by James Grey
Escort in Training
Volume 1 of the
Emma series by
James Grey
FIREFLY
Oxford, England · Charlotte, North Carolina
© Firefly, 2015
Chapter I
My hands shake as they fumble at the keys on my phone. They’re out of control. My angry fingers can’t seem to hit the right buttons. I curse the gibberish I’ve put on the screen and slam the fucking thing back into my handbag. It’ll only be an enraged Facebook status I’ll end up regretting. I should have gotten further away. Now I’m falling apart on their doorstep.
Somewhere behind the screaming pack of thoughts roaring laps around my head, I can hear a little voice urging me to get out of here. But my legs have gone to mush. I can barely grip on the cigarette I’m trying to pull out of its box. I sit down, right there in the morning sunshine, on the office steps. Right there in my pencil skirt. Eyes welling up.
We’re not supposed to smoke on the front steps. But who gives a fuck now? I’ve just pushed that snake’s laptop right off her sad-ass desk. Slammed the door behind me before her fucking computer spilled its guts on the floor. They can’t fire me for smoking a cigarette. Or swearing at my manager. Or for damaging their equipment. Because I quit.
That poison-dwarf bitch. She had it coming. Everyone except her couple of smarmy, ass-licking, suck-up cronies detests her from the inside out. Day after day we’ve mouthed off to each other about her bullying, her incompetence, her lying and her manipulation.
But nobody applauded when I lost it today. Cowards. Secretly wishing they had my audacity, but staring at the scene like rabbits caught in a goddamn industrial searchlight. I spoke for everyone out there when I called her a cunt. Yet the only voice ringing out loud was mine. The rest? They just look out for number one.
And now I’m just a tangle of rage. Too incensed to feel a heroine. Too trembling to hold a fucking ciggy between my lips. They had better not come near me.
I’m home. It’s been a blur of tubes and buses, but somehow I’ve made it from Canary Wharf to Putney. I could navigate this commute in my sleep. And it’s just as well, since I’ve been somewhere between stunned and comatose all the way from the office to here.
I wanted my apartment more than anything, but at the same time I didn’t care if I got home or not. Oh well, I made it. At least I won’t be playing this godawful London commuting game any time soon. For three years I’ve given three hours of each weekday just to go back and forth and pander to those blowholes. Jesus, why?
I am not a lot calmer. I just want to cleanse myself of that place, of them, in every way I can. As I slam my apartment door behind me, I’m overwhelmed with a need to get out these clothes. It’s hot and sticky, and I feel the office’s stench in the fabric.
I fling my bag on the floor and kick my high heels off in the living area. I don’t care where anything ends up. But I feel a little lighter as I run my hand through my hair and wearily puff out my cheeks on my way to the bedroom. I’m already unbuttoning my ever-so-professional white blouse.
I’m pulling my arms out of it by the time I’m into my room. It, too, lands on the floor. Now I toss the skirt away. Better already! Off comes my bra. My panties. I’ll figure out where to burn it all later. Right now I just want to flop down on my bed.
I dive onto the welcoming softness of my duvet. I’m panting a little, from my angry rush up the stairs and getting undressed so fast. I feel my heart bumping away somewhere beneath me, its rhythm tracking the fury still pulsing through me. At last, I can sigh as deep as I want. I don’t need to move for a long, long time.
I haven’t slept like that in months. This morning’s outpouring exhausted me, but it lifted a weight too. I don’t remember lying awake for long. The warm afternoon, the understanding mattress, having nowhere to be…they must have knocked me off like a switch.
My heartbeat is still there in my breast, but now it’s like a chilled-out, comforting companion, urging me to take it easy. I smile to myself when I remember I’m nude. I strayed far from my meticulous routine when I got home today. But then it’s not every day that you walk out of your job halfway through the morning.
I’m surprised at how good I’m feeling. The tension in my shoulders has evaporated. I flip onto my back and stretch my sleepy arms and legs. A sunbeam from the skylight streams across my tummy. I’m utterly comfortable, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now. This is like a Sunday afternoon, only better, because there’s no work tomorrow. No work ever!
I doze a little longer, sunbathing on my bed. I can see a sliver of sky. The usual London sounds fill the distance: police sirens, the dull rumble of a jumbo jet on its descent to Heathrow Airport. For once my mind is empty. I’m content. I’m not dwelling on my scene this morning. The feeling of closure is fantastic.
At last I sit up, still a little groggy. I’m so glad I live alone at times like this. My hair must look a mess and my eyes will be bloodshot from the tears. But I can sort myself out and find clothes in my own time. Where’s my phone? I guess that’d be wherever I hurled my handbag. I pad through to the living room, grab the phone, and flop back down on my bed.
I’ve got messages. A few of the brave ones from work have congratulated me.
Well done for standing up to her, Emma.
Brave girl, hun, call me when you want to talk. x
She deserved that, the cow. xx
Wow, you went out in style, couldn’t have put it better myself!
What exactly did I say? My memory of the detail is lost in the haze of rage. Maybe I should have held my tongue? Fuck, I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting a reference out of them.
The sun has gone in and the room is sombre now. I pull a light blanket over me. All of a sudden, I feel a knot tightening in my stomach. Like the one I had before my first interview with them. Pull yourself together, Emma. You did the right thing.
Nobody else knows what’s happened yet. God, I’ll have to tell my parents and my friends. They’ll bug me about my plans. How am I going to pay the rent, anyway? I’ve got enough saved for a couple of months, but then what? Back to Mom and Dad at 26? I feel my brow furrowing already. Christ, my unemployment honeymoon is over after one blissful afternoon nap.
I don’t have anything planned for this evening. Not unusual. I’ve been coming home spitting mad most Fridays, not feeling much like activity. But staying in seems a bad idea tonight. I don’t feel like telling a crowd of people what happened today. I just need a good friend and a glass of wine. Maybe two. I hope Martin’s free.
“Emma, you had to get out of there. I just knew we’d be having this conversation sooner or later. You deserve better.”
Martin looks right into my eyes, all wisdom and soft stubble. The wisdom of years: he’s 42 but he’s one of my best friends. We hit it off six years ago when we worked together at the library, and it has never been anything but platonic. He listens to classical music and reads Vanity Fair. He is one of those men who can always offer a willing ear and a new perspective on things. He’s a fantastic friend for any girl.
“Yes, but still, I’m really not sure, Martin. I think I might have really blown it this time. The money wasn’t bad, and was the job really that awful? I’m on five times the money I earned when you and I worked together.”
“Emma, listen to yourself!” he chides. “Yes, it really was that awful! You’ve been close to despair for over a year now. Do you have any idea how many jobs there are out there? I don’t think there’s any excuse for being unhappy in what you do all week long.”
I sigh and rest my chin on my hands. Martin’s words make sense, but I feel more and more glum about the state of my life.
“Sure, but times are hard right now,” I protest. “It could take weeks to find something, and my rent isn’t going to go away. You know, it would be a lot fucking easier if I had a man in my life right now.”
“Listen to me now, Emma,” says Martin, launching into his build-me-up routine. “You’re bloody gorgeous, but you’re talented too. You don’t have to have a man to look after you. Nor do you need to work for some soulless, life-sapping, multinational consultancy firm unless you love the work. You really have got to stop worrying. You’re smart, and things will work out.”
I wish I could perk up. “You’re sweet to say it, Martin. But there’s so much more going on in my head right now. I’m not even sure I want another office job. There’s going to be another useless manager at the next one, isn’t there? More of this crappy commuting. Any company sucks you dry sooner or later. I’m only 26 and sick of the grind already. I’m turning into a bitter old woman.”
“Emma…” He’s trying, but I cut him off.
“Maybe it’s time I finally went travelling! I never did get that gap year. That’s it! Six months backpacking around South America beats grey old London any day. I’ll be my old self again in no time!”
I can feel myself brightening. I take a sip of my wine and smile at Martin as if I’ve just solved all my problems with a Latin American travel itinerary. He raises an eyebrow.
“You should definitely travel, Emma. Everyone should experience the world. I just wonder though – ”
“What?” I interrupt.
“Well, where’s the money for that gallivanting going to come from? A couple of plane tickets and you’re through your savings, as far as I understand. How’s your Spanish? Can you work in those countries?”
Fuck. He always has to find the catch in any plan. I say nothing. Back to square one. We sip on our wine for a while. I do like this about Martin: silence is never uncomfortable with him.
At last he clears his throat and speaks. “Well, maybe marrying a millionaire wouldn’t be all that bad an idea.”
“I might as well do! I can’t get anyone else to hang around. Guys keep on seeing me as a notch in their bedposts. It’s not easy being a girl, Martin!”
“Well unfortunately that can go with the territory of being a stunning brunette,” he says, massaging my ego just exactly where I need it. “But on the other hand, you could always turn it round to your advantage.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” I really am in the dark.
Suddenly he looks embarrassed. “Never mind, it’s nothing. A mad thought just crossed my mind, but I really don’t know where it came from. Sorry Emma, let’s just forget that I mentioned it, okay?”
“Martin, come on, you’ve made me curious now!”
Where the hell is he going with this? I’m obviously not going to let it go.
“I couldn’t, Emma…”
“Martin, you’re going to tell me what you were thinking. And right now, if you don’t mind!”
“Bloody hell, alright darling! But don’t bite me, okay?”
Surely he isn’t going to be suggesting that. Is he? My mind tries to blank out the thought.
“No biting, I promise…” Though I’m not sure I mean it. He can’t seriously think I’m going to be a stripper.
Martin leans forward and lowers his voice. He’s getting all conspiratorial, and it makes me tingle a little. “As I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re a real beauty. You do believe that, don’t you?”
I nod. I’m telling him what he wants to hear, just so he’ll get to his point.
“Do you remember my wealthy friend Charles? The one who met us for a drink a couple of weeks ago?”
“Yes, I remember him,” I reply patiently. Does he want me to marry Charles now?
I look at him with a furrowed brow. He’s one step away from proving he’s gone off his rocker completely.
“Okay. So Charles is one of a couple of friends I’ve got who are into, you know, escorts. High-class escorts. I’m talking £500 an hour escorts.”
I’m so taken aback that my snappy riposte never comes. Escorts? Woah! So really he means hookers. Not strippers. Wait a second: how much again?
I wasn’t prepared for this. I gape back at Martin like a goldfish with special needs.
He goes on: “After he met you he told me how much he wished you were in that line of work. Something about you piqued his interest. I never gave it a thought at the time, of course, but – ”
“Martin!” I almost yell. I’m starting to really see where he’s heading with this. I’m indignant. He can’t be serious! He really has gone off his rocker!
“Hang on,” he says, raising his hand. “You made me start, so you have to let me finish.”
“Jesus, Martin! Alright! I’m just…still reeling that there are people who will pay that much for a girl.”
He raises his eyebrows at me and says with a smirk, “And there I was thinking you’d reel from the mere suggestion of you being the girl in question. I thought I’d have wine in my face by now.”
“I’m not like that, Martin,” I retort, folding my arms crossly. “Besides, you didn’t say I had to be that girl, did you? Or did you?”
“Not yet, but I just thought – ”
“Come on Martin, you can’t be serious! I’m not some, you know…” I can’t say the word. My voice trails off and I just sniff at him. Martin and his outrageous suggestions. Not that he’s in the habit of proposing stuff like this, to be fair.
“Alright, I’m not going to push this,” he says. “You’re offended. Just one little thing I should mention, since I’ve come this far.”
He pauses, and drops his voice to a whisper. He avoids my eye now. He’s looking to the left, at a spot on the floor somewhere behind me.
“Do you know what Charles said to me after meeting you? He told me he would pay a thousand Pounds to spank you and have sex with you.”
Oh my God. A grand? To have sex? One of my eyebrows shoots up before I can stop it. “With me? Don’t be silly Martin. Stop winding me up. I’m not in the mood.”
“Emma, it’s God’s honest truth,” he says, looking me straight in the eye to show he’s not kidding. “And he swears blind his chums would do the same. I was never going to say anything about it, but the way the conversation turned tonight, it just sort of came into my head. Sorry. You see why I didn’t want to mention it.”
I’m stunned. Words, which had sparked quick-fire from my icy tongue that morning in the office, fail me now. I recoil at the mention of prostitution. Such a thing has literally never crossed my mind. Not even once. How could it? I’m a decent girl, after all.
But part of me is flattered to be thought worth so much. I’ve been told I’m pretty, but one thousand Pounds? A surge of electricity runs down my legs. I’m intrigued. There is a long silence, and I avoid my friend’s soft eyes as I take a gulp of my Rioja.
“Are you mad at me Emma?” Martin looks concerned.
“Yes. No. Well, not exactly. I mean, it’s ridiculous to even talk about it, but I guess it’s amusing to know these things, isn’t it?” I pause for a while, chew on a fingernail and look at the ground. “I don’t mind that you told me.”
He smiles. “And you shouldn’t be offended. A girl doing that kind of job can bring an empire crashing down, you know that? Just think how quickly you could retire and go travelling if you made that sort of money?”
My curiosity is definitely rising, in spite of myself. Sex. Money. I like those things, don’t I? “So, there’s some pretty exclusive stuff going on out there, huh?” I try to sound as if I’m just filling up a gap in conversation. Definitely not curious for my own sake.
“Yup,” he smiles, clearly not fooled by my act. “We’re talking super-rich clients. Hotel visits, mansion parties…that sort of thing. Fairly kinky stuff at times. I’ve never been tempted, but I’ve heard a few things. We’re talking about the seriously rich and famous. All the money and power in the world, but they’ll melt into helpless
little boys when you put a perky, willing blonde or two into the room with them. Or, ahem, a brunette...”
“Right,” I nod, genuinely lost in thought. I’m still not sure what to say. There are all sorts of crazy ideas swirling around my head. Talk of sex usually gets me a little hot under the collar. Now the talk is of insane amounts of money as well. I’m supposed to be appalled. But now that I’ve recovered from the bombshell, I’m feeling something unexpected inside.
Would I? Could I?
“Look,” says Martin, taking my hands in his, in that rare never-more-than-friends way you almost never find with a straight guy, “I wouldn’t lose the slightest bit of respect for you if you wanted to do something like that. Hell, I’d jump at the chance to have sex for a living. I know you’re not a prude and judging by some of your drunken revelations, you’re up for a bit of bedroom experimentation.”
I blush all the way to the tips of my ears. “Shut up!” I hiss. “Alright, so it might be fun in theory…and I know you know it’s been a long while for me. But it’s a big leap to do…that!” I shake my head. “A huge leap. I really don’t think it’s me.”
He nods. “Emma. I don’t give a flying fig whether you consider this thing or not. It’s just an option that could be there for you. If you want, I can set up a meeting with Charles and his agent. They could tell you more than I can. Definitely no strings attached.”
“OK Martin. Let me think about it.”
The words slipped out of my mouth before I could even stop them. How did that happen?
Ah well. I said what I said. It’s not like I have any other plans for the rest of my life.
Chapter II
I’ve got shaky hands again. Clammy palms too. But this time, five days later, it’s not rage I’m feeling. I’m quivering somewhere between nerves and anticipation. Part of me wants to run away and hide in the bathroom. That part of me is ashamed to be here, and it’s telling me that it’s not too late.
