Читать книгу Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl - Tracy Quan - Страница 15

Update on the Tribeca 2BR. According to Karen’s bubbly e-mail, it’s got a breakfast nook and a balcony. The current occupants bought in ’92, before the market started going haywire, and the husband has persuaded his wife to relocate to East End Avenue so their daughter can walk to school. Karen has a special rapport with the co-op board, which insists on vetting all prospective renters—in the flesh. “I’ll get you in, no problem,” she threatened—I mean, promised.

This morning, while Matt was in the shower, I snuck in a quick call to Liane. “I can’t talk long,” I warned her. “My boyfriend and I are going to look at a rental on Franklin Street. I just have a minute.”

Like every madam I’ve known, Liane is exceedingly generous with her wisdom. At seventy-something, tall, slender, and Dioresque, she is still the epitome of 1950s elegance. And fifties ethics, too.

“Under no circumstances should a girl like you ‘live with’ a man,” she said. “These trial marriages are a big mistake.”

Trial marriage? Wow. If I tell Liane that I’m responsible for putting off the wedding date, I’ll never hear the end of it.

“Well, I’m not going to tell you how to conduct your life, dear. Don’t you know anyone who’s available tomorrow night?” she asked, changing the subject.

February fourteenth. A great night to be a call girl without a valentine and a terrible night for madams, because too many girls have relationships that tie them up (so to speak) for the evening.

“You, of course, have a good reason to take tomorrow night off,” Liane remarked. “Your fellow has made a commitment, and he’s a catch. Though you’ll soon see that commitment evaporating if you move in with him! What is your fiancé planning for Valentine’s Day?”

“We’re going to a chamber-music recital.” Liane indicated her approval. “Avoiding the crowds,” I said. “Don’t you think Valentine’s Day can be a bit—”

“Of a nuisance? Frankly, dear, yes. I have a lovely gentleman from Buenos Aires flying in. He’ll be in meetings all day tomorrow and he wants a brunette with real breasts to arrive at eight, leave at midnight. He’s at the Four Seasons. Dinner in his room, pleasant conversation, garter belt, stockings, two thousand.” She sighed. “He’s so easy, too! Or so I’ve heard. You’d be perfect.”

I felt a twinge of regret, despite the fact that 40 percent would go to Liane if I were to see him.

“How about Jasmine?”

“She’s too businesslike,” Liane objected. “And he prefers someone petite. Well, I suppose, in her little Chanel ballet flats, Jasmine really looks petite and she’s trim and pretty, so he’s not going to send her away…” Jasmine’s five feet five, but I held my tongue as Liane tried to sell herself on the idea. “She has a nice bust—not too big. She hasn’t had her breasts done, has she?”

“No way!” I assured her. “I’ll call you later.”

I quickly dialed my hairdresser’s number, allowed it to ring once, and quietly hung up. Just in case Matt happened to hit the redial button.

We’ve all heard the horror stories—innocent boyfriends accidentally hitting redial, stumbling across numbers and clients and…welcome to Hooker Hell. If that isn’t every call girl’s worst nightmare, it certainly should be!