Ciara

 

“Well, hello, stranger. Nice of you to call.”

I bite my lip hearing Sloane’s snippy tone. She has every right to feel annoyed with me as I’ve ignored all her calls and messages for the last two days and I haven’t turned up at class. There’s been too much to do, too much to think about, and the worry has been non-stop.

Am I insane to do this? I wonder as I shave my legs.

How will I get out of this alive? as I paint my nails.

What will John Smith want from me? as I wax my bikini line.

Now it’s the morning of our date and I don’t have time to indulge in any more fretting. “Sloane, this is an emergency. Can I borrow some clothes and makeup? I have a date.”

Last night I did a dry run with the nicest dress in my closet and the few bits and pieces of makeup I own. I thought I looked okay and took it all off again, but as soon as I got into bed and closed my eyes I pictured the interior of La Fleche D’or as it appears on their website. Crisp white linen. Crystal glasses and gilt-edged china. Soft golden light from ornate chandeliers. Tiny portions of food. Cocktail waiters in white tuxedo jackets. My eyes flew open again in panic. I am nowhere near chic enough for that place.

But Sloane is. Even at eight am classes on a Monday morning she always looks put-together. On a Thursday night in the club she looks incredible. Tight dresses, smooth hair, makeup on point. Guys practically fall over themselves as she walks by. Most of it is her natural beauty and the effort she puts into working out but she also knows how to finesse a look to red carpet levels in a way that I never have.

There’s a puzzled silence from her end of the line. “A date? When did you meet a man? I wasn’t expecting—Oh my god, Ciara. You mean a sugar date, don’t you?”

I hold the phone away from my ear. “Sloane, please stop shrieking.”

“Have you lost your mind? This is so dangerous! You could be meeting anyone! You do know you have to sleep with this stranger? He could be a monster! A murderer! Even if he’s not a psycho he’ll still be old and you’ll just have to lie there and take it, knowing you’re having sex with him for a pittance. And it will be a pittance because men are so goddamn cheap!”

My anxiety shoots through the roof as she screeches aloud every single one of my doubts and fears at the top of her voice. “Sloane, I don’t have time for this. I need you to calm down and help me, please.”

Sloane exclaims for several more minutes, asking a dozen questions that she doesn’t even give me the chance to answer. I hold the phone away from my ear and wait for her to get it all out of her system.

Finally she runs out of steam. “I’m really worried now, Ciara. This isn’t like you. What the hell is going on?”

I can’t tell her. The thought of Mr. Ravnikar and what he’s going to do to me if I don’t give him the money has frightened me too much. I won’t risk anyone else getting involved. I sink down onto my bed, struggling not to cry. “What’s going on is I have a dinner date in four hours’ time at La Flèche D’or and the maître d’ is going to laugh me out of the building unless I can pull an outfit together.”

Silence stretches between us. I know I’m asking a lot of her by not giving her any answers, but I don’t have any choice, and I don’t have anyone else to turn to.

“Please, Sloane.”

She sighs. “Fine. I don’t like this at all but I know you must have your reasons. I just hope you’ll tell me what they are when you feel you can. Of course I’ll help you.”

Relief surges through me and I whisper fiercely, “Thank you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“No, I don’t,” she agrees. “I’m coming over. What do you want me to bring?”

“Everything.”

We hang up, and I fall back on my bed in relief. The cavalry is on its way.

Sloane bustles in forty-five minutes later with an armload of bags and spreads half a dozen dresses, several pairs of shoes, handbags, accessories and a large makeup case out on my bed. The clothing is stylish and expensive and perfect for Fleche D’or, and I could cry all over again as I go through it. The makeup is exquisite, too. There are even pots of body glitter. That’s weird. I’ve never seen Sloane wear glitter.

“This is your makeup? It’s like a professional kit.”

Sloane shrugs. “I watch too many beauty tutorials late at night when I can’t sleep. They make me shop.” She eyes me critically. “OK, I’d say you were at beauty base zero: your brows look good, your nails are neat and your skin is clean. We’ve got just over three hours to get you into your war paint.”

I open an eyeshadow palette and examine the shades. “War paint?”

“This stuff,” she says, pointing a lethally long silver nail at her makeup, “isn’t makeup. It’s armor. Out there—” she points the same nail at my window “—is the war, and if you’re committed to doing this, then we’re going to make you bulletproof.”

I smile at Sloane, both grateful and surprised. It’s like she understands exactly how I’m feeling. That I need to be bulletproof tonight.

Sloane holds up dress after dress in front of me and I recognize some of them from our nights out together. Thankfully, we are more or less the same size, though her bust is bigger than mine. “Try on the red and the black,” she tells me, and I haul my oversized t-shirt off over my head and try the dresses on. The red one has a plunging V-neck and the black is backless with long sleeves. They’re both short and tight and I feel comfortable in neither as they’re so revealing, but the fabric looks expensive and the cuts are sort of…slutty-classy? Is that a thing?

I’m wondering which accessories will go with the black dress when Sloane says decisively, “The red.”

I turn to her, mouth open. “Are you kidding? I should definitely wear the black. The red dress looks like I’m advertising sex and I’m not sleeping with Mr. Smith tonight. The blogs I read were very clear about me not doing that.”

Sloane shakes her head, her curls rustling. “Of course you won’t sleep with him, but that’s even more reason to show a bit of skin tonight. Make him pant for what he can’t have.”

I examine the red dress again. It’s just so look at me! and all I feel like doing right now is hiding. “But I don’t have a bra that will work with this neckline.” It needs some complicated stick-on thing, and all I have are regular bras.

Sloane fishes a spool of body tape out of her makeup case. “I’ll tape your boobs up. You’re not going to wear this dress for him twice so it’s better you wear it on a night you’re not going to get naked. You know, because of the tape. It’s hard to make this stuff sexy when it’s time to do the deed.”

Sloane makes good points. I hate that.

I sit down on a chair with the red dress clutched in my lap as Sloane gets to work on my face and hair. My stomach clenches uncomfortably around the piece of toast I ate for lunch. Is this how other babies feel when they’re getting ready? I imagined it would be different. That the act of applying mascara would make me feel fierce. I don’t eat for free. I don’t put my face on for free. Except that I am, because I didn’t have the guts to tell Mr. Smith I expect to be paid for our first date. I thought I could slip it into one of our chats but he’s the least chatty person I’ve ever encountered.

I realize that Sloane has been saying my name and I look up.

“Ciara? If you’re going to do this you need to focus.”

“I am focused. I’m super focused.” I’ve got to stop thinking so much. If I don’t learn how to switch off I won’t be able to protect myself, and switching off is going to become so important in a date or two when Mr. Smith will want to have sex. This isn’t about cute dates in fancy restaurants. He’s going to want to sleep with me and I will have to say yes if I want his money.

“Ciara!”

“I’m listening! Sorry, what did you say?”

Sloane holds up a red lipstick and an eyeshadow palette. “What do you think?”

I gaze at the squares of shimmering colors without really taking them in. “Uh… What do you recommend?”

I read advice from other sex workers saying you’ve got to keep your eyes on your goals. That the sex is the point for the daddies but it’s not the point for a sugar baby, and that you shouldn’t get hung up on it. I like that advice and I’m trying to follow it, but it’s going to be difficult when I’m finally staring down Mr. Smith’s dick.

“With that dress a bold red lip would work, paired with nude eyes and fine, black-brown lashes.”

I barely heard what she said but I agree with her and let her brush color over my eyelids. I’ve read one or two things about not “catching feelings” for your sugar daddy, and that you should never, ever fall in love with him as that can be just as devastating as shame and low self-esteem. I suppress a hysterical giggle. As if that’s going to happen.

“What’s so funny?” Sloane asks, curling my lashes.

“Nothing.”

My phone buzzes a few minutes later but Sloane is applying my lipstick and she tightens her grip on my chin, not letting me go until she’s painted, blotted, and painted again. When she releases me I look at the screen. It’s a text message from Mr. Smith.

Do you have a cash app linked to your email address?

I reply that I do, and a moment later my phone buzzes again. It’s an email, a funds transfer from “John Smith.” There’s a message too:

 

Ciara,

Here is taxi money for tonight, and little extra for other expenses.

John

 

Oh, that’s thoughtful of him. I suppose he’s sent me some money to cover a manicure and blow-dry. I should have told him I expected a few hundred pounds but at least this is something. Next time I will. I need to be stronger. Much stronger. Though if he’s sending me taxi money and a little extra without prompting then it should be easy to negotiate more out of him.

Then I see the amount, and my mouth falls open.

A thousand pounds. He’s sent me a thousand pounds. What the hell? It must be a scam because there’s no reason why he would be sending me that much when we haven’t even met yet. I scour the email for clues, like a note asking me to send some of the money back or a different email address to the one his PA cc’d with our reservation details. But no, it’s from the same one. When I log into my account on my laptop I see that the money is there.

Sloane hovers over my shoulder. “‘John Smith’ huh? That’s so not his real name. What name are you using?”

No kidding it’s not his real name. I grimace. “I’m using my name. I didn’t realize I was supposed to use a fake one. It’s fake now, I changed it on the dating site.” It’s too late for John Smith, though. I’ll just have to hope he’s not a stalker.

Sloane makes me sit so she can finish my makeup and use her hair irons to curl my hair. After brushing the long curls loose and dousing me in hairspray she motions for me to stand. “Okay. Dress time.”

The flesh-colored tape goes over each of my breasts and lifts them slightly. “Just so you don’t bounce around too much. Now the dress.”

She tapes that to my body too, and then tells me to put on a pair of bright red stilettos and a few pieces of silver jewelry. The red dress has a ton of sex appeal but I look elegant, too. Like a brightly wrapped but very expensive Christmas present few could afford. Nothing like me at all, in fact.

Sloane hands me a tiny red clutch and gives me a hug. “Mr. Smith is going to have his mouth on the floor as soon as he sees you. Don’t be scared. Do what you need to do to get what you want out of him, and then come home and call me. Okay? And if you need a fake emergency to get you out of dinner, text me.”

I hug her back, gratitude rushing through me. Sloane didn’t need to do any of this for me, but she has, and been remarkably understanding, too. Because of her I might actually succeed. “Thank you,” I whisper, a wobble in my voice. “And I will tell you everything when I can. I promise.”

“I know you will. Now book a taxi and go, you don’t want to be late.”

One of my housemates is in the lounge as I pass through on the way to the front door. I have my head down, hoping I don’t attract his attention, but his head turns to watch me pass, and he takes in the plunging neckline of my dress, my loose curls, the expanse of leg I have on show. I resist the urge to tug my hemline down.

“Ciara? Is that—fucking hell.”

I wave goodbye over my shoulder and hurry out. Fucking isn’t happening tonight, but hell is about right. The car is waiting outside my door and I slip gratefully into the back seat. I try not to notice how the driver’s eyes examine me in the rear-view mirror at every red light.

I’ve never really been on a dinner date before. To the movies, yes, and to bars. Thankfully I’ve eaten in upscale restaurants, though not for years. I remember going out to dinner with my dad and one of his friends when I was sixteen and the friend kept staring at my chest and commenting on what I was eating. Oh look, she’s eating bread. Isn’t she brave? Not watching your figure, sweetie? Eating dessert? Girls can’t resist dessert. Is Mr. Smith going to be like that too, patronizing me and paying uncomfortable attention to everything I do? Is he going to care whether I have a good time or not?

I make myself take deep breaths. There’s no point getting hysterical about this. Whatever happens tonight it’s only going to last a few hours and then I can run home to my sweatpants and a tub of ice-cream. I might even treat myself to a Netflix subscription with some of Mr. Smith’s thousand pounds. He’s been generous, at least.

Strangely generous. Ominously generous. Could-get-demanding-about-sex generous.

Too bad, Mr. Smith. There’s tape all over my boobs and you’re not going to get your hands on them tonight.

I’m welcomed politely at Fleche D’or and ushered, not into the restaurant, but into a private dining room with a table set for two. Then I’m left alone in the dim, plush space. The wallpaper is black and gold and there are pots of white orchids here and there, their delicate scent permeating the air. I wasn’t expecting a private dining room. I’m going to be completely alone with Mr. Smith without anyone to call on for help if things go wrong. Maybe I’m making a huge mistake just by sitting here. I take a sip of iced water, trying to quell the fear that’s pounding through my blood.

The only thing I know about Mr. Smith is his age, forty-two, which seems a little young for a sugar daddy. I don’t even know what he looks like. I’m wondering if he’s got a terrible personality or chronic halitosis when the door swings open and my heart leaps into my throat. I scramble to get out of my seat, because Sloane told me to be standing when we first meet so he gets the full effect of the dress. “His mouth will fall open when he sees you,” she assured me.

A man stands framed in the doorway, but it’s not his mouth that falls open. It’s mine.