Happy Birthday To Me

Well, it’s that time of year again when I regress into a gleeful child and get ridiculously excited. Happy birthday to me. I won’t say how old I am—it’s considered rather vulgar to discuss one’s age—so let’s just say I’m a year older than I was yesterday. A year older, a year wiser, and, if I may be so bold, a year more beautiful. This is one London escort who fully intends to revel in her special day.

The Birthday Breakfast

The celebrations started early. My parents had insisted I pop down to Surrey for breakfast so we could do presents properly. So there I was, early doors, perched at their kitchen table, munching on pain au chocolat and sipping strong, caffeinated coffee while a neat little pile of gifts waited patiently in front of me.

A new pair of running shoes (needed), my favourite toiletries (needed), and a new watch (needed). All practical, all thoughtful, and all things I genuinely required. I couldn’t help noticing the absence of frivolous “wants”—nothing outrageous or indulgent, nothing I’d never justify buying for myself.

That, as it turned out, was where Jacob came in.

Enter Jacob

My three o’clock client is one of my older regulars. Jacob and I have seen each other every Monday for the last two years, a quiet little routine that has settled into something comforting. He knows my birthday and was determined to mark it properly. The last time we met, over lunch in Belgravia, he told me that our next tête-à-tête would fall on my birthday.

“Happy birthday to you in advance,” he’d said, eyes twinkling over his glass of wine. Then: “What can I buy you?”

“Something I want,” I replied. “I don’t need anything.”

Obviously, that was a partial lie—my parents had more or less taken care of the “needs”—but the “wants” were another matter entirely.

A Boutique Adventure

So this afternoon, as I’m typing this, I’m replaying the look on Jacob’s face as he closed his hand around my wrist and led me down New Bond Street in search of something “fit for a birthday.” The January air was sharp, but my skin fizzed with anticipation.

We walked briskly along the pavement, past windows filled with glittering jewellery, sculptural shoes, and handbags that probably cost more than some people’s cars. I bathed in the quiet, smug luxury of it all, feeling deliciously out of step with the ordinary Monday crowd.

Then I hesitated—just for a heartbeat—outside Donna Karan. Jacob caught it instantly.

“This is the one,” he said, with a certainty that made me laugh. “Let’s go in.”

The Lime-Green Dress

Inside, the air was softly perfumed with new leather and expensive fabric. And then I saw it: a lime-green halter-neck dress that practically hurled itself off the mannequin at me. The colour was outrageous, the cut indecent in all the right ways.

When I slipped it on, it skimmed over my body like it had been made with my measurements in mind; the neckline framed my shoulders and collarbones, and the fabric clung just enough to suggest and not quite reveal. I caught my reflection in the mirror and felt my heart flip.

At over £2,000, I braced myself for Jacob to flinch, to backtrack, to suggest something more sensible.

He didn’t. He just smiled—this warm, utterly matter-of-fact smile—and said, “You’re worth it.”

It was, in that instant, the happiest of birthdays. Before I quite registered what was happening, the dress had disappeared into tissue paper and a glossy branded bag, and we were back out, the whole afternoon ahead of us.

The Only Thank You He Wanted

As we left the shop, Jacob said the only thanks he wanted was to see me in that dress later: first in the West End for some end-of-birthday mischief, and then, naturally, at his hotel—with his favourite escort delight wearing the most expensive birthday ribbon he’s ever bought.