At Your Beck & Call

  I thought I was getting the picture—and it wasn’t a pretty one.

  “So, you being with me is…?”

  She sighed again.

  “Retribution.” She shrugged.

  My bliss-like state faded rapidly, leaving me feeling a little sick.

  “But I like you,” she insisted. “So I don’t understand. You have a degree; you have talent; you have a way out. Why do you do it?”

  “I need the money.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You are poor?”

  I looked up, meeting her eyes. “No, but I have debts. This … it was … easy.”

  “What about your family?”

  “I don’t really … look, no offence, but can we talk about something else?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I understand. I don’t trust people easily either. I don’t open up my problem or personal life to anybody.”

  She nodded abruptly, indicating that the conversation was over. Thank God.

  I went home shortly after that, meeting her again the following morning for our Napa Valley trip. She didn’t ask me any more personal questions, and she showed me positions I’d never even seen in porn films.

  It was good, and I’d like to think she went home with that smile still on her face.

  Three weeks later, I received a small parcel in the mail. Wrapped in a soft cloth and placed inside a case lay an elegant nineteenth century copy of the Kama Sutra—with Post-it notes between several of the pages, marking her favorite positions.

  There was also a photograph of the portrait I’d drawn of her, now framed and hanging on a wall in her home. On the back of the photograph she wrote, “You can do this.”

  With the money that I’d earned from Madame Darchelle, the €65,000 roulette bonus that I’d been allowed to keep, $9,000 from Sophie, and $17,000 from Mary Rose, I paid off my student loans and put a large deposit down on a beach house at Playa del Rey, finding myself a property owner at 23; albeit one with a substantial mortgage.

  I wasn’t sure of the wisdom of fucking to pay off one debt, only to take on another, but Eloise said that renting was ‘dead’ money and that I should put my earnings into property. Well, I guess she wasn’t as rich as Croesus for nothing. She talked—I paid attention.

  Besides, my home was my refuge and I never, ever took a client there. It was where I switched off that side of myself completely. It was the only time I could be me.

  That was my story—foreign and domestic—for the next few years. Maybe it was fear that kept me going, because if I wasn’t an escort, what would I be? I had a useless degree in a subject that wasn’t going to lead to any jobs that paid nearly as well as what I was doing. I had to make this work.

  So, I carried on working as an escort. I shut myself off from my old life, my hopes and dreams. I fucked any woman who would pay for it. I lost a little more of myself each time—but I didn’t stop.

  I did go back to painting—trying to paint. That was my escape.

  The only part of my old life that remained was my asshole friend, Carl. I have no idea why he wanted to stay friends because we had nothing in common except the years we’d roomed together. Guess that was enough for him. Me, too, because other than Eloise, he was my only friend.

  I saw Carl maybe once every couple of months for a beer drinking session, and sometimes we played golf at one of the hotels he managed. Tessa gave him a hard time whenever we met up, so I was surprised when he texted me mid-week, and suggested we meet up at Chico’s.

  Tessa was okay, I guess. She just hated me. She was an elementary school teacher and kind of bossy, too. I could never tell if that was because she was used to telling eight-year-olds what to do all day, or if it was just how she was born. Either way, Carl was totally pussy whipped. He seemed to like it. I don’t know, maybe she was a freak in the bedroom.

  Tessa was fairly judgmental about me, and decreed that Carl was never to see me again after the whole Paige clusterfuck. For once, he’d stood up for himself and told her off, but unsurprisingly she’d kept her distance from me ever since. I was persona non grata for sure as far as she was concerned.

  Like most people, she assumed escort work was just about sex, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Maybe a quarter of my dates were non-sexual, but even the ones that did end up in bed involved a lot more than just ramming my dick into the nearest convenient hole. It was about being there for them, listening as they talked, understanding their worries and fears, not judging. Hell, who was I to judge anyone?

  Most people thought it was all meaningless, but that wasn’t true. Sometimes it still made me feel good, too. Like the woman who cried with relief when I made her come, because she hadn’t been with a guy since her mastectomy. She wanted companionship and male tenderness. I’d always hoped that Gina would make a second booking, but she never did.

  There were others were it was good. A few.

  Carl was waiting for me when I walked into the bar, pulling off my sunglasses, my eyes adjusting to the cool, dark interior. When I saw the grime on the floor, I thought I should have left the sunglasses on.

  He waved to me from a corner booth.

  “Hey, man! How you doing?”

  “Good. You? How’s Tessa?”

  “Yeah, she’s good. She says hi.”

  “I bet she does.”

  He gave a guilty smile. “You know how it is.”

  “Sure, no worries.”

  “So, um, how’s business?”

  “Fucking great,” I said, deadpan.

  He laughed out loud, smirked and signaled to the waitress to bring two more beers.

  “So,” he began, and I wondered what was coming. “Me and Tessa … I’m, uh, gonna, well…”

  “Break up with her?”

  His eyebrows shot upward.

  “No, man. Taking it to the next step. We’re getting married.”

  I leaned back and stared at him. Carl was the most irresponsible person I knew and he was getting married.

  “Whoa, I guess that’s pretty serious. You really want that? Wife, kids, place in the burbs?”

  He looked down at his beer.

  “Yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s different with her. We’ve been dating seven years. She wants kids so, yeah, why not? I could live with having a couple of rug-rats running around. But…”

  “But what?”

  “You’re still doing all this wild stuff…”

  “It’s not really all that wild…”

  “Nah, I know. You’re happily single. I can’t imagine you ever settling down. I mean, why would you? You get as much action as you want and…”

  “It’s not like that. Most women just want someone to pay attention to them, listen when they talk…”

  “Sure, and then fuck like bunnies after!”

  I rolled my eyes but didn’t contradict him. The truth was even if I tried to have a girlfriend, I probably wouldn’t have much energy left for sex with her as well as the agency work. I didn’t tell Carl that; he was kind of fixated on my sex life. It made me wonder how much he was getting from Tessa.

  “I still go home alone,” I pointed out.

  He gave me a sideways glance, brushing off the comment.

  “But that’s your choice. Hell, you were beating women off with a stick when we were at college, even if you didn’t date that much.”

  He shook his head.

  “Jeez, you were this shy Canuck, hardly spoke to anyone, and women—like bees to honey. You really worked that strong silent type bullshit. Sounds like some things haven’t changed.”

  “Fuck off! I spent all my time training and skating, douchewad!”

  I’d never told him about my premature retirement from the porn movie industry—and that I’d had a lot to hide—the other reason I’d barely dated that first year of college.

  He looked uncomfortable, perhaps because we didn’t usually talk much about personal stuff, and as a rule, neither of us were interested in reminiscing.

  ??
?Um, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, buddy.”

  Carl looked uncharacteristically sheepish.

  “Hit me,” I said, taking another long pull on my bottle of beer.

  “So, um, Paige … she got married.”

  Oh.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh, actually he’s Tessa’s brother. He’s a banker in Chicago.”

  “Okay, well … good for her.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “No. Why should I? Guess she got her happy ending.”

  We were silent for several minutes.

  “Tessa and I set a date,” said Carl, suddenly. “September 19th. Her thirtieth birthday.”

  “Wow, that soon! Engaged and a date in sight, too. Congratulations, man.”

  I was genuinely pleased for him, despite my misgivings about Tessa.

  “Yeah, well, she kind of gave me an ultimatum—set a date or get the hell out.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that.

  “But it’s what you want?”

  He nodded. “I can’t imagine living without her.”

  He seemed embarrassed by admitting to deep emotion.

  “She wants to have kids and she wants to be married before I knock her up.”

  “Jeez, things are really changing. I’m pleased for you, buddy.”

  He smiled. “They haven’t changed for you, hey. Still getting laid more times than turf.” He paused. “So, um, you’ll come to the wedding, right?”

  I leaned back. “What does Tessa say about that? I know she’s not exactly my biggest fan.”

  Carl stuck his chin out. “It’s my wedding, too. We’ve been friends since college.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to cause you problems, man.”

  “It’ll be cool. Just don’t hit on any of her friends if you want to live to a good age with your balls intact.”

  Seriously? Not having sex was like having a vacation for me.

  “Consider me warned. And I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “You could bring a date,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

  I had to laugh at that one.

  “And, um, you’ll be cool about Paige being there with her husband? Well, he’s a bit of a dick, but so long as you don’t lay him out.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Well, I think she told him … about you, I mean.”

  Great. Not.

  “If he doesn’t act like a prick, I guess I won’t either.”

  Carl looked dubious but didn’t push me to make promises I couldn’t guarantee I’d keep.

  We had a few more drinks, shot a couple of games of pool, and went our separate ways with a promise to meet up more often. One we’d probably break.

  His words kept coming back to me: Some things haven’t changed. Was it true?

  Maybe the whole escort thing was getting kind of old. I’d been doing it for seven years. I was tired of it. Tired of living my life like that—for other people. The idea of retiring from escort work, doing something else—I’d been thinking about that a lot lately.

  Eloise would be mad if I retired—she said the older I got the more appointments she could book for me. Some women balked at having a date with someone twenty-plus years younger than themselves. Although I already had as much work as I wanted. In fact I rarely took on new clients.

  I’d be 29 on my next birthday. I had a nice car, a cool house on the beach that was nearly paid for, and I had my art, my painting. It was nothing more than a hobby, but I’d been wondering if it could be more than that. I’d never had the balls to find out.

  The weird thing was … my body, having sex … that never felt personal—not any more. But showing my art to someone? That was far more intimate, because if they looked hard enough, they’d see the real me. Mostly, they just saw the escort—which pretty much meant they saw what they wanted to see; or what I wanted them to see. My art—that was different.

  After meeting up with Carl, I felt restless and vaguely dissatisfied. I decided to take some time off, focus on the canvas I was working on, and decide what I wanted to do.

  I checked my calendar—I didn’t have any appointments for the next three days, and those for the week after could easily be rescheduled or passed to another escort. I texted Eloise to say I was taking a weeks’ vacation to work on my paintings, then turned off my cellphone.

  Even having made that decision, I still felt on edge. I took a bottle of beer and sat out on my balcony, thinking of the day I’d met Eloise, and how that had changed the course of my life.

  But six days later, it all changed again. And I didn’t see it coming.

  I dreamed of my father.

  We were sitting by a frozen lake and I was a man, not a boy. We could hear the ice cracking and the slow drip of snow falling from the branch of a tree.

  He turned to me and smiled.

  “It’s the thaw,” he said.

  I was sweating hard, pushing myself for the last ten minutes and was ready to collapse. Even still, I nearly turned around and ran back up the beach when I saw Eloise’s silver Mercedes parked next to my convertible. But I was spotted.

  “Hallen, darling. I was hoping I’d catch you, naughty boy. You haven’t been answering your cell.”

  “Yeah, that’s because I’m on vacation, Eloise.”

  “Yes, I know and I’m sorry about that, but I really need you to work tonight.”

  “Ellie…”

  She held up her hand, cutting off my objection.

  “I understand, but I took a booking for Marco and he’s called in sick. And you know I never disappoint a client. Especially a new one. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t horribly important.”

  I felt the sweat drying on my body in the light breeze.

  She reached up and cupped her hand around my cheek.

  “Please, darling. I’ll make the cut 70—30 in your favor, and you know I never do that.”

  “Ellie, it isn’t about the money…”

  “Darling, do this job and I promise I won’t bother you again for the duration. Scout’s honor.”

  “You weren’t in the Boy Scouts.”

  “Pedants aren’t invited to parties.”

  I shook my head in irritation but she knew I was agreeing.

  “Thank you, dear heart.”

  Yeah, I had a problem saying no to her, and she knew it.

  “And do shave—it’s such a shame hiding that pretty face of yours.”

  She scratched her fingers through my week-old stubble and tutted in annoyance.

  I winked at her and she slapped my arm, then pulled an envelope out of her purse before heading back to her car.

  I held the door as she slid into the upholstered leather and clipped the seatbelt into place.

  She popped the clutch, and I winced as she ground the gears mercilessly trying to find first.

  “It’s an opening for a new art gallery,” she called over her shoulder.

  What?

  “Eloise! You’re setting me up!”

  She was utterly shameless, and I couldn’t help smiling at her. She waved and left with a squeal of tires and a honking of horns from the oncoming traffic. She was a God awful driver.

  But she’d really played me this time. Eloise had been trying to get me to show my paintings for years. I’d always said no, but that never stopped her from trying.

  I looked at the appointment notes and realized I only had a short time to get ready. Eloise had timed her ‘visit’ perfectly.

  I showered quickly and shaved—of course. The notes Eloise had given me were the time and place of the appointment, and a brief description of the client so I’d know who I was looking for. Photographs and surnames were never included in case the paperwork fell into the wrong hands. You couldn’t be too careful.

  Then I checked I had condoms and cash in my wallet—just in case. The client was supposed to pay for everything. But I liked to be prepared.

  The pick-up was in the foyer of a hotel I used sometimes
. Not often enough for the staff to know me, or what I did. Eloise’s agency offered discretion above all things.

  I strolled into the foyer at the appointed time and casually scanned the people milling around. Yep, there she was: brunette, early-to-mid-forties, blue dress, Hermès scarf. Attractive. Wealthy, obviously. She was nursing a glass of white wine and seemed nervous. First timer. I could always tell.

  “Laura?”

  She looked startled as I approached, giving the impression that she might bolt at any moment. I gave her my gentlest smile.

  “Hello, I’m Hallen. It’s good to meet you.”

  We shook hands, and I judged that a kiss on the cheek would be too much at this point.

  “May I?”

  She forced a smile as I sat down in the chair across from her.

  “Sorry,” she said, anxiously rubbing her hands down her skirt-covered thighs, “but I’ve never done this before.”

  “Never been on a date? I find that hard to imagine.”

  Her lips twitched with what might have been a smile but died young.

  “Well, it’s been a while, now that you mention it.”

  Recently divorced.

  She met my eyes.

  “You’re younger than I was expecting.”

  Yeah, I still got that a lot.

  “I’ll try and be older.”

  That did make her smile.

  “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

  I leaned forward slightly.

  “It’s fine. I’m teasing you. Perhaps you could tell me about the gallery we’re going to this evening.”

  Get the client talking about something they’re interested in.

  Christ, I could do this stuff in my sleep. In fact, looking back, I probably had.

  “Oh, yes, the gallery!”

  She relaxed and smiled more naturally.

  “Well, it’s being run by a very interesting woman who specializes in abstract art and expressionism, but she’ll carry all genres—anyone who moves her artistically. She’s managed several galleries in Europe but this is her first business venture stateside.” Her words poured out, a mixture of nerves and enthusiasm. “An acquaintance of mine is a partner, but really I’m just going to enjoy the paintings. She has a reputation for being passionate about discovering new artists, and I’m very excited to see what will be there tonight.”