The interview

“Your ******** appointment is confirmed for 12.30. This is just an informal chat so do not dress up for it, casual is fine. Mike”.

This is the text message I receive to confirm my interview with Mike. We are to meet at the Hilton near Paddington station, and I make sure I am early in order to steady my nerves and relax once I get there. I have plenty of time given that Mike is running late.

So there I am, casually dressed and half hidden in a long cardigan, and despite having decided to sell my body I feel vulnerable and find myself wrapping my cardi tighter around me. I catch sight of myself in one of the many mirrors that cover the walls in the piano lounge and my body language tells the world that I am uncomfortable, on edge and frightened. I let my arms fall to my sides and relax my shoulders – now probably isn’t the time to be cute and coy, now is the time to be sexy and confident. Well, as sexy as you can be in a long cardi, I guess. I sit back in the chair and take a few deep breaths. I glance at myself in the mirror again. Much better – and once my body language better reflects sassy call girl (or at any rate what I believe reflects sassy call girl), I reckon I can pull this off. I’m a pretty girl, and today is a good hair day. Today is a good everything day. I look bright and perky, and my wavy locks fall gently on to my shoulders.

Yet I can’t totally shake the feeling of wanting to hide. Something about this makes me want to wrap my cardigan around me again, the idea of someone looking at me and even seeing my shape makes me cringe. That does not bode well for someone who is about to sign up for being naked and sold to various buyers on a very frequent basis. Get a grip!

I’ve got through two coffees by the time Mike turns up. How do you greet a pimp? On auto-pilot, I offer my hand. Clearly this isn’t escort interview protocol, as Mike takes my hand but instead of a handshake pulls me in for a kiss on both cheeks. He is all smiles and comes across as a very sweet guy. He is well dressed, friendly, articulate and very attractive, and were we to meet in any other circumstances I’d put him down as boyfriend material, if not marriage too. He has impeccable manners, manicured fingernails and is well spoken. His eyes are warm and his smile real, he is charming and jovial and even in a dress shirt and pullover I can tell that there is a muscular body underneath. Just the kind of boy you’d take home to meet your mother. He looks like Denzel Washington’s better looking younger brother. Boyfriend material indeed. But that’s not how it is. He is a pimp and I am about to become a hooker, is how it is.

“So let me tell you a bit about us,” Mike begins, “we’ve been going for 7 years and act as an advertising agency. It’s important that you understand that you’re not an ******** employee, you only advertise with us and pay a fee for us to field the calls and take the bookings. Like someone who’s self employed advertising in Yellow Pages.”

It’s amazing how the law works. Or laughable, rather. Clearly it’s all bullshit. Everyone knows the score, but by putting things in a certain way, everyone gets around it and quite easily too – I mean, it’s right there for anyone to see, right in anyone’s face. Yet there’s this pathetic charade that it’s about spending time and not selling sex. It’s so absurd I want to laugh out loud. Mike goes through how they let girls advertise and how they only act as an introduction service. Anything over and beyond is between the girl and the client and is a matter of coincidence. I can’t help but giggle when Mike goes over this bit, but clearly he takes this very seriously and is very careful to cover his back. Alrighty then. I play along, as ridiculous as this is. As far as they are concerned, my working girl alter ego “Kim” only charges for her time. Like there’ll be clients queuing up to just enjoy my company over drinks or dinner and nothing more. Sure thing.

Mike deems me worthy of £300 per hour, which he tells me is the top pay with the exception of a very select few ladies who command more. None of his ladies do however, it’s just me, Indian Neela and Arabic Leyla advertised at £300 and the rest of the Britneys go for anything between £100 and £250. I’m a little surprised, given that the Britneys are all much younger as well as thinner and more beautiful than I am. Surely they’d be commanding the top fee rather than I, with my stretch marks and all...

“Nah, it doesn’t work like that. You’re British. They speak no English beyond yes and no. Clients pay more for British girls,” Mike explains.

“Really? Does that really matter to them?”

“Sure it does. That’s why these girls can be booked for half an hour. After the initial, um, appointment, there isn’t anything else to do.”

“Right,” I smile.

The rules are explained to me and they are quite simple. If I agree to a booking I am to honour it or I’m fired, without exception. Don’t dare be late either. The agency’s cut is to be paid into the bank no matter what each Monday, and on this point Mike is very clear. “If you can’t get to the bank, I’ll come and collect. There are no excuses,” he says and the smile he’s been flashing for most of our little meeting has been replaced by a hard glint in his eyes. I am to dress smart, like for a job interview or a day in the office – elegant and feminine, sophisticated and discreet. Nothing slutty or provocative. I am to let him know when I get to the client’s place or hotel, and I am to let him know when I leave. I don’t want to have clients come and see me, so I am doing out-calls only and only hotels as I don’t like the idea of going to someone’s house. The fact that they check and make sure there’s a landline doesn’t seem like enough security to me, whereas I feel better about hotels. Less likely to meet an untimely demise in a nice hotel on Park Lane, I figure.

“Er, what about my personal safety,” I mumble and feel awkward, “I mean, how safe is this, have you ever had girls end up in trouble?”

“Not through this agency, but you hear about others and apparently there are gangs out there who target escorts,” Mike says but the smile is back so he’s obviously trying to make me think this isn’t an issue or anything to worry about, “eastern European gangs who book an escort, the guy turns up and the booking goes ahead and then in the middle of it another five turn up and rob the girl.”

I gasp. Chills slowly trace their way down my spine, rasping, scratching, dry cold, and I feel ill.

“But you don’t need to worry about that because you’re not doing in-calls,” Mike says and holds his hands out in an it-doesn’t-matter gesture, “so anything else you want to ask?”

“No, think that was it.”

“Alright, then I just need you to read through this, fill in a few details and sign,” he tells me and gives me a pile of print-outs, probably 10 pages or so, “it’s basically just the stuff we’ve talked through, but I need your signature and also a few other bits.”

I fill this in – it’s to acknowledge that I only advertise through ********, that I charge for my time only and understand the T&Cs. On the last page I fill in my personal details again, my vital statistics and services I offer. Mike looks very pleased and as well as a kiss on the cheek, he gives me a big hug when we part ways.

“Great to meet you darling,” his smile breaking his perfect features, “let’s make lots of money!”