Sunday, 8pm

The door clicks closed behind us and I stand in the middle of the room feeling awkward. Petra has abandoned her phone at last, and is gazing out of the window.

I’ll take one last stab at this. Be the bigger person, Emma.

I walk over to her, muster the most genuine smile I can manage: “Hi Petra, we haven’t met properly yet! I’m Emma. It’s nice to meet you.”

She looks suspiciously down at the hand I’ve offered it. Bitch. But she takes it, limply, and shakes. She looks me up and down as she does so. She seems more than satisfied: is that a faint smile I see at the corners of her mouth?

“Hello,” she says in that syrupy Slavic way. She tosses her head to one side. “Petra. How old are you?”

Strange way to start a conversation. But I’ll go with it.

“Oh, um…twenty-six. What about you?”

“I am twenty-three.”

She’s still standing right in front of me, looking right at me. It’s making me feel uncomfortable. I wander, as casually as I can, to the window railing, and lean on it.

Looks like it’s up to me to speak again: “Where are you from, Petra?”

“I am from Bulgaria,” she replies.

Of course she is. They’re all drop-dead stunning out there.

“And you…are English, yes?”

“Afraid so,” I smile. “You East Europeans can’t have a monopoly on the industry!”

Fuck. Have I just been racist? Nice one, Emma.

She doesn’t react to my nervy attempt at a joke. Suddenly I’m terrified again, terrified that I’m the only one here for the reasons I think we’re all here for. Especially with this stern, strong, beautiful woman before me. A woman who knows she’s already one up on me.

“Sorry, umm, sorry.”

“Why are you here?”

Just the question I don’t want. And she asks it with a tiny smirk. Surely she knows. But maybe she wants a deeper answer. How much longer can I beat around the bush?

I feel myself twisting my ankles like a shy schoolgirl and do my best to avoid the elephant in the room. That prostitution thing.

“I guess I just…want to learn. I lost my job last week. Time for something new. You know?”

She shrugs.

“And…you?”

Petra stays silent a moment. For the first time I sense unease in her, now that I’ve thrown her question back at her. Then she folds her arms in front of her chest and fixes me with her gaze again.

“Just some regular training for my work,” she says, and looks away to the left.

“Regular training? You mean…you’ve been before? Are you…”

She cuts me off: “I am already three years a hooker. I have not been here before. OK?”

A hooker already? Jesus. What’s going on here?

The blonde Bulgarian walks off in the direction of the walk-in wardrobe. The elephant in the room has been dealt with, but I get the sense question time is over. I turn to face the open window again. It’s quiet outside. So quiet. The merry birds of the daytime have abandoned their song as twilight draws in. I long for a breath of wind. Anything.

My mind is racing, though. Aren’t we all supposed to be rookies here? Or did I just assume that? Now that I think about it, nobody explicitly said so. Suddenly I’m afraid that I might be the only one. Maybe this is a practical joke after all. A joke on me. But all I know for sure is that my room-mate just became a whole lot more intimidating.

And why on earth does an experienced escort need to come here for lessons?

* * * * *

No bitch is going to get me down. I taught my boss that just the other day. She can be what she wants to be. Yes, I’m curious. But I have patience. For now, she can do as she pleases. They all can. I’m going to check out that wardrobe.

I barely notice the rummaging Petra as I walk in and turn to my side of the well-lit closet. There must be a hundred different outfits in here. A cursory glance reveals glittering evening gowns, a few expensive-looking skirts and a variety of blouses. There’s the smell of dry-cleaning. I spot a selection of handbags crammed onto one of the shelves.

And then my eyes fall upon the shoes. They fill the floor beneath the hanging clothes. There are more on the shelves, in shoe compartments. Oh my, what a selection. Mostly they are high heels. Red, black, blue. Decorated and jewelled. Some of those heels look uncomfortably tall. The thought of wearing these thrills me a little, though, like the prospect of a roller-coaster ride.

I pick up a pair of black leather heels and hold them up to my nose. New. Unmistakably new. I sniff a purple velvet slipper and that never-worn smell is there too. I feel woozy at the thought of the money that must have been spent on all this. A little guilty, too. Was all this really bought for me?

This closet is every girl’s dream, but butterflies start dancing in my tummy as I look more closely at the clothes. The more clothes I find, the more I sense the expectation attached to them. Deeper inside the cupboard, at the far end of the railing, I notice some more unusual items. A couple of business suits in the style favoured by my bitchy ex-boss. And that flash of white hanging behind it? I unhook it: a one-piece nurse’s uniform. It’s small. In fact most things look a little tight, come to think of it. They’ve erred on the low side of my measurements.

I pull more items down from the railing. I’m startled to find a slim-fit dress with two very deliberate holes in the front of the top section. Hmm. There are numerous skimpy miniskirts, a pair of riding tights and what looks to be a complete school uniform kit.

There’s some decidedly militaristic stuff too: a couple of khaki uniform jackets with matching caps. A swastika catches my eye, and something from recent news items comes flashing back to me. Who was that big shot caught cavorting with escorts in Nazi gear? I shake my head and try not to think about it, but the tremble comes. It’s not hard to do the maths here.

I rummage once again. A couple of bathrobes, one of them highly transparent. There’s an emerald-green one-piece bathing suit. I like it, and picture myself diving into fresh, clear water looking a million bucks as it hugs my figure. There are several bikini bottoms: some with matching tops, others conspicuously mono. Some polo shirts, paired with sporty tennis skirts. Curiously, there’s even full-front apron. Several plump, fresh bath and swimming towels fill a broad shelf. Some classic, wispy nightwear. They were right: we wouldn’t want for clothing here. Where necessary.

Just when I think I’ve seen it all, I pull out a backless dress. Except it’s not just backless. It takes me some time to understand it. There’s nothing below the neck strap, apart from another strap to go around the waist. Anyone wearing this would be completely bare to anyone passing behind her.

I let out a low whistle, and hear Petra look around. I’ve almost forgotten her, but there she is, with what looks like a British Airways stewardess’s uniform in her hand. She sees the dress I’m holding, and I hear her snicker for the first time. My bemusement seems to amuse her.


Sunday, 9.30pm 

I’m full, and I’m drowsy already. We’ve just been served a simple but tasty meal in our room. It was only soup and thick, chunky bread, but the ingredients and preparation hinted at true quality. Petra, who is only just the right side of anorexic, abandoned hers halfway through, but I wolfed down everything.

I put my tray to one side and sit up on my bed. It’s dark inside now: I reach over to the lamp and switch it on. There’s now a pleasant glow on my side of the room. I’m relaxed and drowsy, but it seems a little early to sleep. What I really want to do is unwind in that big bath. Does it really have to be out in the open

Hang on, no. If I want a bath, I’ll have one. Screw her. She’s not going to spoil my evening. She’s not going to spoil anything.

I start as another knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I hear Petra say something in a foreign language, and another woman lets herself in.

I’m surprised to see another beautiful woman push her way into the room. Visitors already? She’s an absolute screaming babe with inky-black hair. She barely nods at me as she passes my bed en route to Petra’s, chattering all the way in what I assume is Bulgarian. Here we go again. Petra rises and hugs her warmly, smiling cheerily. So, she’s not a bitch to everyone, then.

I know they’re talking about me. I can hear my name mentioned, and the new arrival looks over and chuckles at least once.

“It’s Lilia,” Petra pipes up at last. “We work together in London.”

“Oh, yes, hi,” I mutter. Another veteran hooker, no doubt. Can this get any worse?

Don’t be so paranoid, Emma. Stop it, right now. You’re gorgeous, they said you were gorgeous.

Lilia and Petra make their way over to the closet, evidently to have a little look at the clothes stash. They close the door, but I can hear them giggling inside. I wonder what they’re trying on?

Soon enough they emerge together, talking non-stop in their tongue. Lilia wears a schoolgirl’s uniform which had better have come from Petra’s side of the cupboard. She pulls it off brilliantly, of course. Her hair is only shoulder-length, but it shines like every hair has been polished. She’s quite skinny, with small breasts, but she knows how to make them prominent in that tight blouse. Just right for a saucy schoolgirl. Her skin is quite dark, her lips full and red. A pretty picture, whatever the angle.

Only now do I notice Petra. She’s stripped down to her underwear. Something a lot frillier than what I was wearing. They giggle their way over to the window. Lilia pinches Petra’s arse on the way. I’m not sure if this is a show, or they’re just enjoying a try-on session. Either way, they both end up leaned over the window railing, smoking.

I try to keep my eyes off Petra, leant on the balcony rail with her forearms, but I can’t do it. I have a great angle, rear three-quarter. Her long legs are mesmerizing, all the longer for that pair of very high heels. Black ones. The underwear is red, and it does almost nothing to hide the two shapely crescents of her creamy-gold arse. It sticks out, nearly naked, waggling proudly every so often. It is a work of art, and this woman knows it.

I gulp as I admire her tight stomach, which loses none of its poise while bent over. It’s as if she bends without bending; there’s no seam and no apex between her torso and legs. Even standing still, the curve of her body is like one flowing movement. In the soft light of the bedside lamps, she is a goddess.

A bitch, yes, but a beautiful one. Shit. Look away. Now.




Sunday, 10.15pm 

Right, I’m having that bath. It’s getting late, but I just need to chill for a while. Petra’s friend is gone, and my room-mate is lying on her bed, reading something. Thankfully she’s changed into something less sexy for sleep: a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Very short shorts, but less troubling.

I get up, pad across the wooden floor in my bare feet, and try the taps. As you’d expect in a big old house like this, the warm water takes a while to emerge. But emerge it does, and the plug seems to be working. I smile to myself. This is going to be luxurious – and never mind the audience.

“I’m just going to use the bath before bed,” I tell Petra, who hasn’t even looked up. “I’ll be quiet if you want to sleep.”

“Yeah,” is all she says, face still in her book. Couldn’t be less interested. Still, am I going to undress right in front of her? I ponder this as I let the bath fill up until the bubbles almost spill over.

As I go to the closet to collect a towel, I remember the bathrobes. Of course! I close the door, switch on the light and pick out an orange, oriental robe with a blue dragon motif. It’s a little gaudy, but at least it’s not see-through. I quickly strip down, shove my clothes in a basket marked ‘dirty washing’ and don the robe.

I go back out into the room. Petra is unmoved. A thought occurs to me: I should lock our door. But I can’t find a latch. I sigh. Oh well, so much for privacy. No visitor is going to see me under the bubbles anyway.

With as little fanfare as I can, I walk over to the bath, turn my back to Petra and drop the robe to the floor. Fast, before I can change my mind. I climb into the bath. It doesn’t feel graceful. I’d swear blind I can feel her eyes on me.

But now I’m under the bubbles. I’m safe here. I lie back, facing the window. I can see the dark trees and the sky through the still-open door. A pale moon glows behind limp, skinny clouds. There’s still no breeze, the curtains hang lifeless. The soft chirp of a cricket is all I can hear. This is as blissful as I’d hoped it would be.

Petra does nothing in particular to spoil my peace. I think back over the day. I’ve only met two other girls so far: nine to go! As for teachers, or whatever they called them in a place like this, I supposed I’d find out tomorrow. I hope that everyone is as nice as Chris and Miss Honeywell. And I hope not all the other girls are veteran hookers.

Yes, there’s plenty I can worry about if I think about it too much. So instead, I think of myself two weeks ago, psyching myself up for another maniacal week at the office. Sunday nights were always the worst, as I stood on the precipice of the real world again. My friends back in London are getting an early night for all the wrong reasons, or God forbid, even making a head start on their emails.

Now, here, I’m on the precipice of something, yes. But something exciting, a new world. Something naughty. No, I don’t want to trade this. The Jaguars, the wardrobe, the huge bubble bath? The…no Emma, don’t think of that yet. I’m a lucky girl, even if I have to have a moody room-mate. I’m going to give this my best shot.

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