The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle De Jour

Author:Belle De Jour
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Tags: Scanned, Formatted and Proofed by jaarons, OCD'd
Published: 2011-12-27T05:45:14+00:00

It's not a fortress that admits new champions easily, and girlfriends of N and the A's usually find themselves on the outside regardless of their charms and abilities. There was the one who was raised on a commune in South Africa, built her last house from the ground up and had never been to a McDonald's (actually, an admirable trait). But she couldn't quote freely from The Princess Bride, and thus found herself in a constant state of puzzlement, especially when A2

162

tried ‐ and failed ‐ to propose to her by explaining that Life is Pain.

We need to get out more. With other people. Normal people.

I arrived late, looking swish in a black silk shirt and tailored trousers. Hair pulled up, subtle pearl earrings. Okay, so I looked like a Goth PA. No matter. The table was lively, the drinks were flowing, the conversation was achingly, happily, beautifully normal. I sat across from N, who'd brought his friend Angel, the other working girl with whom I'd had a run‐in last month. But she'd seemingly come to her senses and appeared lovely and chipper.

Halfway through the meal, Angel begged use of my phone

‐ her battery had gone ‐ to send a text. And yes, I'm a trusting soul, and was busily flirting with the blue‐eyed Adonis on my right, so didn't check to see what she'd sent or to whom.

So I was surprised when First Date turned up as the gifts were being opened. He smiled at me. I smiled back. He looked round the table and sat next to Angel. Interesting. I should have known they knew each other, but never would have figured them for a potential couple.

The Adonis smiled, introduced himself across the table. First Date shook his hand. 'And you're with . . . ?' Adonis enquired.

'Her,' he said, nodding at me.

I laughed nervously. 'Are you?'

'Didn't you just invite me?'

I glared at Angel, hard. 'I suppose it might look like I had done,'

I said. 'I'm not responsible for this ‐ sorry for the confusion.'

The tail end of the supper I spent lavishing my attention on the pale, shy girl next to me while Adonis and First Date

‐ whom, it turns out, had mutual acquaintances – chattered 163

about university days. N begged off quickly, Adonis made his excuses, everyone at the other end of the table was going to some random's house to continue drinking and I was left with Angel and First Date. She went to collect her car, suggesting the three of us move on to a late bar she knew.

First Date and I stepped into the street as she dashed round the corner. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

'Water under the bridge,' I said, though it clearly was not.

'I didn't know that text wasn't from you.' 'I know.'

'Am I ... am I in the way?'

I turned to him, angry at the situation, angry at feeling manipulated, even if he wasn't the cause. Angry for feeling angry; why get mad at all? Most of all I was angry at his woundedness, his need to be needed by me.

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