My life seems to swing constantly between the glamorous and the utterly ridiculous, and I’m always trying to pretend I’m fully in control of both. As a top escort in London, I’m used to last‑minute surprises and over‑the‑top requests. One moment, I’m half‑asleep in my flat, and the next I’m throwing dresses into a suitcase because a client has decided we’re flying to Milan on the first available flight. Another time, I’m being handed a black Amex and told to “pop over to Harrods and find something fabulous” with almost no time but an eye‑watering budget.
Those parts of the job, I admit, are easy to say yes to. But alongside the jet‑setting and shopping sprees, there are the… more imaginative requests. The kinds that make you pause, tilt your head, and think, Well, that’s a new one. Sometimes, the venues are stiff and formal—charity galas in ballrooms where the champagne never stops flowing, fundraisers in Grade II listed buildings, private dinners in members‑only clubs that pretend not to notice girls like me. The men— and very occasionally women—who book my time tend to move in those circles. Their profiles are impressive: old money, new money, titled, self‑made, discreet, powerful. On paper, they blur into each other, but in person, their tastes and fantasies are wildly different.
Enter James
James is a perfect example. He’s one of those men who seem to belong everywhere he goes. Tall, impeccably dressed, and charming in a way that suggests he’s had a lifetime of getting exactly what he wants. With James, my dates are rarely simple “dinner and a drink” affairs. He always seems to know about the latest restaurant opening before the kitchen staff do, and if there’s a new luxury development in Belgravia or Mayfair, he’ll have his name on the list to view it before the paint has even dried. He likes to be first—first to buy, first to taste, first to be seen.
We’ve done the circuit of glitzy rooftop bars with skyline views, hushed private dining rooms with star chefs, and invitations‑only gallery openings where everyone pretends to understand the art and no one eats the canapés. We’ve turned up, smiled for the right people, clinked glasses, and let everyone assume whatever they like about who I am to him. Then, when the façades and small talk are finished, James inevitably wants something more private—something playful.
Behind closed doors, James is imaginative to the point of theatrical. We’ve played doctors and nurses, complete with a stethoscope he definitely did not buy for medical purposes. We’ve done maids and masters, with neatly pressed uniforms that didn’t stay neat for long. And most recently, he decided he wanted something very specific: an “Essex girl and daddy cool” fantasy. His words, not mine.
Becoming the Essex Fantasy
Now, Essex girl is not my natural habitat. I’m more Chelsea boutique than Brentwood nightclub. But James’s eyes lit up when he described it, and there’s something intoxicating about that kind of enthusiasm. Before I could overthink it, I’d agreed. And that is how I ended up in a bathroom, at midnight, covered in fake tan and wondering where my life had gone so spectacularly sideways.
The transformation started earlier that day. I spent the afternoon hunting down the essentials: a bottle of the darkest fake tan I could find, strip lashes that looked almost comically huge, cheap-but-shiny jewellery that screamed major bling, and—of course—the infamous vajazzle. Then I stood in front of the mirror at home with my shopping bags and actually laughed out loud. I looked like I was about to audition for a reality show I’d never even watched.
I’d never seen the TV programme that turned Essex into one of the most talked‑about places in England, so I did my homework. I binge‑watched clips online, pausing to study the makeup, the hair, the walk, even the accent. The girls were bronzed to an almost surreal level, lashes like fans, lips glossy and pouty, everything exaggerated and unapologetic. There was something endearing about how boldly they inhabited the look. No subtlety, no shame—just commitment.
Fake Tan War Zone
By the time I was ready to get dressed for James, I had transformed the bathroom into a fake‑tan war zone. Towels on the floor, gloves on my hands, the sharp smell of the product hanging in the air. I layered it on, watching my skin turn from pale to golden to outright mahogany. At one point, I caught sight of my reflection and thought, Amy Childs, eat your heart out.
Then came the lashes: not one pair, but six. I stacked them like I was building scaffolding. Every time I blinked, I could feel the weight of them, like tiny wings beating against my eyelids. Add the over‑the‑top hoop earrings, the chunky necklace, the rings, and the glittering crystals carefully placed in intimate places, and the transformation was complete. I barely recognised myself. That was the whole point.
When James opened the door that evening, the look on his face was priceless—part astonishment, part delight, and just a hint of pride at his own imagination. He burst out laughing first, then pulled me inside and told me I was perfect. For the rest of the night, I played the role with full dedication: the walk, the gum‑chewing attitude, the overcooked phrases I’d practised from TV clips, the flirtatious bravado. It was ridiculous and fun and strangely freeing. There’s a pleasure in slipping into a caricature like that, in knowing it’s not you and never will be, and that’s exactly why you can go so far with it.
And truly, I had no regrets that night. James adored it. He couldn’t stop telling me how brilliant I looked, how I’d nailed every detail. I went home tired but pleased with myself, still smelling faintly of vanilla body spray and aerosol hairspray.
The Morning After
The problem arrived the next morning.
I woke up and shuffled to the bathroom, still half asleep, and then nearly screamed. The fake tan had developed overnight into something even darker. In the dim light, I looked like I’d just returned from three back‑to‑back holidays on the sunniest coast known to man. I jumped into the shower, convinced it would all rinse off with a bit of scrubbing.
It did not.
Forty minutes later, my skin was pink in patches from how hard I’d attacked it with exfoliating gloves, sugar scrubs, and sheer desperation. The colour had faded a little, but nowhere near enough. I had stubborn streaks along my arms, an uneven tide line near my ankles, and that unmistakable fake tan stain around my wrists and fingers that no amount of soap could entirely hide.
That’s when I remembered Arthur.
Enter Arthur, The English Gentleman
Arthur is the opposite of James in almost every way. Where James is sharp suits and new money bravado, Arthur is all understated elegance and old‑world charm. He collects antique books, favours quiet, wood‑panelled restaurants, and thinks anything louder than a well‑mannered jazz band is uncivilised. With Arthur, I’m not the flashy date on his arm—I’m the “perfect English Rose,” as he once called me, with a slight, affectionate smile.
I had a date with Arthur coming up in a few days.
He likes me pale, soft, and classic: minimal makeup, natural hair, delicate perfume, and dresses that look like they were bought in a discreet, very expensive corner of Chelsea—which, to be fair, they usually are. I’d already chosen a vintage dress from my favourite Chelsea boutique: something floral and feminine, the sort of thing that floated when I walked and made me feel like I belonged in a period drama rather than a nightclub.
And there I was, staring at myself in the mirror, fake‑baked to a deep bronze that clashed horribly with every soft, romantic thing hanging in my wardrobe.
Desperate Measures
I spent the next two days in a state of low‑level panic. Every long bath was an exfoliation session. Every spare moment, I was moisturising, scrubbing, checking my skin in different lights, trying to convince myself it was fading faster than it actually was. I googled emergency fake tan removal methods that sounded increasingly unhinged. At one point, I actually wondered if industrial‑strength kitchen cleaner would help, before deciding I’d like to keep my skin, even if it was the wrong colour.
By the time the day of my date with Arthur arrived, I’d made progress—but not enough. Up close, I could still see the remnants: a faintly orangey tone along my arms, a slightly darker patch near one knee, a suspiciously bronzed knuckle or two. My skin felt slightly raw from the constant scrubbing, which added an attractive pink flush in some places. I looked at my vintage dress, then at my reflection, and thought, perfect English Rose meets bargain‑bin spray tan. Not quite the delicate look I was going for.
That’s when it occurred to me—with a mix of dread and amusement—that I might be walking into our date as some accidental hybrid: Essex meets Surrey. I could picture Arthur, in his immaculately pressed shirt and quiet cologne, sitting across from me in a candlelit restaurant, trying not to stare at the uneven tan lines on my wrists.
I decided to lean on everything else I knew he liked: soft hair, gentle makeup, subtle jewellery, a calm, attentive presence. If my skin was still telling the story of the previous week’s escapades with James, I’d compensate with everything I wore and everything I said. Fortunately, Arthur is more observant of tone than tan.
Essex Meets Surrey
Still, as I did one last half‑hearted scrub on my forearms and slipped into my dress, I promised myself something. Next time one of my clients suggests a fantasy that involves industrial quantities of tinted mousse, I’m going to think twice. Maybe I’ll suggest a compromise. A lighter shade. A partial tan. A little less commitment to the bit.
Or, who knows—maybe “Essex meets Surrey” will catch on. A happy medium between James’s love of spectacle and Arthur’s devotion to refinement. Just enough bronze to be naughty, just enough natural to be nice.
What I do know is this: I don’t think red, raw, over‑scrubbed skin goes with my favourite vintage dress, no matter how determined I am. So next time, instead of streaks from frantic exfoliating, I might just allow myself the streaks of excitement that come with saying yes—to an idea, a fantasy, a character. And then I’ll remember to book in a professional tan removal the day after.
Lesson learned, I suppose. In my world, the devil is often in the details: six pairs of lashes, a bottle of fake tan, a vajazzle, and one very persistent stain.
