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“Um, yes, I suppose so,” I reply. “I would say I’m pretty. Yes.”
“Where are you based? I mean, where do you live?”
“Clapham.”
There’s another short pause, and I hear her shuffling through paperwork, then she returns to the phone: “Okay look, I don’t normally do this without first seeing pictures, but I like the sound of your voice, so I’m prepared to give you an appointment for six o’clock this evening. Can you make it?”
My brows snap together. “Wow! Six o’clock this evening?”
“Yes. We’re based in Kensington. If you have a pen and a piece of paper, I’ll give you the address. Make sure you arrive promptly as we don’t tolerate tardiness.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll be on time, I promise.” Riffling through my bag, I fish out a biro and scribble the address on the back of a tattered Sloppy Joe’s leaflet. “Great! Okay, so I’ll see you at six pm.”
“Six pm and don’t be late.”
With a cry of elation, I hang up the receiver and step outside the phone booth, my body tingling with nervous excitement. My stomach roils. God, how am I going to survive until this evening? What will I wear? How will I style my hair? I need to pull out all the stops and make a good impression.I need this to be perfect.
Glancing at my watch, I suddenly realise it’s well gone eleven-thirty.Shit.Mum will be wondering where I’ve got to as I still have to take these groceries home. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I turn on my heel and head in the direction of the main footpath that leads back to Terrapin Road.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in a kind of daze. Following my usual Sunday routine, I do a little spring cleaning around the flat, play Jenga with Freddie and help him construct a robot out of cardboard for a school project, but it’s hard for me to concentrate on anything as all I can think about is this six o’ clock appointment. By lunchtime, I’m so on edge I can hardly hold any food down.
“Darling aren’t you hungry?” my mother asks as the three of us sit eating homemade Chicken Chow Mein off a picnic blanket on the living room floor which serves as our makeshift dining table. “Are you having trouble using the chopsticks again? Would you like me to get you a fork?”
“No, it’s not the chopsticks. I’m actually getting pretty good at using them now.”
“Then what’s wrong? You seem so distracted today.”
“Would I be able to borrow some of your make-up?” I blurt. “I’m going out tonight so I thought I might put on a bit of lippy and mascara, nothing too fancy.”
Cynthia’s face lights up. “You’re going out? Where to?”
“Just down the pub with Amina. No big deal.”
“Amina? Isn’t that the nice girl you work with? She’s phoned here a couple of times for you, hasn’t she?”
“Uh-huh, that’s right. We’re just going for a couple of drinks. It probably won’t be a late one.”
“Oh, how nice for you. It’s great to hear the two of you are getting close, which makes sense as you’ve worked together for such a long time. Amina always sounds so polite on the phone. And of course, you can borrow my make-up, help yourself to anything you want, though I must warn you, some of the bottles of foundation are ancient and have probably dried up.”
“Thanks! I might give the dry foundation a miss, but if you’ve got some lipstick and powder, that will be great.” Casting my eyes downwards, I focus back on my plate. I can hear the excitement in my mother’s voice, and find it sort of endearing. She worries I spend too much time on my own and always says I need to have more of a social life. She’s always on at me to go out and meet people, so the news of this girly night out with Amina is like music to her ears. Of course, I’m not really going to the pub. That’s just the cover story. I’m not proud of myself for lying to her, but it’s got to be done. I simply cannot tell her the truth. If she knew I was going for an interview at an escort agency there’s little doubt she’d tear me a new arsehole.
At three-thirty I start to get ready. Standing in front of my wardrobe, I wonder what the heck I’m going to wear tonight as I don’t really do sexy. My dress sense is more what you would describe as offbeat and quirky and presumably not the sort of clothing escorts wear. Hurriedly, I begin rummaging through the drawers, trying to find something appropriately demure and alluring.
As always, my bedroom looks as if a bomb hit it, partially because it’s so small there’s nowhere to put anything so everything ends up on the floor. The bed is piled high with clothing and on the walls are posters of The Spice Girls, Brad Pitt and Juliette Lewis. There’s also a cheap reprint of Hokusai’sThe Great Wave(my attempt to throw in a little artistic self-expression).
In the end, I settle on a long dress in blue-and-white tie dye print, with spaghetti straps and a scooped neckline. I finish off the look with a studded leather jacket and a pair of brown wedged heels. It’s not exactly the height of sophistication but it will have to do. At such short notice, I’m just grateful to have found something remotely workable. Finally, I go to my mum’s room and put on a little powder, bright red lipstick, mascara and blusher. I don’t usually wear make-up so I’m not exactly an expert, but I feel the amount I’ve applied works to enhance my features. Once more, it will just have to do.
Pursing my lips, I stare at my reflection and wonder what the evening has in store for me. What will happen at this interview? Somewhere deep inside, a voice is telling me that after today, things will never be the same again, and I find the thought sort of scary. Am I seriously ready to do this? Am I completely out of my mind?
Around four-thirty, I say goodbye to Mum and Freddie and head for the bus stop located opposite Clapham Common Tube Station. I don’t have to wait long and very soon I’m seated on a bus heading in the direction of Old Brompton Road. Outside, the sky is already growing dark and there’s a slight chill to the air that suggests it might rain. I hope not, as I forgot to bring my umbrella.
Forty minutes later, I arrive at South Kensington, an upmarket area of London I’m not particularly familiar with, although I do remember coming here once or twice as a child to visit the Natural History Museum. As soon as I get off the bus, I immediately pull out my tattered oldA to Zto find the precise location ofPremiere Ladies. After a couple of false starts and wrong turns, I finally reach Troubadour Street, a quiet road lined with beautiful white stucco-fronted terraces from the Georgian era.
Glancing again at the address I have scribbled down on the leaflet, I see that I’m looking for number66. Crossing the road to the even numbered properties, I walk for another two minutes and then stop outside a grand pillared entrance.
Here it is:66 Troubadour Street.
Right on time too.
