Chapter 9 #2
‘Mm well, try harder then,’ I overheard my mum call out from the corridor. ‘I won’t rest until everyone in this family is married off and happy. Well, nearly everyone. As for your father, he can choke.’
I spluttered as Femi looked towards Mum sternly across the hallway.
He and Dad weren’t on the best of terms, but they were at least always cordial to each other, which was more than I could say for Mum.
‘Regina? Be nice now,’ he said in a stern, yet tender manner.
I’m sure it must have grown bothersome for him always getting in between Mum and Dad, but hey ho.
I had bigger things to worry about. My date with Jericho was happening soon and I needed to psych myself up for what was to come.
After spending the next couple of hours pottering around the house, picking at breakfast and annoying my mum as much as possible, it was finally time to set off.
I gave myself a final once-over in the bathroom mirror, making sure my face hadn’t broken out into any oily patches. I sprayed myself with a floral perfume and went downstairs to bid goodbye to Femi and Mum.
‘So where are you going that is so important that you couldn’t spend the day with us then? You’re also going to miss your brother too!’ moaned Mum, sucking her teeth.
‘I’ll catch up with Steve later, Mum,’ I replied, putting my jacket on. ‘And actually, I’m trying to do what you want me to; I’m going on a date, innit?’ I turned around to see her beaming at me, eyes wide open with what looked like pride?
‘That’s my girl! Doing what needs to be done. Finally! We’ll have your uterus up and working overtime in no time!’
‘On that note, it’s time for me to leave,’ I said, shaking my head.
The woman had no filter, clearly, but it was also something I absolutely loved her for.
‘I’ll call you later and fill you in on how it goes – Femi – congratulations to you both once again!
I can’t wait to get into all the wedding planning and obviously I’m going to be maid of honour so we’ll need to run through a full itinerary at some point. ’
As I made my way to hug them both goodbye, I heard my mum whisper to me, ‘Actually, Femi’s sister is going to be my maid of honour this time; she’s not that well and the wedding is one of the last things I think she wants to be a part of before the worst happens.’
‘Oh no!’ I gasped out loud. I’d only met Uwa – Femi’s sister – a small handful of times, but she was always very pleasant. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that – of course, that’s fine. Is she OK? How long does she have left?’
‘What? Oh no, nothing like that. She has gout. But you never know with these things, innit?’
I rolled my eyes and took my attention to my phone.
Time to cram, apparently. But what exactly does one google here?
‘Client/escort etiquette’? ‘First-date manners for sex work 101’?
In a moment of desperation, I tried ‘how to treat sex workers on a first date’, only to be bombarded with Reddit threads on how to respectfully meet female escorts.
Not exactly my situation, but hey—at least the internet wasn’t a total cesspit.
Small wins. I tried again: ‘etiquette when dating a male sex worker’.
A Medium article written by a male sex worker came up.
I clicked into it and read what they had to say:
Before the meeting:
Confirm the time and be punctual. Being late and/or ghosting is just as rude here as in any other professional service. (He didn’t have to worry about that – with the amount I was spending, I was for sure going to turn up.)
Hygiene is key! Shower, brush your teeth and clean up. (Again, obvious but I chucked a mint into my mouth just to be extra sure.)
During the encounter, respect his boundaries. Just because you’ve booked his time, it doesn’t mean you can do anything. Stick to the agreement. (Wait, what was our agreement?)
Treat him like a person; if something isn’t a part of the agreement, don’t push for extras. (Were we supposed to have an agreement beforehand? Was a contract needed? Maybe I should have asked for his non-negotiables before agreeing to the meetup.)
Don’t ask him anything personal unless he gives you the go-ahead. (That was pretty self-explanatory.)
I skimmed a few more blogs, all repeating the same commandments of etiquette.
Suddenly, a jolt of panic iced my veins – what if I reeked?
What if he took one look at me and thought, no thanks?
Or worse, what if I blurted out something tragically stupid?
I did a final mirror check on my phone, confirmed my make-up was still serving, and pulled out my perfume for a liberal spritzing before saying goodbye to Mum and Femi.
‘Have fun, dear!’ Mum called after me. Then, with the timing of a stand-up comic: ‘Although, what perfume did you just drown yourself in? It smells like cat piss!’
Fantastic. Exactly the confidence boost I needed. Nothing like stepping out the door smelling like Eau de Public Toilet.
On the Tube into town, I opened up the OuiMeet app to reread the itinerary that Jericho had laid out, but not before seeing his latest message to me that he’d sent that morning:
Good morning, Cassie, I’m looking forward to seeing you this afternoon. Take care!
He was too sweet. After writing back saying I was looking forward to seeing him too, I hopped off at Bond Street and marched straight into the first fragrance shop I could find, which of course turned out to be a Middle Eastern oud boutique – aka, the Holy Grail of perfumes.
Crystal bottles glimmered under spotlights like holy relics, while I slunk in looking like I’d just lost a fight with a Yankee Candle.
Channelling fake confidence, I prowled the aisles with my best ‘hmm yes, I’m very discerning’ face, while inside I was screaming: please God, just cover the pee smell.
I paused at a ￡250 bottle of tobacco oud, lifted the tester dramatically, and thought, well, if Jericho doesn’t like this, maybe his grandad will.
‘Hello there! Do you need any assistance?’ A sales assistant materialised out of thin air, dazzling me with veneers so white I nearly ducked for cover.
‘No, thank you,’ I croaked, then, in a voice two octaves lower than usual, added, ‘I’m just browsing … for my brother.’
Smooth.
The moment she pivoted away, I lunged at the tester like Gollum with the One Ring and unleashed a panicked spray storm all over myself.
One spritz turned into three, three into seven – I basically hotboxed myself in a tobacco oud cloud.
My eyes watered, my throat closed, and I coughed like a Victorian orphan, waving away perfume fog before the assistant noticed.
By the time I staggered out, I smelled like Santa’s grotto had been set on fire inside a Lush shop – but hey, at least it was an upgrade from Eau de Cat Litter. Barely.
I sprinted towards the WatchHouse coffee shop located on Hanover Street.
It was one of those super classy, Scandi-inspired coffee shops filled with patrons on their laptops, sipping their iced matcha lattes.
The coffee shop was situated just behind the station off the public pathway, so there was a degree of privacy there which was perfect. Jericho had clearly done his homework.
I checked my watch; in true Cassandra fashion, I had arrived fifteen minutes early, so I found a booth seat in the corner of the shop.
I took a couple of deep breaths; I wasn’t sure whether I was nervous or excited – maybe both?
I tried to steady my heartbeat as a myriad different thoughts flew around my head.
What if he changed his mind after meeting me?
What if he didn’t find me attractive? What if he was a weirdo?
Was I crazy for doing this in the first place?
Well, it was too late to look back now. Just then, I received a notification ping on my phone – from Jericho. He’d cancelled, hadn’t he? I knew it.
I sighed as I opened the app, gearing myself for whatever excuse he’d written:
Just walking down Oxford Street; I’m about seven minutes away or so.
Oh. That’ll teach me.
I responded back telling him I’d grabbed us a seat, took out my make-up bag and touched my face up one last time, dabbing at my T-Zone to clear up my oil patches, and put on a fresh layer of lip gloss.
I was in control, not him. What I was doing was empowering, not degrading.
I could almost see it as self-care. Some people pay ￡500 for a month’s worth of Pilates classes; I pay for the pleasure of being in good company. Self-care was self-care.
I took another couple of deep breaths. It was all going to be fine.
I smelled somewhat OK, at least. And even if the date turned out to be awful, I could say that I’d tried it.
As I went to put my phone in my pocket, I looked up briefly and that’s when I saw him; all six foot four of him.
He was wearing a crisp, white T-shirt with a pair of navy-blue slacks and its accompanying utility blazer.
On his feet were a pair of white Nike Air Force Ones (rarely worn).
He had a gold wristwatch on his left wrist, and had a smattering of gold chains around his neck.
As I glanced up towards his face, it took everything in me not to let out a choke. Jesus Christ.
Jericho was beautiful.
His chocolate-brown skin almost seemed to radiate in the sun’s rays, with his small, piercing eyes squinting narrowly as he approached the shop.
His hair was freshly trimmed, and from my field of vision I could see that he had a small tattoo inscription on his neck.
There was nothing – and I mean NOTHING – that drove me wilder than a man with a neck tattoo.
I crossed my legs and tried to stifle a huge grin – this gorgeous man was here to see me, and it was what I deserved.