The Accidental Call Girl (12 page)

Taking a deep breath, Lizzie strode towards the dining room. She’d have to run the gamut of the Traditional Sunday Lunch diners. How many of them would have the imagination to divine her and John’s secret? She’d just be a woman dining with her date, to them, even if half the staff of the Waverley seemed to believe she was an escort, even if she wasn’t one.

At the threshold, she drew in a deep breath and scanned the room. Was he here, after all? Jumbo-sized butterflies skittered around in her chest, and she braced herself for disappointment, amazed how piercing that prospect was. But then she saw him, sitting at a table in a discreet bay window alcove. It was probably the nicest location in the room, and perfect for lovers, with a bit of privacy and a lovely view of the Waverley’s beautifully manicured gardens.

The best table in the house. For me, supposedly a prostitute. Bless you, John; even if I were a working girl you’d make me feel like a princess.

And as he turned towards her, dazzling her with a smile that reached out across the entire length of the room, her heart lifted, and she smiled back, and began to weave her way between the tables, towards him.

She’s a vision. Every time different. So beautiful . . .

John couldn’t help but smile as Bettie crossed the room, heading towards him. She looked as fresh as springtime in her pretty vintage sundress, with its full, blue, polka-dot adorned skirt, and a little jacket modestly covering her creamy shoulders. There was a total innocence about her, a quality of being exquisitely untouched, despite the enthusiasm he knew she’d exhibit the moment he touched her. Her shiny black hair was pulled back in a 1950s pony-tail, and she wore barely any make-up, apart from her trademark lip-tint. He’d never seen an escort look quite like her. Which made sense, because he’d wager far more than he was paying her that she hadn’t been long in the life. That she was still optimistically believing it was ‘just temporary’ and that she wouldn’t allow herself to get trapped . . . or jaded.

He wondered how much she needed the money. He barely knew her yet, but he sensed she was a smart and savvy girl. Wasn’t there something else she could do? Some career or other? A thought came out of left field. Perhaps he could sponsor her or something? Get her started in a small business, or perhaps fund a course? Support her in a way that was nothing to do with sex. She wouldn’t be the only one, he thought, the old, familiar shudder of guilt rippling through him.

But if he did become her benefactor, would she . . . would she still see him as a lover too? He frowned. In a way he’d still be paying her for services . . . It still wouldn’t be the same as her fucking him and succumbing to his hand just because she wanted to, without him giving her a penny? The cash meant nothing to him, but it would still be there, the elephant in the room.

Oh, get a grip, man. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just enjoy . . .

And there was much to enjoy as she seemed to glide towards him like an old-time movie star. His cock hardened at the thought of the games they’d played thus far. He’d not had this much fun with a woman in years, and his heart lifted, along with his flesh, in anticipation.

‘Bettie! So glad you could come.’

The words were total honesty. Weird as their situation was, he
was
happy. Strangely light-hearted. Springing to his feet before the waiter could arrive and do the honours, he darted around the table to ease out her chair so she could sit. She nibbled her lovely rosy lower lip as she took her seat, looking a little nervous, but also excited. The little action made his cock lurch again and he resisted the urge to check himself. God, here he was in a public restaurant sporting a massive hard-on and she hadn’t even spoken yet.

But something must have alerted her. Her black lashes fluttered, she glanced where he’d avoided, and her cheeks blushed rosy. ‘Good grief, John, you are pleased to see me. Or is that a pistol in your pocket, as they say?’

‘I blame you for that, Bettie, you shouldn’t look so luscious. I’ve lost my appetite for lunch now . . . in lieu of something else.’

‘Well,
I’m
hungry,’ she replied pertly as he resumed his seat, but the way her eyes skittered to the general direction of his groin seemed to suggest she was having similar problems to the ones he was enjoying.

‘I’m glad to hear it. I just hope they’ve got plenty of aphrodisiacs on the menu, to get you in the mood for what I’m hoping for as a dessert.’

She held his gaze, her eyes dark as she fussed with her napkin. ‘Well, you can order all the aphrodisiacs you like, John, but I’m not sure I really need them. You know me. I love my job and I don’t need any extra incentive, culinary or otherwise.’

Intent on her, he seemed to hear an odd little edge in her voice. That sense that she wasn’t quite as sure of what she was doing as she was trying to project. That she was indeed a novice in her chosen profession.

He wondered how he could ask, without seeming to judge her. It would certainly spoil the mood, and while the philanthropist in him might have done it, the horny, selfish man with a raging erection just growled,
shut the fuck up
!

‘Well, as long as you don’t start refusing my money, Bettie. I always like to keep things on a professional footing. A fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work and all that.’

Her face was a picture. She parted her lips. Ran her tongue along the lower one in a way that made him want to wrench open his trousers and stroke himself furiously in her honour. He could see the battle in her eyes, and then, the triumph of the courtesan over the inexperienced girl. Her chin came up and her whole demeanour seemed to morph, become more sultry. More seductive.

Before his very eyes, she became ‘Bettie’ completely, the accomplished seductress – even though he’d bet all the money in the envelope stashed in his inner jacket pocket that it wasn’t her real name.

So that was it. He only wanted the prostitute. He wanted ‘Bettie’ the working girl, not some ordinary woman who’d cost him nothing, but who came with complications. She couldn’t blame him. Perhaps that was his life? Simple. Everything in boxes, including kinky sex. No hassle.

Well, that was what he would get. Maybe she’d send him the money back, when it was all over, when they’d never see each other again. It would be simple enough to discover a forwarding address from the hotel’s reception, when the time came. Perhaps minus a little for ‘expenses’ and a charitable donation or two, just to show him.

‘Oh, absolutely. No matter how much creative satisfaction one gets from a job, it’s always nice to have one’s talents validated by cold, hard cash.’ She looked him up and down, taking in his expensive clothes and grooming and general air of wealth. ‘You look like an obscenely successful man of business to me. You must understand that more than anybody.’

‘Oh, I do . . . I do . . . Which is why I’m prepared to pay top dollar for you, my dear.’ He patted his soft, slate-blue linen jacket, where no doubt ‘the envelope’ was tucked away in his inner pocket. ‘You’re my treat to myself while I’m staying here. My self-indulgence.’ He favoured her with his most golden smile, and suddenly it was impossible to be vexed with him, or worried about being with him, or deceiving him. That delicious grin made all arguments invalid.

‘A treat? Yes, I like that. It sums up my entire philosophy, John. I’m glad we see eye to eye.’ Her voice sounded confident, worldly, assured, even to herself, but suddenly, inside, there were the strangest stirrings. Unsettling thoughts. Yearnings.

No, don’t be daft. This is all there is. Enjoy the ride, you silly mare. There’s nothing more.

‘Excellent. Let’s eat, then, shall we?’ Still smiling and pleased with himself, John lifted his head a little and made the slightest gesture with his fingers and, just like in the movies, the waiter appeared at his side with menus, as if he’d been on tenterhooks, waiting for and watching the hotel’s most favoured of all guests for the tiniest bit of body language indicating his requirements.

‘Champagne, Bettie? Let’s be a total cliché, shall we?’ said John, quirking his eyebrows at her like another movie standard, the wicked Lothario.

‘Lovely! But I mustn’t drink too much if we’re supposed to be going for a walk.’

He’d texted her earlier, suggesting more sensible shoes, rather than hooker heels, because the grounds at the Waverley were particularly green and tempting looking, and he fancied an after-lunch stroll.

‘Very sage. We can’t have you getting sloshed and falling over in the shrubbery, can we? I might accidentally fall on top of you, and then who knows what might happen?’ He snagged his lower lip with his white teeth for a moment, and Lizzie’s stomach quivered.

Ooh, a bit of al fresco . . . that
was
what he had in mind. She’d really been hoping so.

‘I thought that was the whole idea, for you to fall on top of me. It’s pretty much our
raison d’
ê
tre
here, isn’t it?’ Feeling giddy before the champers had even arrived, she kicked off her shoe and ran her toes up and down his calf.

‘Amongst other things.’ His smile became darker, more saturnine and, under the table, he nimbly defeated her in a clever bit of footwork, so that the toe of his leather shoe was taunting her leg instead. Slowly, he slid it upwards, amongst the net petticoats that gave her skirt its bounce, pressing against the soft skin at the inside of her knee. He left it there a moment, almost threateningly, then withdrew again, punctuating the retreat with a shrug of his shoulders.

Lizzie opened her mouth to speak, but then the waiter scurried over, and there was the usual ritual dance over ordering food, and the Champagne. Despite her claim, her appetite was barely in existence. All she really hungered for was the man sitting opposite her, looking so cool and appetising in his smudged blue summer suit and toning shirt, with his worldly angel face and tousled blond hair.

If he’d asked her to have sex with him across the table, right now, she probably wouldn’t have done it . . . but she’d be tempted. And the fantasy of it gripped her mind, irresistibly.

‘What are you thinking about, Bettie?’ he enquired once the wine was poured and they were alone again in their little cocoon of intimacy in a busy, crowded room.

‘Just imagining myself on my back on this table with you hammering away between my thighs.’

John beamed. ‘Well, I’ll drink to that!’ He clinked his glass to hers.

The Champagne was superlative, crisp yet somehow unctuous too. Lizzie was grateful for its cool, invigorating zing, and drank half a glass straight down.

‘Remember the shrubbery,’ John warned.

‘It’s OK. I can take it.’

Table. Shrubbery. Anywhere . . . with you.

To her surprise, he began to chat. Casual, light talk that, despite the fact she still wanted to eat him far more than the delicious meal they’d ordered, Lizzie found easy. Over the rosemary braised lamb cutlets, she was able to ask him about himself, and why he was staying at the Waverley, and she wasn’t in the least bit surprised to discover he was indeed the very plutocratic tycoon, or whatever, that she’d suspected. He had a number of acquisitions ongoing in the area, a leisure complex, a shopping centre, a couple of light, artisan industry projects that had interested him. The way he talked about it all, in a natural, enthusiastic way, completely without any trace of ego, was enthralling. It was a different world to hers, like night and day, but he gave her a glimpse of it, and the way it both drove him and fascinated him.

In a natural pause, John seemed to study her, somehow in a completely non-sexual way, for a change.

‘And your friends, didn’t they fancy lunch with us, then? It would have been OK, you know . . . Well, just for lunch.’ He winked.

‘I asked them . . . but Shelley, well, she was tempted, but she’s the soul of discretion and she doesn’t, um, like to get in the way of things.’ This was slightly perilous ground, but hopefully she was dancing over it OK. ‘And Brent just wasn’t in the mood. It would have probably done him good, though. He’s not doing so well at the moment and he seems to be having a bad day. He . . . he lost someone last year, in a road accident, and we’re coming up to the anniversary of it. He blames himself. You know how it is . . .’

Lizzie’s tongue seemed to freeze, as she looked at John. His face was stricken again, in another of those weird, dark moments. She flailed around for something more to say, a slick way to change the subject, but before she could try, his expression altered, smoothing out somehow, and he said, ‘What happened?’ in a soft voice that sounded genuinely interested.

She found herself telling the story of Brent, and his lover Steven, and the smash that Brent believed
he
shouldn’t have survived if Steven hadn’t. From what she’d gleaned from other sources, Brent
wasn’t
to blame, but no amount of telling him that would convince him. All he knew was that the love of his life was dead.

As she fizzled to a halt in her account, John reached over and lightly touched her hand. Good grief, she was supposed to be entertaining him, not telling him all this. But when she opened her mouth again to apologise, he cut her off.

‘It sounds like you’ve been a good friend to him, Bettie, and done all a friend possibly could.’ He looked serious. He wasn’t just trying to sway the conversation back to her and himself. ‘Perhaps he should seek professional help? I know a very good man. He’s pricey, but he does see one or two National Health patients. Or I could put in a good word . . . He’s London based, but it might be worth a trip, if Brent’s willing.’

For a moment, intense curiosity gripped her. Had John had cause to see this good man? About his sleeping alone ‘thing’ . . . and possibly other stuff?

He smiled. Lizzie willed him to open up to her.
Go on, go on . . . tell me!

‘Do you want to call Brent now, and check he’s OK?’

She shrugged, sensing the little crack of an open door being firmly closed. ‘I should have called him anyway. He’s my “safety” person.’

‘I thought as much. Now phone him, or your friend Shelley, and put everybody’s mind at ease. And then we can enjoy our lunch.’ He quirked his eyebrows, in that characteristic way of his. ‘And other things.’