if I needed a tissue, I told him I was fine. No one needed to know how insignificant I’d been made to feel; how irrelevant. He’d told her to jump and she’d told me to leave, like I was nothing but a piece of disposable ass. She was my big love, and I was “one of her little girlfriends”.
TEN
“24-hour protection, and leaves no white marks... Do all the activities you love. Cycling, running, climbing, screwing...” That last one I added myself, then chuckled at my stupid joke.
The elevator beeped when it reached the fifteenth floor. As soon as the doors slid open, a chorus of feverish chatter hit me. More than forty women congregated in the corridor, some conversing among themselves, but most rehearsing their lines, scripts in hand. The looks of pure concentration, real commitment, made me uneasy. Not because I felt threatened, but because it saddened me to see so many hopeful women lining up for one part in a commercial. One lousy part to advertise female deodorant. A new organic line made from natural ingredients. Vegan, too, or so they claimed. I’d never heard of the brand until the audition came up.
I was signed up to a website that sent out periodic notifications about open auditions in the area. Nothing had come of it before; most of the parts that came up were for amateur dramatics, read: unpaid stage plays directed by someone’s dad! The commercial was the first paying gig they’d sent through.
All the seats were occupied, so I stood by the elevator, smiled a hello to the girl next to me, and received nothing but an appraising look back, before she returned her eyes to her script.
Wow, actresses are jerks, I thought, then focused my attentions on my own script. I knew the lines already, but more practice never hurt.
“Look at all of them,” someone whispered behind me. I spun around, noticed the girl for the first time. An attractive brunette who, as uncanny as it might sound, looked a bit like me. The same type of features, the same tanned skin. If anyone looked at us standing side by side, they might have thought we were sisters. She had a few years on me, four or five maybe. “The desperation in the air is so thick it’s choking me!”
I laughed. “We’re actresses, that’s sort of standard procedure.”
“Yeah, I get that, but why do they have to take it so seriously? It’s a commercial for deodorant, for God’s sake! Not the role of a lifetime.”
“You never know. Some hotshot Hollywood producer might see it and think, ‘Hmm, you know, that girl really convinced me to buy overpriced deodorant. I’ll put her in my next movie.’”
It was her turn to laugh.
“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t sound so bitter, but these open auditions are the worst. I’ve been to a bunch of them and they always go the same way: we’re looking for someone a little more...commercial. Which is casting director speak for: you’re too ethnic! Next.”
I’d never heard that one before, but then I hadn’t been to many auditions. If they said that about her, they would certainly say it about me.
“Do they really say stuff like that? Well then I’m shit out of luck.”
“I’m Hawaiian/American, what about you? I’m thinking Korean/American?”
“Filipino/American. Exotic, apparently.”
She rolled her eyes, laughed. “Yeah, I hear that one all the time, too. Like I’m some kind of fruit.” She extended her hand. “Amber Ambrose.”
I shook it. “Erica Frost. That’s your real name, not deed polled?�
��
She laughed. “From birth. Hippie parents.”
I didn’t tell her how much she sounded like a porn star.
“So you do this stuff a lot? Auditioning, I mean.”
She nodded. “I need the experience, something to put on my resume. Can’t seem to quit. The real power is in writing your own stuff.”
I’d never thought about it; writing movies seemed like a lot of work. But it made sense.
“I’m trying the drama school thing,” I said. “If I can’t make something of myself there, I don’t deserve it.”
“Which drama school are you going to?”
“I’m starting my second year at RADA in a couple of months.”
She looked impressed. “Wow, you must be pretty good, then. Which begs the question: what the heck are you doing in the trenches with this pathetic bunch?”
I shrugged. “Money’s money. Besides, I want to test out the skills I learned in my first year, see if I’m getting my money’s worth.”
We talked more until it was time for me to be called in. She wished me luck.
“Hey,” I said, just as I was about to leave her, “If you ever do write something and you need someone exotic, give me a shout.”
She laughed. “Will do. Good luck in there.”
There were three people sitting behind one table when I entered the room; one woman, two men. An ineffective fan spun, circulating nothing but stale, lukewarm air on one of the hottest days of the year. One window of a possible three was open. One of the guys was sweating buckets, and kept wiping his forehead, neck and mouth with a napkin.
“Erica Frost, is it?” the woman said, reading from her paper.
“Yes.”
She took a moment, read a little more, then looked up, surprised. “You’re at RADA?”
“That’s right. Going into my second year.”
They looked among themselves.
“You know this is a one-off, nonrecurring role in a commercial, don’t you?”
“Yes...”
She frowned. “Okay, when you’re ready.”
I cleared my throat, tucked my script away, then delivered my lines...
And fudged them!
