The Little Black Book

The little black book had little black writing.

In it were the names of his women.

Some of them were married, some were not.

Mrs Angeline Chetty on Thursday, Miss Caroline Major on Friday. Sometimes two on one day, if he was lucky.

He closed the book and popped it reverently into the pocket of his well-tailored suit; Mr Mister in the Strand Arcade. He patted the pocket, pressed the remote to unlock the doors on his bright red Lotus Esprit and then, pulling up his trouser leg, he slid behind the wheel of his latest acquisition.

He dropped down the visor and looked at himself in the mirror and he adjusted his Rampley and Co tie, which he made lay smoothly against his crisp, white, Zink and Sons shirt. He stopped to assess his own face. At 52, he looked sophisticated and mature. The grey in his hair gave him a certain gravitas. This was part of what women paid for. It gave them confidence; made them feel like they were in safe, capable and above all, experienced hands.

The engine purred as he stroked the steering wheel. The smoothness of its leather sheath sliding between his hands. He thought again of Angeline. He had first seen her two years ago. She had worn a little black dress with little black heels. She had glided into the room, slowly undressing. He had cupped her left breast and felt it tenderly. In a low voice, he had told her the things she wanted to hear. He had also shocked her.

She paid his price, willingly, as they all did. Some left sadly, some joyfully, but they all got what they paid for.

Sometimes there were Men. Few, to be sure, but they were there, in his past. They were often shy, could not meet his eye, and worried what society would think should their visit be common knowledge. He gave them the same treatment he gave his women. They too were in his little black book.

His livelihood lay in this little black book. It allowed him to live his grand, if somewhat surprisingly lonely lifestyle. It also gave him great satisfaction – he never came away from a session with his women without feeling satisfied himself. A job well done! He enjoyed his job. He was just so bloody good at it.

He drove through the huge gates and into the underground garage. He pulled out the little black book and looked at it again with the respect it was due. Some would be surprised at the potential wealth within it; for that alone, many men would envy him.

Angeline said she would recommend a certain Mrs Caraway to visit him. An unexpected choice as he knew that she was with his friend Michael. But he knew that she would find his own service better. She could be worth more than $20,000 to him. Suits, shirts, good Brandy? Probably, but the money was not as important as the deed.

An extra $20,000 might mean a good holiday somewhere, but it would be alone. There was no-one he would trust to offer him what he offered others, not even Michael; and all the signs indicated that he now needed someone. A surprise $20,000, it didn’t seem that important any more. What do you buy the man who has everything?

Time.

He closed the car door and entered the waiting lift. He pressed the button to Floor Three, placed the little black book, once again, into his pocket and made his way towards the room with his name on it: Dr Bayliol, Breast Cancer Specialist.