Anne Fitzwilliam, a fiftyish Englishwoman, has inherited a large house in Berkshire as part of the divorce settlement with her ex-husband. The problem is that the estate entails heavy maintenance costs.
Graham Cunningham, a society photographer, makes a lucrative offer. He has a web site featuring his models, offering some of them as escorts for selected well-to-do men. Graham convinces Anne to become an escort. Anne rents an apartment where she meets her clients.
Matters take a turn when she meets a coloured man, an acquaintance of her ex-husband. An initial sexual encounter leads to trysts in France and England. Even though Anne admits that she is bi-sexual, her lover wants a deeper relationship.
Anne is caught in a dilemma when her lover proposes that they relocate to Cornwall. She has another client, a property owner, who has proposed marriage with a pre-nuptial agreement guaranteeing her a lifetime fixed income. She has to, however, cut off relationships with her existing clients. How will Anne decide? Read the book to know what happens next.
WARNING 18+: This book contains material that may be considered offensive to some readers, which includes interracial relationships, graphic language, explicit sex, and adult situations.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I have always wanted to write a book about an Englishwoman since I have always been inspired by their female beauty. There is a type known as an English Rose: a fair-skinned face with slightly rosy cheeks and red or blonde hair. My inspiration was fired by the ideal of a lady of class who was cool on the outside and a sexual tigress in bed. In effect, my book is an ode to the beauty of Englishwomen.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
My main character, Anne Fitzwilliam, is based on an English escort that I actually met. The first encounter was one of sex for money but then we gradually developed a relationship. As in the book, my real-life escort had to choose between a marriage of convenience that offered her security and her personal liberty. She opted to marry a rich, old man and it broke my heart never to see her again. Writing this book was a form of self-therapy because it enabled me to relive my experience with my favourite escort.
They say that black men lust after white women. This is true in my case. I have a weakness for blonde ladies. When I look at such fair ladies, I fantasize about meeting that dream partner where sexual desire combines with romantic love for a mutual high that no drug can match.
I had that thought when the blonde in the Caffé Nero coffee shop at Euston railway station caught my eye. She looked familiar. I tried to remember where I had seen her.
Standing in line at the self-service counter, I could not take my eyes off her. When my turn came, the skinny attendant asked me in a French accent, “How can I help you?”
“I’ll have a flat white and a croissant.” While waiting for my order to be served, I sneaked another look at the blonde. She was with an elderly, grey-haired man in a blue blazer. They were drinking tea.
I sat on a free table in a corner to observe her. The man was saying something to her. The blonde took out her mobile phone from her handbag. Touching the screen with her index finger, she entered some information. She looked up at the man. The man nodded, got up and waved good bye.
Observing her closely, I was on the verge of placing her. She looked like Ian’s wife. Ian was an investment banker who had once invited me to his country home in Berkshire. His wife, Anne, bore a resemblance to the blonde but I was not sure.
The blonde was putting her phone back in her bag. It looked as if she was ready to leave. I gulped the rest of my coffee and went to her table.
“Pardon me but have we not met before?” The blonde, startled, looked up from her handbag.
“I am not sure.” She had a confused look.
“Do you happen to be Anne Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes. I am trying to remember where we met.”
“I know your husband, Ian. We met at a party at your place.”
I introduced myself and we shook hands. She was wearing a blue costume and black high heels.
“Do you also work at the bank?”
“No. I am a consultant based in Geneva. I did a feasibility study for Ian last year. After the assignment was completed, I was invited to Ian’s celebration party last April.”
“That was over a year ago.” She looked as if she was trying to remember the event.
“It was at your country home in Houghton Regis,” I said.
“Had it something to do with the Sunrise project?”
“Yes, Ian’s investment bank got the contract to handle the stock issue.”
Now she looked reassured and rueful at the same time.
“I am sorry. It had been a big party. I now remember Ian introducing me to a couple of people from abroad.”
“How is Ian doing?”
“I am no longer in touch with him. We have been divorced since a year.”
The news hit me like a shock. They had been a good-looking couple.
“I am sorry to hear this,” I said, feeling truly apologetic.
“It was Ian’s decision. He is now married to his secretary.”
I had always admired Ian but felt that he had made a mistake in divorcing Anne. After graduating from an Oxford college, he had done well as an investment banker in the City and just recently taken over as the managing director of a venture capital company. I had done a few assignments for him and found him to be fair in his dealings. He must have been very much in love with another woman to have left Anne.
“Where is Ian now?”
“He has moved to London while I am still living in our place in Bedfordshire.”
Their country house in Houghton Regis could have featured in an issue of Homes and Gardens as a residence with modern and traditional furnishings. Since they had no children, it was rather a big place for a single woman.
“I must leave now,” Anne said, looking at her watch. “I have a train to catch.”
“I will accompany you to the platform.”
“You don’t have to. I can manage on my own.” She got up, picking up her handbag.
“I have plenty of time. My room at the hotel will only be ready after midday and I am killing time at the station.”
We walked to the concourse and stood among the crowd of people looking on the large display board above the entrances to the platforms.
“Where are you going?”
“Leighton Buzzard,” Anne replied. I scanned the board and found a train leaving for Watford in ten minutes’ time.
“How will you get to Houghton Regis?”
“I work in Leighton Buzzard and have parked my car there.”
“Really? What kind of job do you have?”
“I work as an escort.”
I was not sure that I had heard right. We were surrounded by people, conversing in loud tones. The station public address system was announcing that a train had been cancelled. I felt embarrassed to ask her if she meant that she was really an escort, as I understood it.
“Can I take an appointment?” I smiled, hoping that I had not said anything that might upset her. She looked me in the eye and I could see that she was sizing me up.
“I thought that you were on a short business trip in London.”
“I can always juggle around my work schedule.”
She opened her hand bag and took out a visiting card. “You can call me at this number.”
I looked at the card. There was just a name – Anne Model – and a telephone number below the name, both engraved in black against a white background.
“My train has been announced. I have got to go.” She touched my arm and walked, turning briefly around to wave good-bye before she passed the platform barrier.
I looked at the card in my hand, determined to see Anne again.
Nick Shaw has been a passionate reader and writer ever since his youth. He has travelled in many countries and his books have a common theme: interracial relationships in the context of prevailing attitudes and prejudices.
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