Confessions from an Escort Agency

Publisher’s Note

The Confessions series of novels were written in the 1970s and some of the content may not be as politically correct as we might expect of material written today. We have, however, published these ebook editions without any changes to preserve the integrity of the original books. These are word for word how they first appeared.

CONTENTS

Title Page

Publisher’s Note

How did it all start?

Chapter 1

In which Rosie finds sister Natalie entertaining in disquieting circumstances and shares a nightmare drive with faithful boyfriend, Geoffrey Wilkes, and a funeral procession.

Chapter 2

In which Rosie visits an Oxford college and endures some disgusting experiences at the hands – and other things – of the Hon. Ward-Virgins and his friends.

Chapter 3

In which Rosie suffers an agonisingly embarrassing meal with Sammy Fish, lecherous owner of The Nicetime Escort Agency.

Chapter 4

In which Rosie undertakes her first assignment – a harrowing evening at the opera with a strange German gentleman.

Chapter 5

In which a case of mistaken identity leads to Rosie being molested in a mini-van.

Chapter 6

In which a harmless attempt to make a bit on the side lands Rosie and Penny in a situation fraught with emotional tension and violence.

Chapter 7

In which Rosie has some photographs – and several liberties – taken by Tristram Bingley, the famous fashion photographer.

Chapter 8

In which Rosie and Penny undertake an assignment at the Ugawi Embassy and end up becoming the blushing brides of sensual Field Marshal Nbootin.

Chapter 9

In which Rosie and Penny escort two Dutchmen to an International Sporting Cup soccer match which deteriorates into violence and terrible sexual goings-on.

Chapter 10

In which Rosie retires to Chedworth Place, a country seat where, regrettably, sex is rampant.

Chapter 11

In which Rosie behaves in a most uncharacteristic fashion and comes up against a masked stranger.

About the Author

Also by Rosie Dixon

Copyright

About the Publisher

How did it all start?

When I was young and in want of cash (all the time), I used to trudge round to the local labour exchange during school and university breaks and sign on for any job that was going – mason’s mate, loader for Speedy Prompt Delivery, part time postman etc, etc.

During our tea and fag breaks (‘have a go and have a blow’ was the motto) my fellow workers would regale me with stories of the Second World War: (‘very clean people, the Germans’), or throwing Irishmen through pub windows (the latter apparently crossed the Irish sea in hard times and were prepared to work for less than the locals). This was interesting, but what really stuck in my mind were the recurring stories of the mate or brother-in-law – it rarely seemed to be the speaker – who had been seduced, to put it genteelly, whilst on the job by (it always seemed to be) ‘a posh bird’: “Ew. Would you care for a cup of tea?” ‘And he was up her like a rat up a drainpipe’. Even one of the – to my eyes – singularly uncharismatic SPD drivers had apparently been invited to indulge in carnal capers after a glass of lemonade one hot summer afternoon in the Guildford area.

Of course, this could all have been make believe or urban myth but, but I couldn’t help thinking – with all this repetition – surely there must be something there?

It seemed unrealistic and undemocratic that Timmy’s naïve charms should only appeal to upper class women, so I quickly widened his demographic and put him in situations where any attractive member of the fair sex might come across him or, of course, vice versa.

The books were always fun to write and never more so than when involving Timmy’s family: Mum, Dad – prone to nicking weird objects from the lost property office where he worked – sister Rosie and, perhaps most important of all, conniving, would-be entrepreneur, brother in law Sidney Noggett, Timmy’s eminence greasy, a disciple of Thatcherism before it had been invented.

One day I woke up and had a brilliant idea. Why not a female Timothy Lea? And so was born Rosie Dixon, perhaps a gentler, more romantic flower than Timmy; always bending over backwards to do the right thing and preserve herself – mentally of course, that was very important – for Mr Right, but finding that things kept getting on top of her. In retrospect I regret that I did not end the series with Rosie and Timmy clashing in a sensual Gotterdammerung, possibly culminating in wedlock. Curled up before the glowing embers they would have had much to tell each other – or perhaps not tell each other.

Anyway, regardless of Timmy’s antecedents and Rosie’s moral scruples it is clear that an awful lot of people – or, perhaps, a lot of awful people – have shared my interest in the couple’s exploits and I would like to say a sincere ‘thank you’ to each and every one of them.

Christopher Wood, a.k.a. Timothy Lea/Rosie Dixon

CHAPTER 1

When I get back from St Rodence I am thrilled because Penny has asked me down to stay at her country seat – or rather, her father’s country seat. It is just what I need to buck me up because I am very upset about the school closing down – especially with all the related unpleasantness. (For unspeakable details read Confessions of a Gym Mistress, published by Futura.) Chedworth Place sounds awfully grand and I know that the Cotswolds are very sought after. Mum and Dad went on a coach trip to a place called Bourton-on-the-Water and said that it was very nice except for the coaches parked everywhere.

Where we live in Chingford – or West Woodford as Mum calls it because it sounds posher – is not very grand. Still, it is home and I am glad to be back there, even if it is my younger sister Natalie who answers the door. One has to excuse Natalie her flighty ways because she is going through an awkward age but I do feel that Mum and Dad should take a stronger line with her. This feeling is soon reinforced.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’

‘Who were you expecting?’ I say.

‘Nobody.’

I notice that two of her blouse buttons are undone and that there is a red patch on the side of her neck. I may be wrong but those look like tooth marks in the middle of it.

‘Why aren’t you at school?’ I ask.

‘We were going to have games but the pitch was too muddy.’ She looks over her shoulder nervously.

It has not rained for three weeks but I make no comment on the fact.

‘Do you mind if I come in?’ I say, allowing a trace of sarcasm to creep into my voice. ‘After all, I do live here.’

Natalie shoots another nervous glance over her shoulder. ‘Oh yes. Of course.’

This is so unlike the normal Natalie. She has not said anything rude yet.

‘You’ve got somebody in there, haven’t you?’ I say, nodding towards the front room.

‘A friend,’ says Natalie uncomfortably. She plants herself in front of the front room door but I put down my suitcase and step past her. A boy of about sixteen is sitting on the edge of the settee and staring intently at the telly. I notice that his hair is ruffled and his shirt hanging out at the back. Ten seconds after I have opened the door a picture appears on the screen. ‘He came to watch the television,’ says Natalie.

The boy turns his head for an instant and gives what might either be a nod or a nervous twitch.

‘Do you usually watch ‘Play School’ together?’ I ask. ‘And why only one shoe? Is it so that you don’t damage the carpet when you hop around to Mrs Cluckabiddy’s song?’

‘I had a stone in my shoe,’ says the boy. ‘You trying to be sarky?’

‘She never stops,’ says Natalie turning to me. ‘Do you want a hand to carry your suitcase upstairs? I’m certain you’d like to go and unpack.’ That is more like the old Natalie.

‘Where’s Mum?’ I say, ignoring the hint.

‘She’s gone down the Parkwood Hill Ladies Social Club.’

‘Oh, playing bingo?’ I say.

Natalie shrugs her shoulders. ‘’Spect so.’ She is making faces at her boyfriend and I notice that his shirt is hanging out of his fly. I get a nasty shock for a moment. I am about to go out when there is an enormous bump on the ceiling above our heads. My bedroom.

‘Who else is here?’ I say. ‘What’s going on, Natalie? Does Mum know about this?’

Natalie does not answer but goes to the door and shouts upstairs, ‘My sister is home, ’reen. You coming down?’

‘It’s either her or the ceiling,’ I say. ‘How often do you throw the place open, Natalie?’ Just at that moment there is a ring on the front door bell.

‘That must be Tiger,’ says Natalie.

‘He said he was coming on his bike,’ says the boy, producing a comb from his pocket and running it through his hair. He looks up at me and wrinkles his nose. ‘You don’t fancy going to the pictures, do you?’

‘You going to give me 40p, are you?’ I ask, sarcastically.

‘You want an ice cream as well, do you?’ he says.

‘It’s Sonia,’ says Natalie turning away from the lace curtain. ‘She’s brought some records.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ I say. ‘Does this go on every time you don’t play games?’

‘We help each other with our homework,’ says Natalie’s friend putting away his comb and stretching.

‘What homework?’ I ask.

‘We didn’t have any today.’

‘Natalie—’ I begin. But she has gone to open the front door.

In the end I have to stay with them the whole afternoon. It is probably just as well that I do because goodness knows what they would get up to by themselves. My bedroom is unbelievable: bedclothes everywhere and some hideously spotty youth prancing about in his underpants. The whole thing reminds me of that terrible time when I was attacked by the three greasers (Confessions of a Night Nurse). Fortunately, this lot are easier to control although I do get fed up with being called ‘grandma’. After all, I am still several months short of my twentieth birthday. About five o’clock they disappear as if by magic, and five minutes later Mum comes home. Natalie and I are doing the washing up.

‘Rose, dear! What a lovely surprise. We weren’t expecting you back till next week.’

I give Mum a censored version of the events of the last few days and she shakes her head in sympathy. ‘It’s terrible what they’re doing to the countryside, these days. There’s too many cars as it is. All these roads just encourage them. Fancy your nice school having to go. I think we read something about it in the paper.’

I do remember reading a headline saying ‘School boy gang-raped’ but fortunately this is not the one Mum saw. It was terribly exaggerated anyway and the boy told the doctor that he quite enjoyed it – till he lost count and consciousness. The Lower Fourth always were terribly high spirited.

‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do now?’ asks Mum.

‘She’s going to be a hostess,’ says Natalie before I can clap a hand over her mouth. I might have known that it was an act of insanity to tell Natalie anything in confidence.

‘Not an air hostess?’ says Mum looking worried. ‘I’ve just been reading this book called The Jumbo Jet Girls and I wouldn’t like to think—’

‘Oh no, Mum,’ I say. ‘Nothing like that. Did you—’

‘Going out with strange men,’ says Natalie. I wonder how long you get for killing your sister, these days?

‘Oh no,’ says Mum. ‘You’re not going to sit in some club, are you? The whole thing was exposed recently. I don’t want you drinking all that coloured water. You never know what’s in it.’

‘Natalie’s got it wrong,’ I say. ‘I’m going to be an escort not a hostess. There’s a world of difference. There’s nothing sleazy or unpleasant about what I’m going to do.’

‘What are you going to do?’ says Mum.

‘I don’t know all the details yet,’ I say. ‘Basically, the job consists of providing female companionship for businessmen or tourists who find themselves in London without a wife or loved one.’

‘“Loved one”?’ queries Mum.

‘I meant “loved one” in the loosest sense,’ I say.

Mum’s eyebrows shoot upwards again. ‘I don’t mean “loose” like that!’ I yelp.

Honestly! It is so difficult to explain, isn’t it? I could slap Natalie’s wrist for putting me in this spot – in fact I think I will when I get her alone upstairs.

Why Mum should be so worried I cannot understand. I have never made any secret of my moral standpoint, which is remarkably severe for these lax times we live in. Not for me the casual ‘easy come, easy go’ attitude which characterises Natalie’s approach to relationships. Every time I embark upon any form of contact with a member of the opposite sex I carry with me the realisation that I need to preserve the precious dowry of my virginity for my eventual ‘Mr Right’. How can any girl expect to be respected if she does less? – even more important, how can she respect herself?

But these are difficult times and it behoves one to develop a philosophy which, to those without a keen sense of moral values, might smack of compromise. It has always been my conviction that virginity is a state of mind, and this belief has carried me through many situations which might have placed an unbearable strain on those who had not selected their colours and pinned them to the masthead.

I can think of occasions on which I have lain powerless before the onslaught of some gigantic pussy pummeller and yet been able to endure the situation – nay, even draw some strange satisfaction from it – because my mind was pure from taint. I was able to perceive that I was in a situation not of my own making, or, alternatively, one that I had entered into for reasons other than those of personal gratification. In such circumstances, how could it be said that my virginity – my mental virginity – was affected? When the base Geoffrey plied me with drink, or I intervened between my sister and the greasers, my principle was never compromised. I was an agent of circumstance.

I am sorry to digress in this way but I think it important to get what you feel straight. I am certain that many girls would get much more out of life if they assessed their position and took a firm stand.

‘I don’t like the sound of it at all,’ says Mum.

‘Make up your mind when I get back from Chedworth Place,’ I say. I had expected the mention of such a posh spot to be received with a mild attack of drooling but Mum looks even more worried.

‘Where’s that?’ she says.

‘It’s in the Cotswolds,’ I say. ‘I’ve been invited to stay by my friend.’

Mum follows the trail ruthlessly. ‘Is she something to do with this escort business?’

‘Yes. She knows somebody who runs it.’

Mum wrings her hands. ‘Oh dear. I don’t like the sound of this at all. It’s difficult to know how to put it, but—’

‘White Slave Trade,’ interrupts Natalie, eagerly. ‘They’ll drug you and then you’ll wake up in a brothel in Port Said. Thousands of Arabs will be tasting the fruits of your body at knockdown prices.’

‘Natalie! That’s quite enough of that!’

‘It’s true, Mum. I read about it in the paper.’

‘Not in the Sunday Telegraph, you didn’t.’

‘You’re both jumping to conclusions,’ I say. ‘I’ve known Penny since we were nursing together. She’d never get involved in something like that.’

‘Well, let’s wait and see what your father says. I don’t think he’s going to like it.’ Natalie shakes her head in time with her mother and I could drag my nails down her cheek. The little baggage has always been the favourite, especially as far as Dad is concerned, and it is always me who gets the blame for everything. I waste no time in making my feelings clear and retire to my room in tears. Somebody has been using the perfume that Geoffrey gave me, which does not improve my mood.

Some of you may remember that Geoffrey Wilkes is my long-suffering boyfriend who has stuck with me through thin and thin. I know I treat him badly but he is so eager to please that he turns me right off. If you see a door mat it is difficult to avoid wiping your feet on it.

I don’t know whether it is telepathy or something like that but while I am lying on my bed, and thinking about Geoffrey’s funny little ways, and how sweet he is really, I hear the telephone ringing downstairs – it would be alarming if I heard it ringing anywhere else. Immediately, I have a strange feeling that it is Geoffrey. Amazing, isn’t it? It just goes to show that there are so many things in this life we can never understand. I wait with bated breath as I hear footsteps coming upstairs and prepare myself for the inevitable.

‘It’s your friend,’ says Natalie’s sulky voice from outside the door. Just as I thought! A new eagerness pushes my body from the bed and I trip downstairs rehearsing my greeting. The telephone is lying on the hall table and I pick it up and place it to my lips.

‘Hello! Rose here!’ I trill.

‘Hello. Did you get home without being raped?’

‘Yes,’ I say, bitterly.

‘You don’t sound very happy about it.’

‘It’s not that,’ I say. ‘I thought you were someone else.’ Of course, it is Penny, not Geoffrey. How typical of her.

‘If you’re expecting a call, I’ll get off the line.’

‘There’s no need. I just had a feeling, that’s all.’

‘Lucky you, old girl.’ Penny has a very crude streak which I try to ignore. ‘I was just ringing up to see if you’d like to come down this evening. There’s a train from Paddington at six. I could meet you at Oxford.’

I begin to cheer up. When Dad hears the news about my possible new job he will make Mum’s comments sound like hysterical enthusiasm. I don’t feel in the mood for a long inquest and a speedy departure to Chedworth Place will solve all my problems.

‘That’s very kind of you—’ I begin, trying to be polite.

‘Of course, if you’d rather spend a bit of time with your family, I’d quite understand. It’s just that I got invited to this party at St Peter’s Hall and I thought it might be fun if you came along. Shall I ring you in a few days and—’

‘I’d love to come,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Six o’clock, did you say? Right, I’ll be on it.’ It occurs to me that I am veering to the other extreme of enthusiasm but it doesn’t matter because Penny is already describing the delights that the evening has to offer.

‘… bumps supper, throwing up everywhere, some of the younger dons aren’t bad but they spend too much time postulating.’ I blush at the end of the telephone line. Penny is a great one for indulging in revealing detail. As far as I am concerned, what the younger dons do in the privacy of their rooms is their own business. We live in the twentieth century and provided that it does not hurt anyone else I think that people should be allowed to do what they like.

Despite the questionable behaviour of the junior dons the thought of visiting Oxford appeals to me tremendously. I have always dreamed of going to one of those big balls when everyone dances on the lawns and drinks champagne till the early hours of the morning before climbing into a punt and rowing down to Rochester for breakfast. I wonder if Penny’s party will be like that? Whatever happens, it will be marvellous to see the inside of an Oxford College. By the time I put the telephone down, I am really excited and I can hardly wait to see the expression on Natalie’s face when I tell her where I am going. She will be green with envy. I am on my way to spread the good news when the phone rings again. Curse the thing! I have not got a lot of time to waste if I am going to catch that train.

‘Hello,’ I say, slightly irritably.

‘Rosie? Is that you? It’s Geoffrey here. What a smashing surprise. I was ringing up to find out when you were coming home?’

‘In a few days,’ I say. I wish I could sound more welcoming but I am a bit annoyed at how Geoffrey let me down when he turned out to be Penny. It is a very shabby thing to interfere with someone’s telepathy.

‘But you are home,’ says Geoffrey sounding puzzled.

‘I’m going down – I mean, up to Oxford,’ I say, practising the delivery I will be using with Natalie. ‘I’m going to stay with some people in the country.’

‘Are you free this evening?’ says Geoffrey. ‘I thought we might go to the flicks. There’s a smashing movie called Confessions of a Window Cleaner. Very funny.’

‘Confessions of a Window Cleaner!?’ I say. ‘Do you really think I’d go and see something like that? I can just imagine what it’s like. Nudity and filth.’ How insensitive of Geoffrey to mention something like that when I have told him that I am going to Oxford. He exposes himself sometimes.

‘It was just a thought,’ he says. ‘We could always go and see “Thud”. It’s a fearless exposure of the man behind all the fearless exposures of police corruption and brutality.’

‘Thank you, Geoffrey,’ I say, politely. ‘But I’m afraid my train leaves at six. There won’t be time to go anywhere.’

‘Oh dear. What a shame. I was so excited when I heard your voice.’ My heart softens. He is not a bad old stick. ‘Do you think Natalie would like to see Confessions of a Window Cleaner?’

My heart hardens. Not only insensitive but tactless to boot.

‘Why don’t you ask her?’ I say icily. ‘She’s just popped out to buy a tin of Valderma. She’ll be back in a minute.’ Something about my tone must tell Geoffrey that he has caused offence.

‘Don’t get shirty, old girl,’ he pleads.

‘Don’t call me “old girl”!’ I rant. ‘It sets my teeth on edge.’

‘Sorry, old girl – I mean, look—’ There is a pause while Geoffrey splutters. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t I run you to the station? It’s not an easy journey and it will give us a chance to have a talk. Also,’ Geoffrey begins to sound pleased with himself, ‘you’ll be able to see my new motor.’

‘Not that Japanese thing?’ I say.

‘No, I got rid of that. It occurred to me that it was a bit unpatriotic to run a foreign car when our motor industry was struggling.’

‘What made you suddenly think of that?’

‘Some bloke kept chucking notes through the windows.’

‘I can’t see why that influenced you.’

‘They were wrapped round bricks.’

Poor Geoffrey! He does seem to attract trouble like a magnet. I should be warned really.

‘The doors were very difficult to open from the inside, weren’t they?’ I say.

‘No handles, you mean?’ says Geoffrey. ‘Yes, I think that had something to do with it being made by the people who turned out those Kami Kaze planes.’

‘Uum,’ I say. I am thinking about Geoffrey’s offer. It is a long way to Paddington and a lift would be a big help. ‘Do you think you could get round here in half an hour?’

When Geoffrey turns up it is in an old Daimler that looks like a hearse. I feel that I am going to be taken to Paddington cemetery rather than the station.

‘Plenty of room, eh?’ says Geoffrey proudly.

‘Have you got the other one in the back?’ I say. ‘It’s enormous.’

‘Guzzles petrol but it’s rather a splendid old bus,’ says Geoffrey. ‘Have you got your case?’

Mum pops out the minute that Geoffrey crosses the threshold, because she reckons that he is a wonderful catch for me. ‘Isn’t she a lucky girl?’ She trills. ‘Always gadding off somewhere. My, my. Isn’t that a beautiful old car. Is it yours, Geoffrey?’