She’s not as young as the others, mid-forties I’d say. No precarious stilettoes, no fishnets, no vaudeville make-up mask. She wears sensible heels, a slightly loose-round-the-hips pencil skirt, a classy turquoise silk blouse.
I think she’s an office worker caught up in the wrong crowd. But no, she leans in to the slowing cars along with the best of them. She knows her stuff; it’s second nature. The professional smile flashes on, leaves her eyes alone. A real pro.
I can’t hear what she says over the traffic, but can lip-read enough. She’s not shy about the trade, knows her worth. Drivers shake their heads, move on to the cheaper packages, the ones who need the money for the pimp and the needle. Finally, she stands alone.
The Rolls Royce sweeps into view. Here he is, her target. No need to show her wares. Her eyes smile now. A rear door opens, out steps her man. She sashays slowly around the bonnet, tapping her nails lightly on its gleaming paintwork.
“A little late tonight. Five hundred, Mr Sloane.”
I hear her now; the street is empty.
“A steal, my dear. And my pleasure, as always.”
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Freya Writes... 