by Clara James
It’s only with retrospect that I’ve been able to appreciate these things. At the time, all I was aware of was the pounding of my head and the ache that raked through every inch of my body. It felt a little like a bad bout of flu. I don’t know whether it was the after effects of the coke, or if Scott gave me something else over the course of the evening – the latter was certainly possible.
In any case, as I strained my neck to read the clock, I realized it was close to midday – an hour after I was supposed to have picked up the kids. I tired, but couldn’t lift myself quickly. Instead, it was a steady shuffling into a seated position. As soon as I was upright, I could see the phone and the blinking light of the answering machine. Not bothering to listen to the message, I leaned for the phone and tapped in the numbers for Fran’s home.
“Hello?” she answered after the fourth ring.
“Hi,” I said, my voice hoarse and gravelly. “Fran,” I added, trying to clear my throat. “It’s me, Julia.”
“Oh, hey,” she responded. “We were getting worried. Are you okay?”
“I...umm,” I mumbled, my throat dray and scratchy. “I’m not feeling great,” I added, in a masterpiece of understatement.
“Oh, no,” she said sympathetically. “You don’t sound too good, honey. Are you coming down with something?”
“Uhhh, maybe,” I muttered. “Could you do me a huge favor and watch the kids for another couple of hours. I’m going to try to get myself together.”
“Well, sure,” she responded quickly. “If you need me to watch them longer than that, I can. I’ve got to go to work at six, but until then-”
“It’s fine,” I softly told her, ending her need to finish the sentence. “Thank you,” I quickly added, realizing I sounded ungrateful. “I think I’ll be okay. I’ll try to be there in two hours.”
“Okay,” she said. “And it’s no problem. Oh, and make sure to drink plenty of water,” she advised warmly.
“Yeah, I will,” I nodded, cursing the movement of my head when it caused pain to bolt through every nerve in my skull. “Thanks again, Fran.” I didn’t wait for her reply. I couldn’t wait. Quickly, I jabbed a button to end the call and tossed the phone aside on the mattress. Getting out from under the sheets as fast as possible, I made my way ungainly toward the bathroom; grabbing hold of everything that could steady me along the way. I didn’t manage to make it to the toilet, but I was close enough to the tub, and that’s where I threw up.
Afterward, I collapsed onto the bathmat and laid flat on my back for several minutes. I didn’t go to sleep. Didn’t even close my eyes. I just watched the slow spinning of the ceiling, willing it to cease.
Eventually, I don’t know how long it took; the world did seem to find an equilibrium once more. Things were still mushy to my eyes and ears, but at least I could sit and stand without feeling seasick. Being as gentle as possible with myself, I took a nice long shower.
It was then that I began to realize exactly how violent Scott had been the night before. I had raw bruises on my upper arms and wrists; an angry red hand print on my left breast; marks on my inner thighs, which suggested the encounter had involved more penetration than I remembered; and, when I got out of the shower and caught sight of myself in the mirror, I noticed discoloration beneath my left eye and a small cut to my lower lip.
I couldn’t be sure when the injuries to my face occurred. I guessed it was when Scott pushed me into the thick plate glass window. However, knowing that there was much more about the night I didn’t remember, I couldn’t disregard the possibility that he’d knocked me around.
The entire area between my thighs was tender and when I went to pee, my internal muscles complained strongly about the way my channel had been abused.
But it was much more than just the physical aftermath of what happened. It was what was going on in my head that really hurt – the foul names he’d called me; the sense that he was right, I am worthless. And the question kept rolling around, ‘How could I have been so stupid?’ I’d known what I was getting into was dangerous, and yet the positive encounters I’d had until that night lulled me into a false sense of security. I’d begun to think I was invincible, that nothing bad could happen to me. These men were paying large sums of money to sleep with me, they couldn’t possibly be thugs. Idiot.
As I made my way back to the bedroom, wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, I knew that it was over. The big dreams I’d had were not going to be fulfilled, because there was no way I’d put myself through that again – I couldn’t. I would have to take another look at the money I’d saved and forge a plan with that. It would mean college was an impossibility for now. Nevertheless, there were more important things. If I could get an apartment or small home for the children, that was what mattered. The rest, I’d have to play by ear.
I put a thick layer of make-up on and wore a pair of sunglasses when I went to pick up the kids. Despite my best efforts, Fran noted that I appeared very pale. I attributed this to me not being well. And, as it happened, she had no trouble believing that I’d fallen while suffering from a fever, which explained my cut lip. It seemed that the terrible secret of what really happened would remain with me.
When Paul returned the next day, he didn’t even notice. By then, I was feeling better, although the bruises were quickly turning purple and blue, and some color was returning to my complexion. For the next week, I was sure to wear a high-necked shirt and avoid Paul unless I was fully dressed, because the big fingermarks that crept out of the edge of my bra could not be so easily explained by a bout of the flu.
Another week and the marks began to fade. My memories of that night still haunted me, though. I felt used, dirty and worthless; all the things he’d said I was. And it didn’t help, of course, that my own husband avoided touching me like the plague.
For twelve days, I avoided the computer and my cell phone. My regular clients had my number and would occasionally send a subtle, discrete text rather than an email. I didn’t want to hear from any of them. Even those I’d been with before, men I had trusted – I couldn’t bear the thought of having anyone inside me. On the thirteenth day, however, I realized I couldn’t just disappear. I’d have to contact my regulars and let them know I was retiring from the business.
And that’s exactly what I planned to do when I sat down at the computer late one Friday night, while Paul was in his office on a conference call with clients in Australia.
I had twenty unread messages. I began checking the little box to the left of each in turn, planning to delete them all in one fell swoop. I can’t explain what caused me to pause, but when I reached an email with the subject line, ‘Looking for a companion for formal dinner’ I stopped in my tracks. It was ridiculous, the fact that this man was attending a fancy dinner told me nothing about his attitude towards women or sex. And yet, somehow I was intrigued.
It was not the first time since I found out about Paul’s infidelities that I’d acted completely without logical thought or planning. But it was probably the occasion that shocked me most. Every fiber in my being was screaming at me to severe all contacts and get the hell out of the business. Yet, I was opening this email and reading with interest.
Arianna,
I’ve read your ad and I was wondering if you’re available next Saturday. I’m attending a function at the Hilton and would love it if you could accompany me. I know it’s very short notice, and, I should warn you, it’ll be quite a long night – I’ll need you to meet me at 7 and the dinner probably won’t be over until after midnight. So, I’m willing to compensate you. How does $25,000 sound? If this is less than your usual rate, let me know and I’ll be happy to negotiate.
It was signed ‘Preston’ and, next to his name, he included a cell phone number. If I’d been able to think rationally, I would have deleted the email and forgotten all about it. However, I wasn’t thinking at all. I was acting on impulse – focusing on the $25,000 I could earn with just one night’s work. Except I don’t think I was ev
en considering that. I wasn’t weighing up the reward and risks. Something was just compelling me to call him.
And so I did. Right then and there; at eleven o’clock at night, I dialed his number.
“Hello?” he muttered groggily. His voice was deep, a baritone that was warm and rumbling.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly apologized. “Did I wake you?”
“Umm,” he hummed, pausing while he seemed to get his bearings. “Uhh, yeah,” he eventually agreed. “I guess you did, but it’s okay. What can I do for you?”
“Well,” I hesitated, suddenly nervous. Was it that the reality of what I was doing had hit me? Was I having second thoughts? I don’t know, but as I held the phone to my ear, it trembled with the persistent shaking of my fingers. “Actually, it’s about what I can do for you,” I managed to softly announce.
“Huh?” he asked, bewildered.
“My name’s Arianna,” I told him, aware that the tremble was now starting to creep into my voice.
“Ohhh,” he breathed, the realization striking him quickly. “Oh,” he repeated. “Thanks so much for calling. I’m really glad to hear from you.”
“My pleasure,” I responded, attempting to fake a sultry confidence. “So, what can I do for you, Preston?” I added saucily.
Chapter Nine
Belle Of The Ball
Preston was perfectly polite and gentlemanly on the phone, which gave me the courage to get ready and leave the house the following Saturday night. However, in the cab on the way to the address he’d given me, I was beginning to have second thoughts. Flashes of Scott’s face, his angry words and violent grasp filled my thoughts completely. Twice, I almost told the driver to turn around, convinced that I couldn’t put myself through it again. But something was still keeping me from running away. To this day, I don’t know what it was. At the time, all I could do was hope that, whatever it was, it wasn’t leading me down another dark and scary path.
The car pulled to a stop outside an apartment building. “This is you,” the driver announced.
“Thanks,” I acknowledging, leaning forward to pay him before reaching for the door. I slowly shuffled out of the car, keeping one hand on the long hem of my floor-length midnight blue gown. It was brand new. I had plenty of dresses that would have been acceptable for a formal occasion, but, for reasons unknown to me, none of them felt right. My hair was neatly styled in an up do, with two wavy strands falling either side of my face. I was wearing a diamond necklace that my parents had bought me for my wedding day and matching droplet earrings which I’d purchased for myself on our first anniversary.
The ground floor of the apartment building was all glass and with the bright lights of the lobby gleaming, it was possible to see inside. All that was in the spacious area was a corner desk with a man in his early sixties sitting behind it. He had a computer in front of him, but he was reading a newspaper that was spread out next to the keyboard.
Carefully, I made my way to the door and found it pushed easily open. The smooth sound alerted the security guard, he looked up from his crossword puzzle and smiled at me.
“Good evening, Miss,” he greeted with a nod. “Can I help you?”
My heels clipped loudly on the marble floors and echoed in the otherwise soundless space. “Umm, I’m here to see Preston Verrill.”
“Oh, of course,” he nodded, flipping the paper closed and picking up a phone that was hidden beneath the pages. “Mr. Verrill said he was expecting a young lady. One moment.” As he spoke he picked up the phone and tapped three digits into the pad. He smiled at me, while waiting for a response on the other end. “Mr. Verrill, it’s Hank downstairs,” he said into the phone. “Yes,” he then nodded. “All right, thank you.”
Trying to give my right hand something to do, I fiddled with my necklace while I watched him replace the phone.
“He’ll be down in a few moments; he asked if you could please wait.”
“Of course,” I replied nodding. I suppose by then I should have been feeling a little more relaxed. After all, Preston had given me his name, his home address and had obviously told his doorman that he was expecting me. None of those seemed like the actions of a psycho. But, of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be like Scott. However, it was far too late to change my mind.
It was less than a minute before the elevator doors gently swept open. My eyes began at his shoes, the highly polished black Oxfords, and moved up his perfectly pressed black tux with vest. Beneath that, he wore a crisp white shirt and a maroon bow tie. From his left breast pocket poked a neatly folded handkerchief that matched his tie’s color.
As I gradually allowed my gaze to move higher, I was surprised by how young he appeared. His deep voice and his success in whatever it was he did for a living, had naturally caused me to picture someone older; a man well into his forties, maybe even fifty. However, Preston’s fresh, clean shaven face put him at thirty five at the oldest. Looking back, I think it was his incredibly broad smile, which was genuine warmth and all dazzling, perfect white teeth that made him look youthful.
He had soft features, but his cheekbones were sharply defined and he had a strong jawline. He wore a pair of light-framed glasses over his dark brown eyes. His hair, which was a slighter lighter brown, was short at the back and side with just a little length at the top that enabled him to part it on one side and slick it over in a fashion reminiscent of the 1940s. “Hello, Arianna,” he said warmly, with an easy smile. He walked toward me reaching out his right hand.
“Hello,” I replied, swallowing the nerves that refused to leave me completely, and offering him my hand.
He took it in his, but not as though he intended to shake it. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around mine while he leaned forward and pressed his lips to my cheekbone. It was the left, the one that was still slightly bruised from my date with Scott, now a sickly yellow rather than blue, but I’d managed to cover the discoloration with concealer and felt certain that it wouldn’t show. As I inhaled, a got a lungful of his clean scent; it was obvious he had not long since got out of the shower.
“Thanks so much for coming,” he said, as he pulled back. “You look amazing. Sorry I don’t have time to invite you up for a drink, but we really need to get going or we’ll be late.”
“That’s okay,” I softly replied, as he straightened and I noticed, even with my heels, I only came up to his chin.
“Great,” he nodded. “Well, err,” he added, releasing my hand, “this way.”
I followed him, as he led me back the way I’d entered. He pushed the door open and held it, encouraging me to go first. I nodded gratefully as I passed him and tossed a quick glance behind me. There was the security guard, smiling back at me. I managed to offer him an uneasy grin, before forced to face forward and look where I was going.
As soon as I got onto the sidewalk, a black sedan limo drew to a halt in front of me. Preston’s arm then reached out from behind me and guided me forward. Quietly, I watched as he opened the door and I slipped into the backseat when he gestured for me to do so.
It wasn’t until he was sat beside me and the door was securely closed that he spoke again. “So, umm, just so you know what we’re doing. This is a benefit dinner for homeless and underprivileged kids in the state. I’ll do my best not to leave you alone, but if we do get separated, just be yourself.”
“You’re worried, I’ll embarrass you?” I asked, turning my neck swiftly so I could face him.
“No,” he replied, with an effortless chuckle. “Of course, not,” he added. “You seem a little nervous, and I was just trying to reassure you that there’s no need to be.”
“I’m sorry,” I rapidly muttered, shaking my head as I quickly removed me eyes from his face. “I didn’t mean to...” My efforts to backtrack stalled and I shrugged uselessly.
“It’s fine,” he replied, dismissing it just as fast as I’d brought it up. He changed the subject, telling me a little about himself. He was a lawyer, but he seemed to brush o
ver that as though he were ashamed of it. He was thirty four and had always hated attending these functions alone.
The word ‘always’ implied that he hadn’t had a lot of luck in relationships, but I wondered if I was reading too much into it.
“I’ve never hired an escort before,” he admitted. “But, umm, well...” he paused, tipping his head to one side and looking out the window. After a second, he began to laugh self-deprecatingly. “I don’t really know what made me look,” he said. “But when I saw your ad, I had a feeling that you’d be perfect.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I did the only thing I could; smiled politely and looked bashfully at my lap.
“So, tell me about yourself,” he eventually said, shuffling around in his seat fractionally.
“Me?” I blurted.
“Yeah, you,” he chuckled. “I want to know more about you.”
Very few of the men I’d worked for wanted to know anything about me. The odd one or two that had, might have thought they did; but when I turned the topic of conversation back to them, they didn’t hesitate to continue conversing about themselves.
And Preston certainly didn’t want to know about me, either. Not the real me, anyway. “What sort of thing do you want to know?” I asked, with a half shrug.
“I don’t know,” he smiled. “Anything. What interests you?”
“Right now,” I sighed, going into one of my well-used lines. “You’re the only thing that interests me.”
His smile turned skeptical and he cocked his head. “I mean it,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I don’t just want to talk at you; I want us to have a conversation.”
“We can have a conversation,” I replied. “Pick a topic, politics? Music? Movies?”
“You,” he insisted.
