When a regular client invited me to be his date at a London wedding, I realised this would be unlike any other booking. Being a London escort often means adapting to new worlds and this time I had to blend seamlessly into a room full of family and friends.
We were still stretched out in the after-glow, skin warm against skin, the city muffled behind heavy curtains. I liked those moments best if I’m honest — not the rush, but the quiet that followed, when someone stopped performing and simply… was. He shifted under me, restless, as if rehearsing words in his head.
“Would you be my date for a wedding?” he asked suddenly, and the seriousness of it almost made me laugh. I tilted my head, waiting for the catch.
He winced, already back-tracking. “I mean, you know, as my date but while… you’re still working. Forget it. That sounded ridiculous.”
“It didn’t,” I said softly. “You’re asking if I’d go as your London escort… for a wedding.”
He nodded, shoulders tense. “Exactly. But only if you wanted to.”
“I’d love to,” I replied, and I meant it. There was something flattering in being chosen for more than just the obvious.
We sorted out the practicalities, though part of me felt the shift — escorting someone I’d grown used to seeing in more private settings into a room full of friends and family. It required a different poise, almost like theatre. Still, it was my craft. I knew how to slip into a story and make it believable.
On the day, he turned up with a dress. Rose-coloured, flowing, the kind that makes you stand taller the second it touches your skin. I changed while he waited, calling out some ridiculous quip about preferring me without clothes, and the laugh loosened the knot in my chest. We stole a kiss, deeper than intended, before he pulled us back to the script with a taxi already on its way.
At the venue, the air carried the perfume of champagne and expectation. I had assumed half the men would have younger women at their arms, but no — most had wives of twenty years, pearls and familiarity. I was suddenly aware of the age gap, the way my presence might whisper its own story. But he stayed close, protective, almost like a guard at my side. His hand at my waist calmed the self-conscious voice in my head. Tonight, I was his, as much as he was mine.
When the music started, others tried to cut in, but he kept me to himself. Dancing is my refuge — movement lets me forget how much I’m being watched. He followed, at first stiff, then looser, until we looked like a couple who had practised. People believed what they wanted to see.
The only stumble came when someone asked how we met. He glanced at me, nervous as a schoolboy, and I answered with the polished backstory I’d prepared. He hated that he’d looked to me, thinking it made him appear small. Later, I caught his hand under the table and whispered that no one noticed. He laughed eventually, though he still shook his head at himself.
On the way home, the city sliding past, he murmured, “Thank you for doing this. I had fun.”
“So did I,” I said, because it was true.
He kissed my hand. “I’m too tired tonight. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” I arched a brow. “I don’t recall that booking.”
“I cleared it with the agency,” he admitted, half-sheepish, half-proud. “I wanted to surprise you, but I ruined it.”
I laughed, and he joined me, both of us softened by the night. For a woman who has made a life of moving through other people’s stories, I sometimes forget how much joy there is in the simple ones. Being introduced. Holding someone’s gaze while the music sways. Pretending so well that you almost believe it yourself.
If you enjoyed this story, you may also like A Gentleman’s Evening with a London Escort or explore why discretion matters in Why Book with a London Escort Agency?.