The Mistake I Made (12 page)

Except now I was nervous.

Facing Scott Elias, I realized that this wasn’t drunken, no-strings sex. This was an intelligent, articulate man who expected
an experience
. As we pushed our chairs away from the table, and he took my arm, gently, guiding me away from the other diners, I just hoped to hell I could give it to him. Because the spark of attraction I would normally feel before going to bed with a man had just diminished. Sure, I was flattered by his words, because, who wouldn’t be? It was nice to be talked about in that way. And I have to admit when I first met Scott there was a real magnetism between us. But the way he was so sure of himself just now, the way he assumed that money could buy whatever he liked, whatever he wanted, had the effect on me of making him somewhat undesirable. He’d crossed a line few people would ever think of crossing and his remarks about buying me had left a sour taste in my mouth.

Even though he was just being honest. Even though I was here for that very reason – to be bought.

So I hoped I could go through with what I’d signed up for. Because in less than two weeks I would be evicted if I didn’t do
something
. And, up to now, praying for a miracle hadn’t helped at all, so the way I saw it, this was the only chance I had.

‘Would you like another drink at the bar?’ Scott asked, and though I didn’t, I accepted, deciding that another drink would take the edge off my nerves and also delay things a little. I ordered a gin and tonic. I did have to go to work the following day, after all, and I was always better in the morning after a long drink rather than wine. It was only as we were well into a conversation about Scott’s electronics business and how he was forever faced with losing clerical staff for weeks at a time due to repetitive strain injury and other such work-related illnesses that I noticed I was beginning to drift a little, not really concentrating on his words. So I excused myself and headed to the Ladies to splash a little water on my face.

Passing the cloakroom, my attention was caught by a man sitting at the small second bar just a short distance from the reception area.

It was the insurance agent who’d taken blood from me. He wore a white shirt, a tie was loosened at his throat and he’d rolled up his sleeves on account of the heat. He sat side on, alongside a heavy-set man whose bulk appeared too much for the stool and they were both drinking pints of bitter.

My heart stuttered.

On realizing who he was I must have blanched white, or else my expression froze, because he smiled at me before tilting the rim of his glass my way. It was an almost imperceptible gesture – his companion didn’t turn around to look – and then he continued talking happily, taking a handful of whatever snack had been placed on the bar.

My pulse thumped in my throat as I hurried to the Ladies. I hadn’t expected to bump into anyone I knew, least of all him, and the riskiness of what I was doing suddenly hit home.

When I returned, Scott asked, ‘Are you okay? You’ve gone a little pale.’

‘What? Oh, no, I’m fine. I was thinking I could probably do with freshening up a little before … What I mean is,’ I stammered, because hadn’t I just done exactly that? ‘What I mean is, I didn’t get chance to unpack my things on arriving.’

‘No problem,’ he said, realizing it was probably nerves making me so jumpy, ‘I’m happy to remain down here. Whatever you need to feel comfortable.’

He reached out and stroked his thumb along the back of my hand.

I stared at it, fixated. The urge to check over my shoulder was overwhelming, but I kept my eyes downcast.

‘Roz?’ Scott asked. ‘You’re sure you’re okay? Your hand is shaking.’

‘Is it?’ I pulled it away. I smiled at Scott and started to stand. ‘Give me fifteen minutes?’

Walking towards the staircase, I stole a look across to the second bar. The insurance agent was standing now, ready to leave, laughing as his drinking partner made big expansive gestures with his hands, as though waving in aircraft. I got the impression it was forced laughter. Perhaps he, like me, was here on business.

He glanced over and, when he saw I was watching, he winked.

Embarrassed, I hurried away.

Cards on the table: The night was not what I expected.

Money changes everything, that much I know for sure. If you were to speak to a random selection of my patients they would report that Roz Toovey physiotherapist was kind, attentive, a remarkably good listener, non-judgemental and always happy to listen if someone needed a good moan or to give out advice if asked.

Of course, I wasn’t always those things. I was being
paid
to be those things. Think about it, when was the last time you said exactly what you were thinking to your boss? Or to anyone at work, for that matter?

When you’re self-employed, the customers are your bosses. If you don’t give them what they want, you don’t get paid. Simple as that. And even though I was no longer self-employed, I was very much aware that if I didn’t perform well as a clinician, if I didn’t give the patients exactly what they expected, I would be replaced. And so I gave my best physical self: performing back-breaking lifting and manoeuvring, bending over for extended periods, my thumbs losing their feeling from the unremitting pressure put through them. I gave my best empathetic self: listening to patients’ worries, concerns about their lives, their children’s lives, their money worries, their health issues. I gave my best educational self: repeating facts about healing, posture, about the links with stress and myofascial pain, facts that I’d been reciting all day, every day, year in year out. And I gave my best in merriment and entertainment, acting as though the patients were the funniest, wittiest, most enjoyable people in the world to spend time with. I listened, smiling accordingly, as old men recited tedious jokes, as old women discussed how funny Alan Carr was. At the end of each day I would have so little left for George – so little left for me, in fact – that the most I could do was sit mute and expressionless, until it was time to go to bed.

As I prepared myself, and the room, for the knock on the door, I believe I lost the feeling of shame about what I was going to do. I had been scared up until that point, scared of being found out, scared of being judged by society at large.
What kind of women sells her body for money?
When I realized that I’d been selling myself for close to twenty years, albeit in a way that was deemed acceptable but, to be honest, was ultimately just as damaging and, perhaps on some level, even more soul destroying, I became filled with the kind of strength I’d not felt in the longest time.

There is a moment just before a woman gives birth, a moment when terror turns to might, a kind of
take no shit
attitude, when she realizes it is up to her to take control and get this baby out safely. If she doesn’t do it, no one will.

It was this feeling, this strength of purpose, this capacity to prevail, that filled me in those moments alone in the hotel room. No one was going to come and rescue me from the financial situation in which I found myself. I either lay down and surrendered, conceded defeat, or I found a way to keep going.

So I was no longer scared. I was defiant. If Scott Elias wanted a warm, attentive woman to satisfy his sexual needs, then here she was. Right here.

The suite had a New England theme going on: white furniture, pale duck-egg fabrics, pictures of Nantucket lighthouses, a bleached wooden floor with a large, downy white rug at its centre. The bed was a four poster, which I’d been kind of dreading. Images of me, tethered and spread-eagled, a sock stuffed in my mouth, had plagued my dreams the night before. But I got the feeling Scott had chosen this suite
on account
of its simplicity, its non-boudoir feel. As though he was above all that sex-inducing claptrap.

I adjusted the slatted wooden blinds to allow just a small amount of twilight and unpacked my overnight bag. In the bathroom, I stepped out of my dress and arranged my cosmetics, taking a moment to swipe a dampened cotton-wool ball beneath my lashes. I performed a perfunctory toilet before applying a fresh coat of lipstick and gloss. Finally, I arranged my hair into a loose chignon which could be easily unclipped should that be required.

I stepped back into my dress and checked my appearance from all angles.

I
had
toyed with the idea of a negligee. But then answering the door in heels, full make-up and a babydoll, seemed bordering on sleazy. Rightly or wrongly, I’d decided that Scott was the type of man who enjoyed undressing a woman, or enjoyed watching the ritual of her undressing and, besides, a negligee was not something I was in possession of.

I pulled back the bedclothes and switched on one of the bedside lamps and then another over by the TV. Then I cut the harsh overhead light before surveying the room. Almost ready.

In the drinks cabinet, which housed the fridge, there was a selection of miniatures. I took two single malt whiskeys and poured them into tumblers.

A knock at the door.

I took one final look in the mirror. My general appearance I was happy with, but I had the hardened, steely expression of an Olympic sprinter before a race. One set on unnerving his opponents before getting in the blocks.

I took a deep breath and shook out my arms, rolled my shoulders to loosen the tension.

Ready.

I opened the door and regarded Scott. ‘The room’s great,’ I said.

‘Glad you like it.’

I moved aside to allow him past.

One thing I will say about Scott, his confidence was magnetic. Here he was, doing something considered
just not cricket
in polite society, and there was no hint of apology. No dip in his posture or uncertainty in his eyes. He held himself with utter assurance. It was hard not to be affected by it.

I wondered in that moment if women were programmed, in an evolutionary way, to be turned on by such self-belief as a means of self-preservation. Breed with such a man and he will protect you to the death. Or maybe that was nonsense and it was simply down to money. Women were turned on at the sight of money because it meant security, and perhaps the only reason Scott Elias was so confident was because he had plenty of it.

Scott sat down at the table. ‘What are we drinking?’ he said.

‘Single malt.’

With the glass in hand, he examined me slowly, from my head to my toes, and then up again, with a steady air of appreciation. The way one might do when looking over a classic E type, or well-proportioned, prize-winning livestock. In a matter of seconds he’d become serious. ‘I like your hair like that,’ he said.

Instinctively, I lifted my hand to my face, never entirely comfortable with a compliment.

I moved towards him so we were almost touching. I stayed standing, and the air between Scott’s thigh and the bare skin of my leg became charged. In that space I could feel the rapid exchange of heat.

‘So how does this go?’ I whispered.

‘You give yourself in whatever way you feel you …’ He paused. And then, ‘I’m simply here to—’

But he broke off again. I sensed he wanted to say more, wanted to reveal more of himself, but for some reason wouldn’t, or else couldn’t. He began tracing his fingers up the outside of my thigh. I watched him admire the curve of my hips. Watched him carefully as he exhaled, his fingers now resting beneath the cheek of my rear.

I took the drink from him and placed it on the table.

Leaning over, I put both hands on the back of his chair, and with my face inches from his, murmured, ‘It’s your party, Scott. Tell me what it is that you want.’

He pressed his mouth against mine and I was surprised by the small, heady thrill that came over me.

The kiss. Sweeter than anticipated.

I pulled back and looked into his eyes.

‘Take off your dress,’ he said.

14

I SAT ON
the bench waiting, arranging crisps inside a sandwich.

Petra had returned home from New York the previous evening and she seemed to have forgotten about the humiliation of her birthday as she was straight on the phone telling me we absolutely had to have lunch, because she was bursting to tell me all about the trip. She then proceeded to tell me
all about the trip
, but I was looking forward to seeing her nonetheless. I tended to miss her when she was away. Sometimes to the extent of experiencing a real visceral ache, a kind of homesick feeling, which perplexed me because, when she was around, she drove me crazy.

Families. I’m not sure we ever fully make sense of our connections.

The bench was one of the few scattered along Cockshot Point, an area of lakeshore owned by the National Trust. There’s a wide shingle path, free from cars, which at first winds its way through a pretty wooded area, before opening up to give expansive views both up and down the lake.

It’s popular with tourists and locals alike, dog walkers, and young mums with prams. I would often head down here if I needed to clear my head. There’s something about gazing at the water, it lapping gently at the shore, which would unclutter my thoughts. Enable me to see a way through whatever problem was plaguing me.

I’d suggested to Petra we should meet here because it wasn’t far from the clinic, or her school, and Bowness itself would be teeming with tourists on a day like today.

Four swans landed on the water in succession and a delighted teen in a wheelchair clapped his hands together at the spectacle, just as I saw Petra approach.

Emerging from the trees, she looked city-chic in a pink, fitted dress and matching pumps. She carried with her a new handbag and wore oversized sunglasses, and I wondered what the denim skirts and cheesecloth smocks at school must have made of her appearance that morning in the staff room. Petra gave a small, excited wave to signal she’d spotted me and headed my way. Her pace was fast but her stride length restricted on account of the close-fitting dress, which all went to give the impression of a woman on a mission, a woman who was on her way to give a person a piece of her mind.