‘And we met up again yesterday for brunch, and hung out together until he had to go to the airport.’
‘Excellent. You really like him, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I do – a lot.’
‘Are you seeing him again?’
‘He wants me to go to London, so I’m going to try to get over while Mum’s in the nursing home.’
‘It’s a pity he’s so far away.’
‘Yeah,’ Claire agreed. But in many ways it was a blessing. If she wanted things to progress with him – and she did – she was going to have to wise up fast. He would be expecting some serious skills and she had no moves whatsoever. She needed a far more advanced form of teaching than Yvonne could provide. She had been mulling it over all night and had finally come up with an idea as to how she could get it. But the very thought of it made her stomach churn with anxiety.
In the meantime, she was glad she had bought herself some time with the five-date rule so she could visit Mark in London without pressure. ‘How did your date go with Ivan?’ she asked Yvonne, to take her mind off her plan. There would be time enough to think about it tonight.
That evening, Claire sat at the kitchen table with her laptop and a glass of wine, scrolling through the escorts’ websites and trying very hard not to tear her hair out. This was proving a lot harder than she’d thought – and she hadn’t thought it would be easy when she’d come up withthe plan in the first place. The guys looked so scary in their pictures, all ripped and muscle-bound and striking ridiculous poses. And then there were the close-ups of their junk in tight underwear! She couldn’t see herself with any of them. But how else could she get some quick sexual experience with no strings attached? She just had to knuckle down and pick someone.
This one looked quite friendly, she thought, clicking on a photo of a skinny, fairly ordinary-looking boy. But as she read through his profile, she just felt sad. He was only nineteen – just a kid, for Christ’s sake! There was no way she could go with someone that young. Ruling out gay men and the under-twenties narrowed the field considerably, but didn’t make her task any easier. Reading their profiles was depressing. They were mostly foreigners and very young, and there was something heartbreakingly desperate about their constant availability, their willingness to service men, women or couples anytime, anywhere, their eagerness to fulfill the fantasies of random strangers.
Still, they wanted the work, she told herself. She would be just another job to them, and they would be doing it whether she hired them or not. What would Carlos from Brazil think, she wondered, if she wanted to pay him to teach her the art of the blowjob? He had probably had worse gigs. He had a sweet face and sounded kind. He guaranteed to give you the time of your life and make all your fantasies come true, and he seemed sensitive towards first-timers or those who were new to escorts. He said he could go at your pace and would take time to chat – though at a hundred euro for a half-hour, she didn’t think she’d have much time to waste on chat. In fact, she should make a detailed plan of how she wanted to use the time when she met up with Carlos.
‘Oh, who am I kidding?’ she saidaloud, closing the site. ‘I can’t do this.’ But how the hell else was she going to learn? This was one situation where books and Googling weren’t going to be enough. She needed some real-life, hands-on experience. She shouldn’t have passed up the opportunity to have sex with Luca that night, she thought. At least she’d have got back into the game.
And then she thought of what he’d said that night – ‘singing for my supper’. He’d been willing to sleep with her in return for a bed for the night. Maybe she could take him up on that, after all – not in exchange for a bed, but she could pay him. And later he’d said the only things he was good at were painting and shagging, but he hadn’t figured out how to make money from either. He needed money. She needed no-strings sex. Maybe they could help each other. It might be the perfect solution.
The next evening she raced home from work and spent ages getting ready to go over to Luca’s. It was difficult to know what note to strike. She’d never propositioned anyone before, and she wasn’t sure about the dress code. It felt like somewhere between a date and a job interview.
‘You’re overthinking this,’ she told herself, as she tossed another dress on the bed to join the growing pile. Half of her wardrobe was lying there now and she groaned in frustration. She finally opted for a pair of black trousers and a fitted white shirt. She had to get out of the house quickly before she lost her nerve.
She had no trouble remembering where Luca lived, but she wasn’t sure of the number of his flat. She knew he was at the top of the house, though, so she took a chance and pressed the bell for ten, the highest number. She held her breath as she waited for a reply, forcing herself to resist the urge to flee.
Chances are he’s not even home, she thought, the idea bringing instant relief. If he wasn’t in, she’d take it as a sign. But then there was a crackling from the speaker beside the bells.
‘Hello!’ she shouted. ‘Is that Luca?’
There was more crackling from the speaker and then it went dead. She stood waiting. Should she press the bell again? She didn’t even know for sure that it was Luca’s flat. But then she heard movement inside, the door opened and Luca stuck his head out. ‘Oh, hello!’ He looked surprised to see her.
‘Hi. Um… can I come in?’ Oh God, maybe he wasn’t alone. Maybe he’d run downstairs to get rid of whoever was at the door because he had a naked girl to get back to.
‘Sure.’ He stood back and waved her into the hall. ‘The buzzer doesn’t work,’ he said, as he led her to the stairs.
‘Oh. Sorry.’
He waved her ahead of him on the stairs and she felt self-conscious as they climbed, aware of his eyes on her back. She hoped he wasn’t checking out her bum. She shouldn’t have worn tight trousers.
He led her into the living room and she was struck once again by the poverty of the place. The air was thick with the heavy smell of oil paint and turpentine, and a large canvas stood on an easel by the window.
‘Were you working?’ she asked, noticing the streaks of blue and red on his hands and arms as he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting.’
‘No, it’s fine. Have a seat.’ He nodded to the couch and she threw herself onto it gratefully. ‘Do you want a drink or anything?’
‘No, thanks,’ she said, her voice sounding breathy and nervous.
He frowned down at her, his hands on his hips. ‘So – you wanted to see me?’
‘Yeah. I wanted to, um… talk to you about something.’
‘Okay. Shoot.’
