Page 27 of Obedience

‘When?’

Dylan closed her eyes and blew out a long breath.

Dylan:

‘Tomorrow? Name the time and place and I will be there. Not my house.’

Greta:

‘Let me sleep on it. Good night, Dylan.’

Dylan:

‘Ok. Good night x’

The phone slipped from Dylan’s fingers, landing heavy on her thigh as a small smile tugged at her lips. Greta had to agree; surely cruelty had its limits. She wouldn’t offer scraps of promise only to snatch them away again, would she? This had to mean something. Turning onto her side to face the iPad, Dylan drew her knees to her chest and hugged them tight. Fresh tears began to track a path over her cheeks. She didn’t know where the tears were coming from, or why they were coming, but they flowed, an emotional release that didn't stop until exhaustion finally pulled her under.

Chapter nine

Whiplash

‘Your clients are somewhat displeased with your performance, Dylan,’ Isla said down the phone. Isla Greco, manager of the Manchester branch of the Scortare escort agency, was the epitome of precision: severe bob, severe bangs, severe Botox. ‘You are a direct reflection of this agency’s standards and we expect more from you.’ The eyeroll the sentence induced from Dylan was so loud it could have been heard in Stockport. ‘You are declining your regular clients. A client of two years has suddenly stopped booking, and your woefully insufficient interaction has resulted in a complaint.’

Sitting on her bed, Dylan’s fingers picked at the tiny cotton bobbles on her duvet cover.

‘Jesus. Who’s complained?’ she asked, irritation flaring despite the fact that she knew it was probably deserved. The woefully insufficient part was hard to argue with.

‘That doesn’t matter, Dylan. You need to do better.’

The words scraped over Dylan’s nerve endings like nails down a chalkboard. Dragging in a chestful of air, she pressed her fingers into her forehead, allowing a beat of silence to pass. ‘Isla, I quit,’ she blurted. The small sentence had arrived before she could fully process it, but her relief was immediate.

‘What? You can’t just—’

‘I can and I am. Tell whoever complained to buy their husbands Clits and G-Spots for Dummies. They could probably do with a bit of bedtime reading and it’s an absolute bargain compared to what you charge an hour.’

Before Isla could manage one of her well known acerbic retorts, Dylan ended the call. The phone slipped from her trembling hands, landing on the bed between her crossed legs. Her stomach roiled at the impulsive decision. It was over. She hadn’t known quitting would be the outcome of the call, but escorting was no longer an option. Everything had irrevocably changed.

They had some savings, enough to manage for a while. A normal job would have to suffice and, if necessary, they could sell the house. Moving away from Chorlton into the outskirts of Manchester would mean getting more for their money. Even her Master’s could be paused, meaning she could reduce the nursing hours she subsidised. It would be tough again, but she could find a balance. As Priya had said, there were always options. It would be okay. They would be okay.

They’d have to be.

It was the day after her text exchange with Greta, and the ball had been firmly left in Greta’s court. Dylan had opened their message thread several times, read the old messages, only to close it again, deciding that any pressure would surely backfire. The phone bounced between her hands restlessly until she dropped it onto the bed, just as it began to ring.

‘Fuck,’ she said sharply, fumbling to grab it. The screen lit up with Greta’s name. She bit her thumbnail. ‘Be cool. Be cool. For once in your fucking life, St John, be cool,’ she quietly coached herself before sliding her thumb across the glass. ‘Hello?’ Dylan said in a tone that implied the caller was a mystery. Too aloof.

‘Dylan?’

‘Hey,’ her tone warmed.

‘I think you’re right,’ Greta said bluntly.

‘Abooout?’ Dylan stretched the syllables for too long. Too aloof, again.

‘We should talk.’

Dylan over-compensated for her nonchalance. ‘I would love that.’ She coughed to clear her throat and brought her voice back down an octave. ‘I would like that. A lot. Yeah. We should probably do that.’ The fuck, Dylan? She rubbed her brow with her fingers and thumb, while wincing. ‘Are you free today? It’s Saturday.’

Possibly the most redundant statement she’d ever made, but it made Greta chuckle lightly, warming Dylan’s cheeks.