Escort in Training (Emma Book 1)

by James Grey

  “And…you?”

  Petra stays silent a moment. For the first time I sense unease in her, now that I’ve thrown the ball back into her court. Then she folds her arms in front of her chest and fixes me with her gaze again.

  “Just some regular training for my work,” she says, and looks away to her left.

  I’m taken aback. “Regular training? You mean…you’ve been before? Are you…”

  She cuts me off: “I am already three years a hooker. I have not been here before. Okay?”

  A hooker already? Jesus. What’s going on here?

  The blonde Bulgarian stalks off in the direction of the walk-in wardrobe. The elephant in the room has been dealt with, but I get the sense question time is over. I turn to face the open window again. It’s quiet outside. So quiet. The merry birds of daytime have abandoned their song as twilight draws in. I long for a breath of wind. Anything.

  My mind is racing, though. Aren’t we all supposed to be rookies here? Or did I just assume that? Now that I think about it, nobody explicitly said so. Suddenly I’m afraid that I might be the only one. Maybe this is a practical joke after all. A joke on me. But all I know for sure is that my room-mate just became a whole lot more intimidating.

  And why on earth does an experienced escort need to come here for lessons?

  No bitch is going to get me down. I taught my boss that just the other day. Petra can be what she wants to be. Yes, I’m curious. But I have patience. For now, she can do as she pleases. They all can. I’m going to check out that wardrobe.

  I barely notice the rummaging Petra as I walk in and turn to my side of the well-lit closet. There must be a hundred different outfits in here! A cursory glance reveals glittering evening gowns, a few expensive-looking skirts and a variety of blouses. There’s the smell of dry-cleaning. I spot a selection of handbags crammed onto one of the shelves.

  And then my eyes fall upon the shoes. They fill the floor beneath the hanging clothes. There are more on the shelves, in shoe compartments. Oh my, what a trove. Mostly they are high heels. Red, black, blue. Decorated, jewelled, pure glamour. Some of those heels look uncomfortably tall. The thought of wearing them thrills me a little, though. Like the prospect of a roller-coaster ride.

  I pick up a pair of black leather heels and hold them up to my nose. New. Definitely new. I sniff a purple velvet slipper and it’s also got that never-worn smell. I feel woozy at the thought of the money that must have been spent on all this. A little guilty, too. Was all this really bought for me?

  This closet is every girl’s dream, but butterflies start dancing in my tummy as I look more closely at the clothes. The more clothes I find, the more I sense the expectation attached to them. Deeper inside the cupboard, at the far end of the railing, I notice some more unusual items. A couple of business suits in the style favoured by my cow of an ex-boss. And that flash of white hanging behind it? I unhook it: a one-piece nurse’s uniform. It’s small. In fact most of the clothes look like they’ll be a little tight, come to think of it. They’ve erred on the low side of my measurements.

  I pull more items down from the railing. I’m startled to find a slim-fit dress with two very deliberate holes in the front of the top section. Hmm. There are numerous skimpy miniskirts, a pair of riding tights and what looks to be a complete school uniform kit.

  There’s some decidedly militaristic stuff too: a couple of khaki uniform jackets with matching caps. A swastika catches my eye, and something from recent news items comes flashing back to me. Who was that big shot caught cavorting with fancy hookers in Nazi gear? I shake my head and try not to think about it, but the tremble comes. It’s not hard to do the maths here.

  I rummage once again. A couple of bathrobes, one of them highly transparent. There’s an emerald-green one-piece bathing suit. I like the mermaid colour, and picture myself diving into fresh, clear water looking a million bucks as it hugs my figure. There are several bikini bottoms: some with matching tops, others conspicuously mono. Some polo shirts that pair with sporty tennis skirts. Curiously, there’s even full-front apron. Several plump, fresh bath and swimming towels fill a broad shelf near the bottom. Some classic, wispy nightwear. They were right: we wouldn’t want for clothing here. Where necessary.

  Just when I think I’ve seen it all, I pull out a black, backless dress. Except it’s more than merely backless. It takes me some time to understand it. There’s nothing below the neck strap, apart from another strap to go around the waist. Anyone wearing this would be completely bare to anyone passing behind her.

  I let out a low whistle, and hear Petra look around. I’ve almost forgotten her, but there she is, with what looks like a British Airways stewardess’s uniform in her hand. She sees the dress I’m holding, and I hear her snicker for the first time. My bemusement seems to amuse her.

  I’m full, and I’m drowsy already. We’ve just been served a simple but tasty meal in our room. It was only soup and thick, chunky bread, but the ingredients and preparation hinted at a kitchen that knows its stuff. Petra, who is only just the right side of anorexic, abandoned hers halfway through and started reading, but I wolfed down everything. Nothing keeps me from my food.

  I put my tray to one side and sit up on my bed. It’s dark inside now: I reach over to the lamp and switch it on. There’s now a pleasant glow on my side of the room. I’m relaxed, but it seems a little early to sleep. What I really want to do is unwind in that big bath. Does it really have to be out in the open like that?

  Hang on, no. If I want a bath, I’ll have one. Screw her. She’s not going to spoil my evening. She’s not going to spoil anything. The new Emma has got no patience for attitude.

  I start as another knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I hear Petra say something in a foreign language, and another woman lets herself in.

  I’m surprised to see another beautiful female push her way into the room. Visitors already? She’s an absolute screaming babe with inky-black hair. She barely nods at me as she passes my bed en route to Petra’s, chattering all the way in what I assume is Bulgarian. Here we go again. Petra rises and hugs her, smiling. So, she’s not a complete bitch to everyone, then. Which just makes it worse.

  I know they’re talking about me. I can hear my name mentioned, and the new arrival looks over and chuckles at least once. They’re hotter than me, and they know it.

  “It’s Lilia,” Petra pipes up at last. I guess this is her attempt at an introduction. “We work together in London.”

  “Oh, yes, hi,” I mutter. Another veteran hooker, no doubt. Can this get any worse?

  Don’t be so paranoid, Emma. Stop it, right now. You’re gorgeous, they said you were gorgeous. Martin said you were gorgeous.

  Lilia and Petra make their way over to the closet, evidently to have a little look at the clothes stash. They close the door, but I can hear them giggling inside. I wonder what they’re trying on?

  Soon enough they emerge together, talking non-stop. Lilia wears a schoolgirl’s uniform which had better have come from Petra’s side of the cupboard. She pulls it off brilliantly, of course. Her hair is only shoulder-length, but it shines like every strand has been polished. She’s quite skinny, but her breasts are prominent in that tight blouse. Just right for a saucy schoolgirl. Her skin is quite dark, her lips full and red. A pretty picture, whatever the angle.

  Only now do I notice Petra. She’s stripped down to her underwear. Something a lot frillier than what I am wearing. They giggle their way over to the window. Lilia pinches Petra’s ass on the way. I’m not sure if this is a show, or they’re just enjoying their try-on session on what is still a muggy night. Either way, they both end up leaned out over the window railing, smoking.

  Nice of you to offer. No, that’s okay, I brought my own.

  I try to keep my eyes off Petra, leant on the balcony rail with her forearms, but I can’t do it. I have a great angle, rear three-quarter. Her long legs are mesmerizing, all the longer for that pair of very high heels. Black ones. The underwear
is red, and it does almost nothing to hide the two shapely crescents of her creamy-gold behind. It sticks out, nearly naked, waggling proudly every so often. It is a work of art, and this woman knows it.

  I gulp as I admire her tight stomach, which loses none of its poise while bent over. It’s as if she bends without bending; there’s no seam and no apex between her torso and legs. Even standing still, the curve of her body is like one flowing movement. In the soft light of the bedside lamps, she is a goddess.

  A bitch, yes, but a beautiful one. It makes me worry. Shit. Look away. Now.

  Right, I’m having that bath. It’s getting late, but I just need to chill for a while. Petra’s friend is gone, and my room-mate is lying on her bed, reading something once more. Thankfully she’s changed into something less sexy for sleep: a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Very short shorts, but less troubling.

  I get up, pad across the wooden floor in my bare feet, and try the taps. As you’d expect in a big old house like this, the warm water takes a while to emerge. But emerge it does, and the plug seems to be working. I smile to myself. This is going to be luxurious – and never mind the audience.

  “I’m just going to use the bath before bed,” I tell Petra, who hasn’t even looked up since I started speaking. “I’ll be quiet if you want to sleep.”

  “Yeah,” is all she says, face still in her book. Couldn’t be less interested. Still, am I going to undress right in front of her? I ponder this as I let the bath fill up until the bubbles almost spill over.

  As I go to the closet to collect a towel, I remember the bathrobes. Of course! I close the door, switch on the light and pick out an orange, oriental robe with a blue dragon motif. It’s a little gaudy, but at least it’s not see-through. I quickly strip down, shove my clothes in a basket marked ‘dirty washing’ and don the robe.

  I go back out into the room. Petra is unmoved. A thought occurs to me: I should lock our door. But I can’t find a latch. I sigh. Oh well, so much for privacy. No visitor is going to see me under the bubbles anyway.

  With as little fanfare as I can, I walk over to the bath, turn my back to Petra and drop the robe to the floor. Fast, before I can change my mind. I climb into the bath. It doesn’t feel graceful. I’d swear blind I can feel her eyes on me.

  But now I’m under the bubbles. I’m safe here. I lie back, facing the window. I can see the dark trees and the sky through the open shutters. A pale moon glows behind limp, skinny clouds. There’s still no breeze, the curtains hang lifeless. The soft chirp of a cricket is all I can hear. This is as blissful as I’d hoped it would be.

  Petra does nothing in particular to spoil my peace. I think back over the day. I’ve only met two other girls so far: nine to go! As for teachers, or whatever they call them in a place like this, I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow. I hope that everyone is as endearing as Chris and Miss Honeywell. And I hope not all the other girls are veteran hookers.

  Yes, there’s plenty I can worry about if I think about it too much. So instead, I think of myself two weeks ago, psyching myself up for another maniacal week at the office. Sunday nights were always the worst, that ghastly time when I stood on the precipice of the real world again. Right now, my friends back in London are getting an early night for all the wrong reasons, or God forbid, even making a head start on their emails.

  Now, here, I’m on the precipice of something, yes. But something exciting, a new world. Something naughty. No, I don’t want to trade this. The Jaguars, the wardrobe, the huge bubble bath? The…no Emma, don’t think of that yet. I’m a lucky girl, even if I have to have a moody room-mate. I’m going to give this my best shot.

  Chapter V

  A ferocious ringing startles me awake. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. The sound is full and rich, shrill and insistent. Where is it coming from? What’s going on? And where am I? Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding.

  The infuriating noise stops abruptly. I groan as the echo subsides and my brain slowly reassembles reality, coming to terms with its unfamiliar surroundings. I’m groggy not just from the sudden wake-up, but because my fears that I would not sleep well were entirely misplaced. I’ve never known such a comfortable bed.

  The satin-soft linen is fit for a princess. After that bath, it had no trouble lulling me to slumber in five minutes flat. I expected to toss and turn, arguing with myself all night. But I felt at one with myself, sticking to my bath-time resolution. I might get nervous in the company of glamorous females, but apart from that I’m feeling pretty comfortable in my own skin right now.

  Hooker school! It’s my first coherent thought. Holy hell, this is it. It’s day one. And things are happening. What have you done?! Why the hell are you here?! My pulse quickens and that first-day-at-school knot coils in my stomach. What am I supposed to do? I roll over and glance across at Petra. She’s not much more awake than I am.

  I start as I hear the door open. It’s a man! Perhaps in his fifties, but with a far more youthful air than that. Even through my crusty eyes I can see he’s a satisfying six foot two, and there is something of Colin Firth about him. I follow him with my eyes as he enters the room, and I’m a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

  He’s a most pleasant sight to wake up to. His chestnut hair is gelled to perfection, almost reflective. He’s very smartly dressed; his tailored suit fits him and his strong shoulders just right. It’s almost over the top at this time of day. His outfit borders on black tie. Despite my bleariness I notice the intense shine of his shoes. They do not look cheap.

  He does not introduce himself. Instead he walks in with the confidence of somebody who is used to being obeyed without a word. It’s that x-factor I’ve noticed with some of the boardroom types at work. I smell him as he passes the foot of my bed. Musk and spice.

  He seizes the curtains and pulls them open to reveal another blue-sky day. Then he turns to face us.

  “Miss Stoycheva, Miss Carling. Good morning. You will report to the showers when you hear the bell in ten minutes. Bring your towels and toiletries only.”

  With that, he crosses the room again, walks out of the door and closes it behind him.

  I feel my nerves begin to dance as I awake fully to what he said. And how he said it. Was he doing an impression of a piggish client? Or is this how the teachers will be? There was something in his authoritative manner that hinted at a testing morning. I fear we’re not going to be easing in as gently as I hoped. If only someone will tell me what I’m supposed to do, every step of the way, I might survive.

  I look to Petra. Her hair’s in a bit of a state, but otherwise she shows almost no effects of sleep. Experience tells me I’m probably not so lucky. She’s up and moving before I am; seems to have taken the orders in her stride. My room-mate appears unhurried but purposeful. She walks to the window and lights up one of her cigarettes, turning her back on me as she looks out over the countryside.

  I sit up and look around the room, at a loss. The instructions were clear enough. The implication was that we’d undress here, wrap up in towels and then head down the hall to the bathroom. I just wish…I just wish Petra will do it first so I can copy what she does. She says she hasn’t been here before, but she’s in the game, ergo she’s someone I might want to copy. My pride, though, won’t let me ask that cow for help.

  I yawn, stretch and tentatively step out of bed. Like Petra, I’m in shorts and a t-shirt. I guess there’s not much to do but take them off. I make for the wardrobe, still wondering who that man was. I have a feeling we’ll cross paths again. I know the question will play on my mind. I do wish I could shut down that curiosity of mine sometimes.

  I’d prefer Petra not to walk in on me getting changed, so I’m quick once again. In just seconds I’m wrapped up in one of the big, fluffy, white towels. And now, I’m not really sure what to do with myself.

  I idle some time away looking through the clothes again, and wonder what I’ll wear today. What do you wear on your first day at school? Especially this sort of school? The school uniform seems logic
al enough, but isn’t that just silly? Then again, it’s one of very few things suitable for daytime use. This closet has been filled by a night owl, by the looks of it.

  I’m startled as Petra opens the door. Oh God! She’s already topless. She must have whipped off her t-shirt as she walked across the room. This woman is not shy. She gives me a cruel smile that says ‘I know’. She seems utterly comfortable, but I feel I must look away. I quickly push past her, mumbling apologies. Jesus, what are you sorry for? You’re so fucking English, Emma.

  I sit on my bed, waiting. I did notice one thing: her breasts are not big. Of course they aren’t: she’s petite and perfectly-proportioned. But I smile to think that I have an edge on her in the chest department. Mine are ample and support themselves well: I’ve always been able to fill a tight top rather snugly.

  Petra emerges, thankfully wrapped up in a towel just like I am. She comes over to my bed and sits down to wait with me. She doesn’t speak, nor seem to care about the silence.

  “He did say something about another bell, right?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “Yes, I think so…so we wait.”

  “I wonder if it will be the same every morning?” I muse.

  Petra takes this as a purely rhetorical question, not a chance to take the conversation further. She just plays with her fingers, waiting. What. A. Cold. Woman.

  A few more awkward moments of silence. Then footsteps. We hear the bell come closer as it stops outside each room. A door slams in the distance.

  We don’t wait for the infernal ding-ding-ding to come any closer. We step out into the dim hallway. A couple of towelled women, only their shoulders and calves bare, are already making their way to the bathroom. So it’s to be all of us, then. Crap. I keep my head down as we pass our waker and his bell.

  The walk down the hall seems to take an eternity. I hear the sound of running water beyond the bathroom door. I popped here to use the toilet before bed last night, and I noticed then that this room was different to what I’d seen of the rest of the house. It was quite modern inside, and sparkling with cleanliness. It must have had a lot of work done and was one room that did look a little institutional. Including the open-plan shower area.