“We always said if all else failed in her career, there was yet money to be made in film.”
“Talent. No wonder you fell for her.” I picked at the damp edge of a beer mat. “Stupid-and not just intellectually challenged, but unable to shut up as well-and sleeps with one of his brothers.”
“Which one?”
“Doesn’t matter. No, better yet-his father.”
“She still has to smell funny, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Bald, impotent, won’t fist her, and short.”
“What’s wrong with short?” I’m not terribly far from the Earth’s crust myself and don’t think this is a reflection on a person’s value. And, I never get dizzy from standing up quickly. So there.
“Nothing, it’s just that she was tall. I want her to have to look down and see that bald head as often as humanly possible.” He put the empty glass back on my side of the table.
“Fair enough.” I smiled. “You still miss her, don’t you?”
“Too damn right. You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”
“You know I am.”
“I find it strange,” he said. “Theoretically I’m over her, but if that’s so, I should probably make an effort to date other women rather than avoid them altogether.”
“Ah, I know that stage,” I said. “I’m in more of a ‘sabotaging perfectly good potential relationships’ mode.” Not to mention being afraid the Boy might make his reappearance just as I found someone worth hanging on to.
N patted his stomach. The pub was empty of all but a few staff and a couple who looked at their limp overpriced food in horror. “Shall we go?” N said. I nodded. “I’ve had enough alcohol-I could take you home and piss on you if that would make you feel better.”
I pursed my lips and pretended to consider, changed the subject. Asked him, was it better to be brokenhearted or to not know what that felt like? Now he knew, he said, he’d never want to cause anyone to feel that way again. You never know, I said. You might break my heart. He wrapped his arms around me and started to tickle. I squirmed. “You rat bag,” he said. “I can’t break your heart-you don’t love me.”
“Stop that,” I said. Stern, but still smiling. He knew I was serious. Got up, put his coat on, went to the door. I told him I was going straight to bed when I got home.
“After you tap this conversation into your little computer,” he corrected. Said good night and left. mercredi, le 17 mars
Ooh, these are one of my favorite pairs: ruched pink silk with antique lace and matching bra. Pity to just be wearing them under jeans and a sweater when I go to the shop for milk.
Once I attended a booking directly from a job interview. This was acceptable but not ideal; the clothing was almost right for an afternoon meeting, and the makeup certainly was, but it was a bit odd to be walking around with a CV tucked away next to a box of condoms. And a little worried that someone may have glanced in my bag and noticed them at the interview.
Would that help or harm the chances of employment? I wonder. And yes, I was offered the job, but didn’t take it in the end-just more office admin rubbish that would end up nowhere in a year’s time.
Another time I readied myself in a museum toilet. This was very early on, when I was convinced that the punting world would beat a path to my door, and went round with a light summery dress, strappy heels, latex bits, and change of knickers in a bag just in case. This was before I realized that I didn’t have to work at breakneck pace to make my bills and expenses, and also that most punters would accept a meeting one or two hours later than requested if they really wanted me. If not, well, there are plenty of fish for hire in the sea.
I applied lipgloss and mascara as dozens of tourists trailed in and out of the toilets. If there is a uniform for tour groups, and I assume there must be, it is this: overlong shorts, white sneakers, voluminous T-shirts advertising the last place visited, visor, hair in pigtails, shoulder bag.
I can’t begin to imagine what they thought I was dressing for. jeudi, le 18 mars
The client stood, trousers off. I sat in a chair in front of him. My shirt (white, as requested) was half- unbuttoned. “I want to write my name in come all over you,” he said.
I smirked. “You can’t fool me, you nicked that line from London Fields.”
He looked at me strangely. Oh no, I thought. Better watch my mouth. “Amis fan?” he said idly, pulling himself with one hand.
“He’s not bad,” I said, reaching into the shirt to pull my breasts free of the bra.
“ Time’s Arrow was pretty tricksy though.” A glistening drop of pre-come lolled on the tip of his glans.
“Very high-concept. Good book for a long train journey.” I pulled at my nipples to his appreciative nods.
It was hot and close in the room. The weather has not been so bad and I thought of asking him to turn the heating off. “I want to smell your sweat mixing with my spunk,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
Later, I met another client. A large hotel in Lancaster Gate. The room was small and highly decorated, which surely made it look even smaller. For the money they must be charging here, I thought it seemed a little cramped. End-of-hall room.
He was in shirtsleeves. Short sleeves under a blazer-I hate that, it jars like light socks with men’s shoes.
“Your nipples are hard already,” he said appreciatively (black lace balconette bra and matching boy-style briefs). The window was wide open.
I draped my arms over his shoulders and asked, “Are you not a little cold in here?”
“I’m fine.”
“There are goose pimples all over your arms.” I smiled and walked to the ground-floor window to pull the drapes.
“Good for the metabolism.”
“Bet I can think of something better,” I said. vendredi, le 19 mars
Think I’ll stay indoors today. N came back from Belgium with a veritable metric ton of porn to sift through, including the always-reliable Lady Anita F (Hotter Than Hell!!) title and another mag with a tasty bob-haired girl doing the waterstuff all over some poor boy who no doubt deserves it. Will let you know if anything interesting, er, goes down. samedi, le 20 mars
One of the first few golden days when people start deciding to leave coats at home and fishbelly-pale arm skin makes an appearance. I went out to buy a paper and, inspired by the sunshine, couldn’t stop walking.
After an hour of beating the pavement I came to an attractive shop window. It’s a place I’ve noticed but only from a taxi, and after opening hours. I always liked the name of the shop. Very suggestive of my job, actually. On the locked door was a small sign that said “Please ring both bells.” I rang and waited.
A man let me in and smiled. It was small inside, crowded with clothing, costume jewelry, and gold-leaf cherubs. I fingered the clothes on their close racks. Nice enough, in a fancy-dress sort of way, perhaps a bit Goth. And expensive. The sort of place that I often wonder how it stays in business. The products must be so limited in their appeal that you find yourself desperately hoping that the twelve or so people for whom this shop must be heaven on earth manage to wander down the road sometime soon.
The man disappeared in the back and the bell rang. It was a young teenage girl, his daughter. She was wearing a short dress and sweater, and pink wellies. She called him by his first name.
First-Name Father asked his offspring to wrap something. She sighed and stomped around a bit. Now, my parents are hardly paragons of conventionality, but they always made sure to send me away for a good few weeks when not in term. Best for all involved: they get a bit of parenting relief and you are not forced to roll your eyes and grumble about how unfair the world is more than, oh, twice a day at most. “Fine,” she spat, and set about mummifying a brooch in hectares of black tissue. I recognized instantly the cadence of speech indicating an intersection of private school education, indulgent parents, and general overtones of Southernness. Nothing quite raises my hackles like a prepubescent who believes she is the greatest thing going and, in all probability, will someday be hailed as such.
The bell rang again and First-Name Father disappeared almost instantly. This time it was a tiny woman dressed head to toe in clothes from the shop. By which I mean she resembled a bruise-colored meringue. She and the girl started complaining loudly about the low temperature inside and the stroppy little cow disappeared to demand her sire do something about it. I was fairly impressed, actually-at that age I believe my spoken repertoire
