Confessions from an Escort Agency. Rosie Dixon

Natalie her flighty ways because she is going through an awkward age but I do feel that Mum and Dad should take a stronger line with her. This feeling is soon reinforced.

      ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’

      ‘Who were you expecting?’ I say.

      ‘Nobody.’

      I notice that two of her blouse buttons are undone and that there is a red patch on the side of her neck. I may be wrong but those look like tooth marks in the middle of it.

      ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ I ask.

      ‘We were going to have games but the pitch was too muddy.’ She looks over her shoulder nervously.

      It has not rained for three weeks but I make no comment on the fact.

      ‘Do you mind if I come in?’ I say, allowing a trace of sarcasm to creep into my voice. ‘After all, I do live here.’

      Natalie shoots another nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Oh yes. Of course.’

      This is so unlike the normal Natalie. She has not said anything rude yet.

      ‘You’ve got somebody in there, haven’t you?’ I say, nodding towards the front room.

      ‘A friend,’ says Natalie uncomfortably. She plants herself in front of the front room door but I put down my suitcase and step past her. A boy of about sixteen is sitting on the edge of the settee and staring intently at the telly. I notice that his hair is ruffled and his shirt hanging out at the back. Ten seconds after I have opened the door a picture appears on the screen. ‘He came to watch the television,’ says Natalie.

      The boy turns his head for an instant and gives what might either be a nod or a nervous twitch.

      ‘Do you usually watch ‘Play School’ together?’ I ask. ‘And why only one shoe? Is it so that you don’t damage the carpet when you hop around to Mrs Cluckabiddy’s song?’

      ‘I had a stone in my shoe,’ says the boy. ‘You trying to be sarky?’

      ‘She never stops,’ says Natalie turning to me. ‘Do you want a hand to carry your suitcase upstairs? I’m certain you’d like to go and unpack.’ That is more like the old Natalie.

      ‘Where’s Mum?’ I say, ignoring the hint.

      ‘She’s gone down the Parkwood Hill Ladies Social Club.’

      ‘Oh, playing bingo?’ I say.

      Natalie shrugs her shoulders. ‘’Spect so.’ She is making faces at her boyfriend and I notice that his shirt is hanging out of his fly. I get a nasty shock for a moment. I am about to go out when there is an enormous bump on the ceiling above our heads. My bedroom.

      ‘Who else is here?’ I say. ‘What’s going on, Natalie? Does Mum know about this?’

      Natalie does not answer but goes to the door and shouts upstairs, ‘My sister is home, ’reen. You coming down?’

      ‘It’s either her or the ceiling,’ I say. ‘How often do you throw the place open, Natalie?’ Just at that moment there is a ring on the front door bell.

      ‘That must be Tiger,’ says Natalie.

      ‘He said he was coming on his bike,’ says the boy, producing a comb from his pocket and running it through his hair. He looks up at me and wrinkles his nose. ‘You don’t fancy going to the pictures, do you?’

      ‘You going to give me 40p, are you?’ I ask, sarcastically.

      ‘You want an ice cream as well, do you?’ he says.

      ‘It’s Sonia,’ says Natalie turning away from the lace curtain. ‘She’s brought some records.’

      ‘This is ridiculous,’ I say. ‘Does this go on every time you don’t play games?’

      ‘We help each other with our homework,’ says Natalie’s friend putting away his comb and stretching.

      ‘What homework?’ I ask.

      ‘We didn’t have any today.’

      ‘Natalie—’ I begin. But she has gone to open the front door.

      In the end I have to stay with them the whole afternoon. It is probably just as well that I do because goodness knows what they would get up to by themselves. My bedroom is unbelievable: bedclothes everywhere and some hideously spotty youth prancing about in his underpants. The whole thing reminds me of that terrible time when I was attacked by the three greasers (Confessions of a Night Nurse). Fortunately, this lot are easier to control although I do get fed up with being called ‘grandma’. After all, I am still several months short of my twentieth birthday. About five o’clock they disappear as if by magic, and five minutes later Mum comes home. Natalie and I are doing the washing up.

      ‘Rose, dear! What a lovely surprise. We weren’t expecting you back till next week.’

      I give Mum a censored version of the events of the last few days and she shakes her head in sympathy. ‘It’s terrible what they’re doing to the countryside, these days. There’s too many cars as it is. All these roads just encourage them. Fancy your nice school having to go. I think we read something about it in the paper.’

      I do remember reading a headline saying ‘School boy gang-raped’ but fortunately this is not the one Mum saw. It was terribly exaggerated anyway and the boy told the doctor that he quite enjoyed it – till he lost count and consciousness. The Lower Fourth always were terribly high spirited.

      ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do now?’ asks Mum.

      ‘She’s going to be a hostess,’ says Natalie before I can clap a hand over her mouth. I might have known that it was an act of insanity to tell Natalie anything in confidence.

      ‘Not an air hostess?’ says Mum looking worried. ‘I’ve just been reading this book called The Jumbo Jet Girls and I wouldn’t like to think—’

      ‘Oh no, Mum,’ I say. ‘Nothing like that. Did you—’

      ‘Going out with strange men,’ says Natalie. I wonder how long you get for killing your sister, these days?

      ‘Oh no,’ says Mum. ‘You’re not going to sit in some club, are you? The whole thing was exposed recently. I don’t want you drinking all that coloured water. You never know what’s in it.’

      ‘Natalie’s got it wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m going to be an escort not a hostess. There’s a world of difference. There’s nothing sleazy or unpleasant about what I’m going to do.’

      ‘What are you going to do?’ says Mum.

      ‘I don’t know all the details yet,’ I say. ‘Basically, the job consists of providing female companionship for businessmen or tourists who find themselves in London without a wife or loved one.’

      ‘“Loved one”?’ queries Mum.

      ‘I meant “loved one” in the loosest sense,’ I say.

      Mum’s eyebrows shoot upwards again. ‘I don’t mean “loose” like that!’ I yelp.

      Honestly! It is so difficult to explain, isn’t it? I could slap Natalie’s wrist for putting me in this spot – in fact I think I will when I get her alone upstairs.

      Why Mum should be so worried I cannot understand. I have never made any secret of my moral standpoint, which is remarkably severe for these lax times we live in. Not for me the casual ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude which characterises Natalie’s approach to relationships. Every time I embark upon any form of contact with a member of the opposite sex I carry with me the realisation that I need to preserve the precious dowry of my virginity for my eventual ‘Mr Right’. How can any girl expect to be respected if she does less? – even more important, how can she respect herself?

      But