“You have no idea.” He runs a hand through his hair restlessly and then takes a breath, obviously committing to what he’s about to say. “You could do what I do.”
“Random acts of sarcasm?”
He shoves me, laughing. After a moment, he sobers. “I mean you could get into whor—escorting.”
I wait a few beats. “Well, I wasn’t expecting that. It’s a nice offer but?—”
“Don’t say no yet,” he says quickly. “Just let me tell you this. Do you know how much money your face could fetch?”
“That’s… incredibly creepy.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not in a serial killer sense, although don’t tempt me. I mean your face is a very valuable commodity.”
I eye him. “I’m not sure about this, but are men really going to be looking at my face when I’m bent over in the back seat of some stranger’s car?”
He looks stunned. “How do you think I get my clients? A street corner?”
“Well, yes,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “Mostly while they’re looking for directions.”
“Are you thinking ofPretty Woman?”
“Don’t laugh. It’s my only cultural reference for prostitution.”
“That’s aterriblefilm.”
“You don’t likePretty Woman? Are you dead in your soul?”
“It’s a very unrealistic portrayal. And that happy ever after was just catering to society’s sugary expectations of life and relationships. If they were being true to life, she’d have probablyended up dead in a ditch with a needle in her arm, and he’d have married someone who only had sex once in a blue moon.”
“Thank you so much, sunshine.” I pause. “So, you don’t stand on a street corner, then?”
“No, I fucking don’t. That would be hell on my backandmy posture.”
“So, what do you do? This is fascinating. Here I was thinking you were just a pompous twat with nice hair, and it turns out that you have all these deep, dark secrets.”
“Thank you. I do have nice hair. I suppose it’s hardly surprising that you focus on that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” he says innocently as I attempt to smooth down my untidy hair. “I get my client introductions through a bloke I know.”
“Ooh! Is that your pimp?”
He grimaces. “No. Fucking hell. I don’t have a pimp. He’s an…” He hesitates. “I suppose you’d call him an introducer. He has a place in Mayfair where men go.Veryrich men.”
I twist to face him, pulling my feet up so I’m comfortable. This is just what I needed to take my mind off my problems. “How rich is very rich?”
“Way beyond whatever you’re imagining.”
“I don’t know. I can imagine a lot.”
“Who are you thinking?”
“Erm. Richard Branson.”
“Pah. He’s small change compared to some of the men who go there.”
I blink. “So, is it like a private club?”
