Читать книгу Nice Work if You Can Get It - Dean Saunders - Страница 9

‘If you don’t believe in you, nor will your client. The size of your ego is as important as the size of your equipment.’ ANDY

I woke up in unusual comfort, wrapped in a duvet, spread-eagled across a king-size four-poster bed. January was a bleak time to be waking up alone in a fifth-floor apartment overlooking a grey, comfortless Med. But on that particular morning in 2003, something felt different. The smell of my flatmate’s first cigarette had been replaced by soap and perfume; the usual harsh glare flooding in through the curtainless window had given way to a soft, subtle light. The sudden realisation that I wasn’t actually at home jolted me abruptly from my semi-sleep.

Sitting bolt upright, I scanned the room for anything that would trigger my memory, and remind me of where I was or how I had got there. Everything was white, peach or gold. Typical Marbella Footballers’ Wives taste, but, compared to my own dark, damp room, this was heaven. I took in my work uniform, folded up on a chair in the corner. Normally, my clothes landed wherever I took them off, and I hadn’t seen them so neatly folded since leaving my parents’ house to come to Spain six long months before.

Fuzzy images of making love began to flicker in the back of my mind. Sure, it could just have been the vestiges of last night’s dream, but one thing made me doubt it. Unlike my regular dreams, I had woken from this one in someone else’s bed. Naked. The chain flushed and suddenly she appeared from the en-suite bathroom in a pinstriped trouser suit, which hugged her curves as she sat down and fiddled with her earrings at the dressing table. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair was tied up and her professional garb made me suddenly feel very conscious of my age. I was only 22 and she had to be about twice that. But, from the memories that had begun filtering back into my mind, that hadn’t been a problem for either of us the night before.

The lines on her face were more noticeable in this light than they’d appeared when I first met her, and she was doing her best to conceal them with the finishing touches of her make-up. I sat up and watched her paint on her outside face until she caught me staring in the mirror, and her features softened into a smile. Looking into her blue eyes brought everything back to me and I was relieved to see that, although they were not as hungry as they had been the night before, they were still warm and friendly. I had a sudden flashback of flirting with her at the restaurant where I worked. Then an image flickered through my mind of her passing me her number and address and offering to ‘make it worth my while’ to go back to her villa. As more memories rushed back, one phrase kept rebounding around my head: ‘I must be dreaming!’

‘Morning, handsome,’ she said in the Canadian accent that had made the previous evening’s events seem even more surreal. I’ve always had a problem believing that accents from the other side of the Atlantic are actually real, and not put on – probably the result of watching far too many American films and sitcoms.

But, this was not a screenplay. She came over and sat on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on my leg before breaking into the same warm smile.

‘Morning,’ I replied, pinning my morning glory down under the duvet with one hand and raising the other to give a short wave. I stopped short as I realised I had no idea what her name was.

This was not the first time I had woken up next to an anonymous female, but her being older than my usual quarry somehow made my amnesia seem less excusable. I felt like it should earn me a detention, or at least a few dozen lines.

‘Deano must remember the names of women he sleeps with.

Deano must remember the names of women he sleeps with…’

She picked up her Prada bag and produced a 20-euro note from the matching purse inside. She passed it to me between her index and middle finger.

‘This is for your cab.’ She grabbed her watch and checked the time, her eyes widening in alarm as she saw the hour. ‘I have to be someplace, so just show yourself out, OK?’ she said, patting my thigh through the duvet.

Standing up, she brushed down her trousers, smoothing out the non-existent creases. Then she sashayed across the room. As I watched her prominent bum sway and jiggle just beneath the hem of her jacket, I remembered what she’d looked like naked and felt myself becoming aroused. She was nearly through the bedroom door when she turned and looked at me again.

‘There’s a cleaner in, OK, so don’t run around nude or anything.’ She looked over pointedly at my white Calvin Kleins resting on top of my black uniform.

All of a sudden, I wondered if she knew me better than I thought she did, because my immediate reaction normally would have been to dance around the house celebrating my first shag in ages, then ring round and talk about it to anyone who’d listen. Or was telling me that someone was in the house just her way of warning me not to steal anything? I just smiled and nodded to her, looking up to the ceiling as she turned to walk out.

‘Oh,’ I heard, and then suddenly her head popped back around the edge of the door, ‘the envelope on the bedside table is yours.’ Her heels clattered on the marble of the spiral staircase as she called out, ‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye!’ I shouted back, and then waited for the sound of the front door closing.

For a while, I lay motionless in bed, just staring at the long white envelope, which rested against the lamp on the small table. It wasn’t sealed, and, if she knew my name, she hadn’t written it on the outside. But it was obvious what was in it.

Money.

So it was real then. It hadn’t all been a product of my feverish, sex-starved imagination. This woman really had paid me to sleep with her.

I decided against the dance or the phone calls and put my clothes on quickly, keeping my eye on the envelope but lacking the courage to go and see what was inside. What if it just contained a fiver? To be honest, judging by my last few largely rushed sexual encounters, that would probably have been on the generous side. I tried to reason that, no matter how much there was, it was all a bonus. After all, I’d got the chance to make love to an attractive woman, so just the taxi fare would have been more than enough.

But part of me still felt as though the contents of that envelope would determine the course of my life, just like school, college or university, and I was worried about not making the grade. Just how much was I worth? I picked up the envelope without opening it and stuffed it into my pocket, disappointed at how light it was and how easily it folded up.

Glancing through the window, I caught sight of the maid in the garden, dressed in her blue chequered uniform, and quickly pulled back into the room. Feeling suddenly like an intruder, I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I mean, I didn’t know anything about this woman. What if there was a jealous husband about to arrive home from a business trip? I’d seen all the movies. I knew all the plots.

To my relief, I got to the front gate without being spotted and managed to open it before realising, as it clanged shut behind me, that I’d left my mobile phone in the bedroom.

Twat!

I had no idea where I was and no way of calling a taxi. After about ten minutes of sitting on the kerb calling myself every name in the book, I rang the buzzer. When the gate opened, I had the embarrassing task of having to explain the situation to the maid, who eventually accompanied me up to the bedroom to retrieve my phone and even phoned a taxi for me.

Just how smooth was that? Eat your heart out, Richard Gere.

The moment I stepped into the taxi I had to fight an urge to tell the driver all about the night I’d just had but – owing to my somewhat limited grasp of Spanish – I contented myself to humming along to Kiss FM. The driver must have taken exception to my humming, or the fact that the Spanish radio station was playing only English music, because he started twiddling the radio dial furiously, stopping only when he’d managed to locate the Gipsy Kings.

I closed my eyes and started reflecting on this latest twist to my love life. Since arriving in Spain, my heart in tatters from breaking up with Chloe – my long-term girlfriend and one true love – life hadn’t exactly been a non-stop sex-fest.

I knew I wasn’t bad-looking, and didn’t have major problems talking to girls, but for some reason I just couldn’t seem to crack the One-Night Stand etiquette. Come too soon, can’t come at all, can’t get it up or, on one occasion, ‘don’t put it up there!’ I cringed as I thought about some of those encounters. But my trouble was that I needed to feel comfortable with a woman in order to perform properly and, until now, I hadn’t been able to allow myself to get comfortable with any woman who wasn’t Chloe. Catch 22.

However, the previous night’s events had changed all that. In a weird way, I felt like I’d lost my virginity all over again. As the Gipsy Kings blared, I tried to put together in my mind exactly how I’d ended up there, and exactly what it all meant…

I’d met her at work a couple of weeks before. I’d been at the American restaurant for only a short time and, already, bar work was boring me. I was a terrible waiter. I was too shy for the meeting and greeting, so if I was going to talk to anyone there had to be a bar between us; then I felt more comfortable, but bored nonetheless. I liked to pass this shyness off as reserve – a throwback from my days as a bouncer in a rough Romford nightclub. But, to be honest, I’d always been shy – at least until I’d had a drink.

People tend not to think about what places such as Marbella are like in January, when the summer crowds have gone. This restaurant was busier compared to most, but hardly buzzing. On the plus side, there was still a fair amount of eye candy, even in January, and this woman was a prime example. The birds my age seemed to fly elsewhere for the winter, but there were still a healthy number of attractive, mature women at any time of year in Marbella.

She took my fancy right away, and I already knew she liked me. I’d been working there just a few days when she asked me if I had a girlfriend. Shocked by her forwardness, and conditioned by four years of being with Chloe, I foolishly replied, ‘Yes,’ then spent the rest of the evening mentally kicking myself.

The next time she came in, she was wearing a red roll-neck sweater and blue jeans. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders. The smile she flashed at me revealed no trace of lingering resentment at the way I’d rebuffed her the last time, and I was determined to let her know I wasn’t in fact attached.

As I said, I am a useless waiter, but, taking a deep breath, I seized the first opportunity I could to leave the bar and take her a menu.

‘Well, hello.’ She shot me a mischievous look. ‘You’re not always this quick to come over.’

‘You looked thirsty,’ I said, matching her with a cheeky smile.

‘I am, and starving!’ she replied, looking down at the menu. Then she sat back and looked me up and down. ‘Will you be serving me all night?’

‘Well… your wish is my command,’ I said with a little bow.

‘Hmmm, I don’t think what I want is on the menu any more. I’ll have to get back to you.’

‘And to drink? Water? Wine? Cocktail?’

‘Yeah, why not? But I’m not sure which cocktail.’

‘I’ll get a menu…’

‘Don’t bother, just surprise me, OK?’

‘Fruity or creamy?’

‘I think, tonight, I’m in the mood for something… creamy.’ She smiled suggestively at me as I returned to the bar to mix her a cocktail.

I noticed my drinks tickets for the other tables seemed to be mounting up rather alarmingly, so I didn’t have time to do more than race over with her drink before getting back to work and appease the impatient waitresses.

Looking over to her table, I saw her full lips wrapped around the straw, clearly savouring the drink I’d mixed her. She glanced my way, eyebrows raised and nodded. Phew, I’d impressed her.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion as I continued to watch her licking her straw, playing with her hair. Yes, she probably was old enough to be my mother, but she was incredible. The food waiter arrived and, even while he was taking her order, her eyes continued to dart back to me, teasingly. Maybe I had done the right thing by telling her I was taken, because she seemed to want me even more than before.

She had just finished a huge steak, but she still looked hungry. Smiling, she beckoned me over with her finger. Confident I was definitely in there with her at this point, I threw the bar towel over my shoulder and swaggered up to her table smirking.

‘I’m very disappointed,’ she said, her smile fading instantly, ‘you said you would be serving me all night.’

I could feel my head and neck shrinking into my shoulders as I tried to escape into my shell. I thought that I was being punished for rejecting her the other night.

‘You’ve been in Spain too long, having two men do a one-man job.’

Her face was still humourless. I wanted to run back to the bar and hide until she had left, but she was still talking. I didn’t want to leave and be thought of as rude as well as inadequate.

‘You shouldn’t say you can do a job and not do it properly, it’s very frustrating for a woman.’ Her frown really screwed up her face and it pained me that I had disappointed such a beautiful woman. Just as I was about to apologise, she grabbed my wrist and slapped the back of my hand, breaking into a smile again. ‘I’ll forgive you, just this once.’

I sighed in relief as I realised she had been joking.

‘What is this?’ she asked, lifting her empty cocktail glass.

‘It’s a Multiple Screaming Orgasm.’

‘Well, you make those well,’ she told me.

I laughed and returned to the bar, even more attracted to this stunning woman. She was fun and feisty, and I knew I wanted to sleep with her – not that that put her in a particularly exclusive group, mind. I also knew that she knew it too – and, if she didn’t, she was doing a bloody good impression of someone who did!

I started to make her another cocktail. Not that I was trying to get her drunk – I just needed time to build up the confidence to go and ask her out. But, just as I was about to pour it, she stood up and made her way to the bar with her credit card in her hand.

‘I only take cash, sorry. But you can have a free cocktail.’

She gasped theatrically and took a seat, so I passed her the drink. ‘What else can I get for free?’ She began playing with her straw again.

I smiled and carried on drying glasses.

‘How’s the lucky girl?’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Your girlfriend.’

‘Oh, we split up.’

‘That’s too bad. Her loss, right?’ she said with a sympathetic smile.

She’d ordered a couple of carrot cakes to go and, when they arrived, she stood up to leave without finishing her cocktail. Suddenly panicked, I wanted to say something, anything to keep her there, but she’d already started towards the door.

Then she hesitated, as if weighing something up. Turning back into the room, her expression was less playful, as if she had grown tired of the games. ‘You got any plans for after you get off?’ she asked.

‘Bed, sleep… why?’

In answer, she stopped a passing waiter and asked him for his pen and a sheet of paper and scribbled something down. Then she pressed the note into my hand and left.

What she’d written would change my life. There was an address and a phone number. And scrawled across the bottom was a message: ‘Get a taxi. I’ll make it worth your while. I tip well.’

I was naive and I certainly couldn’t claim to be an expert when it came to sex, but even I knew what this meant.

Not only was I going to sleep with her; she was going to pay me for doing it!

For the next hour, I was giddy with excitement, not letting go of the crumpled piece of paper. I couldn’t believe my luck, but at the same time I felt incredibly nervous, so I had a few beers. Not enough to get any normal full-blooded male even tipsy, but for me it was more than enough to calm my nerves. My alcohol tolerance is legendarily pitiful; I am the original lightweight and even the last seven months in training had failed to turn me into a drinker.

When I finally finished work, I took my San Miguel-sponsored courage in my hands and hailed a taxi, reading to the driver the address written on the note. After a bit of head scratching, followed by a phone call to a fellow taxi driver, we set off inland, down roads that became increasingly exclusive.

The villas scattered along these unlit lanes were inhabited by the people who really did have money, although at this time of year many of them were empty rentals, waiting for the next bunch of wealthy short-term tenants.

The further we drove and the quieter it became, the less confident I felt. Maybe it was just that I had seen one too many horror films, or maybe it was my Catholic upbringing, but the overwhelming lust I felt and the ease with which this was all happening made me nervous. I had been with a few girls during my time in Spain, but one thing was for sure, I had worked for them. Bought them drinks, made them laugh, pretended to be listening and even interested, convinced them that their boyfriends were cheating on them back home, or whatever else did the trick. But, at the end of the night, I knew that I had worked for it and I had no reason to worry or feel guilty. No girl, and certainly no woman, had ever walked up to me and given me her address, let alone told me she would ‘make it worth my while’. It was ludicrous.

She had seemed like such an ordinary woman, besides the possible symptoms of nymphomania. Maybe that’s how she traps all her victims, I thought. By the time the taxi reached the villa, lust had been replaced by fear. The same fear that had stood in my way all my life and kept me from having what I wanted.

I resisted asking the taxi driver to take me home to Marbella, and got out into the crisp night. Days were still bright and warm at this time of year, but at night I would always wear a sweater over my polo shirt. I forced myself to push the button on the intercom, and waited for a reply.

The intercom sounded, then there was a click and the security gate hummed and slid open. I wandered in and saw the silhouette of the mostly unlit villa. Single palm trees marked each corner, towering over the garden. I could hear water trickling as I made my way along the stone path. The security light flicked on and blinded me momentarily, revealing the large swimming pool in the near corner of the garden, bordered by a small wall. Hearing the gate lock behind me, I stopped. I saw a Mercedes parked by the wall under a shelter, and hoped it belonged to her rather than to a jealous, axe-wielding husband. Although she’d taken a taxi from the restaurant on both the occasions I’d seen her, I had just assumed that had been because she was drinking.

I continued towards the house and then, emerging from the rays of the light, I saw her. She stood at the door in a white towelling robe, hugging herself and not daring to step outside into the chilly air. She smiled and beckoned me in, before locking the door behind her. I tried not to think about whether the locked door was to keep intruders out, or me in.

I noticed she was barefoot and that the few inches in height she’d lost made her seem more vulnerable, less in control. As we strolled through the hallway to the living room, she turned, looked down and stopped me with a raised finger. She pointed down at my shoes and then walked through into the living room, eyeing me kicking them off and leaving them where they were.

‘You really should hide them,’ she advised me sincerely. ‘My husband might come home and find them.’

My mouth fell open and I considered putting the shoes back on and running, until she laughed hysterically.

‘I’m just kidding!’

But about what, I thought, being married or the possibility that he could come home?

She patted the sofa next to her. ‘I won’t hurt you, I promise.’

I smiled and left the shoes where they were, going into the living room to join her on one of the many sofas.

The room contained two three-piece suites and a glass dining table with six places. In each corner was a large Persian rug, and the subdued lighting came from square-shaded lamps positioned on glass coffee tables. In front of our sofa was another glass table with drinks coasters on it, and a giant plasma-screen TV fixed to the wall. I surveyed the room and noticed the free corner, where of course I would have had a pool table. Then I considered the possibility of there being a games room with one in already.

‘Dance floor?’ I asked, nodding to the rug in the spacious but empty corner.

‘On occasion. But not tonight. I’ve been on my feet all day.’ She edged closer to me and brushed her hair behind her ear, then she pulled her legs up on to the sofa.

‘You look tired,’ she said, but before I had a chance to reply she had sat up and swung her knee over my lap to straddle me. She kissed me softly and held my face in her hands. Her hands wandered down my chest and then finally ended up at the throbbing bulge in my black jeans. ‘Not that tired, I see.’

We laughed and at last I began to really relax. We kissed again, but then she stood up. I was used to my cold apartment, so in this heated villa my sweater was too much.

‘It’s really warm in here,’ I told her as I removed my sweater and put it down beside the sofa. My eyes lit up as she undid her robe belt, only to meet with disappointment when she tucked the robe in and tightened it again. As she walked away, I sat up, unsure of whether or not to follow her.

She turned and asked, ‘If I offer you a beer, will you think I’m trying to get you drunk and take advantage?’ She wore that devilish grin as she went to the kitchen to fetch the drinks. ‘You’d be right,’ she called in as she prepared the drinks.

‘No servants tonight?’ I was only half-joking. The villa was too big for anyone to manage without help, and it was doubtful that she lived here alone.

‘Why do you think you’re here? I’m just showing you where they are for next time.’

We joked and chatted for a while, and I found out that she was actually Canadian, not American, as I’d thought. It felt strange being asked questions by someone twice my age, like I was being interviewed or counselled for something. Maybe this is an interview, I thought, to see if I can get past first base.

I felt quite drunk by then and was more than willing to say whatever I thought she wanted to hear to seal the deal. I asked her similar questions just so I could hear that accent some more. I’d found her attractive from the start, but then, after she had made her proposition and I knew that she was interested in me, she’d gone up a few notches. Now, under the effects of alcohol, the boundaries between reasonably attractive and stunningly beautiful were completely blurred. I had to have at least one night with her and I felt confident that she wanted the same thing.

‘Are you in the habit of inviting strange men back to your villa?’ By this point I’d relaxed enough to be enjoying myself.

‘You don’t strike me as strange.’ She put her drink on the table and eyed me up and down. ‘And as for a man…’

I feigned feeling hurt by grabbing my chest, but she laughed and sat on my lap again, facing me. She kissed me once more and sighed mockingly. ‘I don’t mind being in charge for a while.’

She sat on me and we kissed passionately, our hands caressing each other, but over our clothes. Then she undid the belt of her robe and slipped it off, letting it slide down her toned arms and exposing herself to me. Any possibility of respectful eye contact went out of the window as I encountered her curvaceous body. Then she took hold of my face and started to kiss me again. This time, my hands were not hampered by clothing, and I stroked and squeezed as I pleased.

She pinned my shoulders to the sofa and kissed my neck before yanking my polo shirt from my waistband and peeling it off me. My arms were still in the air and she held them there as she kissed my chest and worked her way down to my abdomen. She dismounted and then knelt on the floor between my legs, tugging at my belt with one hand and undoing my fly with the other. I sighed, relieved to be getting out of those tight jeans. Not that they were usually that tight, but then usually I didn’t have a woman gyrating on my lap. She threw me another cheeky smile, as, in one gradual continuous motion, she stripped me of my jeans, boxer shorts and socks.

Then she buried her head in my lap. After the initial shock, I was torn between ecstasy – a blow job! Without having to work for it! What a result! – and worry. What was in it for her? What if I shot my load and failed to get going again?

I tried to slow myself down by thinking about work, but then I just imagined her coming in and us doing it on the bar, which didn’t exactly have the desired dampening effect! In the end, I took her hand from where it was and held it as I joined her on the floor. It was my turn to repay the favour and anyway I needed a break.

She had bathed recently and smelled like vanilla. Her skin was fair and smooth and waxed to within an inch of its life. With my lips and tongue I probed every bit of her, working my way down, while surreptitiously searching for my trousers and my condoms.

My clothes were scattered all around us between the sofa and the glass table. The size of the room and amount of comfortable sofas available made our lovemaking on the floor, in such a cramped space, seem perverse. It was all so unreal. Everything, from her leaving the note at the restaurant up to this moment on the floor, suggested that this was a dream. A dream I had no intention of waking from.

Even so, I kept my eyes open as we made love, watching her face and her chest closely as her breathing became irregular. It seemed like an eternity before her grip on my hair tightened and her back arched. I didn’t need any further invitation – I’d been ready and waiting for what seemed like years. As I came to my climax, I remember thinking that, with my tongue still aching from its recent workout, I was glad she wasn’t asking me to talk dirty!

The rest of the night passed in an alcohol-soaked blur. I vaguely remembered making love in the kitchen and then somehow making it up to her bedroom, where we made love at least a couple more times. And the next thing I knew was waking up in that four-poster bed and realising that, from now on, everything in my life was different.

The taxi pulled up outside my apartment and, with the Gipsy Kings still echoing in my head, I reached into my pocket and extracted the 20-euro note and the folded white envelope. As the driver searched his leather money pouch for my change, I looked down at the envelope and said to myself, ‘Fuck it, just look and get it over with.’ I unfolded it and hooked my thumb inside to pull it open, holding my breath as I did.

For a while, I just stared at the contents, then I raced up the five flights of stairs to my apartment, still clutching the white envelope, too impatient to wait for the lift. I needed to tell someone about it before I exploded, and it was a safe bet that my flatmate, Wayne, was still at home in bed. As I fumbled with my keys, I had a sudden attack of doubt. What if he didn’t believe me? What if by talking about it I was jinxing myself and it would never happen again?

Boasting had never got me anywhere before. Always better to play it cool, answer when asked, even when you do feel like you are about to burst. So, as I walked in and saw Wayne’s wiry frame slouched at the computer putting out his first cigarette, I forced myself to slow down. Nodding a ‘hello’, I walked straight down the hallway to my room without a word about the previous evening. Cool, hey? And I would have made it to my room had he not called out, ‘Where d’you sleep last night?’

Wayne didn’t raise his eyes from the computer screen as I walked back in, still debating what to tell him.

I had known Wayne for six months, and already he had got me the job at the restaurant he worked in and convinced his girlfriend to rent out their spare room to me. He had witnessed the take-offs to most of my sexual crashes and not only joined me in drowning any sorrows, but also ensured that I made it back to the apartment and got up in time for work the next day. But, despite how grateful I was and how much I liked the guy, he did have a tendency to gossip after a few beers. He just seemed to know everything about everyone and, if you asked, or sometimes even if you didn’t ask, he would have a story about someone. I don’t mean that in a nasty way; he never had a bad word for anyone. In fact, it was hard to work out what his opinion was on anything because he’d normally begin his conversations, ‘I heard that so and so…’ and then he’d always say, ‘But whether that’s true or not…?’ before shrugging.

I realised that, if I told him what had happened, within a week everyone in Marbella would have heard about it and retold their version to someone else. But before I could fully appreciate the consequences of that, Wayne had peeled his eyes from the screen and spotted the money in my hand.

‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘Four hundred euros,’ I said, feeling the same need again to run around and shout about being valued at half my monthly salary.

‘Where d’you get 400 euros?’ he asked, knowing full well that I had not been paid at the restaurant yet, nor been out since New Year’s Eve due to lack of funds.

‘Some woman came into work and paid me to go home with her.’ I laughed as I said it because I knew how ridiculous it sounded.

But Wayne raised his eyebrow doubtfully and his head just nodded and returned to the computer screen. If he had thought I was lying, he would have said, ‘BOLLOCKS!’ but, come to think of it, if he had believed me, he would have said, ‘BOLLOCKS!’

But, whether he believed me or not, the story was as good as public the moment it left my lips. I hadn’t seen anyone in Marbella since New Year’s Eve, except for Wayne, but I knew the very next person I saw would already have heard his latest bit of news.

A week passed and I promised myself I would not blow the money I had earned. But I wanted to go out with my mates now that I could afford it again. I was also determined not to leave it too long before my next sexual encounter, in case my magic wore off. I decided against phoning the Canadian for a repeat performance, even if it was a freebie, on the grounds that I had no idea what her name was and dreaded the thought of her asking me only to receive the sound of silence or an incorrect guess.

With my newfound wealth, I’d bought a few books on building confidence, in the hope of reading something that would turn me into the suave man-of-the-world I wanted to be. I wanted what had happened the other night with the Canadian woman to be a regular occurrence, paid or not. I knew I could pick up girls and, if I wanted, maintain a relationship. But for some reason, as soon as it became clear it was a one-night stand, the sex bit went out of the window.

But the more I read the same old advice, the worse it made me feel about being single. In the end, I got dressed and headed into town. I no longer cared what anyone was going to say to me. It was Friday night and I just wanted some company – preferably female.

Saturday mornings at the bullring were crazy, as busloads of tourists arrived for the market and stopped at the restaurant where I worked, hungry for breakfast and lunch. Pickpockets, buskers, market traders and Gypsies were everywhere, practising their trades as I arrived late to practise mine. Fish, the restaurant manager, gave me a disapproving grimace and looked pointedly at his watch, before leaving me with Wayne to make the rest of the coffee orders.

Despite being late and the workload being close to unbearable, I was in good spirits as I relived my second successful sexual encounter in a week, which had ended less than one hour before I arrived at work. Once again, I wanted to share this piece of news with Wayne, or any waiter who would listen, but this time I decided to keep it to myself. Anyway, I had not been paid for my latest conquest and the girl was about my age, so I felt it was hardly a story worth telling.

It was great having such pleasant memories so fresh in my mind and I replayed the whole experience over, so lost in my own little fantasy world that I failed to notice the woman standing at the bar, waiting to catch my attention.

‘Two pieces of carrot cake please,’ came the Canadian accent, instantly jolting me out of my daydream and bringing back another set of positive associations.

She laughed as I did a double take, half shocked that she had come to speak to me again, half worried that she was going to ask me if I remembered her name.

‘Hi, how’s things?’ I said smiling, stopping my work so I could give her my full attention.

‘What are you doing later?’ she asked, tilting her head to one side and brushing her hair back off her face.

She was wearing a cardigan over a white T-shirt, blue jeans and trainers and, unlike the last time I had seen her, I felt a lot less intimidated. She looked younger in casual clothes and her eyes looked eager again, not just friendly. I decided to play it cool and shrug. After all, Christine, the previous night’s conquest, may have wanted me to come round again.

‘My place at eight?’ She smiled at me over her shoulder as she strutted out of the restaurant, her thumbs in her back jean pockets, drawing attention to that peach of an arse of hers.

Who was I trying to kid? I knew where I was going to be at eight o’clock and it was not at Christine’s.

‘Who was that?’ asked Wayne, smiling as he caught a final glimpse of the Canadian disappearing into the crowd.

I ignored him and just smiled, so he whipped my arm with a bar towel.

‘No one… anyway, you should have seen who I went home with last night,’ I said, with no intention of sharing that information. There was no need, as word always seemed to travel fast enough without my help. Wayne knew that, too, which was why he didn’t ask again.

At precisely eight o’clock, I was standing outside the gates of the enormous villa. I had taken a siesta after work to make sure I had the energy to keep my sexual roll going. My hair was slicked back with wax and I wore my only clean shirt and trousers. I’m a jeans, T-shirt and trainers bloke, so, to me, I had made a big effort just to go to some woman’s house. But, then again, she was not just some woman. She was a mature woman, who not only wanted to have sex with me, but also appeared to have money to burn!

On the taxi ride over, I’d spent most of the journey telling myself that the hard part was out of the way now; I could relax and be myself. I had already impressed her enough for a second invite so, theoretically, the pressure was off. But there was something about the idea of being with an older woman that made my heart pound and my palms sweat. I kept repeating to myself, ‘You’re not anxious, you’re excited!’ – a mantra I had borrowed from one of those confidence books.

The security gate clicked and hummed, and I slipped in as soon as the gap was big enough. Again, the sudden floodlights startled me. I half expected guard dogs to appear from nowhere at any moment. By the time I reached the steps to the veranda, she was at the door in jogging bottoms and the same T-shirt and cardigan she had been wearing earlier.

‘Well, look at you! All dressed up!’ she said, looking me up and down before giving me a kiss on each cheek.

‘Shall I get us some drinks?’ I asked, once we were inside.

‘Remember where everything is?’ she replied, sinking into the sofa, brushing her hair back. I looked towards the kitchen and nodded, although what came back to me most vividly about that particular room was taking her from behind over the breakfast counter. The smirk on her face as I left her to go and make the drinks suggested that she was thinking about the same incident, or at least she knew I was thinking about it.

‘Hey, I’ve got beer, but if you want wine or anything it’s all there,’ she called from the living room as I poured her Baileys and then wasted a few moments looking for a bottle opener to open what turned out to be a screw-top bottle of San Miguel.

‘I’ve gotta tell ya, I’m no cook, so, if Chinese is OK with you, we’ll get a take-out.’ She had already started dialling for the takeaway so the choice had been made.

I loved Chinese food – or at least I had done until a few weeks earlier, when a story had come out about a woman nearly choking to death on a dog’s identity chip, which had somehow managed to make its way into her Peking duck.

It seemed strange to be sitting there talking about random rubbish like how busy the market had been earlier, when a week ago she had paid me to stay the night. I wanted to talk about that. I wanted to know why. Was it any good? Was I going to get paid the same again? I felt a bit guilty about having slept with Christine the previous night, but then I told myself that, if she’d contacted me before that morning, I might not have ended up with Christine at all. So it was her fault. Very mature, I know.

When the food arrived, she laid out the steaming silver trays in the centre of her dining-room table and brought in two plates from the kitchen. As she scooped generous servings of Peking duck, rice and sweet and sour pork balls on to our plates, I chose not to share my story and instead reminded myself to chew carefully.

‘Mmm, this is so good!’ she said, closing her eyes and shutting off all her other senses to fully appreciate the flavoured pork-like dish. I had never understood people’s fascination with food and my associations to it were quite different. As a boy, as long as I ate everything on my plate (even the greens) I was a good boy, so, always eager to please, I would eat anything. As a teenager, whatever I could wolf down the quickest in between studying, working and socialising was the order of the day. By the time I got to university, I was eating food for whatever it had to offer. Carbohydrates (and caffeine) for energy, protein for brain and muscles and a vitamin pill a day just in case. But the way some people ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over food was beyond me – to me, it was just food. Get it down ya and get on with something important! I used to think.

‘You gotta enjoy the simple things in life,’ she said, after I had shared my lack of food appreciation with her. ‘Food, drink, breathing, sex… it’s all so basic, but so important to enjoy.’

I agreed with her on the drinking and sex part; these were definitely two things I could not live without. I’m also a big fan of breathing, and had decided long ago to keep that up for as long as possible, but food? Well, if I could take a pill three times a day with all the nutrients I needed in it, that would suit me down to the ground, I thought.

‘Slow down,’ she urged.

Automatically, I feared that this was a sexual complaint hidden in her discussion on food.

‘Have you read the Kama Sutra?’ she asked, bringing the conversation back to a more interesting topic but reaffirming my fears that her ‘slow down’ comment was sex-related.

‘Well, I mostly just looked at the pictures,’ I replied with an apologetic grin.

She brought the back of her hand up to her mouth as she laughed. She rolled her eyes and smiled. ‘It’s not just about sex, it’s about getting pleasure from all your senses. Music, smells, food…’ She stopped as she put another forkful of sauce-covered rice into her mouth and sighed at how delicious she thought it was.

I speared another pork ball with my fork and dipped it in the sweet and sour sauce, before putting it into my mouth and hesitantly closing my eyes. The crispy battered shell began to soften and roll about on my tongue as my mouth watered uncontrollably. My jaw shook with the effort of chewing slower than I could ever remember having chewed, and I tried to savour the pork and occasional piece of rice that had stuck to the sauce. Before I was ready to admit to myself that she had been right, I was smiling and my head was gently nodding.

‘I told you!’ she said victoriously, making me aware of my other senses again.

Our conversation moved from food to music, and rapidly went from music to ex-lovers. I had always considered past lovers a taboo topic with new lovers. But that was obviously not the first taboo area we had touched on or talked about.

‘So you were married?’ I said, trying to confirm that her marital status was now divorced or separated, and that there really was no need to hide my shoes.

‘Yes, I was married for 12 years. We’ve been divorced for ten,’ she said, spooning out another helping of rice, ‘and I can’t listen to Simon and Garfunkel and not think of him.’ She shook her head and smiled, before looking at me with narrowing eyes. ‘And you? You seem more like the heartbreaker than the heartbroken. Like most guys!’ She reached over and touched my arm to let me know she was just teasing.

‘No, I’m still getting over a girl. We weren’t married, but we were together a long time.’

‘It’s all relative. Kids?’ she asked, seeming more serious and concerned.

‘No, no way. Much too careful for that,’ I said, shaking off the idea of being tied down with children at 22, even if I did love the girl.

‘You?’

‘Uh-huh. I have the most beautiful daughter in the world,’ she said, bringing her hand to her heart. ‘She’s smart, too. She’s here in Europe studying. In fact, she’s why I’m here.’

I looked around and thought it strange that a woman who loved her daughter so much wouldn’t keep any photos of her in frames around the villa. Maybe it’s a Canadian thing, I thought.

‘My place in Vancouver’s a shrine to her – it kinda creeps her out! She’s grateful I’m just renting this place so when she stays she doesn’t have to see herself on every wall!’ she said, explaining the lack of personal items adorning the walls of the villa, as if she had read my mind.

‘Does she know about her mother’s seduction technique?’ I asked, hoping she wouldn’t take offence.

‘If she did, I think she’d freak out. She keeps trying to set me up with her professors and her older friends. She’s kinda ageist! Thinks we oldies should stick together!’ She laughed, and pretended to shrivel and use her fork as a walking stick.

‘You don’t like men your own age?’

‘There are some, but they’re mostly married or seriously screwed up. I’ve tried dating. That’s how I met my first male escort,’ she explained, raising her eyebrows. ‘I’d seen about a dozen guys, all about my age, and then this next guy, although he was younger than the others, he was just the perfect gentleman.’ She put her elbow on the table and rested her chin on the palm of her hand.

‘And he tried to charge you for the date?’ I asked, not believing anyone could have the balls to do that.

‘Not for the date, but what he thought I wanted to do afterwards.’ She laughed and shook her head. ‘I threw my wine over him and left. Which felt great at the time, but then later when I was alone in bed, wondering what it would have been like, I regretted it. Can you believe that?’ She indicated how big her regret was with her thumb and her index finger, before shrugging.

‘So did you call him back?’

‘I didn’t get his number and he stopped emailing after that, understandably. But, the idea stuck in my mind. Hiring a man to meet my every want and need, hmmm…’

‘So now you’re an escort junkie?’

‘Hey! I don’t always pay. It makes sense right now. My daughter vacations here. I don’t want young guys running up to me in the port, or worse, running up to her and asking if she’s as wild as her mom!’ She covered her eyes and shook her head.

‘So I’ll never meet your daughter?’ I pouted, pretending to be disappointed, although in reality, if she was as smart and beautiful as she was supposed to be, I would probably have been completely intimidated.

‘Maybe by chance. But I think I’ve bought your loyalty.’

I finally realised that the sum she had paid had not indicated what I was worth. It was for my discretion, so she could have her fun without hurting her daughter’s feelings.

‘You’ve never wanted to remarry?’

‘Not yet. I like it this way. I get a man when I need one – a good one, not just whoever is left at the bar.’

‘Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘You should. So what about you? Are you looking for another girlfriend?’

‘Are you asking?’

‘I’m flattered but, like I said, my daughter would chase you off.’

I took this as an easy let-down, not that I had thought for one moment she would actually say ‘yes’, or that I wanted another girlfriend. It wasn’t that having one twice my age would have been that big a deal. I just could not allow myself to ever feel for someone else what I had felt for Chloe. At that particular point in time, I would have preferred a bout with Tyson. ‘Actually, I’m determined to stay single, at least for a few years.’

‘Well, that’s good news… for both of us.’ She gave me a crafty smile and sipped her Baileys.

‘Anyway, we barely even know each other’s names,’ I said, taking the chance and hoping to be reintroduced.

‘Did I tell you my name? Oh, well, what’s yours?’

‘I’m Deano. And you? I don’t remember.’

‘You shit. I didn’t tell you. OK, guess.’

‘We could be here some time. Can you give me a clue?’

‘It’s Jeana. There. Feel better?’ she asked.

I nodded and put down my fork in defeat, giving up trying to finish the Chinese food on my plate. There were just juices and grease and the odd piece of rice or veg floating in the foil trays, so we cleared the table together and then made our way back to the sofa.

‘I got us a movie. I remembered you saying how much you liked this guy.’ She handed me the DVD box and I smiled as I saw the Adam Sandler film.

‘Yeah, great. He’s hilarious.’ I was stunned that she had remembered something like that – something as personal as one of my favourites. I had friends I’d known for years and I found it hard enough work to remember their birthdays, let alone their favourite colour or their favourite comedian.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen him in anything. But then I’m a bit out of touch now my daughter’s not always around to watch these with me. I just don’t seem to laugh as much on my own, so I don’t bother. That sounds foolish, I know.’

But I knew exactly how she felt. Chloe and I used to go to the cinema every Sunday or we would get a video from Blockbuster and laugh ourselves silly. I could count on two hands the times I had laughed without the aid of alcohol since splitting up with her. It was probably the thing I missed most about being with her, even more than the sex.

We sat at opposite ends of the couch, Jeana’s legs outstretched and resting on my lap.

‘Hey, do you mind if we see the previews? I wanna see what else looks good.’

She chose the option on the menu, extending her arm when the remote batteries seemed to be dying. Then she flinched and retracted her feet as I reached down for my beer.

‘What?’ I asked, confused.

‘I thought you were going to tickle my feet. It drives me… I can’t handle it,’ she confessed, evoking in me the irresistible urge to do just that to her.

I slowly put my beer down and then grabbed her ankle, ignoring her cries as they were still as playful as they were urgent. I rubbed my fingertips lightly and quickly over the sole of her foot and she screamed, laughing uncontrollably. She writhed and tried her hardest to pull me off and I was just about to stop when her other foot appeared out of nowhere and kicked me in the head. I was stunned and stopped automatically. So did she, gasping and bringing her hand up to her mouth.

‘My God, I’m so sorry,’ she begged my forgiveness and, although she continued laughing hysterically straight afterwards, I knew she meant it.

I laughed as well as soon as I had got over the shock of the knock to the head.

She moved to my corner of the sofa to stroke the spot she had accidentally kicked and I thought for a second that we were not going to watch the film. But then she kissed my head and snuggled up to me, resting her head on my shoulder.

After 90 minutes of laughing and the occasional question/ answer session – ‘Why’d he do that? Who’s she?’ – the film ended with Jeana wiping the tears from her eyes before they rolled down her cheeks and on to my shoulder.

‘That was so sweet. You’re right, he’s so goofy!’ she said, still laughing. She stood up and held out her hand. ‘Come on. I wanna show you this.’

She led me outside to the veranda at the back. It had a below-ground Jacuzzi, which was surrounded by a raised circular platform covered by similar wood to the floor. She knelt down and pushed in a button, starting the bubbles. She took off her cardigan and whipped her T-shirt over her head, her full breasts bouncing without the support of a bra. I had seen a million pairs of boobs before, strolling along the beach, but knowing that I would soon be pressed up against hers was an instant turn-on. I unbuttoned my shirt and dropped it to the floor, then I hesitated and waited to see if she was going to keep anything on or go commando. She pulled down her jogging bottoms and walked out of them, so I copied her, leaving my boxers on. Then she turned and signalled to me to turn around, removing her final item of clothing before getting into the warm tub. I dropped my boxers and got in quickly, the cold air giving me goose bumps and affecting other body parts in non-flattering ways, despite my feeling desperately horny.

‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ she said.

I furrowed my brow and looked down into the water, jokingly searching for whoever she wanted to introduce me to.

She laughed and splashed me with water. ‘No, silly. He’s a hustler, a gigolo in the port. He could give you some advice if you wanted.’ She seemed more excited than I was about the idea.

‘Me? A gigolo?’ I laughed off the idea. But, somewhere deep inside, a seed was planted. Could I really do that? No, it was ridiculous. But surely she wouldn’t suggest it if she didn’t think I had what it took?

‘Well, an escort then. I could give him a call and we could all meet up. If you’re seriously going to stay single, you may as well make some money while you’re playing the field.’ She tilted her head back and exhaled as any tension was massaged away by the jet streams and bubbles.

‘So then, while you’re a gi– escort, you just have to make sure you have a good think about what you wanna be when you’re older!’ she laughed.

I was touched both that she cared enough to think about my future and that she already knew enough about me to sense that becoming a male escort might just strike me as a great way of helping postpone making any grown-up decisions about my life.

‘And what are you going to be when you’re older?’ I knew it was a cheeky question but, hey, we had already laughed, she had cried, we were naked in her Jacuzzi, so I decided, if I couldn’t be cheeky then, when could I be?

‘Well, as long as there are plenty of available young men, I won’t ever get any older.’ She smiled at me and I half-expected her to grow fangs and dive at my neck.

I was warm, relaxed and painfully erect, eagerly awaiting any signal from her that she wanted sex there and then. I had held off making any moves until that point for fear of being rejected and made to feel like an impatient schoolboy, so instead I was deliberately playing it cool until I got a definite green light.

‘You can come closer – I didn’t bite you last time, did I?’ She smiled, tilted her head back and dipped her hair in the water as I made my way towards her. Green light, I thought as I waded over and then, smooth as ever, slipped and fell towards her. My arms flew out and grabbed the tub either side of her, only just stopping me from crashing into her and causing major injury. Her legs were open and as I positioned myself on my knees between them, she wrapped them around me.

‘Mmm, not so cold now, hey?’ She felt me pressed against her, and we were so close, I felt a rush of excitement at holding off from kissing her.

But then she brought her hands to my face and planted her lips on mine. Our kissing became more and more passionate, our tongues deep in each other’s mouths as she grabbed the hair of the scruff of my neck. Our hands massaged each other and we continued to kiss, every kiss and touch wet and slippery.

She raised herself up and sat on the edge of the tub, beckoning me first with her finger and then gently grabbing my head with both hands and bringing me down towards her groin. While I went down on her, I tried to position myself over one of the jets, but concentrating on the two activities proved too difficult. This was mainly due to the threat of slipping again, which, in that position, might have resulted in injuries as embarrassing as they were painful.

After a while, she slipped back into the tub and we went back to kissing and caressing each other. I thought about sitting myself on the edge of the tub and pulling her head towards my groin, but not wanting to push my luck I let her lead things. She continued to masturbate me till I came, and then we felt it was probably best if we got out of the Jacuzzi. She had put towels there for us in advance, so we wrapped ourselves up and ran back into the villa to get warm and dry.

‘It’s so freeing, don’t you think? Being naked.’ She was asking a young man who at that point would have agreed with her that black was white, or vice versa. The whole experience was incredible, but I held back from saying so because I knew how stupid and immature it would sound.

We took more drinks upstairs and made love in the bedroom, on the bed, in the missionary position. Quite conventional in comparison to my memories of our first night and hardly worth paying me for, but who was I to argue?

I was back in the saddle, the force was, once again, with me and I was enjoying every minute of it. I had missed the regular sex that came with having a girlfriend and at one point it had seemed that, in order to avoid the heartache of break-ups, I was going to have to sacrifice my favourite pastime as well. But not any more! All of a sudden, it seemed to me that there would always be older women out there dying to get their hands on a young stud like me, and some of them were willing to pay for it!

After a short rest, during which I cuddled her from behind and enjoyed the warmth and comfort of having a full-bodied woman in my arms, I began to feel aroused again. One thing that had usually saved me from feeling completely sexually inadequate was the short recovery period I appeared to require. With my first few girlfriends, the first time may have usually taken only a few minutes, but then I would go down on the girl for a while and be rock solid and ready for round two, which would always last longer. It would usually be my muscles that tired before my cock’s fourth or fifth time.

But, as had happened with girls in the past, Jeana had had enough and just wanted to cuddle and sleep. As she drifted off, I had no option other than to lie there awake and pray that the urge and my erection went away. I couldn’t even go and relieve myself as she had specifically requested that she wanted me to cuddle her until she was fast asleep.

I stared at the back of her head and waited for the first signs that I could slip off to the bathroom but, by the time they finally came, the urge had passed and I had started to fall asleep myself. What alerted me to the fact that she was sleeping was her twitching and then calling her ex-husband’s name. How depressing, I thought. Ten years on and she was still dreaming about her ex like I still dreamed about Chloe – how beautiful she was, and how she was, even now, probably asleep with some idiot next to her.

For a moment, I felt a stab of sadness. Jeana had given me plenty of encouraging advice about Chloe, but suddenly I realised why she’d never trotted out that ‘you’ll get over her’ line other people are so fond of. A full decade after splitting up, Jeana was still not over her husband, despite all the lovers she’d had in the meantime.

Love, in my opinion, had been very unfair to both of us. Sex, on the other hand, was suiting us very well for the time being.

‘Where are you?’ Jeana sounded agitated, but I was the one who had been standing there on the street corner like some rent boy for the last 20 minutes.

‘I’m in the port like you said, by Coyote. Why do I need my passport?’ I was concerned that she had asked me to bring that particular item out with me. Was she going to check my age? Were we leaving the country? If we are, I thought, Fish is not going to be happy when I don’t turn up at the restaurant tomorrow.

‘I can’t see you – oh, wait…’ The line beeped and went dead and a taxi pulled up at the bus stop where I had been waiting. The back door swung open and Jeana called out. ‘Get in!’

I climbed in and kissed Jeana straight on the lips. It was nice being able to do that, as cheeks were all I had kissed for quite a while before meeting her.

‘I thought we were going to the port for a drink.’

‘Maybe later. There’s someone I want you to meet first. Andy, remember?’

It suddenly came back to me, the gigolo she had mentioned in the Jacuzzi. She had phoned him earlier that night and he had just called back to say that he would be working at the casino in Gibraltar – hence the need for the passport.

‘I thought you said he was a full-time gigolo?’ I said, dubious already.

‘He’s with a client. He said he can give you ten minutes, but then he has to get back to her.’

‘Ten minutes?’

‘That’s it. Time’s money, honey. Make sure you ask him what you want to know.’

‘What do I…?’

‘And you can thank me later, properly.’

I felt like Dorothy going to see the Wizard of Oz, or more accurately her other three loser sidekicks rolled into one. My heart was in a terrible state, my brain was a mess after having endured my seven-month bender in Marbella and I really doubted I had the balls – second thoughts, better rephrase that – the courage to go through with being a gigolo. But, as we walked up the steps and entered the casino, I decided that it was worth listening to what the man had to say.

I had no way of knowing that this meeting would shape the next four years of my life.