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At Your Beck & Call

Page 27

by Jane Harvey-Berrick


  “You haven’t been yourself this evening, Hallen, darling. I thought you’d be … happier … after your vacation. Is there something wrong?”

  Eloise knew me better than anyone. Her eyes were soft and thoughtful as I looked up. Nothing like the shrewd business woman I usually saw.

  “I can’t do this anymore. Working as an escort.”

  She sighed.

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. I’ve been expecting it really.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We had a great run. You’re very dear to me, sweet boy. Like a son.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “No, well, perhaps not a son. A nephew. A favorite nephew.”

  I laughed. “You’d pimp your nephew?”

  She looked hurt. “Is that how you see it?”

  I shrugged. “I think, yeah, maybe. I don’t know. I’m not blaming you, Eloise. Like you said, we’ve had a good run. You’ve built a great business, and I’ve paid off my student loans, most of the mortgage; I have money in the bank. It’s not so bad. I just…”

  My words trailed away.

  “Tell me, mon cher.”

  “You know that I don’t really tell most clients about myself.”

  “Yes, I am aware.”

  “I sometimes feel like I’m … I don’t know … losing myself in their fantasies. I spend so much time being what they want. Does that make sense?”

  Her mouth quivered.

  “Oh, dear heart! I had no idea you felt like that. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  I shrugged.

  “Because it’s easy. Was easy. Because the alternative is uncertain. I don’t know if I can make it as an artist, but I want to try. And doing the escort thing, it’s too…”

  Words utterly failed to convey the raw confusion I felt, but Eloise nodded slowly.

  “I understand. It’s been holding you back. I never meant for that to happen.” She hesitated before continuing carefully. “And Laura doesn’t have anything to do with this decision? I knew you’d be good together—you’re perfect for each other.”

  Obviously I hadn’t been as guarded as I’d thought.

  “Laura? No? Why would you think…? Look, she’s great, I like her, I do. It’s more … it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while and tonight—talking to her—just talking—no expectations, you know? I haven’t had that with a woman in so long.”

  Eloise looked a bit tearful, so I leaned over and took her hand in mine.

  “Hey! No tears, Ellie. It’s been an amazing few years. I don’t regret any of it.”

  I wasn’t sure how true that was, but mostly, I thought.

  “What will you do? Other than be a great artist, of course?”

  “Ha, well! I thought I might try and teach. Not in a high school, maybe in a college. I’d have to get my Masters. I don’t know yet. I just need some time off first. The TAG gallery in Santa Monica supports new artists. I guess I qualify. Anyway, I emailed some photos of my work and yesterday they asked me to come in. I showed some of my smaller pieces—and they want to put one or two in their next exhibition. The gallery owner is going to come over and have a look at my larger canvases next week … and if that goes well … maybe a solo show.”

  A delighted smile whipped across her face, and her eyes glittered with expectation.

  “My goodness! I had no idea. That’s marvelous! Well, I’m sure your clients will want to support you, and come and see and…”

  No fucking way!

  “No, Ellie. I’m doing this on my own. I want the paintings to speak for themselves. If at all.”

  “Oh, Hallen!” she pouted. “Why do you insist on doing it the hard way?”

  She laughed as she took in my amused expression.

  “The hard way? Hmm, yes, quite. You have a naughty streak, Hallen. That’s why you were one of my best. That and your sweetness.” She sighed. “Le temps est un grand maître, dit-on, le malheur est qu’il tue ses élèves. Ah well!”

  Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils.

  My impulsive decision lifted a weight I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.

  Patricia said yes. To a solo show.

  Was she crazy?

  She said my seascapes reminded her of Newlyn School artist John Miller, and the abstract landscapes of Peter Lanyon. I couldn’t see it myself, but whatever.

  I said yes, as well. To a solo show. In six weeks.

  I was definitely crazy. Certifiable. And more excited than I’d been in years.

  Several of the paintings she wanted to display weren’t finished, so I worked all freakin’ hours of the day and night to get them ready. They weren’t glazed, and I had to scumble the paint onto the landscapes, giving the clouds a lighter effect.

  Then I had to hire a framer, and practically promise her a kidney to get the work finished in time. In the end she settled for drinks after work and her name in the exhibition catalogue.

  I also had to work with Patricia’s marketing manager to help her write the descriptions displayed next to each painting, as well as what went in the brochure. My biggest headache was when she asked me to give her a short biography of myself. What the hell was I supposed to put?

  Graduated from UCLA with a Bachelor of Art and post-graduate qualification for Life in General. Blink-and-you’ll-miss my moment in the porn industry. Six month stint tending bar and listening to old Hollywood guys relive their glory days. Eight years as an escort—paid to screw several hundred women in exotic locations and/or positions. Did some painting.

  Maybe not.

  Instead I decided to focus on how painting made me feel—and that was harder. Not because I didn’t have the words, but because it was personal. I wasn’t used to sharing that side of me.

  I typed some words and stared at them for nearly an hour.

  Empowering. Freeing. Releasing. Hiding and revealing. An urge to express without words—pure emotion spewed in oils. Translating messages. Speaking from within. Making a mark on a canvas is a small miracle, a moment of creation, of birth maybe. Sometimes the baby grows to be a monster, sometimes an angel.

  I ended with a favorite quote.

  If you want to know all about Andy Warhol, just look at the surface of my paintings and films and me, there I am. There’s nothing behind it.

  Unlike me, though, Andy Warhol wasn’t nervous about showing his works—he didn’t care what people thought. He painted because it he loved it, so acceptance didn’t matter. Perhaps the quote I’d chosen was more an aspiration than a parallel to my life.

  I could have said more, but it already seemed too much. I pressed ‘send’ before I lost my nerve.

  And then they wanted a photograph. Of me. Not of the work, of me. I was dead set against it but Patricia insisted. Eloise laughed her ass off when I complained to her about it.

  “It seems to me that your Patricia knows what she’s doing,” she smiled, sipping her espresso.

  We were at my favorite beachside coffee shop and Eloise was talking me down from ledge with her usual subtlety.

  “She’s simply using your second best asset.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her.

  “Don’t be naughty, mon chouchou. Your Patricia is clearly an astute saleswoman. Not only does she believe she can make money by selling your paintings—asset number one—but she thinks your pretty face is an asset, as well. And I have to agree with her. Of course she wants to have a photograph of you in the catalogue. I’m only surprised she hasn’t suggested putting it on the invitations.”

  I groaned in frustration.

  “You never showed a client a photograph of me before you scheduled me.” That was the best defense I could come up with.

  “Actually, I did. But only for foreign assignments where the client was paying for that privilege.”

  I was taken aback by her revelation; she’d always made a point of not displaying photographs of the agency’s escorts, saying th
at it cheapened the experience.

  She shrugged.

  “I did what was right for my business. Your Patricia is simply doing the same.”

  “She’s not my Patricia,” I muttered, futilely.

  She smiled and patted my hand.

  “I can arrange for a tasteful photo shoot if you like. Your Patricia might ask for a nude.”

  I choked on my coffee and shot Eloise a dirty look.

  “Although…” she continued.

  “Don’t even think about it!” I yelped.

  “Oh, dear heart!” she smiled, brightly. “Don’t tell me after everything, after all these years, that you’re shy!”

  I scowled at her.

  “You’re really too precious!” she laughed.

  The weeks passed in a flurry of nervous energy and activity.

  Eloise was incredibly helpful, and despite the fact that our business relationship was at an end, she continued to act as my unofficial manager. I loved her just a little bit more for that.

  She also organized the photo shoot—tasteful, as promised. I still found it excruciating, but Eloise teased me relentlessly, making me smile, and that was the photograph that they used in the catalogue.

  The final surprise was when she gifted me with an Armani suit to wear for the private viewing, laughingly calling it severance pay. Then she insisted on conducting an exit interview, using a form that she’d downloaded from the internet, while finishing my bottle of Patrón Silver one evening.

  “So, Hallen,” she said, pulling a piece of folded paper out of her purse and crossing her long legs, settling herself comfortably onto my leather couch. She poured another shot of tequila and threw it back in one smooth motion.

  I was feeling incredibly mellow and slightly buzzed.

  “What was most satisfying about your job?”

  Eloise smiled innocently as I snorted then spluttered through a shot of tequila that hit my windpipe instead of my throat.

  “Well, Eloise,” I coughed, “I guess meeting so many interesting people gave me great satisfaction.”

  I tried very hard to keep a straight face.

  “And job satisfaction is so important,” she added, with a wicked smile.

  “Well, you know what they say—the customer is always right.”

  “Always?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Okay, next question. Did you receive enough training to do your job effectively?”

  I burst out laughing and took another shot of tequila.

  “Well, your daughter certainly helped in that area,” I teased. “And, of course, it’s a family business…”

  I ducked as Eloise launched her shoe at me. It ricocheted off the wall behind my head. She wiggled her toes happily, then threw the other shoe at me for good measure.

  “Thin ice, Hallen. Hmm, well, did you receive sufficient feedback about your performance?”

  I didn’t reply and she stared at me.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know, Ellie … if I say Véro again, will you throw something else?”

  “Couquin! Okay, next question. What do you think it takes to succeed at this company? Other than a big dick.”

  “Hey!”

  “Fine, moving on. What could your supervisor do to improve her management role?”

  That was a good question. Eloise had been pretty damn near perfect. I tried to answer her seriously.

  “I don’t know. Tell me to see a shrink? I mean, you’ve gotta be a bit crazy to keep on doing this, right?”

  She gave a sad smile.

  “I don’t think there’s any point in asking the last question on this list,” she said, softly.

  “Ask it anyway.”

  “Can this company do anything to encourage you to stay?”

  I shook my head.

  “I thought not,” she said.

  Then she changed the subject and talked about my upcoming show.

  Despite my assertion that I wanted to separate my old life from this embryonic one, I agreed to invite two of my former clients, Peggy and Cindy. Neither had ever required my additional services and both had become friends. Eloise sent private cars to collect them.

  My decision to quit as an escort had been so sudden that I hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to any of my regular clients. Eloise didn’t pass on any complaints to me, but I knew several would be annoyed, and it would reflect badly on her business. I wrote personal notes instead, briefly explaining my disappearance without giving too much away. I handed them to Eloise for distribution, to all of them except Sian Te; she’d lost any rights of civility. I still felt a burn of anger when I thought about how she’d spoken to me in front of Laura.

  On the night of the private viewing, I was ready to hurl. Nerves that I hadn’t seen in a while decided to stop by for a visit. They were enjoying it so much, there was no sign of them fucking the hell off. Bastards.

  I left it to the absolute last minute to dress and get over to the gallery. There were several people there already when I arrived, clearly Patricia’s friends.

  She looked relieved when she saw me—perhaps she thought I’d be a no-show at my own opening night. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it.

  I was nervous, tugging at my tie and running a hand over my hair. Patricia passed me a glass of champagne and clinked her glass against mine.

  “Congratulations, Hallen. It’s going to be great—just try and relax. You look like you’re going to your execution, not having an opening night.”

  I tried to smile, but it probably came out as a grimace.

  “I’ve invited reporters from several local papers and Christopher Knight, the art critic from the LA Times might come, too—it’ll be a coup if he does, but I’m not promising anything. Anyway, I’ll bring them over one by one to introduce you. Don’t worry about that—you’ll charm them, I’m sure. You’ve got that whole shy guy vibe going on.”

  A couple of champagne bubbles hit the roof of my mouth, making me cough. If only she knew.

  “I was surprised you didn’t have more people on your guest list. You really don’t get out much, do you?”

  I had to laugh. “I guess not.”

  That was deliberate. Eloise had tried once more to suggest that I invite my old clients. I nearly took her head off; she didn’t mention it a third time.

  Her reasoning, of course, was that they’d definitely want to buy something as a memento. My reasoning was that I wanted—needed—this to be completely separate to that other aspect of my life. I’d closed the door on all of that and I wanted to be proud of this. How could I be proud of being an escort?

  My life was so fucked up. This was a fresh start. I hoped.

  The only person I’d wanted to come who couldn’t was Carl. He was working, but promised he’d make the time to visit later on in the week.

  Then I saw a familiar face walk through the door.

  “Marco! What are you doing here, man?”

  He sauntered up to me, a wide grin on his face as we shook hands.

  We still worked together sometimes and had gotten to know each other pretty well. I never could work out if he was gay or straight or genuinely into both. Didn’t bother me. He was cool.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, mio amico. And who is this beautiful lady?”

  I raised my eyebrows as Patricia purred with delight.

  “Patricia, this is one of my former colleagues, Marco Sandieri. Marco, this is Patricia Pendell, owner of the TAG gallery.”

  “Signorina,” he smiled, “both beautiful and smart—a deadly combination,” and he gave a small bow.

  Patricia laughed, amused and charmed.

  “Oh yes, I can definitely see you two working together! Corporate services, wasn’t it?”

  Marco grinned. “Yes, very corporate.”

  Patricia’s eyes swiveled between us. “Or are you a couple?”

  I shook my head, entertained by their conversation.

  “Sadly, no,” smiled
Marco. “Hallen’s tastes do not run in that direction.”

  Patricia looked confused.

  “I, however,” Marco continued, “have very Catholic tastes. May I buy you a drink, Patricia?”

  “It’s a free bar,” she laughed, taking his arm.

  “How clever of me,” smiled Marco, steering her away with a wink at me.

  I knocked back the champagne but refused an immediate refill. I needed to keep a clear head and I already had a slight buzz because I hadn’t eaten all day.

  I hid in the back room as the first guests walked through the door, waiting until someone else I knew arrived, but Patricia’s marketing manager came and dragged me out.

  One of the early birds was a journalist from the Santa Monica Daily Press. She seemed friendly, but wasn’t particularly interested in art, and was just reporting on a local event. She spent most of her time asking me personal questions instead of talking about the paintings. I answered her vaguely, saying that I’d been working ‘in the service industry’ since graduating. I managed to divert her questions away from anything I couldn’t answer honestly—I’d had a lot of practice doing that—and gave her a few usable quotes.

  The second journalist was a guy who stuck to questions about the work, which was a relief. But I made a comment about having driven past the Staples Center, and he asked if I was a sports fan. When he found I followed hockey, we spent the next ten minutes talking about the LA Kings and their (slim) chance in the Stanley Cup. When he found out I’d played for UCLA, he asked me to sign the catalogue for the exhibition.

  I knew I was supposed to be pushing the art side of things, but hiding behind hockey stories was more comfortable. I officially sucked at sales. Oh, the irony.

  Luckily, as Eloise had pointed out, Patricia actually had a clue about selling paintings, and she trotted me around to meet everyone I needed to know. She almost cheered when the first red dot appeared next to a stormy seascape that I’d painted from Tuna Canyon Park, indicating it had been sold.

  I stared at the red dot until I had spots floating before my eyes. My rapt attention was broken when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  “Congratulations, Hallen. I knew you could do it.”

  “Professor Golbe! Wow, you’re here! How did you know?”

 

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