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Chapter 21

"It'stimes like this I'm glad I'm not a hardcorer, even if my bank account isn't." Ebony shoots me a friendly side eye. "And you didn't even get paid for it."

I've been telling her about my filthy exploits with Josh as we walk through London, careful not to be overheard from passersby. Hasn't always worked. We've had a few backwards glances.

"That's one hell of a freebie I got last night," I say. "Josh's clients would pay a fortune for that kind of service."

"Good job you're his girlfriend then, isn't it? You get the pleasure whenever you want it, and you can return the favour. Hardcorers united."

"Hardcorers United, I like it." I laugh. "Maybe we should start up a quiz team or something? What a name."

"Or you could use it as a hook. Buy one, get the other partner free. Limited time only. Must include anal fisting."

"Now that I really do like the sound of."

We're still laughing when Eb stops to look in one of the designer store windows. She's scoping out a beautiful summer dress in bright red poppy print, displayed like a dream on a mannequin. Then she notices the price tag displayed underneath and widens her eyes. It's four hundred pounds.

"I wish," she says, and goes to walk on by.

It occurs to me then, just how wide the gaps are when it comes to The Agency pay scale. My filth levels and ambitions have always been sky high, but I had plenty of vanilla proposals early on – mainly from guys offering a few hundred quid for the basics. Back then, when I first heard about being an entertainer, I thought a few hundred a night was crazy money, and it was, compared to my day job. But now, accepting the level of proposals I get offered has put me in a whole other league. The cash value rockets as your naughty list boxes get ticked.

Eb has a few clients who like things a bit different, but most are regulars, wanting the standard week on week. Mouth, pussy, ass – a few hundred a go. She works a fair few nights, so she earns a decent living. But with the house, and the kids, and her husband working for little pay, a dress like that is quite a spend for her.

But not for me. Not anymore.

"Let's go and take a look at it," I say and gesture to the entrance.

"Hardly your style, babe. Can you imagine turning up in that to one of your proposals? They want their filthy gothic princess, not a girly girl in poppy print."

"Not for me," I say. "For you."

Her eyes lock on mine when she gets what I'm saying, and she shakes her head.

"You don't need to do that. I was only commenting in passing."

She wasn't, though. I saw the way her eyes lit up when she saw it. The mannequin shows it off like it was made for her, and I can imagine her wearing it, enjoying the float of the fabric at summer barbeques with the boys.

"Let's just go check it out. Just to see."

"Ells," she says. "Honestly, keep your cash for yourself. You should be spending money on your own wardrobe, not mine. You're the one who takes it hardcore, not me."

"Yeah, because I like the hardcore. That's why. It's hardly under duress, is it? Plus, my wardrobe is getting bigger by the week. Josh will need to get another few wardrobes soon at the way I keep expanding my collection. You can think of it as saving me a clothes hanger."

"For four hundred quid?! That's an expensive clothes hanger."

I adore the woman in front of me, so beautiful and styled, but still so humble. I wouldn't be here now, in the stately streets of London with a hefty wedge of cash in my bank account if it wasn't for her introducing me to The Agency. I wouldn't be the confident Ella I've grown into if she hadn't believed in me and encouraged me. I wouldn't be with Josh. I wouldn't have been able to visit my parents at Christmas. I wouldn't have been able to quit my store job. My life would still be an absolute piece of shit.

"Please," I say. "Can we just take a look?"

She knows me too well, even though the bulk of our friendship has been on video call.

"You don't owe me anything, babe. You give back more than enough to everyone who ever helps you, just by being you."

I take her hand at that, dragging her towards the store doorway.

"And that kind of sentiment is exactly why I want to see you in a dress like that. You deserve it, just for being you."

"Ella," she says, but her feet move along with mine. "Fine," she says. "Just a look though, ok? I'll try it on, but don't go dashing to the counter if it looks less than perfect on me."

"It's going to look like perfection on you. I already know it."

We walk through the aisles, checking out the displays until we see the selection of poppy dresses. Her eyes light up all over again as she holds one up on a hanger. It's even more stunning up close. The silky lined fabric is gorgeous.

"It's really nice," she says, "But four hundred quid? I could buy six dresses for that."

"Tell you what," I say. "I was going to be looking for a crystal bracelet today. I was thinking silver with a bit of onyx. How about you buy me a bracelet, and I'll buy you a poppy dress?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, come on. It's hardly the same, is it?"

"No, but it's the sentiment, not the cash value. I'll wear it and think of you."

She laughs. "Yeah, well, I'll be wearing this and thinking of dancing in meadows, and watching polo matches in the sunshine. It's like something from Pretty Woman."

I grin back. "Ahh, so you will have it, then? You'll be thinking while you're wearing it, so you'll have to be wearing it to be thinking in it, won't you?"

She keeps hold of the hanger, wavering, but I wait. She looks at the dress, then over at me, back to the dress, and over to me. And then she sighs.

"This is a one off, ok? I'm not going to be a sponger. And I'd better try it on first, let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Sure, sure," I say, beaming as we head to the changing rooms.

I figured I knew how good Eb would look in the dress, but I was wrong. It suits her even better than I thought when she steps out from behind the curtain. I hold my hands up to my face, nodding as she does a spin for the mirror. She's like a goddess. An absolute goddess.

Shame she doesn't love hardcore, or she'd earn a fucking shit ton.

"I love it," she says, swishing the skirt from side to side. "Fucking hell, it's beautiful. But it's four hundred quid, Ella."

"Three hundred and ninety-nine, actually."

"Whoopty doo. You'll save a pound." She sighs. "It is absolutely gorgeous, though."

"So is the bracelet you'll get me, I just know it."

"You shouldn't do this," she says again. "You'd spoil the whole world, you're so generous."

"I'm just glad I get the chance to spoil anyone at all."

"You work hard for your money, you weren't just born into a fortune, remember that."

I shrug. "And I love working hard for my money, so it's a double win for me."

"You're one in a million. You really are." She pulls me in for a hug. "I'd gladly buy you a bracelet any day of the week."

She goes back into the cubicle to get changed into her jeans and top, and I check out my own reflection in the mirror. I look like I stepped out of a gothic movie, just like always, but it's in a different league now. The black dress I'm in is a designer number, in beautiful fitted velour to the knee. My heels are high and classy, and my bolero gives me gorgeous lace sleeves.

Lucky doesn't even begin to cover how I feel. Grateful comes closer, and Eb is at the heart of it all. She started it. She deserves a hell of a lot more than a poppy dress.

My hand is waiting for the hanger as soon as she reappears. She gives it to me with a sigh, but she's smiling. Grateful herself.

"Thanks."

"You're more than welcome."

She takes hold of my arm as we stroll along to the payment desk, and she rests her head for just a moment on my shoulder. Such a simple touch that says so much.

I can't wait for my parents to meet her. I can't wait for them to meet Tiff either, because I know they're going to love the pair of them. My new friends have genuine natures that shine from their souls. And as for Josh… well. Even the thought of my parents meeting him gives me flutters. But I want it to be in person. I want to give them the full experience of meeting him live in the flesh before they get chatty on webcam. As though I'm presenting a marital prospect or something.

Mother, Father, this isJoshua Lewis Walsh, the love of my life.

Ridiculous, but the idea makes me glow, like I'm in a fantasy romance novel, introducing the chivalrous knight to the king and queen.

A chivalrous knight who likes stretch play, cum, and even watersports, apparently. Not every knight's cup of tea.

I hope my parents like his actual cup of tea though since they'll be staying in his place while they visit. And as for the other way around, Josh brought it up this morning himself while he was making us sausage sandwiches. It seems the planets are aligning in the background, and things are motoring. His end a lot quicker than mine.

Next Sunday – just over seven days away – I've been invited to a family meal at Josh's family home.

I'm already quaking at the thought of it.

Hmm, maybe I should get one of those poppy dresses for myself, but his family would probably faint at his choice of girlfriend if that was the case, plus it would clash with the purple in his hair. So, nah. I'll go as I am. Designer velvet and black eyeliner every step of the way.

We continue walking through London, Eb happily swaying her new dress bag in her hand. There aren't going to be many crystal jewellery shops in this part of the city. The places that I know and love are in Camden. The part of Camden I associate with Connor and his gig nights.

I've been avoiding it, but I've decided to push myself. Today is going to be the day to enjoy Camden and face my past with my head held high.

I point it out on the next tube station map, and Eb raises her eyebrows. She knows the story.

"You're really ready to go there? What if you run into asshat with his new sweetheart?"

I think about it, trying to imagine bumping into Connor with another girl. Josh is ten thousand times more of a gentleman, and a hotter one than Connor will ever be, but it would still squick me out like hell to see him again. Connor and a little slutty redhead, fawning over him like he's God.

Just like I did.

Fuck him. I brush it off as nothing. My eyes are steadfast when I answer Eb.

"I'm hardly going to be sobbing at his feet and heartbroken, crying to have him back, am I?"

"No," she says. "But you might want to give him a slap across the chops and spit in her cocktail. I wouldn't blame you for feeling the rage."

"Good job it's only two p.m., then. I doubt he'll be gigging at this time of day."

"We chancing it?" Eb asks, and I nod.

"Yeah, onyx bracelet calling, and Camden goth shops do the best."

Despite my bravado, I still get a flash of edginess when we step onto the street outside Camden tube station. It's so familiar, and filled with the ghosts of old dreams. It's nothing, my rational brain insists. I tell myself it won't make any difference if I run into my poor excuse of an ex, even though I did get squicked out to fuck when one of his home recorded videos popped up on my social media feed this morning in the bathroom.

I thought I'd blocked Connor on just about everything going, but clearly not. I should have at least blocked him on that platform as well, and not clicked on his profile to find he's gone up to nearly 22k followers. I shouldn't have watched him crooning into the microphone like a rock legend waiting for the spotlight. It still made me feel sick to the stomach. I'm surprised I was up to eating sausage sandwiches after that shocker.

What a relief that Josh was there to hold me close and make it better. He even watched one of Connor's videos and gave a he's pretty good, actually. Not even a hint of jealousy in sight.

That's trust for you. That's faith. That's love.

I'm fine and over the edginess by the time we reach my favourite crystal shop. Ebony looks around in fascination at their quartz obelisks and amethyst geodes, and I spot the selection of jewellery I've been looking for, right at the back. Lovely strings of jet black onyx mixed with sterling silver spirals.

"Twenty-five quid?" Eb asks when I point my favourite one out to her. "Seriously? I thought it would be at least fifty. You're taking the piss. That's hardly a fair swap for the dress."

I laugh. "Get me two then, if you must."

I'm joking, but she isn't when she picks out a lovely looking pair of quartz earrings, hung on infinity loops of silver.

"There we go," she says once she's paid for my gifts. "You're stuck with me as a friend for infinity now. Call it symbolic and spiritual and all that jazz."

We're walking up the street to the Devonshire Arms for an afternoon drink when I get the familiar buzz of an Agency notification through on my phone. It's not a proposal one, though. It's the official one. It's from Orla – one of the three Agency bosses – and her message takes me by surprise.

Did you invite a man called Richard Jacobs from Kingsgate Lettings to join our client base? He's been emailing us, urging us to set him up with a ‘booking' for your services. He knows you by your full name, not by your profile one. If you did, then please refer to the terms of contract, because we don't take on clients by word of mouth, not like that.

"What?" asks Eb, and I show her the text. "Jesus Christ," she says. "The prick's been digging, trying to find you. He can get fucked."

"Or not get fucked, hopefully."

I can't type out my reply fast enough.

No. I did not invite Richard Jacobs to become a client. He's an idiot who heard rumours of Tiff and Josh, and took the apartment I'd signed up for off me when I refused to fuck him for cash. Please, please don't take him on the books. He must have got your details from my tenancy application. There's no way I'd have ever told him about my role with you.

I stare at the screen until Orla replies.

Noted, thanks. And don't worry about Richard. You won't hear from him again.

Phew, the relief.

Another ping comes through.

You say he took your apartment from you? One you were looking to rent through Kingsgate?

My reply is instant.

Yeah. He's horrible. Luckily, I'm staying with Josh now. (Weston). Otherwise, I'd have been frantic and royally screwed.

Another notification.

Don't worry about Richard, and don't worry about Kingsgate. Watch this space.

I read the message in confusion, then show Eb what Orla has said. Eb doesn't share my confusion at all, though. She lets out a laugh, and clenches her fist in celebration.

"What?" I ask. "Am I missing something?"

"Um, just a little," she says. "The clients who pay you thousands a night for your service, who do you think they are? The richer ones behind the scenes, too. The ones who pay the kind of cash Tiffany works for?"

"Just wealthy people, I guess."

"Oh, babe. Very wealthy people indeed, and I'm pretty certain a lot of them know of each other. Right at the centre is a special group of them. The founders, so rumour has it. And they all value their secrets. They won't want people digging into their business. Especially not sleazy wankers like Richard Jacobs."

I take in what she's saying, or try to.

"You think they're going to have words with him?"

She laughs. "Words with him would be one way of looking at it. Putting him in his place with a threat and a promise, more like it. The owner of Kingsgate is probably a client of ours, they're not going to be wanting an employee of theirs digging around in Agency business, are they?"

I'm shocked at the thought, but he'd deserve it. The piece of shit would absolutely deserve the payback for being such a manipulative cunt over my new home, AND for being such a wanker to Tiff and Josh, too. At least then maybe he'd leave us all the fuck alone.

Eb and I are in the Dev enjoying our third wine of the afternoon when a call comes through from Kingsgate Lettings Agency. I've still got their number saved on my phone and my guts lurch at the sight of it. I take a breath before I answer, figuring it will be him himself – Mr Caught Out – but it's Rachel, the woman I filed the tenancy paperwork with.

"Miss Edwards," she says, in a cheerful voice. "I'm pleased to say that the apartment in the Belgravia's West Wing has become available again. Would you like to accept it?"

"Sorry, what?" I ask. "Is this to do with Richard? Is he suddenly accepting my tenancy application again or something? Because if he is…"

"No, no," she tells me, and clears her throat. "Unfortunately, Mr Jacobs has had some unfortunate personal issues come up which have led to his immediate resignation. I'm taking his place in management now and the property is yours to rent, if you want it. Just say the word and you can collect the keys tomorrow."

I can collect the keys tomorrow, just what the hell?

I wanted it so fucking much, the thought slams me. Hard. The horror at losing my imaginary future because that asshole wanted to rub my face in the dirt. I'm reeling. Swarming with a sense of WTF at the speed of Orla's influence.

I must go whiter than my foundation, because Eb mouths a what to me as I hold my phone tighter to my ear.

But still, even through the shock, one thing is obvious. The words come straight out of my heart as well as my mouth, without so much as a thought.

"Thank you very much for the consideration," I tell Rachel. "But you can keep the apartment, thanks, I won't be needing it. I've already found a new home."

Eb is open mouthed when I hang up.

"That was fucking quick. Orla's gone all guns blazing to get you that place back." She pauses. "But you don't want it? You'd rather be with Josh?"

Too right I'd rather be with Josh. The very thought of moving out of his place gives me a pang of heartbreak.

"I wasn't lying," I tell Eb. "I've found a new home now, and there's no way I'd want to leave. Waving at Josh across the courtyard just isn't going to cut it. Not anymore."

"Cheers to you then, babe." She raises her glass to me, and we finish up our drinks in one.

"I'll go get us another," she says and she's up and off to the bar before I can protest that it's my round.

I watch her so warmly on her way across the pub, grateful once again for her, and for Josh, and Tiff and everyone who has helped me.

There's another very important person I need to be grateful for now, too.

I call up The Agency app and send another message to Orla.

Thank you. I really appreciate it. You're amazing. Just, wow. Thanks. But luckily, I'm with Josh now, and I won't be leaving his place. We're like two peas in a very happy pod together.

I get a reply as Ebony reappears with our drinks.

You're welcome, Ella, and congratulations to you and Josh – two of our most valued entertainers. Any other issues with people using your career as leverage, please reach out to us. It's unacceptable behaviour, and we'll always help however we can.

Hell, judging by the speed she handled that bullshit debacle, I'm sure glad to have her on my side.

"All good?" Eb asks, and I give her a wine-fuelled grin.

"All is more than good," I say. "It's the best it could possibly be."

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