For Hire: The Intimate Adventures of a Gigolo. Luke Bradbury

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СКАЧАТЬ Fine by me, love.

      Eva’s arm reached out to stroke her husband’s leg. I didn’t have to turn to look at Lars. From the look of love his wife was giving him, I knew his scheme had worked for him as much as for Eva.

      Because Lars had hired me as her birthday surprise. On top of the suite at the Dorchester Hotel he’d booked especially. Eva had had no idea I’d be turning up as her extra treat.

      The surprise had made things a bit awkward to begin with. I’d been hired before by this pair when they came up to London from Cornwall. But since Eva hadn’t been expecting me, I couldn’t help wondering as I travelled upstairs whether she’d be in the mood. Suppose she was looking forward to a night alone with Lars? Though I was sure I’d be fine once she’d clocked me and realized what was coming to her.

      Fortunately, as soon as I’d stepped into the suite, I could tell that we were all on the same page. Lars had made sure of that.

      ‘Ta-da!’ he’d announced, raising his glass of champagne to his wife: ‘My present to you, darling. Luke. For you to unwrap.’

      I’d bowed as dashingly as I could. ‘Happy Birthday, Eva,’ I’d beamed.

      She’d made a point of looking me up and down, the smile creeping up her face topped by the sheer lust blazing from her eyes.

      ‘Just what I’ve always wanted,’ she’d laughed.

      Eva released herself from my hold, slipped out of the bed and crept on to her husband’s lap. Lars enfolded her in a bear hug and buried his face in her coppered brown hair.

      Eva was a slight woman in her mid-thirties, with a sleek figure and cute neat ass that just begged a guy to run his hands over its contours. Lars was a few years older than his wife, and far taller than me. I’d presumed that I was doing well as a six-footer. Yet he was lean and must have been close to seven foot, and a brunette like Eva. When we’d first met a month or so ago, I’d been surprised to learn these two were Norwegians. With my blondish hair, I looked more Scandinavian than either of them.

      I didn’t want to look as if I was gawping at them entwined in each other, so I stared out of our sixthfloor window towards the shadowy treetops of Hyde Park, shaking in the wind. An image of the Dorchester’s phallic tower flickered through my mind. I smirked to myself. Lars was sure making a statement when he’d booked this place for our rendezvous.

      I’d done the job I’d been hired for—to be hors d’oeuvre to Lars’s main course. I collected my clothes, nodded my ‘She’s all yours’ at him over her shoulder, and got a grin and a ‘Thanks, mate’ in return. Creeping into the sitting room to dress, I let myself out.

      I took the lift down to the ground floor, satisfied that I’d left a couple of clients pleased with my service. Happy Birthday to you, doll!

      I checked my watch as I hotfooted it across the lobby. It had just turned midnight and I needed to get home. There were people milling around the reception area but I took no notice. I’d pick my scooter up from round the side of the hotel and head back to my bed. I’d had a run of late nights this past week and needed to catch up on the zeds.

      I stepped out of the main doors behind a glamorouslooking couple who were being snapped by a barrage of paparazzi. As I turned left out of the hotel, I took a quick look back. I instantly recognized the two of them. She was Shelley Yates, an American movie starlet who I’d read in yesterday’s paper was in town for the release of her new film. And on her arm was Guy Raynor, an English pop star who was last year’s cool thing and sure needed the publicity now. You couldn’t tell if the pairing up meant anything to either of them, but they were milking the attention for all they were worth.

       Good luck to ’em.

      But I was too damn tired to desire such sparkle at this time of night. I walked away from the cameras, down the side road, stepped onto my scooter and was away from there.

      As far as I was concerned, Sunday was meant for lounging around, maybe watching the football on the box in the afternoon. I’d benefited from my lie-in and was in the mood for not doing very much at all.

      The Girls seemed to have the same idea—I could hear them pottering around as I pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt and cut across the hall to make myself some brunch.

      Carrie was sitting at the kitchen table, the dregs of her own breakfast strewn around her. She’d pushed her plate and the jars of jam and marmalade out of her way and was engrossed in her Sunday redtop.

      I started to prepare my own breakfast, putting bread in the grill and cracking a couple of eggs into the pan. Carrie looked up from her paper as I hovered beside the oven.

      ‘You had another night on the tiles? I didn’t hear you come in last night.’

      I was unsure whether this was Carrie’s way of finding out my business. Since I’d moved in earlier in the month, I’d managed to fob my three new flatmates off about what I actually got up to, but I was very aware that that was going to be more difficult to get away with the longer I lived here. But for now, I was prepared to put that aside and only cross that awkward bridge when I came to it.

      ‘Oh, I can assure you I came in last night!’ I grinned.

      ‘Clubbing, were you?’

      ‘Oh, I had a night of it, y’know,’ I lied.

      I decided to shift her focus away from me. ‘What about yourself, Carrie? Were you and the girls out larging it?’

      ‘You bet,’ she moaned, clutching her head in mock pain.

      ‘The others are still paying for it, I’m afraid, so no bashing any pots and pans when you’re putting together your fry-up, thanks.’

      ‘No worries,’ I replied, focused on the two eggs crisping round the edges just the way I liked them.

      I sat down opposite Carrie with my breakfast and poured myself a mug of tea.

      ‘Anything happening in the world today?’

      I was more interested in the back page, but I knew that the girls never read that far. Carrie flapped the front pages back and forward.

      ‘No X Factor scandal today, I’m afraid,’ she mused.

      ‘God, I don’t know what the world’s coming to!’ I spluttered. ‘What, have they got a blank front page or something?’

      She flipped a wry grin across at me: ‘Might as well be, eh?’

      None of us took the paper seriously. It was light relief of a Sunday. Hangover reading. But then again, the tabloids did help me keep in touch with who was in and who was out in celeb land—and that couldn’t but help me in my work. Especially some of the circles I found myself in. If only to massage some famous person’s ego by not looking blank when they told me what TV show they’d been on or pop group they were in. Not that I could let on to my new flatmates about that.

      I let Carrie get on with reading and laid into my fry-up. God, there was something about a good English breakfast that set the world to rights whatever was in the news.

      Carrie got up from her seat. ‘I need to shake the girls up. СКАЧАТЬ