Friday again – so soon. The days seem to be blurring into one another, a revolving door of drizzle and fleeting sunshine. As if the weather itself can’t quite make up its mind. All week, I’ve been playing an unintentional game with my wardrobe. I fold my Burberry raincoat carefully back into the closet, convinced that the clouds have finally given up. I drag it out again the very next day when the sky turns the colour of dishwater and the pavements begin to glisten. Every time I dare to slip into something light and summery, the temperature dips and the wind picks up. I last no more than twenty‑four hours before surrendering to practicality again.
Despite everything, that familiar Friday feeling did begin to creep in this afternoon. That subtle loosening in the chest, the sense that time is about to become my own again. But the weather, stubborn as ever, refused to cooperate. The thought of teetering about in heels through puddles wasn’t appealing, and neither was dragging an umbrella from bar to bar. So, instead of pretending it’s July in the Mediterranean, I’ve resigned myself to staying in. A quiet Friday, for once.
The Late‑Night Drive Home
I got home late last night after a long dinner that ran over by at least two courses and three drinks. We’d eaten in a softly lit restaurant where the tables were too close together, and the wine flowed far too freely. By the time we left, the air outside felt cool and damp against my skin. Clive, having enthusiastically sampled half the wine list, had reached that dangerous point of confidence where he believed he was fine. However, anyone with eyes could see that he wasn’t. Thankfully, one of his friends – miraculously sober – took pity on us and arranged for his driver to take us back.
That’s how I found myself being chauffeured back, watching the motorway lights flicker past like a string of tiny suns. Marco, his driver, was one of those men who could make small talk sound almost intimate. He asked about my plans for the weekend, glancing at me in the rear‑view mirror every so often as if genuinely interested rather than just filling the silence. I told him I’d be visiting family for a birthday barbecue. The way I said “barbecue” made it sound far more cheerful than I actually felt.
“So no work this weekend?” he asked.
I shook my head and smiled, that brittle sort of smile you give to someone who doesn’t really need the whole story. “No work. Just family.”
The words tasted strange. I could feel that Friday feeling, the early sparks of freedom and mischief, starting to fizzle even as I said it. A weekend without work should feel like a luxury, but the thought of being sandwiched between screaming children, smoky sausages, and forced conversation made it feel more like an obligation. Joy, I thought dryly. Genuine joy.
Family Obligations and Dread
My sister has already warned me – in that maddeningly vague way of hers – that she has “news” to share. She said it with a sort of breathless excitement that set off alarm bells in my head. I’ve been praying ever since that she won’t announce a pregnancy. The idea of her procreating with her current boyfriend, who also happens to be one of my ex‑clients, makes my stomach churn in a way that has nothing to do with undercooked chicken. It’s not just the awkwardness of knowing exactly what he likes in bed; it’s the thought of seeing that knowledge translated into nappies and prams and smug couple photos. With any luck, they’ll decide to move somewhere far, far away – somewhere leafy and suburban, perhaps – and I’ll be able to avoid them both except for the occasional, mercifully brief, seasonal gathering.
A Hard‑Won Lazy Weekend
For now, though, my lazy weekend officially begins. I’ve crammed so much into the last few days that I can feel the exhaustion sitting in my bones. Every part of me is craving stillness. All I want is to collapse onto the sofa, burrow under a blanket, and disappear into someone else’s story. My new book is waiting for me on my Kindle – not a beautiful hardback with that satisfying new‑book smell, but a ghostly digital version. It doesn’t matter. The idea of losing myself in a few hundred pages of unapologetic chick‑lit feels like heaven.
I’ve finally given in and purchased Fifty Shades of Grey, joining the party several years too late, as usual. Everyone else seems to have devoured it long ago and formed strong opinions – half of them scandalised, the other half faintly impressed. I, on the other hand, have only managed to get through the first five chapters. So far, I can’t quite decide whether I’m intrigued, repulsed, or just amused.
The writing makes me roll my eyes in places, but there’s something compulsive about it, a steady, teasing pull that keeps me turning page after page. If I’m disciplined – and if my family doesn’t drain the life out of me entirely – I might even finish it by Sunday. Then I can finally join in the inevitable discussions with my fellow expensive escorts in London, most of whom read it years ago and have been dissecting it ever since over cocktails and late‑night cigarettes.
Fantasy, Desire, and Mr Grey
The book has a way of getting under your skin, though, in spite of yourself. It’s made me start wondering whether I’ve ever had a client or a boyfriend who made me feel anything close to what Mr Grey seems to provoke in Anastasia. She talks about tingling electric currents, about this overwhelming, almost unbearable surge of desire that overrides logic and common sense. I’ve certainly known my share of enigmatic men – men who said very little but watched everything, men whose presence could tighten the air in a room. And there have absolutely been encounters that set my underwear metaphorically alight with nothing more than a look or the brush of a hand.
Yet when I try to think of one person who stands out, one man who left a mark so deep that I still feel it now, I draw a blank. There are flashes, impressions, fragments of evenings and hotel rooms and whispered promises, but no single figure who towers above the rest. Maybe that’s the nature of what I do: intensity condensed into a few hours, then neatly folded away and replaced by the next.
The Hope of Something More
Still, some small, stubborn part of me likes to believe that one day, when I’m least expecting it, someone might appear who cuts through all of that. Someone who doesn’t just perform desire but ignites something raw and undeniable in me – the way Mr Grey does for Anastasia, minus the overblown drama and questionable contract. Maybe he’ll whisk me away somewhere far from the usual haunts: not another five‑star hotel or discreet private flat, but somewhere that feels almost out of time. A place where I can forget who I am expected to be and simply drown, willingly, in something that feels like genuine erotic bliss.
Maybe.
For now, though, it’s just me, the rain tapping against the window, and a controversial paperback glowing on a small glass screen. And honestly, that doesn’t sound so bad.
