Chapter 14

Daddy isall but forgotten as my cab heads back towards London. I may have been having the time of my life last night, but that pales into insignificance now.

I could squeal with excitement as the towers come into view. There's my soon-to-be apartment up there – I can see the window in the west wing, and it gives me another rush of a high. Only not as high as the soaring feeling I get at the thought of Josh waiting for me.

I want to hear all about his night. Every graphic detail. I want to hear about Josh's daddy, just as much as I want to tell him about mine.

And there's more… I'm so intrigued by the way Daddy hosed my mouth out in the shower, so filthily. And so dirty as I pissed all over the shower floor as he watched me. I'm so intrigued by where it could lead… and I want to explore it with Josh. I need to voice my thoughts out loud…

"Keep the change, thanks," I say to the driver when we pull up, and I bail out, dashing through the courtyard gardens with my pigtails swinging – trotting along in my knee-high socks and Mary Janes. I key in the code to the east wing main doors and head into the foyer with a thumping heart. One small elevator ride, and I'll be there. I'm grinning as I wait for it to arrive on the ground floor, come on, come on, come on. I've forgotten that these blocks can get quite busy.

I hear voices behind me in the foyer, and I get a shiver straight up my spine. My carefree attitude towards my fake uniform shrivels to nothing now I'm well and truly out of character. I only hope the oncoming people won't notice. But, oh fuck. Fate loves making a jibe.

My legs tremble as the approaching voices get louder, because I recognise one of them. His tone is distinctive. Low and charming. I glance over my shoulder to check it out, and I wish there was somewhere to bolt and run to, because Richard Jacobs from Kingsgate Letting Agency is walking towards me, with a client at his side as she browses obliviously through a brochure. His eyes crash into mine, and stay there, both of us mute as the elevator finally dings and the doors open. I don't know what to do other than step on in, so embarrassed that I hang my head as he and his client step in along with me.

She's blind to my predicament, continuing to ask him questions about the kitchen of the place she's about to view, but he's not. His eyes are so intense as he checks me out that I'm burning alive. He knows I'm not a college girl. He knows I don't hang out in pigtails and a fake school blazer when I should be at ‘work'.

"What floor?" he asks me, before pressing the button to ascend. "Are you going to see Josh or Tiffany, by any chance?"

I cringe, because there is no doubt now that he knows. Josh wasn't lying about their reputation around here – and I know what the association means.

Richard Jacobs, my lettings agent, knows I've just been out fucking someone for money, dressed up in a schoolgirl outfit. I'm not exactly the PR professional I presented myself as for my viewing.

"Josh's or Tiffany's?" he repeats, and I clear my throat.

"Josh's."

"Right," he says, and presses the button for floor eight, before clicking on floor ten to follow.

I'm ready to race the hell out of there when the elevator reaches floor eight, but Richard reaches out to keep the doors open before they close behind me.

"Hold on one second please, Ella," he says.

Ella. I'm sure not Miss Edwards now. Not from the tone he's using.

He turns to the client he's got the viewing with, and she's still scoping out the apartment brochure.

"Miss Yardley," he says, and she looks up as he pulls some keys from his pocket. "Would you be so kind as to give me a minute? Please, head up to apartment forty-six and make yourself at home. I'll be right on up to join you."

"Of course." She smiles and takes the keys, completely oblivious.

He steps out to join me and waits until the elevator is on its way up before he speaks.

"Well, well. What a surprise to see you under these circumstances," he says, and there is such a sneery edge to his voice that I cringe. My backpack feels so heavy and ridiculous on my shoulder that I shunt it up, as though I've been caught being a naughty schoolgirl for real. "I didn't realise you had friends over here, in the east." He steps closer, towering over me, and the respect I saw before from him at my viewings has all gone away. He's not out to impress me today, with handshakes and courtesy. "I didn't realise you were a hooker, like them. What an oversight on my part. Extraordinary. I've normally got very good intuition."

"I do work in PR…" I attempt. "I'm an entertainer."

"Cut the crap," he says. "We both know what you really do for a living." He looks me up and down. "You make a convincing schoolgirl. Very good. The pigtails suit you."

My cheeks must be blushing beetroot. What am I supposed to say to that? What can I say?

I don't say a thing, just look at the goddamn floor like a criminal.

He paces around me in the corridor, with his hands clasped behind his back like a predator circling his prey – and I'm back to the old Ella. Being judged, being scared, feeling like I shouldn't be in a place like this.

I figure he's going to call me out in disgust and say dirty hookers shouldn't be in this place, but he steps up close again, with a different kind of smile on his face.

A dirty smile.

It clicks with me. I remember what Ebony said when he showed us around prospective apartments. She said about the bulge in his pants, and I look there now. Sure enough, there it is. His pants are bulging for me in my schoolgirl outfit. He's hard at the sight of me.

"So, now I know you're a hooker, let's put it on the table," he says. "How much do you charge and when can I book you?"

I meet his eyes again, and he's so confident, it's almost smug.

"It doesn't work like that," I say. "Sorry, but I'm not open to bookings."

He raises his eyebrows like I'm an idiot. "Really? I think you may want to reconsider that stance. If anything, being your lettings agent, you should be offering me a discount, not a refusal."

"It's not personal." I try to make the rebuttal sound nice. I even smile. "I'm not on the public market, that's all. It's nothing against you."

"You have a pimp, is that what you're saying?" he asks.

"No." I get a skin crawl. "I work for a professional company. And there are rules. Exclusivity is one of them."

"Oh, yes. I've heard this story before. Exclusivity. I would think this idea of exclusivity through very carefully before you turn me down, Ella," he says, and twirls one of my pigtails in his fingers. "I know your friends offer quite a lot of services by all accounts. Are you filthy like they are? Give me a price, and a list of options, fuck exclusivity, I'm sure you can cut me a deal."

"I can't…" I hate how my voice sounds so weak.

Richard would have to join the agency, and the referral process doesn't work like that. I can't introduce clients, and I can't take them on outside my entertainer appointments. I wouldn't dare risk it. I wouldn't want to anyway, not with him.

He steps behind me to look at my ass, and dares to hitch my skirt up, trying to check out my panties, but I push him away.

"Oh, come on, don't be shy," he says. "It's not as though you don't bare it for other people. If anything, you should be giving me a complimentary viewing. Show me the holes I'll be fucking before I hand over my cash for the privilege."

Now, that is too much for me. I picture my old boss, sneering and rolling her eyes at me when I was working my hardest, like I was nothing but a stupid piece of shit, there to do the store's bidding.

He's my letting agent, not my fucking ruler.

"I'm not for sale, and it's not on offer!" I snap, and step away from him. "Sorry, Richard, but no. I'm not a public service, and I'm definitely not here to be groped by a wannabe client."

He grits his teeth before he speaks.

"It's Mr Jacobs, Ella, and I'm definitely not here to be duped. I thought you were a professional in PR, not a hooker seeking a deluxe apartment in Belgravia."

"I'm not duping anyone. I earn more than enough to pay for it."

"Then cut the bullshit and tell me how much you're going to charge me. You're not the untouchable Tiffany. She owns her apartment, so she can afford to give me the middle finger with no consequences, but you…" His voice trails off, and he looks at me like I'm a cheap piece of shit. "You owe me plenty already. I overlooked your credit rating, by the way. It was abysmal. I also overlooked your current address. Considering your employment reference, I thought you'd landed lucky in your career, but no. You spread your legs and opened wide for money, didn't you? And you can do the same for me."

The old Ella in me wants to back down, for the sake of my apartment. He's like a puppet master, dangling my new home on precarious threads. It would break my heart to lose it, because he controls all of the lettings in Belgravia. If I say no to him and he turns the cogs behind the scenes, I'll be out in the cold, and he'll likely sour my reputation through the whole of his professional network. Should I risk that, really? I can't go back to my old place. I just can't…

He sees me wavering and grins.

"How much?" he says again. "And when are you available? I'll have a regular slot from when you get your apartment keys."

The thought of fucking him in my upcoming home makes me feel sick, so exploited.

I think of Tiff and Josh, and the other entertainers at the agency. So many professionals, with clients appreciating their services – no matter what services they may be. And fuck him. Fuck Richard Jacobs and his bullshit fucking threats, like he can use me as a cheap toy whenever he wants me.

I imagine Tiff in my place. The confidence in her stare, and I force myself to look right at him in the same vein, even though my insides are churning.

"You'd never be able to afford me."

He's so taken aback his jaw drops. "I'm sorry?"

I summon my inner Tiff. I summon Ebony. I summon the professionalism of the great people at The Agency Christmas party. I summon my relationship with Josh.

I summon ME. The real ME.

"If you could afford me, Richard, you wouldn't be a lettings agent, manager or not. You'd be one of the mega landlords in the background, earning thousands in the blink of an eye."

"How dare –"

"I'm telling you the truth," I say. "And even if I wasn't, even if you were a nice guy and I really did have the ability to break my exclusivity contract, I wouldn't take you on as a client. My clients treat me with respect, even when their fantasies are anything but. Something tells me you'd be a piss-taking piece of shit. I wouldn't hand it out to you for any fee."

"And that's your final decision, is it?"

I make sure my eyes are fierce. "Yes, that's my final decision."

His eyes are fierce right back at me. "Such a shame. I'm sure Miss Yardley upstairs will be very happy to hear that a further apartment has become available in west wing. Extra choice for her. She's very keen on Belgravia, and so she should be. It's a marvellous place to live."

I fold my arms. "That's what you're going to do, then? Seriously? You're going to withdraw my tenancy agreement because I won't take your dick?"

"I think Rachel in the office made an unfortunate error during the referencing process. Your credit check doesn't seem to have been validated, and it's not up to our standards, sorry."

I keep my arms folded. "I'll pay fully up front for the contract length, and my employer will be a guarantor, remember? My credit rating means nothing."

He smirks. "How generous, but unfortunately, you didn't meet our criteria. Who knows, maybe we might cross paths again and we can reconsider our position, you do have my card after all, but right now, on behalf of Kingsgate, your tenancy offer is withdrawn."

He's really said it. With crystal clarity. My hopes tumble so hard, I could retch.

The asshole wasn't playing at being a total fucking bastard, he really is withdrawing my tenancy agreement. My mind flicks back to the joy when I viewed it with Ebony. The snow angel I did on the plush carpet, the thoughts of my mum using the incredible kitchen, and plans on how I would furnish their room before they visited. How I'd furnish the rest of it. All the amazing pieces of furniture on my list, a load of them already bought and paid for, ready for delivery.

I hate how my eyes fill with tears.

"You're a cunt," I say to Richard. "An absolute cunt."

He leans in close.

"Only because you won't give me a piece of yours. Change your self-righteous tune and the tenancy will be valid again. Up to you."

I shake my head, regardless of the tears threatening to spill. In some ways it would be so easy, I could fuck him like it meant nothing, like he was just a client, and it was just a job, but no. NO. FUCKING. WAY.

"I'll never change my mind," I say. "I'd rather burn in hell than suck your dick after this."

He brushes his suit down with a smirk, but he's bristling. I can feel it. Such a dent to his ego.

His grin is practically a snarl. "I'd better get upstairs to Miss Yardley. Time is running out now she has two apartments to view instead of one. I think she'll prefer yours, actually. You can ask her if you ever meet her in passing."

He brushes against me on his way past, and I want to scream and shout about what a vile piece of shit he is for trying to blackmail me, but what would be the point? My distress would only bring him greater pleasure, and I'm not breaking. I'm not selling myself cheap like I used to, being grateful for the scraps from a dismissive asshole's table.

I wait until he's back in the elevator before I let the tears fall in earnest.

I double up and grip my sides as my dreams come crashing down. Everything from the coffee table I was going to have, to the grand moment when I would be able to unveil my new abode to my parents. The pride and happiness I knew I'd see in their eyes.

It cripples me so bad I can hardly walk, wiping my eyes on my blazer sleeve as I stumble along to Josh's place.

I ring the buzzer, and he opens the door with a flourish – a huge smile on his face to see me there, his eyes so alive. But mine are streaming. I blink them free over and over again.

"What the hell?" he says, but my sobs are so bad I can't speak.

I throw myself into his arms, just like I planned, but it's hardly the vision I had in the cab earlier. I'm a wreck. A snivelling wreck in a fake schoolgirl outfit and snotty tears on my sleeve.

But that doesn't make any difference.

Josh's arms hold me tight, and he kisses my head as he supports me.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have turned up like this," I manage to say, but he only squeezes me tighter.

"Don't worry, Ells," he tells me through my sobs. "You can turn up whenever you need to, however you like. I'm here, and I'm not letting go."