Author: ClockworkScales PM
Your clients know you as Lizzie, the call girl; your friends and family as Charlotte, who's just a bit shy. What happens when one of them discovers your secret? Originally published "4-3-09".Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 1,576 - Published: 09-27-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3061335
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This was written during my Creative Writing class in 2008 for my final project. This had a review on my other account...
JustalittleOBSESSION 2008-10-31 . chapter 1
please continue. :)
I won't be continuing it though.
'An absolute pleasure,' I say, pecking the man, Jerry, on the cheek. It's cold and I'd be quite a sight walking around at this time of night wearing what I was wearing. I wrap my coat tighter around me.
I spin around and head towards my taxi, hearing the man shut the door to his house. The taxi drives off and is just at the corner of the block when, out of the corner of my eye, I can see a car driving into the driveway.
It was 12:25pm. Jerry's wife had gotten home early.
I sigh deeply and sink in my seat. Luckily we had cleaned up before I left.
I didn't think Jerry's wife would fancy a prostitute visiting, or to be more precise, a call girl named Elisabeth (Lizzie for short).
My mobile phone beeps and I slide the phone open. It is my agent.
'There is a man interested in a threesome with his wife. Tomorrow at 3:12pm. Call back and I'll give you more details. xo Anne.'
This is the story of how I went out of business.
I remember how I first got into prostitution. It's not because I was on drugs and was desperate to earn some money to pay for it. My story hasn't been tragic like that.
I grew up as Charlotte Finn. I have one brother, so I'm the only girl in the family besides mum.
My brother works in engineering; he's twenty-three years old. His name's Paul.
He's often called back home to repair the old car dad bought cheaply. He keeps suggesting to dad to buy a new car. But he can't do it. Dad's too attached to this one. Paul says in a few years his car could be sold for millions. I'm not into the car-stuff, but I know that there aren't many other cars like his. It's the type of car whose indicators click loudly like a broken clock, and whose engine rumbles and chugs down petrol like a kid drinking up the dregs of a milkshake.
I moved out when I turned 18. I still live in London, only away from my parents. I live in a small flat on Oxford Street. It's busy there so nobody has much time to pay attention to what I'm doing; they're too busy with their own lives, anyway.
I went to a few job interviews at restaurants, at retail… I don't know what it was about me but they just didn't hire me. I guess I stumbled over my words a lot.
I was very shy back then. I could hardly speak when I was placed under pressure, and I occasionally fainted during speeches from nerves at school.
I got into prostitution because I wanted to be strong; I wanted to feel power over other people. I wanted to be an object of desire, not humiliation. And so I embraced Lizzie as I flurried into my new life.
Weeks passed and I was becoming increasingly popular as winter came, I am sitting on my sofa watching F.R.I.E.N.D.S reruns when my mobile rings; the black slide-phone, the Nokia; my work phone.
I shoot a glance at the number and open the phone.
'Hey, Anne, what's up?'
'Liz, I've got you a new client.'
'Ah, cool. Give me the details.'
'A man of forty-five, he's having problems with his wife.'
Don't they all, I think, furrowing my carefully plucked eyebrows. Anne and I exchanged details such as address and times.
'He wants to talk to you.' Anne interrupts me as I was explaining a theory about how maybe the men were having problems with their wives: because they going through menopause or suffering mid-life crisis.
'Ah, sure. I can do that. What does he want?'
'He wants to know your personality before you two meet.'
I laugh, 'Patch me through.'
I wait a few moments and stare at my nails, the red polish is drying.
'Hello,' came a raspy voice.
'Hey, honey, do you have a cold?'
The man coughs, 'Ah, not really, sorry about that.'
'It's fine. So your name is…' I check my notepad, where the notes are scribbled on, 'Joe?' I pause and then say jokingly, 'Joe Shmo?'
'If it's okay, I'd rather not give you my real name… Joe's just a cover.'
'Oh, don't worry about a thing, sweetie, lots of guys do that. Heck, the girls do it. I even do it!'
I hear Joe laughing on the other end of the phone.
'Well it was nice to talk to you, Joe, I'll see you tonight.'
'Sure, thanks for… everything.'
'Oh, you're quite welcome.'
I press the button with the little red phone. The call ends. I feel unsettled. Not that I hadn't spoken to clients before meeting them, but Joe sounded a little like Paul, someone I knew. I wondered if it would have any affect on how I performed. Abruptly, I shake my head, washing all of those thoughts away to sing the opening theme to F.R.I.E.N.D.S.
Joe wanted us to meet at a hotel room. I feel the glamour take control of me as Lizzie takes over my actions and thoughts.
I had been directed upstairs by a kind receptionist. I held my coat tight around me, it was freezing.
I knock on the door. A few seconds later, it is pulled open and I walk inside kissing the unsuspecting fellow on the cheek.
I take my coat off to reveal a red dress. I had looked at myself in a mirror earlier and thought I looked quite smashing. It was funny, but I had expected Joe to have said something by now, 'hello' for instance. Maybe he was just scared. Lots of first-comers are.
My eyes focus as Joe walks into the tiny kitchen, into the friendly light. His face becomes lit. Eyes livid. Frightened. With horror I dashed out of the door, grabbing my coat as I ran.
gently caress, I thought fiercely.
It was my dad.
My brain turns to mush when Mum calls up the next day inviting me for lunch tomorrow with the rest of the family. Stupidly, I agree to. I didn't know whether to be more angry at Dad for going to see a prostitute or more angry at myself for not seeing the signs. I should have listened to my gut feeling. Unfortunately, my gut feeling seemed to have been wrenched out years ago.
Anne rings me a couple of times but I ask her to cancel all 'appointments' until further notice. I don't tell her what happened last night; I just tell her that Joe Shmo hadn't turned up. Supposedly went chicken, that, and that I was going out for lunch tomorrow.
When I arrive home, Mum, Dad, and Paul are already seated around a table on the veranda. For winter, it was a surprisingly warm day and I sit down and pick up my plate. I fill it with food and avoid Dad's eyes, not that it was hard to. He is avoiding mine too.
'So,' Mum says, having clearly expected some sort of welcome from me, 'hello, Charlotte.'
'Please, Mum,' I say, my mouth full of celery, 'call me Charlie.'
Paul laughs and offers me some chicken. I pile chicken breast onto my plate and stuff my mouth full of it. I am starving.
'But that's a boy's name. And you're clearly not a boy.'
I swallow the chicken and say calmly, 'so, how are you guys?'
'I'm good; I got a promotion at my job.' Paul explains smugly, leaning back in his chair.
'So what do you do now? Get a new screwdriver?' I ask sarcastically. Paul punches me and says, 'Well have you got a job?'
Dad looks up from his plate and stares at me. I look back at him, glaring and I notice that his jaw is clenching. He wouldn't say anything would he, I think anxiously.
'She's a prostitute.' Dad says and new lightening bolts escape my eyes.
Paul chortles and Mum pats Dad on the arm saying, 'Always the joker.'
I force a giggle out of myself, ''Yeah, as if I'd be doing that. It's degrading as hell!'
Dad raises an eyebrow.
'I quit my job,' I say straightening my face, 'I'm going to look for a job at a restaurant or something,' I catch Dad's eye and smile broadly, 'somewhere nice.'
'Well, that's great!' Paul pats me on my back, 'so where were you working before? Why'd you quit?'
My family stares at me expectantly.
'I worked in a business… helping people,' I explain, 'I quit because I realized that the system was jipped.'
When I got home I cleared all information off my black phone, after explaining to Anne how I wanted to quit. I also told her I had stormed my closet and put all of Lizzie's clothes and make-up in a cardboard box, telling her she could keep them or give them to another girl.
I was done being Elisabeth. I was tired being Lizzie.
I printed off my flimsy resume and handed them out to various restaurant managers, various bookstores, anywhere. I was finally standing up for myself, in the real world. Maybe they'd call me.