by Shenda Paul
“Most of these men are married, surely? That’s just wrong, Sarah. Are you an escort?”
She looks decidedly uncomfortable, shamefaced even. “I need money just like you do, Angelique; I have a little girl to support.” I was only seventeen and stupid when I fell pregnant, and her father ran out on us before Jennifer was born. She shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes.”
I’m speechless. “I was only seventeen and stupid when I fell pregnant, and her father ran out on us before Jennifer was born. She shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes. I want her to have the best, everything that I didn’t have—a good education…opportunities. That stuff costs money,” she says almost defiantly.
I feel awful. I’ve never asked Sarah about her life, not Amy either, for that matter. I’ve avoided it because of my reluctance to reveal too much about myself that could, somehow, help Dieter to track me down.
“I’m sorry, Sarah, really. How old is she?”
“Jennifer’s eight and lives with my mom in Wisconsin. She thinks I’m her sister, but I support her financially. She’s beautiful and smart…loves animals and says she wants to be a vet. I want that for her; that’s why I work here.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, not knowing what else to say. My heart breaks at the sadness in Sarah’s eyes. To me, it’s unfathomable to have a child and not publicly claim him or her.
“I’ll tell her the truth—when she’s older, when I have my life sorted out—about me being her mother, I mean. I don’t want her to know about this.” She gestures around the room.
“What does being an escort mean exactly? Do you sleep with these men? What about Amy?” I ask because I need to know just what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Yes,” she admits in a whisper. “Don’t judge me, please.” Her voice begs for understanding. “Amy… all the women who work here are escorts. Some do it because they love being with rich, powerful men, or because, like me, they need to.”
I don’t know quite what I feel. There’s an underlying revulsion I can’t push aside, but my heart goes out to Sarah. I, more than anyone, understand the predicament she’s in. People say, ‘just find a job,’ but it’s not that simple. I have three, yet I earn only enough to take care of Mom and my basic needs. I have nothing left over for savings to tide us over in case of emergencies or even to plan a better future for myself. One increase in Mom’s costs has tipped the balance, and look at the situation I’m in, dancing at a men’s club. I’d heard the term, working poor, but I had no idea, at the time, what it entailed.
“I don’t judge you, Sarah, but I don’t think I can do that. If this Senator Wade’s expecting me to….”
“You don’t have to sleep with him,” she cuts me off. “You haven’t signed a contract like the rest of us. I told him you’re not an escort, but he insisted that I ask you anyway. Just meet him for a drink. If you don’t like him, leave.”
I shake my head, but I’m intrigued. He’s good looking, and unlike other men here, he’s never looked at me with blatant lust. All I’ve seen is the same curiosity I feel.
Sensing my hesitation, Sarah pushes. “It’s just one drink. He’s only ever asked one other girl here to join him.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t expect anything else?”
“Only to meet you. He’s a state senator; he wouldn’t risk doing something against your will, Angelique.”
“Just one drink.” I concede.
“Good,” she smiles widely. “He’s waiting,” she urges, pulling me by the hand.
“You’re somewhat unexpected,” Senator Wade, Justin, he asked me to call him, says when Sarah’s left. His eyes, which I’d thought were blue, are actually gray. Tom, his friend he introduced to me, tries, unsuccessfully, to hide a snigger by raising his glass to his lips.
“You mean my dancing?”
“No, I meant you; but I’d love to hear about your dancing.”
“Well, I’m a ballerina, so I’m more comfortable with classical dance. I tailored tonight’s performance to suit my strengths. I know it’s not what members like…”
“Oh, I have no doubt that they like you,” Tom interrupts, blatantly staring at my crossed legs. My face heats as he leans back in his chair to better scrutinize my body.
“Don’t be crass,” Justin warns.
“I’m just letting Angelique know that the members find her incredibly… how should I put it…alluring? Now, what I’m wondering is whether it’s an affectation or natural. If it’s the latter, I envy you, my friend—well, even if it isn’t, I still envy you.” He rises to his feet.
“Excuse me, Miss Bain; I think I’ll go and find company more befitting my crass nature,” he says, and, with another leer, walks way.
I blush again, even more embarrassed than before. It’s apparent that Tom views me as another escort. “Don’t mind him,” Justin leans over to take my hand from my lap. “He can be a buffoon at times; always has been, really,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m not an escort.”
“I know that. I think I’ve known from the start,” he assures me by lightly squeezing my hand.
“Senator, I see you’re getting acquainted with our Angelique?” Mr. Cordi interrupts before I can respond. I don’t like the way he’s staring at me, and I certainly don’t like the way he tried to lay claim to me. I stand.
“It was nice meeting you, Senator Wade. I’m glad you enjoyed my performance,” I say, extricating my hand from his grasp.
“Good night, Angelique.” He loosens his hold slowly, and I walk away, but not before seeing him turn to Mr. Cordi with an extremely annoyed expression.
On Wednesday night, when I arrive, Gary informs me that Mr. Cordi wishes to see me. “You’ve made quite the impression on our senator, Angelique,” he remarks dryly from behind his desk and motions me to a seat.
“We only spent a very short time in each other’s company,” I say, bristling at the inference that I’d been entertaining the senator.
“Well,” he runs his eyes over me, “he’s very interested, and it suits me to keep Senator Wade happy. You’re a smart girl; you must have some idea of what goes on here by now, so I have a proposition for you. This is not a seedy business, Angelique. We merely seek to meet the needs of our clientele,” he adds at my look of distaste.
“Liaison’s no different to other businesses that meet a demand in the market. We also aim to keep our members happy, and the senator is one of our most valued members. We should, therefore, do everything possible to meet his needs, don’t you think?” he asks but continues before I can think of a suitable response.
“You’re earning two hundred dollars a week dancing here, Angelique, and I happen to know you need more than that—much more.” He smirks at my shocked expression. “I could ensure that you earn what you need. In fact, you could make ten times what you do now.”
“You’d let me perform every night?” I ask, already calculating just how quickly I could build a nest egg.
“I’ve said I wouldn’t allow you to dance more than twice a week. I never say anything I don’t mean.”
“You think I’d become an escort…a prostitute?” I ask, outraged when I realize what he’s proposing.
He slams both hands onto his desk, rises slightly to lean across it. “You think you’re better than the other the girls? You may believe that now, but trust me, everyone has a price; all I have to do is find yours. Leave now!” he orders and strides over to the window, where he stares out, his back turned to me. I can feel the anger roll off him and learn something else about Joseph Cordi. He has a mean temper and doesn’t like to be crosses. I leave his office on shaky legs.
On Saturday, when I arrive for work, Mick stops me. “Would you step into my office please?” he requests with no sign of his usual smile or friendly question about how I am.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, but he doesn’t say. He sits behind his desk and motions to his visitors’ chair instead. I take the seat and nervously twist my
hands in my lap. He clears his throat and runs a finger around the inside of his collar.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go,” he says almost apologetically.
“You…you mean for tonight?”
“Sorry, Angelique; I mean for good.” Mick, to his credit, looks regretful.
“But why?” I realize I’m pleading, but I can’t stop myself.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters and understanding dawns on me. This is Joseph Cordi’s way of punishing me. My stomach sinks.
“It’s fine, Mick,” I murmur, getting up to leave.
“I’ll forward your money with Sarah. I wish things were different…” he tries to apologize again, but I walk away without a backward glance.
That night, for the first time in a long while, I cry myself to sleep. I have no idea what I’m going to do now, but I do know I can’t let Mom down.
I’m on my way to celebrate my birthday with Mom. So much has happened in the twelve months since I decided to leave New York. I arrived in Boston full of hope, and the first months lived up to expectation as I found my feet, grew to love my new city, rediscovered dance and made new friends. The last four, however, have been a real trial.
After being summarily dismissed from Liaison, I managed to find employment at a second Starbucks. I’ve taken on as many shifts at the two stores as I can fit around my teaching. I’ve cut my living expenses as much as possible. I even canceled my dance lessons. Jeanette, when I confessed that I could not longer afford them, offered me the opportunity to teach a Saturday morning class in exchange for continuing—a gesture I appreciate because spending that time with other dancers is the one bright spot in my hectic week. Sadly, though, we’re still eating into our capital to supplement to afford the extra costs. I haven’t told Mom this; she thinks I’m earning enough. I haven’t told anyone.
Honestly, I feel distraught, exhausted and alone. For just a short while, I’d like to put the load down, but I can’t. I can’t burden Mom or anyone else. Mom would only feel more helpless and guilty, and I really can’t and don’t expect financial help from my friends.
It’s Saturday evening, and we’re gathered in Rachel’s living room after enjoying the delicious dinner she cooked. Mandi, who volunteered to bring dessert, is in the kitchen getting it ready to serve. She enters, carrying a decadent-looking chocolate cake with a lit sparkler. Mom and Rachel join in her off-key rendition of Happy Birthday, the sight and sound bringing a lump to my throat.
After we’ve overindulged in cake, Mom pulls out a wrapped package. “Happy Birthday, sweetie,” she says, offering it to me. I kneel to hug and thank her before unwrapping it to find a lovely dark blue and very soft V-neck jumper. I let out a little gasp as a black, velvet box I recognize drops out. As a little girl, I begged to play with the contents.
“Mom, you can’t….” I protest, but she cuts me off.
“Who else would I give it to, A Stór? It was always going to be yours,” she says.
“But, Dad gave this to you… you can’t give it away.”
“Your dad would want you to have it, Angel. I hardly go out now, and I’d love for you to wear them.” She gestures for me to open it.
I stare at the delicate pear-shaped sapphire and diamond drop earrings, an anniversary present from Dad, through misty eyes. Mom wanted to sell them when we needed the money for Dad, but he’d been so distressed that she promised him she’d never get rid of them. A tear slips down my cheek as I think of those happy times when Mom would get all dressed up, and they’d leave home looking so happy and in love.
Mom’s emotional too, so I kneel and lay my head in her lap, the little box clasped to my chest. Rachel and Mandi leave under the pretext of making fresh coffee and tea.
When they return, Mom and I are composed once more, and at Mandi’s urging, I open my other presents. Rachel’s is a pair of leather gloves and Mandi’s, a blue cashmere scarf that almost perfectly matches my new jumper; all things I’m going to need for my second winter in Boston.
I spend Sunday walking Mom in the park, lunching with Mandi and Bron, and before I know it, I’m back on a plane—back to juggling jobs and trying to make what little money we have stretch. Our financial situation may not have improved, but at least things haven’t gotten any worse, I remind myself.
Sarah, Amy and I continue our Saturday afternoon coffee get-togethers, and I’ve started dating casually. Andrew’s a fellow dance student. We, literally, bumped into each other as I left the class I teach. He’s nice, and we share an interest in dance but, other than that, I’ve learned, we don’t appear to have much in common. We first went out a couple of weeks after we met when I accepted his invitation to have coffee. After that, we went to the movies and, then, dinner. Our relationship’s progressed slowly. We’ve kissed, but that’s been the extent of it. I wish it were different, but I don’t feel anything other than liking for him, so I’ve given him little encouragement. I just can’t find it in me to settle for anything less than the spark I felt with Luke. I’m not sure I’ll ever come that close to falling in love again, and as much as I’ll hate losing Andrew’s companionship, I’ve resolved to tell him that’ I’m not ready for a relationship, and would, if he’d like, prefer to simply be friends. When, a week later, I tell him, Andrew decides he’d rather not be friends.
Two months later, on a visit to Mom, Mrs. Jones, the facility director, informs me that Mom needs a new wheelchair. The current one, on loan, she explains, is very basic and meant to be used only in emergencies. I’m devastated to hear that Mom’s developed sores from sitting in it too long.
“How much will a new one cost?” I ask, bracing myself for the worst.
“There are several choices, but Angelique, your mom has very specific needs. She really should have a chair custom-built to her requirements and, preferably, one with controls she can manage, so she’s not entirely reliant on others to leave her room. Right now, she’s stuck there until someone has the time to take her to the residents’ lounge or garden; anywhere really.”
“Your mother knows this; she’s known for some time. I think she’s avoided discussing the matter with you for obvious reasons,” she adds at my pained expression.
I nod, drowning in embarrassment that this kind woman knows of our financial struggle. “Mrs. Jones, would you let me know next time Mom needs anything, please? I don’t want her to be deprived of the care she needs simply because she feels guilty or because she’s worried about me.”
“I’ll advise your mom to discuss theses issues with you, but she’s an adult, Angelique. I can’t treat her like a child, or like she’s mentally incapacitated. It’s her decision to confide in you or not.”
“You’re right, but I hate her not having what she needs. How much do you think the right chair will cost?”
“A top of the range, custom-built chair can cost as much as twenty thousand dollars. Amore basic version, around five, maybe seven.”
“Will you give me time to discuss this with our accountant? I’ll call you as soon as I can.”
“Of course. For now, we’ll try to limit your mom’s time in a wheelchair.”
I don’t raise the subject with Mom and leave New York feeling more stressed than ever. The following Saturday, at the coffee shop, when Amy asks whether we’re ready to go, Sarah tells her to go ahead. Amy has another appointment so, for once, doesn’t argue. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Sarah turns to me. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
There’s no point in lying so I tell her everything—about living from hand-to-mouth, eking out every hard-earned dollar, the need for a new wheelchair. Tears spill over when I come to the part about Mom’s pressure sores, and, pretty soon, I’m a sniveling mess. “Here, drink some of this,” Sarah says, pushing a glass of water toward me.
“I’m sorry I’m embarrassing you.”
“You’re not embarrassing me. You know, you could bend your morals a bit and accept Mr. Cordi’s offer. He’s asked about you a few times, and I k
now it’s because the senator’s asked him.
“Pride doesn’t pay the bills, Angelique. No one knows that better than me,” she adds when I shake my head. “It would only be for a while, two or three years tops. You’ll struggle for decades, maybe always, if you don’t do something drastic. What’ll you do if your mom’s costs go up again? You just said how you couldn’t find the time between jobs to go back to school to retrain.”
“I can’t sleep with men I don’t know, men I feel nothing for, Sarah. I just can’t. And get paid for it? I’d be a prostitute!”
“You don’t have a boyfriend. You don’t even look like you’re interested in finding one. It’s only sex, Angelique, not love.
14
I ‘ve spoken to Mr. Jamieson—twice since returning from New York. The first was to explain about Mom’s need for a wheelchair, and the second, the call I’ve just ended, was to hear his advice. He reviewed the numbers, he said, then very factually pointed out that, with the increased costs, our funds will run out fourteen months earlier than we’d predicted the proceeds of Peter’s estate would last. Costs would, in all likelihood, continue to escalate beyond what we planned, he said. He politely failed to remind me that he’d warned Mom and me that our estimates had been conservative.
“The strategy was to preserve the capital and have your mother live off the interest for as long as possible. It’s the only way to secure her lifelong care,” he’d unnecessarily added.
There’re no way we can afford to use that money for a wheelchair, and there’s no way I’ll be able to get a bank loan, or afford repayments if I did, somehow, succeed. The thought of Mom suffering from sores nearly kills me, and it takes many sleepless nights for me to reach the decision. Two days after I do, I’m back to see Joseph Cordi.
“Ahh, Miss Bain, welcome back,” he greets me in a tone can only be described as triumphant. I don’t know how to start the difficult conversation, especially in the face of his obvious glee. His need for control, thankfully, saves me from having to.
