Chapter 18
After Charlie had gone to bed, Holly checked her messages.
A couple were from school, reminding parents of expected pupil behaviour.
While they’d been copied to all parents, Holly couldn’t help feeling they were aimed at her.
And one from Coroline – her actual name, not a misspelling – who was Holly’s other employer. Kind of.
Derek Jameson was a regular. An estate agent who owned a chain of shops in the Southwest, he lived in Bristol but visited Cornwall every other month to meet with his local staff, and enjoy the sort of activities his middle-aged wife probably wouldn’t believe two people in their right minds would want to do to each other.
Holly switched to the babysitting app. Charlie hated babysitters as a rule but got on surprisingly well with Sandra Morrison, a local lady in her early sixties who ran a boat repair business with her husband.
Charlie adored boats. He knew every major manufacturer of sail boats, motorboats, cruise ships and high-speed RIBs.
He knew their specifications and their expected performance.
He knew which multihulls were expected to win the next America’s Cup and the names of every Cornish Crabber moored in the nearest harbour.
Holly messaged back to say she’d be delighted to meet Derek Jameson the following night and was getting undressed when the phone rang. Coroline.
‘Tamara, I’m so sorry to bother you.’ Coroline always addressed her ladies by their professional names; she claimed it cut the risk of making mistakes in front of the clients. ‘But I saw you were up, and it reminded me I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now.’
‘Everything OK?’ Holly asked, unsure whether she wanted it to be or not. Her ‘other work’, as she liked to think of it, paid well, but in her darker moods she couldn’t help feeling that it, more than being a barrister, more than being a mother, defined who she was.
‘Fine, fine,’ Coroline replied quickly. ‘To be honest, we get more requests for you than we can fulfil. Any time you want to give up the day job …’
It wasn’t the first time she’d dropped the same hint.
‘The thing is, I think it’s time to get you a professional portfolio,’ Coroline went on. ‘Half a dozen shots, couple of changes of underwear, maybe a swimsuit or a strategically draped bed sheet, I leave all that up to you and the photographer.’
‘Is it necessary?’ Coroline’s agency, Cornish Courtesans, obscured all the girls’ faces on the website, but it never felt enough. There were times when she broke into an ice-cold sweat at how exposed she was, how fragile her reputation. And Charlie’s.
‘It is.’ Coroline stood for no dissent. ‘You’ll be expected to pay fifty per cent of the cost, so that’ll be three hundred pounds. We cover the rest, and the hotel booking. I’ll get Pam to ring you in the morning with the details.’
Three hundred pounds was more than Holly herself would make from her evening with Derek Jameson. Once she added in the cost of the babysitter, she’d lose money.
After wishing Coroline a good night, Holly flicked back through the photos on her phone to find the ones she’d been using in the three years since she’d joined the agency.
A friend had been the photographer – selfies didn’t really work – and they weren’t bad at all.
Still, she had to admit, they were a long way from the professional shots used by some of the other women.
The one that worked best, according to the agency, showed Holly naked on a crumpled bed, face down.
She held what purported to be a martini in one hand (it was actually watered-down apple juice) and was reaching for a pair of leopard-skin-covered handcuffs.
The accompanying copy described her as playful, affectionate and adventurous.
She got up and crossed the landing to the bathroom. It was several days since her last client and she knew from bitter experience that when it came to shaving pubic hair, it didn’t do to rush.