Women can be manipulative—sometimes in ways so subtle they’re almost invisible, even when we insist we’re being open and honest. I’ve heard every piece of advice there is, including my mother’s favourite line: “Ask, and you shall receive; don’t ask, and you won’t want.” I’ve never fully believed it. People rarely give you what you want just because you ask nicely. More often, you create the right conditions, and then they offer it of their own accord. Or at least, that’s what they like to think.

Let me set the scene properly…

A Day at Westfield

This weekend, I spent a wonderfully indulgent afternoon at Westfield Shopping Centre, just ten minutes from Paddington by train, with a charming companion on my arm. It was one of those crisp days when the sky can’t decide between drizzle and sunshine. The whole city seemed to pour into the nearest shopping centre for shelter and distraction.

Westfield was packed. Prams wove through the crowds. Teenagers clustered around the window displays. Well-heeled shoppers drifted in and out of designer boutiques as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I had my own agenda. I’d built a mental shopping list earlier in the week. As we wandered beneath polished floors and soaring glass ceilings, I quietly ticked off several items—some with Victor’s input, some with his card. I adore shopping dates. They’re a delicious contrast to my usual late-night Amazon binges, when the only company I have is the blue light of my laptop and the promise of next-day delivery. Walking through a mall hand in hand with a generous man is a very different pleasure.

Victor’s Shopping Marathon

There we were, fingers intertwined, arms weighed down with glossy branded bags that whispered of recent conquests. Victor, defying every lazy stereotype about men and shopping, insisted on visiting nearly every men’s clothing store in the centre. Who says men aren’t particular?

He studied labels, inspected stitching, and debated navy versus charcoal with the seriousness of a man buying a car. Meanwhile, my attention drifted from his endless jumpers to a single, glittering object of desire: a pair of multi-coloured glitter stilettos from Kurt Geiger on level one.

I’d spotted them in the window earlier—pure fantasy in shoe form. A slender, sky-high heel. An elegant curve at the arch. An explosion of glitter that caught the light and shattered it into tiny rainbows. They weren’t just shoes; they were an attitude, a statement, a promise of trouble.

As Victor tried on what felt like his fiftieth jumper—Fair Isle, if you must know, in a shade that did very nice things for his shoulders—I nodded and smiled. In the back of my mind, I was running the numbers.

The price tag read £150. Not outrageous, but not a thoughtless purchase either. I mentally checked my MasterCard balance, adding in last night’s drinks, taxi fares, and the impulsive dress I’d bought earlier in the month. I could just about justify them. But then I thought: why should I be the only one doing the justifying today?

Reading the Room

One thing about me: I’m very tuned in to the moods and needs of the people I’m with. It’s part temperament, part training, part survival skill. I can tell when Victor is about to get frustrated or tired, often before he realises it himself. His shoulders tighten. His answers get shorter. His interest in the mirrors starts to fade. That’s my cue to steer us gently away.

I wanted those shoes. He clearly needed a break from button-downs and knitwear. Time to deploy a little strategy. Call it soft power.

“Shall we grab something to eat?” I asked, as if the thought had just landed. “There’s a Pret a Manger on level one. You must be starving after all this shopping.”

Conveniently—pure coincidence, I’m sure—the Pret sat not far from Kurt Geiger. The smell of coffee, toasted sandwiches, and slightly-too-healthy salads pulls men in like a siren song. A hungry man is grumpy. A man about to be fed is pliable.

Up the escalator we went, Victor in the lead. In my head, I traced our route: Pret first, then a casual stroll past my dream shoes. Thirty seconds, maybe less.

The Lure of Apple

Next to the café stood a huge Apple store, lit like a temple to aluminium and glass. Inside, rows of MacBooks and iPads rested on pale wooden tables, humming quietly. Their screens glowed with that crisp, seductive look Apple has perfected. For men like Victor, it might as well have been a toy shop.

His focus slid from food to the Apple logo in an instant. “Oh, let’s just pop in here for a second,” he said, already drifting toward the store. I didn’t object. Why would I? The longer he basked in the glow of broadband and Retina displays, the better my chances later.

I watched him move from laptop to laptop, fingers trailing over keys, comparing models. He chatted to a sales assistant about processing power as if he were planning to launch a space programme from his kitchen table.

A London escort like me learns quickly that patience is more than a virtue; it’s a profitable investment. You smile. You wait. You let him enjoy himself. You remind him—without words—that he has a beautiful woman on his arm who has been nothing but patient all day.

So I waited. I shifted my weight in my far less impressive shoes and silently counted down the minutes until I could see that glittering pair in the Kurt Geiger window again. Every so often, Victor glanced over. I gave him an easy, indulgent smile that said, Take your time, darling. I’m here for you.

The Payoff

And then it happened. My little emotional investment paid off.

Out of nowhere, Victor closed the MacBook he’d been admiring and walked over to me. He kissed me gently on the forehead. His expression had softened. There was a boyish pride there, the look of a man who has just remembered he isn’t shopping alone.

“Darling,” he said, warm and affectionate, “you’ve been so patient with me today. Let me buy a present for my beautiful girl. Shall we look at something for you?”

I could have wept on the spot. Not from pure sentiment, though I can be that way, but from the quiet joy of watching a plan slide neatly into place.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that…” I murmured, lowering my lashes in what I like to think is a rather pretty show of modesty. My tone, of course, left enough space for him to insist.

He made a dismissive little pooh-pooh noise and slipped his arm through mine again, stepping fully into the benevolent-provider role. We left the Apple store and strolled along the polished walkway. And—what a surprise—our path took us right past Kurt Geiger.

The Shoes in the Window

And there they were.

In the window, just where I’d left them in my imagination, the stilettos blazed under the shop lights like treasure. Each fleck of glitter seemed to wink at me. My heart gave a small, ridiculous leap. I slowed slightly, letting my gaze rest on them for a fraction longer than necessary.

Victor followed my line of sight.

“Do you like those?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“They are rather gorgeous,” I admitted, keeping my tone light, as if I could easily walk away. “But they’re terribly indulgent.”

Ten minutes later, indulgence had won. A shiny Kurt Geiger bag dangled from my arm. Inside, the heels lay on a bed of tissue paper like small, dangerous jewels. Victor looked very pleased with himself. Men often do when they think they’ve chosen something special for a woman—even if, in truth, it was more guided discovery than independent decision.

I let him believe he’d “chosen” them for me. Why spoil the magic? Product placement had done its quiet work: a well-timed café suggestion here, a conveniently located Apple store there, a lingering look at a glittering window. Nothing overt. Nothing that could be called coercion. Just a gentle rearranging of circumstances.

A Question of Manipulation

Call me manipulative if you like. I won’t fight the label too hard. But you can’t say my gentleman friend wasn’t genuinely delighted to make me happy. Men often are.

The date, as usual, was mostly about him—his clothes, his gadgets, his preferences, his needs. That’s part of the job description, and I accept it. But slipping my own desires quietly into the story? That’s part of my craft.

As for Westfield in W12—I’ve become a real fan of West London. It’s bright, busy, and full of possibilities. Especially now I know Kurt Geiger has such a fantastic store there, with shoes that glitter like secrets waiting to be whispered.