“No. Sorry. It’s not in the terms.”
“Well, then, just one little kiss? Just a tiny one?”
“That’s not in the terms, either. You know that, Gerald. No kissing. No blow jobs.”
“Oh, I’d never ask for — for one of those.” He looked shocked.
“Well, that’s okay, then.”
“Next week?” Gerald stumbled to his feet and shook himself (he really did look just like a dog). “Shall I see you next week?”
“Next week,” Gabs agreed.
“Same place?”
“Sure. You’re paying.” The hotel was a nice one, and the room service excellent.
“I’ll see you then.” Gerald fumbled in his wallet and counted out money from a bundle of notes. “Is this all right?”
Gabs checked the money carefully and picked out a ten-pound note. “You’ve overpaid me,” she said, handing it back to him.
“No, no, that’s fine. You’re worth it.”
“Thanks.” Gabs pocketed the money. “Have a good week.”
As she walked through the hotel foyer, Gabs attracted a certain amount of attention. No doubt the hotel staff were unaccustomed to someone of her appearance (long pink hair, a tiny denim skirt, high-heeled cowboy boots, and multiple piercings of ears and face), but Gabs met their stares with a cool, level gaze.
“Someone going to open the door for me, then?” she enquired of no one in particular.
A uniformed flunky moved reluctantly forward.
“My money,” said Gabs, waving a twenty-pound note at him (but taking care not to let go of it), “is as good as anyone’s.” And she flounced out into the street.
Gabs was a Catholic and a tart. Not an easy combination, it is true, but as many have found before her, once a Catholic, it is very hard to escape from the Mother Church. And once a tart… well, that remained to be seen.
Of course, Gabs didn’t normally describe herself as a tart. The few to whom she’d confessed her preferred occupation were informed that she was “a high-class escort,” but in the end, it amounted to much the same thing.
Gabs herself would have disagreed, since she had strict guidelines and firm boundaries, and woe betide the gentleman who overstepped the mark. Besides this, she expected to be taken to respectable houses or (even better) posh hotels such as this for her liaisons; she had expensive tastes in food and wine (champagne and lobster were high on the list) and was happy to accompany clients on the occasional trip abroad. Her standards were high, it is true (if she can be said to have had such things), but she was rarely disappointed. For once a man had had a taste of Gabs (so to speak), he was usually enslaved, and he almost invariably came back for more.
Of course, not every man favoured the facial piercings and the pink hair, but both could be removed if the occasion required it. Her own hair was short and spiky and usually blond, but she tended to favour wigs for work, depending on her client’s taste. She could scrub up to look divine in a ball dress, or dumb down to resemble, well, a tart. Gabs was nothing if not flexible. She charged a lot for her services, but her clients got their money’s worth, and she received few complaints.
Gabs’ day job was a part-time care worker for a private agency — an odd type of work for someone of her calling, one might have thought, but Gabs was very soft-hearted and adored (and was adored by) the elderly people with whom she worked. The kisses that she refused her clients were generously bestowed upon her patients, and the former would have been astonished (not to say disappointed) to see the tenderness and empathy with which she carried out her duties. Many a time Gabs was urged to take up a full-time post, and even offered promotion, but her need to be free at short notice in case she was required by her clients precluded any kind of permanent commitment. This suited Gabs perfectly.
Now Gabs tap-tapped her way down the high street in her very high heels, ignoring the admiring glances and the whistles. She barely noticed the attention she attracted, for she was used to it. Gabs wasn’t beautiful — you couldn’t even have described her as pretty — but with her petite figure, her generous breasts, her huge green eyes, and her air of feminine vulnerability (in fact, there was nothing vulnerable about Gabs, but no one was to know that), she had the kind of sex appeal that men found totally irresistible. They wanted to gather her up and take her away with them; to protect her and look after her; and while there were few things Gabs needed less, she was happy to go along with the idea if it increased her clients’ delusions of masculine strength and dependability.
Gabs wasn’t vain. She liked the way she looked, and she made the most of it — apart from anything else, it paid the bills — but otherwise she took it for granted. She had never understood women who agonised over their faces or their figures. She realised that she was probably fortunate, but had always thought that had she been favoured with a different appearance, she could have coped quite happily. She would just have had to find a different job.
An hour later, she arrived back at her flat.
“Hi! I’m back.” She eased off her boots and threw her wig into a corner of the living room. “Steph? Are you in?”
“In my bedroom.”
Gabs followed the voice and found her sister sitting on the bed, trying to do something with her hair.
“Going out?” Gabs asked.
“Yes. But my hair…” Steph wailed. “It goes all frizzy in this weather.”
“Borrow one of my wigs,” Gabs said, sitting down beside her. “Much less trouble than trying to sort out your own. I’ve got this great auburn one —”
“But everyone knows I haven’t got auburn hair!”
“Of course they do. And they’ll know you’ve borrowed mine. Does it matter? It would suit you.”
“Gabs, you don’t understand. I like to look real.”
“And I don’t?”
“No — yes — oh, you know what I mean. You don’t mind.”
“That’s true.” Gabs looked at her sister critically. “That top doesn’t suit you. It’s too — black.”
“How can anything be too black?”
“Quite easily. I’ve got this turquoise one — it’s quite new — it would look great with those jeans.”
Steph turned to face her. “Gabs, will you stop trying to make me look like you? I’ll never have your figure, and I’ll never be as — sexy as you are, but I like to choose what I do to make the best of what I’ve got. I don’t need your clothes or your wigs or —”
“Okay, okay. Keep your hair on.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“No. But it was quite funny.” Gabs laughed. “Lighten up, Steph, for goodness’ sake. Tell you what. Let me straighten your hair for you, and then I’ll do your make-up, shall I?”
“Oh, would you?”
“Course. And before you say anything, I’ll do nice conventional make-up. Less is more and all that.”
“No funny colours?”
“Absolutely no funny colours.”
Half an hour later, Steph was transformed. The frizzy hair had been straightened and lay obediently on her shoulders, and her face had been made up in tasteful shades of soft browns and corals, with just a hint of shimmer on the cheeks.
“There,” said Gabs. “How’s that?”
“Wow! That looks great. Thanks.” Steph turned to her. “You know, you could do this for a living. You’re brilliant at it.”
“No, thanks,” said Gabs. “I prefer the job I’ve got.”
“Jobs, you mean.”
“Okay. Jobs, then.”
“You know, Dad still has no idea what you do.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
“Gabs —” Steph took Gabs’s hand — “it’s not — it’s not good for you, you know.”
“It’s very good for me.” Gabs pulled a handful of banknotes out of her pocket. “Look. Can’t be bad for a day’s work, can it?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean
. But give it a rest, Steph, will you, and stop doing the older sister thing? You and I will never agree. And I accept what you do, don’t I?”
“But I’m an estate agent!”
“Exactly.”
“You’re impossible!”
“Quite probably.”
Steph turned back towards the mirror and put on a pair of pearl earrings. “Have you got your meeting this evening?” she asked.
“Yep. Should be fun.”
“It’s not meant to be fun, is it?”
“Well, it wasn’t when poor old Father Cuthbert was in charge, but it could be now the pressure’s off.”
“What pressure?”
“The pressure to change and become good little Catholics once more.”
“Good little Catholics can have fun too, you know,” said Steph, who was herself a very good little Catholic — Mass every Sunday, confession once a fortnight, the works.
“I’m sure they can. Just not as much fun.”
“So what will you do now? What will you talk about?”
“I’ve no idea. We’ll probably have a good old gossip, get rat-arsed, and come home again.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that!”
“That’s probably why I do it.”
“And I wish you’d stop teasing.”
After her sister had left for her date (if that’s what it was), Gabs wondered how it was that the two of them managed to coexist. She knew that Steph disapproved of almost everything she did, and for her part, she couldn’t imagine a more boring existence than that led by her sister, but maybe that was it. They complemented each other. Personalities apart, Gabs was tidy, while Steph seemed incapable of putting anything away; Gabs’ cooking consisted of things-on-toast (or other things out of packets), while Steph could knock up a soufflé or a risotto at a moment’s notice; Steph had always been the good girl and Gabs the bad girl. Even their looks were so different that people had difficulty in believing that they were sisters. Gabs’ face was gamine, her figure (apart from the breasts) tiny, while Steph fought an ongoing battle with her weight and her mouse-coloured frizzy hair. But once they’d got their childhood out of the way (for sixteen years, they’d fought like cats), they had become good friends, and while they had — and regularly aired — their many differences, on the whole they managed to get along pretty well.
The Basic Theology classes had been Steph’s idea. She’d heard about the scheme via someone from church, whose daughter had been invited (but refused) to attend, and had immediately thought of her errant sister. Of course, Gabs would almost certainly say no, but it was worth a try.
To her great surprise, Gabs said yes, and after only minimal hesitation. The idea of the Basic Theology class both entertained and intrigued her, and while she was going for all the wrong reasons (Steph knew her sister too well to have any illusions on that score), at least she was going.
“Basic theology for fallen women!” she’d cried delightedly.
“Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Steph had said.
“You couldn’t have put it as well as that,” countered Gabs rather unkindly.
“Besides, there’ll be men too, I expect,” Steph reminded her.
“So much the better,” Gabs said. “I know. You could come with me. You could hold my hand.”
“Since when have you ever needed your hand held? Anyway, I don’t need the course,” Steph replied, with justification (Steph was, incredibly, still a virgin).
“I don’t need it, but it might be fun.”
“Everything you do seems to be fun.”
“Too right. Otherwise what’s the point?”
So far, Gabs had rather enjoyed the meetings, although they would certainly have been more entertaining if the members had included at least one kindred spirit. As it was, everyone was terribly earnest, and there had been confessions and tears and a great deal of Catholic guilt. When it had come to her turn, Gabs had been unrepentant and had shocked her fellow members with her frank disclosures of her goings-on.
“You don’t — you don’t actually get paid for doing that?” one member had asked when Gabs had “confessed” to a particularly bizarre practice (mercifully, Father Cuthbert was out of the room at the time).
“It’s my job. Course I get paid. You get paid for doing your job, don’t you?”
“Then why are you here?” someone had made bold to ask.
“Because,” said Gabs, “you never know. I just might have something to learn.”
It was clear from the start that poor Father Cuthbert didn’t know what to do with Gabs. He couldn’t really ask her to leave, since she behaved nicely, waited her turn, and listened attentively to what everyone else had to say. On the other hand, he obviously thought she was a bad influence, and her lack of any kind of conscience bothered him.
“Have you thought what this is doing to the marriages of these — these men?” he’d asked.
“Not my responsibility,” Gabs had replied. “After all, I don’t ask them to come. They come looking for me. And if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. Someone not nearly as good,” she’d added in an undertone.
“What was that?” Father Cuthbert was rather deaf.
“Nothing,” said Gabs, reaching for the last chocolate digestive.
But now there would be just the three of them. Despite what she’d said to Steph, Gabs wasn’t at all sure why she’d agreed to meet up, and she wasn’t sure about Alice and Mavis, either. True, they both seemed pleasant enough, and Alice at least appeared to have some sense of humour, but they were both so serious. Of course, they probably had reason to be, since they both claimed to be in love with other people’s husbands, but without Father Cuthbert to tease, Gabs thought the meetings might be a bit flat.
Gabs herself had never been in love. While she had been violently attracted, many times, she was wise enough and experienced enough to suspect that there was a considerable gulf between sexual attraction and real love. But of one thing she was sure. When she did meet the right man — and she was sure that sooner or later this would happen — her days as an escort would be over. Others might have disagreed, but Gabs had her principles, and among these, loyalty had always been one of the foremost.
Had she known what it was to be in love, it is doubtful whether Gabs would ever have taken up her unusual calling. As it was, she fell into it more or less by accident.
The accident was called Gavin — an uncouth young man, ill-favoured in appearance, with few social skills and no sexual experience whatsoever. Gabs had taken pity on him at a party, one thing had led to another, and she had ended up introducing him to the kind of riotous, glorious, and unconventional sex that most men can only dream about. Gavin’s thanks had been profuse, and his words had remained in Gabs’ mind long after Gavin himself had left it: “You are so so good at this! You’ve changed my life!”
Gabs wasn’t accustomed to being good at anything. While Steph had been to university, she had left school at sixteen with no qualifications and little hope of earning any kind of decent living, and had drifted aimlessly from job to job, earning just enough to get by. But now she had it on authority that she was actually good at something. Admittedly Gavin had had no one to compare her with, but she knew that what he’d said was true. She was good at sex. When she came to think about it, she felt good at sex. Totally unembarrassed, completely confident, and perfectly happy in her own body (which in itself was a considerable asset), it suddenly seemed that she was made for the job. All she had to do now was to find her clients.
This of course took time. No one can set up in Gabs’ line of business overnight, and she depended on word of mouth rather than scrappy advertisements in phone boxes (and since the advent of mobile phones, phone boxes themselves were in short supply). Besides this, Gabs didn’t want anyone to have any illusions about the services she provided, and to that effect she produced her list of terms, which clients were required to read before they’d so much as taken off their shoe
s. But once the rules were read and understood, she proved both generous and inventive, and that, together with her growing collection of props, contributed to her success. At the time of the theology lessons, Gabs had as much business as she needed and was making a very comfortable living.
Now Gabs made herself a sandwich and changed into jeans and a sweater. She ran her fingers through her hair, touched up her eyelashes, and applied a crimson slash of lipstick.
It was time to go.
The First Meeting: February
Mavis waited in her living-room. It was a very long time since she had invited anyone to her house, and she was surprised to find that she was feeling quite apprehensive. She wanted — no, she needed — the continued contact with Alice and Gabs, but wasn’t at all sure that the friendship (if that was what it was) would survive beyond the safe, if rather stifling, confines of the presbytery. Like a plant removed from its pot, it could just crumble away at the roots, leaving the three protagonists to flounder on their own once more.
It wasn’t that Father Cuthbert had been particularly hospitable or that she had enjoyed his obvious disapproval, but he had taken control of the meetings, and on the one or two occasions when feelings threatened to run high, it had been Father Cuthbert who had sorted things out.
Would that be her job now, Mavis wondered. Did that responsibility belong to the host, as well as the provision of the crisps and the wine? She hoped the wine would be acceptable (Mavis knew very little about wine) and that the crisps weren’t stale. She tried one, and it seemed fine. Cheese and onion flavour. Of course, not everyone liked cheese and onion. Perhaps she should have bought some salt and vinegar as well, or plain. Plain would have been safer. But there was no time now to go shopping for plain crisps.
She checked the room once more and closed a small gap in the curtains. There was a clean hand towel in the bathroom, and Mother was tucked safely up in bed. She hoped very much that the house didn’t smell of urine, as she suspected it sometimes did. She herself was so used to the smell of her own home that it was hard to tell.
The cat put his head round the door. For once, his expression was obsequious, pleading. He probably sensed that he was not welcome (he wasn’t) and that it would be better to approach with tact rather than his usual belligerence. Mavis shooed him out and shut him in the kitchen, where she left him snarling unpleasantly.
Women Behaving Badly_An uplifting, feel-good holiday read Page 4