Escort Unleashed (Emma Book 2) Page 18

  Things are looking up for us all. Both Sarah and Alyssia have made big strides, and I’m thrilled for them. We’ve got some more exciting house-hunting to come, and everyone’s loving life. The Australian – and Latifa, texting like mad from Newcastle – won’t let us forget the plan to catch Spurring.

  Which is exciting. I think. Although I’m starting to wonder if it really is Spurring. Have I leapt to conclusions? My heart beats a little quicker – for more than one reason – every time I think about the appointment I have with ‘him’ in two nights’ time. The clit ring is a constant, tingling reminder of that.

  Before this, though, I have one appointment that fills me with dread. And it’s not a client. It’s my mother.

  Chapter XXI

  I don’t know what makes me more nervous; the gravity of what I’m about to say to my mum or the thought of the noises Sarah was making with her client only an hour ago.

  The thought of my mother hearing either of these makes my head pound with worry. Or that she might look in the sex room, which is slightly too pornographic not to raise a comment of some sort. I’m going to have to tell her it’s a cupboard.

  I’m acutely aware that I’m making my mother’s coffee with an outrageous espresso machine that, as far as she is concerned, I couldn’t possibly afford. My mind is latching onto stupid little things like this, as if this whole damn palace of mine isn’t already one massive giveaway that something big has changed in my life.

  Why didn’t I meet her ‘off-site’ again? Oh yes, so that I wouldn’t chicken out of saying what I need to say. Christ, but that’s so tempting right now. All that confidence and belief and pride in what I do has fallen off the edge of the eleventh floor; right off the balcony I can see behind my mother’s questioning but innocent eyes.

  I’m just about running out of small talk and coffee to fiddle with when Sarah appears, fresh from the shower. I swear I go red at the mere thought of the reason she’s having to clean herself. It’s barely half an hour since she ushered her client out of the flat and I gave the whole place a furious spray, paranoid that it smelt of sex. The timing was all a little too close for comfort.

  I’ve asked Sarah to stay and at least say hello. I want the distraction, though I don’t want her to hang around and make me feel self-conscious. I know my mum will like her, because it’s impossible not to like the warm yet vulnerable Sarah. She’s a hug magnet like I’ve never known.

  “Hi Mrs Carling!” beams Sarah, skipping the introductions and bounding over for a handshake.

  “This is my friend Sarah, Mum. Well, my room-mate too.”

  Sarah gives me a naughty wink when she’s sure my mother isn’t looking, and I wince. Please don’t let’s get into lesbian love right now! She’s just messing with me, of course. She’s been fully briefed that the prostitution thing will be more than enough of a shock for one day. I’m already half-tempted to have an ambulance on standby, in case Mum has a heart attack when she hears the news.

  “Good to meet you, Sarah. So, are you the one with the rich father paying for this place?”

  It’s an attempt at a joke from my mother, but it says everything about her preconceptions of the world. The patriarchal world that’s all she’s ever known, where a woman selling her body could only mean shame and poverty, not status and wealth. Where a woman couldn’t possibly have a place like this on her own money, unless she were the queen. I suspect my mother hasn’t always been entirely comfortable with the idea of me having any kind of job at all. Her visions of the future are, I know, filled with grandkids.

  My mother’s throwaway remark plants a little seed in my brain too.

  “I’ll let Emma answer that, Mrs Carling. Don’t forget to give her the full tour now, will you Emma? Just leave my room out of it – the place is an absolute tip.”

  Her room? But we sleep together! She jerks her head towards the sex room, and suddenly I get it. She’s engineered a good reason for me not to open that door, and at the same time made sure I don’t have to answer the ‘where does Sarah sleep’ question. Good girl! I’m so glad my friends think ahead more than I do.

  “I won’t!” I grin, hopefully looking less nervous than I really am.

  “I have to pop out now,” announces Sarah, right on cue. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs Carling.”

  “Likewise,” replies my mother, looking a little baffled by her brief encounter with Sarah.

  When Sarah’s gone, I stall things a little longer by taking my mother on a tour of the house while her coffee cools. Inevitably, she has no idea what to make of it. The poor woman has simply never seen anything like it. She’s born and bred on suburban London terraces.

  She is quite literally speechless as I show her around, suddenly remembering I haven’t warned Alyssia not to come bursting in and shouting about what she just did with a client. Oh God. Let’s hurry this along.

  The bathroom clearly makes her head spin. She’s not at all sure how that glass-sided bath tub can possibly be possible. “Is this…safe, Emma? How strong is that glass?”

  I chuckle. “Oh, Mum, I think these builders know what they’re doing! It’s probably the same stuff those see-through floors on office mezzanines are made of.”

  She doesn’t look convinced at all. “Can people see in, then?”

  I shrug, and then go red as I realise I haven’t really even thought about that. Shameless, I know.

  “Well, I don’t know, but they’d have to have a space telescope, wouldn’t they!”

  “I suppose,” she murmurs, slowly taking in the fact that there’s nothing but a wide stretch of river between my window and some far lower buildings on the far bank of the Thames.

  “Come on, let’s go and sit down,” I announce, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of the things I’ve done in this room with Sarah. And Scott. And Alyssia. And Latifa. This is no place for my mother.

  “Sure,” she says. “I’m really very curious to know what’s been happening in your life.”

  “I thought you might be,” I say with a big gulp as I hand her my home-brewed latte and we sit down on the sofa. “Well, I have found a job.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Yes? What is it?”

  God, I really want to tell her Sarah has a rich father and I’m just lucky enough to be bunking here while I’m working as a receptionist somewhere.

  And it’s not too late to say that. She’s met my friend and she would probably buy it. I can just say Sarah is a school friend (true, kind of) that I’ve reconnected with and she’s got a high-flying job and she’s happy for me to stay here and just pay the bills.

  Fuck, am I really going to lie after all this time spent thinking about how this day would go? It’s the one scenario I never played out. Not once.

  My mother is still looking at me, waiting for me to come up with something. It’s a look I remember from when I was very young, and she would ask me if I had taken sweets out of the jar. Although this time, I’m quite sure she doesn’t know the answer already. The truth about me can’t possibly have crossed her mind.

  She didn’t raise me to be puritanical or a good girl or never to think of sex outside of marriage. All of the above was merely implied, because she never spoke about sex at all. Neither of my parents did. Which is exactly what’s making this so difficult. That fucking English ‘education’ that was no education at all. We never even had a birds and bees chat, and now the topic for our first conversation about sex is that her daughter has become a highly-paid tart.

  Shit, but I’d better say something.

  I’m so bad at lying. I just can’t say all of this is Sarah’s.

  “Okay, Mum, I’ve learned a new trade. I’m, er, a – ”

  And of course, I can’t say it.

  I find myself changing tack, no longer in any control of what comes out of my mouth.

  “I’m a masseuse,” is what emerges. The best euphemism for a whore that I can think of.

  “A what?” she says, looking blank.

  Ch
rist, she’s making this even more difficult than it needs to be. Of course, she didn’t grow up in a world where any kind of massage was heard of.

  “Er, it means you give massages, you know?”

  There’s a silence. I am suddenly praying she doesn’t understand the connotations that entails for some women. Because it’s not strictly a lie, what I’ve just said. Some of my work has included an element of massage. Particularly on certain body parts.

  “Oh, I think I know what you mean. Like sports people get?”

  She really isn’t getting the connotations at all.

  “A bit like that,” I say. “Mine are just more about relaxation and enjoyment. It’s very popular nowadays and it’s only a short course to learn the basics. I didn’t want to tell anyone while I was learning, in case I gave up and didn’t like it. But I quite like the work and I quickly found an agency looking to take people on. The skill is quite in demand.”

  I’m not sure how much sense I’m making, but I’m pretty sure I’m not technically telling any lies. I’m just shaving some of the uglier realities out of the story. One thing’s for sure: if I’m going to make her understand, I’m going to have to come right out and say it straight.

  Not sure I can now. I’m physically incapable of moving my lips to say the words.

  Come on Emma, you’re physically capable of so much more than you ever thought. You’ve proved that already this year.

  “It is…for women, then?” asks my mother, and I can’t detect if it’s hope of innocence in her voice. For the first time I’m beginning to wonder if she’s as naïve as I’ve always thought she is.

  “Yes, quite often,” I reply truthfully. “But also for men.” I pause. “Some of the rich ones in this area have quite stressful lives, and the money’s pretty good.”

  “As good as all this?” she asks, thankfully steering away from any further questions about the work itself.

  “Well, Sarah is also working, you know…she’s got a big job nearby and she does really well for herself. I definitely owe her plenty.”

  Again, not exactly lies.

  I can tell she’s got a lot of questions, but isn’t sure how to ask them.

  “You did a course, you say?”

  “Short but intense, I guess,” I say truthfully. “I’ve come to realise that most of what they teach in university can be covered in a couple of weeks. It’s better to learn on the job.”

  “So you have a qualification from this course?”

  “A little diploma, yes,” I say, before hurriedly adding, “I don’t think I’ll be getting anything in the mail. These things only exist on the internet these days.”

  “I see,” she says, looking a lot like she doesn’t. “So this agent makes appointments for you?”

  “That’s it. They’ve got a little studio and I just go along for a few hours a day. The times are quite variable.”

  The studio thing is the first outright lie I’ve told. I feel terrible.

  I smile, thinking of a way to feel myself feel better, as well as avoiding more questions: “I can give you a massage next time I come round, Mum! Then you’ll understand what it’s all about.”

  “Well, yes, I’d like to know,” she says. “I don’t think I can even picture it.”

  “Fine!” I say in a hurry. “Next week then. I’ll show you! You will feel great!”

  I am hoping that if I can introduce her to the concept via something resembling a clothed Thai massage, it might stop her asking questions about the technicalities of how I do it with my clients. Preferably for the rest of time.

  I have a vague feeling I’m digging a big hole of lies for myself here. In fact, I know I am. But it succeeds in changing her tack for now.

  “But how much does this place cost, Emma! Nobody could earn that much, could they? What are they paying you?”

  This is still difficult. “Of course they can – this whole building is full of renters, isn’t it? Sarah’s doing really well, and I get a lot of tips. The agency charge quite a lot. They only look for really wealthy customers, and people around here have far more money than sense, you know?”

  I’m not sure she does. She’s looking a little glassy-eyed. What is she making of it all. There are so many obvious questions for her to ask. Wealthy eh? So what are they expecting? Are the men naked? Do they grope you? Do you have to do happy endings?

  But these are the questions my generation would ask, not hers. Even if they were on the tip of her tongue – and I can’t quite work out if her mind has even gone that far – I’m not sure she’d actually put them into words. They would, after all, be terribly rude things to ask about.

  I could put this beyond all doubt right now. “Mum, I am a prostitute. I have sex with very wealthy men for money. There’s a fifty-thousand pound ring in my clit as we speak. And that’s what’s paying for all of this.”

  But I don’t say that. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I can leave this hanging and it can nag away at me all the way to Christmas. The thought of doing that almost brings a tear to my eye. But the thought of speaking the full truth is like ice in my veins. I can delay this a little longer, do it all in baby steps. Maybe wait till she actually asks me outright, if she ever does. Saying ‘yes’ will be easier than actually spelling it out.

  What a chicken I’m being.

  Come on, spit it out, Emma Carling!

  “So how is dad?” I ask.

  Lame. I barely hear her answer me. I’m so mad I’m going to let her leave here without the full truth. I’m so cross that I’m putting it off. And I know the moment is gone.

  Chapter XXII

  I don’t think I’ve ever changed so much between birthdays. Last year was filled with tears and angst about getting older, being single and drowning in a relentless, determined sea of work. I seem to recall a particularly enraging conference call that day. One which left me grumpy throughout evening drinks with a few of my close friends.

  This year I am somebody completely different. A happier, healthier and barely recognisable Emma. And my first day of being twenty-seven gets off to a spectacular start as Sarah wakes me up with the gentlest of licks to my clit. For a moment I think I’m dreaming. Then, groggy with sleep, I realise what’s happening and succumb to the most delicious, lazy and effortless orgasm.

  “Happy birthday Emma,” she murmurs as she crawls up the bed and plants a soft, loving kiss on my lips.

  The sun is pouring into the room and I drift off again as Sarah disappears to make coffee and order croissants from the posh bakery downstairs. I’m content as a kitten, happy that I’ve got a clear diary until my appointment with Charles tonight. Sarah re-appears with a tray, complete with a single rose and a small, gift-wrapped box.

  “Really?” I say as I sit upright and she settles in beside me. “The way you woke me up was more than enough of a present you know!”

  “It’s nothing really,” she says. “But go on, open it!”

  I wonder what it could be. I remove the lid with my fingers, and find a shiny black chess piece resting on a velvet cushion inside. It’s a knight, but not just any knight. It’s a finely-crafted item that is as much ornament as it is plaything. I pull it out with an excited smile. On closer examination, it’s thick glass filled with what looks like ink, which comes to life with a subtle swirl as you move it. It’s very creative. The sort of thing you see in arty magazine shoots. And it’s the perfect present, because it’s too indulgent for me ever to buy myself.

  “I love it – the dark knight! But are we going to play chess with just one piece?”

  “No, silly! Let me get the rest…”

  She eases off the bed and scrabbles about beneath it, carefully emerging with the rest of the set. I gasp as I see the board and all the pieces brought together. It’s a truly amazing piece of art. The white pieces are filled with a bright liquid of their very own. It’s the colour of milk, just as striking in its own way. Even more funkily, each square on the thick glass board is also filled with a
lternating black and white.

  It’s a living, breathing chess board. Perfect for my bare coffee table. And it’s dawning on me why she went for it.

  “I thought it might bring back some memories,” she grins, recalling the game of human chess we played at school. “I know you didn’t get to play as much as you wanted that day…”

  I smile and shake my head. “You have a good memory, Sarah Smith! But you’re right. I did get a little bit left out – thank you. I can’t wait to play!”

  I lean across to give her a huge hug.

  “Woah, don’t knock the tray over!” she scolds. “Why don’t you pour us some coffee before you spill it all over the floor?”

  I smile and do as she asks. When I lift the first of the upturned coffee mugs, I notice something unusual beneath it.

  “Hmm,” I murmur, picking up the small tube and suspecting that she’s slipped another present onto my breakfast tray. “Chocolate body paint!”

  “I couldn’t resist a saucy little something to go with the chess,” she explains. “We have unfinished business with paint too, remember?”

  Ah yes. The time I was busy washing her black-smeared body down after the chess game, and couldn’t go through with the whole lesbian thing. That feels like a lifetime ago. What a clever, thoughtful gift idea!

  “I see what you’re getting at,” I say, breaking into a smile. “Good thinking! I reckon I’ll be able to finish the job this time.”

  “Not till you’ve had your fair share of chocolate though,” she winks.

  I love the presents she’s chosen. She hasn’t gone for the easy or the obvious. Rather, she’s chosen something that has meaning for both of us and our relationship. I wish I could pick gifts as smartly as she’s done.

  We munch happily through breakfast, then take a long and lazy bath before meeting Alyssia for lunch. I meet a couple of my best school friends for coffee in the afternoon, feeling so good about myself that I come very close to breaking down and telling them exactly what it is that’s giving me the glow they keep picking up on.