Friday, 11am

My hands shake as I fumble at the keys on my phone. My angry fingers can’t seem to hit the right buttons. I curse the gibberish on the screen and slam the fucking thing back into my handbag. It’s only an enraged nothing tweet to nobody in particular. I should have gotten further away. Now I’m falling apart on their doorstep.

Through the screaming pack of thoughts racing laps around my head, a voice is yelling at me to get out of here. But my legs have gone to mush. I can barely grip on the cigarette I’m trying to pull out of the box. I sit down, right there in the sunshine on the office steps. Right there in my pencil skirt. Eyes welling up.

We’re not supposed to smoke on the steps. But who gives a fuck now? I’ve just pushed that snake’s laptop right off her sad-ass desk. Slammed the door behind me before her fucking computer spilled its guts on the floor. They can’t fire me for smoking a cigarette. Or swearing at my line manager. Or for damaging their equipment. Cause I quit.

That poison dwarf bitch. She had it coming. Everyone except her couple of smarmy, ass-licking, suck-up cronies detested her from the inside out. Day after day we’d mouthed off to each other about her bullying, her incompetence, her lying and manipulation. And everyone knew she was fucking a board member.

But nobody applauded when I lost it today. Cowards. Secretly wishing they had my audacity, but staring at the scene like rabbits caught in a goddamn industrial searchlight. I spoke for everyone out there when I called her a cunt. Yet the only voice up there was mine. The rest would look out for number one.

And now I’m just a tangle of rage. Too incensed to feel a heroine. Too trembling to hold a fucking ciggy between my lips. They better not come near me.

Friday, 1pm

I’m home. It’s been a blur of tubes and buses. I’ve been somewhere between stunned and comatose all the way. I want my flat more than anything, but at the same time I don’t care if I get there or not. At least I won’t playing this godawful London commuting game any time soon. For three years I’ve given three hours of each weekday just to go back and forth to pander to those blowholes. Jesus, why?  

I am not a lot calmer. I just want to cleanse myself of that place, of them, in every way I can. As I slam the door of my flat behind me, I’m overwhelmed with a need to get out these clothes. It’s hot and sticky, and I feel the office’s stench in the fabric.

I fling my bag on the floor and kick my high heels off in the living area. I don’t care where anything ends up. But I feel a little lighter as I run my hand through my hair and puff out through my cheeks on my way to the bedroom. I’m already unbuttoning my ever-so-professional white blouse.

I’m pulling my arms out of it by the time I’m into my room. It, too, lands on the floor. Now I toss the pencil skirt away. Better already. Off comes my bra. My panties. I’ll figure out where to burn it all later. Right now I just want to flop down on the bed.

I dive onto the welcoming softness of my duvet. I’m panting a little, from my angry rush up the stairs and getting undressed so fast. I feel my heart bumping away somewhere beneath me, keeping beat to the fury still pulsing through me. At last, I can sigh as deep as I want. I don’t need to move for a long, long time.

Friday, 5pm

I haven’t slept like that in months. The morning’s outpouring exhausted me, but it lifted a weight too. I do not remember lying awake for long: the warm afternoon, understanding mattress and having nowhere to be must have knocked me off like a switch.

My heartbeat is still there in my breast, but now it’s like a chilled-out, comforting companion, urging me to take it easy. I smile to myself when I remember I’m nude. I had strayed far from my meticulous routine when I got home this afternoon. But then it’s not every day that you walk out of your job halfway through the morning.

I’m surprised at how good I’m feeling. The tension in my shoulders has evaporated. I flip onto my back and stretch my heavy arms and legs. A sunbeam from the roof window streams across my tummy. I’m utterly comfortable. This is like a Sunday afternoon, only better, because there’s no work tomorrow.

I doze a little longer, sunbathing on my bed. I can see a sliver of sky. The usual London sounds fill the distance: police sirens, the dull rumble of jumbo jet on descent to Heathrow. For once my mind is empty. I’m content.

At last I sit up, a little groggy. I’m so glad I live alone at times like this. My hair must look a mess and my eyes will be bloodshot from the tears. But I can sort myself out and find clothes in my own time. Where is my phone? I guess that’d be wherever I hurled my handbag. I pad through to the living room, grab the phone, and flop back down on my bed.

I’ve got messages. A few of the brave ones from work have congratulated me. Well done for standing up to her, Emma. Brave girl, hun, call me when you want to talk. She deserved that, the cow. Wow, you went out in style, couldn’t have put it better myself! What exactly had I said? My memory is getting smoggy now. Maybe I should have held my tongue? Fuck, I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting a reference out of them.

The sun has gone in and the room is sombre now. I pull a light blanket over me. I feel a knot tightening in my stomach. Like the one I had before my first interview with them. Pull yourself together, Emma. You did the right thing.

Nobody else knows what’s happened yet. God, I’ll have to tell my parents and my friends. They’ll bug me about my plans. How am I going to pay the rent anyway? I’ve got enough saved for a couple of months, but then what? Back to Mom and Dad at 26? I feel my brow furrowing already. Christ, my unemployment honeymoon is over after one afternoon nap.

I don’t have anything planned for this evening. I’ve been coming home spitting most Fridays and not wanted much activity. But I feel like staying in is a bad idea tonight. I don’t feel like telling a crowd of people what happened today. I just need a good friend and a glass of wine. I just hope Martin’s free.

Friday, 8.40pm

“Emma, you had to get out of there. I just knew we’d be having this conversation sooner or later. You deserve better.”

Martin looks right into my eyes, all wisdom and stubble. The wisdom of years: he’s forty-two but he’s one of my best friends. We’d hit it off six years ago when we worked together at the library, and it had never been anything but platonic. But he listened to classical music and read Vanity Fair. He was someone who always had a willing ear and a new perspective on things.

“Yes, but still….I’m not sure, Martin. I might have really blown it this time. The money wasn’t bad and was the job really that awful?”

“Emma, it really was that awful. You’ve been close to despair for over a year now. Do you have any idea how many jobs there are out there? I don’t think there’s any excuse for being unhappy in what you do all week long.”

I sigh and rest my chin on my hands. Martin’s words make sense, but I feel more and more glum. “Sure, but times are hard right now! It could take weeks to find something, and my rent isn’t going to go away. Shit…it would be a lot fucking easier if I had a man in my life right now.”

“Listen to me, Emma,” says Martin, launching into his build-me-up routine. “You’re bloody gorgeous, but you’re talented too. You don’t have to have a man to look after you. You really have got to stop worrying. You’re smart and things will work out.”

“You’re sweet to say it, Martin. But there’s so much more going on in my head right now. I’m not even sure I want another office job. There’s going to be another manager at the next one, isn’t there? More of this crappy commuting. Any company sucks you dry sooner or later. I’m only twenty-six and sick of the grind already. I’m turning into a bitter old woman.

“Emma…”

I cut him off: “Maybe it’s time I finally went travelling. I never did get that gap year. That’s it! Six months backpacking around South America beats grey old fucking London any day. I’ll be my old self again in no time!”

I can feel myself brightening. I take a sip of my wine and smile at Martin as if I’ve just solved all my problems with a blooming Latin American travel itinerary. He raised an eyebrow.

“You should definitely travel, Emma. Everyone should experience that. I just wonder though…”

“What?”

“Well, where’s the money for that going to come from? A couple of plane tickets and you’re through your savings, as far as I understand.”

Fuck. He always had to find the catch in a plan. I say nothing. Back to square one. We sip on our wine for a while. I like this about Martin: silence is never uncomfortable with him.

At last he clears his throat. “Well, maybe marrying a millionaire wouldn’t be all that bad an idea...”

“I might as well do! I can’t get anyone else to hang around. Guys keep on seeing me as a notch in their bedposts. It’s not easy being a girl, Martin!”

“Well unfortunately that can go with the territory of being a stunning brunette. But you could always turn it round to your advantage…”

“Erm, what do you mean?”

“Never mind….nothing!”

“A thought just crossed my mind, but it’s crazy…you won’t like it so let’s forget it.”

“Martin…c’mon you’ve made me curious now!”

I had no idea what he was getting at.

“I couldn’t, Emma…”

“Martin, you’re going to tell me what you were thinking…right now!”

“Bloody hell, alright darling…don’t bite me though!”

“I promise not to.”

“As I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re a real beauty. Do you remember my wealthy friend Charles, who met us for a drink a couple of weeks ago? He’s one of a couple of friends I’ve got who are into…you know…escorts. High-class escorts. I’m talking five hundred pounds an hour escorts.

“After he met you he told me how much he wished you were in that line of work. Something about you piqued his interest…”

“Martin…!” I’m starting to see where he’s going with this.

“Hang on, you have to let me finish now!”

“Jesus, Martin. Alright. I’m…I’m still reeling…that there are people who will pay that much for a girl.”

“Actually there are people who would pay double that.” Martin paused, leaned forward and lowered his voice? “Do you know what Charles said to me about you? He told me he’d pay a thousand pounds to spank you and have sex with you.”

“With ME?” Fuck. A grand. To have sex.

“It’s God’s honest truth. And he swears blind his chums would do the same. I was never going to say anything about it, but the way the conversation turned tonight, it just sort of came into my head. Sorry…you see why I didn’t want to mention it.”

I am stunned. Words, which had sparked from my icy tongue that morning in the office, fail me now. I recoil at the mention of prostitution. But part of me is flattered to thought worth so much. I’d been told I was pretty, but one thousand Pounds?? A surge of electricity runs down my legs. I’m intrigued. There is silence again, and I take a gulp of my Rioja.

“Are you mad at me Emma?”

“No….not exactly. I mean, it’s good to know these things, isn’t it? I’m not completely offended.”

“Nor should you be. A girl doing that kind of job can bring an empire crashing down, can’t she? Just think how quickly you could retire and go travelling if you made that sort of money?”

“So…there’s some pretty exclusive stuff going on out there, huh?”

“Yup. We’re talking super-rich clients. Hotel visits, mansion parties…that sort of thing. I’ve never been tempted, but I’ve heard a few things. We’re talking about the seriously rich and famous. All the money and power in the world, but they’ll melt into helpless little boys when you put a perky, willing blonde or two into the room with them. Or, ahem, a brunette...”

“Right…”

I’m still not sure what to say. There are thoughts swirling around my head. Talk of sex usually gets me a little hot under the collar. Now there is talk of insane amounts of money as well. I’m supposed to be appalled. But I’m feeling something unexpected inside. Would I? Could I?

“Look,” says Martin. “I wouldn’t lose the slightest bit of respect for you if you wanted to do something like that. Hell, I’d jump at the chance to have sex for a living. I know you’re not a prude and judging by some of your drunken revelations…you’re up for a bit of bedroom experimentation.”

I blush all the way to the tips of my ears. “Yes, yes, I know…I do enjoy a good shag now and then.” I’m looking down at the floor as I say it.

“Emma. I don’t give a flying fig whether you consider this thing or not. It’s just an option that could be there for you. If you want, I can set up a meeting with Charles and his agent. They could point you in the right direction.”

“OK Martin. Let me think about it.”