Street.’
I picture Anna wandering round Fenwicks, naked under a yashmak. ‘You going to do it?’
Anna wrinkles up her nose. ‘Depends on the weather. I nearly froze my tits off in Greenwich. I couldn’t stop shivering.’ She grimaces, a look that’s one part humour and two parts fatigue. ‘Let’s just say I didn’t have to bother counting the money.’
I smile. This was the best advice Anna ever gave me. If you start feeling anything for a client – and it does happen – you count the money. That always brings you back down to earth.
Despite the lightness in my friend’s voice, I experience a niggle of discomfort. As if she’s taken a step closer to an abyss we’re both pretending isn’t anywhere near. I try to imagine Anna working in an office, picking up her kids from school. Having comfy married sex with her husband.
I just can’t picture it.
‘I’m getting too old for all this,’ she sighs, catching my mood.
‘You’re only thirty-seven.’
‘Nearly thirty-eight,’ she corrects. ‘Christ, Grace, I don’t even fancy myself any more. I made myself masturbate the other day because I haven’t come in months.’
‘Ah,’ I say, smiling again. ‘A pity wank.’
‘Honestly, I’m so sick of it all. Men and their dicks. Pretending to be impressed by them.’
‘You mean the men? Or their dicks?’
‘Is there a difference?’
We snigger, enjoying the gallows humour, then fall quiet again, as if both avoiding something deeper, leaving silence the safest option. I listen to the overhead whine of jet engines banking around Heathrow. The background chatter from the pub, one man’s voice carrying over the others, a sonic boom punctuated by the odd staccato laugh.
Inhaling, I look at Anna straight on. ‘Do you ever think about getting out?’
She lifts her shoulders then lights another cigarette. I play with the packet as I wait for her answer, flipping it over and over, wondering why I even asked.
I guess the truth is I’m worried. Anna’s been in the business for seven years now, which is at least five years too long to be functioning normally. Escorting is like radiation: fine in small doses, but prolonged exposure is highly toxic.
‘I think about it,’ she says eventually. ‘But never seem to get further than that.’ She examines the end of the cigarette scissored between her fingers. ‘How about you, more to the point? What’s your exit strategy?’
‘More to the point?’
Anna squints into sun. ‘I’m a lost cause, Grace, but you’re not. You don’t want to be stuck like me, dressing up in burqas for some pathetic little pervert.’
What’s your exit strategy?
My mind chews over the question. I haven’t really considered it, even though I brought the subject up. That’s another of my rules – never think much beyond the next week or two.
‘Christ, we’re like bloody refugees,’ Anna mutters.
‘From what?’ I look over and see her expression hovering close to sadness.
‘Our former lives.’ She kicks at a bit of gravel and it skitters across the concrete paving. ‘Who said that? About the past being a different country?’
‘The past is a foreign country,’ I say. ‘L. P. Hartley.’
‘That’s the one.’ She takes a final drag, sending a plume of smoke into the London air, where it disperses a little then hangs there as she stubs out the butt and chucks it into the bottom of her beer bottle. ‘Either way, one thing’s for sure. There’s definitely no going back.’
6
Wednesday, 4 February
My six o’clock smiles as he walks into my flat, though he’s chewing the inside corner of his lip and it gives the expression a wry twist. He’s cute. Not in that obviously pretty-boy sort of way; rather he has the kind of face that’s quietly appealing.
Ben stands in my lounge, looking awkward, checking me out while pretending that’s precisely not what he’s doing. His eyes dart around the room, taking in the sofas, the coffee table and the TV,
I picture Anna wandering round Fenwicks, naked under a yashmak. ‘You going to do it?’
Anna wrinkles up her nose. ‘Depends on the weather. I nearly froze my tits off in Greenwich. I couldn’t stop shivering.’ She grimaces, a look that’s one part humour and two parts fatigue. ‘Let’s just say I didn’t have to bother counting the money.’
I smile. This was the best advice Anna ever gave me. If you start feeling anything for a client – and it does happen – you count the money. That always brings you back down to earth.
Despite the lightness in my friend’s voice, I experience a niggle of discomfort. As if she’s taken a step closer to an abyss we’re both pretending isn’t anywhere near. I try to imagine Anna working in an office, picking up her kids from school. Having comfy married sex with her husband.
I just can’t picture it.
‘I’m getting too old for all this,’ she sighs, catching my mood.
‘You’re only thirty-seven.’
‘Nearly thirty-eight,’ she corrects. ‘Christ, Grace, I don’t even fancy myself any more. I made myself masturbate the other day because I haven’t come in months.’
‘Ah,’ I say, smiling again. ‘A pity wank.’
‘Honestly, I’m so sick of it all. Men and their dicks. Pretending to be impressed by them.’
‘You mean the men? Or their dicks?’
‘Is there a difference?’
We snigger, enjoying the gallows humour, then fall quiet again, as if both avoiding something deeper, leaving silence the safest option. I listen to the overhead whine of jet engines banking around Heathrow. The background chatter from the pub, one man’s voice carrying over the others, a sonic boom punctuated by the odd staccato laugh.
Inhaling, I look at Anna straight on. ‘Do you ever think about getting out?’
She lifts her shoulders then lights another cigarette. I play with the packet as I wait for her answer, flipping it over and over, wondering why I even asked.
I guess the truth is I’m worried. Anna’s been in the business for seven years now, which is at least five years too long to be functioning normally. Escorting is like radiation: fine in small doses, but prolonged exposure is highly toxic.
‘I think about it,’ she says eventually. ‘But never seem to get further than that.’ She examines the end of the cigarette scissored between her fingers. ‘How about you, more to the point? What’s your exit strategy?’
‘More to the point?’
Anna squints into sun. ‘I’m a lost cause, Grace, but you’re not. You don’t want to be stuck like me, dressing up in burqas for some pathetic little pervert.’
What’s your exit strategy?
My mind chews over the question. I haven’t really considered it, even though I brought the subject up. That’s another of my rules – never think much beyond the next week or two.
‘Christ, we’re like bloody refugees,’ Anna mutters.
‘From what?’ I look over and see her expression hovering close to sadness.
‘Our former lives.’ She kicks at a bit of gravel and it skitters across the concrete paving. ‘Who said that? About the past being a different country?’
‘The past is a foreign country,’ I say. ‘L. P. Hartley.’
‘That’s the one.’ She takes a final drag, sending a plume of smoke into the London air, where it disperses a little then hangs there as she stubs out the butt and chucks it into the bottom of her beer bottle. ‘Either way, one thing’s for sure. There’s definitely no going back.’
6
Wednesday, 4 February
My six o’clock smiles as he walks into my flat, though he’s chewing the inside corner of his lip and it gives the expression a wry twist. He’s cute. Not in that obviously pretty-boy sort of way; rather he has the kind of face that’s quietly appealing.
Ben stands in my lounge, looking awkward, checking me out while pretending that’s precisely not what he’s doing. His eyes dart around the room, taking in the sofas, the coffee table and the TV,
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