Nineteen was a young age for such a high-class escort in London, though it wasn’t unheard of. Just rare. Perhaps that was why Edita was so popular. In her first week, she already had all seven days filled with clients, and she made note before she even started that she was going to have to talk to Clarissa (the woman that had gotten her into all of this in the first place) about overbooking her. She had never done this before, and Edita was positive that having sex every night of the week was not going to be good for her body, no matter what those studies said.
London looked different when she was out in it wearing a bright blue dress that looked royalty standard. Her first client was a thoughtless writer, or so Clarissa had described him as. How a writer could afford the kind of money he was paying for Edita’s company, the dark-haired teen would never know, but she was learning quickly that questions weren’t acceptable. Get in, do her job, be as personable and friendly as she knew how to be, get the money, get out. She could do that.
“Hi,” Edita said, placing her best smile on as she approached William Venkling just to the side of the entrance to a towering theater. He was charming, Edita was revealed to see; his hair was blonde and short, styled around his head in a way that suggested he had a large forehead he wanted to hide. He was taller than her, even in her four inch heels, but not intimidatingly so. Overall, he looked friendly, and Edita was grateful for that. She wouldn’t pass too much judgement just yet, however; all she could do was hope that the night didn’t turn out to be an utter disaster.
“Miss Edita,” William replied with a smile of his own, causing Edita to blush before she could reign it under control. This seemed to please him, however, and she took his arm to allow him to lead her towards the theater door. “I hope you enjoy comedies. This one’s brand new. We have opening night tickets and everything.”
Edita eyed him before letting her smile grow wider. “You wrote it.”
William’s free hand pressed to his chest with feigned offense. “Am I really so transparent?” he asked, dramatics coloring his tone. Edita laughed, tightening her grip on his arm and nodding cordially at the doorman that escorted them through. She could get used to this kind of lifestyle; on the arm of the creator of art himself, and the receiving end of plenty of approving looks.
“No, but I know you’re a writer, and, well…it was just a hunch,” she replied. “Shouldn’t you be mingling with the press or something?”
“Why would I do that? I have a lovely lady on my arm, a lady I plan to enjoy the company of instead of meddling with people that are likely going to lie about me anyway.” Edita’s brows flew up, and she looked at William in surprise. He stared back. “What? Just because I’m a writer, doesn’t mean I have to approve of tabloids.”
Edita was going to have a lovely night out in London, indeed.