Читать книгу Nice Work if You Can Get It - Dean Saunders - Страница 7

Introduction

This was not your average job interview.

Am I qualified? That would have been the first thing I’d have asked myself before going for any normal job. But this was hardly an ordinary nine-to-five. And, let’s be honest, my third-rate degree in psychology was not going to impress this particular interviewer.

What experience have I got? Plenty, I thought, although not all good. I could always just leave out the sexual disasters, I told myself. After all, it wasn’t as if he was going to ask me for references.

‘So, what can I do for you?’ Andy’s voice was deep and resonant, and soothing to my jangling nerves. His Armani suit was made to measure, and his shoes shone as brightly as the Rolex on his wrist.

Sitting across from him in the swanky casino, I felt overcome with self-consciousness as I tried to work out what to say.

‘You want to be a gigolo, right?’ he said, his perfectly tanned features arranged into a scowl as he cocked his head to one side, sleek black ponytail resting on his left shoulder.

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said, irritated at how weak my voice sounded, and how full of doubt. In an attempt to disguise my crisis of confidence, I’d started trying to mirror Andy’s body language, one of the few useful pieces of information I’d actually retained from my three years at university. His dark eyes watched as my hands changed position and he didn’t bother to hide his smirk. This man knew full well what I was doing.

‘So, what do you want to know, Deano?’ he asked, leaning back into his chair and forming his fingers into a steeple, like one of those Derren Brown-type celebrity mind-readers.

‘Everything,’ I replied idiotically. I then proceeded to further demonstrate my lack of sophistication by blurting out what I thought I already knew about being a gigolo, based entirely on films I’d seen (you know the one I’m talking about, featuring Richard Gere and an assortment of startlingly white shirts). Andy seemed displeased, or at least unimpressed, with my response. He inhaled as if preparing himself to be patient with me, while glancing over behind him to make me aware he needed to get back to his client. As his eyes scanned me, I began to question what on earth had made me think I could cut it as a male escort. What did I have to offer women? Why would they willingly pay for my company when they could have someone like Andy? Or just go to a bar and pick someone up for free?

‘I hope you like a challenge,’ Andy sighed, ‘because you have a long way to go…’ As he continued, his bored tone combined with his ‘who do you think you are?’ body language made everything inside me shrivel into a small, insignificant blob of self-doubt. I must have been mad to think I could do this. Me? A naive Essex lad with a recently broken heart and a history of bungled sexual relationships.

But as Andy’s words came back into focus I started picking up something positive behind them. The criticism had been replaced by a glimmer of encouragement (just a glimmer, mind – he was still the King of Cool), and it seemed as if he was no longer judging me, but offering me something instead.

‘…So, listen, pay attention and this’ll get you started,’ he said, and something very close to a real smile played across his lips.

What followed was a list of rules. Gigolo rules. They might not be perfect, he warned. They might not even work for me. But they’d kept him in business. And, crucially, they’d kept him alive. Marbella, capital of what had been renamed the Costa Del Crime, was a dangerous place to mess around with wealthy, bored housewives – or their daughters or, more importantly, their husbands.

I listened attentively as Andy, who could have been only a few years older than me, explained the basics of life as a Costa gigolo. The more he spoke, the more I warmed to him. OK, scratch that. The more he spoke, the more I wanted to be him. To a pathologically shallow, hot-blooded 22-year-old, he was everything I aspired to. And he had everything I wanted. One day, I vowed to myself, I’m going to be sitting where he is now. One day, I’m going to have women queuing to pay me for my company. One day, my mobile is going to be bursting with the numbers of some of the richest, best-connected women on the coast.

Ever heard the saying ‘Be careful what you wish for’? If someone had said that to me at that moment, with my bright new future as a handsomely paid escort glittering tantalisingly ahead of me, you know what my response would have been?

Bollocks to that.