Original subtitles

Dear Red Shoes, I admire your quest, an emotional journey to the heart of your

grief.

That takes courage.

Funny I should see it that way, because until a few months ago, I was sure

emotion was a sign of weakness.

I'm a photojournalist.

I was working on a piece about upmarket hookers.

The kind who make 1500 plus.

No, I don't do kinky stuff. I mean, I used to.

But you just, you get burnt out too fast.

Know what I mean?

In my profession, you have to stay objective.

So can you fucking believe that guys pay you to do this?

Otherwise, it becomes impossible to distinguish fact from fiction, truth

fantasy.

You lose your edge.

I guess I remind them of their wives.

You know, before their wives had kids and got cellulite, tired shrinks.

It was difficult for me not to be affected by the stories these girls

But it's all an act.

For the most part, they were tough.

They knew the score, and they knew how to take care of themselves.

I'm sorry.

I just don't think that I can do this.

And their success depended on the same principle as mine.

The same golden rule.

Don't get emotionally involved.

It's insane.

You sit there and you direct them and yell at them and they love it.

But hey, they're paying.

I don't know about this.

That's why I'm good.

Good hookers are inevitably good liars.

Yeah, I'm just looking for the Parker residence.

Sally and Ed Parker?

I don't think I've ever heard of them.

No, I left the exact address behind at the office.

I thought this was the right house, but I... I guess I'm wrong.

Would you like to come inside and use the phone?

No. You know, I left the number behind, too.

Same piece of paper.

You're a photographer.

Me? No.

Oh, no, I'm just returning that to Sue.

Sally.

Sally, right.

You're a really bad liar.

I mean, if you're going to lie, tell big, fat,

fantastic lies.

Not small, boring ones.

I respect good lies because they require imagination.

That's amazing.

What do you do?

I'm an astronomer.

You know, stars, planets, solar systems.

That's funny. You don't look like a scientist.

And you don't look like someone who'd forget an address.

I'm sorry I got lost.

Bye.

I'll open the gates for you.

Unless you prefer to climb over the wall.

I'll have one of the same.

Hi, my name's Jo Dunstan. I'm a reporter with the Trim.

Yeah, so?

That's right, you were here the other night.

Yeah.

I remember a girl sitting alone.

At first I thought you were a hooker.

Then I saw what you were wearing.

What do you want?

Just to talk.

I'm doing a piece on high class call girl.

For a start, honey.

When it comes to hooking, there's no high class or low class.

It's only high price and low price.

Either end of the scale, you've got cops and drugs, nice johns and

assholes, perverts.

Why are you doing this?

For a start, people will always read stories about prostitutes.

They're almost mythical creatures.

But for me, I'm more interested in how you remain professional despite what you

feel inside.

Yeah, of course.

There was this guy once who wanted me to dress up like a nun.

I guess he'd been to Catholic school or something. That sounds interesting.

It's a book on tape.

A Russian spy thriller.

Here.

Joanna Dunstan.

5 foot 11.

122 pound.

Green eye.

Hair red.

Scorpio.

Oh, stars.

Here's my insurance company.

sorted out i'd like to know the name of that russian spy thriller i love that

sort of stuff dead sun rising

i'm

sorry

Easter coming up, I got plenty of free time.

Business always slacks off during religious holidays.

It's all that Judeo -Christian guilt.

In my business, you get well acquainted with guilt.

All my men felt guilty at one time or another.

Guilty because they're married or they want you to drop it on and fuck them in

the ass.

They're putting it on their company's credit card because the minute they put

on the table, you can't act innocent anymore.

Surely there must be exceptions.

Like that guy I saw you with the other night.

Yeah, he is.

Sometimes I think I'd fuck him for free.

Why don't you?

He only sleeps with women he pays for.

Why?

The same thing. He just said it was more convenient.

You know?

He didn't have time to get intimate.

I should've.

Put it this way.

When a man pays for a woman, he wants more than just her body.

He wants her to believe in him and believe all the lies that he tells her,

whether they're strong or rich or how fabulous a lover he is.

I just believe whatever they want me to believe.

Good hookers are inevitably good liars.

I swear to God.

This guy got up by getting married.

Once a week, he would take a hooker to Vegas, marry her, and then a couple days

later, divorce her.

No.

It must be really difficult not to lose your respect for men when you come in

contact with so many pathetic assholes.

No.

Actually, it's quite the opposite.

I respect most of them.

No matter how weird they are.

Because at least they have the courage to face up to their fantasy.

I mean, I'd imagine someone like Jack would be a great lover.

How'd you know his name?

I don't know. He must have told me.

No.

Wild guess.

Telepathy, maybe.

What are you doing?

Come on, Joanna.

Don't play games.

Paula called me this afternoon and told me.

Well, I guess she knows what side her bread's buttered on. She's a loyal

that's all.

Jesus, Jack, you buy her body on a regular basis.

Do you think that automatically makes you her friend? You think that because

you're a journalist you have the right to snoop into people's lives?

If you want to know about me, then ask me.

Face to face.

What do you want me to say, Jack?

You want me to say that I wonder what it would be like to make love to you?

And what are you going to say to me?

That you want to fuck me without paying for it?

That you're willing to take that risk?

Look, we're both adults, so let's just act like it.

Get this over with and then we can get on with our lives.

Come on.

Play by the rules.

like them.

I can't do this.

And you can't either.

At least be honest about that.

I never did see Jack again.

And he never called.

In the end, I guess I got what I wanted.

What every good journalist is after.

The truth.

The truth about myself, about Jack, and about all the other people out there

that turn away from love.

We're not too tough or too busy or too professional.

We're just afraid.

The truth is, love doesn't conquer all.

Sincerely, Joe.

Wake up, Stella.

You can't be reading letters all day long.