The Make (19 page)
Authors: Jessie Keane
Harry was surprised when Emma phoned him on his mobile.
‘Where’d you get this number?’ he asked, delighted but wary, thinking that he was going to get another ear-bashing off this adorable creature. He didn’t want to fight with her, he just wanted to hug her and look at her and keep her close to him, that was all.
‘My mother, of course. Should escorts hand out their personal numbers to clients like that?’
‘Your mother’s not a client, she’s a friend.’
‘She started out as a client,’ said Emma.
‘I know. But only because she was lonely and unhappy, and missed your dad.’
There was a brief silence while she digested this. Then she said: ‘I want to meet up with you. Is that okay? Do I have to pay for your time?’
Harry took a breath, stifling an angry reply. After all, how would
he
feel if
his
mother had hired an escort? Bad enough the procession of no-hoper boyfriends Suze had shuffled through the house over the years since Dad left. But hiring in a pro? He wouldn’t be pleased at all. He could see where Emma was coming from.
‘No, you don’t have to pay for my time. I’ll meet you. Where’s good?’
They met up at Jackie’s Notting Hill house.
Harry looked around when Emma let him in the door, wondering if Jackie was here too.
‘Mum’s out on business,’ said Emma.
‘Right.’ Harry unravelled his scarf and unbuttoned his jacket and looked at her.
Jesus, she was so lovely. And so far out of his league. Her dark hair was curling softly on to her shoulders. She was wearing a primrose-yellow pullover with a woven tan belt and a denim skirt over long tan boots. Her movements were quick, jerkier than Jackie’s. Her hands were delicate, pale-veined and well cared for. Her eyes when they met his were the same tremulous, heartbreaking blue as her mother’s.
She led the way into the drawing room where the fire was burning brightly. They sat down, her on one couch, him on the other. Opposites in every way. Him from the rough end of the tracks; her from the posh end. They looked at each other and it was like staring across a huge gulf.
‘I was surprised to get your call,’ said Harry. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me. I thought you were
disgusted
by the very idea of me.’
Emma’s mouth twisted. ‘She’s my mother. How would you feel . . .?’
‘Yeah. I know.’
Emma was silent, staring at him.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I just wonder what drives a person to do that. Sell their bodies for money, I mean.’
Harry shrugged. ‘You just said it. The money.’
‘I think that’s terrible.’
‘I know.’
‘How much?’
‘What?’
‘How much do you charge? Like, per date? Or per hour? Mum wouldn’t say.’
‘Oh.’ Harry felt horribly uncomfortable with this line of questioning. ‘A hundred pounds. Plus—’
‘What? Extras?’ Emma made a grimace of disapproval. ‘If they want them, yes.’
Emma stared at him, her mouth working. ‘You know, my mother appears to be very fond of you. She obviously sees you as a friend, not as a—’
‘What?’ Now Harry felt a twinge of annoyance with her. ‘A male whore?’
‘Your words, not mine.’
‘Hey, you got something to say, just say it.’
Emma shrugged and dragged a hand over her face. She eyed him beadily.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Just
swear
to me,’ she said through clenched teeth, ‘that you never had sex with my mother.’
‘I swear to you,’ said Harry, hating the lie but knowing he had to tell it. ‘I never had sex with your mother. She’s a lovely lady. We’re friends. That’s it.’
‘Oh, thank God for that,’ groaned Emma, and stood up.
What the hell now?
wondered Harry. She certainly was a mercurial girl. He liked that. She came over to where he was sitting and stood there in front of him, reached into her skirt pocket, pulled out a wad of money and counted out ten £10 notes. She threw them down on to the couch beside him. Harry looked at it, bemused.
‘I want to book your services,’ she said, and then she sat down on his lap, and kissed him.
It was hopeless to try to say that he didn’t want it to be like this, that he adored her, that this escorting crap wasn’t him, the
real
him, it was just some mad idea of George’s that had blossomed and expanded until it had overtaken them completely. He was sorry he’d agreed to it now, even if it did pay. It seemed to be intruding on life in ways that he didn’t like.
‘Em . . . stop,’ he managed, but he was thinking
oh shut up you fool, ain’t this what you wanted from the first moment you laid eyes on her?
But he didn’t want her thinking of him this way. As a chancer, as a little crook on the make. He didn’t want her to think he’d take her money and lay on the charm because he’d been paid to do it. He wanted to do this as an equal. But he wasn’t her equal. He knew he wasn’t, and would never be. So . . . he gave in, gave himself up to the sheer pleasure of having her close.
‘What do you mean, stop?’ she asked, nibbling at his throat, sending shivers down his spine. Christ, she was lovely. ‘I’ve
paid
for this.’
Harry was trying to push her away while she was – yes, she really was – trying to get his hands on to her breasts.
‘It’s upstairs outside only on a first date,’ he joked lamely.
Her eyes stared into his. ‘This isn’t a
date
, Harry Doyle,’ she said softly. ‘This is me paying you, and you putting out.’
Harry stared right back at her.
Never look a gift horse in the mouth
, George would say.
Emma wanted him. And by God he certainly wanted her.
Her eyes were darkened, smoky with desire. ‘All right, Harry,’ she said softly. ‘Anything. Anything you want. Because you know what, Harry Doyle? You’re the most exquisite-looking man I’ve ever met.’
‘Thanks,’ said Harry, still trying to push her off his lap. This wasn’t right. No
way
was this right. ‘Em . . .’
‘No one’s ever called me Em before,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
‘No, I like it.’
‘Em . . .’
‘Shut up, Harry.’
They lay in her bed an hour later, arms and legs wrapped around each other, sated.
‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ said Harry sleepily.
He was having to do rapid re-evaluations about Em. She might
look
like Jackie, but she was totally different from her mother, that much was clear. Em was impulsive; Jackie was not. Emma was deliciously sexual; Jackie was a nice middle-class lady who would never succumb unless she was desperate or deranged, as she had been on that night . . . but no. He mustn’t think about that. He and Jackie had
never
slept together. That was the deal. That was the way it had to stay.
‘I can’t believe I did it either,’ said Em, snuggling in against him with a sigh and a smile. ‘Wicked, right?’
‘Wicked in every way,’ agreed Harry.
‘Your skin’s so pale. Like ivory,’ she murmured, smoothing a hand over his smoothly sculpted chest.
‘Yours is tanned,’ said Harry, turning over so that he could stare down at her. ‘All over.’
He couldn’t see enough of her. Her breasts were gorgeous, small and pert. Her waist was tiny. Her hips were very slight. The V between her legs was dusted with a pale cloud of blonde hair. He felt powerful beside her, masculine in a way he had never quite felt before.
‘Rooftop sunbathing,’ she yawned.
‘In Hong Kong.’
‘Mm.’
‘So exotic.’
‘It’s the most beautiful city on earth. There are all these elevated walkways, and at night it’s just magical, all lit up, and there are mountains, little islands, lovely beaches . . . it’s great.’
This girl is in love with a city on the other side of the world
, thought Harry.
Fuck it.
‘Em,’ he said.
‘Hm?’
‘Will you marry me?’
Emma gave a hoot of laughter. ‘Don’t be silly, Harry,’ she laughed, and hugged him.
George was having all sorts of trouble. He didn’t know whether he was punched or bored. When he opened the door and there was a girl standing there with a big bunch of roses for him, he took the damned things in a daze.
Someone was sending
him
roses?
‘Aren’t they gorgeous?’ asked the girl, and George agreed that they were, although what the fuck did he know about flowers except that they grew in dirt?
He closed the door and stood in the hallway reading the card. It said:
All my love, George. Sandy.
George sighed deeply. Oh terrific. He’d already had words with Sandy Cole about this sort of thing. Granted, she’d started out as a fantastic client. Before and after her birthday night out, she’d hired him regularly, a couple of times a week. He suspected she was nearly bankrupting herself to do it. And then the gifts had started. First, expensive cologne. And now roses. Who the hell sent a
man
roses?
He’d talked to her after the cologne incident. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings, and of
course
he hadn’t wanted to offend a client, but she had to be told. This was business. She was a lovely girl, and he enjoyed their times together, but it was
strictly
a professional thing, and the gifts were . . . well, a bit inappropriate, couldn’t she see that?
Sandy had seemed to be mortified. She’d said yes, she completely understood, she’d overstepped the boundaries and she promised she wouldn’t do that any more.
And now – the roses.
She hadn’t taken any notice of what he’d said.
None at all.
‘They’re nice,’ said Alfie, coming out from the lounge to find George standing there holding the cellophane-wrapped bunch of red roses.
‘Well I don’t want the fucking things,’ said George, and walked through to the kitchen and threw them straight in the bin.
‘You can’t do that,’ said Alfie, retrieving them.
George glared at him. ‘Yes I can, Alf. I just did. Okay?’
And George went off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.
Jesus, now he had his very own stalker. And now he’d yelled at Alfie. He shouldn’t have done that. But he felt so damned
awkward
around Alfie now, ever since that . . . well, he couldn’t bear to think about it, but when he did,
if
he did, he thought of it as that
incident.
All right, so Alfie was obviously gay. So what? They couldn’t shoot you for it. The fact that Alfie had come on to him was another issue entirely, and it kept nudging at his brain, even though he tried to block it out. He was straight. He had
always
been straight. Hadn’t he?
Hey George, are you absolutely sure about that?
kept flitting around the edges of his mind, like Muhammad Ali dancing like quicksilver around a sluggish opponent before delivering the knock-out punch.
I’m straight
, he told himself, over and over.
But there had been incidents, hadn’t there? All the friends he’d had who’d been girls. Friends, yes – but not girlfriends in the proper sense of the word. There had been the occasional bit of necking and fumbling with one or two of them; it seemed almost obligatory because all his male mates were at that stage. And certainly as he grew into adulthood he had always been able to get it up for women when that was required. But how much had he actually wanted that? Had he been doing it because it was sort of expected?
And once, at secondary school, there had been Jeff. A bit girly, keen on art and fashion, and he and George had been great friends,
close
friends, until some of the other boys had started saying that Jeff was arse, and someone had actually said, laughing, joking, was
George
arse too, because he seemed to like hanging around with Jeff so much?
George had felt a spasm of horror at that. He had decried that theory, loudly.
‘Who you calling bent, you
cunt
?’ he’d roared, and he’d given the boy who’d said it the pasting of his life.
After that he had avoided Jeff. Mud would stick, and he couldn’t have that. He had a reputation as a hard nut to protect. He was
straight.
And so he ignored the hurt in Jeff’s eyes, and went off with the other boys, the really macho ones like himself, and laughed in his turn at gay boys like Jeff, even though – deep down – he felt like shit about it.
Now, he did a bit on the computer, answering emails and taking a few more bookings – and there was Sandy again popping into his inbox. He was going to have another word, this was getting tedious – couldn’t the silly cow take a hint? He shut down after about an hour and went out into the lounge.
Alfie had placed the roses, neatly trimmed and arranged, in a vase of water, and stood it on the table. Alfie himself was slumped on the closed-up sofa bed opening a letter. He looked up at George, his eyes wary and hurt. George remembered that look, that same look, in Jeff’s eyes. He’d wimped out then, left Jeff to the wolves. The poor little git had suffered several beatings after George abandoned him to the rougher elements at school. George had tried to ignore all that, but at bottom he had felt bad about it, really bad: ashamed.
‘Post’s been.’ Alfie waved the open letter he held at George and risked a small, tentative smile. ‘Look, George. I got the job.’
Hadn’t the poor little sod been through enough, without him coming over all moody on him? George forced a smile in return. Poor cunt couldn’t
help
being a shirt-lifter, could he? He was still Alfie, still a friend, still a great laugh.
‘Well, done Alf,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get down the caff and celebrate.’
Sandy turned off the computer the minute she was aware of Noel standing behind her in the doorway of their little ‘office’. Some bloody office – it was a box room really, eight feet by five.
‘Who you talking to on that?’ he asked, puffing on a spliff.
Sandy half turned in her chair, keeping her face blank and her voice casual, even though he’d given her a bit of a scare, creeping about the place like that. ‘Just some mates,’ she said, her nose wrinkling as a warm waft of Noel’s unwashed socks and sickly sweet skunk drifted over her. Damn, how could he have come up the stairs so quietly? He’d obviously
crept
up them, determined to catch her out.
She was resenting him more and more. Couldn’t he see that if he kept
spying
on her like he did, then she was more likely to cheat? And anyway, she hadn’t cheated at all, not really. Not
technically.
She hadn’t slept with gorgeous George; they’d just dated. Sandy lived for her dates with George. All right, she paid him, but she knew he just took her cash because he was hard up and needed it. She knew he was in love with her, just as she was in love with him, and one day they were going to be together properly, live in the country maybe, keep chickens and grow veggies – it would be so wonderful.
Only for the moment she was here, with Noel.
Suddenly he spun her chair around and crouched over her, holding on to the armrests, breathing skunk and suspicion all over her from inches away. She could see all the black-heads over his nose, could smell his foul breath – and Jesus, couldn’t he ever take a bath?
‘You been talking to men on that?’ asked Noel, his ciggie still between his lips, one eye squinting and watering as smoke drifted up from the spliff.
‘Nah,’ said Sandy with a half-laugh. ‘You want to stop smoking that stuff, Noel. It’s making you paranoid.’
‘I ain’t paranoid. I know you’re talking to other men on that fucking thing.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Don’t call me daft!’ yelled Noel.
Sandy literally jumped in her seat, startled by the loudness of his tone. Her heart started beating very hard, and she felt her stomach coil into tight, sick-making knots. He never used the computer, never showed any interest in it. She knew whatever secrets it contained of hers were safe.
She stared at him, and wondered how on earth she had ever found him attractive. He was crass and ugly. She hated him. She wanted out. And one day, she’d get that. All she needed was to talk to George, make sure of their plans, then she would be
out
of here.
‘You’re a crafty, cheating little mare,’ snapped Noel, and he slapped her, hard.
Sandy was knocked sideways, but his arm and the arm of the chair stopped her from falling to the floor. She cried out in pain and surprise and raised a hand to her face. He’d never really hit her before, although he’d raged and shouted and sometimes he’d pushed her, more times than she could count. She was used to all that. But
this . . .
He drew back his hand and slapped her again, and again.
Her cheeks stung. She could taste blood in her mouth; she’d bitten her tongue. Tears of pain and panic sprang from her eyes.
‘I’m not cheating, Noel,’ she managed to sob out. ‘I
swear.
’
‘No? How do I know what you get up to in that bloody office of yours? You could be having it away over the desk in your lunch hour for all I know.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Yeah you would, given half a chance. You keep saying your boss is an ugly little bugger, but how do I know that’s true?’
It
was
true. Her boss looked about ninety: what the hell would she want to screw him for? Noel was getting worse and worse with all this shit he smoked. He was already paranoid. Soon he’d be hearing voices. She wanted to get out of here, get away with George, before it got to that stage, so she was glad she’d made another date with him just now. George would be her salvation.
‘You cheat on me, you cunt, and I’ll kill you,’ roared Noel.
Sandy said nothing. It seemed safest. Nothing got through to him, anyway. She just nodded her head, which was starting to hurt with tension. She listened to him going back down the stairs, and swivelled her chair back towards the computer.
She wiped at her eyes. Her face was a hot, painful mass. She looked longingly at the blank screen. She wanted to go back online, talk to George, tell him what was happening, be reassured he loved her as much as she loved him. She knew he did, deep down, although he never said so. But she didn’t dare, not tonight. She was going to meet up with George on Thursday. She was just going to have to wait until then.
