All Chapters of Love Story Of A Prostitute: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Mr. Boardmann greeted me at the door, with a harsh force in his grasp of my fingers. By now, I was quite used to his manner of greeting. It gave me jitters, involuntarily reminding me of how he clenched and leeched into my arms yesterday in his hastiness to compel me to do as he wished- to stay. And it worked. I did stay. How I had hated a display of force, even that slightest bit to which he exerted over me, because it made me scared. I did not like feeling scared. I felt like I was long past it. I feared though of the unknown, but that was different from my heart suddenly pumping itself out of rhythm. He need not have touched me. The slightest touch could always escalate to dreaded violence. And now, I had no one to turn to anymore for immediate help. Pablo was not on standby for me tonight. He was with Fiona, my counterpart who also worked in the suburbs but at the other end. She was doing a house call there and she had fears too about her client. In this ind

It is heavy for my eyes to see, heavier still for your heart that carries. I looked at him, trying not to concentrate too much on those grey, wolfish eyes. I could not bear to hear him accuse me of scrutinizing him more than I could bear my own torment and unresolved feelings by looking into his eyes. "But you must have changed your mind. Was it a mistake?" I asked, entertaining the possibility that he suddenly wanted me out of the door now. My eyelashes fluttered low as if I were on the wings of a butterfly trying to navigate its way. He scratched his head, looking remotely lost. "The only mistake I made was the decision not to see you again." He said. He gazed at me vaguely but spoke animatedly, "I changed my mind when I woke up the next morning. I wanted your company again. Three time's a charm." He said, rather quickly for his standard. 

"You're dramatizing me again. Beware the fallacy. You barely know me." I said. "I will know you well enough. I shall get to the bottom of this. I always get..." He said. Something snapped within me and I tasted a strong scent on my lower lips. It had a pungent aftertaste to it. First I thought it was a whiff in the air. There was always something off in the scent of his suite. It took me a while to realise that I had bitten my lower lip. It was the scent of blood; my very own; of the pungency of red wine which I so disliked. "...what I want." He continued. He paused midway then, having noticing my bloody lower lip. I was such a fool. I could not master my emotions. I did not even realise that my body was not in sync with my mind. My body always obeyed me. The emotions were a bit more difficult, but they let the body take lead. "Lila..." He said, his voice fal

"Did you sleep well, Mr. Boardmann?" I asked. "Better than the previous night again. It's steadily improving. Are you asking because you want to devise a scale of sleep quality for me? Your scale of emptiness not enough to keep you busy?" He said. His eyes were sparkling now and there was a hint of withheld laughter. I smiled a little embarrassedly. Perhaps I had overdone it with my places to visit in the suburbs research for him. "Dear Lila, did you sleep well?" He asked me. No one had asked me whether I slept well before, and honestly, whilst I did sleep, I had not slept soundly like a baby in ages. "I was never a sound sleeper. I wake up a few times at night. I twist and turn in bed. This has been ongoing for years that it has become the norm for me. I accept it as part of my routine." I said. "I see. I think that is also a reason why you cannot afford to

"I don't see what the fuss is about. Surely my drinking preference is none of your concern." I said. "You're absolutely right, Lila. I don't care what you like to drink." He said, in an unassuming voice, before continuing "...but I do not like you did not come clean with me. Yesterday night it wasn't cordiality on your part to serve me drinks. You just didn't want to tell me you didn't want wine. You went on the pretext of serving me just because you wanted to get yourself some water. Oh Lila, what a roundabout way of doing things; for want of a glass of water! A five year old would do better." He continued. His expression was grave and I wondered why he was so sensitive about it. We were talking about drink, and I had told him the reasons for my actions. It struck me moments later that he felt he could not trust me anymore. But this was a white lie, and white lies amounted to nothing. Everyone told them. I was sure he did too.