The inspiration for this story originated at a black tie event given by a senior American politician in a magnificent Georgian mansion in London's Mayfair, to which I was invited a few years ago. Attended by the great and the good the place was awash with fabulous food, fabulous surroundings and fabulous people. Among the latter, a sprinkling of billionaires. And more than just a sprinkling of stunning women, all in designer clothes and dripping gold and diamonds. My attention was drawn early on by a strikingly handsome young man with immaculate black hair. Extremely tall, and ignoring protocol, he wore a white tuxedo, with black silk dress shirt and white bow tie. In a further snub to convention, he was the only smoker in the room, flourishing a long thin cheroot between elegant fingers. I noticed him moving with animal grace from woman to woman, all of whom appeared entranced by his soft conversation. He seemed to approach females at random, whether alone, or even if accompanied by husbands and boyfriends. I contrived to get as close to him as possible to see and hear what they found so fascinating about the man. What I heard astonished me. Soft spoken comments. Amusing dialogue. A hand discreetly, if outrageously brushing a breast or bare back. Then, like a magician, the production of a gold edged, embossed business card, secreted by him, either about her person, or slipped surreptitiously into a clutch bag. And then: But surely not. But yes. I'd heard correctly. The quoting of a price. The man was a Gigolo. Nothing less. Working the room in the full glare of an ultra-prestigious gathering, as though he were the host himself. He must have conversed with more than a dozen women. I noticed several of them looking flushed, excited, expectant, as he moved on. How else to describe it? I needed to know more. To hear for myself what gilded web of enchantment this individual could spin. But when I searched the room, like a phantom, he'd disappeared. I attended several more parties over the years at that and other Mayfair addresses, but never saw him again. And when I made enquiries of my various hosts, none of them could ever recall having seen the man. Food for thought, I decided, and a short story. I am a Gigolo.
