It was Christmas Eve, around 6:30 p.m., and I was sitting on my sofa, idly browsing the internet while waiting to pick up my friend James, who was going to be spending Christmas with my family.
It was just a few hours earlier that I'd been on a date with Ellie. For reasons I can’t fully explain, a strange thought crossed my mind, and I typed into Google:
“Portia tantric massage.” - and up popped the search results.
I just sat there, frozen, staring at the screen, unable to comprehend what I had found. I couldn't believe that my date was in fact a prostitute.
All day, small suspicions had been gnawing at me. When we were in Harrods, Ellie had been carrying wads of cash, thousands of pounds. In a casual conversation about pen names, she mentioned she sometimes went by “Portia,” though she never really explained why. I’d also noticed sachets of lubricant in her handbag, not just one or two, but lots of them, which struck me as unusual for a 22-year-old.
On top of that, she kept bringing up tantric massage, almost obsessively. And then there was the night before our date, when she said she was “at the house of a madam having a lesson.” At the time, I laughed it off as a joke.
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