Being margaret, p.22
Being Margaret,
p.22
“I never had any doubt. Good night.”
She squeezed my arm. “Thank you again for everything.”
**
The next evening, I went to see Margaret. She sat curled up on her sofa reading a book and gave me a big smile. “Emma!”
“She’s good at the moment,” Charlotte whispered right after she let me in, and it indeed seemed that way. Margaret’s blue eyes gleamed, and her movement was smooth as she placed her book aside.
“Can I get you two anything?” Charlotte enquired.
“Tea and biscuits?” I asked Margaret, and she nodded.
I sat on the sofa with my sister and looked her over as discreetly as I could. What would a man see?
Katharine, Margaret and I had been beautiful little girls, beautiful teenagers and beautiful women. Margaret, despite what she had been through, maintained that level of beauty. Even when a vacant gaze entered her eyes or she talked in that awful raspy voice, you could still tell that she was lovely, she was delicate and good and beautiful.
And grabbed men.
I flinched inwardly. How lucky we were, really, that none of these men took advantage of her.
My sister and I chatted about her book (Twilight) and about this and that. Margaret even brought up Veronica’s appearance at the Birkbeck. Margaret experienced good periods perhaps two or three times a month, and this one seemed exceptionally good. Her voice had some smoothness and consistency, fewer pauses and gaps. So, it proved somewhat disorientating. Also made it harder to begin the conversation we needed to have. Finally, I just went for it.
“Margaret,” I said. “Do you want a boyfriend?”
Her eyelashes fluttered, and colour flooded her cheeks. I wondered if she masturbated. Had a vibrator, a dildo. Maybe these would be enough to quell her desires. Something to discuss with Charlotte, at any rate.
No, Emma. Discuss with Margaret.
“I get lonely,” I said, deciding to approach the matter from a different angle. “A lot of the time, I wish I had someone to cuddle with and sleep with and kiss.”
She blinked. “So why don’t you?”
“That’s a good question,” I admitted. “I guess it’s time to start putting myself out there. I, uh, maybe we could, I don’t know, double date or something. Have a little get-together and…” What, Emma? What? No. No. “Anyway, do you think you want a boyfriend?”
“I like Cyrus,” she said.
She meant Cyrus Rutledge, also known as Lord Rutledge. He was a flamboyant man, a character who could charm the pants off anyone, male or female. Unfortunately for Margaret, he was gay.
“Anyone else?” I asked.
“I’m with Cyrus,” she said firmly.
“So you two hold hands and kiss?”
“Yes,” she said.
I stared. Did they, really? In real life, not in Margaret’s fantasies? I barely knew him, but he didn’t seem the type to take advantage of a “disabled” woman. Yet you never knew.
“Margaret,” I said.
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Where was Veronica last night?”
She scrunched up her face. “Who?”
I allowed myself a deep, relieved breath. When Margaret slipped into the past or into make-believe, she often did so without warning. Lord Rutledge wasn’t taking advantage of her. She lived now in some made-up world comprised of snatches from fantasies and different periods of her real life.
“I’m bringing a man for you next week,” I said. “I think you’ll like him.” Of course, this proclamation was news to me, a decision made in the spur of the moment. However, it would motivate me to act.
“Uh-huh,” Margaret said.
“You can kiss him,” I said. “Even have sex with him if you want.”
“Sex?”
“Mmm-hmm!” I said. “Sex. Do you think you’d like that, Margaret?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes…I…would.”
**
I could have delegated many of my “Margaret gets a man” tasks to Trevor, her personal secretary, and others. Goodness knows eons of royal engagements occupied my hours. However, I felt an obligation to do it myself. I owed my sister that much.
So it was that I called Paul Cervantes, president of Blokes4Hire, London’s longest-running male escort company. Under “Work for Us,” his website read, “There is a huge need for male escorts to accompany women to weddings, dinners and other events and for just plain fun. Start earning a second income while getting to meet diverse people.”
“I’d like to meet at your earliest convenience,” I said to Paul after explaining who I was.
“Of course, Your Royal Highness,” he said smoothly, and we arranged for him to meet me at Kensington.
The next evening, he curtsied, and we sat on the sofa in my waiting room.
“This arrangement is not for me,” I clarified up front.
He chuckled. “I admit, I was confused.”
I grinned. “It’s actually for Margaret, my sister.”
“Ah, yes. Okay.”
I explained the situation and said that, ideally, I was looking for a man who would treat Margaret well, who had a lot of patience, who could be more than discreet and who could pay her a lot of attention over the long term.
“These are the men who come to mind immediately,” Paul said. He showed me their profiles on his phone, and after some thought and putting myself in the shoes of a fourteen-year-old boy-crazy girl, I chose the man who called himself “Alec Castle.” His brown eyes smoldered, and the dog licking his face showed that he could be playful, affectionate and patient.
“I would like to meet Mr. Castle first,” I said. “So would my other sister.”
“Excellent. When are you and Her Majesty available?”
After Paul left, I called Katharine. “I found Margaret’s man.” And now I must find a woman for myself.
**
When I studied at Oxford, I undertook my first U.S. tour with Katharine during summer hols. I also slept with a woman. An escort.
This is what happened.
Katharine had gone off to be with Veronica at her flat. The emptiness of the hotel suite nearly swallowed me up. I felt lonelier than I had in a long time, and resentment and jealousy simmered inside me. My sister got to go off and enjoy an evening with a woman. Why couldn’t I do the same? I could. Yes, I could.
I grabbed Gary Gardnier, one of my bodyguards, and told him, “We’re off to the bar, and you shall look for the women you think are escorts.”
“Ma’am?”
“You heard me. Then you’re going to discreetly point them out to me. I’ll pick one, and you invite her back up here.”
“Wait,” he said, blinking furiously, his usual composure nowhere to be seen.
I waited. When he showed no signs of slowing the blinking, I said, “Gather your wits about you, old boy. Let’s do this.”
I slipped on a wig and glasses, and Gary and I headed downstairs.
**
I liked the fourth and last woman Gary pointed out. What I liked about her I could not pinpoint exactly. Well, not quite true. For one thing, she was older than numbers one, two and three, perhaps in her late thirties. The other possible escorts looked to be in their early twenties, too fresh-faced and sexy and cheerful and dewy for my liking. I wanted someone with mileage, someone who could be a little grouchy if needed.
Gary took me back to the suite and returned to the bar to approach her. I double checked my hair and makeup and cupped and recupped my breasts for good measure.
I waited and waited for him to return. Finally, he did with a hangdog expression and a red splotch on his cheek.
“She isn’t an escort,” he muttered. “I chatted her up. Bought her a drink. She seemed into me. I invited her back up. In the elevator, she realised I thought she was a prostitute, and…” He indicated the redness. “She got mad.”
“Oh,” I said, wanting that woman more than ever, a woman made of fire and guts and temper. Instead, I’d be saddled with one of the dewy twenty-year-olds.
I struggled to smile. “Well, old chap,” I said, “go and bring someone else up. I don’t care who.”
**
Thus I met Elliott Masterson, barely older than I. She came in giggling and squealing at whatever Gary was saying. Stopped in her tracks when she saw me and threw him a suspicious glance. “You said nothing about another woman.”
“Actually,” I said. “I’m the client.”
“What?”
Gary made himself scarce in the way that security personnel can, and I offered her a glass of wine.
“I’m Emma,” I said.
“I know you.” She went pale. “The princess?”
I smiled. “Yep. And you are…”
She swallowed and accepted the wine. “My name is Elliott Masterson.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” I led her back to my bedroom where a messy arrangement of tiny jewels awaited. “Your payment,” I explained. “I don’t carry cash, but these jewels will do.”
“Are they real?”
I rolled my eyes. “Quite.”
“I don’t do women,” she said.
Again, me and an eye-roll. “I’m not an ordinary woman. I am Her Royal Highness Princess Emma.”
This seemed a point in my disfavour rather than favour judging by the dark look that crossed Elliott’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t do women, and I don’t appreciate being lied to. Misled. Being brought up here and dealing with a client switch midway.”
“I understand,” I said. “See it from my perspective, though. I can hardly have my security man announce to someone he has never talked to, ‘Hey, wanna come up and fuck Princess Emma?’ It can’t work that way. He has to chat you up and see if you’re reliable and trustworthy.” Inside, I fumed. An escort was an escort. What did it matter if she serviced a man or a woman?
She pouted. “I liked Bradley. He was nice.”
“Who?”
“Bradley.”
She must mean Gary. “He’s not having sex with you. He’s happily married. Bradley isn’t even his name. Afraid you’re stuck with me.”
Elliott set her tiny black purse onto my bed and looked around the elegant room, perhaps accepting the finality of her circumstances. She stepped out of her high heels, going from about five feet eight inches tall to five feet three inches.
“Wow,” I said, craning my neck down at her.
She wore a black dress the approximate size of her purse, and thankfully, had breasts the right size. That is, breasts that weren’t the size of hot air balloons nor the size of peanuts. Her long dark curly hair gave the impression of being windblown and did nothing to balance out the seven layers of makeup caking her face.
I should’ve approached that other woman myself. The one who slapped Gary, the one I really wanted. Damn it.
“Well,” Elliott said with a shrug. “Fine. Whatever. If you want me, you got me. Just remember I don’t have experience with women.”
“No problem.” I almost told her my experience tended to the scarce side as well. In fact, I’d had only one sexual encounter with a woman, and it had been during my first week of classes at Oxford. One skimpy experience, and a man had been involved.
“What do you want?” Elliott asked.
“The whole deal. The package.”
“Right. Okay. Wait, isn’t your sister the gay one?”
“Yep. Are you starting anytime soon?”
Elliott nodded. “Should I kiss you?”
“That would work,” I said, sitting on the bed to eliminate the discrepancy in our heights.
She approached and put her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes were kind of pretty, once you found them among the heavy eyeliner and mascara. Green. Sea-green.
My heart went thump thump thump.
She kissed me like I was her grandmum. Worse than that, really. Her great-grandmum. Like my lips were made of thin tissue paper and old woman. She stepped back and peered at me for approval.
How does one give approval for such a kiss? At the same time, how does one say, “Hell, no. I deserve better than that shit-arsed effort. What kind of escort are you?”
My exasperation spoke. “Is this your first night on the job or something?”
She scowled. “No.”
But I’d hit close to home. It was maybe her third or fourth night.
“Hey,” I said, deciding to take pity on her. “Sit down. Have a lie-down, actually.”
Once Elliott made herself comfortable on the bed, her head resting atop my pillows, I pulled her dress up. She wore no underwear, and I kissed her stomach.
She wriggled. Not due to unpleasantness. I knew the difference.
Next, I moved to her legs, her smooth, tanned legs.
“Oh,” she said, responding more and more, her hips writhing, her legs twitching.
I smiled. Maybe Elliott wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Once I targeted her pussy, she started mumbling like Oh oh oh dear sweet Jesus oh oh OH MY GOD what what ohhhhh.
I stopped and redirected my attention to her right knee. Kissed it.
“No,” she complained. “No, no, go back.”
I laughed. “Not until you kiss me properly.”
She gave me her first real smile of the night, a shy, tiny smile. “All right,” she said. “Get over here.”
She cupped my face in her hands and ventured an exploratory kiss. One that I deepened, one that she deepened even further, until there was no way to tell where she began, where I began, where we ended.
We had sex for hours and without meaning to, she fell asleep in my arms, or I fell asleep in hers. In the morning, I awoke, realising that my sister had just been in my bedroom, she must have seen Elliott in my bed, and I said, “Shit, shit, shit,” panic filling me. Katharine wasn’t meant to find out about my proclivities.
“You have to go,” I told Elliott, shaking her awake. “Thanks for last night, but you need to go now.”
Her eyes fluttered open. Did she look pretty in the light of day? Of course not. Her layers of makeup, the bed hair and the sweat produced from our acrobatics had conspired to turn her face into a murky, dark fog.
“I need to shower,” she muttered.
“Fine. Hurry.”
After she showered and dressed, I shoved the jewels at her. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Wait, Emma,” she said. “I want to apologise for—”
“Yeah, yeah, apology accepted. Look, you really do need to go. My sister’s back.”
“Okay,” Elliott said, dropping the jewels into her tiny purse and shooting back up to five feet eight inches. “I had fun.”
“Me too.”
“I’d like to see you again. You wouldn’t have to pay.”
I stared at her. “No.” I opened my bedroom door and peered out. The sound of Katharine’s shower running reached my ears. “Come on. Let’s go.”
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List of Q. Kelly’s Works
Q. Kelly's Novels
Reality Lesbian and Reality Lesbian 2
Waiting
All in the Family
Third
The Odd Couple
Switch
The Strange Bedfellows series
Knowing Katharine, Loving Katharine, Marrying Emma, Being Margaret
Time and Time Again
Coach Z
Q. Kelly’s Novellas
Woman Behind the Mask
The Girl Prince and Her Princess
Love’s Spell
One Hour
The Young and the Lesbian
Q. Kelly’s Short-Story Collections
The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories
Cupid Pulls a Prank and Other Lesbian Tales
The Green Pill, One Hour and Other Lesbian Stories
Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories
Q. Kelly's Novels
Reality Lesbian and Reality Lesbian 2
Waiting
All in the Family
Third
The Odd Couple
Switch
The Strange Bedfellows series
The British Royals series
Time and Time Again
Coach Z
Q. Kelly’s Novellas
Woman Behind the Mask
The Girl Prince and Her Princess
Love’s Spell
One Hour
The Young and the Lesbian
Q. Kelly’s Short-Story Collections
The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories
Cupid Pulls a Prank and Other Lesbian Tales
The Green Pill, One Hour and Other Lesbian Stories
Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories
Q Kelly, Being Margaret
