Читать книгу Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl - Tracy Quan - Страница 7

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.”