Fauxmance (Showmance #2)(11)

“Hold on, let me help…”

I didn’t catch the end of his sentence because I was already at the front door of the apartment. When I managed to flag a taxi and climb inside, I realised I’d lost an earring. It was expensive too, made of real diamonds. I considered going back in, but my reserves of confidence had run dry. Instead I texted Suze, apologizing for leaving early and requesting she search for the lost earring.

I slid my phone back in my bag and dropped my head into my hands.

What a disaster.





Chapter Three





Julian





David: Someone posted this video on YouTube. You owe me big time.

I grinned as I clicked the link and up popped footage of David at Suze’s apartment, reluctantly serenading the room with his dulcet tones. Elodie’s prediction had been right, though honestly, I didn’t understand why David was mad. He looked good and his singing was on point. He definitely hadn’t lost his voice over the years. When I scrolled down, the majority of comments were positive, mostly ladies expressing how they’d very much like to ‘get naughty’ with him.

Sure, there were one or two twats who posted insulting comments, but this was the internet. It was par for the course.

Julian: Read the comments. You should be thanking me. They’re calling you a DILF. And besides, today’s news is tomorrow’s loo roll.

David: I’d need to have actual children to be a DILF. Someone said I look desperate. This is why I don’t accept any of those offers to take part in nostalgia tours.

Julian: Whoever called you desperate is jealous and probably lives in their parent’s basement. You look and sound great. Own it.

I put my phone away when my date for the evening, Cathy, arrived. She walked into the bar looking a little unsure of herself, though I suspected it was because this experience was still new to her. She was a recently divorced thirty-eight-year-old. However, from our casual first meeting last week, I could tell she knew what she wanted from our arrangement. Cathy’s reason for hiring me was simple. She wanted to enjoy some male company without any obligations for a relationship. Most of her time was dedicated to her work, and though she did want to find love again someday, right now, she was only in the market for some no strings fun.

That’s where I came in.

And before you ask, no, I didn’t always sleep with my clients. But yes, I did sleep with a lot of them. I laid out my rules very clearly. There’s a set charge for the date, which does not include sex. Sex requires a second charge, but I only allow that to happen if both parties are feeling it and things progress naturally.

I know it sounded very clinical, but believe me, it wasn’t.

I’d done clinical in my early days as an escort. I would show up to a flat or hotel room, with an instruction to let myself in. When I went inside the woman would be waiting somewhere, scantily clad or not at all, with the expectation of getting straight down to business.

After a year of those sorts of jobs, I said no more.

Now I dealt in intimate, one-on-one experiences. Yes, I was being paid, but I genuinely enjoyed getting to know these women in a deep and meaningful way. I wasn’t only intrigued by those who were beautiful or sexy. Past experiences desensitised me to any disgust in the multitude of variations in the human form. I could just as happily make love to a woman society deemed “pretty” as I could to another deemed “ugly”.

I was mostly fascinated by how people could transform in your eyes after you heard them speak. A person’s voice, mannerisms, and beliefs revealed the truth about them, and all were a huge factor in determining their attractiveness. After all, a plain person could open their mouth and become the most beautiful person you’ve ever met, and a beautiful person could speak and turn ugly.

It wasn’t just an empty saying. I truly believed that beauty was in the eye of the beholder. It didn’t live on the surface of our skin, but rather deep inside the depths of our hearts.

If I clicked with clients on a personal level, then looks were irrelevant. And believe me, coming from someone who had always been considered attractive, I knew it could be a curse just as much as a blessing.

The women I took on dates were vetted in advance via phone calls. I also did background checks, since you could never be too careful. I once had a journalist masquerading as a lovelorn singleton try to hire me, but with a little sleuthing I discovered her real identity. I wasn’t interested in being the topic of a magazine article for strangers to read and judge.

I had endured enough shame during my teens and early twenties.

What I did with my life now was nobody’s business but mine.

Cathy was slim but pear-shaped. She wore a pencil dress under a wool coat and had straight brown hair. Her eyes were blue and her nose pert, her upper lip thinner than her bottom. She was neither striking nor unattractive, but there was a light behind her eyes that interested me. It spoke of hidden depths and secret passions.

It was good to feel that interest, that spark, small as it may be. Like I’d confessed to David, I’d slowly been losing the joy in my work, slowly yearning for something else. Something different. Perhaps Cathy would be the one to re-inspire me.

“Julian,” she said as I stood to greet her.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Cathy.” We hugged briefly, then sat. I already ordered her a glass of pinot grigio, as she’d mentioned it was her usual tipple.