3. Jessica

Jessica

The next morning, I go to the local corner shop to buy some groceries for my mother. As I approach the newspaper stand, I scan the covers of the Sunday tabloids. Dripping with double entendres and copious helpings of scandal, I never buy them but always read the headlines for a bit of a laugh. In our household, Cynthia is a committed Guardian reader and wouldn't be seen dead touching what she calls the ‘sleazy red-tops.' I'm inclined to agree with her, however, on this occasion, one particular story catches my eye.

‘I sold my virginity for ￡250,000,' screams the headline of The Sunday Sport. Frowning, I step forward to take a closer look. The cover story features a photo of a stunning brunette wearing very little clothing, lips parted, cupping her breasts with a look that says, ‘come hither.'

Wow, what an explosive headline. I've got to hand it to The Sunday Sport. They have featured some supremely crazy stories in the past but this one takes the biscuit.

For a second-long eternity, I gaze at the woman's heavily made-up face and let reality sink in. She sold her virginity for ￡250,000. What the fuck? In one night, this lady made more than I'm ever likely to earn in my whole entire lifetime and all she had to do was have sex with someone who was willing to pay to be with her. Insane as it sounds, I admit to having a grudging admiration for her audaciousness and it does get me thinking.

All throughout my fundraising exploits, it never once occurred to me to enter the sex trade as a short-cut to success. Working as a waitress is good and honest work, but the money isn't great and won't be paying for Mum's medical bills anytime soon. The astronomical sum this girl made from selling sex is jaw-dropping, but I know Mum would kill me if she ever thought I was considering selling my body for money. It would be like a knife in her heart because she has always had such big plans for me.

She wants me to go to university someday and do something academic with my life, something that makes use of my brains, so it would completely destroy her if she knew I was considering joining the world's oldest profession.

"Your body is your temple," she always says. "Never let a man take advantage." Oh, what to do, what to do…

Biting my lip, I stare down at The Sunday Sport again and wonder if I would ever have the guts to do something like that. I too am a virgin—not because I'm a prude or religious, or particularly sentimental—it's because I've never met a guy I liked enough to have sex with. Well, except for Jack Parker, but he's taken so that doesn't count.

Every time I've heard girls talking about their ‘first time,' it always sounds like such an anti-climax and not particularly enjoyable. And nine times out of ten they nearly always end up breaking up with the boy, so would it really be so bad if my first time was with someone who paid me?

I wonder if I could do it. I wonder if I could spend a night with a complete stranger for money, someone who I wasn't in the least bit attracted to. Probably someone much older than me. It's such a moral conundrum. Would I be compromising my principles to go on the game? Sure, I'm nowhere near as pretty as this brunette, and doubt anybody would be willing to pay me ￡250,000, but I could try for say ￡50,000 to cover all of my mother's medical expenses.

Deep down, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for the sex industry (although I would never admit this to Cynthia). Ever since I watched Natalie Wood playing a stripper in the movie Gypsy, I've always felt there was an excitement and glamour to it that is hard to surpass. Escort or stripper, the idea of being the object of desire and earning a living from it is undeniably sexy. However, the truth is, it's probably just a naive daydream of mine that could never play out in reality. The world of Gypsy Rose Lee was always just a little fantasy, something I swore I would never act upon.

Until now.

Imagine that.

One night with a stranger could solve all my problems. One night with a stranger and afterwards I could get on with the rest of my life safe in the knowledge I managed to raise the funds required to save my mother's life. It would be just a one-off, not something I would continue to do on a regular basis; a secret deal to solve all our money worries and give Cynthia the cancer treatment she so desperately needs.

With rising excitement, I decide I need to know more, so I pick up a copy of The Sunday Sport, at the same time grabbing yesterday's South London Herald to cover up my embarrassment. Mr Kumar who runs the newsagent is a good friend of the family and God knows what he'll make of me buying this paper which treads the line of soft porn. He's known me since I was ten and probably still thinks I'm all sweet and innocent. Sadly, that illusion is about to be shattered.

Somewhat sheepishly, I enter the shop and hastily browse the aisles in search of milk, bread and sugar. After I've filled my basket, I take my purchases up to the till and grab a couple of penny sweets to tide me over as I forgot to eat breakfast this morning.

Funnily enough, Mr Kumar barely bats an eyelid as he runs the newspapers through the till and keeps the conversation light by making jokes and asking me to pass his regards to my mother and Freddie.

Thank God for that.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I leave the shop and head for Clapham Common to get some privacy to read the story in peace. It's a Sunday and the place is packed with families wanting to catch a bit of that ever-elusive British sunshine. After walking aimlessly for a couple of minutes, I finally retreat to a secluded clearing dappled with lights and shadows where I find a nice bench to sit on. Confident that there's no one around, I unfold the newspaper and eagerly dive into the story.

It says that a twenty-something woman called Vanessa Taylor from Stoke used the services of an escort agency to set up an auction to sell off her virginity. Following a heated bidding war, a successful businessman (who the paper refuses to name) secured Vanessa's affections for the princely sum of ￡250,000. What follows is a toe-curling description of their night of passion at a Mayfair hotel and I pretty much skim the rest. Their sexual shenanigans are of no interest to me, but at least I've got the information I wanted—namely, how to go about selling off my virginity. Quietly, I fold up the newspaper and put it to one side.

So, it seems I'll need to find myself an escort agency…

I'm no expert in these matters, but one thing I know is that for the kind of fee I'm looking for, it will need to be one of the high-end ones. Somewhere located in the West End.

For a long time, I remain frozen on the park bench, battling with my conscience, agonising about which road to take. Could I really cross the Rubicon and do something that might change my life forever? In my head, I pick apart the pros and cons.

Pros: obviously, saving my mother's life. Cons: somebody might find out and I'll never live it down. Then there's the potential long term psychological damage. What if after I've committed the deed, I regret what I did? What if I'm traumatised by the experience? Could I ever live with myself?

In the end, I decide to leave it to fate and toss a coin. Reaching in my jacket pocket, I pull out a 50 pence piece. Okay. Heads I do, Tails I don't.

Heart thudding, I throw the coin in the air and catch it in my palm.

Heads. All right. Let's do this.

Opening my copy of The South London Herald, I flip to the back pages to view the ‘Classified' section. This is where people advertise everything from second-hand clothes and furniture to unwanted pet supplies. It's also the place where premium rate sex lines, dubious ‘modelling' jobs and escort agencies are displayed.

In no time at all, I spy an ad that looks promising.

‘Models Wanted: Premiere Ladies Escort Agency offers high-class introductions for elite gentlemen seeking the very best in female companionship.'

Well, for ￡50,000 I'll certainly be needing an introduction to an ‘elite gentleman,' so this Premiere Ladies place sounds like just the ticket. Also, the telephone number has an ‘0171' area code, suggesting the agency is based somewhere in Inner London, which gives another brownie point in my book.

Hurriedly, I pack up my stuff and go in search of somewhere private to make the call. Ten minutes later, I'm standing in a red telephone box in a secluded area of woodland on the east side of Clapham Common. All around is tranquil and quiet, just the way I like it.

Suddenly, a cute grey squirrel darts out from the hedgerows and stalls just outside the phone booth. Smiling, I knock on the glass to get its attention. Frightened, the creature disappears back into the undergrowth. My heart melts. I love animals and relish seeing them in the wild, something you don't get an awful lot of living in the city.

Tentatively, I lift the black telephone receiver, put some coins in the slot and dial the number. As I wait for the call to connect, I fleetingly remember it's a Sunday and wonder if the agency will even be open as most businesses are closed.

After two rings, a lady with a cut-glass accent picks up. "Hello, Premiere Ladies Escort Agency."

My pulse quickens. Shit, I'm so nervous I'm getting tongue-tied.

"Hello?" the woman repeats, sounding slightly irritable. "Anybody there?"

Tucking a hair behind my ear, I clear my throat and finally muster the courage to speak. "Um, hello. I saw your ad in The South London Herald, and I just wanted to make some enquiries, you know, about how to join your agency."

"Have you ever done this sort of work before?"

"No, but I do know what it involves. I mean, I know it's not just going for dinner and stuff. I know what's expected of me…" My voice trails off. Fuck, I'm blabbering so much crap.

"Do you have a portfolio you could send me? Any headshots? I don't normally book an appointment without first seeing some photographs. I need to know if you'll be a good fit for us."

"No, I'm sorry. I don't have any photographs."

There's a short silence. I'm sweating buckets. Have I blown it already?

"What's your name?" the lady resumes calmly.

"Jessica Gardner."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"What dress size?"

"Eight."

"What height?"

"5ft 9."

"Hair colour, eyes?"

"Brown hair, brown eyes."

"Long hair or short?"

"Long hair."

"Are you pretty?"

The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I don't know what to say. I've never been one to blow my own trumpet and I'm not sure what the correct response should be. If I say ‘yes,' will that sound egotistical? Cynthia always taught me never to boast about my appearance because it cultivates the wrong type of qualities in a woman.

"Are you pretty?" she repeats with a note of exasperation. "Come, come, no false modesty. Be honest. Do men look at you? Do you turn heads?"

"Um, yes, I suppose so," I reply. "I would say I'm pretty. Yes."

"Where are you based? I mean, where do you live?"

"Clapham."

There's another short pause, and I hear her shuffling through paperwork, then she returns to the phone: "Okay look, I don't normally do this without first seeing pictures, but I like the sound of your voice, so I'm prepared to give you an appointment for six o'clock this evening. Can you make it?"

My brows snap together. "Wow! Six o'clock this evening?"

"Yes. We're based in Kensington. If you have a pen and a piece of paper, I'll give you the address. Make sure you arrive promptly as we don't tolerate tardiness."

"Yes, of course, I'll be on time, I promise." Riffling through my bag, I fish out a biro and scribble the address on the back of a tattered Sloppy Joe's leaflet. "Great! Okay, so I'll see you at six pm."

"Six pm and don't be late."

With a cry of elation, I hang up the receiver and step outside the phone booth, my body tingling with nervous excitement. My stomach roils. God, how am I going to survive until this evening? What will I wear? How will I style my hair? I need to pull out all the stops and make a good impression. I need this to be perfect.

Glancing at my watch, I suddenly realise it's well gone eleven-thirty. Shit. Mum will be wondering where I've got to as I still have to take these groceries home. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I turn on my heel and head in the direction of the main footpath that leads back to Terrapin Road.

I spend the rest of the afternoon in a kind of daze. Following my usual Sunday routine, I do a little spring cleaning around the flat, play Jenga with Freddie and help him construct a robot out of cardboard for a school project, but it's hard for me to concentrate on anything as all I can think about is this six o' clock appointment. By lunchtime, I'm so on edge I can hardly hold any food down.

"Darling aren't you hungry?" my mother asks as the three of us sit eating homemade Chicken Chow Mein off a picnic blanket on the living room floor which serves as our makeshift dining table. "Are you having trouble using the chopsticks again? Would you like me to get you a fork?"

"No, it's not the chopsticks. I'm actually getting pretty good at using them now."

"Then what's wrong? You seem so distracted today."

"Would I be able to borrow some of your make-up?" I blurt. "I'm going out tonight so I thought I might put on a bit of lippy and mascara, nothing too fancy."

Cynthia's face lights up. "You're going out? Where to?"

"Just down the pub with Amina. No big deal."

"Amina? Isn't that the nice girl you work with? She's phoned here a couple of times for you, hasn't she?"

"Uh-huh, that's right. We're just going for a couple of drinks. It probably won't be a late one."

"Oh, how nice for you. It's great to hear the two of you are getting close, which makes sense as you've worked together for such a long time. Amina always sounds so polite on the phone. And of course, you can borrow my make-up, help yourself to anything you want, though I must warn you, some of the bottles of foundation are ancient and have probably dried up."

"Thanks! I might give the dry foundation a miss, but if you've got some lipstick and powder, that will be great." Casting my eyes downwards, I focus back on my plate. I can hear the excitement in my mother's voice, and find it sort of endearing. She worries I spend too much time on my own and always says I need to have more of a social life. She's always on at me to go out and meet people, so the news of this girly night out with Amina is like music to her ears. Of course, I'm not really going to the pub. That's just the cover story. I'm not proud of myself for lying to her, but it's got to be done. I simply cannot tell her the truth. If she knew I was going for an interview at an escort agency there's little doubt she'd tear me a new arsehole.

At three-thirty I start to get ready. Standing in front of my wardrobe, I wonder what the heck I'm going to wear tonight as I don't really do sexy. My dress sense is more what you would describe as offbeat and quirky and presumably not the sort of clothing escorts wear. Hurriedly, I begin rummaging through the drawers, trying to find something appropriately demure and alluring.

As always, my bedroom looks as if a bomb hit it, partially because it's so small there's nowhere to put anything so everything ends up on the floor. The bed is piled high with clothing and on the walls are posters of The Spice Girls, Brad Pitt and Juliette Lewis. There's also a cheap reprint of Hokusai's The Great Wave (my attempt to throw in a little artistic self-expression).

In the end, I settle on a long dress in blue-and-white tie dye print, with spaghetti straps and a scooped neckline. I finish off the look with a studded leather jacket and a pair of brown wedged heels. It's not exactly the height of sophistication but it will have to do. At such short notice, I'm just grateful to have found something remotely workable. Finally, I go to my mum's room and put on a little powder, bright red lipstick, mascara and blusher. I don't usually wear make-up so I'm not exactly an expert, but I feel the amount I've applied works to enhance my features. Once more, it will just have to do.

Pursing my lips, I stare at my reflection and wonder what the evening has in store for me. What will happen at this interview? Somewhere deep inside, a voice is telling me that after today, things will never be the same again, and I find the thought sort of scary. Am I seriously ready to do this? Am I completely out of my mind?

Around four-thirty, I say goodbye to Mum and Freddie and head for the bus stop located opposite Clapham Common Tube Station. I don't have to wait long and very soon I'm seated on a bus heading in the direction of Old Brompton Road. Outside, the sky is already growing dark and there's a slight chill to the air that suggests it might rain. I hope not, as I forgot to bring my umbrella.

Forty minutes later, I arrive at South Kensington, an upmarket area of London I'm not particularly familiar with, although I do remember coming here once or twice as a child to visit the Natural History Museum. As soon as I get off the bus, I immediately pull out my tattered old A to Z to find the precise location of Premiere Ladies. After a couple of false starts and wrong turns, I finally reach Troubadour Street, a quiet road lined with beautiful white stucco-fronted terraces from the Georgian era.

Glancing again at the address I have scribbled down on the leaflet, I see that I'm looking for number66. Crossing the road to the even numbered properties, I walk for another two minutes and then stop outside a grand pillared entrance.

Here it is: 66 Troubadour Street.

Right on time too.

Nervously, I climb the stone steps to the door and press the buzzer on the Intercom. A few seconds pass before I hear a low crackling noise and then a woman's voice.

"Hello, Premiere Ladies Escort Agency."

"Um, hi," I squeak. "My name's Jessica Gardner. I'm here for my six o'clock appointment."

"Come on up. We're based on the second floor."

The buzzer sounds to release the door and I enter an opulent entrance hall. A crystal chandelier protrudes from the ceiling and the carefully placed furniture looks antique and expensive. Smoothing down my dress, I trudge up two flights of stairs to the second-floor landing. As I walk, my footfalls sound hollow and there's an eerie sense that the entire building is empty except for me and the lady who spoke on the Intercom.

At last, I reach a door with a brass plaque outside that reads: Premiere Ladies Escort Agency.

Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle and step timidly into a luxurious office with regal furniture and high ceilings. Over by the window, gazing at the London skyline, stands a tall, handsome-faced woman in her early sixties. She is dressed in a beautifully tailored suit and her statuesque figure suggests that she may have once done modelling in her youth.

As soon as I enter, she glances sideways and gives a warm, accommodating smile. "Hi, I'm Jane Waters. We spoke on the phone."

"Hi! I'm Jessica," I reply shyly. "Pleased to meet you."

Still smiling, Jane moves towards a large circular desk in the middle of the room and I'm about to follow her and take a seat, when she suddenly raises her hand. "No, please remain standing. I want to take a proper look at you."

Taken aback by the forcefulness in her voice, I stand to attention and watch helplessly as she opens one of the desk drawers and retrieves a packet of wet wipes. Pulling out two, she turns and fixes me with piercing grey eyes. Slowly, she steps towards me, her gaze travelling from my head to my toes, drinking in every curve of my body and appraising me in the way a man would.

She stops just a few inches from my face, then reaches out and proceeds to use the wet wipes to remove all of my make-up. When she has finished doing a thorough job of it, she takes off my jacket and throws it over a chair. Then, clasping her hands behind her back, she slowly circles me like a predator sizing up its prey, taking her time to continue her appraisal. My body trembles. I've never felt so on edge. The suspense is killing me.

At last, she looks me in the eye and murmurs, "You should never wear too much make-up. Remember, in this business, less is more. If you look like a harlot, you'll be treated like one. Always keep it classy, understood?"

"Y-yes."

"Good. Now take a seat and we shall begin."

Sagging with relief, I follow her to the desk and take a seat opposite. For a moment, Jane doesn't say anything, then she presses her perfectly manicured fingers together and tilts her head to one side. "So, Jessica Gardner, you want to be an escort, do you?"

"Yes," I nod eagerly. "Only…well, see, the thing is, I don't intend to make this permanent." My voice trails off as I struggle to find the words. "What I mean is, I want this to be a one-off, if you know what I mean."

The woman looks confused. "A one-off? What on earth do you mean?"

"Sorry, I'm not explaining myself very well." I stare at the floor, floundering. "Okay, what I mean is, I don't want to become an escort permanently. Currently, I work as a waitress, and I intend to keep that as my main job. I only plan to do this escorting thing as a one-off venture. Earlier today, I saw a story in the newspaper about a girl who sold her virginity for ￡250,000, so I thought…I thought that maybe I could try for ￡50,000."

"And you want me to broker the deal?"

"Yes."

Jane bursts out laughing. "You must think very highly of yourself."

"No, actually I don't," I say with quiet dignity. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I don't think I'm anything special. But I do know I've got to get ￡50,000 because that's the amount my mother needs for her cancer treatment. We're not exactly loaded and there's no other way for people like us to get that kind of money. So, I'm asking for ￡50,000, nothing more, nothing less."

"You do realise that not everything you read in the papers is true?"

"Are you saying that the story is fabricated? That it didn't happen?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. But there may have been certain embellishments, especially if it was in one of the tabloids…"

"Am I wasting my time being here, then? Are you saying you can't help me?"

"Not necessarily. Wait, I'm thinking…"

There's a long, tense silence. Under the table, my knees are knocking. Holy Mother. Have I royally fucked this up?

"Are you really a virgin?" Jane asks.

"Yes."

"You've never done anything with a boy?"

"No."

"Not even a kiss?"

"No, not even a kiss, nothing," I say. "It's just never happened for me."

"Oh, come on. There must have been some near misses."

"No, I'm telling you, I haven't done anything. My mother has been sick for a long time, so I had to grow up fast. I had so much on my plate, taking care of the house, looking after my little brother, I just never really had the time for boys. Plus, I just never found anyone I liked enough to want to sleep with."

"All right, you've convinced me. Goodness gracious. A virgin in this business is something of a rarity these days…" Jane scratches the side of her mouth. "Okay, look, I'll be frank with you. What you're asking for is unheard of. ￡50,000 is an extraordinary sum of money to pay for one night, even for our well-heeled clientele, and far, far higher than what my regular girls command, so I can't make any promises." She pauses and taps her fingers on the table. "Having said that, you, my girl, are stunning, so there's no question your offer will attract a considerable amount of interest. Without a doubt, you are drop-dead gorgeous—a little rough around the edges, perhaps, but nothing we couldn't fix with the right clothes. With my help, I could easily make you the Belle of the Ball."

My heart starts to sing. "Um, wow. Thank you for the compliment…"

"There's no need to be coy, Jessica. You're beautiful and I think you know it. You have the face of an angel. Your body is breath-taking. But I also like your honesty, your sweet and unassuming air, and I think many of our clients will too. A word of advice. Never change your personality. It's one of the things that adds to your charm and places you head-and-shoulders above the rest."

"Thanks, I don't know what to say."

"Then say nothing at all. As the adage goes, better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt."

I laugh nervously. I'm not quite sure what to make of that comment.

"All right," Jane says, pulling out a leather-bound diary. "Leave this with me. Right up front, I'll tell you that I take a twenty-per-cent cut of everything you earn, okay?" I nod silently. She continues: "So listen, I have a few lines of inquiry I'd like to explore. Give me two days and I'll call you as soon as I have an update. By the way, can I have your telephone number for my records?"

"No, wait! I'm sorry, but you can't call my house phone. I don't want my mother to know about any of this. If it's okay, can I call you instead? Could we arrange a day and time and I'll make contact with you?"

Her mouth quirks upwards. "Of course, whatever works for you, I'm happy to accommodate. Call me at six pm on Wednesday evening and we'll take it from there."

"Brilliant!" Beaming, I get to my feet in preparation to leave.

"Hold it." Jane opens the desk drawer and produces a Polaroid camera. "Are you okay for me to take some pictures of you? You didn't bring a portfolio, and in this business, photos are so important. It will help speed things up if I've got something to show our clients."

"Sure! You can take some pictures, no problem."

Briskly, she snaps a couple of headshots, and then finally, we shake hands and say our goodbyes. As I walk to the door, Jane puts her hand on my shoulder, and I see a subtle softness in her eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear about your mother, by the way. Sorry to hear she's sick. Your motive for wanting this money is truly commendable and I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to find a suitable match."

"Thanks, that means a lot," I murmur, touched by her sudden show of warmth. Perhaps she's not such an Ice Queen after all. With a final wave, I leave the building and head for the bus stop and home. It starts to rain, and I curse myself for forgetting my umbrella.

I spend the next two days on pins and needles, counting down the hours until I can make contact with Jane again to find out my fate. I've never felt so nervous about anything in my life, and I keep playing out different scenarios in my head over and over. First off, I wonder if there will be any takers. Have I asked for too much money? Will this all be a huge waste of time and come to a big fat nothing?

Then, assuming she does find someone, I wonder what kind of person he will be. Will he be kind and patient, or will he be a plonker? What will he look like? Will I find him remotely attractive, or will he be physically repellent?

What age will he be? Will he be someone much older, someone with lots of sexual experience or will he be a virginal, trainspotting, anorak-wearing weirdo? Will he be married? Single? Will he have children? What sort of job would he do? A banker? A film producer? A wealthy sheikh? A member of the British aristocracy? My mind boggles with the possibilities and by the time Wednesday comes, my brain is completely fried.

"Just popping to the shops for a carton of orange juice," I call to Cynthia as I sneak out the front door. "Do you need anything?"

"Ooh, could you pick me up some bananas? Freddie says he'd like bananas and custard for pudding tonight."

"Sure, no problem. I won't be long. See you guys soon."

It's approaching ten to six as I walk through the gathering shadows towards a phone booth located around the corner from my estate. As I draw near, I'm irritated to find it's already in use and the girl inside doesn't show any signs of hanging up anytime soon. Pacing up and down outside, I try to remain calm, glancing at my watch every so often as the seconds tick by. Come on, come on, I haven't got all day…

At last, the girl puts down the receiver and vacates at one minute to six.

Thank God!

Hastily, I jump inside the phone booth and dial Jane's number. My throat feels dry. I have butterflies in my tummy. Please pick up, please pick up…

After four rings, Jane's husky voice comes on the line and my feelings of tension melt away. "Hello, Premiere Ladies…"

"Hello, Miss Waters," I say. "It's Jessica Gardner here. You told me to phone?"

"Ah, yes, Jessica! So glad you called. I have good news. We have had some interest and you, my girl, have a date this coming Saturday."

"Really? Oh. My. God. Thank you, thank you!" I punch the air in victory. I simply cannot believe it. Somebody has agreed to pay the ￡50,000. This doesn't seem real. Could my problems really be over so quickly? My next few sentences come out in a flurry. "So who is he? Where am I meeting him? How does this thing work?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that over the phone. I would much rather see you in person. Come to my office at three pm on Saturday and we'll take it from there. Oh, and bring an overnight bag, pack your toothbrush, a change of clothes, that sort of thing."

"Can't you tell me anything at all?" I ask excitedly. "I'm dying to know more!"

"I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be appropriate to speak about it over the phone. Our clients cherish their privacy, and I would never do anything to compromise our impeccable reputation. However, I promise all will be revealed very soon. Now are we on for Saturday, or what?"

"Yes! A hundred per cent!"

"Good. See you at three pm then. Don't be late." The line goes dead.

Flustered, I put the receiver back in the cradle and run my fingers through my hair. I grin stupidly. Shit. I can't fucking believe it. She actually found someone willing to pay half the price of a house to spend the night with me. Oh my gosh!

This is too good to be true.