Fauxmance (Showmance #2)(33)
“I don’t have an agency. I operate on word of mouth, friends passing recommendations on to friends and such. I vet all potential clients myself before agreeing to a date.”
“You vet them? Like a detective?”
His lips twitched. “Something like that. I have to ensure they are who they say they are, but also decide if we’re compatible. Some women are not emotionally stable enough to handle the experience of dating an escort.”
“You mean, they might develop feelings?”
“Or imagine that what we are doing is a real relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I feel something for every client I take on. We develop a connection, but it’s not the same as a real-life coupling. I look at myself as a stepping stone. I provide comfort and company until a client is ready to move on and find a real relationship. Sometimes a woman might be lacking in confidence, so I build her up. Other times she’s simply too busy and I am a convenient way to experience physical contact without a long-term commitment.”
But what about you? I wondered. Did the sex affect him psychologically? I met his gaze. “So, you can separate your emotions from the actual sex act?”
Julian shook his head. “That’s something I used to tell myself when I was younger. The truth is, I fall a little bit in love with every person I sleep with. Or at least, something akin to falling in love. I know that sounds very fanciful and romantic, but it’s a finite sort of love.”
A finite love. But that sounded so depressing. Then again, maybe Julian didn’t feel sad because when one love ended, another began.
“It’s an odd way to put it, I know, but it’s the only way I can think to describe what I share with the women who hire me. I enjoy guiding people, bringing them out of their shell or helping them discover new things about themselves. I also value making connections with people, understanding them. It’s a big source of fulfilment in my life.”
Was that what he was doing with me? Well, perhaps not, since I didn’t get the sense he wanted to sleep with me. Even though he was one of the most beautiful men I’d ever met, this thing between us definitely felt platonic. I guess Julian didn’t need to pursue me sexually, since sex was so plentiful for him. Maybe a platonic friendship was something he needed.
“You sound like some sort of hippy guru,” I teased.
“Well, it took a long time for me to get here. My work wasn’t always so fulfilling. When I started out I was young and desperate, taking any job that would put food on the table. I didn’t have a choice and selling myself was a last resort. Now it’s morphed into a lifestyle I enjoy and love.”
Thinking of a young Julian in that position, with no other choice but to sell his body, made me immeasurably sad. And like anybody would, I wondered if there was a little bit of bluster in his speech. I wondered if being an escort really made him as happy as he was trying to make out. But maybe that was just the cynic in me. Popular culture teaches us that anyone who resorts to prostitution does it because they’re at their lowest ebb. That nobody would choose such a life. But like many things, that could be wrong. Maybe Julian truly did find fulfilment in his work.
“You don’t look convinced,” he said, like he’d read my mind.
“It’s just a lot to get my head around.”
“And…?”
I took a deep breath. “And I like spending time with you. What you do for a living doesn’t change that. So, I’d like for us to continue being friends, if you do too, that is.”
He reached across the table and took my hand. “Ellen, I would be absolutely honoured to continue my friendship with both you and Elodie, and for us to keep on tricking celebrities and socialites at fancy, upscale events.”
I laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”
*
Late on Sunday evening, there was a knock on my front door. I frowned and went to the window, wondering who it was. I didn’t normally have visitors at this hour, or any hour for that matter. When I spotted my brother, Cameron, standing on the doorstep, I grimaced and remembered I’d agreed to let him stay with me this week.
Wonderful.
Now I got to listen to his grumpy ranting about how awful London was every evening when he got home from work. I opened the door and plastered on a brittle smile.
“Cameron, hi.”
“What took you so long?” he complained as he stepped in by me. As usual, his gaze wandered to my wall mural and he shook his head, like a school teacher might shake their head at a fanciful child.
“How was your train journey?” I asked quietly and followed him into the kitchen. He didn’t ask permission when he opened the fridge and pulled out a can of iced coffee.
“Awful. I was sitting behind a family with three children under five. They didn’t stop yapping for the entire trip.”
“Well, at least you’re here now.”
“Did you buy a new mattress for your guest bedroom yet? The last time I visited I barely got a wink of sleep on that springy old thing.”
“Yes, I got a new mattress,” I said, then murmured under my breath. “Wouldn’t want his majesty suffering any discomfort.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Anyway, I’m going to take a shower. I’m convinced one of those children on the train had a cold. I need to wash off the germs.”