by James Grey
“It’s only a discussion, you silly girl!” Martin’s reading my mind again. “Pull yourself together now. Honestly, there isn’t a sign around your neck that says ‘I’m here to find out about being a hooker.’”
I glare at him. Remind me why I agreed to this again?
“Sorry Emma. Just trying to lighten the mood! I know you feel like all the eyes in this bar are judging you right now, but they don’t know you from Julie Soap, OK?”
I nod. He’s right. It’s not even like I’ve tried to dress sexy or anything. I’m in jeans and a tight-fitting t-shirt. If (God forbid!) I bumped into my mother, she’d have no reason to ask any awkward questions.
Yup, it’s my take-it-or-leave-it outfit. If anything I’m pretty marginal for this place. It’s a hotel lounge in Mayfair, and women far more elegant than me are coming and going. But that’s cool. I’m only fact-finding today: it’s not an interview. I don’t want it to be.
I go to the bathroom, though, just to check on my makeup. I look at myself in the mirror, and see an attractive face returning my gaze. Even though my makeup is minimal. I’ve still got plenty of girlish appeal: the shiny lips of Emma the teenager remain. The dark eyes are still full of life, perhaps a little more soulful and alluring now than a year or two ago. My radiant hair, somewhere between jet black and auburn, curves gently in towards my shoulders, then stops. But it’s growing: that crappy business haircut can definitely get out of my life now.
I like that I like my face. I know some girls aren’t that lucky. And I like that it doesn’t need much makeup. My skin isn’t supermodel flawless, but it’s only a few feint freckles that make it so. I’ve been told my natural look is girl-next-door in a good way, and if I’m feeling lazy I can get away with a naked face. I smile at my reflection. Sure, beautiful women can flick my jealousy switches out there, but I’m pretty pleased with what I see when I’m alone with a mirror.
I head back into the lounge and rejoin Martin, feeling a little more settled.
“So Emma, would it be easier if I left you alone with them when they arrive?”
I know Martin isn’t going to be judging me, but this sounds like a good idea. I know him too well to have this kind of conversation with him around.
“I think that would be good, thanks Martin. You’re always so thoughtful.”
“No trouble Emma,” he chuckles. He rises to his feet, gathers up his newspaper and nods to someone over my shoulder. “Then I’ll leave you in Charles’ hands now…he’s right behind you!”
This is it. My nerves start doing backflips. I look around, feeling like some kind of dopey sheep. Martin is already making his way to a far corner of the room. I’m all on my own, and Charles is smiling at me.
“Hello Emma. It’s a real pleasure to see you again.”
This man would pay a grand to fuck you. And I’d never have known it. Christ.
“Oh. Right, um, hi…”
I stand up to return his confident handshake. And I register that there is a woman with him.
“Emma, I’d like you to meet Lucy Fulford. She’s the agent I use.”
Agent. He says it like she’s some kind of business associate. But all three of us know why she’s here. We all know what kind of ‘agent’ this Lucy Fulford is. This woman does not sell houses.
Lucy is surprisingly plain. Somehow I expected glamour. But her face is ordinary, and a little on the thin side. Her hair is brown and straight, the same length as mine. She wears dark-rimmed glasses that give her hazel eyes a certain authority. She presents herself in style, in a knee-length skirt and blouse. Along with her high heels, it’s an outfit that could work at any time of day.
“It’s lovely to meet you Emma,” she beams. Her accent is a little posh – something that usually puts me off people – but I sense her warmth is genuine. This woman is already putting me at my ease. I’m glad she’s here. Charles might be intimidating on his own.
He sits down opposite me, Lucy to his left. Only a low table separates us. We’re in a floor-to-ceiling window bay and the street outside is still bustling with people and traffic. London simply never stops. Martin was right: none of these passers-by give a damn what our conversation was about. But still I squirm in my seat.
I look at Charles and smile weakly. He left an impression on me the one time we met. I’ve run into a few of Martin’s wealthy friends before, but Charles had an extra edge to him. Something that spoke of untold wealth that could not, and would not, be taken away. More than that, he knew his place in the world. You could tell that by the way he carried himself. It wasn’t arrogance at all. Just the assurance of a man completely accustomed to getting his own way.
He was a little older than Martin. Not unattractive, was my first thought. Perhaps not a natural beauty, but he could afford to look after himself and clearly did so. He was not quite greying yet, but there was perhaps for a hint of wisdom in his eyes.
Now, like the other time we met, he wears a five o’clock shadow. And he pulls it off well. His expensive shirt is open at the neck.
“I heard what happened with your job the other day,” he begins, sitting back in his chair and steepling his hands in front of him. Nails tightly clipped, no rings. “From what Martin tells me, it sounds like that was the best thing that could have happened to you. I think you can do a lot better for yourself.”
“Yeah. Well….I guess so. I just don’t really know what I’m going to do now. I’m thinking of going travelling.”
I’m too shy to broach the reason for our meeting. They’re going to have to get this ball rolling, not me.
“To which end we are here tonight,” Charles replies. He is not going to beat about the bush.
They’re both looking right at me. It’s quite unnerving. My mind starts tripping over itself in the glare.
He’s not bad-looking actually. A thousand quid. Would I?
“Let me explain a few things to you, Emma,” he continues. “I know you’re feeling a touch coy right now, so I’ll make it easy and do the talking.”
I smile at him, letting a little pout escape, and nod. He seems a good man. He must be, if he’s friends with Martin. He leans forward and lowers his voice so the next table won’t hear us.
“At this very moment, Emma, a friend of mine is hosting a party at his flat. Only four of his closest friends are invited. I’ll be joining them later.
“It’s a special kind of party. It’s not about drinks and snacks. We don’t need drugs or any of that. It’s about men enjoying women. There will be about a dozen hookers there. A couple too many, in my opinion, but more than enough to go round.”
I glance at Lucy. She’s unperturbed, a dreamy look on her face. I guess she’s heard this all before. So…this is for real.
“The women who will be there are out of this world, Emma. They are the kind of girls most men dare not even dream about. They are better than any airbrushed model you see in a magazine, because they really are that perfect. They are out of reach for just about every man on the planet, unless he is extremely wealthy or stupendously attractive.”
Perfect women? Well, that rules me out, doesn’t it? I relax, feeling quite safe that this conversation and I are rapidly heading in different directions.
“My friend is a millionaire several times over,” he goes on. “The women who will be there tonight will be exceedingly well rewarded for their sexual services. I understand he has booked them for the full evening, and they will be earning several thousand Pounds each for their troubles. Usually he pays them in cash.”
He pauses. There’s no way to tell if he can see the effect his words are having on me. He must be talking about the kind of upper-class orgies I thought only happened in books. I have a few books like that next to my bed. I try to stop my mind recalling some of the country house scenes I’ve enjoyed so much. I can’t. How much again?
“There is a growing number of men, Emma, who have made a certain lifestyle choice. I am one of them. And I am entirely open about it because I
prefer not to live a lie.
“In a nutshell, men such as myself have come to the realization that with our levels of income there is no good argument for agreeing to marry someone. Given that we can afford to satisfy ourselves sexually with an unlimited number of the most beautiful women on earth, what sense is there in signing up for a lifetime with someone who will lose their beauty as fast as they increase their nagging?”
I shrug. Because in this moment, I can’t think of any good answer to his question. Thankfully, I get the feeling it’s a rhetorical one.
“Emma, rare is the man who would choose to be monogamous in an ideal world. Most men settle for it only because they have neither the money nor the looks to live a sexually liberated life. My wealthy friends and I don’t have to settle for anything of the sort.”
I’m listening to him intently now. His words make crystal-clear sense to me. Everything I’ve ever experienced with men is falling into place. I’m supposed to be outraged by his views, so politically unacceptable, so many centuries outdated. And yet…surely a good argument should be allowed to trump political correctness? I feel enlightened.
“The ladies who work for us are exceedingly happy that we’ve reached the conclusions we have,” Charles continues. “They live extraordinarily well. Sometimes they only work one evening a week. Usually more, though, because they love what they do. If there’s one thing we loathe as escort customers, Emma, it’s a woman who gives the impression that she’s only there for the money. Those ones don’t fool us for a second, and they don’t get invited back.”
Enjoy sex? Why yes, Mr Charles. Yes I do. Though it’s been a bit of a drought lately.
Fuck, I wish my mind would shut up. It’s got me going down on him now, champagne glass in one hand while my other massages his balls. I sense another man, of similar age, is about to enter me from behind.
It feels damp between my legs. He’s talking again. Wake up Carling! Suddenly I’m very aware of just how long a drought it’s been for me. Fourteen months and counting.
“Our girls are more powerful than we are, quite frankly. There are some who could have absolutely anything they want off us. For all our money, the girls could ruin some of my well-known friends if they were not discreet. The best of these women are so addictive that we cannot say no to them. Sometimes it gets to a point where they can name any price. And people say men rule the world?”
He shakes his head and chuckles. I’m dead quiet, straight-faced. Damn, he’s right. He’s absolutely right in everything he’s saying. His words, so well-delivered, have found a willing believer.
And I’ve just taken him deeper. My tonsils are tickling his tip and my lips are inching towards his balls.
I’m jolted back into the room by Lucy’s voice. She’s suddenly business-like.
“Emma, my agency supplies most of the girls to Charles and his friends. We don’t advertise. We don’t have a website. In fact we don’t even have a name. We are truly exclusive and have just a handful of clients. Only with a personal introduction do people even get my number. As a personalised service, I work alone: I believe I need to know my clients and know my girls. I couldn’t trust anyone else to do that.
“I’m incredibly careful when recruiting. Rarely do I have more than 25 girls on my books. This is a difficult game, Emma – I am not looking for street-corner whores with a heroin habit. I need outrageously beautiful women with certain looks, personalities and proportions. Most of them need to speak superb English, carry themselves with ease in polite company, and be models of discretion. They have to be healthy, clean and hygienic, and it’s my job to make sure they stay that way.
“My escorts obviously need to have fantastic sex skills. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you all of the things they might be expected to do, but it’s a fairly long list.”
She looks right into my eyes. I feel myself blushing. I feel like I am meant to respond, but I’m still tongue-tied.
“Finally, but most importantly, is their attitude. As Charles mentioned, they cannot get away with pretending to be willing. They must be willing. They cannot just say ‘Fuck me harder’ without meaning it. I cannot stress this enough. Remember, I do not take on clients with wives or partners. I wouldn’t be comfortable with that. I take on single clients like Charles, and for them my girls are their sex life. It needs to be perfect for them.”
At last, they have both stopped talking. I feel my turn to speak has come. My pulse is racing away with me and I’m pretty sure my legs might not hold me up right now, but the wetness in my panties, thank God, stopped increasing when Lucy took over the conversation.
“That’s pretty well explained,” I mumble. “I’m not sure there’s much else I would need to ask!”
They haven’t really said anything about me so far, and I’m happy for it to stay that way.
“I haven’t mentioned the money,” says Lucy, smiling again. I swear there is a twinkle in her eye. “I take a fixed 25 percent of your earnings from a client. I work on a trust system, and so far I haven’t been bitten. Anyway, the rest of the cash is yours to keep.”
I notice that she’s suddenly started talking about me as one of her employees. Not exactly a subtle switch. I’m about to protest that I haven’t said I want to be one of her escorts yet, but Charles gets there first.
“Emma, let me come to the point. From what I’ve seen and heard of you, I feel that you would be a delicious addition to Lucy’s cast of ladies. We’ve been looking for someone with your personality for a while, and it goes without saying that you look the part. You’d work very well with most of the other girls. But there’s a little more to it, isn’t there Lucy?”
I’m glad he’s stopped talking. His words are making my heat rise once again.
“That’s right,” says Lucy. “I’m pretty sure we’ll be thrilled with you, Emma, but I still can’t risk trusting a hunch with such important clients. You will need to earn a relevant qualification first.”
I start. “A what?” I begin to chuckle, glad the tension has dropped a little with this joke. “Come on…there are no qualifications for…are there?”
“There absolutely are, Emma. Well, actually, there’s only one worth having.”
She’s deadpan. Shit, the woman’s not kidding.
I wipe the smile off my face.
“There is an advanced course recognised by upper-class escort agencies the world over. A small group of you spend two intensive weeks at a special location in the countryside. The purpose is to test and hone your sexual skills, nail down your specialities, and finally to ensure that you walk out with the attitude and the ability I’ve spoken about.
“Most of the work is practical and it’s a lot of fun! They have some really excellent teachers.” She’s smirking now. “I’ve never spoken to a girl who didn’t love it. They all say it was essential preparation for her first client.
“Emma, Charles has offered to pay all your fees if you would like to attend the school. There is a course beginning on Monday. Can we interest you?”
Until now I have hardly said a word to them. My hands are still sweating, I keep looking at my shoes and I still don’t feel ready to stand. I don’t know what they see in me, but...this man wants to sponsor me now? Bloody hell. I’m thoroughly flattered. I’m singing inside. Is that wrong?
I won’t show my pleasure. I can’t. Straight face, Emma, straight face. I should at least say ‘I’ll think about it’. But then… fuck it! Who am I kidding? I have an empty diary and moist underwear. Oh yes, and a rapidly-diminishing bank balance too. I might have slammed one door shut last week, but these people are opening another right before my eyes.
“Okay,” I say, finally looking Charles and Lucy in the eye as an equal, albeit with nothing approaching confidence. “Count me in.”
I can’t believe I just did that.
Chapter III
No way am I going to sleep. The train is a slow one, drifting through the countryside like it knows it’s a Sunday. The carriag
e is almost deserted. Afternoon sun pours in, making my knees pleasantly warm as it bakes the denim of my jeans. I should be getting drowsy by now, after the frantic few days I’ve had, but I can’t keep my thoughts quiet enough. They’re racing ahead of me, and just keeping up with them is enough to keep anyone awake.
Instead, I sit with my hands clasped together, hunched forward and probably frowning. I look at the soft black travel bag I’ve brought, which sits on the seat opposite me. There’s really not a whole lot in there for two weeks, I think to myself for the twentieth time.
I’m paranoid that some stranger is going to want to chat, ask me where I’m off to, why my bag is so small. Ludicrous: this is England. Strangers do not chat. And anyway, there’s only one other person in this carriage. An elderly man with a dog on a lead. Heading home from Sunday lunch and a walk in the fields, I’m sure. I glance at him, but his nose is still buried in The Times.
I sigh. Are we there yet? Do I want to arrive at all? I chew even harder on my gum and stare out of the window as Cotswolds idyll slides past in the softening summer light. Some sheep, the odd cow, plenty of yellow rape flowers. Even the horses are feeling lazy: I spot several lying on their sides in the paddocks. I wonder if they’re judging me. Shut up, Emma, you idiot. Horses mount each other in full view of everyone, don’t they?
There’s a crazy nightmare thought that won’t leave my head: what if my parents climb aboard? For fuck’s sake Emma! Mum and Dad never take Sundays in the country by train. Dad will be watching the football and Mum will be badgering him to do some chore or other. Ugh. That whole image helps me. It makes me glad I’m doing this experiment: no way do I want to get into that kind of domestic bliss.
Only Martin knows where I’m going. Parents and friends alike have been sold the line that I’m taking a holiday on a very small Greek island. One that has no phone signal. My folks took some convincing that my cottage didn’t have a landline or anything, but eventually they had to accept my incommunicado trip. I’d just lost my job after all – who wouldn’t want to get away from everything for a couple of weeks? Whatever. My story will have to do. I’d rather die than tell my folks where I’m headed.
