Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  This being Sam’s first overseas overnighter, Pat had written the instructions step by step: train to Paris, wait in line for a cab to the hotel in the Rue de Rivoli, through the front revolving door, straight through the lobby to the rear bank of elevators—look confident, like you know where you’re going, no eye contact with anyone—take the lift to the third floor, follow signs to Suite 302. The only other instruction of consequence was: get the money straight up. The gentleman was paying £1200 for an overnighter, payable in cash in advance. Not that Pat was expecting problems, he was a longstanding customer of the agency. Nevertheless, soon as Sam arrived at the suite she was to text Pat in London to confirm.

  Not for the first time, Sam wondered what she thought she was doing. The train was packed with businessmen on their way to meetings, speaking into cellphones and working on laptops. It occurred to her any one of these men could be her client tonight, and the idea was shocking, but also intriguing. There were two guys sitting there, borderline three, who maybe wouldn’t be so bad to go with. She guessed they were French. But the majority were middle-aged blokes, balding and overweight, wearing dreadful suits and shoes, and the idea of doing it with them was repellent. If you visualised them with their clothes off, you felt sick. Sam consoled herself that at least her punter, whoever he turned out to be, was rich, because suites at the Hotel Meurice didn’t come cheap. And neither did she. She was proud when Pat and Mike priced her at the very top agency rate—more than double what some of the other girls got—because she was classy and new. ‘There’s going to be a lot of interest in you when word gets round.’

  Sam stared at her reflection in the window while the black French countryside rolled past outside, and wondered if there was any way people could tell. Did she look different now? Was there some debauched, giveaway expression in her eyes—a licentiousness, or a hardness—that hadn’t been there a month earlier? Not that she could tell. She still wore the same clothes, no basques or leopard-prints. Pam advised her to keep it that way: ‘Men like it, lady on the outside, tart under the knickers.’ The only thing that was different, objectively, was she’d been able to repay Gaz a third of his loan, and she’d bought herself the Chloé bag she’d been wanting too. Well, now Dick wasn’t around to get it for her, nor her dad, she had to pay for her own treats. Girl power!

  She tried to work out what she’d earned so far, after the agency’s 40 percent. The weird thing was, she could scarcely remember how many punters she’d had, and it wasn’t even like there’d been that many. Pat’s agency wasn’t a knocking shop, it wasn’t a walk up. That would be truly degrading, a procession of different men coming and going all day long. No, she was something entirely different. A high-class escort, paid as much for her companionship as anything that might subsequently arise between two consenting adults. That’s how they worded it on the website at least. Sam thought of the website and flinched. That was the part that worried her most, having her picture up on the internet. She insisted that they pixelated her face, of course, so you couldn’t recognise her, even though Pat warned her it would cost her some business as a result.

  Sam had spent ages scrutinising herself on the site, wondering whether or not she was identifiable. She didn’t believe so, even in the close-up shots and the kinky ones in boots and black knickers. She’d had this recurring nightmare of someone she knew recognising her and it somehow getting back to her parents, and everyone in Chawbury finding out. Or her old schoolteachers.

  She paged through her pocket diary, day by day, remembering from coded prompts where she’d worked and what she’d earned each time. The guy at the Royal Lancaster Hotel had been the first paying punter—a bit cheap in that tiny room—and the Greek guy at the Inter-Con was a disgusting perv, and turned nasty when she said no to a couple of things. At the Four Seasons she’d got lost looking for the lifts and one of the managers asked if she needed any help, and which guest was she visiting, and she was sure he’d sussed her. It was weird the way the appointments blurred until she had no distinct recollection of each. In a sense, they were all very similar. And coke blunted the experience in any case.

  Tonight she reckoned would be her fourteenth, and the highest paying, being an overnighter. At the rate she was going, she’d have cleared the debt in another month or two, providing she didn’t blow too much on clothes and shoes. She might take a quick look in the Christian Louboutin boutique tomorrow morning, if there was time before the train.

  Thinking about it, Samantha felt almost proud of herself, for clearing her debt all on her own. And she didn’t reckon she was doing anything very wrong, people were so ridiculous the fuss they made, trying to stigmatise it. As Sam saw it, she wasn’t doing much she hadn’t done a thousand times with Dick, Nigel, Peter or any of her boyfriends. Except now she was paid directly for her services, rather than indirectly.

  Debbie had been on action stations all day, helping cope with the emergency. Basically, it was every hotelier’s nightmare. The Meurice was already running at over 90 percent occupancy, owing to all the trade fairs going on in Paris, and barely had an empty room in the place. Then one of the ministers of the Congo, who’d been occupying half a floor of the hotel with his family and bodyguards for three weeks, and who was supposed to be checking out before noon today, suddenly announced he was staying another week. Meanwhile, the Crown Prince of Morocco was waiting to move in with an entourage, and been promised the suites inhabited by the Africans. The Elysee Palace was pressurising Debbie’s bosses not to expel the Congonese, for diplomatic considerations, and everyone was in a panic wondering how to shift things about.

  Debbie was relishing the drama, particularly when the Africans ordered their armed security to seal off their corridor, so the chambermaids couldn’t strip the rooms of their bedding. And the Moroccan chief of protocol threatened to sue if the Crown Prince didn’t get his regular suite, and spoke about switching the booking and all future bookings to Le Bristol. Debbie adored the high-level diplomacy, which had certainly never gone on at the Buckingham Park Hotel, and felt this was the hospitality business at its most elevated. She was learning things at the Meurice that took her experience to a new level.

  Everything about the place was ritzier: the toiletries in the guest bathrooms were Acqua di Parma; the floral displays were unbelievable, not only in the lobby and dining rooms but on every floor outside the lifts where scarcely anyone even noticed them; and all the breakfast pastries were freshly baked by the sous chef on the premises. All these luxurious touches thrilled her. One of her first jobs when she joined the hotel was to place a special card on each breakfast trolley, before they were delivered by room service, informing guests what the weather was like outside, to save them the bother of looking out of the window; she ticked a symbol of an umbrella, a blazing sun, or a sun half hidden behind a cloud.

  She was relaxing for an instant in the office behind the cashier, where they prepared the bills and conducted the credit checks, when she thought she spotted a familiar face striding across the lobby. The very pretty girl with long blonde hair—surely it was Samantha Straker? She hadn’t seen her in ages, but she was sure it was her.

  Debbie thought she’d say hello later on, and check she was being properly looked after.

  Sam was following the brief precisely, and so far things were going just fine. She’d got a taxi at the station with hardly any queue and there hadn’t been much traffic across Paris, so she’d arrived outside the Meurice forty minutes early. She killed time in a brasserie up the street with a coffee and a glass of wine, waiting for seven o’clock.

  Nobody looked twice as she crossed the marble lobby in her stilettos, click, clack, click, clack, looking neither left nor right, exactly like she was a guest staying there. She waited for the lift, cool as a cucumber, though she did feel conspicuous when some scar-faced African guys got in too. She hoped her client wasn’t one of them.

  The lift doors pinged open on the third floor, and she was the only person to get out. Good. A signb
oard directed her to the suite.

  She walked along what seemed like a thousand yards of patterned carpet, turning left, turning right, past the doors of other bedrooms. Some had Privacy Please notices hanging from the doorhandles. She passed a couple of abandoned service wagons heaped with dirty plates and stemmed roses in vases.

  At the end of the corridor was a pair of cream double doors. Suite 302. It looked reassuringly grand. For a moment she stood outside, gathering herself. Then took a deep breath and pressed the bell.

  She could hear movement beyond the doors, first distantly, then closer. There was the rattle of a chain being unhooked. She saw the handle turn and the door starting to open.

  They locked eyes at exactly the same moment.

  Miles was standing in the doorway in a white towelling hotel robe, his face frozen. ‘Samantha? What on earth … ?’

  But she was bolting down the corridor. She ran down three flights of stairs, past reception, out into the Rue de Rivoli and didn’t stop running until she could run no further.

  Debbie, who watched her tear through the lobby, wondered why she could possibly be in such a hurry.

  46.

  Mollie couldn’t remember a more exciting invitation. In fact, she had woken up the next morning wondering if she’d dreamt it, and had to replay the message on her mobile. And, yes, there was Greg’s flat Midlands voice asking if she’d like to accompany him to the Labour Party conference in Blackpool, where he was a delegate. Mollie felt immensely flattered he would think of her, that he considered her worthy, when she was so ignorant about politics. Well, she would educate herself in the next two weeks, read all the newspapers, she couldn’t look a fool.

  Her friendship with Greg had all been slightly peculiar so far, now she thought about it. He wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, you never knew where you stood with him. Since supper at the kebab place, he’d taken to calling her quite a bit, which was amazing, but he was stilted on the phone, with long silences which made her uncomfortable, and she couldn’t always think of clever enough things to say. He made her feel dumb. And sometimes he was crushing, saying, “Would the daughter of Miles Straker ever deign to have supper at a Greek taverna with me? Or is that beneath your usual standards?” Mollie wished he wouldn’t go on like that, when she was a primary school teacher in Olympia and not some spoilt trustafarian.

  They’d had supper four times, twice with some of his political friends. Mollie had also visited him at the Town Hall and been shown into the visitors’ gallery at the Chamber, while the council were in session, and watched Greg make a brilliant speech—he really knew how to use words—which was so damning about the Tories’ record of care provision for the elderly that the Conservative councillor kept trying to butt in, saying it was all rubbish, but Greg stood his ground, really going for him in his clever, belittling way. Mollie almost felt sorry for the Conservative man, who reminded her of the pharmacist behind the prescription counter at Boots in Andover. Greg in full flow was mesmerising, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the words issued from his mouth without a single hesitation, completely different to when they were talking on the phone or over supper. This made Mollie think it must be her fault their conversation was such hard work, and resolved to try harder.

  Once, he had asked her round to his flat to stuff envelopes for a mail-drop to voters. Mollie was fascinated to see his place, which was totally different to what she’d been imagining. She already knew, because he’d told her, that he rented a council flat on the Guinness estate, in one of six identical mansion blocks next to the Hammersmith flyover. In fact, you could practically see into Greg’s windows from the raised section of the M4, and it had been so noisy when he moved in he’d had double glazing installed by the council. Outside, the Guinness estate was depressingly run down and felt unsafe. The lift was broken and the stairwell filled with rubbish. Mollie was relieved to reach Greg’s front door unscathed from a fourth floor walkway open to the elements. Inside, however, all was immaculate. She didn’t think she’d ever entered such a tidy flat. The walls along the corridor were lined with black ash bookcases, some filled with books, others with political pamphlets and fliers, perfectly aligned. The sitting room, with its view of the motorway thundering past, contained a black leather-and-chrome sofa, a black leather Eames chair and an immense Bang and Olufsen music centre, four decks high, blinking and winking with lights and dials. A black Perspex business card holder contained cards for ‘Dr Greg Clegg,’ Labour Steering Group Executive Member, with a mugshot of Greg looking dreadfully serious. Propped on a wooden shelf above a Victorian gas fire stood a framed poster urging the ratepayers of Hammersmith and Fulham to Vote for Clegg in the Kingstown ward.

  ‘What an incredible flat,’ Mollie said, impressed by how slick it all was. A couple of years earlier she’d visited one of her Serbian pupils on this same estate, and their flat was full of broken-down furniture, cooking smells and black-eyed kids.

  ‘Yeah, it works for me. And cheap. Affordable housing has to be a priority. Thatcher sold off half the national housing stock. In many societies she’d be facing criminal prosecution.’

  As Mollie sat at Greg’s desk with its fat black filofax and tub of sharpened black pencils, filling envelopes with pamphlets boosting the achievements of the Labour-controlled council, she felt a rare contentment and a feeling that, for once in her life, she was making a modest difference on a wider stage. By nature, she felt comfortable helping in small, personal ways—coaxing a dyslexic child with their reading, or boosting a shy child’s confidence—but there was something satisfying about assisting Greg with his politics. She hoped he might invite her round to help again sometime.

  And then came the invitation to Blackpool, which was thrilling and terrifying at the same time. When she rang to accept, Greg was very cool about it and just said, ‘I’m glad you can make it. I’ll book rooms at a boarding house, that’s if you don’t object. It won’t be up to your usual standards.’ He said they’d travel up by train and stay two days. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve been up North before,’ he added, mockingly. ‘It’s very different.’

  ‘Of course I have,’ Mollie replied crossly. But, in truth, she’d only been to Scotland with her family to stay at Gleneagles.

  As the Blackpool expedition loomed closer, she became apprehensive. She was buying the Times and the Guardian each morning and concentrating on the political bits, and took to watching News-night. It reassured her, and made her proud, to learn about the resources New Labour was putting behind education. At grass roots in the classroom it never felt like the government was doing much, but probably it would all begin to come through soon, which would be a wonderful boost for the children. She mentioned to her mother she was going to the conference with Greg, and Davina was delighted for her, saying how interesting it would be to watch Tony Blair’s speech, but they agreed it would be better not to say anything to Miles.

  Although she knew this was ridiculously trivial, Mollie began to fret about what she should wear. She didn’t know how smart you were supposed to be for the keynote speeches and also in the evening. She seemed to remember Cherie Blair always looked very dressy, and the female Cabinet ministers like Patricia Hewitt and Tessa Jowell and the other ones, not to mention Blair’s Babes (God she hated that expression, so derogatory and patronising; typical Daily Mail, she refused to open that newspaper). Her wardrobe of ankle-length denim skirts and brown corduroy smocks, perfect for school, didn’t feel quite right for the Blackpool Winter Gardens. One Saturday she slipped into Marks & Spencer and tried on a red suit, but thought she looked a fright, like a hi-de-hi redcoat from Butlins. In the end she settled on a fitted grey suit—slightly nondescript, she had to admit—which she’d jolly up with a red silk scarf tied round her neck.

  On the train up, Greg wasn’t especially friendly, Mollie felt, almost offhand, spending the journey studying his conference notes and agenda. Once he said, ‘Fetch us a coffee, Mollie. Black, one sugar,’ and when she return
ed from queuing in the buffet carriage, barely thanked her. But she did appreciate how hard he was working, and considered it a privilege to assist. When they arrived in Blackpool, he cheered up, and was actually very amusing when they found the boarding house. ‘Breakfast is served in the parlour from 7.30 to 8.15,’ announced their landlady, a blue-haired Blackpool scold. ‘If you’re late, you’ll go without. And no refunds given, so don’t ask.’ Greg had a large cold bedroom with a bow window on the first floor; Mollie was up at the top in a room so tiny you couldn’t open the wardrobe. And there was a teasmade-cum-radio on a bedside shelf protruding above the pillow, on which she kept knocking her head.

  Mollie changed into her conference outfit and went downstairs. Greg looked her up and down disapprovingly. ‘Heavens, Moll.’

  ‘Sorry, is it all wrong? I wasn’t sure …’

  ‘You look like a rent-a-car lady. Hertz or Avis.’

  Mollie blushed. ‘I can change if you think it’s inappropriate.’

  ‘Forget it. We’ve got to go, I want to catch Ken Livingstone’s speech.’

  They walked through a quarter of a mile of residential streets, then along the tacky seafront to the Winter Gardens. At registration, Greg handed her her guest pass and they headed inside, pushing past the demonstrators protesting against foxhunting and supermarkets. One of the demonstrators thrust a flier into Mollie’s hand, calling for the nationalisation of Pendletons and Freeza Mart.

  Inside the conference building, Mollie was almost overwhelmed by the sheer press of people. There were stands for every organisation and pressure group, from the Institute of Directors and Confederation of British Industry to the Carbon Trust and Action on Poverty League. All the different regions of Britain had stands, with their development boards promoting their areas for inward investment, as well as charities like Oxfam and Save the Children and a group of scary-looking anarchists from the Workers Revolutionary Party handing out newspapers. Whenever she stopped at a stall to collect literature, Greg became impatient and said, ‘Come on, Moll. Get a move on or we’ll miss Ken’s speech.’ Mollie was excited when they passed the deputy prime minister, John Prescott, looking incredibly important being ushered along with his wife towards the hall, and later the Home Secretary Jack Straw, who was smaller than she’d expected from watching him on Newsnight. As they shoved their way through the crowds, she was impressed when several people greeted Greg, high-fiving or slapping him on the back; he seemed very well regarded in these circles.