Adventures of a London Call Boy (21 page)

Chapter Forty-six

I followed her down the escalator and through the crowded departure lounge, admiring the sway of her walk and the shape of her legs. I couldn't see Celeste anywhere, but assumed she was old enough to find her way to a plane. We cut even the first class queue, and with a nod of the head and a wave of our documents, we were ushered on board. I dumped my stuff on a seat in first class and then followed her back down the stairs.

If you've ever worked on planes, you'll know where the crew spend the night. I hadn't, and I didn't, so was surprised to see her disappear through a little door by the stairs. Inside was a strange set of cubicles, each with a little bed in it. She locked the door behind her and nodded for me to join her.

‘Isn't this, you know, unprofessional?' I asked.

‘You're the one giving it for free,' she said.

We kissed, sitting on the little bed, and she unpinned her hat. I could hear passengers coming on board, and thought with glee that they wouldn't be the only ones. As she shook out her long, curly hair, I slowly unbuttoned her jacket and her blouse. We undressed each other awkwardly in the confined space, but enjoyed the closeness that the reduced dimensions imposed upon us.

Soon, she was in her underwear and I was naked. She pushed me down onto the bed and straddled me: half-naked, she looked even more French with her little lacy bra and knickers, hold-up stockings and thick high heels.

‘Fuck me in Spanish, Cesc,' she said, rubbing my cock against the silk of her crotch while she rubbed her hands over my chest.

‘Si insistís,' I replied, milking my accent for all it was worth.

‘Ah oui,' she replied, running both hands up the sides of my penis and then bending down to suck me. I lay back and enjoyed the feeling of her thick hair falling over my body and her pout held tight against my penis. After revelling in the pleasure of her expert oral sex for a while, I sat up and guided her away from me and down, slipping off the straps of her bra as we sat up together, and then lightly kissing the smooth skin of her cleavage and breasts. Her breasts tumbled out of the bra, and I kissed and sucked her nipples while working my hand down her stomach and towards her inner thigh.

Her lacy knickers slipped aside with ease, and I gently stroked her while continuing to pleasure her breasts. I guided her down and then slid her knickers down, kissing the smooth hair of her pussy and then slipping my tongue towards her sex. She arched her back with pleasure on the first touch of my tongue against her clit, so I held back, lightly flicking over her lips and then gently putting my tongue inside her.

‘You are a professional,' she whispered, before another stroke of my tongue sent her arching with pleasure once more.

As I tasted her pussy, I tried to work out a position for sex that would work in the confined space.

Eventually, just as she started the little tremors that would soon explode into the shudders of a climax, I decided that I needed to be inside her. I found a condom in my jeans, scrabbling about on the floor with my hand while keeping the other one firmly against her hips as I continued with cunnilingus. I sat back up, rolled the condom on and guided her towards my lap. The penetration was deep, tight and satisfying, and I propped the small of her back against my thighs so she could rock against my cock while I played with her breasts and gently strummed her clitoris towards her first orgasm. She came quietly but energetically, gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, and then biting hard into my shoulder at the heights of her pleasure. Then she fell back, and with my legs bent up against the end of the bed, I screwed her hard in the missionary position, her hands above her head in the little bed to stop us banging too hard.

Her second coming, harder and more violent, coincided with mine, and soon we were lying breathlessly entwined.

‘I think we should get back out there for take-off,' she said.

We separated, and she adjusted her stockings and found her underwear. She was even sexier after sex, with the smell of her orgasm still in the air and her hair falling untidily about her shoulders. I dressed quickly, and she opened the door for me. As I poked my head out, I heard the captain explaining about the delay, while passengers filed on around us. I was thinking to myself that it had been a brief, although highly enjoyable fuck, when I heard the end of his announcement.

‘… flight to Marseille.'

I turned to the stewardess, who was now impeccable in her uniform.

‘Marseille? I'm flying to Avignon. I'm on the wrong plane.'

She let out a broad laugh at the look of panic on my face.

‘Yes. You'd better run,' she said, still laughing at me.

I pushed past a couple of passengers, grabbed my bag and charged off the plane, much to the surprise of the steward and stewardess waiting by the passenger door as the last stragglers came on board.

‘Sorry,' I shouted as I went past. ‘Wrong plane.'

I hadn't been far off: Celeste was at the back of the queue on the next but one gate, with a face that looked like someone had tried to feed her horse dung.

‘Sorry dear,' I said breathlessly. ‘I got on the wrong plane.'

Celeste looked at me, and then moved closer.

‘I don't even want to know. You stink of sex.'

She refused to talk to me throughout the flight, and only began to thaw once we'd arrived in France. We made our change at Orly, while I teased her about being jealous, but she ignored me and even when we were on the second flight she continued reading in-flight magazines and bugging the crew for more drinks.

‘I'm driving then, I guess,' I said to her after she sank her third vodka tonic of the short trip.

We breezed through the airport on the other side – unlike Gatwick, Avignon did not give the impression of having been struck by a meteorite – and picked up our hire car. The vehicle looked huge, a vast German 4x4, or at least it did until Celeste filled every available space with her bags, cases and duty free. I slung my stuff in the back, adjusted my shades and headed out on to the motorway.

Soon we were off the main road and winding our way along narrow, high-hedged country lanes towards V.'s villa. I'd expected something rustic and charming, but when we arrived at the gates of a modern country club I assumed that my half-drunk co-pilot had misread the map. But Celeste hadn't got us lost: V.'s villa was part of a brand-new complex, a series of luxury villas, each dotted on a secluded spot around the end of a freshly landscaped park.

We were buzzed through the gates and along a curving driveway. We passed a couple of properties, and eventually came to the entrance to V.'s place. High trees guarded the villa from prying eyes, and we climbed up a narrow approach road. After a final curve, it opened out on to a gravel car park, where I left the 4x4 between a Bentley and an expensive-looking black Citroën.

The villa was newly built but in the old style: white walls, tiled roof, looking down on to a long front lawn that ran round a crystal blue swimming pool and newly laid terrace. As I stepped out of the car, a white-suited man came out to greet us and, with the help of a smaller colleague, took our luggage.

Celeste, immediately in her element, waltzed off to get settled into her room, while I wandered round the front of the wide, low building to see if anyone was around. It was mid-morning, and the ground was scorching hot.

I found V., wearing a sarong, white bikini top and extremely wide-brimmed hat, standing by the pool, discussing cocktails with a woman I was fairly sure I recognised from television.

‘Dr Aleixandre, so good of you to make it,' she said, effusively. ‘Let me introduce you to a friend …'

Chapter Forty-seven

I found Celeste in her room some time later.

V. had given us adjoining rooms towards the far corner of the villa; in reality, it was a suite with a double door, but my room had been given a bed. Despite the modernity of the construction, the style was traditional French, with concessions to the hot weather, including air conditioning to help the blinds and high windows. We had a view down into the valley on the other side of the complex, where it looked like a golf course was going to be built. A shame, I thought.

Celeste had decided to recover from the flight by trying out everything in the room, and wasted no time testing out the whirlpool bath. I thought it was a tacky feature, but judging from the delighted giggles coming from our bathroom, Celeste was in a childish heaven of her own. It was the most enthusiastic I think I'd ever seen her.

In total, there were nine or ten bedrooms, and V. had invited a handful of friends and business associates, as well as a couple of journalists. A few were there for a whole week, while some were flying in and out. I wasn't entirely sure what the deal was, but I noticed that in my room, masquerading as ornaments, were a few of her more tasteful and decorative toys. There was also a drawer under Celeste's bed with V.'s ever-so-discreet catalogue and a few of the less obviously presentable products. You don't want to scare any elderly relatives, after all.

Apart from V. and Celeste, I knew no one else there. After we'd both freshened up, and I'd made Celeste dry up some of the terrible mess she'd made on the bathroom floor, we dressed and headed back out and up on to the veranda overlooking the pool and terrace. V. was there, drinking champagne in the warm early evening, while her friend Frances, a writer, was telling her about her latest work, a book on clandestine sexual cultures in London. V. cast me a knowing look while Celeste helped herself to a drink and began telling a slightly risqué story about a former semi-boyfriend of hers who she'd discovered like to dress up as a baby. I could see Frances taking mental shorthand, and I made a note to myself to look out for this story in her future work.

As the evening arrived, so did more guests, either from their rooms or from their flights: a shy couple in their early thirties who owned an underwear emporium; a fey American designer who worked for V. and was wearing the most ridiculous safari outfit I'd ever seen; and a couple of V.'s friends, similarly well-spoken ladies in their forties who took a fascination in my work as an expert in sexual therapy. I laid on the accent as best I could, while Celeste got drunker and increasingly flirtatious with both members of the underwear-selling couple.

Two more guests, a rather pickled fifty-something novelist from Paris who'd written a best-selling book about the underworld of pimps and hookers in the French capital, and his wife, a stunning young model of Senegalese descent, arrived for dinner. I discovered that Celeste spoke French, particularly after she'd had a few drinks, and left her chatting with the model and Yuri, her writer husband, while I tried to get some idea of the form from V.

‘It's simple, Cesc,' she whispered to me conspiratorially over a glass of red wine that could have doubled as a bucket. ‘I just want a few people who've been good to me to enjoy themselves. As much as possible.'

‘And all the toys? Are those just for show?'

‘Cesc. Don't be silly,' she replied. ‘Now, do keep Frances company while I entertain Carson,' she added, leaving me to join the American designer, who was struggling to keep up conversation with the underwear people.

‘So,' said Frances, ‘you've really got a PhD in sex.'

‘It's not quite that simple,' I said.

‘And the girl? Is she your …'

‘Research assistant,' I said. ‘Yes.'

I studied my dinner partner. She was my age and ever so English: pale, smartly dressed, with mousy blonde hair cut into a sensible fringe. I tried to square the image I saw with an earlier book of hers that I'd read, generally involving mass orgies in seedy South London clubs.

I considered that changing the subject was a good idea if I was to keep up my disguise, and asked her about her work. She was eager to oblige, and explained to me how she'd broken into journalism, all the crap jobs she'd had, then become a writer, etc., etc. I smiled, and let my mind wander.

We were interrupted by the arrival of dessert, another sumptuous and, I noticed, extremely sticky dish. We'd had early oysters, and asparagus with our beef, and now something chocolatey that would be best spread and licked off, all served with highly drinkable but very alcoholic wines.

‘Do you notice,' I said to Frances, ‘that we're being fed up for sex?'

‘You really are the professional,' she replied.

I nodded. She didn't know quite how right she was.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened that night: Celeste was positively legless by the time we retired to the lounge, so I helped her to bed as she made giggling, drunken apologies to all. At about two in the morning, the sound of energetic fucking filtered through the door of my room. Having ascertained that it wasn't Celeste frotting herself, I pulled on some shorts and went out to investigate, wondering if there might be some fun to be had. Along the corridor I identified the guilty room: grunts and squeals in French were emerging from behind the double door, and I soon identified the culprits as the novelist and his beautiful companion. I tried to banish the image from my head, and headed back to my room.

The next morning, similar noises could be heard coming from the room belonging to the young underwear millionaires, who'd clearly decided to start the second day of their holiday with a bang. They'd seemed nice enough during our brief exchanges: Jake and Jenny. He'd been in finance, and she'd worked in sales, until they'd decided to set up a little boutique in West London selling high-end lingerie. The business had taken off, and they proudly and only half-jokingly referred to themselves as knicker-millionaires.

The day passed idly by: I sunbathed while Celeste hid her hangover behind her shades before spending the afternoon prancing around in a string bikini so tiny it would have been expelled from Brazil. I noticed the Parisian novelist taking a shine to her, while I chatted to his young wife, who looked stunning in a miniscule emerald green all-in-one outfit. I challenged her to a swimming race, but she refused with a broad smile, so I dived into the clear waters and paddled fairly aimlessly before joining the others for lunch indoors.

After lunch I got talking to V.'s friends back out on the terrace, both of whom I fancied as possible clients, and then by the afternoon we started another round of cocktails in the sun. V. and her designer spent much of the day talking business with a sketch pad and a few examples of her wares on a glass table in the shade of a corner close to the house. As the heat rose, I made my excuses and headed inside for a siesta.

In the cool of the house, I bumped into Frances. She'd set up in one of the little alcoves off the big dining room and was tapping away at her laptop.

‘Working holiday, eh?' I asked, surprising her.

She started and gave a turn.

‘Sorry, 'fraid so, got a deadline to make.'

‘What are you writing about?'

‘Differences between the French and the British.'

I caught sight of the novelist and the model ducking between the pillars towards their room, while Jake and Jenny emerged from what looked like an energetic afternoon siesta.

‘I don't think they're that great, you know,' I said, with a smile.

‘Perhaps. But that doesn't make for a great chapter. Listen, later, I'd like to ask you about your work. Would you be interested in giving an interview? I can pay.'

‘I don't think so. My work is much more academic,' I answered, giving her a bow of the head as I headed off to the room.

I slept soundly in the chill of my room, with the hum of the air conditioning lulling me to sleep. Hours must have passed, as my next memory was of being hit with a pillow.

‘Cesc, wake up you lazy sod. Dinner's in half an hour.'

It was Celeste, tipsy, flirtatious and looking rather sexy in her bikini and sun hat.

‘I'll get dressed,' I said, as she headed off to her room to chuck clothes around.

V. had warned me that the Friday dinner would be a more formal affair, so after a shower I slung on a shirt and a jacket. As I joined the others, I noticed that formal meant all things to all people: the novelist had trimmed his beard into an elegant shape and was sporting what can only be called a smoking jacket. His wife wore a floor-length gown. V.'s friends had chosen cocktail dresses, and Frances was in a little black dress. Celeste eventually emerged straight from the 1980s in a puffball skirt with her hair backcombed six inches above her head. I was impressed. Last to emerge were the underwear millionaires, he in a casual suit, she a floaty summer dress that suited her otherwise nondescript, boyish shape.

Over dinner, two lines of conversation kept returning: Jake insisted that he'd met Celeste, or recognised her from somewhere, and Frances talked about her writing, and how much she'd like to incorporate this into her book somehow. The novelist joked that he had already stolen it for his next work.

‘What is it that you find so interesting about the situation?' asked V.

He looked at her. ‘The dispositive is so flexible. We could have a murder. We could have an orgy. Or we could have a great confession.'

Meanwhile, at the other end of the table, Jake and Jenny were running through with Celeste all the possible degrees of separation: whether she'd made a purchase with them, or done modelling for them, whether she had any model friends. I could see Celeste getting more and more tipsy and exasperated, and I thought about rescuing her. Meanwhile, I tried to flirt with the Senegalese model – Dieudonnée was her marvellous name – but she was well practised in fending off such attractions, and besides, I was sitting between her and Frances, who was keenly trying to find out as much about my work as possible.

I put off giving anything away as best as I could. But it was a tricky task, made more so by the combination of the heavy wine, the heady scent of perfume in the air, and V.'s clever hosting. After dinner, seductive music began to play from an invisible source, and she led us upstairs and encouraged us to dance, leading Yuri the novelist to the floor for some slightly comedic turns. I found myself swaying on the veranda with Frances, who was a subtle but skilled mover. I felt her hands toying with the hair at my nape, and her breath against my neck, and I struggled to stop an erection. Meanwhile, Celeste had replaced V. and was being half-climbed up by Yuri, while continuing a strange conversation with Jake and Jenny.

It took a break in the music for the penny to drop. We had sat back on the armchairs along the veranda. Frances was on my knee, only half jokingly, while Yuri, Celeste and the couple formed a tight group next to us. Dieudonnée and the designer were in a corner, talking about art, while V. and her friends flitted between groups. Suddenly, Jake slapped a palm to his forehead.

‘It's your voice!' he said to Celeste. ‘I recognise your voice.'

I saw Celeste's look of surprise.

She looked at me.

Jake continued. ‘You do voice-overs, right?'

‘Not quite,' said Celeste, with a sheepish grin.

Suddenly, a series of pieces fell into place: the sex noises coming from Celeste's room when she was on her own. The lengthy spells holed up in her room with the phone. The phone bill that we'd actually made a profit on, and that Celeste had taken away from me as soon as I'd opened it. Her mystery source of private income.

I looked at her. I knew I shouldn't break her secret. But I couldn't resist.

‘And you have a go at me!' I said.

‘What?' she replied, accusingly. Around us, our fellow guests were looking bewildered.

‘Cesc, she's not the only one with a secret,' said V., smiling cheekily.

‘I have a confession,' said Celeste, pushing her shades further up into her hair.

‘Oh I love confessions,' announced Jenny. Jake turned to me with a broad smile, while I could see Frances trying to memorise the details.

‘I'm not a researcher. In fact, neither is he,' she added.

‘Thanks, Celeste, I'm glad you can keep a secret.'

‘The reason why you recognise my voice is that you've probably rung me.'

Jenny gave Jake a quizzical look, while realisation crossed his face.

‘Shit,' he said. ‘I knew I'd heard that name before.'

‘I do sex chat.'

Yuri looked slightly confused. ‘Sex chat?' he said.

‘Phone lines,' I clarified. ‘Celeste does rude phone lines.'

I was amazed to discover that Celeste had such an interesting little sideline. I'd always suspected that her mysterious income was either a trust fund, or her doing the same thing I do with a certain sort of wealthy, older gentleman. In fact, it was something rather more mundane, but on the other hand, just spicy enough for her to be embarrassed at us all finding out.

For a while I'd just thought that she was masturbating a lot.

‘Celeste, I don't understand. You just sound bored. Is that how you market yourself: slightly uninterested sex chat?'

‘Cesc, you're not funny. Now, everyone, do you want to know the other secret here?' Celeste continued. Jake clapped his hands while Frances beamed at me.

‘OK, OK,' I interrupted. ‘It's very simple. I'm not, well, I'm not exactly who V. has told you I am.' I half expected to be interrupted by an irate hostess, but she and her friends were standing up, hanging on every word of the exchange.

‘I'm not an academic. And I don't specialise in sex therapy. Well, not exactly.'

‘So what do you do, then?' asked one of V.'s friends.

‘I'm a call guy.' The expression was met with general incomprehension. ‘I fuck women for money.'