This story first appeared in RANDOM, a collection of articles and blogs first published and distributed by Amazon in 2018. You can find links to this and others of my books below.
Some people aspire towards sea views; others favour a home that looks out over sprawling countryside or leafy parks or vibrant café culture. Me? The current view from my front window is of the back of a sex worker’s head.
It’s 2003. I’m driving home from another spectacularly uneventful day at work. The time is approaching 4.15pm. It’s a Tuesday and it’s getting dark already; a typically wet, overcast end to a mid-December day. I’m daydreaming of better places to be; better lives to be led. What if I sold my house, ripped off a large number of credit cards, faked my own death, and opened a small beach bar on some non-British territories island in the Caribbean? I’m not a fan of UK winters. My mind is full of such thoughts as I turn into my street.
As I position my car to pull up against the curb outside my house, a woman in a thermal parka, snorkel hood fully extended, steps forward from the street light she’s been standing beneath and taps on my window.
I press the button on the armrest and the window rolls down a little. ‘Hello?’ I smile.
‘Hello,’ she says.
There’s a pause. I can’t see her face at all. ‘Can I help you?’ I ask. Perhaps she’s lost, or looking for someone who lives nearby.
‘Maybe I can help you,’ she says.
I look at her, or, rather, into the darkness of her hood. ‘I’m not sure what it is I need help with,’ I say, confusing even myself with my response.
‘£120. All in?’ she says, and gestures to me with a jiggle of her overcoat, as if to say, ‘there’s stuff under here I can show you’.
‘Oh,’ I say, as the penny drops. ‘I’m OK, thanks.’ I switch off my engine and move to get out of the car, which she takes as an indication that I might be interested in negotiating her offer further. ‘OK, just £100.’ She says. ‘All in.’
‘No, not really my thing,’ I say.
‘£80?’
‘No. Seriously. But thank you.’ I step across the pavement, towards my front door.
‘Are you married?’ she asks, as I fumble for my keys.
‘Um, yes. Why not?’ I answer. (I wasn’t married in those days, but I thought a yes might just help strengthen my case.)
She pauses. ‘That’s OK. Nobody’ll know,’ and she gestures by means of a nod of her extended hood in the direction of the darkness a few doors up, an alleyway that leads to the allotments behind my house.
I look at her; at her clothes; at the bizarre silhouette she’s casting against the yellow street light and the headlights of passing cars. It occurs to me that this has to be the worst prepared sex worker this side of … Hemel Hempstead.
Thank you but no thanks,’ I say, and so as not to leave her with hard feelings, I smile and wish her well, before opening my front door and disappearing inside.
It’s a strange and unusual sensation, feeling bad about turning down a prostitute. I think it’s because I’d left her out there in the rain.
To buffer my guilt, I return a few moments later with a hot cup of tea. ‘Just leave the cup on the step,’ I say.
‘Thank you,’ she replies, as the cup disappears up inside the depths of her hood.
An hour or so later, my girlfriend of the time comes in through the front door. She’s holding the empty cup she’s found on the doorstep. ‘What was this doing out there?’ she asks.
I’m not sure whether to offer the truth so, instead, I opt for ambiguity: ‘I gave one of the workers a cup of tea to warm them up,’ I say. ‘It’s quite cold working out there in the weather.’
She peeks out through the curtains at a council van parked further up the road. ‘Aw, aren’t you nice,’ she says, absently, and goes upstairs to change.
* * * * * * * *
‘You’re lucky,’ a friend of mine says to me, a few days later. ‘We’ve only got a corner shop and a curry house on our street. And even those offer limited selections.’ He pauses for a few seconds before adding, ‘What did she mean by ‘All in’?’
This question had crossed my mind too. I mean, exactly how all in is ‘All in’? And what definitely isn’t included in ‘All in’? ‘To be honest,’ I say, ‘I didn’t think it prudent to ask. And, unlike your local curry house, she doesn’t hand out menus.’
Well, maybe she should,’ he says. ‘Something you can pin to the fridge for those times you come down in the middle of the night feeling a little peckish.’ He smiles knowingly at me, inviting me to smile back. I don’t. Oddly, I realise that I’m feeling quite protective of her. This surprises me. We sit in silence for a few seconds longer, until he chooses to break the static by changing tack. ‘Is she hot?’
This time, I smile. ‘Actually, I feel quite sorry for her. It must be freezing working out there at this time of year.’
‘How does she look?’ he persists. I think my friend considers it quite cosmopolitan that I have a sex worker on my street. I think he views it as a piece of gritty realism; an art installation of sorts, all urban decay and passion in the shadows.
‘It’s hard to know,’ I say.’
‘How do you mean?’ He frowns at me.
‘Well, she hasn’t quite got the branding right, yet. I feel bad for saying it, but … if South Park had featured a prostitute, this is how she’d have been drawn.’
‘Like ‘Kenny’s sister’?’ He says this in an attempt at a South Park drawl.
‘Pretty much,’ I say.
‘Bless her. Well, you teach Business; maybe you could give her some tips.’
I consider our continued friendship as he finishes his drink.
* * * * * * * *
She is still outside my house as I get home, illuminated and shadowed by the yellow glow of the street light in front of my living room window. It doesn’t look like she’s had much trade.
‘£120, all in,’ she says, as I slow up to approach my house. ‘… OK, just £100. All in.’
‘Still not really my thing,’ I say.
‘£80?’
‘Seriously. But thank you.’
‘Are you married?’ she adds, as I fumble for my key.
‘We’ve already met,’ I say. ‘I live here?’
‘£70?’ she ventures.
I sigh then smile at her. ‘Look, your pricing strategy, it’s all over the place. £120 is pretty much premium pricing for around here. Also, it’s coming up to Christmas, so people have less disposable income to spare. You really have to consider your micro-environment. How about you base your start-point on a localised competitive pricing strategy and then throw in a promotional incentive until – I don’t know – you’re fully into the new year. ‘Stack ‘em high, sell ‘em cheap’; that’s what made McDonalds what it is today. Well, that and the use of a cynical, corporate clown. Do you have a pimp? … Oh, and do consider a more overt use of the add-on model – I feel this will increase your sales potential quite dramatically, whilst allowing you to “turn tables” faster’.
There is silence from beneath her hood. I find my key and turn around to place it into the lock.
£50,’ she says. ‘… All in.’
‘That’s more like it,’ I say. ‘Good night.’
* * * * * * * *
It’s a Thursday. I’ve needed to pass by my local mini market on the way home, as I’ve been putting off doing the main shopping while these rains have persisted. It’s around 4.45pm and it’s fully dark. I’m daydreaming about running my small beach bar; a simpler life, of fulfilling a basic supply and demand function, punctuated with laying on the beach, reading, socialising, perhaps a little music. Maybe I could make a friend of one of the local boat owners. I like boats.
I pull in at the curb outside my house and start to unload the bags from the passenger seat.
‘£50. All in,’ says a voice from behind me. This makes me jump.
I turn around and am confronted with this now familiar extended hood, pointing at me, albeit a little too closely for comfort.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Can you give me a hand with these?’
She doesn’t answer but does as I request, leaning into my car and carrying the remaining bags to my front door where she places them down on the mat.
‘Thank you,’ I say. I smile at her. I’ve no idea if she’s smiling back at me. I hope she is. ‘It’s another cold one today,’ I say. ‘Though I guess you’re OK, hidden all the way inside there?’
She doesn’t answer, she just stands there, like a silent quilted penguin, her extended hood pointing outwards like a weather vane, indicating the probable direction of her face. There’s something vulnerable about her. She lacks the self-assuredness that I would have considered essential for her line of trade. There is also a sense of aloneness about her that makes me sad.
‘Look after yourself,’ I say as kindly as I can, as though the softer I can utter the words, the more protected she will feel by them, and the less guilty I will feel when I close my door on her.
‘£45. All in,’ she says.
‘Look after yourself,’ I repeat, but I know this isn’t enough. I rummage in my pockets and pull out, to my flinching dismay, a crumpled twenty-pound note. I’d much rather it had been a five but I’m committed now and so I feel obliged to hand it over. ‘Go get yourself something warm to eat from the shop on the corner. It’s not nice out here today.’
She takes the money and offers me a quiet thank you before returning to the street lamp she had originally positioned herself beneath. I, in turn, drag my cluster of shopping bags off the doormat and into the house, closing the door behind me. I’m warm in here, and feel a little sadder for the fact.
I move to the window and watch her from behind the curtains. She doesn’t go get herself something to eat. Instead, she looks again at the twenty I gave her, before pushing it back into her pocket and continuing to stand guard at her ‘patch’.
An hour later, my girlfriend comes in, holding an empty mug and one of our small china saucers in her hand. ‘What are these doing on the front step?’ she asks.
I’m not sure that admitting that I’ve been feeding our local sex worker is going to be taken in the spirit of innocent generosity in which it was intended. ‘…. Hmm?’ I ask. This is the only stalling tactic I can think up on the spot.
She peeks through the curtains at the council van that has been parked up at the end of the road for days now. ‘They’ll only take advantage of you if you keep giving them stuff,’ she says. With that, she wanders upstairs to change. ‘By the way,’ she shouts down, ‘somebody told me there’s a prostitute working on the streets around here, somewhere.’
‘Really?’ I say.
* * * * * * * *
It’s Christmas Eve. Work is over for the next few days, so I’ve spent the afternoon in much the same way as many other men do on this particular day of the year – running manically from department store to department store, grabbing hold of any old piece of overpriced crap that happens to be still on the shelves, in order to then go home and painstakingly disguise them as thoughtfully picked out tokens of love and friendship. Budget has been blown through the roof as paranoia dictates that looking like I give a damn about Christmas gift-giving is more important that the size of my January credit card bill. It’s not; but it is – for now.
Having finished shopping, I grab a coffee at my favourite café in order to put off having to face the congestion of holiday-season traffic. Sitting at a window seat, I’m watching the people walk by, random faces with lives hidden behind them. I think of the lady who stands outside our house. It occurs to me that I have no idea of her face, let alone her life. I feel sad about this. I also feel frustrated with myself for keeping her at arm’s length, worried as I am that if I took her into my world I could be unleashing all kinds of crap. How arrogant of me. How self-protecting. I know why I’m doing it but it doesn’t sit well.
I finish my coffee and decide to do something good for a change. I’m holding several bags of faceless gifts in my hands; collections of tat that have no real thought or integrity behind them. I’m going to buy at least one gift that is honest.
Moments later, I find myself back in the battleground of the department store I’d not long left behind. But this time I’m on a mission. Thing is, I’m rubbish at choosing gifts, even for people I know. What do you buy for a woman who doesn’t even have a face?
I stumble across the winter sweater selection and decide that this is a good idea: practical and possibly even stylish. I choose one in neutral colours and try to imagine what possible size and shape this woman might be beneath her layers of parka and snorkel hood. Your guess is as good as mine. I choose one and keep the receipt safe, just in case.
I request for it to be gift wrapped. I’m actually quite excited about getting home, to give this lady without a face my token of kindness. ‘Somebody out there has thought of you’, is what my gift will say.
On a whim, I stop off at the patisserie to choose some cakes to have with our cup of tea when I invite her in from the cold.
The traffic is heaving. Come on, I need to get back … But what will my girlfriend say if she comes home to find a strange woman with no face in our kitchen, eating cakes and drinking our tea. And what will I say in response to whatever it is that she’ll say? Eventually, the traffic lights turn in my favour and the cars start to move again.
I turn into my street and notice, as I pull in to park, that she isn’t there. I’m disappointed. ‘Not a problem,’ I decide, ‘She comes and goes all the time.’ I park up and unload the car. As I approach the front door, I notice a small white box on the step, tucked in against the door frame. I pile my own bags onto the hallway table and go back for the box. It has no name written on it, just a blue bow tying the lid down shut.
I take it into the kitchen and pull at the bow. The lid slips off easily and inside there is a small home baked cake on top of which are the words ‘Thank You’, in icing.
Tucked into the under-lid is what looks like a business card. I peel it out and turn it over in my hand. It is indeed a business card. One side has contact details, the other lists services offered. I assume that ‘All in’ refers to the entirety of this list. ‘Quite reasonable,’ I consider. I scan down the bullet points. ‘And quite innovative.’
I’m surprised that she has taken my advice and branched out into business cards. Something inside me finds this funny. ‘Teach a girl to fish …’ I say to myself, as I put the lid back down on the cake box.
* * * * * * * *
This was the last I ever heard of the lady with no face. I chose not to pursue her through her business card, though I would have welcomed bumping into her on the road again.
Having a prostitute on one’s street is a big deal according to the neighbours, and a number of rumours have already spread about her. Some say she’d been picked up by the police and sectioned due to mental illness; others claim that she was just feeding a drug habit. Someone who thought they knew her said she had a young child. This was the detail that stayed with me, regardless of whether or not it was true. I chose not to engage in the gossip but it did occur to me that she was only on our street during the lead up to the festive season, after which she was never seen again. Was she saving for her child’s Christmas?
* * * * * * * *
‘Thanks for the jumper,’ says my girlfriend, as she unwraps one of her gifts from me on Christmas morning. ‘Neutral colour too, so it goes with most things.’ She smiles as she tries it on. ‘And well done on getting the size right. For once.’
‘Just a lucky guess,’ I say.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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