I nod. “Yeah. But I…”
“A medical will have to confirm.”
I nod again. “Sure.”
The biggest smile creeps across Claude Finch’s face, and it’s scarier than the scowl he was wearing before. “You want me to put your sweet little cherry on the market? First time goes to the highest bidder? I hope you’re not playing games with me, sweetheart.”
No. I want my sweet little cherry to go to Alexander Henley.
I can’t say that, so I smile instead. “Yes. That’s what I want. Please.”
He laughs. “Alright then, Miss…”
“Randall,” I lie. “Amy Randall.”
“And you brought ID with you, Miss Amy Randall?”
I dig my fake passport from my clutch bag, hoping beyond hope Dean’s dodgy friend delivered a decent forgery.
Claude nods as he looks it over, and then he slams it onto the photocopier at his side. “For my records,” he says. He taps away on his keyboard, and I wish I could see his screen. He pulls a face. “Good, good. I see you have a good credit rating, Miss Randall. We like that. We don’t take… desperates.”
I keep smiling, my foot tapping in mid-air as he leans down to a desk drawer. I hear the rattle of keys, and my breath hitches as he presents me with a questionnaire. I lean to take it but I can’t stop staring at the camera in his hand, some high end digital thing. It lights up as he angles it towards me.
“Are you, um… is that for pictures of me?”
“Video. Call it a brochure. Just fill in the questionnaire first so I know how to catalogue you.”
Catalogue me.
I recognise the tick boxes on the form. I’ve seen them listed under the girls’ photographs in Mr Henley’s beside drawer.
I remember Cindy’s words. He keeps the ones with fewer ticks, just so you know.
I hand the form back untouched. He looks at me like I’m a total idiot.
“No, sweetheart, you have to fill those in. Check the ones you definitely won’t do. Err on the side of caution.”
“I have,” I tell him.
He laughs. “Amy, sweetheart, if there’s any terms you don’t understand you have to ask. Believe me, you’ll want to know what you’re signing up for.”
I shake my head. “I understand them all, and I’m done. I don’t want to tick any boxes, thank you.”
His expression is strange, a weird mixture of bemused and excited, his eyes glinting in the glow of his banker’s lamp.
“Miss Randall, I’m going to be frank here, my clients have extreme tastes, some of these men will be looking for these services, and they’ll expect you to deliver.”
I tip my head. “Will any of your clients kill me, Mr Finch? That’s all I really need to know.”
He scoffs at me. “Good God, no. What kind of agency do you take this for? If you’ve got some kind of fucked up suicide wish, this really isn’t the place.”
I laugh, because this is crazy. This whole thing is insane. “No,” I tell him. “I mean if I’m walking out of there alive, then I’m good. I don’t care what else they want to… pay me for…”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re willing to say that in your introduction video? That you’re hard-limit free?”
I nod. “Sure, if that’s what you… want me to do.”
He’s really excited now, and I know it, trying to hide his grin under a steely nonchalance, but it’s too obvious. He’s practically slavering.
“Well then, Miss Randall.” He points to a chaise longue at the back of the office. “You’d better make yourself comfortable.”Claude flicks on a table lamp at the side of me and I sit in the glow, perched awkwardly on the edge of his chaise longue while he fumbles around with the settings on his camera. I’m still not really sure what he wants from me, and it’s all I can do to breathe, in and out, holding onto the single little thread of composure keeping me from freaking out.
“Take your jacket off, please.”
I shrug it from my shoulders and he takes it from me. He hangs it on a coat stand.
“And your dress.” My eyes must look like saucers, because he shakes his head. “No need for shyness, Amy, believe me, the real experience will be considerably more intimate.”
I have to stand to shimmy my dress up and over my head, and I’m glad I chose my very best underwear. I’m in pink lace, a cheap but pretty set I bought from the discount store on our estate. The bra is slightly too small, but I guess that’s ok, because Claude’s staring at the spill of flesh over the top of the cups, and he looks pleased as Punch.
“I need you to be yourself,” he tells me, and I nearly laugh out loud. Like anyone could be themselves in this place, bared in skimpy underwear while some random old guy pulls out a video camera. “Just relax, we have time to do a few takes if necessary.”