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“How the fuck could you be so stupid?’ A well-manicured, glossy red fingernail tapped the picture on the front page of a German newspaper. The headline read, “English actress and star of new tv show leaves club with German woman.” Admittedly the headline wasn’t exactly contentious but the picture which showed her hand inside the top of my dress could claim to be. The dress had been selected that night because I wanted to get laid and the club I’d been to was somewhat notorious as a place where that was exceedingly likely. I’d fancied the woman in the picture, a soft butch called Becca and we’d had a fabulous night – just what the doctor ordered. “She was American.” “I don’t give a flying what nationality she was she had her hand on your tits and a Paparrazo caught it.” Felicity Caterham, usually known as Flick, my agent was livid. She ranted on about indiscretion, responsibility to my career and hers, the views of the tv company making the series about terrorism in the 1970s and a whole load of invective-filled vituperation. I’d seen her like this before and decided to let her vent. She vented. “The BBC want to interview you. I’ve said no, it’ll die down.” “Say yes.” “What?” “You heard me; say yes.” Officially I was a client and Flick was my employed agent but that was not her style. She was overbearing, temperamental and bloody brilliant at her job. I continued before she could start another rant. “I want to be interviewed and I will be. I’m sick of this shit and although I am new to it I’ve seen too many people suffer from the press and I want to help stop it.” We argued for a while. At one point she called Hattie, her PA in. “Fuck’s sake, Hat, tell the stupid bitch why she shouldn’t go on the radio.” Hattie, like all Flick’s staff, was younger than forty, taller than a redwood tree and stunning. “Would Escort Beşevler anyone like a drink?” You had to hand it to Hattie, she was cool under fire. “Champagne,” I said imperiously, with a sideways grin to Hattie. She and I were mates (without benefits, sadly, she being straight as a ruler) and we often conspired against Flick gently. Flick erupted. “Champagne? It’s 10.30 in the morning.” I looked at my watch. “So it is. Champagne, please Hat and bring a glass for yourself.” Felicity looked daggers at me as we sat in silence waiting for Hattie’s return. She brought the booze and glasses, poured then sat crossing one fabulously long leg over the other and making me almost moan. “God, Hattie, do me a favour and turn queer.” She smiled. “Behave.” The Interview. The interview was on an arts programme that aired late Friday afternoons and was very popular. I sat in the studio with headphones on, facing the presenter. She was a rather dumpy woman of about fifty. “Faye Millerton, you’re an openly gay woman…” “Would you have started with ‘you are an openly straight woman?’” She looked at me for a beat and said, “My question was about your exposure in the media since your escapade in Germany.” I’d decided to be calm and reasonable but it wasn’t going to be easy. “Laura, I went to a club, I met someone I fancied, I left with her and we were intimate. Ask yourself and your listeners if they have ever done anything like that? Ask yourself why you used the term ‘escapade’? Ask yourself if there is anything remotely interesting about this story in the twenty-first century?” “It has caused a lot of public interest.” “It’s aroused a lot of prurient interest and it’s because it’s an ‘openly’ gay woman at the heart of it. It is not ‘in the public interest’ that the media published Çankaya escort the photograph or the story. It’s feeding prejudice and attempted scandal.” Two weeks earlier. We’d been filming a scene for the show in Berlin. Helen Thuring, the director, had left Berlin to move on to the next location and I had a few days spare. I’d decided to visit a club Helen had told me about mainly because I wanted a good shag. The hotel car, a black Merc that was almost invisible in Berlin, dropped me at the club. It was on a busy street but was calm if relatively busy inside. The nightclub part was below ground and the ground floor was given over to a bar, dining room and a casino. There were hostesses, smartly dressed in blue uniforms and bartenders all in grey. The croupiers were smart in tuxedos. The atmosphere was one of sophistication and wealth. Fuck alone knows what I was doing there. A long, zinc-topped bar ran in a serpentine wave along the left-hand side with stools before it and a brass foot rail beneath. Little brass hooks for handbags were by each stool. The body of the bar was filled with tables, some for four, most for two. I managed to find a vacant stool at the bar, hung my bag, ordered a glass of Sekt and settled in to see what might happen. A woman was sitting with her back to me, talking to a companion. I had a view of a dark red silk blouse that was almost transparent and there was no sign of a bra beneath it. There was a huge mirror on the wall behind the bar and I tried to check out her companion and, if I am totally honest, to see if the front of the blouse was as sheer as the back but I couldn’t see. The clientele was exclusively female but that didn’t mean it wasn’t varied. There was no ‘rough trade’ – everyone was well-dressed but not by any means all in dresses. Cebeci escort bayan One or two wore male style evening suits with white or black jackets, others sported leather trousers or skirts. Long hair, short hair, all colours; it was an eclectic mix. By no means all were beautiful but most were attractive. A group of six women came in shortly after me. They were talking, laughing. Two hostesses re-arranged a couple of tables so they could all sit together. I watched the action in the mirror behind the bar. Orders were taken and the hostesses moved to the service area of the bar away to my right and a bartender placed drinks on their trays. Hips swaying, the hostesses returned to the group and placed the drinks in front of the customers. Hands touched shoulders as they leant in to place the glasses and there was something intimate about it as if the group was well-known and popular. It was compelling viewing somehow. The barmaid offered me another Sekt. I thanked her. Her smile said ‘If only I had time to chat’ but clearly she didn’t. She shrugged apologetically and walked off to serve another customer. As I turned to go the toilet I bumped straight into one of the women from the group I’d been watching earlier. Apologising, she indicated I should go ahead and I was very conscious of her following me. This wasn’t the sort of place where women go to the toilet to make out; there were women kissing and fondling everywhere, more or less discreetly. She followed me into the ladies then stepped into a stall, as did I. “You’re English?” “Yep.” “Love the accent. I’m Rebecca. I’m from the US of A.” “I’m Faye. I’d shake your hand but…” She laughed. “Not too easy, huh? We’ll shake when we’ve washed hands.” I heard the cistern empty and her feet moving across the tiled floor. I wiped and went out to wash my hands but, more importantly, to get a good view of her. About my height but not wearing heels like mine, ash blonde hair cut short, cream linen trousers with a pale blue shirt and brown cavalry boots – soft to medium butch and very attractive. She had a large watch on her wrist, her only jewellery.
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