Chapter 1 #2
I thought when I refused the boudoir photoshoot and opted instead for a headshot that the offers would be scarce, but they have been rolling in at least a couple times a week.
I’ve refused them all. This career choice was a spur of the moment decision that followed an unexpected separation from my husband and a drunken encounter with a high class escort (separate incidents, surprisingly).
I was out with my best friend Anna one night when we met Cherry, which I’m assuming isn’t her real name, sitting at a bar where she was waiting for a client.
She told us she was about to make one thousand dollars to spend three hours with a man, and that she was doing this three times a week.
Considering I’ve barely worked a day in my life, and I was now facing the reality of becoming an unemployed divorcee with no job prospects, I waited for Anna to skip to the loo and asked Cherry to sign me up.
It was from there that I connected with Angela.
That was three months ago. I’ve been meaning to ask Angela to remove my picture from the website, but for some reason I haven’t yet.
Maybe I’m keeping it as a backup plan until I figure out what the hell to do with my life.
Who knows? But I can tell Angela is getting tired of me rejecting every offer that comes my way, and it’s not like I couldn’t use the money.
On paper I look like a very wealthy woman, married to an AFL star.
In reality, not so much.
My estranged husband has always made sure I never had access to any funds, so you can safely say that since we separated I’ve been up shit creek without a paddle.
Lucky enough we own an apartment in the city that I’ve moved in to, and I’ve been flogging off the designer bags and shoes I had stored there to keep me going.
But there’s only so much time until I deplete that stock.
My throat burns with the taste of acid at the thought that soon I might have to ask my parents for money, or apply for another job. Doing what? God only knows. I’m qualified for nothing.
“Are you feeling okay, cara mia?” Mum interrupts my thoughts, eyeing me sympathetically. “You look a bit pale, and I swear you haven’t taken in a word I’ve said to you.”
I look into her familiar green eyes. Familiar, because they are almost exact replicas of my own, with their almond shape and thick, black lashes.
“Yeah I’m fine, Mum. Just a bit tired,” I lie, a little easily if you ask me. I finish off my latte with a shaky hand, my mind still on my mystery admirer.
“Tired?” Mum laughs lightly. “From what? You’ve hardly worked a day in your life.”
The quip stings, probably because it’s true.
Well, maybe I’m about to, Mum.
Instead of confessing that thought to her, which is about as appealing to me as sawing off my right arm with a nail file, I roll my eyes.
“Has Daniel contacted you at all?” She asks then, all fake nonchalance, while she takes a sip of coffee and avoids my gaze. Mum is fishing. She’s as transparent as a spotless glass window.
“No, Ma. And I don’t want him to.” My tone is firmer than I usually take with my mum, but she needs to let go of any notion she has that my husband and I will “sort out our differences” and get back together, because it’s never going to happen.
“Okay, okay,” she says in mock surrender, throwing up her hands for good measure. “Now eat your cake, Gianna Morello,” she scolds me, using my full name for emphasis. “You’re too skinny.”
I roll my eyes at her again, even though it’s nice to hear Mum use my maiden again.
Maybe there’s hope she’ll one day come around, realise it’s 2019, and accept my marriage is over.
The last thing my tummy wants right now is to have to digest food while it’s flipping with anxiety over Angela’s call, but one look at Mum’s stern face and I take a big bite of chocolate cake and force it all the way down my throat.
Walking home an hour later, I barely take in the bustling noises of the city humming all round me as indecision rages inside my mind.
I never believed that I would actually accept an offer to be an escort.
It’s not me, it’s not who I am. Heck, if my family found out I was even entertaining the idea I would be locked away in a room with the key thrown away.
I signed up on a crazy whim to prove to myself that I’m the one who’s in control of my own life.
No one else. Especially not my husband. To prove to myself that I can do whatever I want, be who ever I want to be.
That he doesn’t own me. But every time Angela has called me, I’ve baulked.
So why does this offer have me spinning?
Because Mum reminded me that I’m doing nothing with my life, and I know I can’t go on like this forever?
My intuition tells me that this is different, that I should accept it and see what lies on the other side. However, my intuition has proven to be a dumb bitch thus far in my life and therefore probably shouldn’t be trusted.
My thoughts ping-pong back and forth as I actually consider agreeing to this offer. Five minutes later, I’ve come to a decision. I hit dial on Angela’s number before I change my mind. She answers on the first ring.
“Gianna, I’ve been waiting for your call,” she rushes out, hope in her voice.
“I’ll do it,” I say. “This Friday. Book the hotel.”