Untouchable Read Online Free PDF Page B

the bookshelves and my little desk area in the nook by the kitchen. But most of all, flitting over me.
    ‘Can I take your coat?’ I ask. ‘It looks wet.’
    He glances down at his black overcoat as if he’s only now realized it’s been raining. Then shrugs it off and hands it to me. I hang it by the door, next to mine.
    ‘Nice place,’ he says as I reappear.
    ‘Thanks.’ Though in truth it’s ordinary by anyone’s standards. One bedroom, a kitchen, a living room and a bathroom. Décor, in the main, courtesy of IKEA.
    ‘Handy for the tube. And the trains.’ He colours, as if embarrassed by his own banality. Runs a hand through dark hair that’s greying a little at the edges.
    I offer him a drink. He looks like he needs something to ease things along.
    ‘Please,’ he says, clearly relieved.
    ‘Beer or wine?’
    ‘Red. If you’ve got it.’
    I nod. Grab a bottle and a couple of glasses from the kitchen. Open it and pour us both a glass. I seem to be making a habit of drinking on the job.
    I size him up as I hand him his wine. Late thirties, early forties at a push. Beige chinos and a green polo shirt, topped by a black jumper. Your standard corporate smart-casual.
    Roughly speaking, you can divide my clients into two types. The younger ones – up to, say, fifty – are usually after a no-strings shag. I’m one of life’s little treats, alongside the occasional bottle of grand cru or lunch at Quaglino’s.
    Then there’s the other kind, typically older, who want more; more than I could possibly offer. Most have hit that dog-end of marriage where boredom, irritation, or the hormonal ravages of the menopause have worn libidos to a stub – along with all chance of physical affection or intimacy. They land on my doorstep thinking they’re here for the sex, only to discover they’re yearning for a connection far more than skin-deep.
    This bloke, however, doesn’t quite fit either category. Too young and easy-on-the-eye to be looking for love in exactly the wrong place. Then again, he’s booked two hours – the quick-fucks only ever book one. Most would plump for half if I offered it, but I leave that to my colleagues over in Soho.
    Ben puts his glass down on the coffee table and sits in the armchair. Leans forward, elbows balanced on his knees, examining the books on my shelves. He’s clearly uncomfortable, and I wonder if this is his first time with an escort.
    ‘What’s your verdict on this?’ He leans over, pulls out a copy of a recent Man Booker nominee.
    I shrug. ‘Underwhelming.’
    He laughs. ‘I’ve met her, actually. She lives up the road from me.’
    ‘Really? What’s she like?’
    ‘Oh, you know. Intense. Neurotic. Like most writers.’
    I laugh. ‘Like most whores, come to that.’
    He looks openly surprised. Shocked even. Then makes a visible effort to recover.
    ‘What do you do?’ I ask, trying not to smile at his discomfort.
    ‘Ad exec.’
    ‘Ah, nice,’ I say, insincerely.
    He grimaces. ‘Spending most of your waking hours feeding the demons of capitalism is not exactly something I’d describe as nice .’
    ‘Creative though.’
    ‘Only if you think schmoozing clients and flattering people you despise is creative.’
    ‘I’m probably not the right person to ask,’ I quip. Then realize how rude that sounds. I grit my teeth. Jesus, Grace, shut it.
    But Ben looks me over with a grin. ‘I’ll bet,’ he says, examining my face. ‘So what about you?’
    ‘What about me?’
    ‘I’m assuming this isn’t all you do. Or did.’
    ‘Why would you assume that?’
    ‘Your book choices give you away.’ He watches me as he waits for my response.
    ‘This is what I do now,’ I say simply.
    ‘Shame.’ He lets his eyes rest on mine. ‘Seems like rather a waste.’
    I lift an eyebrow in mock offence. ‘You reckon? I like to think I’m very good at what I do.’
    ‘I don’t doubt it for a second.’
    I swallow a mouthful of wine, suddenly wary. This whole booking seems