The Hostess

by L. P. Gibbs

  Just then, Alan Randall came in, chatting and laughing with two men in grey suits. He introduced them to Callum, the barman as his 'good friends', asking him to 'look after them'. Leaving them to the mercy of the barman, he turned and was about to leave when he saw the two girls sitting at the table.

  He walked over to them with that disarming smile of his playing across his face. Samantha could feel her heart fluttering as he sat beside her and waved in the general direction of the bar. A double measure of Jack Daniels bourbon with two ice cubes appeared at his elbow within a few seconds as if by magic. It was the real thing too. The barman would never dare even think of trying to con Alan Randall or water his drink down. Randall was a 'face' not to be reckoned with. He nodded his thanks to Callum and winked at the girls.

  “Been a quiet night,” he said, raising the smeared glass to his lips. “I think I deserve this.” The fiery liquid almost went down in two swift gulps and he rested the near empty glass back on the chipped, Formica topped table.

  “How did you two get on at the club tonight then?” he enquired. The pleasing aroma of his Aramis after-shave lotion gradually wafted across the table and Samantha smiled to herself.

  They told him that their evening had been remarkably dull with very few customers and that they were considering other avenues of employment as they had earned very little that night. He looked at them through half-closed eyes for a moment before replying. He took a weathered business card from the breast pocket of his jacket and slid it across the stained table to Samantha. She picked it up to scrutinise it and Carla leaned in sideways to read it at the same time. The glossy, expensive looking purple card with gold embossed lettering read; 'Belgravia Escorts.' Samantha was a little taken aback. She looked up at Randall with a quizzical expression. He immediately noticed the look on her face, smiled and started to shake his head.

  “Don't worry,” he told her, patting her hand. “This place isn't all about sex. Not unless you want to, of course.” He took a cigarette from a packet and lit it from his silver Zippo petrol lighter.

  “No, it's one of the very few really decent escort companies in London. It's run by Michelle Allman, a woman I've known for many years. She used to be a hostess at Corkies, one of the other clip-joints in Soho at one time in the past, then her old man was killed in a nasty car crash on the M1 and she came into quite a bit of the insurance money. She then packed up the hostessing and started up this escorting business.” Alan took a final drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the tin ashtray. “All you have to do is go to these posh dinners, functions or parties with the different clients. As long as you make it clear from the start that sex is not on the cards for them, you'll be alright. It's pretty good money, too I believe.”

  At this point he stood up, drained his glass and smiled at them again. “Have a think about it and if you're interested, I'll give Michelle a call and let her know who you are and to tell her it's okay to give you a chance at the job. Okay?” Assuming that everything was okay, he winked again, turned and disappeared through the open doorway and down the stairs to the street below.

  Carla and Samantha left the drinker half an hour later and, just as it was beginning to get light, took a black taxi back to Samantha's room in Camden Town. Snuggling together under the blankets with their arms about each other in the single bed, they talked about what Randall had told them and, by the time the early morning rush-hour traffic began to rumble noisily beneath the window, they had decided to look into the prospect of escorting.

  That evening when the pair arrived for work at the club they asked Randall to introduce them to Michelle with a view to getting escorting work. He readily agreed and said they had made a good choice. He promised that he would telephone Michelle the following day and arrange a meeting.

  As agreed, at eleven thirty the following Monday morning, Alan Randall picked up the two girls in his Ford Granada from the house in Camden Town. Fit was forty minutes later that they arrived at a large detached property on Wellington Road in Bush Hill Park, Enfield.

  Randall led the way along a wide, flagstone path lined with miniature conifer trees and hydrangea to the huge, highly polished wooden front door and rang the brass door-bell. Just a few moments later, the door was answered by a tall, attractive woman in her early forties with long, blonde hair curling just below her shoulders. A dazzling, gold charm bracelet holding a number of items rattled on her slim wrist and a gold and sapphire necklace hung at her throat. She was expertly made up and had a small, fluffy white dog tucked under her arm, its tail wagging so rapidly that its rear end almost wriggled out of her firm grasp.

  “Hello, Chelle,” Randall said.

  The two girls looked up at her in amazement. Standing a little over six feet tall, she even towered over Randall. She beamed at him, put a hand on his shoulder and then turned her smile at the girls.

  “It's lovely to see you again, Alan,” she said, returning her face to him. “It must be a few years since I last saw you. I can remember you bringing punters to the club and haggling for the door money.”

  “Lots of water under the bridge since then, love,” he replied.

  “Come on in then and bring these two young lovelies with you.” She said, turned and almost floated away down the hall. The trio followed her into an enormous sitting room that appeared to be filled with two gigantic pink sofas and a matching armchair with footstool. A smoked glass coffee table held a couple of magazines, The Lady and Country Life. Lacy net curtains with a slight hint of lilac mixed with a pale pink swept down in front of the two big sash windows flanked by luxurious velvet curtains in a deeper shade of lilac which were held back with tassled tie-backs. On the section of wall in between the two windows was a large, framed, rectangular picture of The Queen, smiling gracefully down on them. A brass picture-light shone down on to it from above. Michelle gracefully lowered herself into the armchair and gently placed the dog on the plush carpet. It shot her a glance, looked at the three unknown intruders and then scampered out of the room. Randall opened the conversation.

  “Michelle, this is Samantha and,” nodding in the other girl's direction, “Carla. At the moment they're working for Lennie Harris at Silk's but are looking to find something extra to make a bit more money. I've told them you might be able to help.” Michelle had already taken in the girls' looks and dress style before sitting down. She already knew she could make money from them.

  “I think you'll do just fine,” she said with a warm smile. “The way it works is like this.” She paused to light a long, thin, coloured cheroot from a gold Ronson table lighter. “I will find you discerning clients that have been vetted by me and they pay me. After the assignment has been completed satisfactorily, I then pay you in cash. There are no receipts or pay-slips. Just cash in hand. Is that okay?” The girls nodded and Michelle continued. “You would be expected to be pleasant and charming to the client and any of his colleagues or his guests if it's a party. I do not condone any of my girls selling themselves for sex, although I do know it happens quite often. But that has nothing to do with me and I don't want to know about it, but if you ever feel pressured by a client for sex and you don't want to go down that route, you are perfectly at liberty to walk away from him providing you contact me immediately and appraise me of the situation. Does any of this appeal to you do you think?” Samantha looked across at Randall who was leaning nonchalantly against the door frame with one hand in his leather jacket pocket and the other holding a cigarette. He nodded his head by a mere quarter of an inch in her direction and winked at her at the same time.

  “I think it sounds an ideal way to make some extra money, don't you, Carla?”

  “It does if it really is as simple as that,” Carla responded with a slight frown. “How much do we get paid?”

  “It depends on the assignment, the type of client and how long you are likely to be in his company,” Michelle explained. “Some of my clients get charged at a higher rate than others according to their finances and req
uirements. For instance, if you are just having dinner with a businessman who is trying to impress colleagues, that would be around three hours and you would earn about fifty pounds. To attend a dinner dance or a party where you would be expected to stay until the early hours of the morning, it could be as much as a hundred and twenty pounds. It varies so much, but I would tell you how much before you accepted the assignment.” The two girls looked at each other for a few moments. Carla spoke first.

  “Well, I'm in,” she said with a laugh. Samantha nodded.

  “Me too,” she said.

  Michelle stood and walked across to a large walnut drinks cabinet and opened the front to reveal an array of bottles and glasses. From a cool-box on one side she produced a bottle of Krug champagne and held it out to Randall while lifting some glasses with her other hand.

  “It seems we are in business then. Will you do the honours for us, Alan?” she asked with a smile. He came forward from the door frame and took the bottle. He wrapped a crisp, white serviette around the top and neck of the bottle and released the wire that covered the cork. With a slow, twisting motion he expertly released the cork with the very more of a hiss than a popping sound. None of the liquid spilled from the neck of the bottle. It was an action that Randall had done many times in the past. Samantha watched him in silent admiration. 'Trust Alan to be able to do that so well,' she thought. He tilted each glass to one side and slowly poured the champagne into three of the glasses that Michelle had placed on an oval glass coffee table in the centre of the room. “You not joining us, Alan?” Michelle enquired, her eyebrows raised.

  “No thanks,” he replied. “Don't really like the stuff, if I'm honest. Besides, I'm driving as well.” He crushed out his cigarette in a large, blue, glass ashtray on the table and returned to the door frame, retaking his leaning position with ease, brushing an invisible speck from the leg of his trousers.

  As neither of the girls had a telephone, it was arranged that they would call Michelle each Monday morning and she would tell them of any jobs that were lined up for the week ahead that they might be interested in. They were told that they were at liberty to turn down any assignment that they felt was not right for them. They left the house an hour or so later and Randall deliberately lingered on the doorstep while Samantha and Carla walked back to his car.

  “D'you reckon they'll be alright?” he asked as he watched them go.

  “I think so, love,” Michelle replied. “Both of them are attractive enough and well-spoken too.” She took a long drag on a new cheroot before glancing sideways at Randall. Looking at him through half-closed eyes, she spoke softly.

  “Be careful how you treat that Samantha, Alan,” she said knowingly.

  “What d'you mean?”

  “Well, she's mad about you. You do know that, don't you?”

  “How can you tell that? We've had a couple of nights together, but that's about it.” Randall was genuinely surprised at Michelle's statement.

  “I noticed how she was watching you; hardly took her eyes off you except when I was speaking to her.”

  “Can't say that I noticed,” he told her.

  “I think she's a bit smitten, Alan, so tread carefully.” With that, she leaned forward with a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, off with you and get them home.” Randall gave her one of his winks and ambled down the path to join the two girls waiting beside his car.

  The following Monday morning at ten o'clock, found the two girls crammed into the red phone box on the corner of Royal College Street. Carla had taken to staying with Samantha most nights now and was thinking of giving up her bedsit and going halves with the other girl's rent to save a bit of money for both of them. Samantha rummaged in her bag and pulled out Michelle's business card. Carla dialled Michelle's number and they almost held their breath while waiting for her to answer. It rang several times before a young man's voice came on the line.

  “Belgravia Escorts,” said the effeminate voice. “How may I help you?” Carla stifled a giggle then composed herself.

  “Oh, hello. Michelle is expecting us to call. It's Carla and Samantha.”

  “That's right,” the young man said. “She told me you were calling. I'll just put you through to her.” There was a click and Mozart's Symphony Number 40 began to play softly through the handset. After four or five seconds, Michelle's soft, purring voice came on the line.

  “Hi, Carla,” she said. “I hope you two are ready for work? I've got something lined up for you both this coming Friday evening.” She went on to give them their respective assignments. Samantha was to have dinner with an important Member of Parliament at one of London's best hotels and Carla's job was to accompany the managing director of a well-known insurance company to a party at a large country house on a magnificent estate near Welham Green in Hertfordshire.

  Carla scribbled all the necessary details down in a large notebook they had bought for the purpose from a nearby newsagents. They were both giggling with anticipation as they exited the call box and made their way back to Samantha's room, arm in arm. They didn't work that night but when they went into Silk's the following evening, Samantha told Randall all about her assignment for Michelle. She couldn't contain her excitement and blurted it all out to him as she entered the club. Carla went downstairs ahead of her. Randall smiled as he squeezed her upper arm.

  “Calm down,” he told her with a grin. “You're acting like an excited schoolgirl and you look fit to burst.”

  “I can't help it, Alan,” she retorted, almost jumping up and down. “I'm going to be earning eighty pounds on Friday and Carla's getting a hundred. I'll be having dinner with an MP at the Grosvenor Hotel.” She held both hands to her cheeks, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. She made nearly forty pounds that night at the club, which would normally be a good wage, but she then realised how much more she could make working for Michelle and Belgravia Escorts.

  It was arranged for a car to collect Samantha from her home that Friday evening at seven o'clock. Wearing her recently purchased red cocktail dress and a loose pink silk shawl, she was waiting at the top of the steps at five minutes to seven. She had decided to throw a short black coat across her shoulders as the early October evening was chilly.

  A black Ford Dorchester stretch limousine came into view along the road and almost silently halted beside her. With the engine idling softly, the chauffeur nodded a smile at her as he came round the front of the car and opened the rear door for her with his gloved hand. She stepped carefully down the steps in her high heeled shoes, gripping the rail at one side and climbed into the vehicle. Samantha was alone in the cavernous rear compartment of the car. As it pulled gently away from the kerb, the central partition slid electrically down and the driver spoke over his shoulder, his eyes glancing at her approvingly in the rear-view mirror.

  “I have to take you to Half Moon Street to collect Sir Harvey Constantine, the Conservative Member of Parliament.” Samantha leaned forward a little to catch what was being said to her.

  “What's he like?” she asked, trying her best to disguise her Geordie accent, even though it had softened considerably since she arrived in London. Michelle had instructed her to be careful of what she said and how she said it. Her main objective was to be seen and rarely heard unless a question was directly put to her. The driver looked down his nose at her again through the mirror before replying.

  “He's a gentleman,” he stated with more than a little emphasis. “You will do well to remember your place while you're in his company.” The glass partition slid back up indicating that any further conversation was unwelcome.

  Some fifteen minutes later, the limousine navigated from Park Lane, then turned off Piccadilly and into Half Moon Street, coming to a gradual halt halfway along the road. The chauffeur got out and stood by the rear door, his hands clasped in front of him.

  A couple of minutes later, the dark blue door to one of the buildings opened and a man wearing a camel-haired coat over a black dinner s
uit emerged. He was in his mid forties, she guessed. A full head of fair hair swept across his forehead and just about touched his collar at the back. There was a look of determination on the man's kindly face and she immediately took a liking to him. The man stood at the top of the steps and adjusted his bow-tie. He half nodded at the driver who had opened the rear door for him. Sliding into the leather seat next to Samantha, he turned to look at her. In that first fraction of a second he had taken in her appearance, studied her face and come to a conclusion about the girl. She could tell that he liked what he saw. He beamed at her, his teeth flashing brilliant white between his full lips.

  “Good evening,” he said in a soft, well-spoken voice with a warm smile. “I'm Harvey, and you are?”

  “Samantha,” she replied, offering her hand as she had been told to. He took it and squeezed gently.

  “I assume Miss Allman has appraised you of my requirements.” He made it sound like a statement rather than a question. “However, I'll make things clearer for you, just in case and to avoid any misconceptions you may have.” Harvey settled back and made himself comfortable, straightening his overcoat before continuing. “I have absolutely no interest in women at all, if you understand my meaning?” This time it was a question. He raised his eyebrows as he asked it. She nodded her answer, remembering her instruction to say as little as possible whilst on the assignment. The MP continued. “As far as any person we meet with tonight is concerned, you are simply one of my researchers. If anyone asks what you are working on or researching at the moment, just say that it is only general research duties on my behalf and that you are not allowed to talk about it, official secrets and all that sort of thing. That should shut the nosey buggers up.” He smiled to himself and nodded. “Other than that, you should have quite a nice evening being wined and dined at one of the best hotels that London has to offer, and getting well paid for it as well. We are going to a gala dinner to celebrate the retirement of Lord Marchand, a frightful old bore but a decent chap, nonetheless.” He wrinkled his nose a little as if he were only going to the dinner out of duty rather than preference. He nudged her gently with his elbow. “If nothing else, it will be entertaining enough, although full of these stuffy old bores.” Laughing out loud, he patted her knee in reassurance and then returned his eyes forward, watching the road ahead through the glass, or maybe it was the chauffeur that had caught his attention, she couldn't be sure.