‘For a short-time booking, I take the initial $200, for an overnight booking I will take an extra $150 from you. If he decides that he only wanted dinner you will still get $90 from his $200 booking fee.’
I was blown away. It seemed like a lot of money for such a brief encounter. But who was I to argue? We shook hands and I arranged to come back at seven that evening.
Not wanting to be late, I got there twenty minutes early. I soon realised that arriving at seven was Mr Peters’s rules, not the girls’ rules—none of the other girls arrived until seven thirty or even much later. As the girls arrived my nerves started to twitch. They were all so stunning! And the few who weren’t had bodies to die for. I felt so out of place. The girls had come from all over the world: Russia, Hungary, Poland, Bosnia, Australia, Brazil, Belgium, Austria, South Africa, London, Malaysia, Indonesia and the Philippines.
I noticed that no one seemed to talk to each other, they just sat there reading magazines, commenting on the clothes in their respective languages. I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable with everyone ignoring one another. The only conversation that seemed to take place was when one girl commented on another’s outfit or lipstick, perhaps their new hair colour. It all seemed so benign. From listening in on a couple of the conversations, I soon realised that Mr Peters had apartments set up where the girls lived in groups.
When one of the girls noticed me listening in she asked me where I was from. Until then I hadn’t uttered a word so she had assumed that I was from a country that didn’t speak English.
‘I am from Holland,’ I responded in English but with an accent, as Mr Peters had told me to tell everyone that I was not Australian as he already had too many Aussies. She nodded, then went back to reading her magazine.
I later learnt that her name was Sabrina and she was from Australia from French/Indian parents. She was certainly beautiful, but God, how she knew it. Out of all the girls I went on to work with, Sabrina was the nastiest. Self-involved to the max.
I had been sitting in this room now for over an hour and a half, and I was cursing myself for not bringing a book. Finally the phone buzzed. I was closest to it but didn’t move to get it.
Sabrina jumped to her feet to answer it. ‘Yes . . . OK,’ she said then hung up. ‘All Asian girls go downstairs.’
Without an ounce of enthusiasm they gathered their handbags, touched up their make-up and meandered out the door. I couldn’t help noticing that the eyeshadow cases and lipstick purses were all from Christian Dior, Chanel or some other designer cosmetic company. The white girls were no different. Their clothes, shoes and handbags were from DKNY, Valentino, Versace and the likes.
There was a collective feeling of rejection from all the remaining girls. The room seemed to have shrunk since the Asian girls’ departure. I tried to break the silence.
‘Is it always this slow to get started?’
‘It has been quiet since the Indonesian massacres,’ responded an Australian girl, who I later learnt was named Claire.
‘Plus Mr Peters keeps putting on new girls when there isn’t even enough work for the girls that are here now,’ said Sabrina.
After that not-so-subtle dig I decided my magazine was interesting after all. I was just getting into an article on how to improve your orgasm in ten easy steps when the phone rang. Once again Sabrina jumped up to answer it, then instructed all of us to make our way downstairs.
I milled around at the back of the crowd of glamorous women so I could watch them strut their experienced stuff. Once in the main office I watched them line up one behind the other. Mr Peters stood smiling at us all with a smile that looked a little odd on his fifty-year-old face. Each lady took her turn to introduce herself to the gentlemen seated around a dining table in one corner of the office. As I waited for my turn I saw some of the girls that had been upstairs seated in the lounge room.
‘Hello, my name is Gina, I’m from Hungary.’
‘Hello, my name is Louise, I’m from Australia.’
‘Hello, my name is Lola, from Bosnia.’
This went on and on always accompanied with a polite handshake. My turn came and went. We all took a seat in the overcrowded lounge room, while Mr Peters remained with the men in the dining alcove. He made small talk then helped the gentlemen make their decisions.