Adventures of a London Call Boy (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-two

I didn't mope over Sophie, mostly because I was too busy. I was pleasantly surprised that my escort work also took off. In part, this was less satisfying, as it didn't always end in sex. But it was also relatively easy money – all I had to do was dress appropriately (although never too showily, as it didn't do to outdo the client), smile lots and avoid mentioning what I really did for a living.

J. even took me to a few dos, including weddings and business functions. I've never been one to turn down free booze and food, and there was even the possibility for some shenanigans with other wedding guests if my client let me off the hook. J. was very good like that, and on one occasion even set me up with a bridesmaid, a distant cousin of hers, at a do she took me to.

J. had hired me at the last minute after a fellow consultant from her partnership had pulled out, claiming work commitments. She was annoyed with him, and I'm not sure whether hiring me for the event was some way of getting back at someone. I'm not quite sure who. I knew she didn't like weddings, and in conversations I also got the impression that she didn't like much of her own family.

I met her in a bar close by, and we took a taxi. I knew the venue from a bar job I'd done a few years before. The taxi was greeted by a top-hatted doorman and we joined a throng of guests on the thick carpet on the foyer.

The wedding was a swanky do at a private club in central London, colour coordinated, elegant and very expensive. I couldn't work out whether they'd chosen the ushers' outfits to match the venue, or had the decor changed. Either way, it was thoroughly thought out. We followed a flower-lined route through the foyer and into a modern, sleek hall where the ceremony was to take place. Subtle ambient music was playing in background, but there was also a pianist preparing in the corner. J. greeted a few friends and relatives, introduced me to these people as Jake, a friend, and I smiled and gave brief but friendly answers to those sort of polite questions you get asked by people you'll never meet again.

In the hall I surveyed the scene, in part checking for any familiar faces that might cause an identity crisis. I could rely on my Jennies for discretion – and quite a few knew J., anyway. It was a good-looking wedding – the couple were young, her parents were wealthy and they had drawn a well-dressed gang of society London. I commented on the gathering to J. and she nodded.

‘You're always on the prowl, Cesc.'

‘Jake. The name is Jake,' I said, maintaining my smile and standing as the bride entered.

‘Wow,' I said, seeing her. ‘She's a stunner.'

‘You should see her sister,' J. replied.

I looked past the bride, a slim, fine-boned beauty wearing a long, cream, silk gown that fell beautifully over her shoulders and collarbone, and whose light brown hair had been swept up into an artistic swirl. Behind her, however, was her younger sister, wearing a shorter, dark version of the same dress, and who instead of the saintly look of her sister had the voluptuous figure, jet-black bobbed hair and cheeky look in her eyes of a sexy little mischief-maker.

‘I see her. I see her. If I didn't know you, I'd think you wanted me to misbehave.'

J. turned to me and raised her eyebrows. ‘I'm not saying that. You might want to, but I certainly …'

I missed the last couple of words as the bridal march rose to a crescendo.

The ceremony struck the right balance between emotion and elegance, and for the first time that I could remember I enjoyed a wedding ceremony. The bridesmaids and the ushers were all uniformly perfect, and even the little kids looked like they'd been grafted in from a children's wear catalogue. I tried to work out which bridesmaid went with which usher. As we filed out, I turned to J. and whispered the question to her.

‘The sister is single, if that's what you're asking.'

‘That's not what I'm asking. I'm just curious, you know.'

We were interrupted by a silent waiter, moving as if on rollers, offering champagne and cocktails of varying shades. I took a glass of champers; J. chose a glass of pink. I sipped mine, while J. chugged hers and reached for another from a different waiter travelling in the opposite direction. She also found a tray of canapés and handed me some hors d'oeuvres.

‘Here. Make sure you're well fed.'

She slid off into a crowd, leaving me holding a drink and what looked like a quail's egg in a tiny basket of grass. As I wondered whether I could leave it in a vase, I turned to face the sister of the bride.

‘Hi. I'm Jackie,' she said.

‘Funny coincidence. I'm Jake.'

‘I'm sure we've met somewhere before,' she said, turning her head on one side and giving me a look that could have spelt either sex or expulsion.

‘I'm sure I'd have remembered you,' I answered. ‘Excellent reading, by the way. Will you be giving a speech?' I asked.

‘Of course,' she answered with a smile.

‘I look forward to it. Will you excuse me? Sorry to be rude, but I think my date needs me.'

I left her half hanging and moved through the crowd. J. had cast me a look as an elderly bore, who looked like he'd had a reception's worth of booze before the ceremony, was leering down her top. I linked arms with her and sped her away.

‘Are you up to something?' I asked.

‘No,' she replied, all innocence. ‘But I can look after myself, you know.'

I sipped some more of my champagne and then after gravitating in and out of a few more conversations with strangers I found myself guided towards dinner.

It was another polished affair – white linen, coordinated table dressings and fancy favours for the lady guests. Even the speeches were passable; the drunken bore turned out to be the father of the bride, and he'd clearly tried rather too hard to steady his nerves. The sexy sister told some borderline jokes and had every man in the place hanging on her every word, and the best man kept his efforts mercifully short.

I soon realised, once we finished coffee and I was able to circulate amongst the guests, that I was a lot soberer that almost everyone around me, and that there was an air of palpable sexual tension. Much of it seemed to centre on the sister of the bride, who was flirting viciously, often with men who were clearly on the arm of another woman or even a wife.

The pianist had been stood down, and the first dance came and went before a few of the more, let's say, lubricated, couples began twirling dangerously on the floor. J. had disappeared and was chatting to a few of the people I'd seen her greet on our arrival, trying to avoid being dragged towards the dance floor. Meanwhile I rotated in and out of a series of friendly exchanges with people I'd never met, only forgetting on a couple of occasions my assumed name and the precise details of the identity I was meant to assume.

I've never, I must say, liked weddings very much: I split up with a girlfriend I was very fond of at one, and was punched at another. It was a case of mistaken identity, I should add. A Spanish guest had pinched someone's girlfriend's arse, and the offended boyfriend was ignorant enough to strike out at the first faintly foreign-looking person nearby, specifically me.

Yes, weddings do strange things to people. But, as I watched the beautiful, flirting crowds, I realised that the effects might not be solely negative. I caught a glimpse of a couple heading off furtively towards the upstairs rooms, and realised that the elegance of the venue, the attractiveness of the guests and the quantity of champagne seemed to be making everyone a little bit, well, randy.

As I observed the scene, I felt a chin on my shoulder. It was J.

‘Cesc, I'm going to go in a while.'

‘Really. Oh, why? Aren't you enjoying yourself?'

‘No, I am. But I'm off to go and enjoy myself somewhere else. I hope you don't mind.'

For a moment, I was offended. J. had pulled when out with me. She made the merest of gestures towards the door, where a tall, well-built man in a kilt appeared to be waiting for something.

‘I used to be a friend of his wife,' she said.

I realised that I was caught in a complicated web of family, friendships and age-old grudges.

‘But don't worry,' continued J. ‘The floor is yours.'

I realised she wasn't looking at me, but rather had somehow indicated to the sister of the bride that she should keep me company. Jackie politely but briskly abandoned the circle of admirers and cut through the crowds towards us.

‘Jackie, you'll look after Jake, won't you?' purred J.

‘Of course. Jake, do you dance?'

‘Brilliantly,' I answered. The women smiled, and J. disappeared, smirking slightly. I offered Jackie my hand and led her, without a word, towards the dance floor.

I wasn't lying about the dancing, by the way, and you should remember that it's a difficult lie to keep up for long in any situation where there is music, a suitable space and a dance partner nearby. There was always music in my house when I was a youngster, and for reasons too complex to go into, I even did dance classes at school. When I was a student, thinking about acting, I imagined that musicals would be a lucrative career, so kept at the practice. As an escort, the ability to keep off your partner's toes and not do an impression of a drunken dad is very useful. And, of course, I've always loved a good boogie.

Jackie was an enthusiastic, if rather showy, dancer. I suspect that she was used to being the centre of attention on any dance floor – she had long, fit legs, and a body that suggested fun in bed, as well as hair she could shake all over only for it to return perfectly into style.

The DJ spun a tasteful selection of sixties and seventies classics and the occasional rarity. Around us, variations on popular dances such as of the ‘vertical shag', the ‘broken ankle' and the ‘coughing fit' were getting a good shakedown. I held Jackie's waist and ran her through a few twirls, nothing too spectacular. Then from the booth emerged the strains of some Latin numbers. I drew her closer to me and executed some slightly more demanding moves, all of which gave an excuse for plenty of body contact, deep stares and breathy clinches. As one song drew to a close, I spun her in along the length of my arm, stopping her with our lips almost touching, and then whirled her back out. She kicked her heel down on the final note and hurled an arm into the air. Out of the bubble of the dance, I noticed that around us people were clapping.

I decided that I was in danger of becoming indiscreet, and the DJ was good enough to slow the tempo down. I pulled Jackie in towards me and we danced in a close clinch. Her heart was beating fast against my chest, and I noticed her quickened breathing and dilated pupils. She was clearly having a whale of a time. As we danced, I felt her nuzzling into my neck.

‘You're an excellent dancer, you know.'

‘Thanks. You're quite a mover yourself.'

‘Men never know how to dance properly. Where did you learn?'

‘I'm kind of from Argentina. I think it just comes naturally.'

‘Really? Quite the mystery man.'

‘There's no mystery about me.'

‘Sure about that? Come on, let's go outside.'

She led me by the hand through the admiring crowd, and outside produced a packet of cigarettes from a sparkly clutch bag I hadn't seen with her inside.

‘Smoke?'

‘No, thanks,' I answered.

She looked at me with an analytical gaze. I got the impression she was trying to work something out about me. In the meantime, I could admire her figure, shown off by the little dress, and accentuated by her spectacularly high heels.

‘What's going on with you and …?'

‘We're friends,' I interrupted. ‘I don't think she likes coming to weddings on her own.'

‘Who does?' she answered, her response half muzzled by her cigarette. Underneath the brash confidence, there was a note of vulnerability. I realised that her ability to impress was only matched by her need to do so. Out in the cold, she looked younger.

‘Here, have my jacket. You must be cold.'

‘A gentleman as well,' she said with a smile. I cast my suit coat around her shoulders. As I did, she threw her cigarette to one side and put her hands lightly to my face.

‘Are you as perfect in bed, Mr Jake?' she said.

‘I can be,' I said, as she kissed me, passionately, almost tumbling off her shoes.

‘I have a room upstairs, room 15. I'll be there. I'm yours if you want me,' she said, leaving me on the pavement with a peck on the cheek as a reminder.

Leaning against the wall, I thought for a brief moment: I was probably stepping into some sort of complicated family saga. But I'd also be getting into bed with a stunner while being paid to date another woman. And, it might also get me over my dislike of weddings. After a break-up and a broken tooth, I felt they owed me something.

I gave her a few minutes while I watched tourists and drunken out-of-towners roaming the streets of the city. Back inside, the lift to the rooms was off a side corridor – a discreet arrangement that meant that no one had to make their post-wedding activities too obvious. I wondered whether J. might also be upstairs with her new-found Scottish gentleman.

I took the lift up a floor and walked along the plush corridor to her room. I knocked, once, and the door swung open. Inside, the room was more of a suite – a large bed along one side, a coffee table and chairs to the other, floor-to-ceiling sliding doors opening on to a balcony with views of the river and, in front of it, a long chaise longue on which Jackie was lounging like the most attractive and expensive piece of furniture in the whole place.

She spun round, showing off her long legs and leaning back against the chair.

‘We haven't got long. They'll be expecting me back down there for the departure.'

‘I can take as long or as short as you like,' I said.

‘You are a tempter,' she said. As she crossed her legs I noticed that she had no knickers on.