“Alrighty, then.” I click onaccept.
Josh grabs a plastic bag and some gloves and heads off out and I open up a Word doc and start with my script – starting with my shitty work at the store.
I never figured I was much of a creative until the ideas start flowing and the scenes start springing up into my mind. The hours disappear as I type, coming up with page after page of notes and potential plot lines. He wants me to be authentic, so I’m going to be authentic, and it won’t get any more authentic than this.
In the performance, I’m going to be me, Ella, struggling for enough money to live on. A shell of a girl, fighting her way through mindless days. Then, along comes The Agency, and Ella begins her journey. Through the boredom of going missionary with a guy looking to get his rocks off for a few hundred quid, tothe flagellation and the tit bondage required by some of my more hardcore clients.
I want to get that standing ovation and come back for the encore. It’s a personal mission that gives me a rush of ambition.
I’m wondering where the hell Josh has got to when he walks through the door with a big grin on his face, hiding something behind his back.
“Local nettles were shot to shit,” he says. “They were soggy as fuck and most had turned brown. I managed to pick a few that were still green but they looked shit. So I asked Google again. And I got a good hit – a farm shop with nettle soup on their menu. It was an hour’s drive but so worth it.”
“Go on,” I tell him, my heart and pussy already thrumming at the thought of taking nettles again.
“After a chat with the farm shop’s manager, a delightful lady called Jessica, she showed me their greenhouse where they grow nettles all year round.” He produces his plastic bag from behind his bag that’s bulging full. “She filled my bag for free.”
“I bet she did,” I say. “Did you fill her bag, too?”
He laughs. “No, but I did try the nettle soup, which was delicious. And I left a generous tip for their upcoming Christmas grotto charity event for kids.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Sure is. How’s your script going?”
“Really good. The client wants me to be an authentic actress, and I’ll be one. I bet he already knows who the main character is, because she’s me, Ella. And you can’t tell me that a man like him isn’t going to have sought me out for a reason. He’ll have been hunting me down like Vinnie.”
“With a venue that size, he must have been. Those kind of places don’t come cheap.”
“Or easy.”
Josh helps me as I run through my ideas, telling him all about the scenes I’m planning. He adds some suggestions, and we list out some of the activities, and pile up a collection of props I’m going to need.
It’s exciting. Soul baring. Deep and meaningful and surprisingly emotional to be baring my life story to a stranger under the bright lights of the West End.
It feels utterly bizarre when I dig out my old supermarket uniform from the bottom of a bag of old clothes, taking me right back in time. I make sure it’s washed and ironed. Pristine like it would have been when I was wearing it for real.
I remember the way I was treated, like I was worth nothing. Working my ass off stacking shelves and taking the brunt of a whole load of unfair criticism on minimum wage. Then I go through my other outfits. Latex, and posh eveningwear. A college girl outfit, and a bodice and suspenders, and a satin slip for some nightwear.
For the next few days, I practice my lines – my exaggerated performance – with Josh’s help.
And then the day is upon us.
“You’ve totally got this, baby,” Josh says as I pack my toys.
Big vibrators. Beads, clamps, canes and whips. A fist shaped dildo and the bag full of stinging nettles, along with a big pot of cooling after-care cream.
We set off at 1.30 in the morning, guessing it might take a while to find a parking spot. But we needn’t have worried. We’re almost there when a message pings through.
Our private parking spaces are down the side of the theatre. You may park there. A guard will be waiting for you.
“Excellent,” Josh says. “He’s thought of everything.”
Sure enough, there’s a big beefy guy dressed in black waiting for us, guiding us into one of the five parking spots. There’s onecar parked there – a silver Merc. I guess that’s the producer’s car.
We park up and grab my cases from the boot.
Arrived, I click on the app.
