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Warm regards,
Charlize Prescott.
There.
That sounds professional. I even used my full name. Well, I dropped the middle name off since I’m named after my great grandmother, and Enid doesn’t exactly scream escort of the year.
I hover my thumb over the send arrow.
I mean, it’s unlikely I’ll even hear back from her. So there’s really nothing at all to lose. Right?
Before I can overthink it, I hit send and my breath catches in my chest.
I don’t even want to think about what it means if I do even get a foot in the door.
I’d have to have sex for money.
I’d be a prostitute.
Whether Neve called it an escort or lady of the night doesn’t matter. It is what it is, there is no prettying it up no matter which way you look at it.
I convince myself if — and that’s a big if — I did end up doing this, I’d only do it for some quick cash. Enough to have a weekend in Paris at a swanky hotel. Move to a nicer place for the last few months of my trip. Indulge a little. I put ‘paying bills’ at the very bottom of the list. Bills are boring, but it’s inevitable I’d be able to get in front. Get myself a new iPad and phone… shit. What am I doing?
I’m fantasizing about buying myself shit with the money I’d potentially get from selling my body to strangers! I should feel sickened. I should feel something inside of me that tells me this is a bad idea. But strangely, I don’t. I mean. If it were a possibility, I’d be nervous. Hell, I don’t even know if I could go through with it. It’s not as if the dudes probably look like Henry Cavill. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Then again, the guy Neve was with the other night was handsome. He was an older man but not repulsive. And she said they treated her right. Like a queen.
I shake my head.
I’m officially nuts.
The worrying part is, it’s taken me almost thirty years to really understand that fact.
Chapter Four
Alistair
I sigh as the tailor measures the inside of my leg.
Of course, all my suits are tailor made, but this suit holds a particular disdain as well as a bad taste in my mouth because I detest birthdays.
It isn’t the suits fault, but I can’t help it.
I don’t want to think about my fucking birthday party.
I should just tell my friends to get fucked, and my sister to lay off. But dutifully, I do neither of those things. My friends are good people, they mean well. It also makes me realise they should probably know me better, thus understanding that I don’t like parties. I detest them even. But I know they love them. Any excuse for a Devereaux party is a good one. My family doesn’t do things by halves, especially birthdays.
My father, like me, doesn’t care for them very much. But my mother on the other hand, she’s just as excited about the idea as my sister.
Mum
Darling, I found these beautiful masks from Dior. They are to die for!
I groan, reading the text. Fucking Dior?
Did I mention the theme of the party is a masquerade?
What follows is a slew of screen shots of various masks, each one ranging from more ridiculous to the next in elaborateness.
