Three nights in Edinburgh on the company card, a suite I didn’t need, and one booking with the most discreet agency in the city. The rules were hers. The question was whether I’d play by them.
How it works: read, then choose what you do. Only the right choices earn the happy ending.
I’m Graham Whitlock, I’m forty-three, and I sell logistics software to people who would rather be golfing. Three days in Edinburgh, a pitch that went better than it had any right to, and a suite on the eleventh floor of the Caledon with a bath big enough to row across.
I’d been divorced for two years. I’d been on precisely four dates, all of them polite and none of them memorable. So on the second night, with a glass of hotel whisky in my hand, I did something I’d only ever thought about. I booked an escort.
Velvet Hours was licensed, discreet and expensive. Their website read like a wine list. I filled in the form honestly, paid the deposit, and got a text back within the hour: Vivienne, 29, would arrive at eight. Two hours. Please have the remaining fee in an envelope, not in her hand.
At eight o’clock exactly there was a knock.
She was taller than I expected, in a dark green dress and a camel coat, auburn hair pinned up, a small leather bag over one shoulder. Freckles under the make-up. Clever grey eyes that took in the suite, the whisky, and me in about a second and a half.
“Graham?” she said, smiling. “I’m Vivienne. You look nervous. Don’t be. Nervous is very normal.”
I handed her the envelope. She tucked it away without counting it.
“So,” she said. “We can eat first, downstairs. Or we can stay up here. Your evening, my rules. What would you like?”