Читать книгу Follow Your Fantasy: Deeper - Nicola Jane - Страница 7
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She never calls me, you think.
You pick at your noodles – some shiny, greasy mess from the Chinese take out again – and toy with your phone. It's a well practised routine with recognisable signs you're about to cave in and make the call.
Just like the last times you've given in to the urge for some excitement, food has stopped having any taste and you're restless and ready to scream at the mediocrity of daily life.
Well, the mediocrity of your day to day existence. Giselle's life, you know from the all too limited occasions you've been a tourist in her world, is far from dull. Fancy hotels and film sets and packs of slavering men completely under her control are the routine for your sexy almost-twin.
You toss your phone aside and push the noodles away. If you knew why she didn't call, that might make it easier, you tell yourself.
The first time, of course, you had to call her. She was the one who'd given you her business card after all. The card you'd stuttered, speechless over, knowing even then that she'd seen something in your eyes that you didn't allow yourself to see in the mirror.
Perhaps that was what it was. You look so alike, she just saw herself in you and that was enough for you to imagine what you could be. Unfortunately, the similarities between Giselle and you end at the way you look. Your day starts and finishes on the sofa in your tiny apartment, after a dreary day of commute, office, commute, TV, eat, sleep. Even the day off you've got tomorrow is just another helping of The Same with a side order of Routine. Grocery shopping and running errands is all you have planned.
You can see that Giselle doesn't need you to liven up her days like you need her. But after that last time, when you'd shadowed her in stripping off for a roomful of bachelors, playing with her breasts and sliding your fingers inside her for her pleasure as much as the roaring spectators? After that time, surely she'd have wanted to bring you along again?
Something warm uncurls between your legs as the memories wake up. The roaring spectators as Giselle's brown nipples pressed against yours and she tugs your top down, exposing you to them first. Her fingers playing out what they wanted to do to you, if only they could touch. Her writhing against the men while you took your satisfaction, even as they thought they were the ones being serviced.
Then the silent drive home, the curt goodbye and the packet of money she'd handed you with no more than a 'See you around, doll'. Even though you'd known it was just a cash transaction for her, you'd thought, well, you'd thought…you were a team.
It sounds pathetic even in your own head. The cringey idea of saying it aloud is one of the many things that's kept you from dialling her number. That and a million other reasons why you don't go around wearing designer dresses and getting paid for sex from strangers.
You sigh and shuffle into your bedroom. You tell yourself you're just going to lie down and read a book, but you hesitate at the wardrobe and take another step back into the night it all started.
The red dress. The one that got you mistaken for the escort in the first place. It's hanging in the dry cleaner's bag it's been in ever since that night, out of place among your more usual flowery tops and cargo skirts.
You shrug out of your jeans and T-shirt and pull the dress up over your hips, slipping on a pair of high-heels and zipping it up at the back. A softer featured version of Giselle stares back at you from the mirror. You've let your hair grow like hers and it curls above the tops of her breasts – your breasts, you correct yourself mentally. You wonder…how much could you look like her if you tried?
You pick up base and a blusher brush and shade and highlight your cheekbones and nose to harden the lines of your face. Then you line your eyelids heavily, winging the black pencil out to the sides to elongate your eyes. A few strokes of charcoal shadow and two coats more mascara than you'd normally wear and it's her appraising you. She looks you up and down and turns to admire herself, scornful and confident. The kind of woman who'd make whatever damn phone calls she wanted.
You stride back to the living room, stilettos loud on the wooden floor. The neighbours won't like that, part of you thinks, but, you bet Giselle's have far more noises to put up with than shoes.
Your phone has fallen halfway down the back of the sofa cushion. You retrieve it, and then hesitate before unlocking the screen to…do what? Text? Call? And say what?
