The Mistake I Made

by Paula Daly

  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.

  Perhaps she was, I thought idly, as she left the path, cutting an angle across the grass. Perhaps, in between speaking with me this morning and this moment, she h
ad come to discover just what I’d been doing with Scott Elias in a country hotel. Today was Thursday. I was scheduled to meet Scott once more at a different venue on Friday and, apart from the general feeling of anxiety that comes with conducting oneself as a secret prostitute, unlike before, this time I wasn’t totally dreading it.

  Here’s what I learned about Scott Elias the night before last: His pleasure was derived directly from the pleasure he gave to the woman he was with.

  I’d say he wasn’t unusual in this respect. Most men I’d known were not selfish in bed. Scratch that, none of the men I’d known were selfish in bed. They wanted their woman to come. They wanted to be the one to make their woman come. They needed to feel her muscles contracting hard around them to reach orgasm themselves.

  Scott was no different. Except that I’d mistakenly assumed that, since he was paying for it, my enjoyment wouldn’t be part of the deal.

  I was wrong. Scott was tender, lustful, giving and, as I lay there at three in the morning, when we finally decided to call it a night, I was thinking, Did that really just happen? It was not the most mind-blowing sex of my life, but I’ll say this, it certainly wasn’t the worst sex I’d ever had. The electrifying joy of true desire was absent, but I was more than a little into it. And compared with some of the shoddy experiences I’d had in the past, there was the additional turn-on to be had just from the sheer decadence of the whole thing.

  I made up my mind there and then that if Scott wanted to repeat the evening, I would do it.

  Four thousand pounds for one night?

  I didn’t have the luxury of refusing.

  In a few weeks I could be back on my feet. I could pay off my landlord, clear the credit-card balance and reimburse people I never thought I’d be able to pay back in this lifetime.

  It would be a chance to start over. To finally put the mistakes of my past behind me. I had to do it again.

  ‘Crisp sandwiches?’ said Petra disdainfully after we’d embraced, tutting and shaking her head as she dusted down the bench before sitting next to me.

  ‘Do you want a bite?’

  ‘Go on then,’ she said, and opened her mouth wide. Still chewing, she held up her left index finger. ‘Does that look swollen to you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What do you think I’ve done?’

  ‘No idea.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Roz, at least pretend to be a little interested. I know you have to deal with this all day, but I’m worried. Could it be arthritis?’

  ‘You’ve probably strained it picking up a suitcase.’

  ‘So you don’t think I should go for blood tests?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But what if it is arthritis?’

  ‘It won’t be. But if it’ll make you feel better, go for the tests. I wouldn’t bother, though. If it still hurts in a week,’ I said wearily, ‘I’ll look at it.’

  Pacified, Petra let her full weight fall against the bench, tilting her face towards the sun, before exhaling long and hard. ‘God, I feel like I’ve been cooped up for ever in that office. It’s so nice to be out.’

  ‘You’ve only been back a day.’

  ‘Yes, but you want to see all the crap they’ve left for me. They do nothing when I’m not there. Honestly, they just throw everything on to my desk with no thought as to how I’m going to get through it.’

  Petra worked three mornings and one full day a week as the school secretary. The size of the place didn’t warrant a full-time position. To listen to her, you’d be under the impression that the place would fall down around them without her there to run it properly.

  ‘Did Clara have a nice time with Liz?’ I asked.

  Liz was Vince’s sister. She was single, again. Relationship after relationship seemed to fizzle out, leaving the poor woman wounded and bewildered, with no clear idea what she was doing wrong.

  Keeping her face angled towards the sun, Petra shifted in her seat. ‘I wanted to talk to you about that,’ she said, her words taking on a sharp tone. ‘Clara says that Liz has been bullying her.’

  ‘Bullying?’

  ‘Well, perhaps bullying’s too strong a word,’ she conceded, ‘but she has been picking on her. How do you think I should broach the subject with Liz?’

  ‘Perhaps Clara’s exaggerating?’ I suggested, thinking of Vince’s gentle sister, who doted on her niece and who I’d never once witnessed being unkind to anyone.

  Called to mind also was the brooding nature of Clara, who protested if she felt outshined or excluded, even in a minor way. Petra would feel her daughter’s hurt, often launching a direct attack on the perpetrator as a result.

  This mindset made Petra unwaveringly fair when dealing with groups of children. Which I admired – everyone was included, everyone invited. But if her own child was shunned? Woe betide. She’d be out gunning for whoever was responsible.

  ‘I’m sure you’d have something to say if George was being bullied,’ Petra said.

  ‘You know I would. But I think you should check again with Clara first before you risk offending Liz. She’s a sweet woman, Petra, I can’t imagine she would even dream of—’

  ‘Okay, okay, let’s drop it,’ she said abruptly, when it was clear I wasn’t going to give her the outraged response she was hoping for.

  Oh dear. Liz was in for a roasting.

  ‘So what have you been up to since I’ve been away?’ she asked, now brightly.

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘Seen anyone?’

  ‘Not really. Work and more work.’

  She turned to face me, lifting her sunglasses and giving a small, sympathetic smile. ‘Vince let it slip that money was tight again,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Money’s always tight.’

  ‘How bad is it this time?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  Silence.

  ‘It’s just—’ Petra said, and stopped. She blinked hard a couple of times and I thought for a moment she wouldn’t actually go where I knew she was going with this.

  Ultimately, she was unable to restrain what she had to say. ‘It’s just that I really don’t want a repeat of last time, Roz.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be.’

  ‘That’s the thing,’ she replied. ‘I am worried.’

  ‘You needn’t be.’

  ‘You’ve said that before.’

  ‘Leave it, Petra.’

  She dropped her glasses to cover her eyes and fell silent as we watched a young bearded guy throw sticks into the lake for his retriever. He wore an olive-green T-shirt, which hung loose around his lanky frame, and a pair of matching olive trousers. The uniform of a tree surgeon. At one point the dripping dog hurtled out of the water straight towards a pug being led along the path a few feet in front of us. Petra flinched, gripping the seat of the bench with both hands. One fast shake from the retriever and we’d be soaked.

  ‘So you’ve not asked them then?’ Petra said, her words casual, said in a way that belied just how much weight they carried.

  ‘No.’

  I could feel the static in the air. A quick sideways glance towards Petra revealed she was rigid with tension, and it was clear what this meeting was really about.

  ‘Because I’d rather you asked me for money than it come to that again,’ she said.

  ‘It won’t come to that.’

  And she nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ she said finally. ‘If you say so. I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it.’

  When I first began hunting for property from which to run my physiotherapy practice, it was evident pretty quickly that it was going to be slim pickings. There were no short-term leases or what I would consider fair rental agreements. Property was in high demand and so was at a premium. Landlords around Windermere and Bowness were tying tenants up in ten-year leases, the majority of the buildings needed extensive external and internal maintenance; some were even without heating. I needed a place with two treatment rooms, a waiting area, a toilet (all p
referably at ground level, for patients who had difficulty walking) and within easy reach of somewhere to park.

  Such a place did not exist, and it was at this point, when I was considering giving up on the dream and either staying with the NHS or renting cheaper premises in Kendal, that my dad advised me to buy. Naturally, the prices were extortionate, the business rates cruel, but my main problem was that I wasn’t eligible for a commercial property mortgage unless I had a forty per cent deposit. Which I didn’t.

  Not wanting to see me walk away from my vision, my parents came to me one evening, with the intent of withdrawing money from their savings to invest in the practice. Property prices were still rising, interest rates on savings were low, and they decided that their money was safer in bricks and mortar rather than the bank and they could even see a greater return on it.

  They loaned me a hundred and ten thousand pounds. Money they’d accrued from downsizing to a two-bedroom bungalow, money that was to supplement their pensions when the time came. And I borrowed the remaining two hundred and forty thousand from the bank.

  After Winston’s wage cut, his womanizing, the loss of the baby, the credit cards and his subsequent departure from our home, my mind wasn’t exactly on the job. I couldn’t make the payments on both the mortgage on the business and the one on our house, and I lost it all.

  The properties were repossessed by the bank. And because I was too ashamed, I didn’t tell anyone about the extent of the mess until it was too late and there was no time for a quick sale at a much-reduced price – meaning my parents ended up with nothing, when they could have perhaps salvaged at least some of their money.

  What I should have done at that point was declare bankruptcy – wipe out Winston’s loan and the credit-card debt. But a combination of pride and worry about being turned down for a mortgage in the future meant I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  Just before retirement, and after much soul searching, my parents put their bungalow on the market and moved to Silloth – over an hour’s drive away, in a cheaper part of the county – to ensure they could live out their years with adequate money.