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Thank God!
Hastily, I jump inside the phone booth and dial Jane’s number. My throat feels dry. I have butterflies in my tummy.Please pick up, please pick up…
After four rings, Jane’s husky voice comes on the line and my feelings of tension melt away. “Hello, Premiere Ladies…”
“Hello, Miss Waters,” I say. “It’s Jessica Gardner here. You told me to phone?”
“Ah, yes, Jessica! So glad you called. I have good news. We have had some interest and you, my girl, have a date this coming Saturday.”
“Really? Oh. My. God. Thank you, thank you!” I punch the air in victory. I simply cannot believe it. Somebody has agreed to pay the £50,000. This doesn’t seem real. Could my problems really be over so quickly? My next few sentences come out in a flurry. “So who is he? Where am I meeting him? How does this thing work?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss that over the phone. I would much rather see you in person. Come to my office at three pm on Saturday and we’ll take it from there. Oh, and bring an overnight bag, pack your toothbrush, a change of clothes, that sort of thing.”
“Can’t you tell me anything at all?” I ask excitedly. “I’m dying to know more!”
“I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t be appropriate to speak about it over the phone. Our clients cherish their privacy, and I would never do anything to compromise our impeccable reputation. However, I promise all will be revealed very soon. Now are we on for Saturday, or what?”
“Yes! A hundred per cent!”
“Good. See you at three pm then. Don’t be late.” The line goes dead.
Flustered, I put the receiver back in the cradle and run my fingers through my hair. I grin stupidly. Shit. I can’t fucking believe it. She actually found someone willing to pay half the price of a house to spend the night with me. Oh my gosh!
This is too good to be true.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jessica
At three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, I arrive outside 66 Troubadour Street carrying an overnight bag and some homemade peanut butter sandwiches to tide me over until this evening. Never expect a free lunch, Cynthia always says, so I’ve ensured I have enough to eat to quell my grumbling tummy. When I enter Jane’s office, I find her sitting behind her desk sifting through stacks of important looking documents. She flashes a half smile and gestures for me to be seated.
“Hello Jessica, how are you?”
“I’m good. A little nervous, perhaps.”
“Don’t be. Everything will be fine, I promise.”
“So, um…” I brush a stray hair out my face. “Are you able to tell me more about my date tonight?”
Jane peers at her watch. “Yes. In about an hour, a lady called Beatrix Kingswood will be coming to pick you up. You will then be chauffeur-driven to her son Alex’s 21stbirthday party. The plan is for you to spend the night in Claremont Hall, their fabulous home in Surrey. I haven’t personally been there, but I’ve seen pictures of it and the place looks amazing.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Wait, you say I’m being taken to her son’s birthday party?”
“Yes. For want of a better word,youare his birthday present. Oh, and you are under strict instructions from Mrs Kingswood not to let on to Alex that you are being paid to be there. Under no circumstances must her son know that your presence there is anything other than by chance. You must behave as naturally as you can and whatever happens between the two of you after dinner must appear to be genuine.”
For a moment, I’m struck dumb. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
On the one hand, I’m relieved my first sexual experience is going to be with someone closer to my own age. At twenty-one, Alex Kingswood is only a little older than me, so that is at least some consolation. However, I find it deeply disturbing that a mother would behave in this way towards her child. When I think of my own mother’s circle of friends, I can’t imagine a single one that would be happy to pay for their son to take a girl’s virginity as some sort of bizarre birthday gift. It just seems plain weird and more than a bit creepy. What sort of a parent is Mrs Kingswood? Who in their right mind would hire a prostitute for their son’s birthday? A complete weirdo, that’s who. Ah well, Amina always said the wealthy are not like the rest of us, and I think she’s right. In the words of Jim Morrison, (rich) people are strange.
“Who am I supposed to be then?” I ask.
“Come again?” Jane frowns.
“Well, you said you want me to behave naturally, Alex mustn’t know that I’m an escort. When I get to this party, who am I supposed to be exactly? I don’t exactly talk posh, do I?”
“Mrs Kingswood says you must pretend to be the daughter of her old friend Douglas. Don’t worry, she will give you all the details when you see her. But Jessica, there’s something else I need to discuss with you.” She pushes a contract towards me.
“What’s this?”
