GRAPES

         


                              GRAPES

1

The lamp post she stands under is the only illumination anywhere near and spotlights her from the darkness. She appears slightly overweight, probably married, shaped by babyhood and domestic routine and the impressive protrusions of her chest are evident, even from a distance. She walks forward, pauses by the pavement's edge and scans across the open space of her horizon. A large warehouse squats opposite her across the road, one of the last standing from a derelict industrial complex.
When she looks across in my direction I move behind the corner of the wall, then a moment later, peek out again. She turns and starts to move back into the alleyway she had come from. The second she's out of sight I leave my alcove and quickly skirt the building's edge in pursuit to make certain I reach her before she comes out into the rear main road where her car is parked. The sound of my feet on the concrete concern me, but I gamble that her concealment between the narrow walls will help smother my approaching steps. When I get to the alleyway's corner, I look in and see her only half way to the other side and sanctuary.
To overpower, a quick and strong slap is necessary. If it is too weak she may resist. But a stunning slap will pacify and save time. Done properly, it will not leave a mark.
I pull the balaclava down over my head and move furtively behind her, adjusting my body weight low to the right side to gain enough momentum for the swing of my arm. As I rise to strike, it arcs around the side of her face and hits the right cheek with a loud slap and she collapses to the ground in a heap.
I have five minutes.
One: Undo my belt and pull it quickly through the jean's loops.
Two: Turn her face downwards, grabbing her wrists behind her back.
Three: Tie the belt tight around her elbows so that they clamp the arms rigid straight.
Four: tear a strip of duct tape and cover her mouth.
By this time she begins to come to her senses and knows that she's restrained and helpless. The sudden lack of oxygen through her mouth prioritizes her options and she is aware that any energy she has left to struggle with would be better used to help her breathe normally throughout the ordeal. If she remains passive it will be over quickly.
With her securely fastened, I stand back and pull down my jeans. Then I lower myself behind her, spread her legs with my knees and dig my fingers deep into her fat hips and raise her roughly so that her backside is inches from my erection. I lift up her skirt and split a fingernail on the cotton of her pants as I tear them down, a sting of pain making me rip them from her in frustration. I use my hand to guide myself under and between her thighs and enter carefully, but when I feel the damp heat of her insides, instinct takes over and I stab hard in.
I grip and pull her to me as I drive in, the rhythmic slaps of flesh to flesh sounding loud between the concrete walls. I push down on her back to maximise my penetration. She is half yelping, half pleading and bubbles of mucus run from her nose and slide down the tape over her stuck lips. I'm fighting a conflict between intention and self-consciousness and struggle with the balance, desperate to detach from the mad experience and at the same time taking what I need from it to see it through.
Her suppressed moans test the silence of the night so I push her face into the ground to muffle her exhalations. When I sense that the five minutes are done I accelerate my thrusts and feel the rise in my loins as I prepare for the crescendo, arching my back to momentary stillness to release everything I have into her.
After my final heaves I pull out, remove the tape from her mouth and unfasten the belt from her arms. Then I dress myself and I run. I don't look back. I pull the balaclava from my head to feel the breeze on my skin and run with an urge that is almost inspirational, a pace I hadn't experienced before.
I drive home tired and dazed, safe from contact. I can smell her perfume on me. Feel the dampness between my legs. I look at my finger and see a tiny piece of skin stripped from the edge of the nail, a reminder of my carelessness. I nibble it free with my teeth to spit it away and suck at the wound.

At home it's difficult to relax but a different routine takes over.
Place keys into the drawer.
Take off all clothes and throw them away.
Go straight to the shower.
Wash, then dress.
Make hot chocolate.
Take hot chocolate to bed and read.
Anything not connected. Literature. History. Politics. TV has women on. We live in a world of women. So read. Look at the clock. Fifteen minutes before I call. Continue reading. History. Caesar is preparing to fight Pompey. He tells his soldiers to aim their weapons at the faces of Pompey's soldiers because they are vain and will collapse at the onslaught. Caesar wins and history is changed. But I'm here anyway. I pick up the phone.
'Josie?'
'Hello, Robert. Everything alright?'
'I think so. How was it your end?'
'Fine, but two things.'
'Don't tell me, I hit her too hard.'
'Not exactly. It was inaccurate more than hard.'
'I couldn't see much, it was dark.'
'I know, she said that. She's not too concerned about it. Maybe you need to practice your aim better.'
'How the hell do I practice something like that?'
'I take your point.'
'And the other thing?'
'Your jacket. You left it there.'
'You're joking.'
'Don't worry, she threw it in the bin nearby. It wasn't expensive, was it?'
'No. I get them second hand. That's not what I'm concerned about. How can I forget to pick up my own jacket?'
'Understandable in the fever of the moment, I suppose. She didn't mind, she was happy to do it.'
'I don't believe it. What victim cleans up after their own rapist?'
'I wouldn't worry, she seemed satisfied. A possible call back, I think.'
'I'm relieved to hear it.'
'Are you alright? You sound exhausted.'
'It's the whole night. I feel as if I've been on an eight hour shift.'
'It's the nature of the work, you'll get used to it.'
'I'm not sure I want to. It keeps me human.'
'Robert, I've told you before. We supply a service. Think of it like that and then it will become easier, believe me. Get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.'
'I'll do that. Goodnight, Josie.'
'Goodnight Robert.'

But I didn't have a good night. I was in bed for eight hours but it was sleep fractured by bad dreams.
A long time ago I prayed to God to let a woman go from me. When he answered, I lost my faith in him and love at the same time. He never responded when I asked for other things but he answered that one abruptly. I lost my temper with my wife after a violent exchange of words and put my hands around her neck. I didn't squeeze my hands, I just lunged her away from me like a nuisance. Not dangerous but certainly cruel. And unjustified. She flew back to her mother with tearful threats of divorce as she entered the taxi. It seemed a torturous but necessary conclusion of something gone septic. After she'd left I said my prayer: Dear God let her find someone else and be happy. Even though God was real to me as a child, adulthood broadened my mind and he evaporated slowly under the Sun of science. Or so I believed. But I've since learned that once you commit to prayer, his presence is evoked and the plea registered. I slept that night sombre but relieved.
A few weeks after the split the familiar feelings returned. I felt only irritated at another change of heart, exasperated at something I acknowledged was illogical. A few days apart would more likely end the same way our tiffs had before and we'd enjoy the pleasure that can only come from reuniting after separation. Her first refusal didn't worry me. She'd said no before and the resistance felt familiar. As the days passed so the longing worsened. With every refusal to answer my calls or reply to letters, the small hole that had been made by her departure grew deeper. Then a friend's flippant remark so devastating that their face can only be associated thereafter with the comment: I saw your ex with someone else. Two questions rose: who and why? Then I remembered the second had already been answered.
Weeks dragged by and the early inconsequential hole her absence had caused swallowed me entirely. Then the final proof. I saw them myself, together in a shopping centre like a declaration to the world. They were happy. They were arm in arm. They were oblivious. To me and everyone else. I should have been enlightened. God had answered me. There was even a Christian speaker by the fountain they walked past when I saw them. Waving his small black book at no one in particular. But the people weren't listening. I should have stood alongside him. Yes, this man speaks the truth. God will answer your prayers. That young woman there with that stranger, is living proof of the fact. Instead I was astounded by the absurdity of the change. How could I want someone back after I wanted them desperately away from me? It was the acceleration of change that astonished. Love may be unpredictable, even deceptive, but it cannot be false and then true in such a ridiculously short space of time. If it's a lesson I have to learn then I'll take it. But it won't be the one I'm expected to heed.
So fuck you God and fuck Love. Or whatever the hell it is. Fuck you both.



                                       2

I bet myself I knew who it would be even before I picked the phone up.
'Hi, Seb.'
'Rob. How did it go last night? Been invited back for tea, yet?'
'It went OK according to the feedback. But I forgot to pick up my jacket.'
'You forgot your fucking jacket? Are you serious?'
'Yes I'm serious.'
'You amateur.'
'Apparently she didn't mind. She threw it away for me. Josie told me last night.
'You lucky shit. If that had been me, she would've crucified me. And tell me something: how come you get to call her Josie? I tried that handle on her once and she cut me down real quick. 'It's Mrs Pilkington to you, Sebastian,' she said. Like I was a fucking school kid. I think you're her favourite, you poor sod.'
'Well, there are only two of us. I can't help it if I'm the least disliked.'
'Pinkie doesn't appreciate me. We do the same work you and I. And I take all my clothes with me afterwards.'
'Seb. What's that noise I can hear?'
'That's Tina. Wait: I'll get you closer to her.. .'
There is a pause away from his voice and I can hear a loud slurping noise exaggerated for effect. I know what it is and shout his name to come back to the phone.
'I met her last night on the way back from my own job.' He said. 'Only this one doesn't pay me. I have to pay her. Say hello to Robert, Tina.'
The slurping noise stops momentarily and a voice approaches too close to the phone.
'Hello, Robert.'
'Hello, Tina.' Then she goes back to work.
'I think she likes you.' Said Seb.
'You had a job last night?'
'Sure. In a nice warm house, too. Her hubby was the cuckold. Best fun I've had in ages. I even shoved her knickers in her mouth.'
'She wanted that?'
'It wasn't in the script, if that's what you mean. But a little improvisation goes a long way, let me tell you.'
'You take too many risks, Seb. Another man might have beaten your brains in for doing that to his wife.'
'Sure. Like he's going to have no go areas after he watches me bang his wife in his own bedroom. Besides, I know these swingers. We did the same thing a few months ago and she loved it so I had the good manners to remember it. It's called customer care.'
'Or pushing your luck.'
'Your problem, Rob, is that you're afraid to take risks.'
'Everything we do is a risk. That's why I do it by the book. Exactly what they ask for.'
'Right. So they know what's coming. Let me tell you something; these women pay to get abused. They fantasize about being raped, roughed up, whatever you want to call it. Now when you do it, you make sure you don't go too far but far enough to make it real. But me? I go beyond it. Only a little. But enough to make them feel that maybe, just maybe, this assault is outside what is accepted. You call it pushing my luck. Well guess what; so do I. I've never had a complaint yet. You know why? Because they like that uncertainty. You get most of the new contracts, am I right?'
'Sure. But I get some call backs, too.'
'I know you do. But two thirds of mine are call backs. Because even though they know we're licenced, and it's all monitored and regulated, there's a tiny bit of them that wants what I like to call, the 'uncalled for'.'
'And tell me, Seb. How long will it be before you punch instead of slap? When there's blood instead of a bruise? You only have to do it once and everything blows up in our faces.'
There was an uncomfortable pause before he replied and I knew he was keeping his temper.
'Listen to me, Rob. I was working on these contracts long before Mother Goose took you under her wing. If I didn't get the balance right, you wouldn't be working now. Pinkie hates my guts because she suspects I might just be giving these friends of hers a bit more fun than what they asked for. And that kind of leaves her a little vulnerable. After all, if I go beyond the arranged instructions, what's the point of her?'
'She does this voluntarily, for her friends. She doesn't expect a commission. We get most of the money, you know that.'
'Sure I know it. And no one could ever say I'm not grateful. But I'm tired of this moral standpoint you two are taking. I did my shift in the factories and offices and I don't want to go back. So it doesn't make sense for me to mess it up, does it?'
'Sometimes I just worry about you. Maybe because I feel uneasy doing it, I have the arrogance to believe others should too, that's all.'
'You're not my babysitter, Rob. You and I are in the world of supply and demand. Everyone's different and people can do the same work in different ways, too.'
'I know, I know. Sorry.'
'Sorry? Don't be sorry. I like talking to you. Who else can I relate to in this mad profession? Are we still friends?'
'Sure. Still friends.'
'Good. Now I've got to unload into this beauty before I blow up. See you soon, Rob.'
'Bye.'
Unload into this beauty. Typical Seb. Vulgarity and compliment in the same sentence.
But he's right. What's working here is simple market forces. If there are women with fantasies that need to be animated to real life and someone trusted can do that, then there is a market. Josephine isn't an agent even though she works like one. She does it from the goodness of her heart. She's in the same situation as many of her friends. Married to the rich men of the City who no longer have sex with them. They still love their wives; rely on them because they have the decades of experience that can be called on to relieve almost every emotional or practical concern. But the physical side of the relationship is dormant. They have their secretaries and call girls for that. But they always come home because their wives know them better than anyone. Like their mothers that have passed away. The weak wives are those that file for divorce when they suspect an affair, not only to get as much money as they can from any subsequent settlement, but also for revenge. But it usually ends up disastrous for all.
The clever ones play it to their advantage. They judge that if their husbands are happy to have their mistresses discreetly, then that means they too, can play the same game. Just because the husband instigated their decision doesn't mean they can't enjoy it. They have been invited to play just as hard and even better. Some couples like wife swapping parties and can navigate their emotions competently throughout without complications. Some like to see their wives getting serviced by two or three men at a time in their own house. But if it works, it works. In such scenarios, feminism sits twiddling its thumbs uncomfortably in a sofa chair close by, unnoticed. And it was none other than my ex-wife who helped lead me to this profitable debauchery by suggesting I should be a male model.
Who knows their own face better? No one but the person in the mirror. We are accustomed to every feature of our expression, searching for that perspective from the eyes of others whose shoes we're always standing in. I may not have been ugly but I never thought I was compatible with the universal model seen in fashion magazines. My wife disagreed. There are people who will enhance your appearance, she assured me. Make up, lighting, the finished presentation. It's the little things they do that complete the whole. I was reliably informed later by someone with experience in the profession that I had three features that almost every prospective model must have to succeed: prominent cheek bone structure, a high forehead and a strong jaw line. I was also tall, had nice teeth and a thick head of hair. And I was young. Or at least not old.
It was in our early months of marriage when I was out of work. What had I to lose? So I sent off some averagely presented portfolio photographs and waited for offers. To my surprise, I got one soon after, and over the space of several months, succeeded in my new career. Just modelling clothes in catalogues. I didn't make much money, but I was making it. She told her friends that I was a male model but in truth I felt nothing more than a clothes hanger. And it was during this career move that the deterioration of our marriage began. When we split up we sold the house and went our separate ways, her with her new lover and me in my new role as a mannequin.
I became settled in the job, learnt the poses and the tricks of the camera. Made some good friends. Then the agency began laying off staff and my hours were reduced. And it was a colleague who suggested I should go into the male escort business. He'd done it for four years and made quite a bit of money, even though he warned me it was harder to earn than catalogue work. I was put in touch with someone called Mr Shaw from an agency in London and told to ring him.
An interview was arranged and they would pay for the travel expenses. I put on what I considered to be my best suit. When I walked into the office I saw a middle-aged man leaning back on a chair with his feet crossed over a long desk. His relaxed pose indicated he had no superiors to answer to. He gave me an intense assessment with his eyes as I moved to the chair I was invited to sit on. It took me no more than five seconds to reach it but his glare never left me. The first words he said to me when I sat down were, 'The hair we can fix, but that suit will have to go.' I took that as a favourable sign that I would be taken on, and I was, starting a month later. With the share of the money I'd got from the sale of the house in Sheffield, I found a small flat to rent in London and moved in a week before I was due to start, uncertain, homesick and excited.
My first day was spent in his office. I was given a long list of do's and don'ts of the trade, dictated to me in a monologue devoid of emotion or emphasis. He'd said it so often he hardly glanced at the sheets on the table.
'OK. So maybe you think male escorts spend most of their time screwing rich ladies in their 60's-'
'Well, Mr Shaw, to be honest-'
'It wasn't a question so let me finish. Sometimes they do. Other times you might have to listen to an old woman's sob stories until the early hours. And you'd better make damn sure you do listen because you can bet they know when you don't. On the other hand, maybe they'll take you away to the South of France for a weekend. That's happened before, too. It's pot luck. Escorts provide a service for these women and what they buy is your precious company. You've either got to be an all-round perfect gentlemen or a damn good actor. And it's usually the latter. Which are you?'
I waited for him to continue but took the prolonged pause as a cue to answer.
'I'd like to think I'm a gentleman. But I could act it if I had to.'
'And what if a woman ridiculed you in public, humiliated you in a busy restaurant just to feel good about herself. Would you walk out and risk losing the money?'
'I don't know. But it would be an option I wouldn't hesitate in choosing if I felt it was right.'
'Good. You'd have been out that door if you'd answered no. Remember your behaviour reflects badly on the agency if they think any woman can treat our employees like dirt and get away with it. They wouldn't ring us again. They may want nothing more than a penis for the weekend, but they want a flesh and blood man behind it, not a lapdog. You might be surprised to learn that some of the women who call us are young and happily married. They cheat on their husbands just for the thrill of it. Others use you for nothing more than a face to be seen with so they can get back with an ex-boyfriend. That might cost you a black eye or worse.
Some of them just want you to show off to their friends at public events. Some are just lonely old women who like to be around men. Some just want to get drunk and hire you as nothing more than a chauffeur and barman. If there's one sure thing about being a male escort it's that no two women are the same therefore no two evenings are the same. Expect the unexpected and never presume. There is one certainty, however: They tell us what they want and we tell you. If you don't meet the conditions set prior to the arrangement, whatever they may be, then you are out- and you won't be compensated.
It needs to be said that almost all of our clients are of a certain type: They are extremely rich. That means that they believe they can buy almost anything and anyone. This is more or less true. Most of them are regular customers and call us two or three times a month and they pay us well. They're either self-made career women who have no time for what you might call conventional socializing, or they have rich husbands who give them their housekeeping money in thousands. They're running out of time and want a man on demand. And they're quick to reject anyone they consider may not be right for them. You might walk into a room and be told to leave even before you've sat down. It's not personal. They just don't like the look of you. You need an absence of pride at such moments. If that happens too often, however, then you're out. You just haven't got what it takes. But usually you're given appropriate time. And don't forget that this brief introductory talk with the client is only a preliminary interview, not the start of your work time. If you're lucky enough to remain with the lady for half an hour or more, you can consider yourself hired and concentrate on the night ahead.
Some of our clients have complained to us that their escorts were too boring when they wanted them to be extrovert, or too gregarious when they expected someone more reserved. Even though these traits may not have been mentioned in the details prior to the arrangement, we never argue the point. Every escort must have the necessary intuition to understand the woman he is with and, for that reason, adjust his demeanour accordingly as the evening develops, especially where alcohol is involved. They may give you clues, but be prepared to work without them.
As for sex, we are not a prostitution service. If the client expects the night to end up on a more physical level, then she will tell us beforehand and we will tell you. But it nearly always happens as a culmination of the evening and is not the focal point of any arrangement. And even then she may change her mind. But if she expects it then you'd better not disappoint. It's categorized on the conditions as an 'option', which means the call is entirely hers. It goes without saying that you do not, under any circumstances, make a sexual proposition to a client if it is not specifically alluded to in the conditions, even if she responds favourably. She may accuse you the next morning of taking advantage of her and the customer is always right.'
He was about to start reading the next page when he looked up at me.
'Look, I could read you another three or four pages of this stuff. But most of this is common sense. Do you get the gist of it?'
I wanted him to continue but thought it best to show confidence.
'It sounds pretty straightforward. Take each woman as you find them and always be polite. And the customer is always right.'
'One other thing, though. Are you married?'
'I was.'
'The reason I ask is because there is a danger- probably not the right word- there is a risk of getting emotionally involved with a client. How would you handle that if it happened?'
'There's absolutely no chance of that happening,' I told him.
'You sound uncomfortably certain. Mind telling me why?'
'It's just an experience I didn't enjoy. So it's unlikely I'll make the same mistake again.'
He looked at me for a long time before continuing.
'Got hurt pretty bad? Is that what you're saying?'
I knew where his question was leading and curbed the temptation to reveal more than was good for me.
'Oh no. It was all done amicably, Mr Shaw. There were no children. It had been a mistake and we'd both learned from it. We actually get on better with each other now than we did before.'
I finished with a smile for the both of us and he nodded agreeably.
'Glad to hear it,' he said. 'This is not a job for those with separation issues.'
He rose from the desk and walked to the door.
'I'll ring you each week, whether or not we find you a client. They tell us the type of person they want and we choose the escort we consider the best match. You're young, fairly good looking and tall. You shouldn't have problems. But nothing is guaranteed until you jump in the deep end. You might be with us for three years or you might go back where you came from after a month. It all depends on the clients and how you treat them. They're the ones with the money. So make sure you take your chance if you get it.'
He shook my hand and closed the door quickly behind me. I had to ask his secretary where the nearest tailor was. I needed a new suit.

                             



                                       3


There's something in me that feels uneasy every time I visit Mrs Pilkington's Chelsea apartment and I don't know what it is.
It is wedged between other apartments of similar appearance yet gives no indication of the same compression once you enter. Properties in this part of London are obscenely expensive I soon discovered, and all have the kind of residents that Mrs Pilkington socializes with. They are not their main houses, of course, just second or third abodes for uses other than living in. Mrs Pilkington uses this address as her office, even though it is a spacious and well decorated office. It has no staff; although she does have a secretary who is on call should the paperwork begin to stack too high on the desk. But apart from a cleaner coming in twice a week, the building is left empty the rest of the time. When she asked me once what I thought it was worth I made what I guessed would be an overpriced estimate. It wasn't. It was worth at least half a million more. You can always tell when you are in a rich part of London because there are not many people walking the pavements. The residents drive or are driven to and from, their places of interest. They don't use much shoe leather.
The first time I called on her I was surprised to see her greet me at the door. I expected a butler to let me in and told her so. She laughed away the comment and said she wasn't an invalid. I could vouch for that. She was well aware of her time and condition in life. I suspected she was over sixty but she moved very lightly on her feet. There wasn't a day in her week that wasn't partitioned into separate events. Visits to keep fit classes, dietary advice meetings, yoga afternoons, swimming evenings in private pools. All done in the wide and affluent areas of London. When money is no problem, neither is distance or access.
It is strangely fascinating to watch this society if you have the patience not to be annoyed. This is not a culture anyone can join simply because they are wealthy. Lottery winners would only be rich lower class neighbours and not brethren because these people are so accustomed to living with too much money that it's almost an hereditary characteristic. Their world is as alien to us as ours is to them. We breathe the same air but there the affiliation ends. They are the result of generations of unrestrained indulgence. It takes a certain kind of discipline to live that life. After all, if you have everything you've ever wanted, where's the incentive? Those of us who don't have at least that. And if we do achieve a certain level of affluence, we appreciate it more because we know both sides of it. These poor little rich kids know of only one life and if they bore of it, there's nowhere else to go. Not that there would be any sympathy if it did get too much for them. Who'd grieve for the dead man blowing his brains out over a Rolls Royce dash board?
I ring the brass bell button and soon after hear the familiar light steps approach the door. She greets me with a smile that is always genuine.
'Robert, come in. Punctual as ever.'
It doesn't do to arrive at houses like these, late. I follow her into the wide room where Iris is still typing at a computer on the office desk. We recognise one another and smile politely.
'It's OK, Iris. I can finish that off.' Mrs Pilkington tells her, 'You can go home, dear.'
Iris collects her bag and coat as Mrs Pilkington leads her to the front door. When she comes back, she shakes her head.
'The poor girl types far too slowly. I could do her work in half the time.'
I almost sit down without being invited to, such is the familiarity between us. But I never do, just in case she reads it differently. The offer however, always comes quickly after and then she goes to the adjoining room to return with a cold glass of beer.
'How on earth can you drink this stuff, Robert? It's awful.'
'I'm used to it. And it's good for you. In moderation, of course.'
She looks at the brandy glass in her hand.
'This gets to the heart of any problems faster. And it doesn't make you burp, either.'
'So you've tried it then.'
'Of course. If you don't, how will you know you don't like it?'
She went over to the vacated desk where Iris had been typing and came back with a folder in her hands.
'I was correct. This lady does want a call back. So you must have done something right.'
'Already? When?'
'Oh, not for another two weeks, don't worry. But she's considering having it in an apartment this time, you'll be glad to hear.'
'I'm not. That will probably mean she'll want a longer service.'
She opened the folder, sat down and read the first page.
'You're right. Sixty minutes. How would you know that?'
'It makes sense that if it's inside, there's no chance of being disturbed, therefore no need for urgency.'
'Robert, I do believe you're learning your job better every day.'
'I'll even take a further bet that she'll want more than just the V, am I right?'
'Yes. The whole service: O, A and V.'
'I hope she doesn't expect a donation in each.'
'There's no mention of it. You could manage two, couldn't you?'
'Two is rarely a problem. But three within the space of sixty minutes might be something I couldn't guarantee. If she put another half an hour on it I might manage. The truth is I wouldn't know until the time came.'
She smiled knowingly.
'Well, I spoke to her this morning and she didn't specify that she wanted a donation for each, so just complete the service and donate what you can. That way you still honour the contract. She also wants intrusion into the apartment, with the same conditions as before.'
'I don't have to slap her again, do I?'
'I'm afraid so. At least you'll have a little more light this time.'
'It's not that. I just don't feel comfortable doing it.'
She gave me a look that was half sympathy, half reprimand.
'We've been through this before. You have to act the part. Remember this is central to her needs. She likes it. If she senses your reluctance, it won't work for her. Switch off, for goodness' sake.'
'Why don't you give this one to Seb? This woman seems more his type.'
She began shaking her head even before I'd finished the suggestion.
'Not a chance. I know how Sebastian works. But more importantly, I know this woman. She would not take kindly to an improvised approach. She's new to these games, so I can't take the risk of shocking her away this early. You I can trust. Sebastian too often reads between the lines- or flies off the page completely.'
'Forgive me Josephine, but there seems to be a pattern here. I get most of the new contracts, and Seb usually gets the follow-ons. Is it because I'm not doing it properly, or is it that he does it better?'
'Did Sebastian tell you that?'
I quickly prevented the impulsive answer and tried to sound nonchalant.
'No. But we have casual conversations and we talk about work- amongst ourselves, of course- and it's just something that I've always wondered of, that's all.'
She seemed convinced and relaxed her grimace.
'No, dear. You are good at what you do, in spite of your over self-consciousness. Sebastian simply caters for those ladies whose needs have become more extreme. He is on call for those who need something stronger to satisfy them. But let there be no uncertainty. However important he might tell you he is, he will never be as vital as you, because you're the first stage. If my friends are put off by their first experience, then they won't come back and he doesn't get anything unless you do the initial work efficiently.'
'But didn't he work alone for you for a long time? Before we met?'
'Yes, he did. I first met him at a party in Pimlico. The woman he was with was a cousin of mine and I could tell immediately that he was a paid escort. But she'd hired him so many times that he was nothing more than a gigolo, a toy boy she'd become besotted with. He was so bored he'd given up trying to play the part convincingly and even had the audacity to flirt with other guests in her company. It is an unwritten rule within our circle that we never criticise or give unwelcome advice to friends when it comes to lovers or companions, however strongly we feel they're being taken advantage of. But I didn't like the way he worked. And he was supposed to be working, make no mistake. I'd have been rid of him in an instant if I'd been stupid enough to hire him in the first place.'
'Unless you'd fallen in love with him, perhaps?'
'Yes, she was in love with him. And he knew it, too. Maybe all she wanted from him was what he could offer her in the bedroom at the evening's end. But I didn't like his disregard, the way he didn't even attempt to disguise his indifference to her. I'd seen other escorts with women, stifling yawns and smiling insincerely. But they made an effort; they tried their best to be professional. Most of us could see right through them. It wasn't an easy job, you know that yourself. But Sebastian didn't seem to care if anyone knew or not.'
'I suppose you could call that honesty.'
She turned to me curtly, but then mellowed a moment later.
'I suppose you could read it like that. But I refused to. I thought it was more to do with arrogance.'
'So then why did you hire him?'
She smiled wryly.
'Because those traits I despised in him were ideal for the kind of people I needed at the time.'
'Maybe you should be more appreciative, then.'
My mischievous grin was not returned.
'I might need him but that doesn't mean I have to like him. He enjoys treating women badly and I'm not sure if he does it because he gets pleasure from it or to get back at me. I always get the impression that he's a man who knows he's landed on his feet. And wouldn't any man who does this for a living? To sexually assault women who pay a small fortune for it? You think women are the only ones who fantasize about rough sex? More men than women do, I assure you. Most of them would pay women to make it happen and here am I paying him to do it.'
'But doesn't Seb's approach benefit your friends? I mean, that's the whole point, isn't it?'
She got up and moved to the drinks cabinet to refill her glass.
'I know he's your friend, Robert, and I'm not that concerned if what we speak about is relayed back to him, but it needs to be said: Sebastian doesn't act the part. That's what worries me.'
She turned around and remained where she stood, looking at me as if to emphasize the point. I was beginning to understand.
'And I do, is that it?'
'You mentioned it yourself last night. You said the stress of it keeps you human. You do your work like the job it should be. To you it's a way to earn money. But you're concerned about my friends. I don't mean you know them personally, that could never happen. I mean you're decent enough to sense the wrongness in it, even though I know I keep reminding you're only giving them what they want. You are innocent enough to feel guilt. Do you understand?'
'That might have a lot to do with my Catholic upbringing.' I replied, but it brought a laugh from her.
'Are you serious, a Catholic? I hope you never go to confession.'
'I don't go to church anymore.'
She sat back down on the chair and felt the need to explain further.
'Maybe I don't despise Sebastian. Maybe what I hate is the need in women, the need that grows after years of dead marriage. Most of them do it to settle desires that even they're not sure of. Little hills rise in them and they like the pleasure that comes from levelling them. Most of my friends are more vulnerable than you think. Their children have left home and don't need them; their husbands have either passed away or are out of the house all day and sometimes all evening. All they have is money and a desperate search for the remaining pleasures in life. I want to help them because they're dear to me. I've known them for a long time.
You might find it hard to believe, but friendships are no less strong in our society than they are in anyone else's. We're surrounded by sycophants so need genuine friends even more. That's why we are so close. And the things that we hope will keep us relatively happy in our more mature years we obtain through our wealth. Money is something we don't touch very much. We don't even have to sign for it most of the time. It's just taken from something we can't see and accurately measured by accountants in bank statements that we never look at. I stopped wondering what my husband was worth a long time ago. And he never asks me how much I spend or what I spend it on. I'm used to living that way. All of us are. And that's where you and Sebastian come in. It's also why you're paid a lot of money. And I hope I don't sound a dreadful snob when I say this, but I mean it's a lot of money to you, not us. Does it sound a bit contemptuous, my saying that?'
I finished my glass with a gulp as she approached to take it from me.
'If you mean do I feel like a tradesman, then yes.'
'You know that saying,' she asked, 'the one that says The Best Things in Life Are Free? The bad news is that it's only half true.'
'I'll settle for that. I thought you were going to say it wasn't true at all.'
We said nothing for a little while and I looked at her. She had an expression of contemplation. When she saw me staring, it seemed to make a decision for her.
'I could tell you something else about Sebastian. Something that would help you understand my uncertainty about him better.'
I didn't like the way she said she could, as if the responsibility to hear it was mine.
'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.' I told her, 'What I don't know won't matter.'
She smiled at my deflection but told me anyway.
'He was charged with rape two years ago.' She said. 'He ended up going to court and the charges were dropped because of the lack of evidence or inconsistency in the woman's account, I'm not exactly certain. But charged he was. I only found this out long after I'd hired him otherwise I wouldn't have touched him.'
'But you say he wasn't convicted. That means he's innocent. You can't victimise him just because he was charged, Josie. That's the point of going to court, to decide if he's guilty.'
'I said all charges were dropped. Someone can still be released and not be free from guilt. It just means the evidence isn't strong enough.'
'Come on, Josie. That's a bit unfair. Innocent until proven guilty, remember that?'
'I know. But the liberties he takes with my friends; I'm never comfortable with it.'
'Do any of your friends know about this?'
'Not as far as I know. If they did I think some of them would probably be a little excited by it, to be honest. And as you point out, they could always excuse their leniency on the fact that he wasn't locked up. I suppose that would enhance their anticipation tenfold, to be ravished by someone who got that close to the real thing.'
'I'm a poor option in comparison.' I confessed, 'The worst thing I ever did was get caught in bed with my girlfriend when her dad come home unexpectedly. He nearly killed me.'
She laughed readily, pleased to be free from the pull of the previous grim subject of conversation.
'Oh dear. I know what fathers are like. The same thing happened to Henry when we were younger. One man can't wait to get inside you and the other does his best to stop it from happening.'
The reason she asked me to visit was to give me a copy of the call back contract but occasionally, if our time was not pressed, a half hour chat would lead to spontaneous drink sessions that were enjoyable and purely platonic. They never used to be. Josephine was one of my clients when I started at Mr Shaw's escort agency. She wasn't my first but she was the first that wanted a service on a more physical level. And they say you never forget your first.