Tim opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling, viewed from an unfamiliar bed. The room had the unmistakeable aura shared by hotel rooms the world over, sanitised, air-conditioned, comfortable yet not comforting. The curtains were obviously not completely closed, as enough pre-dawn light was trickling in to illuminate the room. He could see an anonymous painting of a ship, hanging above the head of the bed. Even upside down the ‘man of war’, for that is what it was, seemed both out of place for a bedroom and yet typical for a hotel chain. He turned his head and gazed at the fine brunette hair, long lashes and still glossy lips of the beautiful woman asleep on the pillow next to him. A narrow band of yellow light, that heralded the sunrise triumphantly breaking through the crack in the curtains, fell across her neck like a wound running from down-turned chin to earlobe. Her small diamond stud earring glinted and sparkled in its spotlight. He marvelled at the perfect smoothness of her skin and the lack of wrinkles on her neck as he watched her breathing gently, oblivious to the attentions of both the sun and Tim. The rumpled sheets did a poor job of covering her modesty. Tim’s attention shifted to the pert pale breast and cherry red nipple that was exposed.
He would have to get used to this sort of situation now he had chosen to play this dangerous game. The rôle of gigolo brought with it not only the frisson of sexual excitement that he felt looking at this delicious woman, but also a tinge of the fear of discovery. He knew that, as he moved through this new world, a world he had not even realised existed until a mere five days ago, he would have adventures – the wild sexual adventures that had attracted him to the rôle in the first place, but also more perilous adventures in this precarious existence. While he was with a client she would be engrossed in him and by him. He was a plaything, but well rewarded. However, he knew that some, if not most, of his clients would be using him in private while still maintaining their marriage or other relationship in public beyond the door of the hotel room. The room was a different, secret, place within the alternative world he had decided to enter. Outside, many of his clients’ partners would be oblivious, others would be suspicious, some would be jealous. Those who didn’t take kindly to being usurped as sexual gratifier, may even try and take revenge. He had been prepared for the consequences of playing this game. He had chosen to join this world with his eyes open.
He continued to gaze at the serene beauty lying beside him. Frankly he was amazed that anyone this gorgeous should need the services of a gigolo. Surely she could have her pick of men. Men who would be prepared to spend a fortune to impress her, please her, seduce her and pleasure her. Why did she feel the need to pay? He was intrigued, but knew he would never ask. Could never ask. The rules of the game were perfectly clear to everyone. No questions asked. A good time is what she wants, a good time is what he delivers. Her requirements are satisfied and his credit goes up. He had expected to be spending at least some of the time with women who would have trouble finding anyone to make them happy. Older, plainer (he had been tutored to say plain, not ugly), or with unusual (he meant repellent) habits or features. However, so far, it appeared the new world he now inhabited was populated by rich, beautiful and lusty women who found him attractive. The contrast with his normal (should he say normal, past, previous or other?) existence was quite breathtaking. What had surprised him was that they wanted to wine, dine and talk to him. They knew nothing about him and yet they wanted to talk. He had never mastered small-talk, yet in these scenarios he had suddenly found his tongue. He had invented a persona that would be infinitely more interesting than the small-town pharmacist living in a bare, featureless apartment in a bare featureless street. His character was larger than life. More than three dimensional. Did anyone believe a word he said? He had no idea. Did it matter? Not really. They wanted excitement, or attention, or affection. Most of all they seemed to crave sincerity and he had already learnt how to fake that. That surprised him too. If you were paying for someone to satisfy you, why would you ever think they might be sincere. Surely that was what real relationships provided? He didn’t have real relationships here, in this secret place, in this alternative world. It was all just a game. None of this was genuine. They would leave to go back to their husbands, partners, friends as if nothing had happened. He would leave and go back to his apartment. It seemed at once clinical, impersonal, unreal yet also sensual, erotic, even loving.
He shifted position slightly under the sheets. He was supposed to be awake when his client awoke. Yet he mustn’t wake her up. When she was ready to get up, they would get up. When she was ready to leave, they would leave. He was hoping to have time for a shower, but it all depended on what she wanted, and when. He was still gazing at her breast gently rising and falling with her breathing. He realised he was getting aroused. It would need to be a cold shower then! It wasn’t the done thing to walk around like that in his small town. People would talk. He would get noticed. There would be trouble. Still, he continued to watch the rise and fall, rise and fall. He could hear the gentle sound of her breathing. He wished that he could smell her perfume, taste the light sprinkling of sweat still glistening on her body as he watched so avidly, breathe in the musky smell of satisfied beauty. But he knew he couldn’t. He desperately wanted to reach out and touch her. Trace his finger around the beautiful curve of her throat. He would love to be able to gently caress that alluring breast, run his fingertips around the areola, stroke her nipple with his tongue, tease it and gently suck. But he couldn’t. She must wake up in her own time. He had no choice but to lie here quietly and wait. He could at least watch her, desire her. He wished that he could wake up to someone like this in his other life (he’d decided to settle on other – ‘past’ and ‘previous’ weren’t accurate as he still inhabited that life when he wasn’t here, ‘normal’ seemed to suggest that this was somehow abnormal; all in all ‘other’ seemed to be the best choice). When he awoke in his own bed, his featureless bed, in his own, featureless, room, there was no one else there to look at. But he would be able to shut his eyes and remember this image, this scene.
She stirred a little. He held his breath, watching her eyes to see if she would open them. They flickered briefly behind the eyelids, but remained closed. She moved her arm and in the process dislodged more of the sheet. Now he could see both of her breasts rising and falling with her still gentle breathing, as well as her stomach. The soft downy hairs on her abdomen shone golden in the sunlight that was increasingly filtering in between the curtains. The curve of her stomach, the dimple of her navel, all reflected the perfection of form that characterised this enticing woman. He let himself breath again and found that he was straining to see what else he could make out under the edge of the sheet. Like an adolescent schoolboy he was staring hard to decide whether he could see the beginnings of her pubic hair, the mound of Venus they always called it in those awful books he’d read as a teenager, or merely shadows. He couldn’t decide. Perhaps she would move again. He suddenly felt pathetic. He was supposed to be a gigolo. A professional. Yet he was thinking like a spotty youth furtively flicking through porn pictures in the park. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.
Just then there was a gentle tap at the door. A disembodied voice, muffled through the door and the short hallway past the bathroom, told him that breakfast had arrived. There was a click as the door was unlocked, followed by a slight creak from the hinges. Footsteps, soft on the plush carpet, but still audible, preceded the appearance of the waitress carrying a large tray. He watched as she put it down on the table in the corner of the room. A slight blonde girl, probably not yet even twenty, she looked at the woman in the bed as she turned to leave and struggled not to raise her eyebrows. He was surprised that she had so studiously avoided making eye contact with him. Was she embarrassed, or just more attracted to the beautiful creature laying at his side. Maybe she knew who he was, or at least what he was and why he was here in bed with this woman. He watched her walk back towards the door, appreciating the tightness of her uniform and the tautness of her slender young body inside it. As she disappeared from view he waited for the sound of the door closing. But it never came. Instead, he heard heavier footsteps approaching. Surprised, confused, he stared at the end of the hallway waiting to see who was coming in now. Suddenly a man in his mid thirties was standing there. He was obviously not hotel staff as he had no liveried uniform, just a loose jacket over an unkempt shirt and a pair of matching trousers. Tim couldn’t see his feet, but from the look of him and the sound of his footsteps he guessed he was wearing brogues. As Tim watched, unsure what was happening or what he should do, the man gazed at the supine woman in what looked like a mixture of disbelief and shock. His mouth had opened involuntarily and was now gaping. Tim could still not decide whether his best option was to remain in the bed, keeping his dignity under cover, or whether he should try and leave now. The credit transactions would be settled separately so he had no need to stay if this scene was likely to get unpleasant. By now he was sure that the man must be the husband or lover of his client; she was still serenely sleeping through the, albeit quiet, drama that was unfolding around her. It had to happen at some point, he just hadn’t expected it to be this early on. He had very little experience yet, compared to the others he had met who were doing the same as him. They talked in terms of levels, classifying themselves, as most societies do, to determine a hierarchy. He was the lowest level. A newcomer who had only just joined the game. Others had much more experience. But they had all been happy to give him advice in advance. At the moment, though, he could remember none of it. Fear was now kicking in, fear of the unpredictability of a jealous lover. He knew that French law had a specific name for it, crime passionnel. He wasn’t in France. He’d never even been to France, although his newly adopted persona had many tales to tell of days spent in Montmartre and nights in Pigalle. But both crime and passion knew no borders. He decided that he should not stay any longer than necessary, but at the moment the man was blocking the only exit from the room. He assumed that, as the room had air-conditioning, the windows would not open wide enough to make an escape that way – what’s more he had no idea how high up they were, he couldn’t even remember the room number let alone the floor. Watching the man carefully, Tim formulated his plan. As soon as this interloper moved away from the hallway towards the woman, who was on the side of the bed nearest to him, as he inevitably must, Tim would slide from the bed and run away as fast as possible. Was he still wearing any underwear? He didn’t know, he’d soon find out. Maybe the waitress would still be outside and she could help him to hide somewhere. Otherwise he would need to head for the stairs and find a store cupboard on another floor where he could get a uniform or at least a towel.
While Tim was planning his escape, the man had closed his mouth. He hadn’t completely regained his composure as there were tears in his eyes and he was shaking, although he was trying hard to control himself. In a quiet voice he was saying “Katherine, Katherine.” He reached down and grabbed her left foot through the sheet, shaking it to wake her up. Tim could see a thin wedding band on his third finger. She slept on and he became louder, calling her name over and over like a mantra or a prayer. When she still didn’t awaken he dropped to his knees and crawled along beside the bed until his tear stained face was next to hers. He leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. She responded by absent-mindedly batting at her cheek with her hand, as if to wipe away an irritating insect. He caught her hand and, through his tears, called her name again, louder still, his voice choking. Meanwhile, Tim had seen his chance. He knew he would only have one opportunity to get out. As he was aiming himself across and out of the room, he suddenly realised that there may be other people in the way. Would Katherine’s husband have brought someone with him to help deal with the situation, or would he not have wanted any witnesses to his shame and despair. Hoping for the latter, Tim looked towards the door as the hallway came into view. As he sped past the end of the bed, he could see the man look up abruptly at him. He could feel the hatred in those eyes even in that split second. He kept going. He must get out of the room. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, as if those hate-filled eyes were already burning into him like laser beams. Once through the door he looked along the corridor and saw a sign pointing to a staircase to his left. He knew he had to run as fast as he could and as he made it to the stairs he looked back to see his nemesis stumble out of the room into the hallway. Tim dashed through the doorway, and, glancing both up and down, decided that down would offer more options. As he started towards the first step down he thought he heard a sharp crack behind him. He raced down the stairs, images of steps, banisters and walls flashing in front of him. After eight flights, which he guessed must be two storeys, he stopped and opened the door to a corridor. Stepping out gingerly he noticed a door with no number, right next to the stairs. It opened for him and inside were supplies of toiletries, tissue and towels. Immediately behind the door was a mop in a bucket, a dustpan and brush and a broom. On the wall next to the broom handle were half a dozen towelling dressing gowns hanging on hooks. Just what he needed.
Some thirty seconds later he was out of the store cupboard and racing to the lift wearing one of the dressing gowns. If he could get downstairs to the lobby and outside he was sure to be able to find a taxi to get away from here. He watched the lights above the lift doors slowly count down, then heard the double note chime as the lift stopped at this floor. The doors opened, he walked in, turned around and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Feeling the tension subside, he was sure that his escape was now inevitable. But the lift doors didn’t seem to be in any hurry to close. Starting to worry again he looked at the floor indicators to see what was happening. As he turned his attention back to the corridor stretching away from him, though, he saw the stairway door fly open and the man who he was now assuming to be Katherine’s husband run through. Desperately hoping the doors would soon shut he was appalled when he realised that the man was now carrying what looked like a gun. He’d never actually seen a gun in real life, so he had no idea what sort of gun it was or what its range or accuracy might be. He stepped backwards, as if that might make any difference, watching in impotent horror as the man raised his weapon, aimed it straight at Tim and fired. What happened next seemed to Tim to be in slow motion. He could almost see the bullet heading for him but couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. Finally the doors of the lift slowly started to shut, but he knew the bullet would get to the opening before they could close it. He held his breath one last time and, in dumbfounded anticipation, waited for the inevitable. He felt nothing but knew the bullet had hit him. As the doors slid shut he heard the canned music fading along with his vision until all he could see were two words glowing. “GAME OVER”.