Her Calling (Emma Book 3)

by James Grey

  “I’m glad you managed to tell someone, even if it took a drink or two. Once you’ve mentioned it to someone for the first time, it always gets easier.” Then she pauses. “What about your parents?”

  I put my head in my hands. “Oh, God,” I mumble. “Yeah. No. I kind of told my mother I was doing massage. She had no idea how to read between the lines. She barely even knows what proper massage is, never mind what a happy ending might be. Honestly, my folks are so…”

  I trail off, shaking my head. I really don’t know how to solve this one.

  “Probably not as much as you think,” says Sarah helpfully. “They must have, you know, had sex before. They’ve got a daughter, after all!”

  She has a point, but I try not to reflect on the picture she’s painted.

  “I’m happy to go and speak to them myself, you know,” offers Lucy. “I know it’s difficult, and I’ve done it for other girls in your situation. The parents usually end up either loving me or hating me, but that doesn’t much matter. Better for them to have a scapegoat than destroy your relationship, you know?”

  “Really?” I look over at Sarah, remembering how she predicted this might happen. She just flutters her eyelids at me.

  “Sure!” enthuses Lucy. “I’ve done it with a few of the other English girls. The foreign girls don’t have worry so much, of course, as they’re so far away from home.”

  “I don’t know,” I murmur. “Isn’t it a bit like, I don’t know…weird? I should really tell them myself, and make a better job of it.”

  “The other option is not to tell them ever,” says my agent. “But then, sooner or later, it might come out. As secure as I try to make things for you, there’s no way I can entirely guarantee someone that knows you or your family isn’t going to come along.”

  I take another delicious spoonful of mango tiramisu. “I know, and I don’t like the idea of never saying anything either. I’m a terrible liar and I feel bad about doing it.”

  “Plus you should be very proud of yourself, and you’re going to be doing this for a while,” Sarah adds cheerfully.

  “I know, that’s the problem,” I say mournfully. “I just need to get it over with. I don’t think my parents are going to disown me, after all. They’ll probably just never want to talk about it. Alright, fine, do it, Lucy! Before I change my mind.”

  Sarah puts her hand over mine. “Good decision, babe. You’ll feel so much better once it’s out there in the open. And once your family knows, you can tell anyone else you want to tell, can’t you?”

  I nod doubtfully, and give an enormous sigh.

  “Everyone wants your job, Emma,” Lucy smiles. “The boys want you and the girls want to be you – even if they won’t admit it. Give it time, and you’ll be wanting to tell everyone, trust me!

  “In the meantime, just give me a number for your parents so I can arrange to go and see them. But first, you need to tell them I’ll be calling. If I ring up out of nowhere, they’ll think I’m some kind of madwoman. And then they’ll never believe what I have to say.”

  Lunch draws to a slow, leisurely conclusion, but not before Lucy floats the juicy prospect of Sarah and I working together. We both beam at her, and I agree to join Sarah’s photo shoot so we can do a couple of erotic photos that would sell us as a duo.

  “Could we have prints?” I ask, feeling adventurous. “I’m thinking they’d be nice to have hanging up in the bedroom, don’t you Sarah?”

  She gives me a wicked grin that’s a resounding ‘yes’.

  “Not a problem!” says Lucy. “Prints it is – I’ll get you a range of sizes. And, you know, I love the genuine intimacy between the two of you. I’ve never had anything quite like a true, real-life lesbian couple to offer clients. They’re going to love you for that. I don’t think I even need to see you perform with each other first. I know you’ll have a chemistry everyone will just adore.”

  Sarah and I both turn bright red, and giggle helplessly. Looks like we’re a ‘couple’, if the rest of the world’s perception is anything to go by. I suppose getting photographs for the wall is a bit coupley, but hey, I like the idea right now. No need to over-think the future. I’ve done too much of that in my time.

  After lunch, we go home and had a magnificent festive sex session. Then we binge on Netflix for the rest of the evening.

  So there’s much to celebrate right now. Sarah’s finally in with Lucy, I’m back in the game and the money’s rolling in. Charles, meanwhile, is managing to stay in the background of my thoughts. Only the trepidation of Lucy’s upcoming meeting with my parents gives me the tremors.

  I take a client on the Wednesday evening, then two more on Thursday, then enjoy Friday off ahead of a busy New Year’s weekend. Everything seems to be perfectly back to normal. I have fun, the boys have fun, and I’m handsomely tipped every time.

  The photo shoot with Sarah is a predictably enjoyable afternoon. In keeping with the style Lucy commissions, it’s tasteful yet utterly revealing. We start in a range of outfits and underwear – Lucy explains that some clients want to keep a girl’s body a surprise when they’re browsing pictures, while others want to see every detail of what they’ll be getting. Which is why we’re completely naked by the end of it, of course.

  The photographer, once again, is far more professional than either of us would like him to be. At one point he steps forward to adjust the tilt of my shoulder as I adopt a cat pose on Sarah’s lap, and the light touch of his fingertips almost makes me orgasm.

  Part of me thinks it would be completely okay if we enjoyed a little threesome after the shoot. But this is work, after all, and I never want Lucy to think I’m not serious when I need to be. Besides, it’s also early days for her and Sarah’s professional relationship. I don’t want to let untimely horniness get in the way.

  True to her word, Lucy signs Sarah up for her first solo client shortly after the shoot. And I know him. It’s Louis, the same Frenchman I saw at the hotel in Kensington. She has the same magnificent time I did, and it’s an enormous turn-on to compare notes. The reality that we’ve both been mouth-fucked by the same hot man in our work is too wicked for words, and of course ends up with me helping her shower off some of the traces he left – before leaving a few of my own.

  Lucy talks to my parents on Thursday afternoon. At the very moment she’s with them, I’m servicing a well-known property magnate – the first client I’ve actually heard of – with a full-body massage, ironically enough. It’s probably the best way to stop myself thinking about how the conversation might be playing out. And sitting on the man’s bristly face – which is where the massage ends up – is a particularly good reminder of why I can’t imagine doing anything else for a living. He’s in his sixties but still very good-looking, and clearly has a very experienced tongue. Some men just have it all!

  I can’t believe I’ve actually let Lucy do this for me. It feels like getting some other kid in the playground to tell tales on my behalf. This isn’t what grown-ups do, is it?

  My parents totally surprise me. I expect a lengthy silence after Lucy’s visit, but instead, they call up and tell me they want to take me out for lunch at the pub near their house the next day. While they certainly don’t want to talk about my new life in any great detail, it seems they don’t want to have an elephant in the room either.

  Somehow it’s easier to look my mother in the eye than my father. That’s probably because I’m now regularly having sex with men my father’s age, or even a little older. I draw the line at about seventy, though Lucy has apparently had requests from gents a lot older than that. It’s a disturbing thought to have in front of your parents.

  After ordering our food, and establishing that there isn’t a wave of frigidity rushing at me, I try to get the hard part out of the way.

  “So, Lucy came to see you, then?” I murmur tentatively, looking mostly at my mother. I flick my eyes over to Dad just briefly.

  “Er, yes,” replies Mum. “She’s a nice lady. She had a
very difficult job…but she’s lovely…”

  I begin to blush furiously. “Yes, I suppose. I didn’t…you know…”

  I rest my chin on my hand and look over towards the kitchen serving hatch, beyond which a couple of white-coated chefs are busying themselves with a multitude of particularly festive-looking roasts.

  “We know, we know. Look, Emma…we love you. We don’t really understand, but it is your life. As long as you’re safe and you have a roof over your head…”

  My eyes dart back towards her in surprise. Gosh, what did Lucy say to them?

  “Umm…yes! Well, you’ve seen my place. I’ve never felt safer.”

  “I have to say I trust Lucy, if you’re really going to do…this.”

  She coughs. I’m sure she came here with the best of intentions, but it’s getting harder for her.

  “Oh, me too,” I say hurriedly. “She’s like…well…she’s always on your side.”

  I don’t want to use phrases like ‘pays on time’, ‘keeps me busy’ or ‘takes care of the girls’. Trying to steer through the minefield of avoiding mentioning the thing we’re really talking about is fraught with danger.

  “Do your friends know?” asks Mum.

  “Not yet,” I reply. “I’m in no rush.”

  “Good, because I don’t feel much of an urge to tell your aunts.”

  In spite of ourselves, we laugh just a little. And it lightens the mood a touch.

  “Er, no need as far as I’m concerned,” I say out of the side of my mouth. “No need at all.”

  “The main thing,” says my mother, “is that if you need help with anything, or you want to talk, don’t be afraid. Alright? I don’t know if I can be of much use when it comes to…some things. But I’ll always do what I can.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” I’m welling up a little. This is just so incredibly big of her. I’m seeing a side of my parents I didn’t know was there today. Even if Dad is pretty silent.

  He’s far from thrilled, I can tell that. He keeps on looking awkwardly out of the window. Kids play in the park just across the road, and I’ll bet he’s thinking about when his little girl used to do the same. And now, look at what that once-innocent child is doing with her life! I feel tears gathering again, and try not to look at the park any more.

  He sighs and speaks up. “Exactly so,” he says reluctantly. “I’m happy that you’re doing well, Emma. I…I…just think we’ll need to talk about other things, mostly.”

  That suits me fine, and I nod with relief. “Agreed. And…it will get easier. I know it will. Who knows where I’ll be in a year?”

  We all shrug and nod, although I know we’re thinking different things. They’re hoping I’ll have grown out of this rebel phase by then. I’m hoping I’ll be doing exactly what I’m doing – perhaps with a few subtle tweaks.

  This is all I needed. I’ve told them, it’s been acknowledged, and we’ll move on. I’m quite sure we’re all agreed that we don’t need to have ‘how was work today’ conversations any time soon. If ever.

  “So,” I say to them, rubbing my hands in anticipation of our food’s imminent arrival. “Let’s talk about other things.”

  And those things could be anything. The main thing is that we’re still talking, period.

  Moving on to those safer topics, I explain that the apartment is, in fact, my own. Well, my own rental, at least! And that Sarah’s still living with me ‘for the time being’. I leave out the lesbian lover part, which I assume Lucy didn’t mention. I’m happy for Sarah to be a ‘friend’ in my parents’ eyes for the foreseeable future.

  After that we move on to some of the innocent self-improvement projects I’m planning on undertaking. Cooking, for example. And my plans to do a spot of writing, too. Parents love that sort of thing, don’t they?

  These are terrific conversational diversions. And once my dad’s into his second pint – and let’s just say the first doesn’t last long – things almost get back to normal. His stories aren’t quite as long and enthusiastic as they’d usually be, but they do the job on the day. Even having to listen to the one about how he was on the BBC news yet again suited me just fine.

  All in all, it’s the best I could have hoped for with my parents, and another reason to be happy. Miss Jackson – or Miranda, as she continues to insist – is delighted to hear about it when we share a long conversation on the phone. She’s always demanded I should be proud of what I do. I tell her of Sarah’s good news, but she already knows that, of course.

  She must talk to Lucy quite often, I surmise, and God only knows how many other agents. She tells me that I’m not going to hear from Spurring as long as I stick with Lucy – she’s put in a word to make sure no awkward situation with him ever arises. It turns out Spurring likes to use Lucy’s girls on occasion – small world, this – but I’m not going to be one of those on offer. I thank Miranda for that, feeling like my circle of trust is growing. I should really have mentioned the Spurring thing to Lucy ages ago.

  Still, I don’t tell her about the thing with Charles, because I feel like she judges me if I get emotional with a client. And even though he’s the bad guy – I think – there’s no way I can tell the tale without revealing why it hurt so much to see his face looking down on me that night.

  Anyway, I’m probably not supposed to take it upon myself to breach confidentiality like that. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knows about the whole episode anyway. Between Miranda and Lucy, it’s like I’ve got a pantheon of omniscient women watching over me. Even if Lucy did drop the ball once – maybe.

  I lunch with Martin the next week. Once again it’s overdue – and once again because I’ve been avoiding an awkward conversation. The problem, of course, is that Charles is his friend. And, having revealed at least part of the story with ‘mystery man’ to Martin, it’s going to be uncomfortable to tell the whole truth.

  But I have to do it. As far as Martin knows, Charles and I are still having regular and romantic Friday ‘dates’. I know the two of them speak at least every couple of weeks. It’s clear that Charles hasn’t said anything to him, so I have to spill the beans about the whole story.

  “Please don’t say a word, Martin,” I demand. “I’m trusting you. It’s all under control.”

  He closes his eyes at length, and sighs. “Fine, then. But you know, that’s going to be hard. I want to wring his bloody neck for upsetting you.”

  “Okay, I get that, but don’t,” I plead. “He didn’t technically break any rules, I don’t think. It’s just emotional stuff on my part. It was like being kept in the dark.”

  “I think I’d better avoid him for a while, then,” says Martin thunderously. “I don’t think I can even look at the guy now.”

  I shrug. “Yeah? Well, that works for me. The further removed he is from my life, the better.”

  “One thing, though. I’m quite certain he doesn’t have a house in that part of town. Quite certain.”

  “Interesting…at first, Lucy told us we were being inspected by somebody famous, now that I think of it. And Charles isn’t exactly famous, is he?”

  I ask the question tentatively, because I’m not very sure of anything when it comes to who’s who in celebrity world.

  “No, he’s not famous at all. Just rich and connected. But either way, he’s a long way from my good books right now.”

  I shrug once more. I’m not going to let Charles invade my mind and I’m not going to dwell on it. That much, I’ve decided for sure.

  My amazing and kinky couple bring in my new year in style, with the husband timing his ejaculation inside me for the very stroke of midnight, whilst at the same time licking his wife to a climax that definitely isn’t fake. That must have taken some practice! My goodness, they’re such a creative pair – I really savour my nights with those two.

  Life settles back into a friendly, relaxed rhythm over the next week. Sarah gets loads more on-the-job practice and plenty of fat tips, and seems to be entrenching herself as a firm favouri
te for Lucy. It’s only a matter of time before we get to work together. In fact, the moment comes on Friday evening.

  We buzz with excitement from the moment we hear about the assignment on Wednesday. It’s on Millionaire’s Row in Notting Hill. We’ll be putting on a show, just for one gentleman, and then both get taken by him. It sounds like an absolute pleasure.

  By seven o’clock on Friday night, we’re well into getting ready, glamming up to the sound of Radio 1 blaring through my apartment’s sound system. Life is more than good – it’s awesome!

  And then, just half an hour out from our car’s arrival, a text changes everything. The number isn’t in my contacts.

  Emma. It’s Charles. Do you still loathe me? I want to talk to you. You don’t know the full story.

  Chapter VII

  It’s a quiet ride over to Notting Hill. My heart almost leapt out of my mouth when I saw the message from Charles. I can’t believe he’s got the nerve to even try contacting me. Just when I’d started to put the whole sorry business with him out of my mind.

  It’s a wet evening, and the streets are glistening as I look out of the window into the night. Our car’s windscreen wipers swish the persistent rain aside, while the Christmas lights gleam as we pass St Paul’s Cathedral, trundle down the busy Strand and then through the even busier Trafalgar Square. Most of London is just finishing up work, or perhaps heading home after a quick pint with their colleagues. With Christmas and New Year having come and gone, few will have the energy for a big party tonight.

  But for us, the day is just beginning. We’re about to start our hour and a half sex assignment. Our very first double act.

  For once, the thought that this is all I have to do towards paying the rent today doesn’t make me smile. I’m feeling decidedly edgy as the car weaves around Buckingham Palace and heads up towards Hyde Park. It looks terribly dark outside. Just like my mood.

  “It’s just a text message, girl,” says Sarah, reaching across the back seat and tickling the inside of my thigh just where the hem of my dress meets the soft skin. “Don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking about it!”