What happens when a journalist has a midlife career change and becomes a high-class prostitute? She writes about it, of course. Fenella Souter visits the secret, saucy – and often surprising – world of “Samantha”

The path to pleasure is carpeted in beige. The men, all the lonely, sad, married, bored, rich, horny men who come in search of “Samantha”, take the lift to this softly lit foyer on the sixth floor of a city apartment block, where their footsteps are dulled by the hotel-style wall-to-wall. The anonymous hush and the long, dim corridor hint at something forbidden, a reminder they have stepped out of their ordinary lives and into a secret world.

At their knock, her door swings open and there she is, smiling, welcoming and fully dressed – for the moment – with just a little sexy cleavage on display, a taste of what lies in store.

Samantha is willowy, olive-skinned, dark-eyed and an E cup. On the day marie claire meets her, her full breasts press like overripe melons against the crisp white shirt that struggles to contain them.

Slim-fitting, avocado-coloured Ralph Lauren jodhpurs emphasise her long legs. On her feet are spiky, flesh-coloured Louboutins. Her brown hair, with its ombre ends, falls in waves around her shoulders, and pink lipstick delicately highlights pouting lips.

She could be somebody’s beautiful, stylish partner, although the breasts, the result of three boob jobs, and the faceless serviced apartment suggest another story: not one man’s wife, but any man’s woman – for a price.

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