# Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

Tracy Quan

The third Tracy Quan novel: a mischievous romp set in Provence. Another sizzling story from Mischief Books.New Yorkers from every walk of life are anxious about the local economy. So, feeling ambivalent about having a baby with Matt, Nancy accepts an offer to travel with Milton, her most favoured customer, to the South of France, where he has recently purchased a holiday home.Using her own Mother as an alibi, we find Nancy and her friends getting up to some unwholesome frolics in Milt’s pad, with a new cast of colourful characters.

TRACY QUAN

### Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl


For my mother

O for a beaker full of the warm South …

JOHN KEATS

## CONTENTS

Cover

Title page

Dedication

1 France: A Session In Provence

2 New York: A Sinner In The City

3 New York: The Loyal Opposition

4 New York: Jamais Provence?

5 New York: Escape From New York

6 France: State Of The Tart

7 France: Part Of The Solution

8 France: Noli Me Tangere

9 France: There’s Something About Marie

10 France: Access To Evil

11 France: Postcards From The Edge

12 France: Two Or Three Things I Know About Her

13 France: Shopper Of The Year

14 France: Arrested Developments

15 France: Return Of The (Not So) Repressed

16 France: Revelations

17 France: Rite From Wrong

18 What Happens In Provence Stays In Provence

Original Titles by Mischief

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher


CHAPTER ONE

### France: A Session in Provence

Thursday, July 4, 2002 Villa Gambetta, Saint-Maximin-La-Sainte-Baume

Dear Diary,

This morning, Milt surprised me with a special request, as my lips were approaching the base of his manhood.

“Suzy?” Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve outgrown Suzy, but there’s not much I can do about it now. Milt’s been calling me that for years.

He placed his hand on the side of my head, ever so lightly, and stroked my hair. Although he’s a self-confessed sleaze, he knows when to be polite. So, while my mouth became more relaxed, his fingers grazed the crown of my head, then retreated. I went a little deeper—a reward for his good manners—and came up slowly for air.

“I want you to promise me something.”

OMG. Is that the Viagra talking?

Reluctant to interrupt this blow job, I forced myself to look up. With an inquisitive smile, I warned my favorite customer: “A woman will promise you anything when you’re hard.”

I filled my mouth again and put more energy into what I was doing.

“I want you to promise you’ll get me off—” he was trying not to come “—in every room of the house, before you go back to New York.”

With the head of his cock resting against the tip of my tongue, I giggled softly. I could hear the wooden shutter in the en suite bathroom swinging loudly on its hinges. A cool breeze, followed by the faint aroma of fresh lavender flirting with cypress, entered Milt’s bedroom and stiffened my nipples.

After he came, I scurried to the bathroom and looked—in vain—for a washcloth. Filling the bidet with hot water, I draped a large hand towel over the side to soak. I bundled the used condom into some tissue and checked myself out in the mirror. My bra was still on, though my thong had slipped off. More to the point, my hair’s holding up, forty-eight hours after leaving New York. (Must email Lorenzo a thank you note ASAP. A hairdresser needs to know his travel-proof blow-outs are appreciated.)

Minutes later, as I wrapped one corner of the hot towel around Milt’s cock, we resumed our negotiations: “How many bedrooms again? Eight?”

“Ten,” he said proudly. “But I didn’t say every BEDroom. What about the other rooms? We could have a quickie in the solarium tomorrow afternoon.”

“We didn’t discuss that in New York.”

I tried to look both saucy and stern.

“Come on, I work like a dog all year. And this renovation cost a fortune! Don’t I get a reward?”

“The library’s a possibility,” I offered. “But the wine cellar’s kind of impractical, don’t you think? All those hi-tech temperature controls.” Anything more than a quick hand job would surely play havoc with the artificial climate. “And the solarium’s totally exposed! What if Duncan sees us?”

Milt’s cook lives in Tanneron—a bit of a trek, so he’s been sleeping in a guest room downstairs … right next to the solarium. Duncan’s politely enigmatic, and acts like he has no idea what I’m doing here. Whether or not that’s true, why ruin a good thing by making a spectacle of myself? Even though he’s gay—so it’s not like I’d be giving him a free hard-on—I need to maintain some decorum around the staff.

“I’ll find something for Duncan to do at the post office. He’ll be gone for at least an hour. And the gardener can stay home. Only a few wild rabbits will see us!”

If I do Milt in the solarium, have I got enough SPF 90 to cover my entire body? And what if the sunscreen comes in contact with the condom?

“Well …” I don’t want to rain on Milt’s parade. “Wait till Allison gets here. I’ll see to it that you get off in almost every room. With one of us, or both of us … Allison loves going down on me.”

But Milt doesn’t know I’ve been trying to reach her ever since she landed in Barcelona. All he knows is he paid for her ticket! Allie wouldn’t stand us up—would she? I’ve put in a call to Isabel, but I doubt any of Isabel’s girls will be up for the solarium when they find out there are ten perfectly nice bedrooms—six with en suite bath and bidet.

“I like the way you’re thinking!” he said. I reached under the small of his back to retrieve my lace panties. Duncan’s SUV was pulling into the driveway. “You’re the perfect houseguest,” he added. “I think I’ll jump in the pool while Duncan unpacks the groceries.”

Friday, July 5, 2002

The light in this part of France is, indeed, special. Last night, I forgot to close the shutters in my room and woke when the sun began to rise. After checking my cellphone for a message from Allie, I tried to go back to sleep. Instead, I spent two hours hiding with the door locked, treating my eyes to an oxygen mask.

I’ve known Milt for longer than I care to admit. I knew he kept Wall Street hours, but had no idea he’d be such an early riser when I agreed to come to St-Maximin. Isn’t he on vacation? He gets up at eight-thirty, and calls that sleeping in! Still, if he finds out I’m capable of waking before he does, he’ll be disillusioned. I am, after all, a luxury.

I tiptoed around the bedroom, terrified of being overheard. Then, I spent an hour perfecting my natural look for our poolside breakfast, keeping one eye on my silenced cellphone.

I hope she gets here soon, because Milt needs a threesome—and so do I. When he doesn’t have an extra girl (or three) to distract him, he stays hard forever. If I could figure out where he keeps the Viagra, I would totally hide it! Coordinating this trip with Allie is turning into a major headache. Speaking of which, by the time I was dressed, I had been awake sans caffeine for hours and was feeling the symptoms. But headaches are another no-no. A smart call girl never feels unwell. She mysteriously disappears until she’s better. No explanations. Well, she might claim to be visiting her mother. Polite code for out of town with a man possibly richer than yourself.

Keeping all this straight comes naturally in New York: normally, I spend no more than two hours with a customer. It’s more of a challenge when Milt’s around all the time. The trick is to appear comfortable without becoming too comfortable.

From my bedroom window, overlooking a cluster of olive trees, I monitored the sunniest corner of the swimming pool. I waited until Milt was stretched out on a wooden lounger with his Herald Tribune and a croissant, then wandered downstairs, determined to look like a carefree princess. Not a sleep-deprived working girl with a head full of enlarged blood vessels.

Milt was reading the paper with his shades on. I guess it’s generational? He finds sunshine invigorating. When Duncan began opening my table umbrella, Milt leapt up from his cushioned lounger and took over.

“Uncle Miltie to the rescue!” he said. “Damsels in distress are my thing.”

The aroma of Milt’s croissant, sitting on a plate nearby, made my eyes go wide, but I forced myself to inquire about fresh fruit.

“Blackberries,” Duncan informed me. “The figs are just right, and the croissants—”

Yikes. “Not for me, thanks! I’ll come get some black coffee. Then I’ll organize my berries and figs.”

I followed Duncan back to the kitchen where a breakfast buffet had been arranged on a red-tiled counter top. As I poured my morning fix from the half-empty cafetiere, I took him into my confidence.

“Just between us? I have the tiniest headache coming on. Is there anything like Tylenol in the house? I don’t want to bother Milt while he’s reading the paper.”

“What’s in Tylenol again?” Duncan was rummaging through a drawer. “How about some Prontalgine. Twenty milligrams, codeine, works like a dream.”

“Don’t you have something, you know, over-the-counter?”

“Codeine is over the counter.” As he handed me the box, our eyes met, and I tried to place his accent. New Zealand? “Welcome to France,” he said, with a twinkle. “I have the cure for your mal de tête.”

Gosh. Could Duncan be … my surrogate hairdresser? Not for my hair, of course. But for my general well-being. He really is a treasure. And his coffee is excellent.

Later

The countryside is ten times trickier than Manhattan.

First, if you’re going to be seen at all hours of the morning by a john, fourteen days in a row, you need to do some sort of clarifying mask every day. Bare skin’s a high-maintenance look. You can’t be walking around in full make-up with a vineyard next door—lip gloss is out of the question—so you’ll need to cultivate a natural glow.

Okay, the Chemin du Moulin isn’t exactly hardcore countryside. We’re minutes from the town center, but you’d never know it. Milt’s house is set back so far we can’t hear the traffic and is protected by a wall of hundred-year-old pine trees.

I’m trying to limit our shared activities: sex (different position each day), meals, the occasional excursion. Milt’s never spent this much time with me, so my inherent mystery is at risk. He’s been my favorite customer—forever, it seems. But if I become a too-familiar presence during this vacation—his, not mine—there’s a chance his frequent visits could peter out when we return to New York.

Duncan was right. My headache’s evaporated! Is codeine really available over the counter at this strength?

Instead of the solarium, I’ve promised Milt an appointment in the nursery. The guest room down the hall is equipped with two single beds, a child’s wooden rocker, a chest of drawers with large blue butterflies for knobs, and a toddler’s denim armchair. I’ve taken the liberty of moving the chairs, so Milt won’t knock them over.

My frilly white panties (open crotch) seem to work with that decor, but do I misunderstand his request? If middle-aged perversion is setting in, I should put my hair in pigtails and wear the white bra as well.

Or is Milt just being territorial about his newly acquired domaine? In which case, my white panties, and nothing else, will be more appropriate. More alluring to greet him bare-breasted, stretching out on one of those small beds with my legs apart. He can discover his late afternoon quarry in masturbatory solitude.

…. Too bad I have no bedroom toys to bring with me to the nursery!

Packing for this trip was a delicate, sometimes terrifying, operation. I was much too nervous about getting through customs (and airport security) to even think about packing my dildos. When I landed at Nice, I discovered that my fears were misplaced. They barely noticed my bags and waved me right through. If only I had known.

But, if Allie gets here soon, this won’t be a problem. Didn’t she say something about bringing her Pyrex love baton to Barcelona? In her carry-on?

Saturday, July 6

Just woke from a remarkable dream.

Duncan, beckoning from the far end of the swimming pool, was waving something in his hand. A box of codeine pills? Fully clothed, he floated toward me, as if he were a rather efficient angel, sliding across the water’s surface on a pair of invisible waterskis. On closer inspection, I realized he was holding an electric shaver. (No wonder he’s so clean-shaven, I thought.) As he drew nearer, I was disturbed by a buzzing sound.

My phone, vibrating under the pillow.

When I came to, the buzzing had stopped, the shaver was beginning to make sense, and my unknown caller had disappeared without leaving voicemail. Of course, it would have to be a private number. Isabel calling back with her international menu? But I really need to straighten things out with Allison before I start making plans with Isabel.

Allie’s silence is worrying, and I don’t want Milt to sense that I’m stressed out. I certainly don’t want him having any doubts about buying her ticket! I, after all, have been paid handsomely to monitor his girl-supply without letting the seams show. If something goes wrong with Allie, why should he trust my dealings with Isabel?

Milt’s going to Nans-les-Pins to play golf, and Duncan has promised to take me to the internet café. “Milt’s rather old school,” he explained. “He doesn’t want a computer in his hideaway.”

Later

Maison de Thé, Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, Saint-Maximin

Now I understand why Milt’s too lazy to drive his BMW to the golf course.

Behind the wheel, Duncan’s responsible yet fearless, unfazed by sudden curves and regional customs. Even the local hunters, who prowl around in the woods, drunk on Pernod, before getting into their pick-up trucks don’t worry him. He really is the ideal country concierge! As we neared the Sainte-Baume golf course, I was tempted to turn my phone on.

But there are so many callers I must avoid, starting with Matt who thinks I’m in La Croix-Valmer today. Milt has no idea Matt’s my husband—he assumes we’re still engaged—and he’d love to hear me snowing my “fiancé.” I haven’t got that much nerve, though.

And what if Allie calls with bad news?

Instead, I succumbed to a much safer temptation: checking out our driver from the back seat, while Milt, sitting next to me, checked his calls.

Duncan’s neat sandy hair, cut so close to the nape of his neck, underscores his boyish appearance. In tidy jeans and a crisp navy T-shirt, he’s impeccably casual. Not absurdly buff. Built just right.

What a waste! But—I never think this way. I’m too practical. Too concerned about my own looks to be eyeing a man who is, by definition, unavailable. Perhaps it’s a change for the better. Part of coming to terms with your thirties and being less self-centered.

Milt, of course, has no inkling of Duncan’s sexual orientation. He believes in a part-time “girlfriend” sharing Duncan’s house in Tanneron. Gaydar isn’t part of Milt’s vocabulary. If a guy’s not really obvious and swishy, he might as well be straight. Another one of those generational things.

“Your visitor from Barcelona. Do you know when she’s due to arrive?” Duncan asked.

Milt, supposedly engrossed in his voicemail, looked up discreetly and wiggled his eyebrows at me. Visions of a ménage à soixante-neuf (well, it’s a multiple of trois) were dancing through his head.

“She flies into Marseille next, um, Wednesday,” I said. “We’re just waiting for her to confirm the flight.”

If she doesn’t? I’ll have to worry about that later. There’s no point revealing my insecurity, when the prospect of our next threeway is keeping Milt erotically stoked.

And the prospect of Milt productively occupied for the rest of the afternoon is reassuring to me. Calling home when I’m staying in a customer’s house seems dicey, but I’m anxious to send some conjugal email soon.

Unfortunately, when we drove back to town, Ste. Maxiphony—the Cibercafé-Teleboutique which claims to be open from 15H00 till 22H00—was still closed at 15H30. A resigned-looking teenager was standing outside, smoking a pungent cigarette, waiting for them to re-open. I coughed and moved away from the door.

“C’est toujours comme ça,” the boy was telling Duncan. He shrugged, then he inhaled. “Ils font ce qu’ils veulent.” Smoke drifted toward me.

“Omigosh,” I muttered, as we walked back to the SUV. “They smoke in there, don’t they! I’d forgotten all about that. I’ll find an outdoor café while you do your shopping. I need to call Allison.”

Miraculously, Duncan’s actually got a list of all the smoke-free venues in the area.

“Not that there are so many,” he warned. “Sit up front, I’ll drop you near the church. There’s a salon de thé where you can relax. A New Yorker’s idea of paradise.”

He’s right. The No Smoking sign is gigantic, by French standards. In the kitchen, someone’s listening to Barry White, but the music is so faint you have to know the melody to actually hear it: You’re playing a game … it’s so plain … you want me to win.

The walls are lined with jars of linden honey and anchovy-fig pesto, bottles of Coteaux Varois rosé and artisanal vinegars. A cliché, perhaps, but an attractive smoke-free cliché.

A positive argument for Duncan’s surrogate hairdresser potential.

The tables are tiny, and the gray-haired lady to my left is lost in her Michelin guide while her husband pours black tea from a glass pot. I feel conspicuous. The only customer not part of a cozy couple. Trying to leave a businesslike voicemail for Allie without raising my voice: “Milt’s cook is coming to pick you up, but he needs advance notice—the airport’s a two-hour trip. Don’t worry, he’s a gentleman, you’ll be in safe hands. And he’s cute! But you have to leave a message because I can’t always answer. And don’t block your number! I’ll pick up if I know it’s you! I’m counting on you to be here Wednesday. And remember. Milt has no idea what you’re doing in Barcelona. Let’s keep it that way. And don’t forget to call me Suzy.”

Should I really be alerting Allie to Duncan’s looks? I feel a twinge of guilt about dangling him in front of her—without telling her the whole story—but I MUST use whatever psychological weapons I have at my disposal to get her onto that plane. Reminding her that she’s expected in Provence might not be enough. She might linger in Barcelona, rush back to New York or … who knows with Allie?

In any case, this little slice of solitude really hits the spot. Here comes my chestnut crepe. And this glass of rosé sure beats—

I can hardly believe it.

Last month. Was I really reduced to ordering a white wine spritzer?


CHAPTER TWO

### New York: A Sinner in the City

One Month Earlier

Monday, June 10, 2002 Manhattan

This afternoon, after dropping off $500 with Trish—her cut from my date with Terry—I met Jasmine for drinks at the Mark.

Dressed for a summer quickie, in a pale green wraparound skirt, uncreased linen blouse and Chanel flats, she had just finished doing a call across the street at the Carlyle. From a distance, Jasmine’s a deceptively conservative brunette. Until you get within earshot. When you might also catch a glimpse of her eighteen-carat Bulgari knock-offs.

“A spritzer!” She was indignant. “When did you start drinking THAT?”

“Today, actually. Just in case.” I tried not to look at her dry martini.

She swallowed some of her Grey Goose vodka, placed the cold glass on the table, and gave me a long, thoughtful once-over.

“I’m six days late!” I told her. “That makes me what? Three weeks pregnant? I haven’t told Matt yet. It’s too soon.”

“I thought you were on the pill again.”

Matt has no idea about my secret stash of birth control pills. Jasmine—and Dr. Peele—are the only ones who know. And the Duane Reade pharmacist, of course. But only Jasmine knows it’s a secret.

“I was. Then I wasn’t. Then I—”

“Six days? Hard to tell. At this point, you’re late. That’s all we know.”

I shook my head. “It’s never happened before. My cycle’s always been as reliable—”

“As a clock,” Jasmine said. “I remember. Maybe your body’s taking a stand. All this on-again off-again pill-popping! So where’d you get the idea you can drink spritzers? What do you think? You’re ‘a little bit pregnant’?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” I tasted some bland fizz. “That’s exactly what I am. One tablespoon of white wine can’t possible harm a developing baby.”

“No! But imagine the harm to the mother! Spritzers are so eighties.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather go cold turkey. Actually—” Another sip of martini, and she was almost mollified. “Any child exposed to spritzers in the womb HAS to be a moderate drinker. That’s a good thing!” She frowned. “So let’s say you’re more than a little bit pregnant.”

“You mean pregnant.”

“Right. Have you decided what you’ll do with your phone?”

“My business isn’t for sale, if that’s what you’re asking.”

My secret apartment is close enough to the East Side preschools—but not so close that I risk being spotted by the other mommies. I’ve got a plausible strategy for my child’s education, but I still have to figure out how to avoid answering my phone without losing all my customers. The mommy track’s starting to look like the mommy tightrope.

“You’re not going to be like Trisha!” Jasmine said.

“What exactly have you got against Trish?”

“Nothing. But she married a bum! He’s constantly getting fired—well, that’s what she says. I sometimes wonder if he’s ever had a job. Your husband’s in a different league.”

I don’t like the sound of Trisha’s husband either, yet feel an obligation to defend her. It’s tacky to trash someone who sends you business—and there’s more to it than that.

“Nobody knows what goes on in another girl’s marriage,” I said. “You can’t judge from outside. I’ve never asked Trish what the deal is with her husband.”

And she doesn’t ask what the deal is with mine. Every marriage is based on a secret code. Married hookers respect that; single girls like Jasmine just don’t get it. A call girl who’s never been married feels comfortable expounding on the most excruciating details. Things you instinctively shy away from when you’re married.

“You don’t have to hustle the way Trish does.” Jasmine reached toward the bowl of nuts. “Soon Matt will be earning enough to hire a nanny for your nanny! Let’s face it, Trish stays with that guy because he IS the nanny.”

“He’s the father of her child,” I said tersely. “What they do is none of our business.”

“Whoa. You’re pregnant for all of THREE MINUTES, and already you’re closing ranks with the other mommies! Soon you’ll be shopping for baby clothes with your sister-in-law! Have you been stroller-shopping yet?”

“I won’t be discussing my pregnancy with Elspeth. She’s very big on vaginal delivery.”

Even though she had twins!

“Vaginal WHAT?” Jasmine looked horrified. “Where do people GET these crazy ideas?”

“Well, actually …” Vaginal was the default setting for most of human history, but I know what she means. “Childbirth isn’t our biggest area of disagreement. Schooling is. Elspeth’s planning on sending her kids to Dalton. When she found out I was looking into Loyola, she started talking to Matt behind my back!”

“Isn’t Loyola … a Catholic high school? You’re talking about an embryo.”

“It’s co-ed and Jesuit. We have to plan ahead,” I explained. “And I need Matt’s help. He has to find out if anyone at the office has a child at Saint David’s. Or Sacred Heart. I want to get started at a Catholic pre-school, but Elspeth’s telling Matt we should take advantage of her Dalton connections. Trying to brainwash him against my plans! I have no intention of running into Elspeth every morning and afternoon when I—”

“Hang on a sec. You’ll send your kid to parochial school just to avoid your sister-in-law? You can’t let her intimidate you like this!”

“Elspeth was a prosecutor,” I pointed out. “Have you forgotten she worked for the DA’s office before she had the twins? She’s always asking me to invite my single friends to her parties. And she’s trying to find a girlfriend for her favorite bachelor—that guy with the new sailboat? He’s a prosecutor too! And what about Elspeth’s husband? I’m trying to keep my distance from Jason,” I reminded her. “Elspeth wants to know why she’s never met you.”

“You’re right,” Jasmine said abruptly. “We don’t need Elspeth OR Jason fixating on your single friends! The less contact you have the better.”

“There’s no way Elspeth will even consider the pre-schools I’ve scoped out,” I assured her. “And if she continues to oppose my commitment to a Catholic education, I have every right to avoid her. I’m protecting my pregnancy from stress!”

“Maybe you’re not even pregnant.” She signaled for the bill, and flipped her phone open to check the time. “But if you are? I bet you can’t have just one. Nobody has just one these days. Especially bankers.”

Amazing. There is no aspect of mating that eludes Jasmine’s expertise. And the less she knows about it firsthand, the more opinions she has. How many years have I known her? In all this time, she’s had a grand total of one relationship. Jasmine has never even lived with a man.

“Matt’s not just any banker,” I told her. “He’s my husband, and he cares about my well-being.”

“I always said he was a catch! But when you start reproducing your DNA, you enter the primal rat race. You have to keep up.” She pulled a small mirror out of her tote bag. Using the bag as a shield to hide the mirror, she peeked quickly at her lipstick. “If you think you’ll have time to see your johns on the sly, you’re deluding yourself. In case you haven’t noticed, Wall Street’s experiencing a DNA boom. Bankers’ wives don’t do small families anymore. They’re thinking Bumper Crop. They’re as wedded to that reproductive plow as they are to their husbands. A lot of these mega-mommies have powerful ancestral memories. From when their great-great-grandfather was a potato farmer.”

“Where did you hear all this?”

“You’re too close to the situation to see it clearly. Strollers are the new handbags. And children—” she put the mirror away “—are the new potatoes. I follow all the markets, you know. Not just my own.”

She might be right about handbags, but I hope she’s wrong about “new” potatoes. Is she implying that the young bankers are potato farmers?

“And meanwhile, our business is getting more competitive every day.” Jasmine smoothed out her skirt as she stood up. “You’ll be keeping up appearances on two fronts. Trying to be a MILF and a MIFF.”

Okay, I know what a MILF is. A “mom I’d like to fuck.” Fertile, fit, conceivably available, but—

“MIFF?” I asked. “What the hell’s a MIFF?”

As we left the bar, I realized that my phone was vibrating, but I didn’t want to draw more attention to myself by answering while the uniformed staff eyed our legs. Jasmine cocked her head to one side and whispered: “A mom I frequently fuck.” On the sidewalk, she adjusted her sunglasses and said, in that dark tone which precedes one of her flights of wisdom, “No woman can serve two masters.”

A man in a very good gray suit wandered past the hotel, and she swept some hair behind her ears, with a little smirk. Losing her previous train of thought, she followed his progress to the corner of Seventy-seventh and Mad, where he turned around to gaze at us—even though his light was green. Jasmine seemed to be daring him to walk back to the hotel entrance. In summery heels (me), and ladylike flats (her), we appeared almost the same height. God knows what he was thinking. He was certainly the right age for us. A pampered sixty-something.

“Cut that out,” I hissed. “We’re way too dressed up for you to be doing this. The doorman’s looking right at you!”

In the cab, on the way home, I checked my voicemail.

A message from Matt about our dinner plans with Elspeth and Jason. “He’s got a meeting, so it’ll be a threesome. Want to meet at their place?” It would be nice to have Jason at the table to dilute Elspeth, but the less I see of him, the better. Ever since I ran into him in front of my health club, following Allie around like an infatuated puppy, I’ve been afraid to have more than a five-minute conversation with him. As far as Jason knows, Allie’s just a girl I know from Pilates class: he thinks he’s protecting her secret from ME. And, if Jason finds out how much I know about his very private midlife crisis, my entire cover will be blown.

Followed by a message from Charmaine, alerting me to the status of our Seventy-ninth Street time-share: “I’m leaving at seven for an outcall. I changed the sheets, in case you need the apartment, but I have to come back for a ten-thirty.” Ever since we had that disagreement about her new customers, she makes a point of giving me extra time in the apartment.

A final voicemail, from Etienne, promising to call this week with his travel plans: “I am on my way to Cologne, cocotte. When I have my schedule for New York, you will hear from me.”

If I’m pregnant, I hope he shows up before I start to show. It’s been almost a year since his last visit!

Tuesday, June 11

Last night, I miscalculated.

Although I timed myself to arrive on the late side—so Matt would be there to protect me from his sister’s questions—I was early. Elspeth’s front door was open, which seems rash, even in Carnegie Hill with a twenty-four-hour doorman. I never leave the door ajar when I can’t actually see who’s coming in. As a hooker, I’m supposed to be paranoid. The minute you’re not, other hookers think you’re losing your marbles. But shouldn’t Elspeth be cautious, too? When she was an assistant DA, she worked on some high-profile murder trials—what if someone with a grudge sneaks into her building? How can she be so confident of her safety?

While I stood in front of the hall mirror, powdering my nose, I could hear her, in the back of the apartment, chattering with the au pair in the twins’ bedroom. One baby was making a happy gurgling sound. For the first time, I felt sure this was Bridget. Usually, my niece and nephew sound alike. The fact that they often gurgle in unison doesn’t help, but this time, when Berrigan joined in, I could pick out two distinct voices. My maternal antennae must be emerging!

As I listened to the boy-girl duet, I stared at myself in the mirror, and looked for some obvious signs of impending motherhood. I suppose it’s too soon, but they say your hair becomes fuller. Will I be able to throw out my Velcro rollers?

“Nancy!” Like a thief caught in the act, I jumped at the sound of Elspeth’s voice. “Sit down, you look GREAT, honey, I didn’t hear you come in, that’s what happens,” she cackled, “when you get lost in the BACK ROOM! Where’s darling hubby? Mine can’t make it.”

“Too bad,” I lied, feeling smug about my ability to avoid Jason.

As I maneuvered past the double stroller—Elspeth’s “baby Hummer”—it occurred to me that strollers are more like handbags than Jasmine realizes. You fall in love with one designer’s perfect model, only to find you don’t really like their colors. And you can’t have exactly the same bag or stroller as everyone else—especially when everyone else is your sister-in-law.

My search for a houndstooth Peg Pérego baby carriage has been fruitless, but I’m not giving up.

I intend to own this pregnancy! Unlike Elspeth, who covers all her baby furniture with gingham, I’m never allowing that stuff to darken our door—and I intend to keep working. Even though, as Jasmine says, I don’t have to hustle like Trish.

I waited quietly for Matt to arrive. Jasmine’s the only person who knows I might actually be pregnant. Should I tell him tonight? Maybe I’m not ready for that. Remember when he tried to throw out an entire case of tinned tuna? To protect the developing fetus? We were still using condoms at that point! I need to keep this pregnancy a secret for at least a month, while I adjust my diet. Perhaps that’ll discourage him from getting so involved in the process.

While Elspeth buzzed around the living room, picking up magazines and cushions, I envisioned the magazines as petty criminals—they were being handled rather casually—and the cushions as felons. She sidled up to me with a small felon in her hand, and nudged my side with the edge of the cushion. I arched my back politely, and the cushion was completely imprisoned under my torso.

“Thanks,” I said, wriggling to adjust the cushion.

“So!” She was in the kitchen now, talking at the top of her voice. “Matt said you guys are thinking about Sacred Heart! If you have a girl, I mean.”

“He did?”

I was pleased to hear him put it in those terms. The other night, when we were alone, he didn’t seem so convinced. Maybe he’s being loyal to us. But, almost as soon as I had opened my mouth, I was wondering if Elspeth might be bending the truth, to hide the fact that she’s campaigning AGAINST Sacred Heart, and recruiting my husband as her ally.

“Have you looked at the SAT scores?” She came out of the kitchen with a large watering can in her hand. “I applaud you both for considering single-sex education, especially if you have a girl, but you have to look at the bigger picture, and if you plan on having one child—” I don’t recall telling her that. Did Matt? “—don’t you think it’ll be nice for all our kids to be at the same school? So yours won’t be all alone?”

“I haven’t decided—”

“We’ll have a buddy system!” she continued, heading toward the window. “It’ll be so much easier for us both. You know? I can pick yours up—or whatever. You’d better hurry up and get pregnant though! We don’t want them too far apart! And we’ll all have a chance to get to know each other better!”

By the time Matt arrived, and Elspeth had finished watering her plants, I was a nervous wreck. Strangely enough, she didn’t say one word about school during our dinner at Island.

Though I tried to muffle my anxiety in crab cakes washed down with mineral water, I was beginning to feel less smug about Jason’s absence. He sometimes puts in a good word for Loyola. Was he excluded from this dinner on purpose? And my husband’s lateness—whose idea was THAT?

In the cab, on the way back to Thirty-fourth Street, Matt squeezed my shoulder gently.

“What took you so long?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Getting to Elspeth’s! I don’t think we should discuss our plans with her when I’m still trying to get pregnant.” As he looked into my eyes, I felt like the object of a scam. “You have no idea how insensitive she can be!”

“Come on, honey.” Matt drew me closer, and I took refuge in my latest secret. “She’s just having a conversation with you.”

Something in his confident manner made me quite sure he was late on purpose. To please his sister, or persuade me to listen to Protestant reason.

But—what if Elspeth decides to go back to her job? Is she setting me up to become the babysitting aunt who ferries her twins home from school? Motherhood—the way I see it—is going to be an airtight cover for my business. The whole idea is to appear not to be working so I can work! But Elspeth may have other plans for me.

Later, I made a point of being the first in bed, so I could be asleep.

I was dozing on my side when Matt pulled back the sheet. Waiting for the cotton to slide back over my torso, I smiled and reached out. Touching him made me forget our conversation in the cab. He placed a tentative hand around my waist and lifted my pajama top. I turned around to lie on my back and pulled him toward me. His hand moved slowly across my stomach. As his fingers went lower, my mood was disrupted by a troubling question. Will the news of my pregnancy give me more leverage? Or—horrible thought, but I have to consider it—less?

Wednesday, June 12, 2002 79th Street

Today, a call from Trish, trying to persuade me to see a new customer. “I know how you feel about new people, but he’s not from New York.”

Last year, when Trish stopped calling, business slowed down, and I became impossible to live with.

“He’s from Philly,” she told me.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Thank God Trish is calling again, because it’s not easy to work at night when you’re married, and most of her business is in the daytime. Her dates are kinky and tiring, but lucrative. Without them, I barely meet my quota.

You aren’t a pro unless you have a self-imposed quota, you feel like a failure if you can’t make your quota, and the heightened security in hotels has made it harder to keep up. I was starting to feel like a shadow of my single call-girl self—until I lowered my weekly quota to a level I can actually meet. Though Matt isn’t aware of my job, he totally benefits when business is good, and suffers when business is slow. Perhaps not financially, but in other ways.

Come to think of it, my earnings can’t possibly hurt our bottom line. Unless I get caught, which would be awful. That’s why I’m afraid to see new customers—though I sometimes make an exception for Trisha’s.

“Okay,” I agreed. “I just don’t want to run into anyone who knows my husband. Or his family.”

I can’t bring myself to tell Trish about Elspeth’s former profession—which she could return to, if she ever runs out of Ubermommy juice. Trish might never work with me again if she finds out my husband’s sister was a prosecutor.

“I hear you,” she said. “Can you bring those handcuffs? And a few changes? Something pastel and innocent for the first hour, and something bitchy for the second hour. Do you still have those black boots? The ones that lace up the back?”

This new customer sounds younger than most of our dates, which makes him risky. Older guys (like Etienne or Milt) aren’t likely to be part of Matt’s circle. Should I really be doing this?

“He’s calling in a few days to confirm,” she said. “His schedule’s crazy. He might have to cancel.”

I crossed my fingers, feeling torn. If he cancels, I’m off the hook. I don’t want to get caught, but I don’t want to turn down business—especially from Trish. This might be my last chance to really work a lot.

Time to get ready for Chip. I won’t get caught seeing him. He’s been in my book for years, a known quantity, and I knew his father for much longer—though Chip, of course, has no idea.

Wednesday, later

When Chip walked into the apartment, the memory of his father’s face was, once again, playing tricks with me. It never fails. I still miss his dad, though he’s been dead almost six years. He was gentle, quick, always happy to wear a condom.

But Chip Junior is nothing like Chip Senior. In the bedroom, he’s determined to get his money’s worth—which means holding back for as long as possible while I straddle, doing most of the work. Just before I slid the condom on, he made some obligatory caddish noises about being “clean as a whistle, and-I’m-sure-you-are-too,” in an effort to dismiss the rubber.

I, in turn, smiled pleasantly, as I always do, and made my obligatory comment about birth control. “And,” I chirped, “I’ll have you know I’m much cleaner than a whistle.”

Abandoning the chirp, switching to sultry insistence: “I want you to wear this. So I can get you inside of me. It’s been too long since I felt your cock.”

This routine has been going on for so long it qualifies as a tradition. I don’t trust Chip around the New Girls—I mean, real newbies who might not have professional manners. They’re liable to give in because he’s good-looking (if they’re softies), or lecture him about STDs until he can barely get it up (if they’re sanctimonious college girls).

As I rode on his cock, I closed my eyes and played with my breasts. My nipples were getting hard. He reached up to touch. I bit my lip, made some hot little sounds, and moved his hand away, allowing it to rest on the side of my ass. I tried to keep my hands busy so he wouldn’t be able to get at my nipples. There’s something about his hand. He’s too forceful—not a brute, just intrusive.

Sometimes it makes me think, “If this were a boyfriend.” But why should I come with this jerk? All his banter about money, condoms, cleanliness—I think the only reason I see him is his father. I miss those visits.

But the involuntary connection between nipple and clitoris was making itself felt. I reached down to finger myself as he pushed his cock into me.

I won’t be able to have this kind of sex for much longer. And he won’t be the first customer I want to see after I—

Omigod.

How exactly do you deal with the evidence of a c-section in situations like this? The alternative is, um. Suddenly, my hips stopped moving. Vaginal delivery? Yikes.

Chip, feeling teased and slightly frustrated, began seeking his own kind of delivery. There is just no way, I thought, forcing myself to concentrate on his cock. I must sort this out. And is that why Trish has such kinky dates? So she never has to get completely undressed?

Later, as I tidied him up with a hot washcloth, I was tempted to quiz him about his children. He’s got two from his first marriage, and rumor has it he’s re-married, because he no longer sees girls at his apartment. The apartment, just off Park, where we’ve all cooed over the crayon art on Chip’s bathroom wall.

If I didn’t know any better, I would assume he’s too waspy to send his daughter to a school like Sacred Heart, but I know more than I should. His Episcopalian dad knew me as Suzy and saw me twice a month. He sometimes talked, with a hint of exasperation, about an ex-wife who wanted their marriage retroactively annulled, so she could re-marry. That “temperamental Catholic” was Chip Junior’s mother. But, if I ask Chip where his kids go to school, he’ll probably think I’m trying to blackmail him.

After seeing him to the door, I retrieved five hundreds from the top of my dresser and put them in my money drawer.

It’s really too bad. I can’t ask any of my regulars to help me get our forthcoming child into one of the top Catholic schools! It might be what everyone else does, but asking the people you know isn’t an option for me. The downside of being in this business is having to rely on my husband’s connections.

Relying on Matt is safe, sane, consensual—but rather unsatisfying. I probably know more guys who are plugged into the private schools than he does, but I know them too well, in the wrong way. To Chip, I’m Sabrina: a little bit classy, a little bit slutty, perpetually twenty-five (twenty-seven, tops). If “Sabrina” were to broach the delicate matter of getting her child into a Jesuit prep school, Chip would be dumbfounded. Doesn’t he come here to escape those conversations?

Friday, June 14

This morning, as I was leaving Thirty-fourth Street, already running late for my blow-out with Lorenzo, I was ambushed. I rushed back upstairs, thankful to be wearing black jeans, and opened a fresh box of tampons. So much for that!

As I sat in the pneumatic chair, staring at my non-pregnant self in the full-length mirror, Lorenzo tousled my damp hair with his fingertips.

“What’s wrong?” His thumbs were caressing my scalp. “You look … almost haunted.”

“I’m totally haunted. I’ve spent the last ten days looking at strollers! Ordering Dr. Seuss books. Arguing with my husband about pre-schools. And worrying about how my body will look after a cesarian!”

Of course, I don’t want Lorenzo to know what I was up to when the c-section dilemma introduced itself.

“Relax,” he told me. “You’ll ask your doctor to make the incision very low. If you start wearing a more natural look down there, your hair covers the scar. Unless—you haven’t had laser, have you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Good.” His lips went into an opinionated pout. “Laser in the back, never in front. It’s called keeping your options open. There’s a time and place for everything.”

Today, there’s a soft layer of dark fuzz on my outer lips because I wax every three weeks. I remember how abundant my pubic hair was, during my teens. I was trying, then, to look more womanly. Is it now time to grow it back?

“How do you know so much about … all that?” I asked.

“It’s my job.” He rolled his eyes. “Hair is hair. And hair is everywhere. And wherever there is some hair—” he adjusted the chair “—I am right there. Don’t haunt yourself. I’m excited for you, darling. You get to be a total diva for the next—”

“But I don’t!” I said. “I just found out I’m not pregnant!”

“Not?” He pulled a hairbrush out of a drawer. “Did you—? Are you okay?”

“Oh, I don’t think—you can’t call it a miscarriage when you’re only ten days late, can you?”

Lorenzo faced the mirror, a brush in one hand, a blow-dryer in the other.

“If you want to be dramatic,” he said, “you can call anything a miscarriage.”


CHAPTER THREE

### New York: The Loyal Opposition

Friday evening Manhattan

This afternoon, when I got to Seventy-ninth Street, I called Jasmine to announce my news. Actually, my lack of news.

“Hallelujah,” she replied.

“Oh?”

“Now we can move on! You were in the seventh circle of limbo! ‘A little bit pregnant’ is not a good look for you. Or anyone!”

“I see.”

“Either you are or you aren’t,” she said. “If you are, you should be drinking elderberry tonic. If you’re not, have a Kir Royale, for God’s sake. Not a fucking spritzer! You must be dying for a real drink. I’ll meet you after my five o’clock.”

I could hear Charmaine’s key in the front door of the apartment.

“I don’t think so,” I replied coolly. Perhaps calling Jasmine was a mistake. Charmaine, in her spinning class shorts and floppy sweatshirt, disappeared into the bedroom.

“It’s okay to have ONE DRINK during your period,” Jasmine was saying. “Then you’ll go back to cultivating potatoes with your husband. You know what I’ve been thinking? You should talk to your doctor about this. Isn’t there some way you can tweak things in favor of conceiving a potential buyer?”

“A potential what?”

“A male child! I think we’ll all be happier if you have a boy.”

Christ. Not this again. If Jasmine had her way, there would be ten males for every one of us!

“I think I’ll be happy if I deliver a healthy baby,” I told her. “I really don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

“No hooker in her right mind wants to give birth to a girl. Your sister-in-law might love you for it. But your real friends will just resent you! For spawning more competition.”

“More … what? You’re talking about my future children!”

“Oh.” I wondered if Jasmine was coming to her senses. “I almost forgot. You’re planning to send yours to Catholic school. Well, of course. Everyone knows there are no Catholic hookers!”

“I don’t appreciate—”

“Listen, I almost forgot. Harry wants to see us together. Can you be here at noon on Monday?”

“Are you out of your mind?” I asked her. Does she think we can just go back to discussing business? “You have some fucking nerve!” Then I hung up.

Charmaine emerged from the bedroom, in her exercise bra and nothing else, looking startled.

“What happened? Who was that?”

“Jasmine!” I unclenched my teeth. My cellphone was starting to chime. I turned it off and threw it into my bag. “Jasmine has crossed a line.”

“Oh.” Charmaine can’t raise her eyebrows because of the Botox, but the devilish expression in her eyes said it all. “Jasmine? In my opinion—”

“Don’t say it,” I moaned. Charmaine has kept her distance, from the moment they laid eyes on each other two years ago. But Jasmine and I have been trading dates since our twenties. She helped me when I was in trouble and needed a lawyer. “We’ve known each other forever,” I said.

“I don’t know why you put up with that girl.”

Charmaine’s bare pussy—lasered to match her smooth, Botoxed forehead—was staring me in the face. Her up-to-the-minute enhancements were spilling out of her exercise bra. It’s not just that she’s twenty-three—her entire body looks like it was invented two years ago. She really is a New Girl, in more ways than one.

“Well—” I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite, but now I wanted to change the subject “—you don’t have to put up with her, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

She’s too young to understand my friendship with Jasmine, but she has her own business, pays her rent on time, and never seeks my advice. She looked, for a moment, like she was on the verge of giving me some, and I didn’t want to hear it.

When I was sure that Charmaine was completely immersed in the white noise of the shower, I checked my messages.

“Call me when your hormones stabilize. We can’t let your period stop you from seeing Harry!”

What is Jasmine thinking? Does she really think I have no idea how to disguise my period? I have two diaphragms—one for each apartment—and a year’s supply of cosmetic sponges from Duane Reade.

Which part of “You have some fucking nerve” does she not understand?

Saturday, June 15

This morning, as soon as I knew Matt was safely en route to his squash game with Jason, I bolted the apartment door and turned my phone on. With my right hand, I checked my messages. With my left, I emptied the dishwasher. Etienne, now in Frankfurt, managed to intercept one of his own voicemails while I was shaking a few remaining drops of water from a miniature whisk.

“Bonjour, petite mignonne.” His elderly purr was reassuring, but it brought disappointing news. “I regret this trip is delayed. I’m glad you finally answered your phone,” he added. “I tried to call you from Cologne. Don’t change your number!”

“Of course not,” I said. “Why would I do that?”

“So many things are changing these days. I take nothing for granted. Tell me, how is New York? Do the girls still remember me? Is it true? Nobody wears high heels anymore?”

“What? Oh. Don’t worry. We’re all wearing heels again.”

“Not just in your bedrooms?”

“Everywhere,” I said with more confidence. “I wore my favorite pair to dinner the other night.”

“Really! Can you describe them?”

“Not right now,” I said firmly. Etienne has never been a phone freak, and I would hate to be responsible for spoiling him.

Some would say I’ve been guilty of that for at least five years! I don’t tell other girls that I come when he goes down on me. You never know what another pro might think—or say—about a working girl having real orgasms.

“Why don’t you come back to New York?” I said in a warmer voice. “We can discuss my heels in person. I might even wear them!”

“That would be my preference, cocotte. A live appearance. But—” He paused. “There is something I haven’t told you. Something which prevents me from examining those pretty feet in person. Not to mention the rest of your delicious body.”

Oh dear. There comes a point in every girl’s career when some of her best customers start dying or faltering for reasons of age—and stop visiting. I held my breath. Not his prostate, I hope.

“I have tried to enter the country three times in the last eight months,” he told me. “It seems my name is on one of those bothersome new lists.”

Another one of Etienne’s polite fictions?

“Or perhaps,” he continued, “my name resembles the name of someone else who is really on this list. But you have no idea. When this sort of thing happens, reality is beside the point. I haven’t been to London in six months either!”

“You’re … on more than one list?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I can travel anywhere on the continent, as long as I don’t fly! Or try to cross the channel. My American lawyer calls it House Arrest Lite.”

“You have an American lawyer?”

“And a French lawyer. And a Brit. You don’t want to know. I hope your life never becomes this complicated and tedious, mignonne.”

“The city isn’t the same without you!” I was trying to sound light-hearted.

“And vice versa!” he exclaimed. “Germany is quite boring. I promise you will hear from me when I resolve this.”

As we hung up, another call was coming in. “I’ve been trying to reach you!” Allison, sounding breathless and distressed. “Did you get my emails? What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

“Jasmine said you weren’t feeling well.”

“You can tell Jasmine I feel fine.”

“Oh.” Now Allie was puzzled. “Maybe I misunderstood. I thought she said ‘acute medical symptoms.’”

It is just like Jasmine to assume that this rift is the result of some biological malfunction, when it’s really a consequence of her own demented—and completely insensitive—worldview.

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” I said calmly.

“Does that mean you can work?”

“Of course.”

“Ron’s coming over Monday, at five. He wants two girls.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Honestly,” she sighed. “I must be hearing things, because I’m sure Jasmine said you were turning down business and not answering your phone.”

“Only where she’s concerned.”

“What … happened?”

“She crossed a line. And that’s all I wish to say.”

“Omigod, does she KNOW you feel this way? You have to tell people how you feel.”

“I don’t have to do anything of the sort! Jasmine is totally oblivious to anybody else’s feelings, including mine. Why should I discuss them with her?” I looked at the clock and excused myself from Allie’s impromptu sermon. “I have to go,” I told her. “I’m making a cheese soufflé for dinner. I need to concentrate.”

“It’s only eleven A.M.! What time are you having dinner?”

“I’ve never made this before. I want to get it right.”

But I don’t expect Allie to understand. Her idea of cooking is opening a box of soy burger mix from the health food store and trying to turn it into a cake.

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

Yesterday, when I arrived at Allison’s apartment, her client was running late—and she was still tidying up. A pile of New York Council of Trollops T-shirts sat on her coffee table, next to some unopened bills and a stack of zines I haven’t seen before. The cover of Queer Diaspora features a group of naked girls and guys holding up a rainbow banner: “Straight for the money! And gay for pay! Get used to it honey!” Roxana Blair, NYCOT’s founder, was the only familiar face—thank God Allie hasn’t been persuaded to undress for the cover of Queer Diaspora. Roxana’s one of those out-of-the-closet zealots who believes the truth will set us free (which any sensible call girl knows to be wrong), and she’s tried, many times, to recruit me because NYCOT needs more “sex workers of color.”

Allison poured the zines and T-shirts into a huge Duane Reade shopping bag, along with some bright pink Safe Sex Ho buttons, condom-covered pamphlets and other political detritus from her last NYCOT meeting. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

The transformation was impressive. Her grandmother’s rosewood furniture lends a grown-up quality to the room … when it’s not buried beneath back issues of Whorezine, Rentgrrl, and now, Queer Diaspora.

While Allie dressed in her bedroom, I changed in the bathroom. By coincidence, we had both decided to wear balcony bras —balconies without railings, so our nipples were completely exposed to the breeze from her living room air conditioner.

“Maybe we should turn that down,” I said. “I feel like my nipples migrated to the North Pole! We’ll both catch cold.”

“You’re right.” Crossing her arms over her breasts, she scampered toward the AC in her heels and fiddled with the controls. She adjusted her shiny pink panties. “But Ron likes it cold. He’s got high blood pressure!”

Allie and I have similar bodies, but her stomach has always been flatter than mine. I’m closer to a C-cup and she’s closer to a B. Her pubic topiary is fuller than mine. She used to wear it shorter, but lately it’s edging toward naturalism. Funny how Allie’s boyfriend, who’s so open-minded about her work, is also kind of bossy about her bikini line. He wants her to stop waxing altogether. Whereas Matt’s quite happy leaving this policy decision to his wife.

We’ve never been attracted to the same guys. It’s a problem and a blessing, that our lifestyles are so at odds. Despite our differences—her extreme blondeness, our opposite taste in men, her love affair with activism—we manage to see a lot of customers together. Clients like being around us. We fit. And she has enough sense to hide the “sex work” propaganda when they come over.

When the doorman announced Ron’s arrival, Allie turned up the chill again. It’s not my style to rush someone else’s customer, but I moved him into the bedroom, away from the AC. He didn’t object.

Kneeling on Allie’s bed, I held his cock and teased the head with an alert nipple. As she pulled my panties to one side, I felt, on the back of one thigh, a pair of soft lips. Then her mouth got much closer to my pussy and, before I knew it, Ron was coming on my neck. Perhaps he was aiming for my breasts or my face? I wasn’t sure, but I extricated myself quickly, to rinse my hair clean, while Allie took care of everything else. I had done the heavy lifting, after all.

Like most five o’clock dates, Ron had no time to linger. “I’d love to go twice,” he told us. “But there’s a family dinner …”

Allie, still dressed in her pink bra and panties, looked appropriately disappointed. “Next time!” she said, as she helped with his jacket. “You can’t be late for that!”

While she saw him to the door, I stuffed my undies and heels into Ziploc bags, and tucked them under the bed. Then I changed into married hooker camouflage—slightly faded jeans and a plaid blouse.

As I walked down Eighty-fifth Street toward York, I checked my phone messages. A call from Charmaine—“The cable bill’s in your condom drawer”—and another from Milt, sitting in his car: “If you get this before five-thirty, call me back, kiddo. I’m a prisoner of the Garden State Parkway for the next twenty minutes.”

The sun wasn’t ready to set. In my bright yellow sneakers, I felt like a small town schoolgirl playing hooky on a warm afternoon. York Avenue has that effect on you during the summer.

Damp hair brushed against my neck. Uh-oh. Will it be dry by the time I get home? This might be hard to explain! I stopped and dabbed my hair with my sleeve.

Then I heard a man’s voice—“Nancy is right here”—slightly formal, yet warm and familiar, that made me turn around. Allie’s boyfriend, Lucho, was standing near the entrance to Arturo’s talking into his cellphone. His free hand held a slightly dog-eared copy of The Nation. “Of course,” he said, beaming at me. “I will do that, my dear. See you at the bar.”

Lucho must know I just left Allie’s apartment. What do you say to a guy who’s waiting for his girlfriend to tidy up after a session that you’ve been part of? And he obviously knows it! I stared back at him and felt myself blushing as he put his phone away.

“Lucho!” My voice was unnaturally high. “What are you—” doing here sounds wrong, rather hostile. As if he doesn’t belong here. But he doesn’t! Why can’t she meet him on the West Side, where he lives?

The last thing I need is to be running into a best friend’s boyfriend on the corner of York Avenue when I’ve just turned a trick with her, and my hair is still damp from—did he see me doing that? When he cuddles up with Allie, later tonight, my bra will be right there, in its plastic bag, hiding beneath her bed.

Suddenly, I felt naked. His polite nod was almost a bow, and there wasn’t a trace of discomfort in his eyes—or flirtation, either—as he greeted me. “How are you doing, Nancy?” He gestured toward the restaurant door, as if nothing strange had just happened. “Will you join us for dinner? We can wait for Allie at the bar.”

“Oh—I—um—I can’t!” I said, taking in his knit tie and his summer suit. His dark wavy hair is well-managed, though it falls below his ears. I felt not just naked, but silly and immature in my jeans and sneakers. Allie must be getting a little dressed up to meet him for dinner. “I’ve got a loin of pork marinating in the fridge!” I exclaimed.

“Allison tells me you’re a very accomplished cook.” He flashed an affectionate smile. “Another night then. Perhaps we could all go out. We would both love to have dinner with you and Matt.”

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “You know, Matt—Allie—I’m not sure about Matt’s schedule.”

Allie’s been trying to engineer a double date with Matt and Lucho for the last six months!

Last year, when we ran into Lucho and Allie at a party, Lucho was unfailingly discreet. And Matt’s always hinting that he’d like to hang out with them because, well, you don’t meet a lot of trendy Latin American professors on Wall Street.

But the whole idea of Matt dining out with three people who know something he doesn’t? I can’t. No matter how discreet Lucho is, I can’t put my husband at a table with people who know he’s being deceived.

There are times when a wife must quietly become her husband’s loyal opposition.

Allie doesn’t get it. There’s no room on her romantic hard drive for these tricky nuances of infidelity. Because the New York Council of Trollops has taken over her personal life! Sometimes she forgets how normal people actually live.

On days when Allie’s not working, she’s chairing NYCOT meetings, planning the next conference, or distributing condoms in Hunts Point. I used to think activism was a phase she would outgrow—until Allie met Lucho at a harm reduction conference. Any “phase” that yields a devoted boyfriend isn’t something Allie can be expected to take leave of lightly. Bohemian courtship has its own rules—I’m afraid to find out what they are—but it’s still courtship. It still, somehow, works, when the right people are in the right place at the right time.

A double date with my best friend and her boyfriend? It’s just another one of those things everyone else does—but not me.

Wednesday, June 19, 2002

“Honey?”

This morning, Matt was surprised to find me in the kitchen wearing cotton panties and a work-out bra. He gave me an appreciative but quizzical look. I’m almost never up first.

I was in a cautious mood, because the last time I had an appointment with my ob-gyn, Matt wanted to be there too. I will never get used to seeing other women’s husbands in a gynecologist’s waiting room—is nothing sacred anymore? And I refuse to contribute to this trend.

“I forgot to organize the coffee last night!” I lied. Matt’s coffee is a built-in excuse whenever I need to rise early. As I filled the coffee maker, he came closer. I felt his bare skin against my back, boxer shorts against my prim white briefs. “There’s a new class I want to try.”

His hard-on was distracting, and so was his right hand on my panties. I was tempted to turn around, but a quick glance at the clock made me stop. Dr. Peele’s office agreed to squeeze me in early.

Matt kissed my neck while the coffee brewed, and teased the cotton-covered parts of me with his finger. I was beginning to swell and relax. If I’m late for Dr. Peele, she’ll make me wait two hours. I’ll have to cancel my quickie with Ted. And Dr. Peele’s receptionist will be furious.

“Your exercise class can wait,” he whispered. “There’s another one tomorrow. And you want this.”

“I—I do, but we can’t,” I told him. “My period …” Though it just ended, I insinuated that it was just beginning. As I turned around, I felt his hands in my hair. “Can I do this instead?” I tried to lower myself to the floor and felt my panties tugging against my pussy. My mouth was already half-open. I felt like that playful Mafia wife in Goodfellas who takes care of her husband in her kitchen.

“No.” He was holding my upper arms, firmly enough to stop me from moving. I was breathing harder. “It’s better when you have to wait.”

“But—”

I was beginning to regret that my period “just started.” I like to think I can do anything I want with my period—hide it, fake it, or have it. Now I’ve outsmarted myself, and waiting three days seems more like an ordeal than a successful parry.

Though I was on time for my appointment, I was battling the sensations of unsatisfied arousal as I changed into my paper gown. The stirrups on Dr. Peele’s examining table are never left uncovered. Today, they were dressed in soft, inviting cashmere booties which I was eager to feel against my bare feet. When she entered, I was already on the table, day-dreaming about what might have been if Matt hadn’t stopped me from getting on my knees. Though I felt pampered by the booties and tantalized by our skirmish, it’s just not possible to stay turned on during a transvaginal sonogram.

“Is there any such thing as a mini-miscarriage?” I asked. “My last period was ten days late. Was I twenty-four days pregnant?”

“That’s hard to say.” She was looking at the screen. “We may never know. Long cycles are more common than miscarriages.” I felt the probe moving to the left. “Which are also common,” she added.

“So, if I have a c-section …”

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking about the scar. How low can you make the incision?”

“Most women find that a bikini covers the scar.”

“Is it true it can double as a kind of tummy tuck?”

“There are easier ways to obtain a tummy tuck. Not that you need one.”

“Thanks, but—” When I turned my head, I was staring at a portrait of blond identical triplets playing in a garden. “—can you actually get rid of the scar?”

The probe moved to the right.

“Nancy.” Dr. Peele withdrew the probe. “Childbirth is not cosmetic surgery.” I suppose she’s right. “We can discuss vaginal deliv—”

“I don’t think so!” I tried to sit up.

“Don’t panic.” Dr. Peele was holding up a speculum. “One more thing to do here.” I tried to relax. “Breathe through your mouth. Good. Many women are having voluntary c-sections. It’s safer when you can prepare for a c-section. But you have to realize, it’s major surgery. And some of your questions should be answered by a dermatologist.”

I glanced at the triplets, then averted my eyes. “Maybe I need to postpone this project.”

“You mean pregnancy?”

“Yes.” When she removed the speculum, I took my feet out of the stirrups and sat up slowly. “When I thought I was pregnant, I was excited. But when my period started? I was disappointed at first, and then I was so relieved!” Dr. Peele was perched on a stool, looking at my medical records. “The other day, I was visiting a girlfriend.” I bit my lip.

“Go on,” she said. “How many children does your friend have?”

“None. And she’s single.”

“Ah.” She placed the paperwork to one side. “I think I see.”

“I was walking down the street,” I told her. “It was so nice out! I felt sort of naughty.” Dr. Peele doesn’t know anything about my job, but I told her what I could of the truth. “And I felt free. I was wearing my size four jeans. It took me six months to get back into those!”

“And?”

“I don’t think I want to be pregnant. I want to wear my size four jeans!”

“Then you should not be. Pregnancy is more dangerous for your health than being a size four.”

Dr. Peele—closer to a fourteen than a four; founder of an A-list fertility boutique—said that?? I feel so vindicated.

On my way to Seventy-ninth Street, I stopped at Duane Reade to drop off my new prescription. I had just enough time to change into a miniskirt and get ready for Ted’s mid-morning blow job.

Thursday, June 20, 2002

A call from Milt. For the first time in weeks, he insists on seeing me solo when I want him to spring for a threeway! I was hoping to pay Allie back for Monday. Normally, he’s more than willing to be my currency du jour. But not today. “We have some important business to discuss.” More important than MY business? But I didn’t protest. Sexual book-keeping should always be invisible.

Later

I was wrapping a hot post-coital washcloth around Milt’s cock when he announced, “My house in France is almost done. You should come over with me.”

“With you?” I adopted a dreamy tone and pressed the damp cloth against his lube-drenched groin. Some girls long to visit the Riviera with a rich guy in exchange for massive amounts of shopping money. I fear being away from New York, beholden to some guy who has paid for an oversized chunk of my time, unable to retreat from a diplomatic nightmare. “I should?”

“Yes!” His hand stroked my rump. “It would be nice to have this in my bed,” he mused. “Your skin’s so smooth. And you can practice your French.” As he felt my body pulling away, he said, “Don’t worry. I promise not to abuse my privileges!”

“What exactly are you planning on my behalf?” I asked with a skeptical smile.

“I’m going to spend a few weeks in the new house,” he explained. “Make sure everything’s in working order. Get out of my wife’s hair for awhile. They’re working on the pool as we speak. You’ll have a great time breaking it in with me.”

“It’s in the Luberon?”

“An hour and a half from Nice. Right next to a vineyard … off the beaten track … we had the pool rebuilt.”

“But I don’t swim! I’m not much of a poolside girl, you know, and I’m allergic to sunshine. Are you sure I’m the … houseguest you have in mind?”

“Of course I’m sure! Stay in the shade, then. It’s a fully equipped house. I just installed a new exercise room. I converted one of the dairy sheds into a media hut. There’s a nice library with a fireplace … What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You might wear me out! I need my beauty sleep, eight hours minimum, and I don’t think I can sleep in the same bed as—”

“You’ll have your own bedroom,” he promised. “I may be a dog, but I’m a well-trained dog. If you want, you can sleep in a separate wing with the door locked. This place has more bedrooms than we need. You’ll have first choice.”

“How many bathrooms?”

“Who can remember? Six? Anyway, the upstairs rooms all have their own.”

“They do?” My body relaxed a bit. “The next time you invite a girl to your house, tell her about the en suite bathrooms upfront, Milt. You’ll save her a lot of anxiety.”

“That’s my point!”

“Your point?”

“You’re the one who knows how to talk to girls! And I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Really? Should I find someone to keep us company?”

“Now you’re talking. She’ll have a very nice room.” Milt sat up and looked at his watch. “I’m flying to Nice via Paris. I can try to get you both onto my flight or—”

“I have to think about it,” I warned him. “I haven’t promised you anything.”

“I know. But the last time you said that …” My favorite customer appeared to be suppressing a smirk. “You came around to my point of view. Remember?”

“Now look here!”

“Never mind,” he laughed. “Take your time and think it through. Tell me what it’s going to cost. I’m sure you have to get all your ducks in a row and make a few calls. I leave the third member of our house party in your capable hands. It’s all up to you.”

“My fiancé—” I began. “I can’t just go to France without—”

Milt placed his hand on top of my wrist. “It’s okay, kiddo. I know you’ve got a life.” His touch was light and reassuring. “So do I. When you have it figured out, call me.” He reached for his boxers. “That boyfriend of yours doesn’t know how lucky he is. A two-week break will keep the guy on his toes.”

Milt doesn’t realize that Matt’s my husband. Would he still do business with me if he knew?

On my way out of the elevator, I spotted Charmaine in the vestibule, coming in from the street.

Ten feet away, the super (who isn’t “supposed” to know she lives here) was hauling a recycling bin toward the back of the building. Charmaine’s a perfectionist about the apartment. Given that we could both be evicted for violating the rent stabilization laws—never mind the business we’re conducting—she’s the model roommate. As she passed me in the hall, I nodded silently, and she winked in the deliberate, labored way Botox-users must when seized with the impulse to wink. Every facial gesture’s a major decision with that girl!

If I take this trip with Milt, should I bring Charmaine? I can count on her to keep all my secrets. But first, do I really want to spend two weeks with a customer?

I’ve never spent more than a night with a john, and overnight calls make me claustrophobic. Milt assumes I’ve taken lots of well-paid journeys to far-flung destinations—that’s what high class call girls do, isn’t it? I won’t puncture his illusions by telling him about my origins. The Yellow Pages escort agency that got busted by the NYPD. A handful of hotel bars. And the nightclub (almost in Mayfair, not quite) where I hustled champagne. I’ve come a long way from that, but never lost my taste for the quick finite transaction.

In a perfect world, I’d rather turn five tricks in one day than spend five hours with the same date. My clients don’t realize this, because (they think) a girl who prefers quickies can’t hold a conversation, pass in polite society, or disguise the fact that she’s rushing you.

It’s not that simple. When you see five customers in one shift, you’re building your business. Each new date—even a guy you barely tolerate—makes you less dependent on any given client. Everyone has a favorite john, the phone call that makes you smile, but that doesn’t mean you can trust him with your future.

You see more of the world and retain more independence, when you’re in hustle mode. But you can’t stay like that forever. The price of success is losing some freedom. I now have a handful of good reliable dates I can’t afford to lose. I certainly can’t start over again in this business! And this is what I actually wanted when I began my career. So I have no business regretting my comfortable predicament. Do I?

Later still

Putting business aside, I’m never at my best when vacationing with a man. That trip to Wyoming with my husband last summer? It felt rather crowded, actually.

Thank God New York bankers only take two weeks’ vacation!


CHAPTER FOUR

### New York: Jamais Provence?

Friday, June 21, 2002

This morning, two messages on my cellphone from Milt, playing it cool while applying a subtle flattering pressure. “Did I tell you how good you’re looking? You can wear your bikini indoors, kiddo. I’m ordering a busload of poolside umbrellas, just in case you decide to honor me with your presence.”

Minutes later, he called back, sounding a more practical married note. “Can’t talk this weekend, though. In-laws! Get in touch Monday.”

Can I really get away with such a prolonged session chez Milt? It might, as Milt says, be good for my relationship with Matt—but only if I have a convincing alibi. (Spa vacation with one of my girlfriends? Minibreak en famille? But where? Pretend to be in the Caribbean when I’m really in the south of France? No, I don’t think so.)

This calls for a consultation with Liane. There are times when you need a madam’s friendship more than you need her business.

Later

Must break down my current dilemma. What to tell husband? How to avoid flying with customer, so he won’t find out real name? Or age? (Can’t let Milt see my passport!) But the first thing I need to sort out is the third person in our—in Milt’s—bed. I can’t do this trip to Provence alone—now that Milt’s on Viagra!

Sometimes I wish my favorite john were an easy hand job. One of those customers you can do in your sleep. You have to “dance with the guy that brought you,” and Milt, for better or worse, is that guy. Long before I met my husband, there was Milt, reliable and financially faithful. Three years ago, when I had that huge tax bill, I was afraid my problems would just scare Matt away. Milt came to my apartment with all the cash I needed, in one payment. We called it a season ticket. In return, he persuaded me to do something … unprofessional. Then we bickered about whether to call it a pound or a gram of flesh.

When I was alone with him, I allowed Milt to kiss me—a real kiss, just a few times—but I prevented this from becoming a habit. After a steady diet of acrobatic threeways, he seemed to forget we had ever kissed.

Until yesterday!

Is Milt hoping I’ll bend my rules again? Do something unprofessional when I’m off the grid? Away from Manhattan?

Even so, he’ll never try to kiss in front of another working girl. That much he understands. And his appetite’s too much for one woman to handle on a daily basis. Clearly, I can’t even consider Provence without some very appealing reinforcements.

The question is: Who?

Later still

Charmaine?

Milt’s only heard about her, and never pushes me to arrange a session, thank God. Two weeks in the company of my bionic twenty-something roommate might get him looking at my body in a whole new way.

She’s methodical, easy to work with—and much too ambitious for this gig. But Charmaine knows all the New Girls. For a finder’s fee, she can introduce me to someone brand new.

How tempting to bring in a newbie—someone who doesn’t yet have much business sense—to do the heavy lifting. Everyone has to be that girl at some point, and we’ve all paid our dues.

Is it my turn to collect?

When I was the New Girl, I met a thirty-something call girl who took a fifty percent cut. Belinda would literally walk around the bedroom in her underwear and heels, smoking a joint while I did the session. I was the energetic, naive bait, willing to get on top of a customer and wear myself out, by riding up and down while faking one orgasm after another. A more diplomatic girl makes an effort to arouse her own regulars, and takes a smaller cut—forty percent might do it—just to keep a hard-working apprentice in a good mood. It’s only ten percent less, but it can make all the difference to a young hooker’s attitude. Within two months, I got wise to Belinda, did the math, and started slipping my number to some of her best clients.

Perhaps a New Girl isn’t such a good idea after all. Better to do business with another girl who knows how hard you work to cultivate your regulars. Someone like …

Jasmine? Out of the question.

There’s Trish, of course. If any girl can micromanage a two-week escape from two different husbands and two different zip codes, it’s Trish. As with Charmaine, I trust her to keep all my secrets, but—having even more to lose—she’s even more trustworthy.

But way too kinky.

Once every ten years, a pro-domme like Trish encounters a manageable sleaze like Milt and flips his switch, turning him into one of her legendary creatures. An insatiable perv who can’t get enough pain, whether it’s his own or somebody else’s. Who knows what Trish might do to Milt’s psyche if I allow them to meet! I can’t afford to find out. Could she transform him into one of those mentally exhausting slaves? A golden shower addict?

He already takes too long to come. That I can handle, but kink takes its toll in a different way.

Later

As my insecurities climb the wall of my pragmatism, like so much virtual ivy, it’s all becoming much too clear. There’s only one person unambitious enough, pretty enough, yet old enough to bring on this trip. She’s safely in her thirties, and she won’t steal my best client or warp his mind.

Monday, June 24, 2002

This morning, when Allie returned my call, I was in the computer nook, dusting my husband’s college souvenirs.

“Have you heard from Jasmine?” she asked.

I aimed the can of compressed air at Matt’s shot glass collection.

“No,” I said. “Why would I?”

“You’re not still—you have to make up with her!” Allie insisted.

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s—she asked about you yesterday.”

“Oh? What did she want to know?”

“Something to do with your hormones,” Allie said in a sheepish voice.

“And THAT’S SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME WANT HER AS A FRIEND? Cunty remarks about my hormones?”

“They weren’t c—it wasn’t like that. Stop using that word!”

“Is there a better one?” I asked.

“It’s just her way of saying she misses you! Anyway, I’m sick of running interference.”

“Then give it a rest. Nobody asked you to.”

“But …” There was a strange pause. Allie’s voice was wobbling out of control. “Sh—she did. She asked me to call you and find out—I don’t think Jasmine was held enough as a child! She has trouble expressing her feelings!”

“I’ll call her,” I lied, anxious to stem the teary tide. As usual, Allie’s feelings come first—even when she’s delivering an insult from another girl.

“Please do that!” she begged me. “I’ve seen Harry at her place, twice, and I think he misses you. I don’t think I’m really his type.”

“Well,” I reminded her. “You’re Milt’s type. Don’t you want to know why I called you?”

After outlining the situation in Provence, I offered a special incentive: “I’m only taking twenty percent. I really don’t mind.” Allie, at least, wasn’t on the verge of tears anymore.

“Omigod,” she sighed. “I really wish I could.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “You have to! I can’t go to France alone. And you’ll have so much extra cash when you come back, you’ll be able to spend an entire month doing NYCOT stuff.”

“I know, but NYCOT needs me in Barcelona!”

“Barcelona? What the—”

“It’s the international AIDS conference. Bad Girls Without Borders is hosting a shadow conference, and Roxana’s chairing a panel on medical ethics, so I have to present for NYCOT during mobility rights.”

“Can’t you work around this? There must a way.”

“My panel’s right in the middle of the AIDS conference! I can’t just—I’m sorry, Nancy! Roxana NEEDS me, I’m the only person she trusts at this point. She’s counting on me to represent NYCOT at Barcelona. Sex workers are coming from all over Europe and Asia! I gave her my word! Besides,” she said, “we don’t want to disappoint the Cambodians.”

I might have known—when I actually need Allie to come through, she’s got a date with Roxana to save the world.

“And,” she said, in a breathless voice, “it’s a historic moment for me. I’m finally part of the solution!”

“Part of—what did you just say?”

“Sex workers are part of the solution. That’s our new T-shirt! It’s all part of our HIV awareness campaign,” she explained. “We’re bringing a hundred T-shirts to Barcelona! Roxana picked out the font, and I chose the colors.”

They must be very pink.

And now they’re part of a much larger problem!

Later

This afternoon, as I scrolled through my inbox, I spotted one of Darren’s boyish BlackBerry messages:

re: as marvin gaye likes 2 say …

LET’S. so, are we ON? Thursday, 3:30?

While I typed a businesslike e-ply—

ok, I GET IT. Confirming 3:30!

—a rambling apology arrived from Allie.

Re: HIV & me!

Hey Nancy? I’m sooooo sorry about the conflict with our shadow conference! Roxana says it’s crucial for NYCOT to be on lots of panels because the Europeans don’t appreciate how international we are. It’s, you know, the most global HIV event in the world! The Russian outreach workers are coming. There’s going to be a very radical keynote address about HIV research from Miguel X. He’s a former “rent boy” from Brazil, and it’s MY JOB to introduce him! Gretchen was supposed to, but something happened, I don’t know what exactly, but now I REALLY have to be there because we want a New York sex worker to introduce Miguel. Pleeeeease tell Milt: I really wish I could be in two places at once but I have to be at the HIV shadow conference!

Does Allison think she’s the only girl in town? Of course, I’ll tell Milt nothing of the sort, about Allie OR this conference. When I DO find a girl for him, he must never suspect she’s my second choice. As for Allie’s conference, Milt must never hear about her activism.

The very thing that makes Milt feel safe—a successful call girl with a secret life, quietly snowing polite society—is also what turns him on. Allie’s attempt at a militant new look, complete with HIV slogans, would surely have the opposite effect?

A huge message from my mom with a slightly misleading subject header:

Re: Normandy Postcard

Brief—with enough JPEG attachments to fill a scrapbook.

Having lovely time looking at farmhouses. Let me know what you think. Currently rather enthused third from top. Take note goats and half-timber. Sebastian’s at Renascent House again. Thought you wd like to know. Best decision he’s made this year, I think. Dodie sends her best. Love to Matt.

Mother does what she can to put a positive spin on my little brother’s crack problem without getting pulled in. Last month, when he tried to move into her B&B in the Welsh countryside, she closed the house and took off on a road trip to Mortagne-au-Perche with her best friend Dodie. Ever since Grandmummy died, Mother’s siblings have been renovating or selling up. Not one of these rustic Norman properties is less than twice the size of her farmhouse in Wales. All those rumors about the will, which Mother won’t discuss, may actually be true. And her timing couldn’t be better, given Sebastian’s rehab needs.

An email from Liane—at seventy-something, still newly excited about the internet—startled me:

Bernie’s in town! He’s on fire to see you, dear. I know JUST how to spice up your visit to Provence. Will you be near St-Tropez? I have a number for you. Let me know when you get this message. I’m trying to add a return receipt but the silly thing won’t cooperate!

Liane, who began turning tricks when call girls had rotary phones, has had email for less than a year. It makes me nervous to see her talking so freely about business while she’s still learning how to send messages. Yesterday, when I called to ask for her advice about Milt, I never imagined she would be careless enough to talk about my plans in email. How can I tell her this isn’t what you’d expect from a reputable madam? Lectures about discretion and etiquette have always been HER métier. Besides, she’s older than my mother!

Tuesday, June 25, 2002

Today’s session with Bernie was only one part of Liane’s solution. As Bernie “introduced me” to the rigors of sex on my hands and knees, Liane was taking a call in the other room from her contact in St-Tropez.

For a few years, Bernie’s been under the impression that he’s my first—or only—customer. That said, he’s not entirely deluded, since he’s one of the few who knows about my marriage. Liane raised our fee on the grounds that it was the only way he could coax me out of newlywed bliss for an hour.

When we met, I was supposed to be a college student—now I’m a twenty-something bride married to her college boyfriend. His ideas about college girls and young couples must have been formed thirty years ago watching porno movies about wet co-eds. As I steadied myself on the edge of Liane’s bed, I slid my hand across the sheet, so Bernie could see my wedding band.

“You need to get fucked,” he told me. “I can tell. Does your husband ever take you from behind?”

“Oh! Not yet,” I said in a demure voice. “We haven’t tried that. I think he’s afraid to hurt me.”

“He doesn’t know what a hot little cunt you’ve got,” Bernie muttered. He was thrusting quickly, and I reached underneath to discreetly check on his condom. At this point, I was glad the engagement ring was tucked into my make-up bag. “That’s right, play with your clit, baby. I’ll bet he has a big cock, though. Does he know how much you like to suck cock?”

His hand was resting on my right buttock, and I felt a light pat that seemed to flirt with the idea of a spanking.

“Y … yesssss,” I moaned. “He does! I love sucking his cock …” When Bernie collapsed against me with a loud gasp, I held onto the condom and wriggled away from him, hoping my precautionary measures wouldn’t seem too professional.

After seeing Bernie to the door, Liane burst into the bedroom, looking unusually animated. I was still dressing.

“Isabel is your answer,” she said. “She’s got a new apartment in St-Tropez and a group of lovely new girls! You must call her before you fly. This is a much better choice. Allison would have been a mistake, dear.”

“A mistake?” I adjusted the zipper on the side of my dress, and followed her into the living room, where a pot of mint tea was brewing. “Allie would have been ideal!” I protested, though I didn’t tell her why Allie’s unavailable. “She’s someone I know and trust.”

Liane’s enthusiasm is making me nervous. What’s happened to her innate insularity?

“How do we—” sounds nicer than you “—know Isabel’s discreet enough?” The chatty emails. Her new contacts in St-Tropez. Do I detect a loosening of standards? It’s worrying to think that Liane, of all people, would let an economic slump affect her old-school values. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but it can’t be safe for me to do business with someone you’ve never met.”

“Dear, I don’t mind at all.” Liane, in her favorite armchair, leaned forward, extending a delicate, tapered hand toward the teapot. “Some girls are much too greedy to stop and ask the right questions.” As she poured, a diamond bangle sparkled discreetly against the sleeve of her blouse.

“I’m glad you care,” she said. “That’s why we’re talking. After my girlfriend Hilary—” Liane looked away for a moment. “She was a little older than I was, and lived most of the year in Cannes. We sent each other a lot of business back then … You’ve met some of Hilary’s people, you know. Isabel bought her business. Hilary moved back to Edinburgh to take care of her aunt.” I wonder if there was more to Hilary’s departure than her ailing relative. Is she still alive? “Anyway.” Liane smiled gently at her teacup, then looked up. “We can trust Isabel. She moved to France a few years ago, and sends me new business sometimes. Hilary always liked her. They met in London.”

“Isabel doesn’t have a website, does she?”

“I can’t imagine why she would!” Liane said. “Dear, why are you always talking about these websites? It seems to be an obsession with you.”

“Because! That’s what so many people do these days. You never know if they’re advertising behind your back, and not telling you. Imagine the risk!”

“People do what they have to do, and we mustn’t judge. But,” Liane insisted, “we don’t know anybody who would have to do that!”

Oh yes we do, but Liane would freak if she knew about Charmaine’s site.

“Well,” I explained. “Some girls have a very nice website, and they’re careful about meeting new clients. But you never know how careful. Do you?”

“No,” Liane agreed. “But there would be no reason for Izzy to do that. She inherited Hilary’s customers. And this is much better for you! If this gentleman’s an important client, you should keep him entertained with girls who won’t be calling when he returns to New York. Staying in that house with him might give Allison ideas.”

She paused to refill my cup.

“Men will be men,” she said. “Don’t take your best people for granted, and don’t underestimate your best friends. Allison might grow jealous of your good fortune. What if she tattles to your husband? Or your client? Did you say he’s in the dark about your marriage? Isabel doesn’t know you’re married, and her girls won’t know a thing about you. It’s dangerous to rely on a girl who’s close to you.”

Madams are sometimes hard to read. Is Liane promoting Isabel because she owes her some business? Or because she wants to remold me into the best mini-madam I can be?

“There’s a lot at stake,” she pointed out. “Izzy will provide the gentleman with variety. That’s what keeps your relationship with him stable and secure.” She reached into the pocket of her long slim skirt, and handed me a small white card. On one side, in her graceful handwriting, a phone number. No name.

“This makes me quite nostalgic!” she said. “Hilary was a beautiful girl in her prime. When we strolled up and down the Croisette in our summer dresses, everybody used to stare at us. She had a friend from Monaco who stayed at the Hôtel du Cap at Antibes. He sent a car, and I went for a week. It’s wonderful to be in your thirties, still passing for twenty-five!” Liane sighed happily. “Make the most of it, dear. Of course, it’s up to you, but Isabel’s expecting your call.”

Exiting Liane’s building, I felt my hair wilting in the damp air. As I walked toward Madison, I checked my phone and discovered two impatient voicemails from Trish: “That guy from Philly? He just called from the St. Regis. Call, okay? He wants to see you!”

It’s unprofessional to keep hoping he’ll cancel again, but I don’t trust new customers under forty. Trish has only seen him once or twice. How does she know he lives in Philadelphia? What if he’s some married Wall Streeter? Maybe I’ve met his wife at one of Matt’s corporate barbeques. So many of these guys fudge their whereabouts, to protect their own house of cards, never realizing they might be endangering ours!

“Can you make it tomorrow at noon? I don’t have anyone else who’s your type, and he’s totally fixated on Asian!”

Yikes. If a customer’s counting on a girl to supply my type, it seems inconsiderate—downright rude—to ignore her pleas. Especially when I’m her only Exotic.

Wednesday morning, June 26, 2002

At six A.M., Matt got out of bed to meet one of his clients. My head started buzzing with the logistics of a kinky nooner in midtown involving three changes of costume. I couldn’t even pretend to sleep, so while he showered, I started the coffee.

I was standing in the kitchen, in PJs and bare feet, chopping an apple, when my husband appeared in the doorway wearing a towel around his waist. “Honey,” he protested. “I’m having breakfast with this guy at his hotel.”

He looks disarmingly heroic like that, but I forced myself to overlook his dewy biceps—and his slightly damp chest hair.

“When you’re meeting a client at this hour, you want to keep an eye on your glycemic index.” I handed him a vitamin pill and a small glass of pear juice. “Where’s he staying?”

“Peninsula.” He swallowed his juice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The Peninsula’s practically next door to the St. Regis. Should I be doing hotel calls at this point in my marriage? Trish has her own worries, but running into her husband at a Manhattan hotel isn’t one of them. Thank God it’s a breakfast meeting! I spooned some sheep’s milk yogurt into a bowl. “This’ll prevent your blood sugar from crashing.”