by Harper Bliss
* * *
Véronique had disappeared four months ago, leaving Olivia’s bed cold and empty. She’d just gone, back to Bordeaux or wherever it was she came from—that particular piece of information had always remained vague between them, as if it needed to be kept secret for their transient affair to work.
“I am unattached,” Véronique would say, her words English but the sounds unmistakably French. “I’ll stay for a while, but not forever.”
She stayed for two years, certainly long enough for Olivia to get attached to her unattachedness. Véro drifted in and out of her life, sometimes lingering for days on end. Days filled with smoking cigarettes while hanging out of the window of Olivia’s fourth floor flat on the Rue Madame. Olivia clung to Véro’s irrationality and all the parts of her she couldn’t tie down. Maybe it wasn’t love—at least not the kind Olivia had thought she was after—but it sure had a close resemblance to it. The way it hurt when Véro walked out of the door, usually on a Sunday night well past midnight, and Olivia could tell, just by the way Véro held herself, that she wouldn’t see her lover for days, maybe even weeks. Until one last Sunday four months ago when Véronique had curved her neck so her lips couldn’t be closer to Olivia’s ear and said, “Je t’aime.” Not something you would expect unattached people to say.
Olivia had roamed the city throughout winter, a messy wet season in Paris. She’d braved the cold and stuck her head in cafés she’d otherwise avoid, in search of Véronique. If you wanted to disappear a metropolis was easy. Olivia disappeared as well, into the streets around the Gare du Nord and their rough kind of acceptance of everyone, especially people looking for something. She could buy everything she wanted there—drugs, men, women—but she only wanted Véronique, who was nowhere to be found. After work she’d change into a pair of sneakers she used to wear to play squash in another lifetime, and face the darkness. She walked and walked through rain, sleet and the occasional melting snow storm, the icy drops on her cheeks a constant reminder of what she was missing. After two months she’d given up her quest. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been warned.
The branches of the tree outside her window at last showed signs of spring. Olivia stirred sugar into her coffee and let her gaze wander over the puffy clouds in the Sunday morning sky. The day stretched out in front of her like a succession of desolate hours. She’d do yoga with Sam at noon, followed by lunch at Les Philosophes. An old routine they’d revived after it had finally sunk in that Véronique wasn’t coming back and a normal social life was an easy way to pass time. Olivia could choose to drink the afternoon away at a heated terrace in le Marais. It’s what she usually did on a Sunday afternoon, but she was trying to quit smoking, which was too much of a reminder, and casually consuming alcohol wasn’t the best catalyst to kill die-hard habits. She checked the length of her raven black hair in the reflection of the window. Maybe she should cut it off and give her appearance the spring cleaning it had been lacking for years.
“I disagree,” Sam said, a glass of rosé in one hand and a lit Gauloise in the other. “Blond would only make you look more desperate. As if you know your midlife crisis is looming.”
“I’m only thirty-eight. It can’t be that obvious.” They sat huddled together, still strapped in warm winter coats, squinting into the careful midday sun.
“You have millions in the bank, Liv. You don’t need a new haircut to boost your confidence, you need a shag.” Sam stated it matter-of-factly, as if reading from one of the economical reports she specialised in during business hours.
Olivia reached for Sam’s pack of cigarettes and tapped one out for herself. There was only so much abstinence she could bear. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“The hell it is.” Sam held her gaze, a glimmer of defiance brimming underneath those long lashes. “I work ten hours a day, Saturday usually included. And the current state of the economy doesn’t seem to agree with my libido.” She sucked hard on her cigarette and made the tip glow bright orange. “A fact that pisses off my sexy French girlfriend to no end.”
“At least you have a girlfriend.” Olivia realised it sounded bitter and petulant, even a tad resentful. Sam had been single by choice for years because she wanted to focus on her career. A week after she had gotten her last and biggest promotion—the one forcing her to work even longer hours—she’d met Sylvie.
“Whom I’m not having lazy Sunday sex with because I’m listening to you whine.” They both burst out laughing—a high-pitched nasal snicker in Sam’s case, unstoppable giggle fits in Olivia’s. Sam grabbed her purse from the empty chair opposite her and delved inside, trying to unearth a solution to Olivia’s problem judging by the sudden solemn look on her face. Sam hid something in the palm of her hand while fixing her gaze on Olivia.
“Listen to me.” Sam chewed her bottom lip which, Olivia knew, signalled a rare case of lacking bravado. “I never told you this because, well, I never told anyone.”
“A lady is allowed her secrets,” Olivia said, curiosity buzzing through her body. She watched Sam fidget with a deep red piece of paper.
“I was single for a long time and this service was recommended to me by a dear friend.” Sam slipped a business card towards Olivia’s fingers. “I’m a satisfied customer.” Now that she was no longer holding the card, Sam seemed to have regained her confidence. As if passing it on shifted the sentiments it came with as well.
Olivia trailed her fingertips over the ridge of the card before turning it around. The other side was the same shade of sensual scarlet, and empty apart from a phone number hand-written in golden digits. She glanced at Sam, who puffed out a cloud of smoke. They’d been friends for years, years in which you get to know someone in a way that their behaviour becomes predictable, but Olivia had never expected this.
“The service is by referral only.” Even Sam’s voice, usually nasal, sounded sultry now. Olivia half-expected the cobbled streets to close up around them and transform into a private members’ club, burlesque show included. “Use your real name when you book the appointment.”
“Are you serious?” Olivia flipped the card between her fingers. “Who recommended it to you?”
“I can’t say.” Sam slanted her long wool-clad frame over the table. “And I sincerely hope you’ll do me the same courtesy when the time comes.” She stretched her body upward again, her long neck pale in the hesitant sunlight. “And yes, I’m deadly serious.”
“But—” Olivia started. I would never do that, she wanted to say. It’s repulsive. If I want it so badly I can go to a bar, get drunk on whiskey and take someone home.
“It’s not cheap, but worth every cent.” Sam had a strangely satisfied expression running across her face, as if the memories alone were enough to make her bask in delight again. “And then some.”
* * *
Olivia strolled along the Seine—a part of her still on the look-out for Véronique—and fingered the card in her pocket. She’d never been one for one-night-stands. Even in her twenties when she’d just arrived in Paris and she wasn’t shy of offers, she’d always insisted on an exploratory date first. Not that it had never happened, but mostly under the influence of too much wine and with a predictable anticlimactic outcome. Spontaneity was not in her blood. She was a woman of carefully deliberated decisions and calculated risks, indispensable character traits for the CEO of BearSoft, one of the biggest software companies in France. She’d long since resigned herself to the fact that, despite not being short of it, money couldn’t buy her everything. Sure, she could get herself a dose of idolatry from bespectacled geek dykes whenever she wanted, but she never did. She had enough cash for an endless supply of women who would tell her they loved her—and probably mean it—for the rest of her life. It only made the point so much clearer that real affections were not for sale.
Véronique was different because she was so ungraspable and unavailable. Sometimes, when an unexpected work event kept Olivia from a date with Véronique, she would deliberately not call.
She’d wait until Véro texted her in a rage, demanding were she was. But Véro never did. It was as if nothing mundane could touch her, certainly nothing as common as the abrupt cancellation of a dinner date.
When Olivia arrived home she put the card on display on the mantle above the faux fireplace, the brash redness of it contrasting with the warm earth tones of her furniture. It stood there like an invitation to a party she must not forget, reminding her of its possibility. In the evening, when she watched TV, splayed out unladylike in the sofa, it seemed to transform into one of those paintings of which the subject’s eyes always appear to follow you no matter your position in the room. Before going to bed she took it down and buried it in a drawer of her nightstand beneath a well thumbed-through copy of Women In Lust and a few hand-scribbled notes by Véronique communicating important messages like I’ll be back in an hour and Don’t wait up for me.
The next morning, when she woke up before her alarm clock started bleating at six, the card was the first thought that occupied her mind.
For days the presence of the card in her bedroom intrigued her. Life went its usual course and nothing had changed substantially, apart from a nagging in her gut that always seemed to return to the same question: what if?
On Thursday, when she returned home half-tipsy from a dinner with the board of directors, she cracked. She flung the drawer open with a force that catapulted three of Véro’s flimsy notes onto the hardwood floor. She excavated the card and traced the meaty part of her right index finger over the golden numbers. What if?
Her heart thumped beneath her ribcage as she punched in the numbers. She stupidly glanced down at her chest to check if the excessive thudding might be visible but the only thing she noticed was the blood red blouse she’d worn that day.
“Oui,” a voice said, its tone no-nonsense but welcoming enough. “You’ve reached Scarlet.”
“H—Hi,” Olivia stammered, her nerves already shot to pieces. “Samantha Glorieux gave me your number. I’d like to make an appointment.”
“Of course.”
“What’s the procedure?” Olivia composed herself. She conjured up the dozens of investor meetings she had successfully led and the hundreds of people she employed.
“Give me a time and place and I’ll be there.” A perplexed silence took hold of Olivia. That was it? Wasn’t she supposed to choose? Maybe voice a few preferences? Tell Scarlet she preferred blondes? “I’ll be discreet.” She shouldn’t have made this call half-drunk. She should have thought this through beforehand and picked a hotel where they could meet. Surely she couldn’t let this woman come to her flat.
“The George V. Sunday. Three o’clock.”
“AM or PM?” This question brusquely reminded Olivia of what she was setting herself up for—hardly a Sunday afternoon activity.
“PM. I’ll text you the room number.”
“Excellent. I look forward to it already.” Scarlet’s voice seemed to smile in her ear. “I charge a thousand per hour and only take cash.”
“Okay.” Olivia hid the tremble of surprise in her voice. If Sam was right—and why would she lie?—and this woman was worth every cent, then it would be quite the treat. Or maybe her rates had inflated, just like the price of so many other luxury commodities. “See you Sunday.” Her hands shook when she put down the phone and her brain was trying to keep up with what she’d just done. And that was only the beginning.
* * *
On Sunday Olivia woke from a fitful sleep. She’d invited Sam and Sylvie to dinner the night before, hoping to grill Sam on her past experiences with the service. As soon as Sylvie had excused herself to use the ladies room Olivia had grabbed Sam’s hand and told her about the rendez-vous she had planned the next day. By then pure anxiety had started to take over and Olivia was in dire need of some encouraging words. Sam, however, had simply stated that the subject of Scarlet was strictly off limits because these things need rules and this level of discretion comes at a price. In other words, the dinner party had only contributed to Olivia’s anxiety, which seemed to be leaking from her pores, drenching her bed sheets with a scent of nervous fear.
She could always cancel. This was, after all, not a service that required a deposit. Olivia drew a bath and dumped in an excessive amount of salts and cleansers. How much cash should she take, anyway? At least enough for three hours, she decided, just in case. This wasn’t a situation in which you wanted to run out of money. And how would the payment go? Up front and, if the need arose, an evaluation and next instalment every hour? And what if the woman wasn’t attractive? She must be quite something to charge an amount like that, but tastes differ and, despite a strong penchant for blondes, Olivia wouldn’t touch certain fair-haired types with a stick. What about the chemistry? Could it just be created by booking a hotel room and showing up? And then there was the million dollar question, or rather, in this particular case, the thousand euro question: how would it make her feel to pay for sex?
When she had bought her apartment Olivia’d had the bathroom redecorated so she could see the sky while bathing. A dark-bellied formation of clouds drifted by. She rubbed some foam over her skin and, just by the slightest touch of her fingers, her nipples stood to attention. She was, admittedly, feeling rather frisky. A renewed sense of vigour seemed to burn in her bones and when she washed between her legs she wasn’t surprised to find her lips swollen and her clit ready for action. She could have done with a stress-relieving orgasm but it seemed so foolish to waste one now when she was paying for multiple later.
After carefully shaving, trimming and waxing, actions she always performed herself, she tugged open her underwear drawer in search of something appropriately skimpy. She could hardly turn up in the boy shorts she secretly found so comfortable. She’d stopped wearing them because they appeared to be an endless source of ridicule for Véronique, but, once she’d given up hope her lover would return, had slipped back into them with a weary ease. Amongst lesbians comfortable shoes might be all the rage, but Olivia could make a waterproof case for comfortable knickers as well. Except to Véronique, but she was the exception to all of her rules. Until now.
She picked a black lace thong and matching bra and then embarked on the impossible task of figuring out what to wear on a date with a prostitute. She went for a simple but ridiculously expensive pair of Gucci jeans and a tucked-in navy blouse. When she reached for her bracelet she deemed it an unnecessary accessory and decided against any kind of jewellery. She’d apply her makeup before she left. It was only eleven o’clock and she had four more gruelling hours to kill.
* * *
A soft thud on the door announced Scarlet’s arrival. Olivia, who’d touched up her lipstick three times in the half hour since she’d arrived at the hotel, took a deep breath and strutted towards the door. The woman in the hallway wore a long silk dress in the liveliest red Olivia had ever seen. It clung to her well-proportioned shape like a second skin. Olivia stepped back and gestured her to come inside.
“I’m Scarlet,” she said and curved her lips towards Olivia’s cheek. “Enchantée.” Her eyes seemed to devour Olivia, resting on the few patches of skin Olivia had left bare.
“Olivia Gomez.” Olivia had practiced in her head how to get the niceties out of the way, but, despite saying the line out loud to her mirrored self a dozen times, it sounded terribly self-conscious. “So how does this work?”
“Let’s sit for a minute.” Scarlet smiled and with a few gracious strides she had reached the bed. Olivia sat down next to her, paying extra attention to her posture—no slumped shoulders and spine stretched straight—to match Scarlet’s well-educated way of balancing on the edge of a bed. “You pay me up front for the first hour. Before I leave we settle the full amount. After three hours I only charge half and I never stay longer than five hours.” Scarlet plastered a mischievous grin on her face. “So, if you have the stamina, the fifth hour is free.” She slanted her body in Olivia’s direction and found her ear. “And I often do my best work when
the clock ticks loudest.” Her red-painted lips arched into another smile. “It’s purely psychological, of course.”
Olivia, suddenly grateful she’d taken out the extra thousand, reached for her purse and peeled two five hundred notes off the stack in her wallet. On her walk to the hotel she’d made a mental list of all the items that could be bought for a thousand euro—a small second hand car, a 3D TV, a quality laptop, a Michael Kors summer dress, the list went on and on. She handed the money to Scarlet who tucked it in a side pocket of the large bag she brought with her.
“A few ground rules,” Scarlet continued. “Please, don’t bring me up in casual conversation with your friends. After five appointments you get referral rights. Women only.” Samantha had paid this woman at least five times to have sex with her? “And I have a non-refund policy.” Scarlet shot her a silly smirk. “Any questions?”
How does someone become a luxury high-end by-referral-only prostitute catering to power lesbians, Olivia thought. “Not at the moment,” she said.
“Well then.” Scarlet extended her right arm, palm lifted skyward. “Let the fun begin.” Olivia sheepishly put her hand into Scarlet’s, who pulled her away from the bed. It seemed so foolish now that Olivia had worried about chemistry or type. Scarlet stood in front of her in her crimson dress, her lips and nails painted in the same colour. Like a bought illusion, Olivia thought and accepted the first kiss.
Instant desire shot through her, forcing her skin to crinkle into gooseflesh and her stomach to engage in that dizzy sort of flip she hadn’t been subjected to in a long time. Scarlet’s tongue entered her mouth slowly and smoothly, caressing Olivia’s lips from every angle. Her hands trailed from her shoulders to the naked skin of her neck and when Olivia opened her eyes the only thing she saw in the reflection of the mirror was the red of Scarlet’s nails travelling upward to her cheekbones.
