Never Alone (17 page)

In the past few years, when she has thought of it, it has been with the clouded fondness of an event you’ve decided you cannot allow yourself to regret. She has pretended it was nice. She told herself she needed it, needed to feel human again, to remember that she was a woman and still young enough to do spontaneous, foolish things.

But now, in the car, staring out over the grey yard and the drizzle and the darkening sky, she remembers it differently.

In her mind’s eye she goes back to that summer night and stands in her garden, looking down at the woman and the young lad who is fucking her hard on the grass.

She is drunk and feeling queasy. Will is on top of her and his fingers, rubbing at her in a juvenile attempt at foreplay, are rough. The ground, baked by days of sun, is hard underneath her, a stone grazing her shoulder. And when she is in that position – pale legs spread awkwardly, jeans still hanging off one ankle, Will, more or less fully dressed, on top – Sarah from her imaginary position looks away in disgust and sees that Louis has come out of the house, lurching, looking for Will or looking for her or maybe not doing anything but getting some fresh air. He stops dead, catching sight of the two pale shapes moving in a way that cannot be misinterpreted. A slow grin spreads across his face and he creeps forward to see who it is.

The woman’s head is turned away, towards the hill, perhaps because the lad’s breath has got too much or perhaps because she doesn’t want to look at him any more. But Will hears the clumsy footsteps and turns towards them, not stopping; in fact he is fucking her even harder – she even makes a noise, something like a cry, something like pain. And Will sees Louis’s face. And grins, and winks.

Sarah drops her head to the steering wheel.

Oh, God.

When she says it, she is quite cold.

‘I think we need to just be friends,’ she says.

You are sitting in the living room of the cottage, on Monday, and a chilly winter sun is filtering through the windows. You offered her coffee or tea; she declined both.

She won’t look you in the eyes but she is not upset; her head is up, her eyes focused on a spot on the white wall in front of her.

‘Did something happen?’ you ask.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and you wonder if she’s even heard you.

‘Sarah? What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘What is it you do for a living?’ she asks, and for the first time she smiles, just briefly. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever told me.’

That’s it, then, you think. She knows – or at least, she knows something, and now you have to find the right words really fucking quickly, and try to fix it.

‘I’m a sensual masseur,’ you say.

She nods, as if she was expecting you to deny it and she is at least a tiny bit less angry with you because you haven’t.

‘Louis said to me that you’re a prostitute.’

The laugh is out before you can stop it, a loud ‘Ha!’ because it’s not the first time you’ve heard that. And then you realise the context and you wish you’d managed to keep it in. ‘It’s very different from that.’

Sarah takes a sharp, shuddering breath in. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Yes, you think, why didn’t you? You fucking coward. Why didn’t you mention it on day one? She even asked you, didn’t she, in the car on the way to the pub where you met Sophie, and you sidestepped the issue by telling her she looked beautiful.

‘I know you must be angry,’ you say. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t want to upset you.’

‘I thought we were friends. Friends don’t keep secrets from each other,’ she says coldly.

Really? You want to remind her about the small matter of her not telling Sophie about that one-night stand with Will. We all keep secrets from each other, all the time, and we kid ourselves that they are tiny ones, that they don’t matter, right up until the moment that we are found out and we realise it matters very much.

‘No,’ you say. ‘You’re right.’

‘Louis said that Will told him,’ she says. ‘How did Will find out?’

You could lie, or at least just tell her that you don’t know, but you don’t want to make things worse. Perhaps she already knows the answer to this question and is testing you.

‘I think probably Sophie told him,’ you say.

She nods again. ‘Right. So I’m the last person to know. Thanks.’

You take a deep breath in. ‘I know it feels as though this is a big deal, but it really isn’t. It’s just a job.’

‘We had sex,’ she says. ‘I thought that meant something. I didn’t realise I was just getting a freebie. Were you going to send me a bill at the end of the month? Take it off the rent?’

She is deliberately trying to wound you now, but she is close to tears so you don’t bite back. She is being so strong,
so dignified, and any second now she is going to lose it and break down.

‘It meant something,’ you say.

‘It’s too late,’ she says, without expression. ‘This is going to make everything awkward; I can’t do it any more.’

Your baseline for understanding situations like this one comes from your career rather than your personal life. Clients have said similar things to you, in the past.
We have to stop seeing each other. I cannot carry on like this. It isn’t working out. It’s not you, it’s me.

As though it’s a relationship, despite everything you’ve discussed, not a business transaction.

Whereas this: this is a relationship, or rather you had hoped that was what it was becoming. Perhaps, as she said in the pub, you aren’t as good at reading people as you think you are?

Usually, clients stop seeing you because someone has found out about your arrangement and it has become awkward for them, or embarrassing, and all it takes is for you to challenge gently whether it’s really what they want, and they cave in and hold out their hand for you to take, or they cry and you hold them, or they just go away and think about it and the next week they’re phoning you for an appointment.

Sarah is, you remind yourself, not a client. She is fierce, hands clenched into fists in her lap, teeth gritted.

You want to take her by the shoulders, force her to let it out, the anger, so that you can comfort her and get past this. But she is holding it in, and you have to let her do it. You have to give her the space to come to terms with everything you’ve told her. It’s going to take time, and you can’t interfere.

‘Okay,’ you say. ‘So we are friends?’

She looks at her hands. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘That’s good,’ you say. ‘Because I’m happy to be whatever it is you need me to be.’

That, too, seems to be the wrong thing to say. She stands up suddenly, makes for the door.

‘Sarah?’

‘Just – just leave me alone…’

And she’s gone, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoes on the bare walls. Your heart is thudding with it.

You got that wrong, didn’t you?

You got that one completely wrong.

Sarah is lying on the bed like a corpse, feet together, hands clasped over her tummy, looking up at the cracked ceiling and listening to the sounds of the house creaking and settling.

She is properly alone now.

She has pushed everybody away by being naïve and stupid, and now she has nobody. Aiden isn’t the person she thought he was; and nor is Sophie. Her best friend has been laughing at her behind her back –
sweet, silly Sarah, she doesn’t understand things like this
– and Louis, oh, God, Louis, so traumatised by what he saw that he’s still furious about it three years later…

There is only Kitty left, and she is miles away, out of reach.

Sarah holds her breath, listening.

There’s no point staying here. With a sigh, she sits up on the edge of the bed. She is still fully dressed, and she is in the master bedroom because she didn’t think she would be able to sleep in the bed where she had been with Aiden just a fortnight ago. This bed isn’t even made up – the bedspread hides a bare mattress, but she hadn’t bothered to get the sheets out because she already knew that she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

From somewhere in the house, Sarah hears a muffled bang. Her head spins towards the door as if she will be able to see what it was. Nothing moves. She listens. The house settles and waits with her.

There it is again; a door banging? Maybe Kitty has left a window open somewhere.

She does not move. Something is gripping her, something she is not used to: she is afraid. It crosses her mind that she could phone Aiden, ask him to come over, but she cannot bring herself to do that; and besides, her mobile is downstairs, charging, and the landline up here doesn’t work.

Bang.

This time she hears Basil give a short warning bark immediately afterwards – it must have woken him up, whatever it is. The fact that the dogs are downstairs gives her a fresh burst of courage and she crosses to the door, takes a breath and yanks it open, half-expecting to find someone standing on the other side of it. The landing is dark and empty.

Downstairs, all is quiet. Basil gets up from his bed and greets her, wagging his tail sleepily.

‘What is it, Bas? What’s up?’

A cold draught comes from somewhere, creeping over the back of her neck and raising goosebumps on her arms.

It’s coming from the back door.

The utility room door is closed. It isn’t usually closed, unless she’s trying to contain a muddy dog; perhaps the draught has blown it shut? She hesitates for a moment with her fingers on the door handle. From the tiny gap under the door, an icy breeze blows over her bare feet.

She breathes in, and out, and then pulls open the door quickly. The back door, which is unaccountably open, slams shut with a bang that rattles the glass in the windowframe.

Sarah squeals in sudden panic, her heart hammering in her chest.

No one is there.

She is alone.

She spends the rest of the night on the sofa, curled under Basil’s blanket, watching crappy middle-of-the-night repeats of reality shows.

 When the breakfast news programmes start she gets up, stretches, and goes to feed the dogs and make coffee.

She feels numb now, feeble; all the anger has dissolved and all that’s left is sorrow. If only she hadn’t been quite so furious, perhaps she could have talked rationally, worked out what was going on and why. Despite his admissions, Sarah can’t help but think that there is more that Aiden hasn’t told her.

At seven she takes the dogs out of the back door – closing it firmly behind her – and walks them around the field, distracted enough to barely notice where they go. She’s not out for long. It’s freezing cold, and the rain starts again, turning quickly from drizzle to an insistent, misty rain that drenches her quickly.

She keeps her head down, stumbling back down the hill, and as a consequence does not see the dark figure standing in the doorway at the back of the house until she is almost there.

She gasps with the shock, clutching her chest.

Basil is all over him, tail wagging.

‘Sorry,’ Aiden says. ‘Didn’t mean to make you jump.’

She is about to say that he didn’t, but then she notices the dark circles around his eyes and realises that he probably hasn’t had much sleep either.

‘You coming in?’ she asks.

In the kitchen, the dogs dried, the coffee brewing – it feels as if they both need something strong – Aiden sits with her at the kitchen table and asks her if she is okay. ‘I wanted to explain, about my job,’ he says.

He is looking at her, right into her eyes. She is too tired for another argument; perhaps he knows this and that’s why he’s come over early.

‘The official version is that I provide a traditional massage in the comfort of people’s homes, or hotel rooms, with or without clothing.’

‘The official version?’ Sarah repeats. She feels, suddenly, spectacularly stupid. ‘What’s the unofficial version?’

‘I do other things, pretty much on a case-by-case basis. Some women only want to talk or have a standard massage; some women want to be touched more intimately. Some women want me to help them come.’

Sarah is finding it difficult to breathe. Oh, God. He’s a prostitute.

She still hasn’t moved. She is staring at him. This man she thought she knew, this man for whom she has had such intense longing for most of her adult life, is someone utterly unfamiliar.

‘Say something,’ he says gently.

‘I… can’t.’

‘I wanted to be honest with you,’ he says.

At last she finds her voice. ‘You have sex with strangers for money?’

‘It’s very rare for me to have actual sex with them. It’s more about opening them up physically and emotionally, becoming attuned to their needs through touch. Just like traditional massage, except that the touching is intimate and often leads to orgasm. And they aren’t really strangers. I get to know them first. I mean, I wouldn’t exactly call them good friends – but they’re not strangers either. They’re clients. Like any other service business, you do best when you know exactly what it is your client needs. That takes time, conversation, agreement between all the parties. Mutual understanding.’

‘You make it sound as if you’re selling them jewellery or mobile phones or a new set of hair straighteners.’

‘I’m selling them happiness. Contentment. Self-confidence.’

‘You’re selling them self-confidence? They’re paying for a hand job; that says to me that they must have pretty low self-esteem.’

Ouch.

She catches the expression on his face. ‘I’m sorry. That came out wrong.’

Aiden smiles at her. She can’t quite tell if it’s genuine. ‘It’s hard to explain. I don’t blame you for thinking badly of me, of them. But it isn’t like that. My clients are well-off, usually professional women. Some of them are in loveless, sexless relationships but don’t want to risk having an affair with someone they don’t know if they can trust. Some of them are single, and don’t have time for a relationship. I can give them what they need, when they need it, and then I leave them alone when they don’t. It’s a business transaction, but it is one that’s designed to serve their needs perfectly. Every client gets a bespoke service.’

‘It sounds as though you take this very seriously.’

This time, she can see that his smile is genuine. ‘I do. That’s what makes me good at it. I do genuinely enjoy taking the time to make sure they get good value for their money. Some of the men in my line of work, well, you wouldn’t believe it. And they still end up making a killing. But I guess they don’t get the repeat business.’

‘You get lots of repeat business, then?’

‘I have some clients I’ve been seeing for more than ten years. Sometimes a long time will pass between calls, but they always seem to come back to me.’

‘Do you keep notes?’ Sarah asks. The mechanics of this industry she has never heard of before are suddenly fascinating to her, and she has almost forgotten that it is Aiden who is confessing this secret life to her.

‘No,’ he says.

‘How do you remember them all?’

‘I have a very good memory. I’ve trained myself to remember everything. To be fair, in the past few years I haven’t taken on any new clients. I was making enough
from the regular clients I already had. They’re like… I don’t know… like old friends.’

‘Like old girlfriends,’ Sarah says.

‘Perhaps.’

She appreciates his honesty. He is answering all her questions, not holding back.

‘Is it well paid, then?’

‘Not at first,’ he says. ‘But in the past few years, yes. Very well paid.’

‘What about the risks?’

‘I have very strict boundaries. For everyone’s safety, not just mine.’

‘What boundaries?’

He pauses for a moment, as if deciding on the best way to approach it. Then he says, ‘My clients always call me; I never – ever – call them. I never take calls from withheld numbers. Clients pay me up front. I don’t do relationships, so there is no grey area. I was never anyone’s boyfriend. I have a list of things that I will do and things I won’t when it comes to restraint and physical discipline. Back when I first started, I did a few sessions with couples, but I stopped doing that very quickly because it’s too complicated.’

‘Complicated how?’

‘If there’s just the client, I check all the way through whatever we are doing that she is happy and comfortable. If there’s three people, then it becomes more difficult to check consent because there is an existing relationship between the two clients that has its own nuances and subtleties. I had a couple where the man’s fantasy was to see his wife with a stranger. She went along with it to make him happy, but the whole time it felt really awkward. She wasn’t comfortable with it. So I didn’t go through with it; I gave them their money back and left. The bloke wasn’t happy, but then neither was I.’

‘Have you ever had bad things happen?’

A shadow passes over his face. ‘Not really,’ he says.

‘Not really?’

He hesitates. ‘The worst thing is when clients get a bit too attached. A few times women have wanted to start a proper relationship.’

‘What did you do?’

‘To start with, just remind them gently of my boundaries. Sometimes that’s all that’s needed. If that doesn’t work, I tell them I can’t see them again. You have to do it all really carefully, because sometimes my clients have emotional needs they are trying to fulfil with this transaction, and, if I can’t fulfil them because of the boundaries I have in place, then I need to be careful how I tell them that. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

‘And has anyone ever got hurt?’

‘Happened twice. The first time, she got bored eventually when I wouldn’t answer her calls.’

‘The second time?’

There is a pause, then he says, ‘The second time was… bad.’

He looks as if he doesn’t want to say any more, but he has aroused her curiosity now and she pushes him further.

‘What happened?’

‘I was trying everything with her, and it wasn’t working. It was frustrating for both of us. I wanted to suggest she try working with someone else, but she insisted that all she needed was penetrative sex. I told you, I don’t normally do that – but in this case I thought maybe it would help her.’

‘But it didn’t?’

He hesitates. ‘It was too personal.’

‘For you, or for her?’

But Aiden doesn’t answer.

Sarah cannot think of anything else to ask, for the moment. She looks at the table and then, when he gets up to
fetch mugs, she watches him move. Thinks of how she always thought he was gorgeous, but now she sees it differently. It’s the way he moves, she thinks. It’s the way he holds himself; confidence without arrogance. Such a rare thing.

Then it comes to her – the big question. The thing she should have asked at the beginning, when he first told her about this.

‘And Jim knew about this?’

‘Yes. You see now why he might have been a bit reluctant to tell you.’

The coffee machine gurgles and rumbles. She looks at him, thinking. Her head, suddenly, feels clear: cold water, refreshing, tumbling through her thoughts.

‘What was the money for?’

He stops, looks at her.

‘What money?’

‘The loan, from Jim. Ten thousand, you said.’

For a moment, he stares. She thinks she has crossed a line; asked something too personal. But the overheads for this business – if that’s what you can call it – there can’t be many, can there? How much does a job lot of condoms and baby oil cost, anyway?

‘Various things,’ he says. ‘Travel mostly – I had to pay that up front. Hotel rooms. And I needed a flat, for a while. And a car.’

She doesn’t push him further. She thinks, perhaps, she doesn’t want to know.

‘What about Sophie?’ she asks.

‘Sophie?’

‘You told her about all this?’

He puts a mug of coffee in front of her and the aroma of it makes her feel a little better.

‘You remember she came to see me, when you were at the dentist? She asked about Jim, and I told her. She asked the
same question – what I needed the money for – and I told her what I was doing to earn money. I don’t usually tell people, but you know Sophie – she has a way of looking at you that’s frankly quite terrifying.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Funnily enough, she didn’t seem surprised. I didn’t need to explain it in too much detail.’

Armando
, Sarah thinks.
Sophie was talking about him just the other day.

‘She used to see someone like you, in London,’ she says.

‘That explains it, then.’

‘Even so – why didn’t she tell me?’

‘I asked her not to. I wanted to tell you myself.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘No.’ He looks down at his coffee. ‘I wasn’t expecting us to get on quite so well, to be honest. I thought there would be a good moment for me to mention it casually, but… well. We kind of got past the talking stage early on.’

Sarah is looking at him and it feels as though she is seeing him for the first time: the dark stubble because he hasn’t shaved, the lines around his eyes, the strong jaw. She feels a lurch of something that might just be love.