7 Thursday 13 July
Posh, up-its-own-arse Kingston is not my usual haunt. But although it’s the other side of London, and takes forever to get to, I did have one outcall here once: a midday booking at a huge house, two Porsches in the drive. And there were tracks of a third car in the gravel; I guessed that was the punter’s wife, gone out of the house. The punter was fiftysomething, smelt of an expensive men’s fragrance, exquisitely manicured, wearing clothes thirty years too young for him. Designer shirt tight over his stomach. ‘Tosser’ was my first thought. He offered me a glass of something fizzy, the remains of a bottle which he was drinking, but he was OK about it when I said I’d prefer water. But at the first touch of his lips, I could tell that he was a heavy smoker – cigars, which always turns my stomach – and too much French kissing with him breathing down my throat made me feel like retching. Then he put his hand up my skirt, and at the same time he breathed in my ear and whispered that his fantasy was to shag without a condom. I asked him if he’d read the safe sex information on my GirlsDirect profile, he said he had, but then he just offered me £500: threw it down on his fancy coffee-table like it was small change. And I politely said no thanks, I’m not risking my health for any money. He looked at me, all surprised, and told me that as he was willing to pay so much, I should do whatever he wanted. When I said no again, he called me a fucking tart, which was funny, because of course that’s exactly what I am. A bit like shouting “Cop” at a policeman. Anyway, it ended with him paying me nothing and telling me to leave. I remember the crunch of my shoes on that gravel drive as I stomped away: pretty much a whole day wasted. Plus, he took the time to go onto GirlsDirect to give me a 0 out of 10 rating, which took my average figure down a bit. I still remember the words of his nasty Client Comments about me – ‘disappointing in the flesh compared to her profile photos, and definitely at least 10 years older than she claims’.
I think about that guy, as the suburbs blur past the train window: Vauxhall, Clapham Junction, Earlsfield, Wimbledon, Raynes Park. The gradual change from South London grotty to Surrey snotty. Nearly there. What will I find at this place? I realise that I’m scared. Not of risks, no. I picture Krasniqi and perhaps other guys as nasty, nastier: threats, gangsters, knives, guns, I try to make myself feel some fear – but that’s not what scares me. What scares me is: I’ll probably find nothing. I’m terrified of one thing: that this latest attempt to find out about Mr Jonathan Wycherley will be just another dead-end. I picture myself taking the train back home, realising all my options are gone, that I’m like an animal in a trap, waiting for the cops to come and pick me up and put me away for good. That’s what scares me.
And here I am: Norbiton station, Kingston. Sun hits me as the train doors open; beyond the platform, a car park of blinding windscreens: BMW, Mercedes, Jaguar. A twenty-minute walk in the heat to the hotel address: clack, clack, clack of my heels along a long, straight road; fortunately I’m in the shadow of big trees almost the whole way. But despite the shade, I’m tired and thirsty as I reach a gateway with the one word ‘Soames’ carved into one of the stone pillars. Even that word is half-covered in moss, not picked out in paint, not advertising itself in any way. Not like any hotel I’ve ever been in.
There’s a gravel drive, and at the sight of it my brain flashes back yet again to Mr Two Porsches. He thought, with me, perhaps with every woman, that anything he wanted, he could just pay for it, and it would happen. Like we’re all slot machines, ha ha, and if you put the right amount of cash into any of us, the legs will open up. I guess what I do for a living encourages that attitude. But I’m not going to give it up for the sake of a minimum wage and stacking shelves or cleaning floors.
I walk down the drive, heels into the gravel, just like Two Porsches’ place. Why would anyone make a driveway out of this stuff? The hotel looks pretty much like in the website photo: lots of big leafy bushes around it. Although there’s no signage, it’s clear where I should go; there’s one obvious doorway, but small for a hotel. Can this place possibly by operating? I turn a corner past the bushes, and my hopes are lifted by the sight of cars off to the right: lots of cars, even more up-market than at Norbiton station, a scattering of Aston-Martins, Ferraris. But nothing else about the place says Hotel. My guess is that this was once a big private house in the old days, with servants and all that. And now it is… what?
The hotel lobby is dark and small, brightened only by a large wall mirror ahead of me, reflecting the front door I’ve just come through and the outdoor light beyond. In the mirror I see my reflection in silhouette: rays of sunlight from behind me glow through my hair, like a halo: for a moment I’m confused, because it looks like I’m standing behind a desk. I step forward but my mirror image stands still, as if she’s my ghost. Then I realise it’s not a mirror, it’s a window. A blonde like me, wearing a thin summer dress like me, stands at a reception desk in front of me, backlit by the window behind her. She’s nearly the spitting image of me – except for the pursed lips, the bored stare.
“I’ve come here about a job.”
“Sorry?” She doesn’t look sorry. She looks like she thinks I’m wasting her precious time.
“The agency told me...”
“We don’t use agencies. All our staff are employed by us, and we haven’t advertised recently.” A look, like she’s waiting for me to leave. I feel like a fly that she’d like to swat, but she can’t be bothered, so she’s waiting for it to find its way out of the window instead.
“Well, it’s more of a personal recommendation...”
The look is becoming a glare: I’m losing this one, and as I cast around for how on earth I can avoid getting thrown out in under one minute, I notice something unusual through the window behind her. Beyond it is a swimming pool, and I can see it’s an infinity pool, going out onto a balcony, looking over a small lake with a fountain. But it’s what’s in the pool that surprises me. Several young women in bikinis, swimming or sitting on sun-loungers around it.
“A guest here – he told me that a job was available.”
It’s such a hopeless and obvious lie: she looks at me like I’m a bit of rubbish that’s blown in off the street. And guess what, I feel like a bit of rubbish from the street. There’s a one-second pause as I curse to myself, realise that I have to turn away, give up, face the walk back to the station, the train journey back home to the cops, the police cell, the courtroom, the jail. But in that one second, something happens. A guy comes out of the office that’s on the right-hand side of the desk. He’s one of those people who could be any age between thirty-five and fifty: a lined, tired face. He’s tall, but in a kind of stooping, long-limbed, gangly way. Perhaps he spends a lot of time cramped over that computer I see in his office. That pale grayness on his suit jacket shoulders might even be dust. Mr Spider. He starts speaking “Ruby – oh, I see you’ve got a guest.”
Cheek is the best approach. The only approach left, in fact. I speak directly to him. “I’m Holly Harlow. I’m not a guest: I’m here about the job?”
He doesn’t answer me, but he looks me up and down. Ten seconds. Then he whispers something to the woman, and walks off. She tells me “Wait over there.” Even thought it’s gloomy in this hallway, I can see the sulk in her eyes and the curve of her mouth. Spider thinks I’m worth talking to, and she’s cross about it. I make her even more grumpy by asking her for a glass of water: she brings it for me, flouncing as she comes.
I sit and wait in the lobby. It’s warm here, the light is dim, and it’s so bloody quiet. Half an hour passes. I see nothing, no-one comes in or out of the hotel. If it weren’t for the glimpses of all those cars, and all those girls, I’d think that there are no guests at this hotel at all. The warm, still air in here feels like someone has put a thick blanket over me. If they’ve got the money to put in a fucking infinity pool, why don’t they get some aircon? I could almost go to sleep is this dull fug, I feel my head slouching down…
“Miss Harlow?”
Spider has come back. “I’m Michael Potter. Pleased to meet you.” He asks me into his office. I can now see that the lines on his face are worry, not age: he’s maybe mid-thirties. But acts older. I sidle past snotty Ruby’s desk, and he shuts his office door behind him. I know I have just one chance here, but the way he told her that I should stay shows that it’s a real chance. I dive in. Headfirst Holly.
“I’d like to work here. I saw your website.”
“We don’t really use that website much. Hardly anyone looks at it. We’ve not even kept the phone number on it up to date. So you want to work here. Doing – what?”
“Well, you tell me.” I run my hand through my hair, blink cluelessly like a bimbo, smile at him like I’m in love with him.
“Could you – ah – show me your CV?”
I pass him my iphone. It’s open at my GirlsDirect profile.
He’s not shocked, I can tell. Good: I wasn’t mistaken when I saw those girls around the pool. He reads, and reads. Everything I’ve seen tells me that this place is not just a hotel: that it offers what I offer, but on a grander scale. Otherwise, nothing here makes sense: every hotel I’ve ever heard of employs agency staff, and you see very few groups of stunningly beautiful twenty-year old girls who can afford a spa break at a place like this. And the ones who can – they’d rather be surfing.
“You have... talent.”
“Read what my clients have said.”
He goes onto my Client Comments section. I can tell he’s checking everything really carefully. 9.33 out of 10 is a pretty damned good rating, and I’ve got loads of positive Comments. There’s also my photos. My escort friends – apart from Jazz, who understands – all say they are too tame: a shadowy glimpse of a nipple, lots of lingerie, even fully-clothed shots: they were all done at a studio by a professional photographer, a truly nice guy who is one of my regulars. My photos are a tease, a taster, deliberately aimed at guys who are looking for something more than the cheapest fuck possible. I quickly learnt that a tarty legs-akimbo profile on GirlsDirect does only one thing for you: ensures that nearly every punter who turns up on your doorstep is a complete tosser. I put the price up, took the naked selfie pictures off there, and the class of punters improved. And good punters become regulars, and they write good Comments and attract more good punters; it’s an upward spiral. Potter seems to approve: I can tell that he’s reading every Comment, clicking on every thumbnail, viewing every single photo.
“Do you like it?”
“What you’ve got here looks, um, very desirable. But – you’ve been doing this a few years. I’d guess, if you don’t mind me saying, that you’re nearer thirty than twenty? So – ”
At that point, there’s a knock on his office door, Sulky puts her head round. Through the gap, in the lobby, I can see what looks like the first guests I’ve seen in this place; a paunchy middle-aged man, with the confident air of the rich, and a young woman, Thai or Vietnamese maybe. Ruby speaks. “Michael. It’s Mr Cheriton.” The way she says that name sounds like it’s an important guest. And Spider is a Michael, not a Mike. That seems to say a lot about him. He nods, gets up, leaves the office. He doesn’t quite shut the door, and I can see through the gap, and can hear a little too: the guest seems to be arguing with the Thai girl. He’s cross, but he’s keeping his voice down. Like there’s something he’s not happy about, like he’s disappointed with her or something she’s done, but he doesn’t want to make too much of a fuss. Then Spider slides into my view: he and the guest are now speaking, and the Thai girl has gone. I can also see that the second guy, the hotel guest, despite his podgy middle-aged air, might well be no older than Potter. He’s got that blond floppy hair like a Hooray Henry, and he’s wearing linen trousers and a navy-blue blazer. It even has gold buttons, like he’s a captain of a boat.
They talk on and on: maybe ten minutes. Then Spider comes back in. I know what he’s going to say: sorry, at twenty-seven I’m too old to be on their books, blah blah. But what he does say surprises me. “We have someone, here at the hotel, who would like to meet you.”
“Mmm?”
“Meet you now, I mean. If you understand me.”
Oh yes, I understand all right. The guy with the blazer is a punter at this brothel: doesn’t like the dish they’ve just served him. He’s sent his plate back to the kitchen. But he’s still hungry.
This is my chance to prove myself.
Five minutes later, and I’m waiting in a chintzy little lounge, and Ruby acts the waitress and brings in a tray. She forces a smile at me; she’s still in a bad mood, but not at me, I think… something else has rattled her cage today. Turns on her heel and goes. I realise I’m hungry, and wolf down a scone: it’s delicious. And then the blazer guy comes in. I brush a crumb off my lips. His first words are “Shall I be mother?” The coffee at the Soames is better than that at greasy spoon in Finsbury Park, but the company and conversation isn’t. This guy, who introduces himself as Giles Cheriton, is exactly what I saw in that first glance: a privileged thirtysomething fatass who’s never had to struggle for a single thing in his life. Self-satisfaction all over his pink public-school face. He chats about himself: his holidays, mostly – Caribbean, Australia. I picture him in a flowery shirt and Bermuda shorts, knowing that I’m very soon going to see a lot more of Mr Cheriton’s flesh revealed than that.
“St Lucia is my favourite. Speaking of which, did you know that each bedroom in this place is named after a West Indian island?”
“So when you say favourite, do you mean the island, or the bedroom?”
“Well, that’s for you to find out. Let’s go up and take a look at St Lucia.”
You think you’re fucking irresistible, don’t you, Mr Young Fogey. Well, to the hookers in this place, I guess you are, cos it’s their job to be nice to you. And right now, that’s my job too. I smile at him, look into his eyes, try hard to look like I fancy him. Which is something I’m good at. We go upstairs. As soon as the bedroom door closes, his mouth is on mine. Slightly clammy breath: no cigarette-taste, but I can sense not just coffee, but something alcoholic: he’s had a morning drink or two. Vodka or gin. As the kiss goes on, I run over in my mind what Geeta Pawan said. From the cops’ point of view, with the witness sighting of me at Krasniqi’s place, I can see them thinking I’m practically nailed. And they’re so keen to have Krasniqi as star witness that it’s not occurred to them to put him, or anyone else, in the frame for the murder. Why the fuck didn’t I simply tell the truth from the beginning? By getting to them first, Krasniqi’s created the impression he’s a witness not a suspect. Bastard, bastard. I have only two lifelines: – first, that Pawan’s in on the case, and she’s got more than two brain cells to rub together. My second lifeline is: whatever I might find out at this place. Clear in my brain is: I need this job here. This guy’s a creep – but it’s like that moment when you have to clean the loo out and realise that there are no Marigold gloves in the house. You just have to do it.
Half an hour later. We’re in the bed, he’s curled around my naked back. I flash back to Wycherley, but I hear Cheriton’s voice.
“I run this place.”
“Sorry?” Trying to understand what he’s just said.
“I’m not a guest, I’m the manager. This is your interview, babe. Guess what, you got the job.”
Fucking hell. I feel take for a ride. Literally. One hell of a way to learn good news – I’m speechless, while he carries on regardless in his smug tone, same as when he was telling me about his worldwide holidays. “You see, this is the best way. I can personally vouch for every girl here at the Soames.”
“You mean, that we’re all... willing...?” I try to keep any edge of sarcasm out of my voice. I could still lose it all, right now.
“You’re impressive. You came here on a hot day. Fresh as a daisy.”
“I’m very adaptable, too. My clients have a range of tastes. I hope I can please any of your guests. In fact, I’m very confident that I can.”
“I agree. You’re older than we’d usually consider, but some of our guests may prefer that. They’ve liked the odd older girl we’ve had here in the past. What’s good is that you can anticipate a client’s needs. And you like doing it, you’re genuinely turned on. Granted, I’m an attractive man – but as soon as I saw you, I could tell that you were ready for some action today. With me.”
I think: I should have been a fucking actress.
“Just a couple of formalities to go now, and then you’ll be a Soames employee.” He gets up, pulls his clothes on. “Don’t get dressed yet” he says. I suddenly notice that there’s a camera on the bedside table, and he picks it up. I do as he tells me, get out of bed and stand there starkers, and he snaps away. After what seems like an age of flashes and clicks, he says “OK. Face shots.” The lens blinks away at me, then he says “Turn round.” More clicks. I face the wall and, unseen by him, mouth my disgust at him. It’s the opposite of the photo shoot for my GirlsDirect profile that I did with Paolo, which I enjoyed. This feels more disrespectful than any punter I can remember. As the camera keeps snapping away, I try to tell myself that it’s a good sign, feeling like this in front of this guy, I’m still not hardened to everything, I still have feelings of modesty. Because he makes me feel like a frigging virgin. I wonder why? Yes, I’ve got it: because this guy doesn’t like women – but it thrills him, running a sort of harem. He gets off on his role as a tester of the new goods; he gets off on how desirable his wares are, how glamorous. He gets off on knowing that, whoever comes here to sample the delights of the Soames Hotel, he’s tried them all first. I guess he also gets off on the fact that all the clients here are probably very rich. Some of them, maybe, are famous.
“Potter got all your personal details, didn’t he? Including any website or advertising that you’re currently using?”
“Yes.” I’d noticed Spider entering my name and age onto a computer, and also he asked if I’ve got a driver’s licence. He’d seemed impressed that I had.
“I’ll ask him to add these photos – and then our records are complete. You may be able to start – properly – quite soon. I know that one of our most loyal guests has already asked for someone like you. He’s diverse in his preferences, and normally he does like the younger girls, but this time he did ask for an older woman.”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“Exactly. I’m guessing that you’ll have good conversation skills; Potter told me you’ve got comments from former clients about dinner dates, escorting to social occasions etc, and have some excellent feedback on them. That’s your key selling point. Because you do understand, don’t you, that those who visit us here at the Soames are sophisticated people.”
“I’m sure they are. I won’t disappoint them.” (What you’re telling me, you snob, is that you think my usual clients are animals.)
“Of course, you must understand that everything that happens here is completely consensual. This is not some knocking-shop. It’s a place where girls such as yourself are here to meet and chat to our guests, and that if a guest wishes to take that chatting further, then no money has to change hands. All our guests are in fact members of our hotel.”
“Like a gentleman’s club? The old-fashioned sort, I mean, not the strip clubs.”
“Yes – a gentleman’s club, in the traditional sense of the word. Except that in fact many of our members are women. Or couples. We even have a same-sex female couple.” As if that makes this place a politically correct brothel, I think to myself.
“And, they all pay a single – very high – annual membership fee, which entitles them to visit and use all our facilities as often as they like. We have a Michelin-starred restaurant – they do pay extra for meals, of course – and a state of the art gym.”
“So I’ll be – a facility?”
He ignores my little jest, and carries on. “A guest arrives here. He – or she – sees someone he likes, chat follows, often dinner. If our guest and you choose to go to one of our bedrooms, or our dungeon, or our nude swimming pool and jacuzzi, then what happens is entirely between you. I must stress this: no money changes hands at any point. Our guests do not pay for any individual service. Similarly, you are paid as an employee, depending solely on how many hours you are here. You are not paid for anything you do, or don’t do, with our guests.”
“OK. I don’t have to go to bed with any guy, but, I guess, my services will be terminated here if someone asks and I refuse.”
He doesn’t speak, as if to say “Well, obviously”. There’s a silence, he wanders over to the window, looks out over the lawns like Lord of the Manor with his country estate. He speaks to the window.
“Elephant in the room.” Turns and looks me in the eye.
For a moment I literally wonder if the elephant is me. I saw those girls around the pool, compared to them I’m no stick insect, but... no. Holly, get a grip. I laugh silently at my silliness. That line of his about the elephant is well-rehearsed: he says it to all his prospective whores, he’s looking for my reaction. But I genuinely don’t know what the elephant is, and I say so.
“Kiss and tell. We have some very well-connected people here, Miss Harlow.”
“Discretion is – well, it’s – essential, in my business.”
“Well, I must admit, that seems to be the case from your feedback. Potter told me. It’s consistent, over a very long period. So –”
“I’ve got a steady lifestyle. A decent income, and a good life. I’ve not got much of a motive to go to a newspaper with a story about some celebrity.”
He looks at me for a long, long time. It’s clearly an issue for this place. What leaks, what scandals, have there been already? And what goes on here, that no-one knows about? Then he speaks, slowly and carefully.
“If you do tell – you’ll regret it.”
He’s threatening me. With what, I don’t know. But I have no intention of telling anyone, so I’m not scared. In fact, I feel a sudden surge of hope. Because – if there is something rotten behind this stately-home facade, then maybe it has something to do with Mr Jonathan Wycherley. Maybe I’m one step closer to finding a way out of this nightmare.
“You needn’t worry about me. I’m a sensible, happy girl with no ambitions beyond a steady income.”
“I’m not worrying. But you should worry – if you ever consider playing fast and loose with us, or treating this opportunity as anything less than the best ticket of your life. This will be your hourly salary for the time you spend here, even if no-one wants to lay a finger on you.” He turns the screen of his phone to me. I read the screen: £400 per hour. Fucking hell.
“But first, you need a medical.” He gives me details of two private medical clinics. “Email me your full certificate from either of these places here, and you can have a contract with us.”
Ruby looks daggers at me as I leave the Soames. I catch Potter’s eye too: he’s back in his office working on his computer. Both of them know what I’ve been doing, what their boss has been doing, and I see it in their faces. As I step out of the door, I get a news alert on my phone. The news about Wycherley has broken. “Jonathan Wycherley, a doctor in Bristol, was murdered in a London hotel on 3 July. His wife, who has been trekking in Vietnam, has now been informed.” There’s a tearful video of the wife making a statement, and a cop in a uniform sat at a desk, appealing for evidence. It’s all so weird, hearing these words being spoken, seeing these pictures with the BBC logo and colour scheme around them. Until now this was a private nightmare, shared with an odd mix of people: Jazz, Krasniqi, Rainbow, Pawan, Simmonds, the other cops, that silly solicitor. Now, everyone knows. Wycherley’s death is part of the real world.