Author: Akiko

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“Come in,” I said. “Quick. Before Mrs Okafor, seventy-two, across the hall sees and tells the entire building.”

Tess stepped inside and I shut the door, and then we both just stood in my hallway like two people who’d walked into the same toilet cubicle.

“So,” she said.

“So.”

She burst out laughing. Properly, bent over, hand on the wall. After a second I did too. It was that or die.

“I can’t believe it,” she wheezed. “Of all the flats in Manchester. Gemma’s big brother. The one who cried at Toy Story 3 at her twenty-first.”

“I had something in my eye.”

“For ninety minutes?” She wiped her eyes and straightened up, and I got my first proper look at her. She’d taken her coat off. Underneath was a fitted black dress that stopped well above the knee, and she looked nothing like the girl in denim shorts at the barbecue and also exactly like her, only grown-up and dangerous.

“You look,” I said, and stopped.

“Go on.”

“Really good, Tess.”

Her smile shifted a little. “Thanks.” She glanced at the envelope on the counter, then back at me. “So here’s the awkward bit. I’m here. You booked. I’m not going to pretend that’s not what this is. But we could also just sit down and talk like normal people first.”

She bit her lip.

“Your call, Ben H.”

→ I suggest we sit down and talk first

→ I hand her the envelope and say we should do what I booked

← Back

I picked up the envelope and held it out. My hand was steady, which surprised me.

“I booked you,” I said. “I’d like to do what I booked. If you’re still all right with it. If you’re not, I completely get it, and you keep the money anyway.”

Tess looked at the envelope. Then at me. Then she took it, and counted it, which she didn’t seem to do with other clients, I could tell, because she laughed at herself halfway through.

“Sorry. Habit. Nerves.” She tucked it into her bag. “Right. Then let’s be grown-ups about this. I’m Sienna tonight, if that helps. Or Tess, if that’s better. Your choice.”

“Tess,” I said.

“Tess it is.” She stepped closer. In heels she came up to my chin. She smelled like vanilla and the outdoors. “The rules are the same as with anyone. Condoms, always. If either of us says stop, we stop. Nobody gets filmed, nobody gets photographed.”

“Of course.”

“And there’s one rule I’ve never needed before.” She put her hands on my chest. “Gemma can never, ever know.”

I swallowed. Her fingers were undoing my top button.

“There’s something else,” she said softly. “I’ve done this a hundred times. You’ve done it never. So either you tell me exactly what you want, or you shut up and let me lead.”

→ I ask her to promise it stays between us first

→ I shut up and let her lead

← Back

I typed and deleted for twenty minutes. In the end I sent the simplest version.

“Tess, it’s Ben. I’m so sorry about tonight. I wasn’t judging you. I was just shocked. You’re brilliant, and you didn’t deserve to stand on my doormat feeling weird. Hope you got home safe.”

Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

“Home safe. You weren’t weird. Well, a bit weird. You said oh my God four times.”

“You said it twice.”

“I’m a professional. Twice is my limit.” A pause. Then: “Honestly though, thank you. Most men would have been gross about it. You paid and apologised and looked like you wanted to be swallowed by the carpet. It was quite sweet.”

We texted until three. About Gemma and her terrible new boyfriend who played the ukulele. About Tess’s master’s. About how she’d once fallen in my parents’ pond at a barbecue and I’d fished her out, which I’d forgotten and she clearly hadn’t.

At ten to three she sent: “Can I be honest? A small part of me was disappointed you cancelled.”

I stared at that for a full minute.

“Only a small part?”

“Don’t push it, Hartley.”

I sat up in bed. My heart was going like I’d run for a bus.

There were two things I could say next. One was brave. The other was braver.

→ I ask her out for a drink, no money and no agency

→ I ask if I can book her again, properly this time

← Back

I told Gemma I had a cold and stayed home. It was a lie. It was the most cowardly lie I have ever told and I ate a frozen lasagne for Christmas dinner as punishment.

On Boxing Day, at about four in the afternoon, there was a knock on my door.

I opened it in my dressing gown with a mince pie in my mouth.

Tess stood on my doormat in her red coat, holding a tinfoil-wrapped plate in both hands. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Snow, the rare Manchester kind, was melting in her curls.

“Your mum sent leftovers,” she said. “And your sister made me promise to check you weren’t dying. She says you’ve had man flu since November.”

“Oh,” I said, through the mince pie.

“You weren’t ill, were you.”

“No.”

“You were avoiding me.”

“Yes.”

“You idiot.” She held out the plate. Turkey, stuffing, sprouts, a slab of Mum’s trifle. “I spent all of Christmas Day thinking you hated me. Gemma kept asking why I was checking my phone.”

“I don’t hate you. Tess, I think about you constantly. That’s the problem.”

She looked at me for a long moment. The snow kept falling behind her.

“It’s freezing out here, Ben,” she said quietly. “And I’m not working tonight.”

→ I invite her in

→ I take the plate and say goodnight

← Back

We sat on the sofa with a bottle of red. She kicked off her heels and tucked her feet under her, the way she did on my parents’ garden bench, and suddenly it felt less like a disaster and more like a very strange catch-up.

She told me about the job first, because I asked and because she wanted me to understand. Two years with Ivory Rose. Fully licensed, checked by the council, an agency that looked after its women. It paid for her master’s and her flat, and she was good at it, and she liked it, mostly.

“Most of my clients are lonely,” she said. “Nice men who forgot how to talk to women. Some want sex. Some want a girlfriend for two hours. Some just want someone to listen.”

“Which am I?”

“I don’t know yet.” She swirled her wine. “You’re the first one I already know.”

I told her about Laura and the sourdough man. She laughed at the right moments and swore on my behalf at the others. Our knees were touching. Neither of us moved them.

“Can I tell you something embarrassing?” she said. “When I was twenty-one, I had the most enormous crush on you. You came to the barbecue in that awful band T-shirt and I followed you round the garden all afternoon.”

“I thought you were just really into swingball.”

“I was really into watching you lose at swingball.”

→ I tell her I noticed her too, and keep it personal

→ I tell her we should keep it professional

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“Can I book you again?” I typed. “Properly. I won’t panic this time. I promise.”

The dots went for a long time.

“You want to book me. Knowing it’s me.”

“Knowing it’s you is the whole point.”

Another long pause. I imagined her on the other side of Manchester, in bed, staring at her phone with her eyebrows up.

“That’s either the most romantic or the most mental thing a client’s ever said to me. Possibly both.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a let me think about it.” Then, ten minutes later: “Here’s the thing, Ben. If you book me, you get Sienna. Sienna is great. Sienna is very, very good at her job. Sienna does not cry at Toy Story 3 with you or tell your sister anything.”

“And if I don’t book you?”

“Then you get Tess. And Tess is a lot more complicated, and she has opinions, and she might not want to be paid by someone she’s known since she was twenty-one.”

I read it four times.

“So which one is it?” I typed.

“Your choice. You booked. You decide. Tomorrow night, same time. Or I can just say goodnight and we’ll pretend this conversation was a dream.”

I looked at the ceiling. I looked at the envelope, still on the kitchen counter, still full.

→ I tell her I want to book her for tomorrow night

→ I tell her I’d rather wait for Tess

← Back

I went. Obviously I went. My mum would have driven to Manchester and collected me personally.

The Hartley family home in Stockport was full of tinsel, my dad’s terrible jazz CD and the smell of roast potatoes. Gemma flung her arms round me at the door. Behind her, in the hallway, wearing reindeer antlers and holding a glass of mulled wine, was Tess.

Our eyes met. Something happened to my face. Something happened to hers.

“Ben!” Tess said brightly. Too brightly. “Long time no see!”

“Ages,” I squeaked. “Literally ages. Months. Since. The barbecue.”

Gemma looked between us. “Why are you both being weird?”

“We’re not being weird,” we said at exactly the same time.

Dinner was a nightmare. Mum seated us opposite each other. Every time I looked up, Tess was looking at me. Every time she looked up, I was looking at my sprouts. At one point her foot brushed mine under the table and I knocked over the gravy.

After pudding Gemma announced it was time for Secret Santa. She’d drawn the names, she said, and she’d made sure nobody got their own.

“Ben,” she said, handing me a small wrapped box with a wink, “you’ve got Tess’s present. And Tess has got yours.”

Across the room, Tess turned the colour of the cranberry sauce.

I could survive this by avoiding her for the rest of the night. Or I could go and sit next to her.

→ I avoid her for the rest of Christmas

→ I go and sit next to her for Secret Santa

← Back

I shut up and let her lead.

Tess took my hand and walked me into my own bedroom like she’d been there before. She sat me on the end of the bed. Then she stood between my knees and unbuttoned my shirt very slowly, one button at a time, kissing each inch of skin she uncovered.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s twenty-two degrees, Ben.” She laughed and pushed the shirt off my shoulders. “It’s all right. I’m nervous too. Isn’t that funny? I’m never nervous.”

She turned around and I unzipped her dress with fumbling fingers. It slid to the floor. She stepped out of it in black lace and heels and turned back to face me, and I genuinely forgot how to breathe.

She knelt and unbuckled my belt. She looked up at me through her lashes, then took my cock into her warm mouth, slow and deep, until I groaned and gripped the duvet. Then she climbed onto the bed, rolled a condom on me with expert fingers, and straddled my hips.

“Ready?” she whispered.

She sank down onto me. We both gasped. She started to move, slow and deep, her hands on my chest, and I held her hips and thought, this is the best night of my life.

Then my phone started ringing on the bedside table. Loud. My ringtone. The screen lit up.

GEMMA CALLING.

→ I ignore it completely

→ I answer it, because she’ll only keep ringing

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“Can I take you for a drink?” I typed. “Not a booking. No money, no agency. Just a drink. Like normal people.”

The dots went for a long time.

“Normal people who’ve seen each other in a doorway at 9pm with an envelope of cash?”

“Yes. Those normal people.”

“Saturday. The Marble Arch. 7pm. If you’re late I’m leaving.”

I was early. Forty minutes early. She was ten minutes late on purpose, she told me afterwards, because she’d wanted to see if I’d wait. She wore jeans and a green jumper and her curls were piled on her head, and she looked so like the girl from the barbecues and so unlike the woman on my doorstep that my brain kept short-circuiting.

We talked for four hours. About everything except the doorstep. Then, at last orders, with her third gin and my fourth pint, about the doorstep, and we laughed so loudly the barman looked over.

“I thought you’d never speak to me again,” she said.

“I thought you’d think I was a creep.”

“You booked a woman who likes old films and honest men.” She smiled into her glass. “That’s not creepy. That’s kind of adorable.”

Outside on the pavement it was raining. She stood under my umbrella, very close, and looked up at me.

“I’m literally two streets from here,” she said.

→ I kiss her under the umbrella

→ I walk her to her door and say goodnight

← Back

“Maybe we should keep it professional,” I said. “For both our sakes. Otherwise it gets complicated. Gemma, Christmas, all of it.”

Tess nodded slowly. “That’s sensible.” She didn’t sound like she thought it was sensible. She sounded a tiny bit hurt, and was hiding it, and doing a very good job.

“Not because I don’t like you,” I added quickly. “Because I do.”

“Ben. Stop talking.” But she was smiling. She stood up, smoothed down her dress, and became somebody slightly different: straighter, more confident, the version of her I imagined other men got. “Right. Professional. Then here’s how professional works.”

She walked to the kitchen counter, picked up the envelope and weighed it in her palm. Then she put it down again without opening it.

“I’ll tell you what I’m comfortable with,” she said, “and you tell me what you’d like, and we meet in the middle. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m comfortable with most things. Not kissing on the mouth, because that’s personal, and we’ve just agreed this isn’t.” Her eyes flicked to my lips and away. “Anything else, you can ask.”

My mouth was very dry.

The envelope sat between us on the counter like a third person in the room. I realised I had no idea whether she was going to take it.

→ I push the envelope towards her and insist she takes it

→ I ask her, very politely, for just her mouth