Nosey mums and escort girls
My mum was working at the table. She looked up at me, “How much is the rent on this apartment, Emma?” Here we go, and me one of the top London escort girls living the busy high life, I knew she was wondering how I paid for the rent.
“Well it is usually £2200 per month, but I get a 20% discount for taking out a long lease and for allowing for quarterly reviews. My outlay comes to around £2700 per month.”
I showed her the lingerie modelling photos. “With a day a week modelling and my own business, I’m making almost twice that each month, so don’t worry about me. I enjoy living here.”
I think she was quite surprised by the photos, but also impressed by how I looked. “Well, your dad and I are thinking about downsizing. We’re looking at bungalows on the South Coast. I think we’d enjoy it down there.”
I looked at her in surprise. I had no idea. “That’s cool, mum. I didn’t know you were looking for a change.”
She looked up, “We’ve got a deposit saved up for a house for you.”
I needed to remind her that I owned a flat in NW8. I took out the photos and showed her. “The thing is mum, I bought this flat last year, and I’m doing well. This will be my investment for the future. So, keep your money, put it towards retirement, or a long cruise, and just enjoy it. You earned it.” My mum took my hand and smiled at me, but I knew she was going to say something else, surely she does not suspect that I’ve been escorting?
“So do you like Vlad? He really likes you, I can see it in his eyes. I told your dad about him and he doesn’t mind who you go out with as long as you are happy and he hasn’t got any other girls on the go.”
Well, getting parental approval wasn’t high on my list, but wasn’t she assuming a little too much?
I wasn’t going to tell her about the Paris trip. Her next question seemed to hover in her for a few moments before she asked, “So what does he do for a living, his accent doesn’t sound like he’s lived in London long?”
I paused and put my magazine down. All I knew was that he owned a few apartments that were rented out; in St. John’s Wood, Hammersmith and South Kensington. The only other thing I had gleaned was that he was an investor in a property development business in Paris. That was the meeting in Paris he’d attended.
“So he’s a millionaire then?”
“I guess so,” I replied as I munched on my apple. I didn’t know whether or not he was mortgaged to the hilt, as that was none of my business. I also dare not tell my mum that his apartment was worth £3 million at least. My rented flat was a drop in the ocean to him.
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