Free Untouchable by Ava Marsh Page B

head where no one can follow.
    A narrow bed in a bright whitewashed room.
    A single stone cottage.
    An island surrounded by sea.
    Nothing to see beyond except grass and cliff, rock and sky. Nothing to hear but the wind, and the steady, rhythmic pounding of waves on the rocks below.

13
    Thursday, 19 February
    The doctor peers up at me from behind the speculum. ‘Rather a lot of inflammation up round your cervix, Miss Thomas. Looks like you may have picked up a mild infection.’
    Infection? My mind leaps to HIV. I take a calming breath and remind myself she said ‘mild’.
    She drops the plastic speculum into the waste bin and pulls off her latex gloves. ‘Probably trichomoniasis, but we’ll run a check for chlamydia too. Any other symptoms?’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘Painful intercourse. Unusual vaginal discharge.’
    I shake my head, wishing I could get out of these stirrups. It’s hard to discuss anything with your legs up in the air.
    ‘So this was simply a routine check-up? Nothing in particular you’re concerned about.’
    I shake my head again. ‘So, what causes it? This tricho …’
    ‘Trichomoniasis. Unprotected sex,’ says the doctor, her tone peremptory.
    ‘But I always use condoms. I mean always …’ I stop. It’s true. I do always use condoms … with clients.
    Shit. The man from the restaurant. I can’t remember clearly enough what we did.
    ‘It only takes once,’ she says wearily. I feel shame, hard and heavy in my stomach. How could I have been so stupid?
    ‘How about oral?’ Guilt congeals the feeling in my belly as I think of other clients I might have exposed. ‘Can you pass it on that way?’
    The doctor shakes her head. ‘Only penetrative sex. Or shared sex toys.’ She releases my legs and waits for me to heave myself into a sitting position. ‘Do you need a pregnancy test as well?’
    ‘I’m on the pill. Belt and braces.’ People imagine what escorts fear most is violence from clients; my worst nightmare is one getting me pregnant.
    ‘You on any other medication?’
    ‘Just an inhaler. For my asthma.’
    She scribbles a prescription and hands it to me. ‘Antibiotics. Broad spectrum. Single dose. No alcohol and no sex for a week.’
    I take the piece of paper and stuff it into my handbag. ‘Thanks.’
    She calls me back once I’ve dressed. ‘If you need more condoms, you can pick some up free at reception.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ I say, my smile sheepish. ‘I won’t be making that mistake again.’

14
    Wednesday, 25 February
    I have to cancel two appointments while I wait for the antibiotics to do their thing. One with a regular who I know plans meticulously for our meetings. The other a dinner date with a Finnish man who sounded nice on the phone.
    I calculate my little foray into Civvie Street has cost me well over twelve hundred quid. That’ll teach you, Grace.
    Still, I use the fallow time productively. Go through my bank statements, pay all my bills. Get in a few sessions at the gym and persuade my hairdresser to squeeze me in for a trim. Actually take myself off to the cinema, luxuriating in the dark of a matinee watching Lars Von Trier.
    On my last afternoon in purdah I’m updating my website, mixing things up a bit. A couple of new pictures, taken from the batch I had done six months ago. A quick tweak of the text. I like to keep it sharp, snappy. Nothing cheesy; no erotic poetry or lurid accounts of my sexual fantasies.
    Five emails arrive while I’m fiddling around online. One from Stacy at the crisis centre to see if I can do an extra shift on Friday. Answer – yes. One from a client I’ve seen a couple of times, an engineer for a large oil company, down from Aberdeen for a meeting next week. Another yes. A request for face pics – I pick out three and mail them back.
    The man enquiring about role play – the usual stuff, maid and master, boss and secretary – I refer on to Anna. God knows, getting through an appointment with a straight face can be hard