Watching You (2 page)

Quinn crushes a cigarette beneath a polished black brogue. He doesn’t open the door for Marnie. Instead he slips behind the steering wheel and guns the engine. Sullen. Silent. Marnie’s stomach rumbles emptily. The booker at the agency told her not to eat before working because it would make her feel bloated.

Reaching Harrow Road, Quinn weaves aggressively through the traffic.

“I told you seven o’clock sharp.”

“Elijah has a cold.”

“Not my problem.”

Marnie knows three things about Quinn. He has a Geordie accent, he keeps a tire-iron in the door pocket next to his seat, and he works for Patrick Hennessy. This is only Marnie’s third night. Each time she has felt her stomach churning and her palms grow damp.

“Is he a regular?”

“A newbie.”

“Has he been vetted?”

“Of course.”

Marnie’s best friend Penny had told her to ask questions like this. Penny had experience. After university, she worked as an escort in between modelling assignments because the latter couldn’t cover her credit card bills or fund her taste in designer clothes. Marnie was shocked at the time. She asked Penny what the difference was between being an escort and a prostitute.

“About four hundred pounds an hour,” Penny replied, making it sound so obvious.

Marnie pulls down the sun visor and checks her make-up in the mirror. Is this my life now, she wonders? Opening my legs for money. Making small talk with rich businessmen, pretending to be dazzled by their charm and wit. Paying back Patrick Hennessy one trick at a time. It’s not what she expected or imagined, not when she was Zoe’s age, or when she married Daniel, or when she lost him so suddenly. When she was seventeen she was going to be a journalist, writing feature stories for
Tatler
or
Vogue
. She settled for a job in advertizing and was a junior copywriter. Loved it. Fell pregnant. Left.

Not in her worst nightmares did she imagine working for an escort agency. And no matter how often she told herself that it wasn’t for ever, just a few more weeks, just until she gets the insurance money, it didn’t stop the butterflies doing power dives in her stomach.

Only two people knew—Penny and Professor O’Loughlin, the psychologist that Marnie has been seeing. The rest of her friends and family think she has a new job, working as a part-time manager at an upmarket restaurant. And when these same friends drag out clichéd analogies of “whoring themselves” in their corporate jobs, Marnie just nods and commiserates and thinks, “you wankers.”

The car pulls up on The Aldwych opposite Bush House. A hotel doorman crosses the footpath and opens Marnie’s door. She holds up two fingers, wanting him to wait. The doorman retreats, glancing at her legs, his eyes drawn upwards from her ankles to the edge of her dress.

Quinn makes a call.

“Hello, sir, just confirming that Marnella will be with you shortly…sorry for the delay…Room 304…Cash up front…Five hundred for the hour…Yes, sir, have a nice evening.”

Marnie checks herself again, running her fingers through her hair, thinking she should have washed it.

“How old did he sound?”

“Over eighteen.”

“Where will you be?”

“Close.”

Marnie nods and crosses the pavement, keeping her head down, holding her breath. The doorman ushers her inside, wishing her a good evening. Escorts aren’t welcome in high-class hotels, but are tolerated as long as they dress elegantly and don’t solicit in the foyer or the bar. There are protocols. Don’t linger. If the lifts aren’t obvious, keep walking and give the impression that you know where you’re going. Quinn told her these things, along with the other rules: get the money first; keep your phone close; no bondage unless the client is getting tied up; extra time, extra money.

On the third floor, she studies the numbers. Pausing outside the door, she tries to relax, telling herself she can do this. She knocks lightly with just a knuckle. The door opens immediately.

She smiles demurely. “Hello, I’m Marnella.”

The client is in his late forties with a narrow face and a strangely old-fashioned hairstyle, parted on the right. Barefoot, he’s wearing casual clothes.

“Owen,” he says uncertainly, opening the door wider.

Marnie takes off her coat, playing a role now. Quinn had told her to be confident and take charge. Don’t let the client know she’s nervous or new to the game. Owen is trying not to stare. He takes her coat, his hands trembling. He fumbles with a hanger and forgets to close the wardrobe door.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Sparkling water.”

Crouching on his haunches, he opens the mini-bar. She can see the pale skin above his heels, streaked with veins.

“I can never find the glasses.”

“On the top shelf,” says Marnie.

“Ah, yes.” He raises them aloft. “You must know your way around a place like this.”

“Pardon?”

“Hotel rooms.”

“Oh, yes, I’m an expert.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t.” She gives him her painted-on smile and sips her drink. “Listen, Owen, before we start I have to collect the money. That’s one of the rules.”

“Of course.”

He reaches for his wallet, which is worn smooth and curved by the shape of his backside.

Marnie feels nauseous. She hates this part. The sex she can make believe is simply sex, but the money turns it into something tawdry, brutish, and ancient. It shouldn’t be a commercial transaction when bodily fluids and hotel rooms are involved. Owen counts out the cash. Marnie crosses the room and slips the bundle of banknotes into her coat pocket. She notices a plastic dry-cleaning bag hanging in the wardrobe.

Smoothing down the front of her dress, she turns back to Owen, waiting for him to make a start. He gulps his drink and suggests some music, turning on the CD player. It’s an old song. When he looks back, Marnie is undressing.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“We only have an hour,” she says.

“I know, but we could talk a bit.”

She nods and sits down on the edge of the mattress, feeling self-conscious in her lingerie. Owen sits next to her, a foot distant. He’s a thin man with large hands.

“I haven’t done this before,” he says. “I’m not saying that I haven’t done
this
…It’s not like I’m gay or anything…I’m straight. I’ve been with plenty of women. I’m a father, which is why this is difficult for me…seeing you.”

“Of course,” says Marnie.

“My mother just died,” he blurts.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Had she been sick?”

“For a long while…cancer.”

Marnie doesn’t want to hear his life story or to compare notes.

Owen stares at the backs of his hands as though counting the freckles. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long while, but my mother wouldn’t have understood. And she always seemed to know when I was lying to her. It’s not easy caring for someone.”

“I understand,” says Marnie.

“Do you?”

Marnie pats the bed beside her, motioning him to come closer.

“Would you dance with me?” he blurts.

“I’m not a very good dancer.”

“I can show you.”

Owen stands and holds out his arms. Marnie puts her left hand on his shoulder and feels his hand close around her waist. Next thing they’re dancing, hipbone to hipbone, her long pink fingernails disappearing in his fist. Spinning. Floating. It’s not a big room, but they don’t crash into furniture.

Marnie feels small in his arms, like a grown-up niece dancing with her uncle.

“I haven’t danced since my wedding day,” she laughs. “But my father was never this good a dancer.”

Owen tips her backwards with a flourish, smiling at her smile.

Marnie straightens and they share a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Marnie lets the straps of her negligee slip from her shoulders, pooling at her ankles. About now she normally gets complimented on her breasts, but Owen hasn’t reacted. Wrinkles seem to enclose his eyes. He turns away. Something has altered between them. His nerve has failed him.

“Please get dressed.”

Embarrassed, Marnie covers herself and goes to the mini-bar. She pours herself a drink, a Scotch this time, drinking it neat.

“You don’t have to stay,” Owen says.

“You’ve paid.”

“I know, but you don’t have to stay.”

“Why don’t you go to the bathroom and splash water on your face? You’ll feel better.”

When the door closes, Marnie pulls back the bedding. She takes a condom from her purse and puts it on the bedside table. It’s her third night and she’s learning that every client is different. Her first was a businessman from the Midlands in London for a trade fair at the Earl’s Court Exhibition Center. Her second was a posh-sounding thirty-something from the City with a wife and two kids at home in Hertfordshire. Now she has a middle-aged man with a mother fixation, riddled with guilt. Worse still, his guilt has become infectious and increased her own sense of shame.

She notices a plastic shopping bag tucked beneath the bed. Nudging it open with her toe, she sees a pair of polished black leather shoes and two envelopes. The first is marked:
Last Will and Testament.
The second:
To whom it may concern.

Both envelopes are unsealed. Marnie opens the flap and can make out a line below the fold.

I’m sorry to take the coward’s way out, but I have lost someone I love very much and can’t think of any other way out of my suffering. Please look after my children…

Marnie’s eyes flash around the room. The dry-cleaned suit. The shoes.

Owen is standing in the bathroom door.

“What are you doing?”

Marnie is holding the letter. “Is this a suicide note?”

“You shouldn’t open other people’s mail. How much did you read?”

“Enough,” Marnie says, refolding the letter. “Are you going to kill yourself?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“This is wrong. Things are never as bad as you think.”

He laughs wryly. “Now I’m getting emotional advice from a prostitute.”

Marnie’s body stiffens.

“You can leave now,” he says.

“I’m not leaving until you promise me you won’t do it.”

“You’ve known me less than an hour,” says Owen. “How could you possibly understand?”

Marnie argues the point, finding the words, telling him that life is a gift and a privilege and it shouldn’t be wasted. Things can change.

“And tomorrow is another day,” he says sarcastically.

“What about your children? What sort of message are you sending to them? I’ve felt like you do,” she says. “I’ve thought about suicide.”

“This isn’t a contest about who has the shittiest life.”

“I didn’t give up. I survived.”

She tells him about Daniel disappearing and raising two children on her own. He’s standing at the window with his back to her, looking at the lights of Waterloo Bridge.

“How?” she asks.

“The river.”

“So you were going to fuck me and then jump off a bridge?”

“No, I was going to wait till after my mother’s funeral.”

Marnie’s mouth opens in shock.

“I can’t swim,” he explains.

“That’s not a very nice way to die.”

“It isn’t supposed to be nice.”

Marnie’s mobile is ringing. It’s Quinn. If she doesn’t answer, he’ll be knocking on the door.

“You OK?”
he asks.

“Yeah. It’s taking a little longer.”

“Is he paying extra?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“You’re on the clock. Make him pay.”

He hangs up. Marnie looks at Owen across the bed. There is a long pause and in that awkward moment she feels like she’s pulling him back or maybe he’s pulling her closer. She thinks of Daniel and it makes her angry.

“You will not do this. You will not disappear. You will not kill yourself. You will stay and you will fight and you will live…Promise me,” she says.

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Because I’ve lost my husband and I have a little boy at home and I don’t want him to think the world is such a terrible place.”

“You care that much?”

“Yes.”

He smiles at her. It’s almost a laugh. “I’ve only paid for an hour.”

“That’s not the point. I’m not leaving. I’m going to stay here until you promise.”

“You would stay with me?”

“Not for sex, only until you promise.”

Owen gazes at her with a mixture of admiration and yearning. Marnie puts on her dress and shoes, balling up her lingerie and shoving it into the pocket of her overcoat. She feels the wad of cash.

“I’ll give you back your money.”

“What?”

“Take the money. Do something nice for yourself.”

He doesn’t take it straight away. Marnie peels back his fingers and presses the bundle of banknotes into his palm.

“Keep the money,” he says.

“No.”

“You need it.”

Marnie shakes her head. “This way I’ll know you won’t do it because you’ll owe me. Do we have a deal?”

He nods.

Owen is sitting on the bed, legs splayed, elbows on his knees. Marnie has nothing in common with this man, not money, or class, or education, or age, or interests. She doesn’t even know his surname, but somehow she has touched a chord within him or made a connection. It’s a strange feeling, watching a man do something because of her.

“When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“What time?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“I want you to phone me afterwards. I’ll give you my number.”

Marnie writes her number on a hotel pad. Owen takes it without looking at her face. “Would you come with me?”

“To the funeral?”

“It would mean a lot.”

“I have an appointment.”

He nods.

“Listen to me, Owen. You’re going to get through this. I’ll help you. Call me tomorrow.”

He looks at Marnie’s note. “I thought escorts were supposed to use fake names.”

“I’m not a very good escort.”

Owen laughs to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“You read stories, don’t you.”

“Stories?”

“About hookers with a heart of gold.”

“It’s not gold,” she says.

“You’re right,” he replies. “It’s more precious than that.”