Behind the Mask: Enter a World Where Women Make - and Break - the Rules. Emma Sayle
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and join in; I’ve got to stay on top of things here. I head downstairs. In the hallway, two couples are flirting. ‘We could go back to our house. It’s round the corner and the children are away tonight …’
In the other corner, a couple in their late thirties are looking for a female partner to join them.
‘No, definitely not her,’ says the woman. ‘She’s far too thin and will make me look like a beached whale! How about her?’ She points to a tall brunette, who looks very familiar. Miss D!
‘Perfect choice,’ mutters the man, as they saunter over to Miss D.
I laugh inwardly. Miss D will have them for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Before my watch has clocked 60 seconds, Miss D is clutching both their hands, leading them up the winding staircase.
‘I have a sex toy,’ she’s saying to her new friends. She smiles seductively at them. ‘I think you might enjoy it! What do you think? Sound good?’
Oh, Jesus!
Just then I notice a commotion at the front door, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s just Trolley Dolly arriving and making plenty of noise about it. She’s wearing a mask and a Burberry mac with, I suspect, very little underneath. She’s flanked by two gorgeous men.
Guests stop and stare. This is the power Trolley Dolly has when she enters a room.
‘So you made it then.’ I smile.
‘Oh, Ems, Ems, I have. And look who I picked up at the bus stop of all places!’
‘The bus stop?’ I ask, bemused. Her companions are smiling nervously.
‘Yes, the bus stop in Hampstead. No car, no cab in sight. So I decided to hop it on a bus, and I bumped into these two fine specimens. Aren’t they just something? They liked my mask and said that I must be going to a pretty special party dressed like this. So I invited them along. And here we are. Gentleman, I introduce you to the hostess this evening, the glamorous Emma Sayle, my best friend and confidante.’
I say hello when she introduces her guests as Alfred and Kinsey.
There are blank expressions on their faces. ‘Our names are not Alfred and Kinsey,’ says one.
‘They are tonight,’ she smiles wickedly. ‘It’s in honour of my hero, Alfred Kinsey. Boys, I guarantee you are going to learn a lot here.’
They still look bemused. ‘We’ve never heard of the man.’
‘Listen and learn, boys. All you need to know is that we have him to thank for starting the sexual revolution back in 1953. If you can believe it, he was branded a Communist and investigated by the FBI – for saying that women have orgasms.’
One of the guys laughs in disbelief. ‘Really? That’s insane!’
Trolley Dolly shakes her head. ‘I know. As crazy as claiming the earth is flat. Thank God we live in more enlightened times – but a lot of that is down to Kinsey.’ She beams. ‘So wear his name well, my friends, and let’s see if you can prove his theory all over again! Follow me!’
She leads them off in the direction of the stairs. I suspect Trolley Dolly’s prey have no inkling of the frantic activities unfolding upstairs, but they soon get the hint when she flings off her coat and reveals that she’s wearing a black balconette Agent Provocateur bra, with flashes of hot-pink silk under the bust and along the straps, matching knickers and nine-inch killer designer heels.
‘It’s a Maddy bra. You like, gentlemen? Just call me Maddy tonight,’ she purrs. ‘See you later, Emma. I am going to show these lovely boys around now. I hope you don’t mind. Catch up tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’ I wink back. ‘Let’s be in touch. Enjoy yourself.’
Kitty comes up and tells me that things are going well. It’s in full swing now and won’t start winding down for another hour or two. I’m no longer needed. The party will run itself, the staff is managing the bar, Kitty and Jupiter will clear up and lock up.
There is only one thing I can do now, as I am feeling restless, frisky and very playful. The scenes unfolding around me have affected me despite my best efforts. I take out my phone to make a late-night booty call to Mr Black.
I call his private number. He picks up on the third ring.
‘Emma? It’s two in the morning,’ he says.
‘You’re still up. Is it a problem?’
‘I never have a problem where you’re concerned, Emma.’
‘I want to come over. Just for a little while.’
‘You can stay all night. Where are you?’
‘Round the corner. Usual place. Mayfair.’
‘My driver is on his way. Two minutes.’
I tuck my phone away. It’s time to leave the party now: I know everything is going smoothly. I need a little action of my own.
‘It is never too late to be what you might have been.’
George Eliot
I never got the chance to tell my parents myself about my new career in the sex industry. As far as they knew, I was a corporate PR girl promoting respectable businesses. So they were taken by surprise when the Daily Mail published an article about me with the headline: ‘She’s the Poshest Swinger in Town’.
I had only been running Killing Kittens for a few months and hadn’t yet spread the news to my nearest and dearest. I was sunbathing on Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia, when Mothership called me, obviously furious. I could practically hear her blood pressure rising and her nervous system going haywire.
‘Emma, I’ve never been one of those mothers who yells and spanks their children. But if you were here, I would smack you right now for being such a risk taker!’ she shouted.
I had no idea what she was talking about, but once she’d managed to draw breath long enough to calm down and read out the Mail piece to me, I felt terrible, filled with guilt that my parents had had to read about me like that. I tried to apologize but Mothership was having none of it.
‘How could you, Emma?’ she cried, her voice cracking and sounding like she was about to cry. ‘Don’t you know how this makes us feel?’
‘I was going to tell you, I promise!’
‘When, exactly?’ she snapped back.
‘As soon as I got back to London.’
‘The phone has been ringing off the hook all day. Your father is furious. The Daily Mail called us. Don’t you realize how this could affect us all? They say you run orgies for wealthy liberated couples and single women. Is it true? And if it is, why did you have to leave it to the Daily Mail to inform us?’
‘I’m sorry, I really am,’ I replied, thinking it must have been Chinese whispers, my story getting passed around and eventually ending up in the press.
‘The whole world knows before we do. Oh, Emma, really! Your father and I have decided the only good news is that, according to the Daily Mail, you’re not getting involved in these orgies yourself.’
‘That’s right,’ I said calmly, trying to soothe her. ‘It’s business for me.’
‘Well, that’s a relief at least. Thank God for small mercies.’ But she still sounded angry. I crumbled on my sun lounger, wondering how I was going to clean up this mess and make it up to my parents.
The 10,600 miles between Sydney and London bought me some time for everyone to calm down, but a week later I faced the music. I stopped in London only long enough