Author's Note: I thank my readers and fans for supporting me with this story. I have changed the initial plot because I have the feeling that whatever I write comes true in real life in some uncanny way, paralleling the characters in my story. It could well be a coincidence. I know that this is irrational. I am writing purely fiction, but still, I feel more comfortable changing the plot. My mind is over-imaginative. Forgive me for that. I hope that you enjoy Chapter 3.
*****
Chapter 3 - The Loves of My Life
The next morning, I woke up feeling extremely jet-lagged, as if I had travelled from the other end of the world and landed right here in the suburbs. I had slept earlier than I usually did. I had left at the chime of midnight and arrived at my doorstep barely fifteen minutes later, thanks to the lift by Pablo. I thought of Cinderella, only that I was my own saviour, and my prince was Pablo, the security personnel from the agency.
I used to dream of being rescued by a prince charming who would solve all my worldly problems. As I grew older, I realised that there was no such thing as a prince charming although I could say that there was, in a faraway country, a long time ago, one damsel in distress. She waited and waited, but no one came. That was the artifice of fairy tales. They inhibited the female from being the creator of her own destiny. They all had to wait for the dashing male counterpart to make them complete.
I had waited no more. I had pulled myself together and decided, three years ago, that this life was something I wanted to revisit again, albeit from a different perspective. I was generally content since then. Now at the end of the third year, thoughts of quitting at my zenith had arisen. I could always revert back to my previous job. It neither needed the beauty nor the body. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, the poet Keats declared. Being the romantic he was though, I thought that he overlooked that, alas, the beauty of the human body was bound to age and wither away. In the escort business, a thing of beauty is a joy to go.
I did not want to go downhill from here because I know every peak has a decline. Perhaps there were signs that it started two days ago. Mr. Boardmann was my most difficult client to date, and he, without any inkling to, had stirred up my feelings of insecurity and inadequacy. He was not a friend; he was but a client. Even his name Matthias, ironically, had seemed like a very biblical name to me, but he was more like a devil in distress wondering what was good and what was evil in life.
I had to rid those feelings from affecting me. I wanted nothing to do with him outside our allocated time but I found myself thinking of him. If I could not stop thinking about him, it meant that he disturbed my inner balance. I went back to my Buddhist teachings. I gave myself time to think about him instead of swatting those thoughts away like a pesky bug. I l glanced at the clock. I gave myself fifteen minutes; the exact amount of time I would allocate for a meditation session. During this time, I could think about him in all abandonment. After the time was up, normal routine should resume again without any glitches of his presence into my mind. Those were the days of my not so distant youth when I thought I could rid thoughts by compartmentalizing them in terms of time.
He had devilish wolf eyes, and wolves were dangerous. They howled at the moon. My moonstone did not protect me against him. I did not believe that one in possession of a gemstone would be protected, really. Despite the fact that I had it around my neck and wore it at all times, it was a keepsake from my mother, and I treasured it dearly. I was far too cynical to believe in the magic of the moon, yet I did believe that all around us is the miracle of life. Therefore beyond sight and senses, there must exist something far greater and powerful than each and every one of us. I believed that my fragile cosmic balance was shaken due to his forceful personality which was poles apart from mine. The light of my strength was not strong enough against his brute force.
Our conversation yesterday went much deeper than I would have wanted it to. I wondered why I thought about him and the essence which triggered those thoughts. I brainstormed for answers. He had provoked a renaissance from the depths of my mind, and my heart. I really ought to know myself better. I thought about him; the way his eyes pierced mine and his difficult questions. Propped up by my own fluffy pillow on my bed, I came to a realization that whilst I thought about him profoundly and deeply, I had wanted to understand myself better too. Stripped bare, all was left were the feeling of profoundness in the scenarios of the previous two nights. I replayed these over and over again. This realization confused me even more because I could not work out the solution from there.
It dawned upon me that my reaction was the one that needed fixing. It was how I felt which made me uncomfortable with it all. And how did I feel? I felt that he was glimpsing into my world and my thoughts. These were private.
The fifteen minute thinking about Mr. Boardmann session was up. I got out of bed with an agile leap and thus started my standard, official routine with a cup of coffee.
I have my own version of happily ever after now - at least with where I live. After six years in different parts of the continent, I moved back into this peaceful neighbourhood here, just ten kilometres away from the heart of the suburb where the fancy restaurants were. I have a spacious, single-storied cottage house with an equally huge garden. There were endless possibilities with what I could do with it. But just like Mr. Boardmann who had not gotten round to learning to play the piano, I had not done anything other than get a bed for myself and the basic furniture I needed.
I had all these vague ideas in my head of what I would like, but I did not precisely know what I wanted. I only knew what I did not like. From there I made my deductions. Apart from obvious standard stuff which was still missing such as the television, I knew one thing for sure- I wanted a piano in the house. There was enough space for it. It did not matter if my fingers were as stiff as rocks or if I were the world's greatest pianist. I wanted it white. It would shine like pearls and match my moonstone. The piano and moonstone would be my jewellery set. I had no love for jewellery which women wore. I thought that they were unnecessary weight and a distraction to the face. The moonstone necklace was the only jewellery I wore.
I concentrated my attention to the corner of the wall which I had already repainted. I had replaced the original white with a dark shade of lilac at the base of the wall, just above the marble floor. Then I had mixed the same shade with white to produce a lighter shade of lilac. From there, I kept on adding white until I reached right to the top of the wall. Where it touched the ceiling, the shade of lilac was pale and almost all white. I like to see the shades blend in together seamlessly to the extent where you cannot tell where one shade ends and the other begins. It was the swirls of movement upwards which I wanted to see. I felt at peace when I looked at the repainted walls.
I had intended to paint all the walls in the house; time being no constraint for me, for I generally spent my time at home during the day. Initially my fear of heights had prevented me from starting. For the first attempt, I had climbed the ladder although I was terribly afraid of falling down. While I was painting, I managed to forget about my fear because I was engrossed in creating swirls. Blending colours were really soothing! Feeling pretty satisfied with my work, I had tripped and sprained my ankle before touching ground because my attention was only on the walls. Luckily I was already almost down the ladder, and I did not fall from too high a height. However this incident had made me afraid of using the ladder once more. Once bitten, twice shy.
I was not one to take risks, especially if I had failed the first time. Therefore I had contacted painters after my fall. The three painters which have come and gone in the past two months said that it was too much of a hassle and too time-consuming for them to paint like that. Having declined my raised offer, they suggested that I get professional artists to do the painting. I had contacted a few artists from the area. They had informed me that it was not art, whatever I was doing. They told me to hire painters instead.
The artists and the painters had set me on a roller-coaster ride. I got quite tired with their excuses. To me, it was a simple paint job. Anyone could do it. I could have done so if I had not fallen down the ladder, igniting my own fear of heights again. About one week ago, I had sent an e-mail to the first company again, doubling my offer. I had yet to hear from them. Patience was a forced virtue in my case. The ball was rolling on their court and I was the desperate potential customer.
...
Upon reaching home yesterday, I had a cold shower, then a long soak in the bath to cleanse away my impurities. I thought of kicking myself out the habit as Mr. Boardmann and I did not engage in sex. Yet I felt I needed the cleanse even more than ever because it had been an emotionally heavy night. Mr. Boardmann; the said enigma was going to be the undoing of me if I were not careful. Thank God that we were all done. He had said that we were not to meet again.
One was apt to think that the conversation could have taken place in a business meeting- real business, and not the business of my current profession. The questions were difficult and bizarre, and needed prior consideration before they could be answered. Sometimes I like to forget that I was a call girl. I like to think that I was someone else. Maybe a company director too, a salesperson, a lawyer perhaps.
Although I thought he was a troubled, arrogant, ignorant character; (yes it was a mouthful, and in private I tend to go through a multitude of adjectives to describe people and things, so it really was not personal) I felt that part of his retort had been to mimic mine. Sometimes he spoke kindly, the same way that I would speak to him. I never wanted to use brash words. For the ears sake. For the quality of sound. Some words vibrated nicer into the ears. It sounded more melodious; each individual syllable having a resonance of its own.
My cleansing ritual ends with a cup of hot chocolate; triple-scooped, just the way I like it. See the contrast between cold and hot? Sometimes it was the other way round. I would have a hot shower, long soak and a cold cup of chocolate milk. In my loose, flannel pyjamas, sipping my hot/cold chocolate milk, I had never felt more at home and at ease with myself. These were the moments I enjoyed best. Solitary, but I did not feel alone. By choice, and very aware of it. It was very liberating because I was in charge of my world.
Perhaps it was the contrast between my work attire and leisure attire which made me more aware of comfort. I found that whilst figure-hugging attire with low cleavage augured well with clients, what worked best for me was actually a light, flowy cotton dress which swirled with the wind every time I turned around. I liked to see movement, therefore windy days and stormy nights were actually my kind of thing. Plus that musky saturation in the air!
I fancied pastel colours, especially in shades of lilac. Thus my call girl persona - Lila. Having decided on Lila and then googling aimlessly to see what results appeared, I found that lilac was the colour of deep spirituality and it signified the rise of consciousness. I came to live up to the colour's standards. It made me more aware of my inner self of wholeness. Suddenly I thought back of Mr. Boardmann. He just dashed into my mind and I felt a shiver through my spine. I hope that he may find peace somehow.
I was jolted (thankfully) from my thoughts of him when I saw Penelope at my picket fence. She had come for a visit, unscheduled. She could always join me for a late breakfast. I invited her in, and she asked me how it went with Mr. Boardmann. She said that Pablo noticed that I was not my usual self on the way home yesterday. He said that I seemed a little sad.
"What really happened yesterday?" She asked.
Apparently I was not to escape the subject called Mr. Boardmann this morning. He was the shroud of my thoughts like mist. I was getting confused about myself thinking about him.
"He didn't want to sleep with me. He wanted to talk again." I said.
"You did not call Pablo, so I would assume he was not violent?" Penelope asked.
