Chapter Text
The thing is, George didn’t mean to become a pimp. Even has an Oxford degree to prove that---modern languages, if you must know.
He was contemplating on what to do with his life, whether to take up post-grad studies or find a job, when his grand aunt passed away. She left him a handsome three-storey house in South Ken.
George moved in, naturally. The place was wasted on one person, so he decided to rent the rooms out. His first tenant turned out to be an escort, who arrived on the first day with three suitcases full of shoes. A tad excessive, but whatever (‘Nonsense, dear. You can never be too rich or have too many pairs of shoes’).
When she wasn’t absent or drunk or high, she’d be moaning about her agency. Eventually George said look, why don’t you quit?
‘And do what, darling? A girl like me is high maintenance.’ She slurred in that lilting accent, and tossed her glossy curls over her shoulder.
‘I didn’t mean the job.’
‘I have a few regulars, sure. But once they move on I’ll be stuck.’
George remembered Oliver Lacon saying something about wanting to chuck money at his dates---not for the sex, rather, for them to leave after---and said he might have an idea. After all, he had no shortage of acquaintances from uni, most of whom young, rich, and spoilt.
It went downhill from there.
Six months later, George gave up on the job hunt, and started to look after his four tenants for real.
He still calls them tenants in his head, even now. Employee sounds too formal, friend is far from the truth, and he doesn’t even want to consider the alternatives.
The Circus has a website, where the potential customers could cherry pick their date---companions for social gatherings, for instance, or something else entirely, depends on how much the client is paying. There’s a drop-down menu that allows them to tailor their pleasures; vanilla is a given, anything kinky costs extra. George makes a point not to get into the specifics, as long as it’s between two consenting adults and the payment is laid down in full.
Most of the transactions are settled online or over the phone. This whole profession runs on discretion, George appreciates that. He still insists on a tastefully decorated reception, which serves as front-of-house slash staff common room. Connie can always be found lounging in front of the fireplace, cigarette in one hand champagne flute in the other. Her girly trailing laugh can be heard in George’s study on the second floor.
She’s one of the few who still lives here; Connie is the Queen, and a queen does not retire from her court.
George is coming down the stairs when the doorbell dings. At this hour, it’s most likely Bill; that brat never calls in advance, always shows up when he feels like it.
Sure enough, Jim’s pleasant baritone soon follows.
‘Good evening, Mr Haydon. What can I do for you?’
‘Ah, Jim, the usual will do.’
A few clicks of the mouse. ‘I’m afraid Ann has some prior arrangement tonight. Would you like to have a look through our menu?’
‘What’s your recommendation then, Jim? You know I’m terribly indecisive.’
‘Wine, or spirit?’
‘Wine, I think.’
‘Then may I suggest Belinda?’ There’s a rustle of pages turning, a moment later Bill lets out a chuckle.
‘BA in art history? Where have you been hiding this one, huh?’
‘She’s one of our new recruits.’ Jim laughs, a polite sound. ‘I can get her to meet you in an hour at…?’
‘The Ritz, please.’
‘Enjoy your evening, Mr Haydon.’
‘Thank you, Jim. I’ll see you around.’
George emerges when Jim already has the receiver pressed to his ear, talking a mile a minute.
‘Linda, listen, it’s Jim. Yes, the Ritz, you’ve got an hour.’
A shriek breaks out from the other side. Jim whips his head away from the earpiece and winces.
‘Trust me, you look great. Talk art tonight, and wear that pin in your hair. He likes them a bit quirky.’
He quickly disconnects lest his eardrums suffer any permanent damage. George shakes his head.
‘Really, Jim, where would I be without you?’
‘Crash and burn, most likely---’
The front door bursts open again. When he sees who it is, George secretly echoes Jim’s groan.
‘Hey guys, why the long faces?’
Ricki leans against the door frame, sleeveless shirt unbuttoned all the way down to his navel. Ricki is one of the longest running tenants, and by far the most trouble-some. He is pretty, George supposes, the kind of pretty that’s not dissimilar to a dagger---shiny, with a wickedly sharp edge.
‘We’re still dealing with the complaint from your last client.’ George takes off his glasses and starts to polish them.
‘The handcuffs were his idea.’ Ricki shrugs. ‘Didn’t even have the decency to warn me beforehand.’
‘Doesn’t justify you cuffing him to the bed, in a hotel room, naked.’ Jim’s face twitches with every emphasis, going blotchy.
‘Aww come on, it’s quite funny when you think about it,’ Ricki whines. ‘Alright, I’ll bite. What did he say? Do I have to go over and---’ a wink, ‘---apologize?’
‘I sent Peter instead.’ George fixes the glasses back on. ‘He’s better at handling this sort of situation.’
Ricki snorts. ‘Oh, he definitely doesn’t need the handcuffs with Pete.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ A voice cuts in.
‘It means, you could charm his pants off with your personality alone, right, baby?’ Ricki spins around, voice saccharine sweet.
Peter doesn’t dignify that with a response, shouldering Ricki out of the way as he steps inside.
‘How did it go, Peter?’
‘As smoothly as it could. Given the circumstances.’
‘Did you tell that creep Tarr’s a good boy really, even if he’s impulsive? Or did you get on your knees and thank him for his---’
‘Good god, what’s with all this ruckus?’ Connie floats down the stairs in her night dress, a cloud of ruffles and ribbons. Her spaniel Flush pads silently along.
She rests a hand on George’s lapel, working the pointy end between her finger and thumb.
‘Boys, it’s far too early to be arguing already, surely.’
Ricki bends down to scratch Flush behind the ears. Peter glares at the top of his head, but thankfully says nothing. The tension dissolves almost as quickly as it’s arrived. George pats Connie’s wrist in thanks. She smiles up to him, misty eyed.
‘Oh, George, be a darling and fetch me a pill, will you? This headache is killing me.’