Anonymous - Belle do jour:Diary of an unlikely call girl

Then I am surprised. By the end of the book-which I will not give away, because to relate what happens (though the ending itself is not a surprise) will diminish it-I am in tears. Something that did not happen to me broke my heart. That was how I knew I was capable of the feeling.

From time to time I read it again. Often when I am feeling alone. The end, it always comes in such a rush, always the same effect. mercredi, le 18 fevrier

It used to be simple to buy faintly embarrassing items and hide them in the rest of my purchases. Of course, this is not so much a clever ruse as a socially accepted fiction. No shop assistant is fooled by an extra-strength deodorant hiding amongst the oranges-it’s just not nice commenting on a single sore thumb in an otherwise unremarkable cascade of groceries. And we all have biological functions.

On the other hand, put too many of these in at once, and you’re cruising for jokes. A witness to my usual haul of cosmetic goods might suspect I’m buying for a minimum of six postoperative transsexuals. So there is one chemist I go to for normal things and another for everything else. Example:

Typical shopping at Chemist 1: shampoo toothpaste bath salts cucumber gel mask loofah scrubber which might, at worst, be expected to stimulate a solicitous, “Ooh, a facial mask? Treating yourself?” As opposed to

Today’s shopping at Chemist 2: tampons vaginal pessary (for irritation) condoms sugarless breath mints lubricant individual postwaxing wipes self-tanning liquid razor blades potassium citrate granules (for cystitis) which was met with the vaguely disinterested “There are halitosis remedies on the far end of aisle 2, if you’re interested.”

Bitch. jeudi, le 19 fevrier

The builders have moved on to the vexing problem of my freezer. This is a surprise, not simply because I would not have ascribed to them the expertise in complex internal condensers, but because I had no idea there was anything wrong with the freezer at all.

“What’s that noise?” one of them asked yesterday afternoon, distracted from his detailed study of a cracked floor tile (which I hasten to add he was the cause of-an unfortunate incident involving the installation of a new dishwasher while one of my more voluptuous neighbors elected to begin her daily jog).

“I don’t know,” I said, looking up from the paper. “The freezer, most likely.” Its occasional whirry cricket-sound is something I have grown used to and find rather comforting.

He opened the freezer door. “For the love of-when was the last time you defrosted this?”

Defrosted? Don’t they do that themselves if left long enough, as with the decade-old wellies at the back of the closet which I fully expect to have sealed any holes if and when I need them again? “Not sure I ever have done.”

He surveyed the wasteland landscape of icicle-coated bread loaves and mummified bottles of vodka. “Do you realize the buildup in here keeps the vacuum sealing mechanism from working properly?”

Whazzat? “Pardon?”

“The door doesn’t close. That sound is the freezer constantly trying to replace the cold air seeping out.”

It would explain the draft in the kitchen, anyway. “I don’t suppose this means I get a new freezer?”

“It doesn’t.”

“And I don’t suppose defrosting freezers is part of your remit?”

“It isn’t.”

Pity the neglect of household appliances does not warrant getting new ones off the landlady. I really must look over the contract more carefully come time to renew. So while the builder looked on during his break, sipping tea and enjoying the many and varied delights of one of the country’s finer tabloid dailies, I attacked the ice storm with hands swaddled in tea towels, vegetable knife at the ready, like some intrepid polar explorer or demented suburban cannibal-take your (ahem) pick. And the tile still hasn’t been repaired, either. vendredi, le 20 fevrier

A2 of the latex love, so happy in his newfound fetish, is extremely concerned about my romantic well-being. I do my best not to comment that if the alternative to being single is smelling like an explosion in a rubber factory, I’ll pass, thank you.

We met for a cup of coffee and to check out the talent in town. Or rather, he eyed the talent as I did my best to deflect the inevitable matchmaking.

“Over my left shoulder,” A2 hissed, and I looked to see who lay beyond. “No, don’t look straight at him. Just have a quick look.”

What was this, junior school? Do You Want to Kiss Me-Tick Yes or No. “You’re starting to sound like my mother,” I sniffed. “Anyway, too short.”

“How do you know? He’s sitting down.”

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Button-down blue cotton shirt, tucked into too-high trouser waist. “He probably has all the Patrick O’Brian novels too.”

“You have to be kidding.” A2 clearly cannot see the forest for the rubber trees. “You can’t reject someone on taste-no, not even on taste, on your assumption of their taste.”

“Can do, will do, done.”

Some minutes later as we picked at a shared pain au chocolat, he spotted another likely suitor. “On your left. Tall. Reading.”

I looked over. Sure enough, a long drink of water was unfurling his limbs under a table, holding a paperback copy of Requiem for a Dream.

“Not bad,” I mused. Oh wait-no. “Eep, smoker, forget it.”

“You’re going to reject someone based on that? But you’ve dated smokers before.”

“So over that,” I said. “If someone’s going to have an expensive, pointless hobby, I’d rather it was skiing. Or better still, buying me expensive, pointless things.”

“If you carry on like this, you’ll die alone.”

This from the person who once told me, aged twenty-three, that he hadn’t had sex in six months and was therefore taking himself permanently off the market. This from the person who perennially lusts after his first lover, whom he hasn’t seen since they were both seventeen. With friends like this, who needs relatives?

I scoffed. “What, at this wizened old age I’m already past it? Besides, my talc-coated friend, we all die alone anyway.” samedi, le 21 fevrier

There is a client, I’ve seen him twice now. Hard face, high cheekbones, water-clear eyes, and eyelashes to envy. A cool person, handsome in a harsh way, gentle. Smart. We talk about books, he’s an engineer of some sort and hates his job, and we talk about plays and films. I enthuse about Ben Kingsley in this or that role, about Anthony Sher. He half-smiles. No idea why he’s single. Perhaps he just wants to be alone?

I walked out of a block of flats toward the river to find a taxi. On the way to the taxi-stand I passed the entrance of a tube station, where a legless man was soliciting donations. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled,” he chanted.

A drop of sweat ran down the inside of my thigh, perhaps the only part of me that felt truly warm. When it reached the top of my stocking, I felt it soak in, dissipate. A moment later, the legless man’s voice again. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled.” His cadence was flat but sing-songy, in time with the beat of footsteps from people streaming around him. “Help the disabled, please help the disabled.”

I stood in queue but there were no taxis for a few minutes. A short, round man with overflowing plastic bags came up to me. “Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord?” he asked. It sounded like reflex, devoid of meaning, as automatic as a “hello.”

“Afraid not, Jewish,” I said. Stock answer. More a cultural than a religious thing for me, but usually sufficient to drive the crazies off.

He nodded in sympathy, his eyes never rising above the level of my shoulder. “The Jews wanted a king, and God gave them a king, but he was manic-depressive, you see, and would go out and hide in bushes screaming at people.”