It was midnight when I crawled into bed, A, rang to ask if I'd come over now, 'I really need to get some rest, call me in the morning and lets arrange for tomorrow afternoon.'
At 2pm I arrived back at the riverside apartment, the Porter recognized me and raised the barrier waving me through, 'Good afternoon Mam.'
A, was wearing a silk dressing-gown and asked his assistant to go fetch me one too; off I went to the bedroom, undressed and slipped into the cool technicolor robe.
'What would you like Frances, some wine, a beer, are you hungry?' 'Actually I am hungry, is it possible to have something simple?' His personal Chef was summoned, 'Perhaps a salad and a few lamb-chops,' he suggested, that sounded fine. I had a glass of water, as I like to avoid drinking alcohol before 6pm, otherwise I get all sleepy and my day's done by 8pm.
After a zingy fresh lunch, we resumed our position on the sofa to administer more mutual foot massages. Whilst in mid foot rub and conversation, an elderly Arab man entered the room holding a guitar (roll with it Frances I thought), he walked up to A, took his hand and gave a gentle bow 'Hello my Prince,' turning to me he offered the same courtesy.
'Frances, this is a very old friend of my father, a wise and beautiful man, I have asked him to sing for you, as I know you love music.' The man proceeded to play, with much encouragement from A, and quite beautiful it was too. When he'd finished I asked if he wouldn't mind playing a little more, he bowed humbly and obliged.
The guitar was then handed over to me, but not before A brought up my own 'Youtube' performances on the gargantuan TV screen upon the wall. This was all done via his mobile phone; I'm obviously not keeping up with technology, it's all getting beyond me. I sat watching myself, it wasn't comfortable nor is it for most performers, but it's the only way to hone one's stagecraft and it does work.
After the second or third video I insisted he turn it off; I felt much more comfortable just sat there on the sofa, singing and playing the guitar.
Michael Jackson was renowned for finishing his gig, doing the obligatory meet and greet afterwards, before rushing back to his hotel room to watch and observe the raw recorded footage of the evening's performance. And that ladies and gentlemen, is how one hones their stagecraft.
After the delightful musician left, S, the manservant came up and cut a gram of coke on the glass topped table, when he left A, turned to me, 'Frances, he's not very well today so I've called for a Transsexual escort to come give him a massage, he doesn't she a Transsexual though.'
She duly arrived an hour later and was shown up to the room. A young pretty Thai girl, nicely dressed, ridiculously large designer handbag and sunglasses, loaded down with all that ostentatious stuff one believes at that age, commands respect and gravities, causing traffic to go 'WOW' as you strut along.
I could sense she felt a little out of her depth with all the goings on, people coming in and out. A, didn't help any by being a little too challenging with her, until I told him to behave. I made as much friendly conversation as I could, though this was limited as she didn't seem engaged, fiddling with her hair and bling accessories, and reminded us that she would have to check into the agency regarding times.
A, didn't much care for this, he'd have been happy to pay her whatever, but wasn't seeking a 'Time and Motion' clipboard exercise; it seems she has some learning to do in the diplomacy department.
S was summoned, told of his gift, acknowledged his appreciation and meekly left with the girl to a room downstairs. I caught up with her before she left, to check if everything had been taken care of and saw her out. A and I agreed that if we were to get another girl in, it might be better if it were someone I knew, rather than a clock watching agency girl.
And with that, we retired to the boudoir.