𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 ✓ (𝟷𝟾+)

1. The call

I hated winters more than I hated the traffic, the pollution and the crowded streets of London. Little to my knowledge, a crisp, orange mélange skied evening would change my life and make me fall in love with winters.

I was jumping ahead for now. Let's back it up, shall we?

It was the mist-hovering, wet and colder month of October when I endured the difficult task of walking up and leaving the warm hold of my bed to trot to my office, all before the London traffic caught up.

My work at Murphy Enterprises - the whiskey conglomerate - was that of an assistant. With a job description that consisted of only two things; taking dictations and attending calls, I didn't have much else to do.

So, there I was in my twenty by twenty faux, grey-walled cubicle with a cactus as my company, working like all the other days. My job did put my law degree to shame but more about that later.

Although the dictations would cease by the end of my working hours, say around nine-ish, the calls would continue even after. 

Those weren't the office calls. And the people who called weren't calling for me - Arin Rafferty.

Those who called me after my work hours at Murphy didn't know my real name or what I did for a living. For them, I was an enigma. Again, I digressed.

Mr. Roger Murphy, our boss, was a diligent worker with a bunch of assistants. He has a personal assistant, a secretary and one more, whose job, umm... I kept forgetting. 

I guess I didn't know what Daisy's job was besides the fact that she slept with the boss. That news was confirmed by every office gossip.

And then there was me, Roger's stenographer-cum-assistant. I called myself the 'Lady of Letters; a title I bestowed upon myself.

A year has passed since my mother succumbed to cancer. The spine to my body, she ensured I was safe in the world. She wanted me to turn around my life and stay happy, no matter the circumstance. 

Lord knows I tried.

I responded to every newspaper ad that carried a good income job. With a piling student loan and mom's medical bills, the job at the Murphy's wasn't cutting it. In a place like London, nothing panned out either.

So when the golden hen of a second job fell in my lap, I nabbed it. 

My second job was as a part-time call girl. A literal call girl. A girl who would satisfy every craving of loins over a call. And yes, part-time. 

The calling started anywhere south of ten p.m. where I made thirty pounds an hour.

Quite expensive for phone sex, you'd say?

Well, not everyone has my accent and vigour to experiment with the array of demands put across.

Before your mind ran scenarios, let me put it straight. I didn't pleasure myself on the call. That wasn't part of the professional ethics manual that I designed. 

I took the job to sustain a roof over my head and have a decent living whilst freeing myself from debt.

That evening proceeded as usual with Mr. Murphy leaving the office followed by all of us. 

Of all the assistants that I talked about, I was most fond of Mrs. Rose.

A woman in her late fifties with a mélange of blond and grey hair and a light of wisdom on her face attained only if one had been good throughout their life. 

After my Mom's demise, Mrs. Rose ensured I didn't crumble and fall into depression. Since the day she stood at my doorstep with a casserole and refused to leave till I ate her famous baked chicken, she became an integral part of my life.