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In no time at all, I spy an ad that looks promising.
‘Models Wanted: Premiere Ladies Escort Agency offers high-class introductions for elite gentlemen seeking the very best in female companionship.’
Well, for £50,000 I’ll certainly be needing an introduction to an ‘elite gentleman,’ so thisPremiere Ladiesplace sounds like just the ticket. Also, the telephone number has an ‘0171’ area code, suggesting the agency is based somewhere in Inner London, which gives another brownie point in my book.
Hurriedly, I pack up my stuff and go in search of somewhere private to make the call. Ten minutes later, I’m standing in a red telephone box in a secluded area of woodland on the east side of Clapham Common. All around is tranquil and quiet, just the way I like it.
Suddenly, a cute grey squirrel darts out from the hedgerows and stalls just outside the phone booth. Smiling, I knock on the glass to get its attention. Frightened, the creature disappears back into the undergrowth. My heart melts. I love animals and relish seeing them in the wild, something you don’t get an awful lot of living in the city.
Tentatively, I lift the black telephone receiver, put some coins in the slot and dial the number. As I wait for the call to connect, I fleetingly remember it’s a Sunday and wonder if the agency will even be open as most businesses are closed.
After two rings, a lady with a cut-glass accent picks up. “Hello, Premiere Ladies Escort Agency.”
My pulse quickens.Shit, I’m so nervous I’m getting tongue-tied.
“Hello?” the woman repeats, sounding slightly irritable. “Anybody there?”
Tucking a hair behind my ear, I clear my throat and finally muster the courage to speak. “Um, hello. I saw your ad inThe South London Herald, and I just wanted to make some enquiries, you know, about how to join your agency.”
“Have you ever done this sort of work before?”
“No, but I do know what it involves. I mean, I know it’s not just going for dinner and stuff. I know what’s expected of me…” My voice trails off.Fuck, I’m blabbering so much crap.
“Do you have a portfolio you could send me? Any headshots? I don’t normally book an appointment without first seeing some photographs. I need to know if you’ll be a good fit for us.”
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t have any photographs.”
There’s a short silence. I’m sweating buckets.Have I blown it already?
“What’s your name?” the lady resumes calmly.
“Jessica Gardner.”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
“What dress size?”
“Eight.”
“What height?”
“5ft 9.”
“Hair colour, eyes?”
“Brown hair, brown eyes.”
“Long hair or short?”
“Long hair.”
“Are you pretty?”
The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been one to blow my own trumpet and I’m not sure what the correct response should be. If I say ‘yes,’ will that sound egotistical? Cynthia always taught me never to boast about my appearance because it cultivates the wrong type of qualities in a woman.
“Are you pretty?” she repeats with a note of exasperation. “Come, come, no false modesty. Be honest. Do men look at you? Do you turn heads?”
