I remember seeing Convent Garden for the first time as an adult – or rather, not seeing it, being then in thrall to a lover who enjoyed walking me through the streets blindfolded, guiding me over puddles and leaf-slick crosswalks. With eyes closed I can sometimes hear his dry voice announcing obstructions in my ear (steps leading up, uneven stone pavement) and, being new to the South, I learned the smells and sounds of London before seeing it. We spent our little money recklessly, on baubles and silly clothes. The wine velvet dress we bought together and I wore without him, a week later, to a Christmas meal with friends in Yorkshire. When I rang him that night, merrily, to say a stranger had said to let him know he was a very lucky man…’I know,’ he said, the disembodied voice as if we were walking around town together and his thin hand hovering at my waist. ‘I know.’

He left me the next year and London has never seemed real since. I am free to look at the streets now, eyes open, but it’s like walking a film set.

-The Further Adventures of a London Call Girl
Belle De Jour
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