by James Grey
Maybe I can live with the rest of these women. We all have our pluses and minuses, I’m sure. Petra and her miserable friend can fuck off. Whether I will perform as well as they can when push comes to shove, I have no idea.
I’m not waiting for Petra. Lilia has come to prepare with her, and they are still fiddling around in our room, finishing with their makeup. I don’t sense excitement, I sense two women going through the motions. I smoke a calming cigarette by the window – my first one since leaving London – watching the two of them do their thing at the dresser. I hope they’ve noticed how little I needed to tart myself up to look knockout. Yeah, my confidence is holding.
I bump into Simone as I head down the hallway towards the stairs. I figure she must be our neighbour. And doesn’t she look great! She’s gone for a red dress, pretty conservative really, cut at the knee and only exposing a bit of neck. But she’s working it: it really suits a tall woman like her because there’s still a lot of curvy leg on show. Especially in those high heels.
“Hey Simone, you look great!” I tell her. She smiles back at me. I can sense she’s genuine.
“Aw, but you look better!” she says in her near-perfect English. “Blue really suits you.”
I hope she’s not just being polite. Picking out clothes isn’t my strong suit, and I’d have been wasting my time trying to get an opinion from Petra and Lilia. I’ve gone for a figure-hugging number. My hem is higher than hers and this dress leaves my shoulders bare. It’s backless too.
I feel sexy in this shiny new piece, and Simone just made me feel sexier. I’m such a sucker for a formal evening do. Which is just what this feels like. For now. But part of me thinks we’ll be asked to strip before the starters are served. And I’m nervous about that idea.
We walk towards the stairs together, each clutching our little handbags. Needless to say, I found an impressive designer selection of those in my wardrobe too. Butterflies begin to dance in my abdomen now: I haven’t had a feeling quite like this since high school.
“Kinda weird, isn’t it?” I venture. “It feels like we’re going to the prom…what with this being a school and all…”
Simone laughs. “Yeah. Only in this case we don’t know who our dates are!”
“And we don’t know if this is quite going to turn out like a normal dinner-dance…”
“No,” she grins. “They don’t like to volunteer information, do they? But take it easy, I’m sure we’ll be just fine whatever happens. Just enjoy it and go with the flow.”
Easy for her to say! My confidence is ebbing away, and we’re outside the banquet room now. Wilfred ushers us in.
“Miss Carling, Miss Veenstra, good evening and welcome. Please come in.”
Before I can even take in my new surroundings, a man steps forward.
“Hello Emma, I’ll be your partner for this evening. My name is Rupert. The pleasure is all mine.”
My first instinct is to snigger. Rupert? Is everything going to be like time-travel in this place? But when I look at him properly, my smile is replaced by a gape.
The first thing I notice is his eyes. Emerald green, with flecks of chestnut brown. Wow. A day’s worth of stubble adorns his chiselled chin. He’s in the region of six foot. Ooh, you’ll be snug tucked under his arm! His hair is dark brown, faultlessly tidy around the fringes but long enough on top to run your fingers through.
My handsome date fits the cut of his tuxedo like a glove. It’s the broad shoulders that do it. I can see he is the just the right amount of muscular under that suit of his. When I gather my wits – which I’m not sure I’m going to – I want to stroke his arm. Just to feel the definition I know is there.
He’s probably around forty, and I’m close enough to smell him. It’s intoxicating, yet a completely new scent to me. A mix of earth and spice. He looks at me with dark, soulful eyes and I melt.
I don’t get thrown like this very often at all, but then Rupert is film-star attractive. I can’t help thinking that this is beating my school prom by miles already.
He takes my hand and kisses it. Old school. Of course. Mmhmm. I’m lost for words. Then he holds out an arm to me. This man knows what he is about. He has an air confidence, but it’s on the right side of arrogance. He knows what he wants, but he’s still a gentleman.
And this ball is the real deal. I look around the room as he leads me into it. It’s been transformed since the last time I saw it. Gone is the long dining table, replaced by a handful of round tables around the edge of the room. These tables stand on fine oriental rugs, peach their dominant colour, but the centre of the room is cleared. I surmise that it’s the dance floor. The only thing that doesn’t quite ring true is how small the crowd is. It won’t exactly be heaving in here, but the setting is spot on.
The thick auburn curtains are closed over the French doors that lead onto the terrace. Soft candle-holder lights around the walls complement the chandelier centrepiece, giving the whole place a cosy, warm ambience. There’s a pianist playing incidental welcome tunes on a luxurious-looking grand in the corner. It all feels like an intimate wedding reception: there’s nothing to suggest we’re at a school for budding whores. The sort of place you can tell your mother about with a smile on your face. I’m just not sure how long that will last.
The room is already fairly full. I recognise Miss Honeywell and Miss Jackson, chatting together, champagne glasses in hand. There are other females, presumably mentors I don’t know yet. Or could they be agents, like the one Charles brought with him? Is this like an industry networking thing? There are eighteen or so men, all dressed to the nines, and those who aren’t escorting one of our group are chatting with each other or the mentors. I get the feeling they’re well known here, and wonder if they’re where the money comes from. Maybe one of them owns this place. I’m excited by the mystery of it all.
Several of my fellow students are already here too, each with her assigned date at her side. I notice right away that not all of them have been as lucky as me. Though all the men are groomed and dressed to perfection, and most seem to radiate a certain assurance, some of them are considerably older than my father. Not all have my escort’s attractive features.
A couple of gorgeous waitresses clad in black and white circulate the room, offering drinks. I don’t recognise them as members of our group of trainees. I take some bubbly. I can only imagine pretty waitresses and endless Moët and Chandon is a big part of life in this privileged world. Fortunately it’s a drink to which I’m rather partial.
“Come and meet my friend Harry,” commands my companion. “We do a lot of business together and travel all over the world.”
An odd opening line, really, but I follow him obediently to a couple standing a few paces away. The man I take to be Harry is handsome in a different way. His hair is longer, almost shoulder length, but he’s young enough to get away with it. He carries an extra day’s worth of stubble. And his dark, penetrating eyes are appealing, almost challenging.
He looks a little more ripped than my date, and still hot as hell in a tuxedo. I can smell him, too, and it’s something a little more familiar. Invictus! I only know it because it’s my number one favourite smell on a guy.
And when he opens his mouth to speak, I know he’s a Scotsman. I’ve got all the time in the world for that accent. His is a thick one. Yet cultured. Not Glasgow, for sure. Highlands, I’m hoping. Maybe his family runs a whiskey distillery in the hills…wake up Emma!
With him is an English girl I’ve yet to meet properly. I can’t help noticing her red, kissable lips and the way they contrast with her fair skin. She’s strawberry blonde, and she’s just tall enough to be cute rather than short. There are just a couple of light freckles on her nose. Her accent is posher than I’ve ever heard in real life. She must be that English Rose so many foreign men seem to crave. Harry introduces her as Jane.
She shakes my hand without warmth, says, “Oh hello, pleased to meet you,” with a smile that’s obviously fake. I have a good
sense for duplicity, and I’m getting a strong feeling of it at this moment. She avoided my eye all afternoon at our tour of the premises. I bet she’s forgotten my name already, and I know instinctively that we’re not going to hit it off. She strikes me as too stuck-up to be a hooker…but who am I to say? I don’t know if I’m going to cut it either. At least this Jane pretends to be friendly. Unlike some people I’ve come across.
I begin to relax and enjoy the evening. It’s the first time anything has felt remotely normal in this house. Not that miniature embassy balls – there can’t be more than 35 people in the room – are an everyday experience for me. Nor is being on the arm of a handsome, confident stranger who looks after me all night long. But I feel beautiful, and I feel wanted. I think I could get used to this.
I’m glad to finally have the chance to mingle properly, especially since my room-mate seems a lost cause. The alcohol helps, of course, and I’m well into my third glass of champagne by the time our creamy asparagus soup starter arrives. It’ll take more than that to get me drunk, but it does help stop me over-thinking where I am and what this is all about. Maybe I’ve stepped into some kind of time machine, and none of this is real. But so what? The champagne and my date make me inclined to just enjoy it all.
As luck would have it, Petra is at my table. I’m amused to see that she’s drawn a short straw with her date. Her man, Ralph, is well past sixty, and his weather-beaten look suggests he’s enjoyed his life up to this point. If she’s annoyed to be paired with him, she doesn’t show it. She’s civil to him, but doesn’t volunteer much either. Watching them across the table, I see a hooker for the first time. Nothing less could explain these two being wedged together, especially her air of disinterest. I can’t imagine he’d be too thrilled by her company, but I dare say he couldn’t dream of anybody so gorgeous without the help of his fat wallet.
And yes, she is hotter than ever tonight. I mean…wow. She’d be well worth the money for any guy. I don’t think a ball gown is really her style – she’s made for a miniskirt – but her face would be worthy of any magazine cover. She’s clearly put time into it, though, with those trimmed eyebrows and big lashes. And her skin is probably more picture-perfect than that of anybody here. Her pointy little ears really define her doll-like cuteness, especially with her hair pinned up tight as it is tonight. If only the woman would smile, she’d be a princess to capture a nation!
There are three other classmates at our table. One of them is the tall brunette next to whom I showered this morning. And she is really tall. I always thought men avoided women of that stature, but maybe she brings something else to the table, as it were. Her name is Carrie and she’s also English. She wears black lipstick and a dark palette of makeup; her voice has an irritating nasal aspect. She’s from Sussex, I discover, educated at a rather strict convent school. She’s spent some years in the police force.
Carrie is happy enough to chat, but she has an annoying way of cutting people off when they’re talking to her. Even her date, who is half her height and receding. It’s almost as though she’s familiar with all of this, and feels as though she’s in charge. Where are her nerves? I try to probe a little into her presence here, and she candidly tells me she has been working with a mentor of her own for several months since quitting the police just after her twenty-eighth birthday. She hasn’t done ‘paid work’ yet, but keeps mentioning ‘the scene’. I only have an inkling of what she means, so I just nod as if I understand.
The most interesting chat I have is with Latifa. I think it was her whose zippy firm figure and perky tits I noticed in the showers earlier. I thought then that she was tanned, but now, on closer inspection and hearing her name, I suspect she’s just plain exotic. I try to guess from her skin tone, which in truth is neither tanned nor Mediterranean. It’s more caffe latte, but with an extra dash of milk. And those intense green eyes…they’re not from around these parts.
“You’ll never guess,” she says to me, laughing as she confidently takes the hand of her fine-looking companion, Edward, under the table.
“I guess not,” I say. “I’m thinking your background is a little more interesting than mine?”
“Well it’s pretty unique,” she chuckles. “My mother is Omani but my dad’s Irish!”
My eyes go wide. “Oh, wow…that’s a really interesting combination!”
It comes to me now. I know exactly where I’ve seen that look before. It’s the beguiling mélange you get when you mix Arab with North European. I’ve had a couple of colleagues of exactly that ancestry, and both of them were drop-dead stunners.
“So…your English is perfect, but your accent is pretty hard to place,” I continue, fearful of inadvertently causing offence. “Did you grow up in this country?”
I can’t imagine she’d be here if she’d been raised in a conservative place like Oman.
“Nope,” she shakes her head forcefully. “I’m pretty much Omani born and bred. Fully Muslim.” She winks at me when she says this.
“Wow!” is the cleverest response I can manage. “Then this is...er...especially naughty for you, isn’t it?”
“My parents allowed me loads of freedom of thought – my dad was a big part of that. I went to a typical local school, veils and all the rest of it. But at home, my sisters and I were never censored. And we travelled a lot. I’ve always known what’s out there in the world.”
“But this...coming here is a big step all the same. For all of us, I mean.”
She shrugs.
“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. I saw things in Dubai and I saw things in Amsterdam. And…I enjoy being with a man. Who doesn’t?”
She smiles into her date’s eyes as she says this. He melts visibly. If this was a client…he just got half his money’s worth right there. This girl knows how to work it.
“My parents might be liberal but they sure as hell wouldn’t like to hear about this,” she continues. “As far as they know I’m studying in Newcastle. Which I am…but we’re on a term break and I thought this would be a fun way to spend it!”
She’s warm with her escort in a completely unforced way. I can totally imagine she’d genuinely like to make love to him, and that she’d be spectacular at it. Her hair is long and gently curled: I’m really envious of it. And I already know she has a body to die for. I’m not jealous, exactly, but I admire her for her looks and candour. Above all, though, for her easy manner. I can’t bring myself to be so flirtatious with my guy, even though he makes me weak at the knees.
I’m constantly aware of him, though, and constantly aware that I’ve surely got the hottest date of anyone here. It brings a quiet smile to my lips every so often, especially when stony-faced Petra and her man catch my eye. More so when I think of the lacy red g-string and bra I’m wearing. But there’s so much else to take in.
I spend some time looking at the table of ‘unattached’ men on the other side of the room. I make out that one of them is the man who woke us this morning and sent us to the group shower. He has a stern look about him and doesn’t seem to engage the others much. Are these people all too powerful to get close to each other? Are these the men who can afford £1000 for a girl’s services?
Occasionally some of the men glance in our direction, and once or twice I get the feeling I might be the subject of their chatter. I try to ignore the rising pride in my belly, but that gets a little harder when Rupert takes my hand under the table after dinner.
The booze is taking effect on the room and on me. The whole scenario is making me a little giddy. I’m itching for a snog at least. It’s been months! But I’m just plain confused. I know what the old Emma would do: she wouldn’t be shy to encourage her chosen guy, but also wouldn’t rush into bed with anyone either. I’m pretty sure I know what Emma the booked escort would need to do. But Emma the escort-in-training? She has no idea what’s expected of her. So she waits for something to happen.
And now, dinner done, a band has replaced the piano. Coupl
es move to the dancefloor. Rupert and I are among the first. I feel right at home here. It’s mostly waltzing – what else? – but I know where to put my feet. So, inevitably, does Rupert, who leads like a real gentleman. There’s literally nothing I’d change about him. It’s a magic summer’s night, straight out of a storybook.
But I would like to know a few things. What is his business here and how did he get to be my date? What does he do when he’s not here? Is he the boss of a huge company? He seems the type. He’s made me curious all night by asking me all about me, while giving almost nothing away about himself. I press him again when we’re close on the dance floor, but he hushes me by putting a finger to my lips.
“Don’t be a curious girl, Emma,” he says in that public-school accent that I associate so strongly with success and power. “A lady does not ask too many questions. She should relax and let herself be taken care of.”
Fuck, that’s a good answer.
My tongue wants to dart out and touch his finger. I only just stop myself.
Close your eyes, Emma.
I can feel desire having its way with me, as the relentless music takes hold of my soul. And it has nothing to do with why I’m at the school. It’s the ball, the drinks, the dancing. It’s Rupert.
We dance for what feels like hours. And now we’re on the terrace. Champagne still flowing. It must be gone midnight. Just Rupert and I. Somehow the rest of the party doesn’t exist. We’re looking out over the pool. He has his arm around me.
And still he wants to know all about me. My schooling. My parents. My relationships. Where I learned to dance. The job I’ve just left.
But he won’t give anything away. Except that Rupert is not his real name. He says it with a tiny smirk and looks me dead in the eye.
It’s a starry night, warm by English standards, but I’m glad of his body warmth pressed up against me. A few other people are also outside now, but I’m so wrapped up in myself now that I’ve no idea who. I’ve forgotten that I might be under observation. My yearning for a kiss is off the scale now: I’ve resorted to just looking up at him, my pout speaking louder than any words could.
