‘He won’t, he’s asked me to find out your fees then escort you to a private room in the hotel.’
‘He’s pretty demanding and presumptuous, isn’t he? Well, you tell him the price is $350 per hour and it’s a two-hour minimum. Cash only.’
‘I’m sure that will be fine with him. Go have another dance. I’ll have a private word with our friend.’
Damn, I thought, that was too easy. I should have asked for more.
An hour later I was escorted by one of the bar staff to a room overlooking the lights of the coast. Inside the room was a bottle of champagne, chilling, and the leader of one of the opposition parties—let’s call him Craig. I had seen him on TV a number of times.
I was so nervous, it felt like it was my first time. I wasn’t sure what to say or, more importantly, what to call him. The door suddenly closed behind me and I was truly alone with this great, charismatic man. Then he spoke.
‘Thank you for coming. Now what would you like me to call you?’
‘You can call me Cleo. What do I call you?’
That threw him off guard, and he instantly assumed I was a complete political ignoramus, when I was only asking if he had a title.
‘Cleo, you may call me Craig. When David told me you were available I couldn’t believe my luck. From the moment I walked into the room you were all I saw. You dance like you’re telling the most intriguing, captivating story I’ve ever heard. I just couldn’t take my eyes off you or concentrate on what the other gentlemen were saying. Mind you, they were equally captivated.’
‘You must be a politician, you’re so smooth with your words. But go on, I’m enjoying listening.’
He poured champagne into a beautiful flute, and invited me to sit with him. I found myself getting aroused. He was very handsome, but the attraction I felt came from a different place altogether. He had a commanding presence, a relaxed but controlling personality, with a hint of chivalry. The power he gave off was almost tangible, I could taste it even in this small room away from cameras and speeches.
We both knew what we were there for, yet he made it a seduction.
Contrary to what you may think, not all politicians are as boring in bed as they are on TV. Craig was an attentive, generous and consummate lover. Yet he was also completely controlling. I was in awe.
Two hours became four. I thought my watch was wrong. It felt as though I had only been there for the briefest of time. The sun was peering through the curtains when I decided to shower and make my reluctant exit.
‘Thank you for the most delightful of evenings, I earnestly hope our paths cross again,’ said Craig.
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Should I volunteer my phone number? Should I ask him when he was next coming to town? Should I suggest that I could leave my number with the club manager so that he could get in touch with me? But I did none of that. As much as I would have loved to see him again I knew that I had no right to force myself upon him.
‘I had a lovely evening; it was truly my pleasure to have met you.’ I grabbed my coat and opened the door to leave.
He called from the bed: ‘Cleo, aren’t you forgetting something?’
By the time I had turned to his direction he was walking naked to his wallet.
‘Let’s just call it an even thousand, shall we, as long as you promise to give me your number.’
That was the first and last time I ever forgot to get my cash. With my number logged away in his phone I closed the door and floated all the way home.
We caught up every time he came to town and sometimes he would fly me down to see him. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. But despite all the money he gave me, he never got my vote.
27
Green Neighbours
On the days I wasn’t working, I would get together with my neighbours for coffee. They were mainly single mothers trying to live on a budget like me. Occasionally we would go out together but mostly we would lie by the communal pool and talk while we watched our children swim.
Every time they came over they would notice a new appliance or piece of furniture. I would always volunteer, ‘Oh look what my dad just bought me.’ Or, ‘Mum bought a new one so she gave me her old one, isn’t it lovely? Why on earth would she need to replace this?’ Then of course there was the ever faithful line about my uncanny luck on the Melbourne Cup. To my face they bought every story I fed them, while behind my back they were discussing me vehemently. They knew what I was up to, and quite frankly did not approve. Not for any moral reason, but purely out of envy.