Okay, now it really was time to leave. The mystery of Peter James will have to wait until later. Because now I really — do — have to — go…
Mhmm that’s odd, normally that would be the cue for—
DING-DONG!
That. It’s for times like these that I wish I had a ground-floor apartment. Because these apartments with one way in and one way out, and the two ways being one and the same way, have one massive drawback, when you’re home you’re cornered. On the other hand I can simply pretend that I’m not in.
So I hunkered (“hunkered”, isn’t that a great word?)… so I hunkered down and waited for whoever it was at the door to piss off. To be coarse about it. Which is a trite unwarranted as whoever it is that’s at the door is innocent of my present predicament and can hardly know they’re bothering me. But then of course the “piss off” is not actually directed at them but at… well I suppose God really. Or at whatever that name symbolises. Which if it’s impersonal, a swirling ball of energy or something is like saying piss off to a stone. Kind of pointless. But at least no-one’s gotten hurt and you’ve released a dollop of negative energy.
What the hell, I’ve gone into one again.
The door bell DING DONGed again. And then, after about ten seconds or so, I heard the letter box being pushed open and a voice, female, came through and, after bouncing off the occasional surface, reached my ears. With no discernible loss of sound quality. “Mister Peach? Are you in, Mr. Peach? It’s your twelve o’clock.”
Mister Peach? His — MY twelve o’clock. Oh hell. I’m going to have to let her in. She’ll only stay there for, well, the next two hours so she can still bill me “for services rendered”, not for her to question what it is that I want her to do, unless it involves pain, animals, children or the dead. Not that I’ve ever wanted any of those things but right at the start she stipulated, in lawyer speak if I recall (and I do) that those four things were off-limits. Which tells me that there must be some sort of demand for those things. It’s a sick world.
Shaking off my ruminations again I went to the door and opened it. “Jessica” kissed me on the cheek as she pushed on past me into my apartment. At this point I was supposed to stop her with the words “Is that all I get? Come back here and give me a proper kiss”. And she would hop — quite literally hop — back and snog my face off. What can I say it’s what I like. But even without my words to cue her next action she had hopped back over and was on my face snogging it off. Which was a bit disappointing really because I now realised that all this time I needn’t ever have opened my mouth (for speech purposes I’m referring to here) or, having done so could have uttered any old tripe, purely for my own amusement. I’m rather a boring stodge who likes to stick with what I like rather than experiment with new ideas.
So she was completely taken by surprise when I pushed her off me, and then fought to keep her off me. Then she turned sour and took it personally. Which I suppose given her ignorance of the relevant facts is surely not unreasonable.
“So what, you don’t want me anymore? You’re still going to have to pay for this session,” she said.
“No no no—” I began.
“Yes yes yes,” she interrupted, “if you didn’t want me you should have cancelled before I trawlled my big old ass over here.”
“I didn’t mean no I won’t pay you I meant— of course I’ll pay you, and if I can see you again, I don’t know if I’ll be able to see you again. Shit, I don’t have any money on me. Do you take a cheque? Of course you don’t take a cheque,” I rattled off incoherently and sounding quite the fruitcake.
“Don’t assume I wouldn’t take a cheque, honey. You think because I’m a prostitute that I won’t take a cheque. I’d take a cheque from you because I trust you. You’re dull and square, and completely uninspiring but you’re solidly dependable.”
I looked at her.
She stared right back at me.
“So you’ll accept a cheque?”
“Sure honey. Go get your cheque book. Besides, if it bounces my man will hunt your sorry ass down and burn you,” she said.
I went off in search of my cheque book. I hadn’t used it in — come to think of it I didn’t even know if I still possessed a cheque book. I looked and looked but if I did still have one it wasn’t wanting to be found. I returned, a little sheepishly, back to “Jessica” and said, “I can’t find it.”
“Cash-point machine it is then, honey,” she said.
“I was afraid you were going to say that. Just give me a moment to throw some stuff in a bag,” I said, and immediately began doing just that as she watched me curiously but didn’t say anything further. Neither did she say anything when, bag thrown over my shoulder, I checked that the way was clear before ushering her out of the apartment and leaving it myself. I locked the door wondering if I’d ever be back. Perhaps I’m being a touch dramatic — I probably am — I do tend to feel too deeply and with too much paranoia.
As I withdrew the key from the lock my telephone rang. Not the mobile in my pocket but the landline inside my apartment. I considered briefly going back inside and answering it but a combination of having been delayed long enough already and “Jessica” hissing at me impatiently decided me. I walked away leaving it ringing.
