The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl (23 page)

‘So what do you have to feel guilty about?’

‘Everything I did wrong.’

‘Everybody makes mistakes,’ J says. ‘You make the best decision you can at the time. Sometimes it’s wrong. So what?’

I look in the bottom of my empty bowl. I all but licked it clean. I fucking love ice cream, could eat it in place of almost everything else in the world.

‘No ring, no contract,’ J says and punches me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, stop shitting on yourself. You’re much better than that. And what’s a kiss? Nothing worth feeling this bad about.’

I smile and let him pay.

jeudi, le 26 mai

Belle’s Guide to Your Holidays, part 5: Chemists

If there is one place in the world specifically designed for humiliation, it is the chemist abroad.

First the fact that the only items on open display seem to be tampons, breast pumps and douches, making one feel as a female more soiled and wretched than even two thousand years of Catholic catechism could do.

Being in the market for neither feminine hygiene nor lactation aids, one is left to approach the chemist himself at the service counter, which is invariably a) not in a quiet corner of the shop, b) thronged with old men, and c) staffed by people who do not understand your feeble attempts at their language, much less a single word of yours. Rest assured that when you finally manage to locate the Spanish (or Greek, or Italian) for laxative (or condom, or pessary) it will happen at a point when the entire village is making its customary weekly pilgrimage to the shop and everyone has fallen silent the moment you blurt out the fatal word.

That will also be the point at which, if indeed it is a box of condoms you are attempting to purchase, you discover that the chemist is the father of your intended amour. How much more fortunate are those who travel knowing none of the local language at all, so they are excused by simply pointing to the appropriate word in a phrase book!

Having procured the desired item, you find the usual methods of payment are useless here. If they accept cards, yours will not be on the list. If they accept cash, you will be fortunate enough to have wandered into the single remaining establishment on the continent that did not change over to euros. In fact, they work on the barter system here, and if it’s Tuesday it must be the day when only chickens are legal tender in Belgium.

In grocers and markets worldwide, if items are not priced it usually means that you are expected to negotiate the cost. At a foreign chemist items are unpriced for exactly the opposite reason. It’s their way or the highway. What are you going to do, comparison shop? A packet of six laxative pills costs in the region of £7.50, with the breakdown as follows: £2 tourist tax, £1.50 local heritage preservation tariff, £1.75 protection money to the local police, 35p because it’s an odd-numbered year and the remaining 90p for rounding up to the nearest pound. The remaining £1.10 is the actual value of the item, and you will learn this two days later when, for lack of any other printed material, you read the packet insert while squeezing out the first (and as it happens, only) diamond-hard poo of the entire fortnight of your holiday.

vendredi, le 27 mai

Pre-cheating preparation checklist:

• Condoms, procured. Although on closer inspection of the bag from the shop I notice the same surname as Francisco and Tomás’s. Ah, crumbs, it was probably his father.

• Clothing, chosen. Tight jeans, cool short-sleeved black silk blouse, fetching jewellery. Nice knickers. Nicer bra.

• Hairy bits, shaved. I am not yet ready to put my fluffy bits into the hands of one of the waxing technicians at J’s tanning-and-ice-cream place.

• Good hair day, as planned for as possible. Skipped washing today and hoping for favourable weather conditions tomorrow. It is a fickle beast.

• Conscience, suppressed. This largely achieved through listening to lots of music at full volume, the better to drown out any doubts.

samedi, le 28 mai

It doesn’t happen. I’m primed and ready and it doesn’t happen, and not because I don’t want it to. I really, really do. But dressed and made up, sitting nervously on the end of my bed, waiting until what I think might be closing time on a busy weekend night, it gives me a lot of time to think.

I shouldn’t be doing this, think of his family.

Since when have you ever worried about a man’s family?

Okay, think of the Boy.

Yeah, think of the Boy – there’s one reason why you shouldn’t say no.

Finally I ring the restaurant. Tomás answers, surprised and happy to hear my voice. I hesitate and ask for his brother and he goes silent. I lose my bottle. I ask again for Francisco. It takes a moment, and he comes to the phone, sounding tired but sexy.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t see you tonight,’ I say. No explanation. Not just because I don’t know the Spanish for it. But also because I don’t think he would particularly want, or need, my excuses.

‘Yes, I see,’ he says. ‘It’s very busy here, I must get back to work. Good night.’

‘Good night.’ And that’s it, I’ve blown my one chance with him, I know. The unopened packet of condoms sits on the end of my bed, next to my handbag.

lundi, le 30 mai

The Boy rings. We’re still at arm’s length. I make roundabout apologies, not placing blame on anyone: I’m sorry you’re still angry. I’m sorry that what I did upset you. I usually hate halfhearted apologies, the kind of thing a politician would say to look good without actually admitting guilt. I shouldn’t even be talking to him, but I want this relationship to last, and know from experience that forgiveness trumps anger every time. Ninety per cent of me is unconvinced that I’m the one who should be on bended knee. But the remaining, louder, 10 per cent really wants a cuddle. And sex.

Unlike him, I am not convinced that a secret summer romance would cheer me. So I email him a few new photos. The beach, the fruit stand, the house. And one photo of myself post-beach, naked, in the bathroom mirror. Suddenly we’re on speaking terms again. Such is the power of tan lines.

mardi, le 31 mai

Someone knocks at the door. I go to answer; it’s Tomás. ‘You don’t have to knock,’ I smile. ‘Come in, please.’

He stands on the step looking at me. His face is blank, I think perhaps he’s angry. ‘I hope you will not continue seeing my brother,’ Tomás says, formally.

I sigh. Of course. Surely he’s stood by and watched Francisco fooling around before. Possibly not with a neighbour, but still …

‘I’m not interested in your brother,’ I say. ‘He is married and has children.’

Tomás nods soberly. ‘He has.’

‘Please don’t stop talking to me because of this,’ I say. ‘Tú eres mi amigo.’

He smiles. ‘You are my friend, too,’ he says, in English. I smile and invite him in.

Dear Belle

Dear Belle,

After an eight-hour romance, I woke in my bed to find that my new lover was gone … and he left a fiver by the bedside. Have I joined the ranks of your profession?

Dear Pocket Change,

Only if you agreed on the fee beforehand, in which case perhaps you should reconsider your rates?

Dear Belle,

I have recently had to admit to myself I am in love with my flatmate. He is a gay man, I am a straight woman. Every time I try to get close to him, he takes it as a further affirmation of our friendship. Something in me believes no one is totally straight or totally gay. (Indeed, sometimes I feel like a gay man inside.) Should I persist or is this a lost cause?

Dear Fag Hag,

The sooner you give this up the better. Telling yourself that ‘no one is truly straight or gay’ may be statistically true, but is a huge insult to the significant number of people who are truly straight or gay, not to mention a dangerous fantasy about as attached to reality as ‘She says no, but she means yes’ and ‘Someday my prince will come.’ Even if he can be swayed, what makes you think you’re the gal he’d go straight for?

Dear Belle,

What is the right thing to do, as a client, when one discovers, after pulling one’s member out, that the condom has broken and you have left your happy juice inside your service provider?

Dear Accident Prone,

As in any other relationship, the correct thing to do would be to inform the young lady immediately. If you have reason to suspect that you may be carrying any diseases – because, after all, you’re visiting whores, something I reckon you do rather often, am I right? – it’s best to tell her that as well, and offer a way she can contact you should anything unusual come up. Because a condom breaking puts both parties at risk, remember.

mercredi, le 1 juin

I won’t go so far as to say that there are two types of men in the world – although I snidely suggest that there are, and the categories run roughly along the lines of, say, men who cheat and men who lie about their cheating – but there are, it cannot be gainsaid, definite types.

One in particular I’ve always had a weakness for is creepy-hot. You know, men who are undeniably sex on legs, but just might also practise devil worship on the side. In a sexy way of course.

Admiration of these specimens is in no way to be confused with the delusions of those hopeless women who ‘marry’ mass murderers on death row in Texas. Ladies, please, a word in your ears: convicted felons are not hot. They’re just creepy.

Unless we’re talking about Ted Bundy, but that’s by the by. Anyway, creepy-hot. There’s a lot of it about at the moment. Such as Johnny Knoxville, who looks like he’s always carrying a flick knife. ‘And Johnny Depp,’ L says, motioning to the bartender to bring us two more margaritas, double-quick. ‘That man has so much creepy-hot going on he’s practically their patron saint.’

jeudi, le 2 juin

L escorted me home and accepted the offer of a cuppa, but I was aware that we were still drunk and loud and I hated coming home drunk in front of J. Not that he ever said anything, but to me it felt about as decorous as reaching into your £800 handbag to pay for a Big Issue. L excused herself while the brew was still hot, in any case.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the Boy and had to stop myself ringing him. Maybe the dynamics of love are too complex for me to work out, and the simple fact of his imperfections – and my own – is not sufficient to make it not worth preserving; maybe the point of love is that you are loved not in spite of your imperfections but because of them. Otherwise romance would occur only among the ten-times-charcoal-filtered beauties of television and film, and in spite of the limitless evidence from celebrity gossip mags that their editors believe it should, I cannot believe that. I thought about whisky, which takes its flavour from a barrel that has already been used once (and sometimes twice). A clunky metaphor, but apt – after all, I was pissed. I detected somewhere in the abstracted rumblings of my digestive tract the body’s rejection of any mental exertion while tiddly on rum and coconut milk, and ran for the loo.

dimanche, le 5 juin

I suppose Georgie must have tired of toying with my boyfriend, because today alone he’s rung three times. It’s annoying that men are so transparent, but I can’t say it’s not nice. And when I went on the computer for a chat he was there. My only complaint is that he seems more keen to exchange social pleasantries than to talk about sex. Does this mean he’s forgotten? What if I go back and he’s gone off me altogether?

At least there are small victories. Such as the life-saving facial product L recommended for sun-battered skin. I replace my carnal urges with the compulsion to exfoliate. Not least because the treatment comes with a vibrating wand you’re meant to apply the cream with.

lundi, le 6 juin

Some juxtapositions are too awkward to be explained away, like an orange in a dead politician’s mouth.

Suddenly deciding to join the gym right after Christmas, for instance: it’s an indefensible combination. Coming out with a plan for alternative fuel days after OPEC starts to collude on oil prices: no one’s fooled.

The Boy inviting me to a wedding on the day I return home as soon as he finds out when I’m due to fly: absolutely transparent. It irks me to be second choice; but then, having worked as a call girl, I should be used to it.

mardi, le 7 juin

One out of every four women would like to sleep with Robbie Williams, apparently. And L is one of them.

Ladies, do you realise what this means? It means that far from being career-and-family-juggling, I Don’t Know How She Does It, multitasking and thoroughly modern Millies, we are in fact hopelessly feminine and utterly predictable about it, to boot. We fancy a bit of rough. We all want to be the one who turns a bad boy good.

‘It’s just that he seems so … isolated,’ L says in her defence.

Oh, it’s a poor reflection on the cultural inheritance of the late twentieth century to find out that deep down we’re collectively gagging for the chance to be exactly like our foremothers, whose mates were no more adult than the children they raised. That the thought of a smouldering look from someone who, near as I can reckon, most resembles a selectively shaved gorilla sends the ladies into such paroxysms of knicker-dampening is utterly depressing. Is this what the suffragettes would have wanted for us? Is this the future that Ms Steinem et al. secured for us?

‘I mean, I feel like we’re connected, somehow. I know how he feels,’ she says.

Just the other day, in fact, L and I were jawing over coffee, wondering aloud how on earth men managed to put trousers on, much less assume responsibility for most modern governments. There must surely be enough combined spirit and wit in women to move civilisation forward in a positive way. Without secretly pining for sweaty builders and pop stars who want to be them.

‘I’ve been thinking about sending him a letter,’ L says, ‘To say, hey, I’m not after you for your money, I have plenty. I just think I could be someone who cares.’

Worst of all, it has made me despise Robbie simply for existing. When J puts one of his CDs on, I make for elsewhere. If when flicking channels my eyes rest on one of his histrionic video performances, I turn the television off and head for the safe, warm embrace of the BBC World Service. It is just not possible to bear a world in which so many women fancy this man.

‘I think you should go for it,’ I say. ‘After all, what’s the worst that could happen?’

A particular pity because he looks like he could be such a nice lad, once I got my hands on him.

mercredi, le 8 juin

I dial the familiar number, but my hand is shaking a little … It’s awkward making contact after so long. I feel a little excited and a lot guilty.

The familiar voice answers. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ N says.

‘How did you know it was me?’

‘No number came up. Who else could it be?’

‘An Indian call centre?’ N laughs. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been better about contacting you. I am a bit of a shit.’

‘No worries. I’ll beat you about the face and neck later. And you know that’s not an idle threat. So when are you coming home? I miss the hell out of you.’

God, I miss him, too. ‘Soon,’ I say. ‘Next month.’

‘Can’t wait to get my hands on you,’ N growled.

‘What about the girlfriend?’

‘What about her? She dumped me right after St Valentine’s Day.’

‘Nooooooo.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘If I’d known, I would have been rid of her before Christmas and spent the time with you instead.’

‘You’re too sweet.’

‘All part of the service, ma’am.’

jeudi, le 9 juin

I went back to the Boy’s blog. Glutton for punishment, I suppose. But I also wanted to know whether there was anything I’d missed, either good or bad.

He hadn’t updated it in a couple of weeks. I rolled my eyes. He’d never been very good at sticking with things. I scrolled back through the archives, looking again and again at the evidence of his affair with Susie, at the lies he’d told everyone, including himself: the ways he’d hated me and wanted to hurt me.

Except, it didn’t look quite like that this time. Yes, he’d fooled around; and every one of those girls, he’d compared against me. Yes, he was angry; and over and over he’d written how he’d wished things were different, that I had been different, that we were together.

He didn’t rabbit on about making a life with Susie, he didn’t indulge in maudlin recollections of previous good times with the others. It was me he thought of when he was alone; me he said he wanted a future with.

And hidden in a long entry I’d only skimmed before: ‘Now I know that she needed me most when she first moved to London and was struggling to find a job, and I wasn’t there.’ (Because he’d started seeing Susie on the side and was still chasing Sierra Hohum …) I’d started working as a call girl because I’d had difficulty finding a job that paid reasonable money. He didn’t openly wonder whether I might not have chosen sex work if he’d been around more. But it was interesting to see he’d considered this.

I was upset, but not in a bad way. I decided to quit while I was ahead and make a real effort to stop reading his blog for good.

vendredi, le 10 juin

‘Best travel sex tips,’ I said.

L was sipping something giant and frothy, with several bits of fruit impaled on a stick floating in it. She put down her drink. ‘Never fuck another tourist.’

I nodded; good advice. ‘Never fuck a local. Oh, and bring your own condoms.’

‘Voice of experience?’

‘I was a girl guide. Be prepared, and so forth.’

L smiled. ‘Never do abroad anything you wouldn’t touch at home. Bungee, raw fish, etc.’

‘Never do abroad anyone you wouldn’t touch at home. Bungee operators, etc.’

‘Ha!’ L tapped her teeth with the arm of her glasses. ‘Come early and come often.’

I smiled. It was getting harder to best her. ‘Fuck the police. No, seriously, fuck the police.’

L nodded and her lips pulled at the straw in her drink. We were quiet for ages. ‘My best tip, passed from generation to generation of women in my family,’ she said. ‘Learn how to say, “If you don’t stop touching me there I’ll call the police” in as many languages as possible.’

‘How many can you say it in?’ I asked. ‘

At least eight.’

samedi, le 11 juin

I can’t get sex off my mind – correction, I can get sex off my mind, but the replacement activities (sitting on the beach, walking with J) are not sufficiently distracting to keep me from thinking about it for long.

The funny thing about being starved of sex is that you remember things you might otherwise have forgotten: a particular night, or a lover whose name has long since slipped your mind. I’ve spent more than a few hours recalling:

• The man at uni who had dated all the girls in our circle of friends but me. We finally did it, the night after graduation. Anal. We never spoke again until five years later when he emailed me out of the blue (he’s married now).

• The man who loved asphyxiating me, and since I didn’t know any better, I didn’t refuse him. Until, that is, the time I became unconscious, and remained so for several minutes, according to him. I don’t remember it. But I never let anyone throttle me again.

• The time I had sex in a hotel room (not with a client), and the man used the clips of a trouser hanger to pull on my nipples – quite clever improvisation, that; it comes with a built-in handle, and we took it away when we’d finished – while I masturbated to orgasm. Afterwards, we watched Eurotrashy soft porn on the television.

dimanche, le 12 juin

I’m wearing a retinol-enriched mask; J has a lavender eye compress over his face. ‘The sound of ceiling fans on all night,’ he says.

‘Low-riders blasting bass at 1 a.m.,’ I say.

‘Five-pound cocktails,’ J says.

‘No, they have those at home, too,’ I say. ‘Pork in everything, even the vegetables.’

‘People asking you where you’re from on a daily basis.’

‘Sleeping alone.’

‘You don’t have to sleep alone, you know,’ J says. ‘That’s your choice.’

‘Whatever. Radioactive green soda.’

‘Squid in cans.’

‘Hey, I thought that was a good thing.’ J takes the compress off and looks at me. I laugh. ‘Just kidding.’

‘Ants in the house.’

‘You’re right, I wouldn’t miss that, either.’

lundi, le 13 juin

As the wedding the Boy has invited me to is with some of his rather posh friends and literally the day I arrive back, something to wear is obviously an issue. L came round to brainstorm on the options:

• Summer dress and espadrilles

Pros: easy to get here

Cons: look it

• Trouser suit

Pros: easy to wear after a long flight Cons: L says ‘ewwwww’

• Nice silk blouse and skirt

Pros: casual

Cons: too casual

• Jeans and a T

Pros: it’s what Julie Burchill would do Cons: ‘I appreciate the fact that you spent two hundred quid on jeans so your arse would look fractionally more like Cameron Diaz’s, but really, no.’

• Travel to a big city here and buy something

Pros: good exchange rate, will probably get a deal Cons: I don’t really go in for the Dynasty look.

• Let the Boy pick up something of mine from A4’s and hope for the best

Pros: out of my hands

Cons: he’ll probably pick the big red meringue I wore to a school disco in 1992.

• Borrow something off L

Pros: far nicer than anything I can afford

Cons: will have to wait for her to come back to the UK, or post to her here. ‘Hey, what am I going to do with this kind of dress here? I don’t even know why the hell I brought it.’

mardi, le 14 juin

Tomás has given me a phone card, and though it means having to find a public telephone, I use it to ring Daddy.

‘Hello, honey, how are you?’ he asks. I tell him I’m planning to come home next month. ‘That’s great news,’ he says. ‘There’s someone I’d very much like you to meet.’

Good thing he can’t see my face, because it just turned in on itself. We exchange pleasantries, and he’s about to ring off, when I can’t resist asking.

‘Daddy, did you and Mum ever really love each other?’ He pauses. ‘I loved your mother very much,’ he says softly. ‘Still do.’

‘You two are always so vague when you talk about each other, and now you’re both seeing other people and … I don’t know, I don’t want to come home to two new families.’

‘Honey, it’s hard being alone,’ he says. Oh yes? I think. Tell me a-fucking-bout it.

‘Do you even remember how you felt when you met? How can you just walk away after all you two have been through?’

‘Oh, sweetie, there are so many things you don’t understand.’