Thursday, 27 January
Cruising past a line of black limousines, the black cab deposits me at the entrance of the Mayfair hotel with a good twenty minutes to spare. The po-faced concierge barely gives me a glance as I stride through the lobby. Not surprising, since I’m dressed more demurely than half his female guests.
I check my make-up in the ground-floor loos, then install myself in one of the leather seats with a panoramic view of the lobby, its giant chandeliers and high-polish art deco glory. The eyes of the concierge settle on me briefly before sliding off towards the main door. I cross my legs and smooth down my skirt. Hard to tell whether he’s sussed me or not.
Not that it matters. There’s an unwritten rule in the best hotels: don’t make us have to notice you. It’s in no one’s interest to interfere with visiting escorts – we’re here to entertain their guests, after all. An unofficial room service.
I check the time again. Fifteen minutes to kill, but there’s no shortage of distractions. A minor celebrity strides across the lobby to the bar. Over at the check-in desk, conferring with one of the receptionists, a group of uber-smart French women, sleek and chic in their tailored couture. An older lady, dressed defiantly in neck-to-knee fur, waddles towards the lifts with the side-to-side pendulum movement of the very stout.
So far, so normal.
Less typical are the four men in dark suits stationed around the various doorways, their demeanour alert and attentive. I’m just wondering who might merit the heavies when several Arabs emerge from one of the conference rooms, wearing formal gowns and white headdresses crowned with black bands. They’re flanked on each side by more henchmen, eyes scanning the hallways like predators on the prowl.
I pick up a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
to mask my curiosity, but my gaze drifts back to the entourage. Three Western men are bringing up the rear, faces bowed as they step forward to shake hands with each of the Arabs. A double handshake, palms layered one over another.
As the foreign dignitaries sweep out to the waiting limousines, the Westerners confer. Serious expressions. Nodding heads. More handshakes, smiles, a slap on the shoulder. Then they leave.
All but one. Medium height and build, his hair heavily silvered, though he doesn’t seem particularly old. Late forties, maybe fifty. He pauses, looks down at the floor for a moment, then heads towards the lift.
He’s almost level with me when his head turns and his eyes meet mine. His lips stiffen, his expression darkening into something like irritation as he holds my gaze before finally walking away.
I stare dumbly at his receding back. What the hell was that about?
Paul Franklin’s room is on the ninth floor, at the end of the corridor in the smaller eastern wing. I find it quickly, used by now to the arcane numbering systems in places like this. I straighten my jacket, run my fingers through my hair, then knock quietly. I may blend in well downstairs, but a woman calling on a man in his room will always raise eyebrows.
No response. I knock again, a little louder this time. I’m just wondering if he’s a no-show when the door swings open.
‘Stella,’ says my client. ‘You’re nothing if not punctual.’
I gaze at the man who eyeballed me down in the lobby. Take in his faintly sardonic expression. He’s changed out of the suit he was wearing ten minutes ago, I notice, into a navy polo shirt and well-cut beige chinos.
‘Sorry,’ I say. Though really I’ve no idea what I’m apologizing for.
Paul Franklin gives me a derisory smile. ‘Come in.’
I pass through a wide entrance hall into a large sitting room decorated in creams and pale yellows, one of those
haut monde
designer affairs the hotel is famous for. Sharp-lined leather sofas and armchairs in complementary shades of duck-egg blue and beige. Splashy art prints on the wall, a bold geometric rug covering almost the entire floor.
Christ knows what this place must cost. A grand a night?
More, probably.
‘Drink?’ asks Paul.
I hesitate – I don’t normally indulge on the job. But today I feel edgy, strangely off-kilter. How did he know who I was?
Sod it
, I think, sitting on one of the blue leather couches. ‘What have you got?’
Paul Franklin opens an elegant marquetry cabinet to reveal an array of spirits and liqueurs. A small inset fridge. ‘Whatever you like.’
‘You choose.’ I watch him remove several bottles. Pour liquid into a couple of glasses. A minute later he hands me a martini, complete with an olive.
‘Impressive.’ I take a sip.
Paul sits on the sofa opposite. He’s left the top buttons on his polo shirt undone, revealing an inch or so of lightly tanned skin and a suggestion of hair. He’s lean, muscular. Attractive without being overtly handsome. He mirrors my scrutiny, no expression on his face beyond the faintest hint of a smile. I wait for him to speak, but he just inspects me, not attempting to disguise it.
‘So, you’re here on business?’ I ask eventually, giving him the chance to acknowledge our brief encounter downstairs. I’m hoping for an explanation. He clearly recognized me, but I can’t imagine how. I don’t reveal my face on my website, though I’ll email over pictures if a client asks.
He never did.
Paul’s mouth widens into something approaching a sneer. It’s unnerving. As I suppose he intends it to be.
‘Come on, Stella. You can do better than that.’
OK. No small talk then. I take another sip of martini, wait for him to break the silence. Paul leans back, one arm resting across the back of the sofa.
‘So, Stella,’ he says finally. ‘Tell me more about yourself.’
‘Such as?’
He shrugs. ‘Anything you like.’
A shift in my stomach. A discomfort born of annoyance. ‘There’s really nothing much to say.’
He laughs. A short, sharp bark of a laugh. ‘You’ve led such a dull life, have you?’
‘Nothing exceptional.’
‘Nothing exceptional,’ he echoes, looking as if he knows better.
I bite my lip. ‘Nothing that would interest you.’
Paul Franklin crosses his leg, cradling his martini, his eyes never leaving mine. Christ, the man doesn’t even blink.
‘On the contrary. I’m very interested.’
I feel the martini start to hit, the gin and vermouth flooding my empty stomach, making me a little woozy. He’s playing with me, I realize. I stay silent, forcing him to make the next move.
‘Indulge me, Stella. Tell me how a girl like you ends up in a hotel room with a man like me.’
It’s not an unusual question from a client, and one I usually deflect with a quip about job satisfaction. But this man doesn’t strike me as the type to be fobbed off with a double-entendre.
‘I lost my job,’ I say. ‘I had no money. It seemed an obvious choice.’
He considers this for a minute. ‘An obvious choice. You think so?’
‘Someone I knew, a friend of a friend, went into it when she needed extra cash for school fees. I got in touch with her. She told me what to do.’
‘Which is?’
I lift my mouth into a shrug. ‘It’s simple enough. You either sign up with an agency or go it alone – set up a website, get another mobile phone, wait for the calls.’
‘Build it and they will come.’
I laugh. ‘Pretty much.’
Paul closes his eyes briefly. Then downs the rest of his martini in one gulp, setting the glass on the coffee table between us. ‘So far, so predictable. But I can’t help feeling there’s a great deal more to it than that.’
‘More than being broke?’
He leans forward. ‘Come on, Stella. You strike me as a very resourceful woman. Surely you don’t expect me to believe this was your only option?’
A stir of aggravation. What is it with clients? Not content to get inside your knickers, they want inside your head as well. For a moment I consider calling it a day. Heading back to the peace and stillness of my empty flat, and bugger the lost income.
But something about this man intrigues me. Not so much the way he looks as his overwhelming air of power and confidence. I feel strangely energized, with a sudden urge to break the deadlock between us.
I drain the rest of my glass, get up and remove my jacket. Taking a few paces towards him, I unzip the back of my dress, letting it slip to the floor. I stand there, in boots, stockings and underwear, waiting for some kind of reaction.
Paul doesn’t move a muscle. Just watches me in that lazy way a lion eyes a nearby gazelle. Trying to decide whether or not he’s hungry.
‘I can leave if you like,’ I say, more to break the silence than anything else.
A twitch of his mouth, as if suppressing something. ‘No. That’s not what I’d like at all.’
‘So what do you want?’ I’m not usually this direct, but coyness will clearly get us nowhere.
Paul breathes in slowly. Considers my question. ‘It never pays to rush things, I’ve learned.’
‘I agree.’ I glance over at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘But you only booked me for an hour.’
‘An oversight,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t sure of my schedule.’
‘OK. But perhaps we’d better get down to business.’
At this he stands. Approaches me, raising his hand to my chin. I feel a kind of shock at his touch, a rush of desire that may have everything or nothing to do with the martini. I move closer, lifting my face up to his and he bends to kiss me. A hard, forceful, almost angry kiss. Full of sex. Full of promise.
A buzz from the desk, where a mobile phone is vibrating energetically. That look again on Paul’s face, the same annoyance as I glimpsed in the lobby – clearly this isn’t a call he’s expecting.
‘One minute.’ He disappears into one of the adjoining rooms, shutting the door behind him. I hear him speaking in what sounds like Arabic.
I stand there for a minute, then move to the window, examining the line of elegant terraced mansions across the square. The kind of voluminous town houses that sell for twenty million or more. Down on the street, directly below me, a steady trickle of black cabs deposits and collects the hotel’s guests.
On the other side of the door I can just make out Paul’s voice, raised now. Terse. Irritated.
I check the clock again. Half past four. At this rate there will barely be time for anything except a quick kiss goodbye. I feel almost disappointed; I realize I was beginning to enjoy myself.
Crossing from the window to the desk, I examine a lovely art deco lamp in tiered glass, then sniff the adjacent yellow roses massed in a clear round vase, but they’re scentless, purely for show. I run my hand over the dark polished surface of the desk, inlaid with a paler wood in delicate arches and swirls. It’s a beautiful piece of furniture, probably original, carefully restored. On impulse I pull on the tiny gilt handle to the top drawer. It slides open silently.
Inside is a slim black wallet. Beneath it two passports: one maroon, one blue. English and American.
In the other room I hear Paul talking again. In French this time. Fast and urgent.
‘
C’est moi
. Alex.’
Alex? I grit my teeth. I’m not sure why this unnerves me, given I work under an alias myself. But it does.
I reach down to pick up one of the passports, but the tips of my fingers brush something cold and smooth. I pull them away, surprised, then bend to peer into the drawer.
Small, discreet. Mother-of-pearl handle and sort of vintage looking.
But very much a gun.
What the fuck?
Before I can decide what to do, the voice in the other room goes quiet. I shut the drawer quickly, and take a couple of steps back from the desk, facing the door. But Paul … Alex doesn’t emerge.
I move in closer, trying to catch what he’s saying, but he’s speaking fast and my French is a long way from fluent. ‘
Non, c’est pas necessaire
…
Je vous ai déjà expliqué tout, Philippe
…
parce qu’ils sont les vrai salauds, vous le savez bien
…
salauds
.’
Salauds
. Bastards. I learnt that word on a school trip to Boulogne.
‘
D’accord. Non
…
non, je comprends. Je prends le prochain vol a Paris
…
oui
…
oui
…
bientôt.
’
A pause. I step back from the door, just as he emerges. Despite the urgency in his voice only moments ago, his face betrays no sign of agitation. Alex gazes at me, half naked in the middle of the room, as if he’s forgotten why I’m here.
‘Get dressed.’
I don’t hide my irritation. It’s one thing a client bailing out at the beginning of an appointment; quite another half an hour in. Then I think of the gun and decide to let it go; this has all gone a bit off-limits for me.
Alex picks up my dress and tosses it to me. ‘Change of plan. I’ve got to catch a plane. Sorry.’
He goes over to the desk and opens the drawer. I freeze, but all he removes is his wallet. Hands me half a dozen fifties. Too many, but I’m not about to argue. I stuff them into my bag and pull on my clothes, avoiding his gaze as I make for the door.
‘Stella.’ Alex’s voice forces me to turn and look into his eyes.
‘Yes.’
He smiles, if you could call it that. Somehow more of a smirk. ‘It really was a pleasure to meet you at last.’
5
Monday, 2 February
By the time I spot Anna over by the double doors, I’ve nearly finished my drink. I stand and wave. She meanders across to my table, bending to kiss my cheek and I get a waft of perfume, probably one of those exclusive couture fragrances she gets at Liberty’s.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ She sheds her coat to reveal a pale-blue cashmere jumper and a pair of Dolce & Gabbana jeans that emphasize the already enviable length of her legs. ‘Had an appointment with my bank manager. It ran over.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Strictly financial,’ Anna laughs, then nods at my glass. ‘Another?’
‘Just a fizzy water.’
‘Seriously?’ She frowns and regards me steadily. ‘You look like you could use something stronger.’