My Body Is My Business E-Book

Melissa Todd

• Herausgeber: Clink Street Publishing
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 270

Beschreibung

Clara left Oxford university to become a stripper. 25 years later, a porn star and disciplinarian, she decides to figure out how she got here - and where she might go next. A funny, fresh new voice, filthy, twisted and delectable.

Leseprobe

My Body is my Business

Melissa Todd

For my mum

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneCopyright

Chapter One

“There’s been a lot less rape than I was led to expect.”

Philip groaned, and arched his back against the cushions, thrusting his bottom out for the cane. I administered three blistering stingers, quicker than heartbeats, leaving him not a moment to breathe or recover. He bit down hard on his thumb, hard enough to leave teeth marks, then pushed his buttocks skyward once more.

“I mean, growing up, it was all, don’t go there, don’t wear that, you’ll be raped, nonstop rape opportunities. And I went on a march at uni to ‘reclaim the night’ – can’t say for sure whether we got it or not, didn’t matter, the inference was clear; we were reclaiming the night from the rapists, of whom there were millions. Now it’s all you see on Facebook, women posting endless memes, ten a day some of them, about how awful rape is, how men can’t possibly understand what a terrifying, hideous violation rape constitutes… you must have seen them?”

“Well, I don’t really do social media, so…”

“Very wise. Dreadful waste of time.” I found a stingier beast discarded on the sofa and whipped it on to the upper part of his thighs, tutting at his squeals. “Neighbours, Philip! I’m meant to be doing your accounts, remember? ‘Ooh, just imagine it, though, really think about it, hard, being taken against your will by a biker gang, one after the other, having them watch and egg each other on, deep in a wood where no one could hear you scream–’ yeah alright, Nicola, we get it, Alan isn’t exciting you quite as much as the early days, poor fella. Try not to make it so damn obvious, eh? Are you ready for the stirrup whip?”

“You’re in charge.”

“Oh that’s right. Well, I say you are.” I picked up a homemade creation, two stirrups attached to a paintbrush handle, soaked in oil, heavy and deadly. I had to stand well back for this one. It left some beautiful bruising. Worse than the cane, in many ways. The pain is intense with a cane, but fades fast; those thick lumps of leather leave great thuddy welts that take weeks to vanish. Especially on Philip, who takes Warfarin and bruises at a handshake.

“I’ve never been raped. They’d struggle with me, mind. I’ll have to gag you if you keep making that row. Here…” I pushed a leather slipper into his mouth, stood back and administered a great, glorious thwack, vicious enough to make the chandelier rattle. “Not that I’m a karate expert, you understand; I’m just perpetually willing. ‘Ooh, unexpected cock, smashing, where would you like me?’ Most of the men I’ve known have been scared, prissy creatures, frightened to put a finger wrong in case I rise up against them in full female fury and ruin their careers in consequence. Even outside of work. You’re starting to bleed a bit, even with the plasters. I think we’d better stop. Sorry. Probably the bath brush did for you.”

He spat out the slipper and stood up. I handed him a paper towel to mop himself down and spare the carpet. Philip has a soft hairy belly that makes me ache to touch it, and prominent brown nipples he likes twisted and smacked. Bottom broken beyond repair, I dug my nails nipple-wards instead.

“Aaaggh! You’re complaining about the lack of rape? Really?”

“Not exactly. I’m just saying a ludicrously disproportionate amount of time is given over to worrying about it. When there are so many worse things that could happen to a woman, and vastly more likely to boot. Like poverty. Where are your pants? Please tell me you came in dark trousers this time. Can’t have the blood dribbling all down your thighs at the station, can we? Not again. Here, I’ll tuck some kitchen roll round your cheeks. Have you got everything?” I looked round, ostensibly being mother, actually checking he’d left my fee. Clocked it on the dresser, a thick fold of notes that a good girl might expect to receive in return for 40 hours tedious, mind-numbing graft. He liked to leave it discreetly, the better to pretend this was a social engagement with a slightly dotty chum, rather than a professional transaction. And I liked Philip hugely and was perfect happy to indulge this notion. We read the same books, voted the same way, recommended plays and art exhibitions to one another over cups of tea in my kitchen, before I lead him to the punishment room and thrashed the skin off him, then sent him home to his wife.

I had a husband recently. Of my own, I mean, for a change. Not for long. He took off, the way they tend to. He didn’t like my job. Tried to deal with it, not very hard, failed, fucked off. Made it sound like my fault. But I’ve never hidden what I am. It’s out there in my outfit, my belligerence, and I like to talk about it, it’s fun. I like making the straitlaced wonder a bit.

Bleeding having stopped play, I’d half an hour to kill before the next one. Philip scuttled off, talking rather loudly about how I was the best thrasher in the biz and how he could get his bum in training for our next session, despite my agonised glances at the neighbours. So. Pub. Laptop to answer emails, but chiefly, pub. The next punter lived in a gated community five miles away, irritatingly close to Paul and Samantha, vanilla chums who would want to give me tea and demand an explanation if they saw me near their home. I needed a wee stiffener. Also, Bernie likes to be pissed on, so I could probably offset the pint against tax. I checked my hair and lipstick, powdered my tell-tale shiny forehead, smooth and white as a skating rink, then ducked past the neighbours – perfectly lovely, many children, can’t remember any of their damn names, always smiled, took in parcels, but you don’t want to take chances, not when you commit GBH professionally from home all day long – and got in my car, an unremarkable Ford Focus. I could have a Porsche, but that would draw attention. As far as they all know, I’m an accountant.

Shit pub, barn-large echoing corporate swirly carpeted noisy slot machine monstrosity, but it’s handy, the beer’s cheap and the wifi’s not too temperamental. It will even let you get on Onlyfans. So it should. Tame as they come, Onlyfans. You’d assume it’s all tits and gash, but trust me, you won’t get far on there if that’s all you’re offering. Tits and gash are everywhere, gratis. They want a slice of the real you, or the real you you’re pretending to be. I arranged my pint of Guinness for a picture, wincing a little at the knowledge the chap on the next table saw me do it, doubtless thought I was some Instagram wannabe twat, posting pretty pictures free, screw that; uploaded it, after a moment’s thought, with the caption – “Richly deserved break in my hectic day. One lucky chap will be enjoying some flavoursome mistress champagne soon!” Bugger it, that’ll do. Emails.

Can I do a school day on the 13th? I can. Do you see ladies? I do, although no lady I’ve ever seen has ever referred to herself as a lady, and you are a trannie. Can you punish my girlfriend while I watch? I could, although this is clearly wank fodder and I doubt you’ve ever had a girlfriend. Next table chap is typing too. His machine is bigger than mine, and he’s more pint left. We look like mummy and daddy bear, and our typing falls into a pleasing syncopation. This pub is the closest I get to office camaraderie. He’s scowling and jabbing at keys like a toddler, looks up, sees me staring.

“Wifi keeps dropping.”

“It’s shit in that corner. Come more into the middle. There.” I extended a long red fingernail towards another table, briefly hypnotised by my own shiny perfection.

“But the plug’s here.”

“Yeah. It’s like they don’t want you to hang out here for hours working. You can sit here if you like. I’m going soon.” I indicated the double plug at my black patent heel. Look this isn’t Fifty Shades, I’m not going to waste hours telling you about my Louboutins and fully fashioned seamed silk hosiery. The shoes were from New Look, fair enough, but shiny and pointy and plenty good enough for this dump. New Look do excellent slut shoes, there, top tip, gratis. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“You’ve got the prime spot, clearly.”

“Of course.” I watched his hand flashing white beside my stocking. Large manly sort of hand, no ring, blue veins stark against the white. It grazed against my ankle.

“Sorry!”

“S’alright.”

He didn’t even look at me. Went back to tapping. Side by side now. I could smell him, musky, slightly metallic, very clean. His hair a sort of blond white mop. He could almost be albino. Good posture. No, you can’t spank me, Barry, because we tried that and you wouldn’t behave. And no I don’t want to spank you for being such a naughty boy last time, because what the hell sort of punishment would that be, given you’re actually paying me to do it, you lemon?

We’d fallen into a rhythmic glug and tap pattern of which he seemed to be unconscious. I tried yawning to see if he would copy me. He didn’t. So I, then, was aping his body language. Something about his total indifference to me felt rare enough to be intriguing. I sucked in my belly, sat up straight, stuck my tits out, twirled a curl round a finger. Nothing.

Ian wanted to be hit with a wooden Scholl sandal – picture please – and also wondered if I offered medical role-play, which, if I twatted him with that bastard, he’d probably need for real. I did have wooden Scholl sandals actually. Donald had bought me a pair. He liked me to slip off my heels and thrust my sweaty toes into those clumpy clogs and walk up and down a few times, thud thud slap, the way nanny used to, before taking my belt to him. I encourage the fetishes that mean I can work in comfort. Tights, jeans, jodhpurs, slippers, all excellent. Could I let him know when I next visit Milton Keynes? I promised faithfully I would, knowing I’d forget the second I pressed send. Khalid wanted me to visit Dubai. Well, I wouldn’t mind that, if it were real. I had seen him before. Hotel at Heathrow. He’d paid me for a three-hour session and slept away three-quarters of it. We’d drawn some glances in the bar after, me twice his height., tipsy, radiantly Western against his firm Arab arm. Spot the whore.

In unison we drained our pints. I slammed mine down on the table, ostentatious. Gazes locked. There was a slight smile, maybe shy, maybe indifferent.

“I’m getting another.”

“I’ve got to go to work.”

“Yeah, you said. Could you just watch my stuff for me? I won’t be a minute.”

The unbelievable rude shit.

“Of course.”

“Cheers.” And he skipped off without another glance. I considered walking off, obviously. Instead I admired his arse, which was prominent, faintly gorilla-like, telling of Sunday mornings spent running round parks; then glanced at the screen he’d been fool enough to leave open. He was writing a lengthy document about Venezuelan refugees, of whom he appeared to be broadly in favour. Some sort of do-gooder. Probably hated sluts. Ostentatiously I busied myself with packing my guff as he walked back. Phone, laptop, chargers, a kilo of makeup. A slightly mucky tissue fell on to the table. I snatched at it, hating myself for blushing. He sat down. “Thanks.”

“Excused now, am I?”

“You are excused.”

For a long moment we looked at each other in silence. He had that unbearable public school confidence of someone who knew no one could really ever be seriously cross with him, no, nor that things could ever go truly, badly wrong; the confidence of old money and a certain future, mingled with twinkly eyes, obscenely blue, like marbles. I had an urge to fuck him up, but couldn’t think how. Instead I gave a deep bow and strode to the door, looking back to see if he’d seen the extra wiggle he’d given my walk. He was already immersed in his refugees. It’s frankly obscene to have so much time and energy spare you lavish it on strangers. Strangers who can’t even pay. What’s he trying to escape?

Bernie, now, trying to escape loneliness so vivid it bordered on insanity, impending death, a wretched job and indifferent family – this I could conquer. I stepped into his lounge, a long narrow room with large windows overlooking the Thames. We could watch people punting past, should we choose. I closed the curtains. Then rummaged under make up, laptop, chargers, for his heart’s delight, all while he watched, perched on the corner of his sofa, like a puppy trembling at an impending scolding. At last I produced yesterday’s pants and pushed them over his head. Then pushed him over the sofa to start caning him, methodically, silently. He squirmed and twisted his buttocks to make the process trickier, like shooting a moving duck at a fairground. Well. His ass. After I’d caught him on the kidneys a few times and hissed at him to keep still, slapping his face to reinforce the message, he did as he was told. After five minutes of that he removed the pants, hugged me tenderly and went to the fridge for champagne.

“Been busy, have you?”

“Extremely. Everyone wants me. How are your girlfriends?” An old tired joke based on the existence of two widows, who let him take them out to dinner so they could drink expensive wine in quantity and cry about their husbands.

“Oh, you know, going nowhere. And you…?”

I forestalled the question by topping up my glass and taking my skirt off. “Now, the sight of my thighs demands a – twelve stroke penalty I think? And if you want the blouse off too, another twelve. Same for bra. Twenty-four for pants, and if you want to suck my toes…” He assumed the position, pants over nose. I beat him and make him enunciate clearly, “Please, Mistress, may I have another?”, and when he failed to be sufficiently articulate, I took my belt to him. I am accurate and hard, possessed of powerful arms and years of experience. He whimpered and squirmed and I slapped his face. Not sure he actually likes the pain, although he’s been seeing me years to get it. He pays for the pants in the mouth, really: the beating is largely incidental. Probably he wants to be punished for his fetish, on some level. Whatever. When the knickers are in situ he can hardly see my face or feel my belt, I suspect: only the knickers have any presence or meaning. He likes everything that might fall out of my lower half and get entangled in a knicker, spends his working hours sitting by the women’s loos, fantasising about what they must do in there, wiping, pulling up tights; he times each visit and ponders what each must have involved in consequence. This is the kind of behaviour that earns men the label of pervert and makes women avoid them, which seems a shame: it’s a fairly harmless hobby, and he can’t help it, nor understand it. He doesn’t want to shag girls; he wants to know how their pee tastes. Does it harm anyone, I ask you?

I got a pal along to help once. We blindfolded Bernie and had him work out whose pee was whose. He loved that. The Romans tasted pee to diagnose diseases. Quite sensible really. It was Bernie first told me I was pregnant. That’s how long I’ve known him. Beth is 19 now, all curves, sighs and eye-rolls. I drink more until I feel my bladder start to groan, and Bernie’s unasked question stops making my skin itch.

Men, however liberated, always want to stop me doing what I want to do. I want to have as many adventures and do as much damage as possible, so no one ever bloody forgets I was here, and of course they all start by claiming they want that too. They simply adore my jolly anecdotes and ravenous sexual appetite, then a few months in start whining that I don’t prioritise us, we need to talk more, spend more time together, which fast translates as, please sit on the sofa feeling your hips spread to melted lard while I pretend I’m not looking at porn and messaging someone else. They need the fantasy to stay fantasy, even more than I do. Still, I like feeling them bend to my will for a month or two.

The champagne poured liberally on top of the earlier Guinness was working its way through wonderfully. I slapped Bernie’s backside and pointed; he stumbled towards his bathroom, where he lay in the bath, mouth open. He’s a short, chubby creature, white haired, broken-veined, a sort of tipsy jolly Santa’s elf, and I suspect one day soon he’ll be too infirm to climb into his bath, or rather, climb out again, and then his life will effectively be over. Mind you, I wasn’t feeling too athletic myself, hauling myself up to squat over his face. Even if you’re tipsy and bursting to go, having a man inches from your crotch with his mouth gaping open, fillings and cracked tongue exposed, tends to render your bladder shy. He started tickling my thighs to encourage the flow. He always tried this, and it never helped. I pushed my toes up against his nose to stop him. That did work, oddly. Human bodies are curious beasts. I let rip. Pints of it. Squeezing the pelvic floor every five seconds or so to give him a chance to swallow.

“Mmm! That tastes of – gin?”

“You always guess gin. Guess again.” The sour smell hung so heavy in the air I could taste it myself. I wanted to retch. My thighs were soaked.

“Beer!”

“Not specific enough. It was Guinness. So sorry. It’ll have to be the sjambok to finish.”

I let him hose himself down while I gave myself a cursory lick at his basin, stepping outside to dry my legs. Strange that watching a man shower, dry and dress himself seemed more intimate, more vulgar, than relieving yourself into his mouth. It was the domesticity that disconcerted. I checked my phone while I waited, you’re so beautiful I love you when can I see you again I need you you make my life complete. I drained my glass, and after a moment’s polite hesitation, his. Started swinging the sjambok when he walked in. He took his place over the sofa and I walloped him hard and fast. The hour was over, thank God. I was sleepy. I had a sudden urge to curl up somewhere against someone warm. I took the wad of cash he’d left under the fruit bowl and left him, my last sight as the door slammed a chap on all fours, chewing peacefully on my pants.

Chapter Two

It had got dark out. Cold too. The wind went right through you, my mum would have said. Stupid gated community wouldn’t let me out, so I had to wait for a much nicer car than mine to come in. Idiotic system that conspires to keep the riffraff imprisoned. I drove – yes, probably slightly over the limit, fuck off, this isn’t a public information leaflet, I’ll behave as I please, you piss on someone sober if you like – back to West Norwood, and the flat I shared with a girl named Katie. Originally a punter, she’d begged me about two years ago to live in her spare room and dispense beatings as rent. Well, I can’t resist a bargain and I’d just got myself out of a pickle, so agreed, although it was a shabby little place, miles from civilisation and with no central heating, just a medieval oil burner affair, over which we both had to dry our smalls: the flat smelled permanently of singed nylon. I think she probably regretted the idea now. Not that I beat her constantly, far from it; rather, having had a hard day of it, seldom had I any desire to tell her she’d been a naughty girl and should go to my room and take a brutal flogging then lick me until I was satisfied, as she desperately desired. More usually I wanted to curl up on her sofa and read trashy thrillers. Like I say, keep fantasy as fantasy. It’s no fun when it intrudes on real life.

Katie was waiting for me in the kitchen, wine opened, gnocchi simmering. This unnerved me. Usually she drank tea during the week and ignored me. Never did she cook. She must want to be beaten very badly, and my arm ached already.

“Evening Cla! Good day? Been busy, have you?”

No-one calls me Cla. No one. I named myself after a character in an obscure Victorian novel, a good time girl who came to a bad end, which I’ll probably come to regret, and quite soon too. I eased off my heels, flexing my toes, and wondered what was going on.

“Oh, you know. Did I not clear up all the blood?”

“What? Oh – yes – no – I haven’t seen any.” She flushed and reached for her wine. She hates being reminded of the existence of other punters, and more, my casual indifference to them.

“Cool. So what’s up?”

“Nothing. Only.” Deep breath, more swigging. “I’ve met someone.”

“About time! Fetlife finally throw up an actual human?”

“I met Alex at work. He’s not kinky. He’s our office manager.”

“A he? Gosh. Well. Congratulations, I guess. Maybe you can corrupt him, given time.”

“I don’t want to corrupt him! It’s – different.”

Oh. Fuck.

“How long has this been going on?” I said, hating myself for sounding like an aggrieved wife.

“Almost eight months.”

“An aeon.”

“And now – today – we started talking about his maybe moving in here.”

I wondered whether to be outraged, indignant, tearful; plead for mercy, cry, shout. I stared at the table and stalled for time. I could probably guilt her into letting me stay, at least for a bit, until this Alex wanker made life intolerable. Much as I moan about the flat, it’s been home for two years and means I can claim London on my Adultwork profile, and so reasonably charge more. All the punters know where I am. There’s parking. It’s a mere eight-minute walk from the overground, although admittedly hours before it gets you anywhere decent. But maybe I should take this as a sign from the gods and clear off. But where, for Christ’s sake? Do you know how hard it is to work from home when you beat people? The noise, the constant stream of traffic to your door? No decent landlord or neighbourhood will stand it. And you try getting a mortgage when you’re paid entirely in cash. Maybe a mobile home on Leysdown. Christ.

“I see.” I sighed deeply.

“And so we will need the spare room for when his son comes to stay, Clara, and anyway, he’ll hate all the bondage gear and gym horse – and, you know, this was only meant to be temporary.”

That was definitely today’s invention, the lying cow. “But you love the bondage equipment and gym horse. Does he think he can straighten you out?”

“He – I haven’t exactly told him all about what I – what I’ve done.”

“Oh Jesus. So you’re going to give up your passion, your true self, for an office manager with a kid? I’ll tell you what’s temporary if you like.”

Her breathing quickened. “Oh don’t, please! Don’t say that. I want a chance to be normal. Have a normal life. I’m 30 next year!”

Ouch. “You poor old crone.”

“I want children. Trips to Ikea.”

“You told me you found sex abhorrent. You told me you could only come in a nappy over my knee with a vibe, getting whacked–”

“Sssshhh!”

“What, is he here?”

“I hadn’t met the right man, that’s all. You know we – it hasn’t been exactly what I – what we’d hoped – between us –”

An unaccustomed stab of remorse pierced my gut. I should have taken better care of Katie. I should have protected my investments. I thought, having made her mine, I could keep her forever without any further thought. I’d been a bloody idiot, and now I was a homeless one. She got up to stir the stupid gnocchi.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh please – you must eat – don’t be like this! I want us to be friends. All of us.”

All of us. For crying out loud. I reached for her hand, stiff and cold as a dead bird, greasy from her conciliatory cooking efforts. I still couldn’t decide whether being outraged or pathetic was likelier to get me where I wanted.

“Where will I go?”

“You’ve got so many – friends to help you.”

Yeah, maybe I could move in with Philip and Mrs Philip. Or Bernie, in his riverside mansion, in return for an endless supply of dirty pants. Actually that wasn’t a bad plan. I stood up ponderously and went to my room, ignoring her whimpers and taking the oil heater. I needed to think.

Chapter Three

When men ask how I got into this business, they always want to hear some fantasy filth about the sexual awakenings of my teenage self, probably involving words like rosebud, pert, smooth, curious. Girls, though, are always keen to believe that I’ve been sexually abused. I’m terribly sorry, but not knowing my audience this time, I’m going to have to bore and disappoint almost all of you. Much of being a good stripper, dominatrix, sex worker of any description, really – is saying and being what your audience wants. I can’t do that here. I suppose I’ll just have to tell you the truth or something.

Anyway, I’m not writing this for you, but for me, so take the truth and stick it if it doesn’t confirm your prejudices or give you a boner. I want to understand, for my sake, how I got here. Because here is where I seem to be. I’m 44 now, and I can hardly go on pretending this is temporary; an extended summer job until my real life begins. No, this is me, my lot, for better or worse, until death us do part. I’m a sex worker. A proud cane carrying member of the world’s oldest trade.

And it started the way most jobs do – or at least did, back in the day – I answered an ad in a local paper. It said:

‘Dancers wanted! You will earn up to £600 a night. No experience necessary.’

That was it. Well, I liked dancing, I loved money, and I’d no experience of anything at all, so it seemed perfect. Certainly more interesting than all the admin clerks and care assistants and road crossing patrol attendants which were my other options. I rang up and was told to attend an audition. They held auditions every night at 5 p.m., turnover being so high, and men’s appetite for new girls so insatiable. I was to attend the Windmill, just off Piccadilly Circus. My mum was very impressed when I told her. She’d worked in variety herself, so the prospect of her only child jiggling for cash rather pleased her, not to mention the mention of the nightly £600.

Now, I wasn’t a total idiot. I was reasonably confident that earning £600 a night would involve more than a few high kicks on a sparkly stage. But – well – I just thought, why not? I had just left Oxford University, having gone rather mad after a year of abuse. (State school girls don’t make it to Oxford for a reason: they’d just hate it. It’s a kindness, mark my words. Letting a girl from an Essex comp go to Oxbridge is like putting a pig into a Miss World contest – whether it’s meant as a kindly gesture or a practical joke, it’s not going to end well for the pig.) It seemed I had nothing to lose. I didn’t know who I was any more, or what I wanted. My whole life plan had gone to cock. What should I have done? The bald facts remained. I liked dancing, I liked money, I had little of either in my life and – so why the hell not?

Ah, but it’s a dangerous question, this ‘Why the hell not?’. It could have led me to far darker places than the Windmill. I was lucky. I wasn’t a total idiot, but I was still, in all fairness, a bit of an idiot. So much so I turned up for my audition in leggings, jazz shoes and a leotard. I quickly realised my mistake when I saw the other girls in heels, corsets and miniskirts. But I was buggered if I was going to back out now, having spent all day working myself into a nervous frenzy about what I was getting myself into. Anyway, the other girls were sweethearts. We bonded. There were three students (from Goldsmiths – it really does seem extraordinary and disproportionate how many strippers hail from Goldsmiths), an Aussie backpacker, and a woman in her thirties who hoped to revive her florist shop with a cash injection.

We all talked for hours, waiting for the owner, Oscar, to return. He’d been delayed at court, apparently. We never did learn why he was there in the first place. It all seemed quite glamorous to my 19-year-old self, rather than terrifying, as it might now. Honestly, I can’t remember what we talked about, but I remember feeling happy, and accepted. No one judged you here. We were the dross, we had nowhere left to fall, nothing to prove. We were all money hungry, one and all, and prepared to sell viewing rights to some of the flaps and folds we’d been born with, to fund our studies, our businesses, our children, our travel. We discussed them all, our needs and plans, and decided what we’d do with the money (£600 a night! £3600 a week! In 1995!) just as soon as the owner came back from court and saw us, and hired us on the spot.

We waited an hour. Oscar’s son gave us a bottle of wine. We waited and talked some more. The florist talked about how hard it was running a business and looking after her kids now her fella had left her. The students talked about trying to keep themselves fed and housed in London on a student loan. The Aussie backpacker, a gorgeous girl with ginger corkscrew curls, had done it all before, all of it, and talked about how she saw each man as a walking, grinning giant dollar sign. She was the only one with any experience. The rest of us were clueless.