She never calls me, you think.
You pick at your noodles – some shiny, greasy mess from the Chinese take out again – and toy with your phone. It's a well practised routine with recognisable signs you're about to cave in and make the call.
Just like the last times you've given in to the urge for some excitement, food has stopped having any taste and you're restless and ready to scream at the mediocrity of daily life.
Well, the mediocrity of your day to day existence. Giselle's life, you know from the all too limited occasions you've been a tourist in her world, is far from dull. Fancy hotels and film sets and packs of slavering men completely under her control are the routine for your sexy almost-twin.
You toss your phone aside and push the noodles away. If you knew why she didn't call, that might make it easier, you tell yourself.
The first time, of course, you had to call her. She was the one who'd given you her business card after all. The card you'd stuttered, speechless over, knowing even then that she'd seen something in your eyes that you didn't allow yourself to see in the mirror.
Perhaps that was what it was. You look so alike, she just saw herself in you and that was enough for you to imagine what you could be. Unfortunately, the similarities between Giselle and you end at the way you look. Your day starts and finishes on the sofa in your tiny apartment, after a dreary day of commute, office, commute, TV, eat, sleep. Even the day off you've got tomorrow is just another helping of The Same with a side order of Routine. Grocery shopping and running errands is all you have planned.
You can see that Giselle doesn't need you to liven up her days like you need her. But after that last time, when you'd shadowed her in stripping off for a roomful of bachelors, playing with her breasts and sliding your fingers inside her for her pleasure as much as the roaring spectators? After that time, surely she'd have wanted to bring you along again?
Something warm uncurls between your legs as the memories wake up. The roaring spectators as Giselle's brown nipples pressed against yours and she tugs your top down, exposing you to them first. Her fingers playing out what they wanted to do to you, if only they could touch. Her writhing against the men while you took your satisfaction, even as they thought they were the ones being serviced.
Then the silent drive home, the curt goodbye and the packet of money she'd handed you with no more than a 'See you around, doll'. Even though you'd known it was just a cash transaction for her, you'd thought, well, you'd thought…you were a team.
It sounds pathetic even in your own head. The cringey idea of saying it aloud is one of the many things that's kept you from dialling her number. That and a million other reasons why you don't go around wearing designer dresses and getting paid for sex from strangers.
You sigh and shuffle into your bedroom. You tell yourself you're just going to lie down and read a book, but you hesitate at the wardrobe and take another step back into the night it all started.
The red dress. The one that got you mistaken for the escort in the first place. It's hanging in the dry cleaner's bag it's been in ever since that night, out of place among your more usual flowery tops and cargo skirts.
You shrug out of your jeans and T-shirt and pull the dress up over your hips, slipping on a pair of high-heels and zipping it up at the back. A softer featured version of Giselle stares back at you from the mirror. You've let your hair grow like hers and it curls above the tops of her breasts – your breasts, you correct yourself mentally. You wonder…how much could you look like her if you tried?
You pick up base and a blusher brush and shade and highlight your cheekbones and nose to harden the lines of your face. Then you line your eyelids heavily, winging the black pencil out to the sides to elongate your eyes. A few strokes of charcoal shadow and two coats more mascara than you'd normally wear and it's her appraising you. She looks you up and down and turns to admire herself, scornful and confident. The kind of woman who'd make whatever damn phone calls she wanted.
You stride back to the living room, stilettos loud on the wooden floor. The neighbours won't like that, part of you thinks, but, you bet Giselle's have far more noises to put up with than shoes.
Your phone has fallen halfway down the back of the sofa cushion. You retrieve it, and then hesitate before unlocking the screen to…do what? Text? Call? And say what?
Or...
Text. Get invited to Giselle's house the next day. Get changed in the bathroom.
Call. Giselle invites you to the hotel with her client.
2
Your nerve fails and you opt for the coward's medium of choice. You type, delete, retype and redelete a message four times before it sounds casual but daring enough.
Hey Giselle, hope you're having a hard night. I wish I was! Last time was amazing. If you've got any more bachelors you need a hand, or a mouth;) with, I'm all yours.
You sit back, now stuck with looking at your phone far more intently than you were at the beginning of the evening. It's nine thirty. She's bound to be busy by now and if she is, she's not going to be checking text messages.
All dressed up and no place to go. Now you wish you'd called but you can't call on top of sending an unanswered text. This is as fraught with rules as dating!
After an hour of waiting, you accept that your made-up reflection is as close to the reality of Giselle as you're going to get and wash your face back to the real you. The you who's going to bed alone.
The sun shining in through a gap under the blinds wakes you up but it's the beep of your phone that makes you open your eyes.
Yeah, last night was a pain in the ass – literally. Next time, call if you want in. I don't exactly have my hands free for text chats
Knowing Giselle, you wonder who it was, where they were. You close your eyes again and visualise her bent over, offering her ass with her skirt up around her waist and her panties shoved to the side. In your mind's eye her face is turned to the left against a wall, but it's your face at the same time. Someone is squeezing her breasts and then roughly separates her ass cheeks, leaving red marks. You mould the mental image of her until it's fully you you're picturing. You lie on your stomach and push back against the imaginary hands, your own hands opening yourself up to the fantasy.
Your phone beeps again, interrupting the scenario that has taken shape in seconds. You open one eye, reluctant to leave it behind fully but then the phone grabs your complete attention. It's another message from Giselle.
So, I'm bored.
Attached to the message is a photograph of a jumble of boxes and plastic packages. The contents aren't easily made out but some of the names are visible. The Bullet… Rabbit…Love Egg.
Even when she's bored, her life is more fun than yours! In typical Giselle style, she assumes you've understood that was an invitation and that you're accepting. Another message comes through.
You know the address.
She's right, of course, although you've only ever met her outside it before. You don't bother with an elaborate routine and just have a quick shower. Your mood is more relaxed than last night when you were dressing up. A simple sweater dress and tied back hair goes with the slick of mascara and lip gloss that are all you do for makeup. At this time in the morning, you guess you're about to see a more fresh faced version of her too.
Her apartment is in a low rise building on the other side of town. It's just urban enough to be trendy, but suburban enough that the last thing you'd think of as you pull up outside is a sex-worker. You wonder what the neighbours make of all the men who must visit.