The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl by Belle de Jour Page A
Authors: Belle de Jour
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for their health,' he offered.
'Yes, and some people think an all‐meat diet is good for you.' I put my coat on and kissed him on the cheek. 'Perhaps another time, when I've had more warning.'
mercredi, le 31 decembre
In London alone for New Year's Eve.
The Boy was supposed to visit ‐ at least that's what I was told.
Last night he rang after midnight to say he couldn't come up. In fact, he had gone skiing, perhaps I could fly out and join him instead? With less than twelve hours' notice. On 31 December.
I hadn't even known he was on holiday. Why couldn't he get here? Because it would be too expensive to change his ticket, of course. I'm amazed that someone who professes so little ready cash can throw a pile together to hit the European slopes but not to see in the New Year with his girl. Nevertheless I scoured the web to see if by some miracle I could be waking up in France. BA were booking no flights before 2 January. It was even too last-minute for Lastminute.com.
So I regretfully declined. He didn't seem that bothered, to be honest. Suspicious? Of course. His travel companion on this little jaunt is none other than the housemate who hates me.
Went into town for lunch, a haircut and to wander round the V8cA. I spied with my little eye . . .
89
Everyone who got on the tube at King's Cross got off at Knightsbridge, leaving the crowded carriages virtually empty.
A man walking two dogs ‐ one huge rottweiler, one tiny pug.
They were both burly, black‐coated, and the rott took one step to every three of the pug's.
An adolescent girl tucking in to salmon and cream cheese bagel, with chips.
Three men walking together in matching black knitted caps.
And three girls coming the other way in mismatching pink knitted scarves.
On Exhibition Road, just outside the Natural History Museum, leaves from this autumn have been mashed by thousands of tyres to leave an orange‐gold pattern in the street.
90
Janvier
91
H - J
H is for Hobbyist
A hobbyist is a man who is a habitual user of escort services. These range from the experienced and infinitely charming high tipper to the boorish tightwad who compares you unfavourably to every other prostitute he's been with. Be sure to treat every hobbyist as if he is the former. They will most likely write a report on you.
I is for Invisibility
Don't stand in the lobby of a hotel on the way out talking to your manager about the customer and her cut of the take. I've seen people do it; it's horrid.
What are you waiting for, hordes of adoring fans? Get out, get a cab, go home. Be discreet.
J is for Jealousy
When a regular customer ‐ especially one you like or who tips well ‐ moves on to another girl or otherwise inexplicably drops you, take it in your stride.
They're not paying for sex because they want a relationship, silly. There will be others. There always are.
J is also for Jet Set
Very few girls will travel outside a hundred‐mile radius on a regular basis. A repeat client may well offer to take you around the world on his yacht, but don't be disappointed if it never materialises. Even when they're paying for the sex, men are apt to inflate their income and connections to impress and amuse you, so don't count your frequent flier miles before they hatch.
92
jeudi, le 1 janvier
N and I met in town last night for mutual holidaytide mis-anthropy. I hate going out on New Year's, but being alone is infinitely worse. N's preferred tipple these days is Bailey's on ice, which is virtually pudding in a glass. As I lifted my drink, a man we knew pushed past, spilling half of it on my jeans. 'What's her problem?' I sniffed.
'Nothing a fortnight in a Turkish brothel wouldn't fix,' N said.
Thus inspired, we spent the rest of the evening compiling a list of people whose attitudes we thought would be much improved by such a holiday:
Naomi Campbell
Penelope Keith
Princess Anne
Cherie Stair
Jordon (though she may actually enjoy it)
Sam Fox;
Blair' s
'Yes, and some people think an all‐meat diet is good for you.' I put my coat on and kissed him on the cheek. 'Perhaps another time, when I've had more warning.'
mercredi, le 31 decembre
In London alone for New Year's Eve.
The Boy was supposed to visit ‐ at least that's what I was told.
Last night he rang after midnight to say he couldn't come up. In fact, he had gone skiing, perhaps I could fly out and join him instead? With less than twelve hours' notice. On 31 December.
I hadn't even known he was on holiday. Why couldn't he get here? Because it would be too expensive to change his ticket, of course. I'm amazed that someone who professes so little ready cash can throw a pile together to hit the European slopes but not to see in the New Year with his girl. Nevertheless I scoured the web to see if by some miracle I could be waking up in France. BA were booking no flights before 2 January. It was even too last-minute for Lastminute.com.
So I regretfully declined. He didn't seem that bothered, to be honest. Suspicious? Of course. His travel companion on this little jaunt is none other than the housemate who hates me.
Went into town for lunch, a haircut and to wander round the V8cA. I spied with my little eye . . .
89
Everyone who got on the tube at King's Cross got off at Knightsbridge, leaving the crowded carriages virtually empty.
A man walking two dogs ‐ one huge rottweiler, one tiny pug.
They were both burly, black‐coated, and the rott took one step to every three of the pug's.
An adolescent girl tucking in to salmon and cream cheese bagel, with chips.
Three men walking together in matching black knitted caps.
And three girls coming the other way in mismatching pink knitted scarves.
On Exhibition Road, just outside the Natural History Museum, leaves from this autumn have been mashed by thousands of tyres to leave an orange‐gold pattern in the street.
90
Janvier
91
H - J
H is for Hobbyist
A hobbyist is a man who is a habitual user of escort services. These range from the experienced and infinitely charming high tipper to the boorish tightwad who compares you unfavourably to every other prostitute he's been with. Be sure to treat every hobbyist as if he is the former. They will most likely write a report on you.
I is for Invisibility
Don't stand in the lobby of a hotel on the way out talking to your manager about the customer and her cut of the take. I've seen people do it; it's horrid.
What are you waiting for, hordes of adoring fans? Get out, get a cab, go home. Be discreet.
J is for Jealousy
When a regular customer ‐ especially one you like or who tips well ‐ moves on to another girl or otherwise inexplicably drops you, take it in your stride.
They're not paying for sex because they want a relationship, silly. There will be others. There always are.
J is also for Jet Set
Very few girls will travel outside a hundred‐mile radius on a regular basis. A repeat client may well offer to take you around the world on his yacht, but don't be disappointed if it never materialises. Even when they're paying for the sex, men are apt to inflate their income and connections to impress and amuse you, so don't count your frequent flier miles before they hatch.
92
jeudi, le 1 janvier
N and I met in town last night for mutual holidaytide mis-anthropy. I hate going out on New Year's, but being alone is infinitely worse. N's preferred tipple these days is Bailey's on ice, which is virtually pudding in a glass. As I lifted my drink, a man we knew pushed past, spilling half of it on my jeans. 'What's her problem?' I sniffed.
'Nothing a fortnight in a Turkish brothel wouldn't fix,' N said.
Thus inspired, we spent the rest of the evening compiling a list of people whose attitudes we thought would be much improved by such a holiday:
Naomi Campbell
Penelope Keith
Princess Anne
Cherie Stair
Jordon (though she may actually enjoy it)
Sam Fox;
Blair' s
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