Free The Engagement by Chloe Hooper

he put his arm around my already tense shoulders. As I sat still I could hear him breathing. I could hear my own dumb breath . This is all an act. You are being paid to be romantic, I told myself, to facilitate some fantasy. The professionals called this the Girlfriend Experience. I’d read about it online. An escort acts like an idealized girlfriend: giving backrubs, laughing at stupid jokes, not checking her watch while fellating. (And in special cases, according to the chat sites, allowing BBBJ: a bareback blow job; DATY: dinner at the Y; and crime-scene action: sexual activity during menstruation.)
    The problem was I wasn’t used to being a girlfriend, anyone’s girlfriend, so I didn’t really know what to be faking. I would go on a date, even a series of dates, and soon enough have the feeling—like running into an old acquaintance—that this new romance would not work out. Before long we’d be sitting in a restaurant finding we didn’t have much to say.
    Even at the best of times I knew I came across as disconnected. I was there, but not there; often more aroused by the thought of intercourse than by the act itself, presenting my body at the outset so as to say, You can have this, but no more. Then, after the physical contact was over, something shattered. Almost immediately the man beside me seemed to be covered in tiny blemishes, and he was a little overweight, and painted with sweat, and he was there . Right there. I would have to try to be sensitive, acting as if I didn’t already wish to be alone. The way some men unburdened themselves after sex could mortify me; the way they suddenly revealed their most gruesome vulnerabilities, their need for reassurance, affirmation, eye contact—when all I wanted was to roll over and forget they even existed. Their neediness making me think, I should be getting paid for this.
    Alexander’s arm grew heavier on my shoulders.
    “Can you imagine staying longer in Australia?”
    “Oh, well it’s a lovely place,” I told him, sensing that that would not be enough. “There’s wonderful food, very fresh produce.” That’s what everyone said. I picked up a fat, fleshy date upon which he’d plastered Camembert. “And people are so friendly.”
    “Good; I’m glad you’ve found that.”
    Australians walked down the street grinning at each other, a bunch of lovely sunny idiots whom no one wanted to upset. Everybody else took turns having wars and economic catastrophes to spare them the trouble.
    “But,” I was swallowing, “I think I’d miss England.”
    “We have better weather.”
    “Yes, it’s usually a lot warmer.”
    “Less crowded.”
    “Out here it certainly is.”
    He shifted position. “How do you find the countryside?”
    “The countryside?” I finally laughed. “Is that what you’d call it?”
    Alexander looked impatient. “What I’m trying to ask is, do you respond to the land?”
    I had to stop my chuckling. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s beautiful, of course.” Here the beauty was severe. The fire had come right to the edge of the water. Not that this lake brought respite. Seconds earlier I’d seen an eagle take off, and every smaller bird perched nearby try to fly out of range. “I just don’t know much about it.”
    “About nature?”
    “Yes,” I admitted. “I suppose I’m denatured.”
    “I think that’s very sad.” He took his arm from my shoulders, reaching, I hoped, for the champagne. “But it can grow on you.” The bottle stayed untouched.
    “Are there people out here? Any . . . community?” I asked. “You must get lonely.”
    “Do I seem lonely?”
    “No, no, of course not.” I had to avoid sounding like I thought he was desperate. “I just mean it’s very isolated, and that could get to a person if they weren’t”—my head to one side, coquettish, flailing—“as strong as you are.”
    “I like it.” He bit into a sandwich.
    “Well, as I said, it’s beautiful. . . . Do you have friends