Whatever takes your fancy

I went out on a first date with Marco some time ago, right around the time he founded his new record label. It was a huge leap for him—he’d gone from being a respected industry insider to suddenly being the man everyone wanted a piece of. Overnight, his schedule exploded. He was flying between cities, attending showcases, wining and dining artists, and negotiating deals well past midnight. There was always another party, another listening session, another “urgent” call from someone important. He was surrounded by people, but somehow still alone. He didn’t have the time or the emotional space to look for his special someone in the traditional way.

His interest in my services

He told me very matter-of-factly that, while he adored romance and companionship, he couldn’t risk the unpredictability of dating in his world. He needed discretion, reliability, and a woman who could glide into his life and his social circle without raising eyebrows. He said my location made things wonderfully simple. He liked efficiency in everything, even pleasure. One call, one car, one quick trip across town, and I’d be at his side.

For our first official date, he took me to his label launch party. It was at a lavish venue—warm amber lighting, polished marble floors, champagne towers, and a guest list bursting with famous faces and soon-to-be stars. Marco had barely stepped through the door before he was enveloped in hugs, backslaps, and breathy congratulations. One moment, I was slipping off my coat; the next, I was being introduced to chart-toppers and producers whose names usually only appeared in magazine articles and music blogs. Marco seemed eager to thrust me into that world, as if he wanted me to feel the full weight of his new kingdom.

I was genuinely taken aback by his appetite for both new and established talent. As we moved through the crowd, he would pause mid-conversation to point out some up-and-coming singer he’d just signed, or a band he’d flown in from Berlin for a three-song set. He talked about them with almost paternal pride. At first, I was truly impressed by the diversity of his musical tastes. From vintage soul to obscure electronica, from classic rock to experimental jazz, he seemed to devour it all. The party became a live soundtrack to his enthusiasm, and I found myself drawn into it in spite of myself.

A fantasy life like mine

This kind of environment isn’t exactly foreign to me. I meet a remarkable variety of people from all corners of the globe, and the settings range from sleek hotel bars to private jets and remote villas. From New York’s neon buzz to Hong Kong’s glittering harbours, from Milan’s fashion-soaked streets to Melbourne’s artsy laneways—I’ve seen it all and then some. Talented Melbourne men fretting over their next career move, confused women trying to untangle their desires, and the odd married billionaire who thinks money makes him bulletproof; nothing much fazes me anymore.

As a top London escort, I’ve learned to revel in that diversity. It keeps my world sharp and colourful. People confide in me, test their boundaries with me, and reveal the sides of themselves hidden from everyone else. Over time, very little has managed to truly shock me or even raise so much as an eyebrow. Whatever takes your fancy has become both a motto and a quiet shrug of acceptance. Or at least that’s what I believed. I considered myself largely immune to surprise—armoured, in a way, against the peculiarities of other people’s fantasies.

Promises of Future Rendezvous

With date number one completed, and after a lingering drink at a top hotel—one of those places with deep carpets, rich wood, and staff who glide rather than walk—Marco told me he’d call. He said it casually, almost lazily, but there was a warm assurance in his tone. He made it clear that this wasn’t going to be a one-off encounter. There would be more rendezvous, more late nights, more events where I’d be the elegant constant on his arm while the rest of his life whirled around him.

The Man Behind the Music

Let me tell you a little more about the man in the music. Marco is forty-three, and the word “handsome” hardly does him justice. He’s the sort of man who owns every room he enters without trying—tall, well-groomed, with dark hair that falls just the right side of unruly and eyes that always look like they’re one step ahead of everyone else. Charming, witty, and clever, he’s very much a London man, born and bred, with that particular blend of polish and edge the city tends to produce.

He is also, quite frankly, obscenely wealthy. Marco owns homes in Mayfair, Hereford, and Surrey—each selected for a specific mood or need. The Mayfair penthouse is sleek and modern, perfect for spontaneous parties and midnight brainstorming sessions. The Hereford property is a sprawling country retreat, all rolling fields and ancient trees, where he disappears when he wants silence. Surrey offers something in between: a refined, discreet escape just far enough from the city to feel like another world. On top of that, he has an exquisite villa in the South of France, perched above a small coastal town where the sea seems to glow at dusk, and two studios in New York—one all bright glass and chrome, the other a more intimate, low-lit space for late-night recording sessions.

The Penthouse Experience

His Mayfair penthouse, in particular, fascinated me. Tucked into one wall of the living room, behind smoked glass panels, is his music library. It is eclectic, almost chaotic, yet somehow carefully curated. Shelf after shelf of CDs line the wall in neat rows, each spine a reminder of another era. In a world that practically worships streaming services and digital playlists, his devotion to this old-school collection felt almost romantic. I spent quite some time standing there, tracing titles with my fingertips, surprised to find such a tactile, nostalgic ritual in a man who lives at the cutting edge of the music business. It wasn’t what I expected, but again—whatever takes your fancy. And with Marco, it did seem to make a strange kind of sense.

An Invitation to His Study

In my self-declared unshockable state, I didn’t think much of it when, one evening, he asked me to join him in his study. He gestured to the polished mahogany desk and told me to perch on the edge, his tone casual but his eyes bright with a private anticipation. While he woke up his state-of-the-art computer—a sleek, expensive machine humming with silent power—he said he wanted to show me some artists he loved on YouTube.

I thought it was rather sweet at first. Here was this powerful, influential man, suddenly excited, like a teenager, to share his favourite clips with me. As he leaned in toward the screen, his shoulders relaxed, and his whole demeanour shifted. His face softened into something almost goofy and boyish, his seriousness melting away as he typed into the search bar with confident familiarity.

Marco’s Guilty Pleasure

Then I saw what he’d written.

“Best X Factor auditions.”

In an instant, the screen filled with millions of results: thumbnails of hopefuls clutching microphones, judges mid-eye-roll, tearful families waiting backstage. Reality TV gold, as he put it. Marco’s expression lit up; he was completely in his element. He started queueing up clips, eager to show me the ones that gave him goosebumps or made him shout at the screen.

Suddenly, everything we’d discussed earlier about the evening snapped back into focus. He had been quite particular about what I should wear. He’d suggested I choose underwear that could somehow match pop, rock, and soul—an unusual request, but hardly the strangest I’ve heard. I had indulged him, of course. I’d taken my time at Selfridges, gliding through the new designer displays and picking out pieces that felt like visual echoes of the genres he loved: something bold and playful for pop, darker and edgier for rock, and something softer, more sensual for soul.

By the time I was perched on that desk, I was wearing my favourite set from Dirty Pretty Things—a delicate camisole that hugged my curves just so, with matching lingerie hidden beneath my dress. What I hadn’t anticipated was that I’d be silently comparing that exquisite little number to a breathless unknown’s version of “Billie Jean” on a reality show stage.

Whatever takes your fancy, indeed.

Applause, Lingerie, and a Raised Eyebrow

As lovely as some of these contestants’ voices were—and I will admit, a few of them were astonishing—the experience was… surreal. Each soaring note was followed by thunderous applause, judges’ theatrics, and an audience roaring loud enough to rattle stadium walls. That disembodied clapping, pouring out of Marco’s high-end speakers, was hardly the background soundtrack a girl imagines when she’s trying to stay in a seductive frame of mind. It’s difficult to maintain one’s stride, to keep that slow, sensual energy flowing, when a crowd of thousands erupts every few minutes in wild appreciation for someone else entirely.

Still, I found myself watching him as much as the screen. There was something strangely intimate about it: this powerful, self-possessed man was completely captivated by raw, unpolished talent and the drama it all evoked. It didn’t shock me, exactly—but it did surprise me. For someone who seemed so impeccably curated and controlled, this was his guilty pleasure: sitting in his luxurious study, surrounded by priceless art and walls of CDs, watching reality TV auditions on YouTube while I sat beside him in designer lingerie.

And in that moment, with the echo of applause ringing through the room and my camisole catching the light just so, I realised that even a woman who thinks she’s seen everything can still be caught off guard. Marco had found a way to make me raise an eyebrow after all.