FF Clare Ashton - After Mrs Hamilton

Golden Crown Literary Society Award winner - After Mrs. Hamilton - a twisting tale of sex, secrets, and obsession.

Clo is leading a loveless life as a high class escort for women. She's always had a dream of the ideal partner, but after a bad experience with love when she was young, figures she is better off on her own. Right now, she's supposed to be meeting her best friend. But tonight, Clo has to work.

It's early evening and Mrs. Hamilton waits for an escort on the balcony of her London hotel suite. It's cold, and she feels ice in her veins that has nothing to do with the chilly air. Too much pain, betrayal and lost desire. What is she thinking, that the touch of a stranger will heal her broken past? But her appointment is with Clo, and the touch of this beautiful young woman lights torches Mrs. Hamilton didn't know she carried. Clo doesn't even feel like a stranger. She feels dangerously like someone Mrs. Hamilton wants to know.

But love, passion, and desire never seem to know the right time, or place. Neither do secrets, especially when everyone's keeping them, as call girl Clo and her friends are about to find out. From London to Oxfordshire, the past collides with the present with repercussions no one could imagine or will ever forget.

"This is what I've been looking for in lesfic since I started reading lesfic." - C Spot Reviews

"Her storytelling is superb." Terry Baker Reviews

"You will come for the sex, but you'll stay for the substance." - guerillabookworm.com

306 Pages - November 2.012

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Sample

Part 1. Friday Meetings

1.

Marella was having a bad day at work.

She sat in the lounge of one of her favoured Mayfair hotels. Mrs Hamilton, the only name the client would give, sat on the other side of the coffee table. She looked calm, assured and measuring. She sat elegantly cross-legged in the armchair, lit by the low autumn sun through the window. She held a cup of coffee above a saucer and appraised Marella from behind a pair of sunglasses.

Marella assumed the same look with difficulty, spending too much effort on stopping herself from leaning forward, crossing her arms or tucking and hiding her legs under the chair.

‘You're not from England are you?’ Mrs Hamilton said. This was the wrong way around. Marella should be the one asking the questions, to elucidate the client’s needs.

‘No. Poland.’ She paused. She felt drawn into replying in the woman’s silence. ‘But I've been living in London for ten years now.’

‘Do you like it here?’

Marella didn't want to answer and nodded, limiting the conversation. She avoided divulging too much about herself with her clients. It clouded the impression they gave her if they started to tailor their personalities towards her. She needed to see their fresh, instinctive responses.

The first five minutes were the most important for watching the client in the raw. First Marella watched their responses to the doorman, the receptionist, the waiter. The first-timers often looked uncomfortable and kept interaction to a minimum. They thought this made them less noticeable. But underneath the predictable furtive behaviour, they still gave away their inclinations, background and expectations. Did they look the doorman in the eye? Did they thank the doorman? Did they choose the male or female receptionist? She was already building a picture before they reached her table.

Marella dressed neutrally, business-like, to deter the client’s inclination towards her. She allowed them to settle and watched their reactions to their surroundings while she procrastinated and chose from the menu. Her choice of waiter was purposeful, made to give more detail to some impression already gained from her client.

But Mrs Hamilton had ignored the doorman and had waited to be attended by either receptionist. She had offered no second glance to the Australian waitress who took her coat, or to the young Spanish waiter who brought the menus. She had glanced around before sitting opposite Marella and had hardly removed a gaze that was half-hidden beneath her sunglasses.

She had been forward and asked confirmation of her identity. ‘Marella. No?’

Marella tried to determine Mrs Hamilton’s accent. There was a hint of European flavour beneath an English accent that tripped and drawled over the odd American phrase.

She was tall, perhaps a little overweight, with a figure that would have been athletic in her youth. Her dress was made from fine-woven, soft, cream fabric, cut elegantly and held by a narrow belt round her waist. She wore a little jewellery and makeup and her perfume smelled like a lighter Chanel No 5.

Every detail about the woman suggested sophistication, confidence and money. She was perfectly turned out for a morning appointment.

‘You are very beautiful,’ Mrs Hamilton said, as a matter of fact. ‘To be expected, I guess. I suppose.’

Again Marella felt disarmed and under scrutiny. ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to gain the upper hand by accepting the compliment.

Marella was naked in front of this client. Her stomach muscles were clenched with tension that radiated out to her shoulders and arms. She felt cornered and unable to shake off her rigidity without giving away her discomfort. She sipped her coffee and released her tension under the guise of appreciation.

‘They serve very good coffee here,’ she said.

Mrs Hamilton shrugged. ‘Passable, I suppose,’ she said, but she refused to be diverted from her study of Marella. ‘Have you always done this kind of work? Were you always, ah, an escort?’ Her voice had an edge.

Marella tensed further. She was tempted to walk away. If the woman had not been referred by a trusted, long-term client she would have left.

‘Not always,’ she said. ‘I do very little now. This...’ she spread her arms in front of her, ‘assessing people's needs and matching them is what I do.’

‘So you do not attend clients yourself?’ Mrs Hamilton had spoken quickly and looked uncomfortable for the first time.

‘No. I don't take new clients, and I never take female clients. I have a number of colleagues who I can recommend. If I can, I will match you with one of them. I'm sorry if this arrangement wasn't clear to you.’

Mrs Hamilton did not shift her gaze from Marella's eyes. Marella was not sure if she had understood. She opened her mouth to repeat her terms but the client stopped her with slight raise of her hand. ‘How long ago did you stop taking new clients?’

‘A few years now. I'm surprised you didn't know. Finding the perfect escort is my speciality. That is what you are paying for. Your acquaintance, he didn't tell you this?’

Mrs Hamilton was silent and looked away. She did not fidget or touch her face, but Marella could see her chest move with rapid deep breaths. She waited for the client to compose herself, taking the opportunity to survey her unhindered.

Even distressed, Mrs Hamilton looked refined, covering her emotions with good breeding or training. Marella could not decide if she would describe her as beautiful. She guessed that she was in her fifties. Her hair was long and neatly tied back, streaming the streaks of iron grey from her forehead back over her head and the rest of her dark hair.

She had enviable bone structure, high cheek bones and an intelligent forehead. She had a strong jaw, but not so strong as to be masculine. From the side, no longer hidden by the glasses, Marella could see that she had long eyelashes and dark eyes – perhaps hazel, she could not quite tell. Perhaps it was just the colour of her face that detracted. Mrs Hamilton had a Mediterranean complexion, but she seemed drained somehow, sad.

Marella was beginning to be more at ease and in control. She offered, ‘Would you like me to assess your needs?’

Mrs Hamilton still looked away. Her expression was receding, her face becoming blank as her thoughts took her away.

‘Madam. Mrs Hamilton....’

The client came to, smiled with resignation and made a sharp exhalation through her nose.

‘Why not,’ she said. ‘Let's see what you can arrange for me.’

2.

Laura looked into her small terraced house behind the tube station in Wood Green. She kicked away a burger wrapper that had blown into the front garden from the street and stepped closer to the window. The back garden was glowing green in the sunlight through the patio doors. The kitchen-diner and small living room were dim and the sagging sofa that divided the rooms seemed to be a uniform dark shape. She looked to each side of the room, her eyes focussing on the canvas photos of flowers, but she couldn’t see her husband.

One last time she checked behind her and reached into her doctor’s bag for her keys. She stepped through the front door, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, and closed the door to seal out the noise from the street. She waited in the hallway, listening. The house was quiet.

She dropped her bag onto the cracked Edwardian tiles and ran up the narrow stairs to the front bedroom. With no time to shower, she started to tug her jumper over her head. Her chest heaved, out of breath, under her crossed arms, and she pulled off her top and slip and threw them on the bed. She unhooked her skirt and let it drop around her ankles. She took the first pair of jeans from a shelf in the cupboard and pulled them up, jumping up and down to squeeze the tight white material over her hips. The jeans were creased and she smoothed the thin folds with her palms, catching her wedding ring on the plastic crystals that made a heart shape over the front pocket.

Clothes hangers rattled in the cupboard as she searched for her favourite pink blouse. She flicked through the casual tops she wore at weekends and, with less hope, through the duplicate skirts and jumpers she wore for work that varied only by colour.

She turned to scan the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the duvet turned over on Josh’s side. Her pillow beside his was still puffed full. Her eyes flicked up at the mantelpiece to their framed wedding photo that looked over the marital bed. Josh stood proud in his hired morning suit beside his bride. His smile took over his whole face, all his teeth on show and his eyes creased. He had too much hair. Dark wisps were brushed over where he was now receding, and his skin was smooth where deep horizontal lines had recently crinkled his forehead.

Laura recognised that she had changed less in the eight years since their wedding at university. She stood beside him in the picture, stooping a little so that she did not match his height. She was smiling, with her lips shut, and her eyes did not meet the camera lens. Her long bleached hair was tied in a plait and drawn back over her dark roots. She wore it loose today, over her thinner face. Her cheeks, which still had puppy fat in the picture, were tighter across her cheekbones. She looked again at Josh, smiling at her from the photo, blushed under his gaze, and left the room.

The air smelled stale in the spare room at the back of the house. Her sleeping bag lay curled up like a maggot on the bed. She unzipped the bag and folded it out to air. From the corner of her eyes she saw her top, crumpled on the chair in front of the computer desk. She lifted it to her face and breathed in, wrinkling her nose at its mustiness.

A key scraped in the front door lock and she stiffened. She felt vulnerable, standing in her bra. She pushed her arms down the sleeves of the dirty blouse and struggled with the buttons. The door latch clicked open and the noise of cars and footsteps in the street flooded into the house. Shoes scuffed the hallway tiles and another doctor’s case was dropped to the floor. The latch clicked shut and the house was silent once again.

Laura stood still, repressing her temptation to turn and look out down the stairs. She hoped he would look for her downstairs first. If he searched for her through the living room, into the kitchen and garden, she might be able to escape.

The stairs creaked in the hallway and she heard his shoes scrape on the wooden steps. She counted twelve steps and then his shoes were quietened by the landing rug and he appeared in the doorway.

He looked tired. A deep crow’s foot was stamped on his forehead and the skin around his eyes was grey. Sweat patches darkened his poly-cotton shirt beneath his armpits and his arms hung heavy by his sides. He looked at her, taking her in, and then his shoulders sagged.

‘You’re not going out are you?’ he said.

Laura’s insides tensed and she clenched her jaw. She tried to sound neutral. ‘I told you I was going out tonight.’

‘Can’t you cancel?’ His eyes seemed sad and his face pleaded with her. ‘We really need to talk.’

‘We talked last night,’ she said.

He turned away and breathed out noisily through his nose. He opened his mouth ready to talk, but closed it again without saying a word.

‘I need to get ready,’ she said. She made a step forward out of the room and waited for him to step aside. He reached forward though, and lifted her hand from by her side. She could feel his large fingers stroking inside her palm. It was a familiar sensation, her caring husband reaching for her hand, but it made her shudder. She twitched her hand away, crossed her arms and kept her hands out of his reach.

‘This is getting serious Laura. Can’t you give Clo a miss tonight? For once? We really need to sort this out.’

‘I don’t know what more I can say,’ she said. ‘I’m just not ready and no matter how much we talk it over, I’m still not ready.’

‘But you’ve always said you wanted kids. I can’t believe you’ve changed your mind.’

Laura breathed in, taking a moment to calm herself and think. ‘I still want kids.’

The image of Josh running around in the garden, kicking a ball with a small boy, flashed in her mind. She could see Josh smiling, concentrating on the ball by his feet and kicking it to the boy who was turned away from her. She heard the boy laugh as the ball rolled by his feet, and he turned around towards her. He was still giggling, but his blank face had no mouth to laugh. It was featureless. His features moved and writhed under stretched white skin, but she couldn’t see who he was. Her stomach curdled.

‘I can’t do it Josh’. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips trying to massage the image in her head. She shook her head. ‘I can’t picture them.’

‘No-one can,’ he said quietly. ‘Nobody knows what their kids are going to be like. That’s part of the fun, having a whole unpredictable little person in your life.’ He was trying to catch her eye.

‘But at least people know where they’ve come from. They know that their ginger hair’s from their granddad. They know that they’re great at maths just like their granny. What am I going to be able to tell them?’

She stared at him, questioning. ‘I don’t know what illnesses they’ll inherit? I could be carrying some horrible genetic diseases.’

‘Oh come on Laura.’ He tilted his head to one side, ridiculing her worry. ‘Lots of people carry genetic diseases. When people only have one or two kids you’ve no idea what traits you might be carrying.’

She stared at him and could see him deflate as he realised that he had only harmed his case. He stared at the floor and she started to feel sorry for him.

‘Let me find them,’ she said.

He shuffled from foot to foot and crossed his arms, but still looked at the floor.

‘I can’t see how you’re going to get any further than last time,’ he said.

‘Let me at least try.’

‘But it could take years.’ His jaw was clenched and he squeezed his fingers into his biceps. ‘You could be too old to have children by the time you find them.’

Only she would be too old for children? She wondered for the first time whether he would leave her. She looked at his tense profile and wondered how far she was pushing him. She saw her devoted friend from school, the person she used to confide in, the person she told about every girl she had loved and sl