The Passenger Daniel Hurst (books for men to read .TXT) 📖

our nervous body language that we are on a first date and not in the early stages of a professional business transaction. I wonder if anybody else in this bar tonight is here for the same reasons as Greg and I.

Is anybody else here as desperate as we are?

While I have no idea why Greg seems to think that the only way to get a woman to go on a date with him involves forking out a large chunk of cash, my desperation stems from my worrying lack of money. I’ve been struggling to build myself back up ever since Johnny cleared out my bank account. I still have my office job in London, but with how little I have left over from that wage at the end of the month, it’s taking an awfully long time for me to get my balance looking healthy again.

It wouldn’t be such a problem if I at least enjoyed my day job and could tolerate the commute, but I can’t. I hate every single second of it, and I’ve had enough. My dream of being a writer hasn’t left me, but every day that goes by without me pursuing it leaves me feeling like it is less likely to ever happen.

So here I am entering the world of escorting in order to make as much money as I can in as short a time as possible so I can leave my nine-to-five life behind and finally do what I want to do. That means having to now work several evenings after I’ve already done a full day in the office. This is my first time escorting, and while I’m uncomfortable so far, I can’t afford to screw this up. Without the extra cash from this job, I will never get to achieve my goals.

I’m just about to ask Greg about his favourite holiday destinations, which was one of the topics that was suggested to me by the agency to make conversation, when I feel the buzzing on my leg. I look down and see my phone vibrating. Somebody is calling me.

It’s Louise.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, picking up my phone. ‘I have an urgent call, and I really have to take this. Is that okay? We can make the time back up at the end. I promise.’

Greg graciously allows me to leave the table, and I rush towards the doors with my phone in my hand, wondering why my daughter is calling me now. If it was anybody else, then I wouldn’t have bothered picking up, but Louise never calls me unless she needs something, so I’d better see what it is.

I step out on the street and wait until the glass doors have closed behind me before I accept the call because I want to make sure that the sounds of the busy bar are trapped inside. I told Louise I was going to be working late at the office, so I can hardly answer the phone to the sound of chinking glasses and boisterous laughter.

‘Hey! Is everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Where are you?’ comes the gruff reply from the other end of the line.

‘I’m working late. I told you I would be.’

‘Oh.’

She obviously wasn’t listening when I told her. That’s my daughter.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

‘Nothing. I’m just starving, and there’s nothing in to eat.’

‘There’s plenty in,’ I reply, but then I’m suddenly not so sure about that. It has been five days since I did a food shop. That’s a lot of time for a ravenous teenager to raid the cupboards.

‘There isn’t. I’m starving,’ Louise moans.

‘Well, you’re a big girl. I’m sure you can find something,’ I tell her, moving quickly away from the door to the wine bar as a young couple leave and allow all the noise inside to temporarily escape.

‘Can I use your card to get a takeaway?’ Louise asks.

‘No, I told you we can’t afford it. You will have to eat what’s in the flat.’

‘But I just told you there’s nothing in the flat!’

I grip the phone tightly as I feel my blood pressure rising. Why must my daughter always be so difficult? There is probably food in the flat. It might not be exciting, but there will be something to eat. I refuse to believe that we are out of everything. What Louise means when she says there is nothing in is that she is too lazy to cook anything for herself. Instead, she’d rather I just get her a takeaway. But I’ve told her no more. It’s a waste of money, and it all adds up. The more I splurge on things like that, the less likely it is that I will ever get to quit my job, and the more likely it is that I’ll have to do the kind of work I’m doing tonight instead.

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘You’re not having a takeaway.’

‘Pleeeeaassse.’

The easy thing to do would be to give in and just give her my card details so she can order one. But it’s been a long time since I did the easy thing.

‘No. Eat what’s in the flat. I’ll be home by ten.’

Then I hang up and head back into the bar. I don’t feel bad for saying no to my daughter because it is the right thing to do. The fact she is calling me again as I make my way back to the table in the corner only stiffens my resolve. We’re probably going to have a massive argument when I get back home later tonight because of this, but so be it. If she had any idea how hard I was actually working to earn my money, then maybe she would be more understanding. But she doesn’t because Louise doesn’t understand anything about hard work and earning money. She just thinks it grows on trees. Well, it doesn’t. I really wish it did. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to be sitting down at this table again and asking Greg if he’s enjoying the expensive bottle of wine he