It's a small world

After a few years in the business and clocking up more than a few dates, you can imagine this vast city starting to feel smaller and smaller. The more familiar it becomes—the hotels, restaurants, members’ clubs, even the late-night cab routes—the smaller it seems as the months pass. I start my day at home. By nightfall, I could be anywhere: a discreet Mayfair townhouse, a rooftop bar overlooking the Thames, or a suite with a view of Hyde Park. No two weeks are ever the same, and more often than not, no two clients are the same. But that doesn’t mean I’ve escaped my fair share of awkward situations; it’s a small world out there, and an even smaller one in my line of work.

Setting the Scene

Let me set the scene for you and show you just how small it can be, especially in this business. One evening, I was at The Ritz, seated in the opulent lobby bar beneath the glittering chandeliers, having cocktails and an intimate chat with a new client. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, expensive perfume, and citrus from our martinis. We were tucked into a plush velvet sofa, talking in low voices and enjoying that easy, early chemistry when suddenly, from across the lobby, I heard my name being called.

Now, without giving too much away, I have a few aliases. They’re usually variations of my natural or middle name, each with slightly different spellings and a carefully chosen, forgettable surname. They’re not about creating mystery so much as ensuring maximum discretion for the client and a degree of non-traceability for both of us. Different names for different circles, different platforms, different situations. In this world, a single, traceable identity can be a liability.

I keep my head angled towards my companion, my smile fixed, my posture relaxed. My client hasn’t noticed the slightest shift in my demeanour. Outwardly, I’m the picture of calm. Inwardly, my attention has sharpened to a point. My ears hone in on the repeated name, lifting it out of the soft murmur of conversation and the clink of glassware. There are plenty of women with my Christian name, so I don’t immediately descend into horror, but the insistence in the caller’s voice needles at my nerves. Eventually, both my client and I turn towards the sound.

When the Past Walks In

There he is: an ex-client. The very one who had to stop calling me after his wife examined his mobile phone bill and decided numbers didn’t lie. He’s slightly rumpled in an expensive suit, tie loosened, collar open, and he’s clearly been drinking heavily. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks flushed, and he’s staggering in my direction with all the grace of a man who thinks he’s charming but is about two drinks past it.

“Does he mean you?” my client asks, leaning in, his confusion edged with a hint of protectiveness. I force my heartbeat to slow and answer lightly, “I have no idea who that man is.” My tone is casual, my expression unconcerned, the way you might dismiss an overfriendly stranger.

The ex-client barrels through the remaining distance. He lays a heavy, familiar hand on my shoulder and leans into my space, bringing with him a wave of whisky-laced breath. “I thought it was you!” he slurs into my face. “It’s a small world. How are you? I’m going through a nasty divorce now… Silly old bat is even taking the dog!”

For a heartbeat, I feel my client tense beside me. The easy atmosphere fractures. My lovely client rises to his feet in one smooth movement and snaps, “Now look here!” His voice is sharp, his jaw set, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables.

Controlling the Damage

Before it escalates, I gently but firmly peel the ex-client’s sweaty hand off my shoulder. I look at him with cool politeness and say, “I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.” My voice is steady, almost indifferent, as if he’s made a simple social misstep.

He blinks, looks from me to my client and back again, and I can see embarrassment beginning to penetrate the alcoholic haze. He mumbles a flustered apology—half excuses, half retreat—and turns away, shoulders sagging. Thankfully, he slinks back to wherever he came from, metaphorical tail between his legs.

I take a slow breath, smooth back my hair as though that was all that was disturbed, re-cross my legs, and return my attention to my client with a soft smile. “Now, you were saying…?” I prompt, my tone light and reassuring, inviting the evening to slip back into its earlier ease.

The Risks of Overlap

You can never be too careful in my line of work. We’ve all heard horror stories—like the fiancé of a dear friend of mine, for instance. He’s not nearly as clever as he thinks he is, and yet she is still marrying him. I am still quietly working on ousting him from her life before his secrets explode in her face. For now, that particular overlap hasn’t surfaced, but these things rarely stay buried forever.

Overlaps do happen: clients who move in the same circles, men who spot you at a charity gala with someone else, acquaintances who recognise you but can’t place where. Egos get bruised, suspicions are raised, and sometimes hearts are broken. I’ve seen it, I’ve caused it, and occasionally I’ve had to clean up after it.

Leaving It at the Door

Still, I try to leave all of that at the door when I say goodnight, take off my heels, wipe away my lipstick, and step back into my own life.

It doesn’t do to dwell. In this London escorts business, if you fixate on every close call, every near miss, you’d never walk into another hotel lobby again.