Untouchable (5 page)

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 to be veering more into the territory of flirtation than straight fornication. I feel a bit out of my depth.

Ben, on the other hand, is gaining momentum. He replaces the book on the shelf and gets up and walks towards me. Takes my glass and puts it down on the table.

‘You’re not at all like I imagined.’

He slips his left arm around my waist and pulls me towards him. With his right hand he moves my hair away from my face, clasping it against the back of my neck as he drops his head and places his lips on mine.

It’s a deep, slow kiss. He tastes of wine and mint, his skin smelling dimly of soap. A warm ache flowers low in my abdomen, the stirrings of real desire. And with it the resurgence of the feeling that’s haunted me, ever since my encounter outside that hotel lift.

That somehow, for some reason I can’t quite grasp, I’m beginning to lose my grip.

Afterwards we lie in bed and finish the bottle. We’ve gone way over time, but I’ve no one booked in after Ben, and am seized by a sudden sense of what-the-hell.

‘So what’s your name?’ He props himself on his elbow and gazes down at me. From the corner of my eye I see the outline of his shoulders, his lean chest, and have to resist the urge to turn round and touch him.

‘Stella.’

‘No, your real name.’

‘It’s really Stella.’

He cocks his head slightly and I’m stung with something. Guilt, maybe. That small dirty feeling a lie leaves inside you, like a smear.

‘And yours?’ I ask.

‘Ben. It’s really Ben.’

I believe him. It’s astonishing how few men bother to conceal their identity.

‘This isn’t at all what I expected,’ he says.

‘What did you expect?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Someone, something … more clinical, I suppose.’

‘Clinical? As in wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am?’

He laughs. ‘Yeah, I guess something like that.’

‘Well, two hours upgrades you to the full-on GFE.’

‘GFE?’

‘Girlfriend experience,’ I explain. ‘It’s a technical term we use in the trade.’

‘Girlfriend experience.’ He sniffs, scratches his cheek. ‘I’d say that pretty much sums it up.’

‘Minus the PMT and the arguments about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher. And the bitching when you want to watch the match.’

He laughs. ‘What makes you think I’d mind all that stuff?’

I raise my eyes to his. ‘Then why are you here?’

His cheeks flush a little. ‘Good question.’

‘Purely rhetorical. You don’t have to tell me anything. That’s another reason you pay me. I don’t need any answers and you don’t owe me any explanations.’

He leans over and runs a finger down my nose in a gesture that feels too intimate. ‘I really don’t know what to make of you.’

‘Me neither.’ I sit up, hugging my knees to my chest. ‘Best not to bother trying.’

I sense his eyes fixed on my face. It makes me feel twitchy, like posing in front of a camera. All of a sudden I can’t think how to arrange my features.

‘I guess I didn’t expect you to be so … so appealing.’ His voice sounds soft. Inviting.

‘Anybody can be appealing for a couple of hours, Ben. It’s keeping it up for thirty years that’s tricky.’ I swing my legs over the side of the bed and turn my head towards him. To his credit he manages not to stare at my breasts. Instead his eyes linger on my face, as if posing a question.

I glance at the clock. ‘I’m afraid I have to go out in a while,’ I fib.

He checks the time. ‘Shit. Sorry. Tempus fugit and all that.’

‘No problem.’

I put on my dressing gown while he pulls on his clothes, and see him to the door. He removes his wallet from his pocket. Hands me a wodge of crisp new bills, fresh from the cashpoint.

I see instantly he’s overpaid. ‘My rate’s two fifty an hour, not three hundred.’

He looks at me. ‘I know. It’s a tip. For services rendered so expertly.’

For a moment I feel a stir of discomfort I can’t identify. Disappointment? Debasement? I take a £50 note and thrust it at him.

‘Please. Consider it a down payment on next time,’ he insists.

‘OK. Well, thank you.’ I return his smile and accept the money. There’s a good chance I’ll see him again, though it’s not guaranteed, whatever he says – there’s nothing more fickle than a punter.

‘My pleasure.’ He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. ‘Till then.’

7

Monday, 9 February, 9.30 p.m.

‘What do you think?’ asks the woman behind the mask.

I gaze at Elisa’s half-obscured face. The mask is beautiful, delicate filigree studded with coloured jewels, garlands of tiny gold flowers framing her eyes but leaving the mouth exposed. Long blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders, all without the aid of extensions, she resembles no one so much as a youthful Bridget Bardot – at least before the sun got to her.

‘Exquisite,’ I say sincerely.

Elisa grins. ‘Isn’t it? I picked it up in Venice. A client took me last year, to the
carnevale
.’ She pronounces the word with Italian flourish, rounding it off with a pout of her perfect lips.

‘Here. You try this one.’ She hands me a black version. It’s plainer, but foxy, elegantly shaped with little black feathers swooping out from the corners of the eye holes. Elisa slips it over my face and stands back to assess the effect. ‘
Parfait
.’

I adjust it slightly and look around. Over in the far corner of the room, I see Janine pulling on a glossy black stocking and fixing it into her suspenders – no mean feat given the length of her acrylic nails. She’s wearing an elaborate black and green corset, a semi-opaque inner panel running from her breasts to her crotch allowing a veiled view of the diamond stud in her navel. Elbow-length black gloves set off her slender arms, and she’s completely devoid of jewellery, save a pair of jet cluster earrings and her long auburn hair extensions.

I watch her straighten and squeeze her feet into six-inch black stilettos. Christian Louboutin, I notice, clocking the red soles.

‘I feel a bit dowdy,’ I say, turning back to Elisa. I’m wearing a black basque, heavily boned with lacing at the back and adorned with little bows and ruffles. Just below my crotch a tiny lace skirt skims the tops of my thighs, both demure and tantalizing.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she purrs, squeezing my arm. ‘You look delicious.’

I adjust the skirt again in the mirror and try not to ogle her as she slides into her costume. A gorgeous Rigby and Peller dark-blue bustier with matching panties, topped with a sheer Agent Provocateur kimono cinched tight round her tiny waist. The whole outfit must have cost over a grand – though I doubt, of course, that she paid for any of it herself.

Elisa is a rarity, more courtesan than call girl. A girl so genuinely lovely she can keep a stable of paying companions, all willing to supplement that income with expensive gifts. Rumour has it she’s had at least three marriage proposals, as well as several offers to buy her out of the business.

But Elisa stubbornly resists any kind of exclusivity, insisting on working on her own terms. These parties are her
pièce de résistance
. Available only to select clients, they’re legendary on the London circuit, all-night debauches with absolutely nothing off the menu.

Which is where I come in. In the world of high-end escorting, I have a not-so-common aptitude – a ready willingness to take it up the arse.

Tonight’s theme is vaudeville, and we’re going big on burlesque. Janine has done our make-up: pale foundation and ruby red lips, heavy sweeps of eyeliner à la Dita von Teese. And false eyelashes – Elisa had to help with mine and I’m still not used to them. I keep catching glimpses at the edge of my vision, a flutter of black wings.

Though I have to hand it to Janine – we look amazing.

I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Ten minutes before the arrival of the ‘gentlemen’, as we’re supposed to call them. It’s a word that gets bandied about a lot at the top end of the business, along with ‘discreet’ and ‘discerning’ – all trying to gentrify a relationship that is, at bottom, as mutually exploitative as a twenty-quid blow job in the back of a car.

But in this case with far more salubrious surroundings.

Indeed, the large apartment in Canary Wharf that Elisa has hired – or more likely been lent – is sumptuous. Cherry-wood floors and expensive minimalist furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views across central London’s nightscape. I can’t even guess how much this place would cost to buy.

‘Right, the five Cs.’ Elisa holds up her left hand, counting off each finger. ‘Champagne, canapés, cake, condoms, coke. Check, check, check, check, and er …’ she picks up and opens the silver cigar case housing the drugs, ‘… check.’

This is my fifth time at one of Elisa’s ‘events’, but I still feel a flutter of nerves as we count down the minutes until the men arrive. Part apprehension – you never can be sure what to expect – and part genuine excitement. I enjoy the parties. It’s not only that the money is good – double what I’d make for a night working on my own – but they’re fun too. The chance to dress up, go a bit over the top. And the camaraderie, winking and pulling occasional faces to each other when the clients aren’t looking. Rather like being back at school.

‘Right.’ Elisa tucks her phone into her bag, stashing it behind one of the leather sofas. ‘Remember, cover up and keep safe. Just because they’re paying top whack doesn’t mean they can take liberties. And if anyone feels overwhelmed, don’t forget the password.’

‘Jodhpurs,’ I repeat. ‘Hard to see how we might slip that into the conversation.’

‘Precisely,’ says Elisa. ‘Don’t want anybody firing it off by accident.’

I smile. Elisa’s private education rarely shows, but occasionally her voice takes on a school-marmish tone that belies her ingénue appearance.

‘Have you checked the bathroom?’ she asks Janine.

Janine nods. ‘I put in the bath oils, the extra towels and dressing gowns. And more condoms in the medicine cabinet. Oh, and Viagra, if anyone needs it.’

‘Good.’ Elisa inspects the lounge before dimming the overhead lighting. Large Jo Malone candles perfume the air with the scent of grapefruit and white jasmine, their flicker reflecting in the huge windows, echoing the more distant lights of the city. Janine adjusts the music, a muted soundtrack that hits exactly the right ambience of relaxed and sensual.

‘Fabulous,’ Elisa concludes, and my nerves ease a little. She walks into the kitchen and brings back a bottle of champagne. Expertly pops the cork, pouring it into three narrow flutes.

‘To pleasure,’ she toasts.

‘To business,’ counters Janine.

‘To both,’ I add with a smile.

We raise our glasses into the air, chink them together, and swallow a welcome draught of the Bollinger, just as the loud buzz of the intercom fills the room.

8

Monday, 9 February, 1.15 a.m.

As soon as Elisa buzzes them up we swing into action. Janine drapes herself across the arm of a sofa, a huge black feather held archly across her cleavage, while I pose with my back to the window, framed by the lights of the city beyond. Elisa stands by the door, ready to meet and greet, her Venetian mask emphasizing her radiant smile.

First to appear is a tall, fleshy man with a face like a full moon. He kisses Elisa on the lips, then strides over to Janine, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her towards him in a tight embrace. I’m guessing this is Harry – banker and tonight’s birthday boy. One of Janine’s regulars.

‘Oh, by the way, I’ve brought along another friend,’ he says, turning back to Elisa. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll cough up.’

An almost imperceptible hitch in Elisa’s smile, then it’s gone. Ever the pro, there’s no hint of her displeasure as the other men file into the room. But behind her effusive welcome I know she’s calculating if we’ll have enough of everything. Not only supplies – an extra cock means more work for everyone.

While Elisa meets and greets, I take in the guests. Two are wearing suits and uneasy expressions that suggest they’ve never done anything like this before. Behind them, a third man comes into view, sporting a navy-blue shirt and dark trousers, and an air of studied nonchalance, as if all this were nothing new.

A hitch in my throat. It’s him. Alex. Aka Paul Franklin.

The man with two names, two passports, and one possibly illegal firearm.

He glances at me, his lips twitching as he registers my surprise. No sign of it on his face, I notice. But then he knew I’d be here, I realize. He knew that two weeks ago, when we met at the hotel; clearly he was checking me out.

But why? To make sure I was worth the expense?

My sense of anticipation curdles. I offer to take their coats, hanging them in one of the bedroom wardrobes. I feel wrong-footed, thrown off balance, ready to snatch the champagne Elisa offers me on my return.

‘To Harry,’ says Janine, raising her glass.

‘Happy birthday,’ we chorus in unison.

Harry grins and downs his drink in a couple of mouthfuls. As Janine refills it, he plants his hand on her arse and gives it a firm squeeze, his heavy face and neck already flushed. Probably oiled himself up a bit beforehand, I think, concealing a shudder of distaste.