But yes, I feel better just by noting all of this down on paper, and resolved to see it out. I feel that something decisive is imminent, that Anne has something very particular in mind and, judging that it can’t be any more extreme than what I have already experienced, I decide that I owe it to myself to follow this through. Knowing myself, to my very core, has become a necessity, as essential as breathing, as food and water. Before, I wasn’t fully alive. It’s time to start living.
A note under the door is the sign from Anne that things are moving forwards. It’s simple and to the point, unlike my mentor herself:
Claridge’s, Suite 216, 8 p.m. Anne.
I shiver with anticipation. She has given me so many things, so many facets of myself that I didn’t know existed. I shouldn’t waiver from my route to self-discovery, even though I’m naturally nervous.
I wonder what to wear, but having no idea what’s in store, who I am to meet and be with, what scenario Anne has in mind, I am at a loss. I look through the meagre contents of my wardrobe then decide to go shopping. The high-street chains are within a short stroll. I’m being paid for what amounts to very little. I should treat myself.
In Top Shop, rifling through the rails, I realise how much I’ve changed in my relationship towards my body. Suddenly I find myself gravitating towards much more close-fitting, extrovert styles than I would have chosen before, from skinny jeans to slinky, thigh-skimming dresses. My body, I have discovered, is a source of immense pleasure and undreamt-of sensations, and suddenly I want to celebrate that.
When I’ve picked out a few items to try on in the changing room, I head for the lingerie section. Here again, I find myself attracted by styles that I wouldn’t have considered before all of this: thongs, knickers with little cut-outs revealing intimate parts, quarter-cup bras, sheer fabrics that leave nothing to the imagination. And finally – I can’t resist it, plucking it from the rail like some longed-for treasure – a shell-pink sheer baby doll with ribbon ties and matching knickers that it will barely cover. It’s ridiculously feminine, and picking it out proves to me that I’ve become a woman.
I head for the changing room with my booty, feeling intoxicated and extravagant. If this is so unlike me, then why am I so excited? The reason is plain: this is me, the me that I’ve been hiding from for so long. With self-recognition comes relief, release and euphoria.
Inside one of the spacious cubicles, I undress slowly, almost ritualistically, savouring the gradual revelation of this body both familiar and, in its new pleasures, alien to me. I study my long legs, my breasts, my bush in turn, as they are stripped free of clothing. They delight me, both aesthetically and in terms of the memories they hold – memories that include more distant times with Nate but that focus on the past week in London. I feel proud of my body, and empowered – empowered by its existence as an object of desire. Suddenly the eyes that flicker over me and then return to rest on me in the street seem not a threat or an embarrassment but a confirmation of myself as a sexual being. And there’s nothing wrong, I now understand, in being a sexual being. We are all sexual beings. The problems come when we don’t recognise that.
I stand naked before my reflection, taking it all in – the sheen and smoothness of my flesh, the sweep of my breasts, the flatness of my belly. I’m no supermodel, but then would I want to be? They make great clothes horses, but without their glad rags skinny women can look pretty dire.
Around me I hear the clatter of clothes hangers and the occasional low exchange of words.
‘Sal, does this suit me?’
‘What do you think, Mum? Is it all right for Ally’s wedding?’
‘Does my bum like big in this?’
Even as I listen, smiling to myself, the voices fade to a background hum, a kind of static, as pleasure takes hold of me. My hand, which lingered for a moment too long as I admired myself, moves between my legs. I rest a finger on my clit, already finding it hard not to moan out loud. The thought of being heard only excites me more, rather than proving a deterrent. I’d like them to see me, see what I can do to myself, how I can make myself feel, what I look like when I’m losing myself to pleasure.
As I start to judder my way to climax, I lean back against the flimsy partition wall to afford myself some degree of support. Looking into the mirror, I realise I can get a better view of myself this way – see how my glinting fingers dip in and out of me, through my lips and into my pussy. How my thumb brushes my clit, knowing the exact degree of pressure that is needed to drive me wild. How my free hand clutches at one breast, feverishly. I imagine James sitting on the little bench, watching me, his cock out of his flies and in his hand, being worked at furiously as my excitement inflames his. Then I think of the girl, the blonde girl, beside him, naked, also playing with herself as she watches me come. The combination of all of this sends me over the edge, and within seconds I’m coming vociferously, eyes closed, lost to everything but what’s happening inside.
Afterwards, too wet and too sweaty to try anything on, I hurry out. I’ll buy what looks as if it’ll suit me and try it on at home. If something’s not right, I can always bring it back.
As I push open the cubicle door and head back along the corridor to the shop itself, two of the assistants are watching me, and I can tell that they’re suppressing giggles. For a moment I feel mortified, but then I think, Sod it. I’m not ashamed of my body – quite the contrary. And, before I can think better, before I can censor myself, I flash them a complicit smile, tip them a wink and then I open my mouth slightly and run the tip of my tongue around my lips.
Their heavily mascaraed eyes become round with shock, and I laugh and hand over a few items I’ve decided not to buy, then saunter out of the changing rooms and towards the till, feeling both financially and mentally reckless. It’s a great feeling.
I walk home and have some toast and Marmite and a coffee before going upstairs to get ready. My mood has dampened slightly, and though I’m excited about tonight and my rendezvous with Anne at the hotel, I’m pretty nervous too. I guess I’m worried that I won’t be up to what is expected of me. After coming this far, I suspect that Anne will be posing me a significant challenge, testing my limits to the max. Anne, I feel, has her endgame in sight, and the prospect daunts as well as intrigues me.
I try on my baby doll and love myself in it. Never before have I felt so feminine, so unbridled, so free and self-expressive. I stand in front of the mirror for ages, gazing at myself – not in a vain way, but in sheer astonishment that I have come so far from the rather prudish and certainly unadventurous girl who turned up at Anne’s for a job interview that was to lead her into such uncharted territory. And I was unimaginative – what Anne has tapped into and opened up and allowed to flourish is my imagination, the thing that a writer must have before anything else can happen. I was profoundly lacking in imagination before all of this happened, entirely lacking in a fantasy life. Now I understand that it’s fantasies that will fuel most of the fiction I will produce. Some of it will be autobiographical – there’s no avoiding that. But the well of fact will run dry quite soon, despite the injection of excitement and passion that has happened of late. And that’s when fantasy will come into play. If writing is a muscle that has to be flexed, then so is the faculty for fantasy.
I glance towards my bedside table, where my vibrator resides. I’m horny again, but I don’t have time for another wank if I’m to be on time. So rather reluctantly I strip off my baby doll and put it into a bag to take with me. Then I slip on some of the other new lingerie – a polka-dot thong and a matching nude bra with scalloped edging over the crest of the cups – and sit down in front of the mirror to do my face.
The contents of my make-up bag are scant. On ordinary days the most I manage is a quick whisk of my lashes with a mascara brush. But, rooting around, I find a sample sachet of light-diffusing foundation I must have kept from a magazine, a little pot of pink powder blush and a tiny nub of kohl that must have been lurking there for years. I appl
y them in turn, carefully, watching a different face emerge in the glass.
It’s amazing, I reflect, what one can do with a little time and effort, with application. One’s identity, it seems, is endlessly fluid. I have reinvented myself – with more than a little help from Anne – and I can reinvent myself again at will. Which means that when I say I’m ‘finding myself’, I understand that there’s no one self to find, that we are mutable, evolving beings. So perhaps I should say that I’m excavating aspects of myself, of a possible me.
It’s time to dress. I eye my purchases strewn across the bed. I don’t want to get too dressed up and look idiotic, but the hotel I’ve been summoned to is posh, so I’ll feel out of place if I don’t make an effort. What I don’t want to do is look tarty. I don’t want to be mistaken for a hooker and ejected from the building before I reach the suite indicated on Anne’s note. Among the items I picked out are a 1930s-style black dress with a lace panel above the cleavage; a printed dress from Top Shop’s Kate Moss collection, with a frilled neckline; and a tiered miniskirt embellished with sequins, which I would pair with a plain black vest top. None is right. I lift up the dresses and beneath them lies my wild card: a black one-shoulder all-in-one playsuit. It’s unusual and sexy yet chic. It says ‘classy’ rather than ‘tarty’. With the black stilettos I picked up, it has the makings of a killer outfit.
Trying it on for the first time, I’m thrilled by my purchase. It’s something I would never in a million years have seen myself in, and yet it looks the business. I look the business. It accentuates my long legs, making me look taller, while the fabric-falling detail across the chest is flattering to my boobs.
Feeling psyched up for my meeting, I fumble in my make-up bag again, find an old, barely used lipstick tube and apply a slash of dark mauve to my mouth. Blowing myself a kiss in the mirror, I grab my bag and leave the room.
The house is quiet. Anne must have left already. It would have been sensible to share a taxi, but that would have lessened the drama of this meeting. So far, everything that has gone on has taken place, rather claustrophobically, within the confines of Anne’s house. The only other venue was James’s flat, and that was equally claustrophobic. To be allowed out like this is exciting. I don’t know what it signifies, but I hope it’s a sign that Anne is loosening control. I want to be set free now, like a bird being launched up into the sky. It’s time to fly solo.
I walk out of the house and up the street onto the Bayswater Road, where I hail a taxi. The hotel is actually within reasonable walking distance, just beyond Park Lane in Mayfair, but I’m in an extravagant mood. And anyway these ridiculous shoes are already beginning to pinch.
As I climb into the cab and recline against the seat, I imagine my grand entrance: the taxi swinging theatrically up to the front door, a doorman stepping forwards to open the door and help me out. The driver will be expecting a hefty tip given the prestigious address. I wonder if, despite my outfit, he’s taken me for a hooker. Or should I say, a high-class call girl. He must see all sorts in the back of his cab – all sorts of people making all sorts of illicit transactions.
We’re at the hotel within minutes. I pay the driver, bunging him a couple of quid on top of the fare, and try not to fall flat on my face as the doorman helps me out. Of all the hotels in London, this has always seemed the most fairy-tale like to me, although I’ve never been inside. It’s always in the gossip rags, linked with various celebs, from Madonna to Courtney Love. I’m not actually much impressed by all that. I just love the art deco interiors, along with the wonderful snippets of history I’ve read, such as that Winston Churchill designated one of the suites Yugoslav territory when the exiled King Peter stayed there.
I head for the cocktail bar for something for my growing nerves. After spunking a further tenner on a Polish martini, I admire the silver-leaf ceiling and other glam decor while I drink. One of the barmen eyes me and I look away, unsure whether he finds me attractive or has taken me for a call girl. Realising I’m getting paranoid, I head for the lift.
On the way upstairs, through the burn of the alcohol inside me, I wonder about the prices in a place like this. I’ve never been anywhere like it, so I can’t begin to guess, but something tells me that we’re talking in excess of a grand per night for a suite. How can Anne afford that, even as an occasional blow-out? Or is someone else footing the bill?
I exit the lift and the door to the suite is a few paces away. My heart is thudding away by now, so that for a moment I have to stand still and clutch my chest with my hand, wondering if I’m going to fall over. When I’ve steadied my breathing, it’s another few minutes before I can bring myself to knock. I feel like I’m on the threshold of something – a cliff might be the best analogy. I’m wearing a parachute but I have no idea if it will open or if I’ll be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Yet I don’t want to go through the rest of my life asking myself ‘What if?’
I knock, and am greeted by silence and stillness. I knock again, more assertively, and then again. The door opens and an unfamiliar face appears, an arm gestures for me to come inside. From the uniform I judge him to be a butler. He relieves me of my jacket and bag and takes them to the wardrobe, giving me a moment to look around and get my bearings.
The entrance hall leads on to a sitting room decorated with lilac fabrics, from the silken and sheer curtains to the leather of the sofas. The look, in keeping with the hotel in general, is art deco. A table bears an ice bucket from which the neck of a bottle of champagne protrudes invitingly – I’m dying for another drink. Beside it are some canapés, a bowl of fruit, a plate of fancy chocolates and a spray of fresh flowers in an opulent vase. Through and beyond the sitting room I can glimpse the bedroom. I wonder what romps will be taking place there later tonight, and I start to tremble a little.
‘Madam?’ The butler, or whatever he is, is looking at me, and I realise I’ve been miles away.
‘A glass of champagne, madam?’ he says, and when I nod he goes and uncorks the bottle with professional restraint, pours me a flute-full.
I take it, and it’s all I can do not to down it in one. Although I’m no connoisseur, I know it’s a prestigious brand, and it looks delicious – straw gold and cold and fresh with lots of tiny bubbles like stars shooting up through the glass. I sit down and sip it in a genteel fashion, watching the butler take his leave. As soon as he’s gone, I scarf it. It’s as gorgeously refreshing as it looks and, being champagne, it’s too damn easy to drink. I pour and polish off another glass, then another. For a moment I feel guilty, and then I think, Bollocks to it. On the scale of whatever this lovely suite costs, a bottle of champagne isn’t worth thinking about. Whoever’s paying won’t bat an eyelid.
I kick off my heels and go for a walk around the suite, eyeing up the beautiful furniture glinting in the low light. I walk into the bedroom and try out the bed for size and comfort, and find it excellent in both respects. I check out the bathroom and am pleased by the sumptuous marble and the Asprey toiletries. This is the kind of luxury I could get accustomed to. It flashes across my mind that being a high-class call girl might be fun after all. How different is it, after all, to what I am doing now? I’m basically being paid to dress up and put out, only it’s Anne who’s the client in this skewed relationship that we have.
Speaking of Anne, I hear the main door snick shut and I turn and see her standing in the hallway with the room swipe still in her hand. She’s dressed in an elegant but muted way, in black linen trousers and a turtleneck topped by a dark cape. Her bob is sharp and faultless. She looks every bit the famous writer. In her other hand she’s holding sunglasses and I realise that she’s probably made efforts to arrive incognito. She’s still a ‘face’, despite her waning reputation. I’ll wager that the suite is booked under an assumed name.
Our eyes meet, and there’s the usual froideur to Anne’s demeanour. As she gestures for me to sit down, she looks me up and down in my playsuit, and I sense her approval by the way her eyes gleam. I’m
still not convinced she actually fancies me, that that’s her reason for watching me in all of these scenarios that she’s devised. But it seems I’ve hit the nail on the head in terms of what she expects of me tonight, and I’m pleased to have pleased her. I think again of my mother and her disinterest in me, and I wonder if I’m destined always to strive for the approval of older women.
I arrange myself on the sofa, to best advantage: side-on to her, knees bent, delicately bringing the champagne glass to my lips, no longer slugging it back like some dipsomaniac. I watch Anne for a sign of what is to come, and my faculties are all sharpened in anticipation: surely someone is about to arrive, the other actors in this little mise en scène of Anne’s.
Anne sits down opposite me, lights a cigarette. For a few moments there’s the usual silence, and I’m happy with that. It’s become like a ritual. If Anne thinks she can intimidate, even break me, this way, she’s very wrong.
But then, to my surprise, she clears her throat, leans forwards across the low table between us, and speaks. ‘What would you say,’ she asks, ‘if I told you you could have anything you want? Anyone you want.’
I stare at her. ‘I … I wouldn’t know where …’
I take a swig of champagne, wondering where she’s steering me. Is she talking about heartthrobs, about famous but unattainable people? Is she talking about sex on tropical beaches with an incredible sunset as a backdrop and a cocktail at hand, or is she talking about the reality of my life? Anne is no fairy godmother with a magic wand. Her powers are limited.
She looks at me, and there’s no kindness or mercy in her eyes. How could I have ever thought her motherly? But then, of course, with a mother like mine, my expectations were low.
‘So you haven’t learnt anything,’ she says, ‘over this past week? You don’t know anything about who you are, what you want? Have I been wasting my time?’
The Apprentice Page 18