by Eden Bradley
Finally, I am wrung out, empty. She lets me sit quietly for a few minutes, catching my breath as I wipe my damp face with the tissues.
“Okay,” she says, drawing in a deep breath herself. “This is a lot, isn't it?”
“Yes. Too much.”
“Is it too much, Valentine?”
I look at her, uncertain of what she's asking.
“Because you're here,” she says. “You came for help so you can handle this. You made the decision to stop working. And I don't believe that was any sort of snap decision. If it really was too much, you would have simply turned away from Joshua and everything his presence in your life means for you.”
“I can't do that!”
She nods. “Exactly. What does that tell you?”
“You really make me work for it, don't you?”
“You need to find your own answers. I'm here to help you do that. But if I hand you everything on a silver platter, it won't be worth anything. And I can't know what the answers are for you. They're different for everyone. But I think right now, yours are staring you in the face. And by quitting work today, it's obvious that you've figured some of it out already. What's next, do you think?”
I shake my head, but I know what she's getting at.
Fuck.
Fuck!
“I need to … I need to tell Joshua. What I do. Did. What my life has been about. I need to be honest with him.”
She nods once more. There's no need for her to say it out loud, and I'm grateful to her for not rubbing my face in this stark, cold reality. I already feel like I'm going to throw up, as I did after my first visit here.
“God, I don't know how … and it's going to be a mess. He'll never speak to me again.”
“How do you know that?”
“Any sane person, any normal person, would react that way. Why would he want to see me, be with me, once he knows the truth? It's impossible.”
“Maybe you're not giving him enough credit,” Lydia suggests. “Maybe you're not giving yourself enough credit. There is more to you than what you do for a living, Valentine.”
Her blue eyes are soft, sympathetic. I understand she's trying to be encouraging, because this is the right thing to do, and therefore I must do it. I fucking hate it. But I will do the right thing.
“How can anyone forgive me this if …” My voice breaks, emotion welling in my chest, choking me. But I will not cry anymore.
“If what, Valentine?” she asks softly.
“If … I can't forgive myself? ”
“Sometimes you just have to take a risk. Jump blindly off the edge, trusting the universe to catch you.”
“It never has before.”
“Maybe you've never given it a chance.”
I nod. It's possible, I suppose. But it's awfully hard to believe. People like me don't get those kinds of chances in life, although things could be worse. I know I am lucky for what I have, lucky not to be some streetwalker with knife wounds on my face, addicted to crack, dead in an alley off Sunset Strip.
But what have I got to lose? I will lose Joshua one way or another. If I lie to him I don't deserve to have him. I don't know why this makes me feel better, more resolved, but it does.
“I suppose I should try to redeem myself any way I can. For myself, if nothing else. I need to before I can … I don't know. Move on. If that's even possible. But it's going to be the end of everything.”
“Valentine, everything is changing for you, but that doesn't mean it has to be the end. Look at this as a time of transformation, as an opportunity.”
“I'm trying. But to be honest, it scares me to death. I hardly know where to start.”
“But you already have. Trust what you know to be true. And move forward.”
She's right. And what else can I do?
You can lie like a coward. Keep him as long as you can.
Of course, the longer I'm with him, the harder it'll be when he goes.
My chest twists in pain as though a knife has been plunged in. Sharp. Cutting. Deep.
My fingers dig into the sofa cushions. “I'll try, Lyclia. I'll do it, tell him.”
“I think it's the only way. I wish there was an easier solution for you.”
“So do I.”
“But you can do this, Valentine. I believe in you. I believe in your strength. How else could you have survived your life?”
I'd always thought it was sheer desperation, a lack of other viable options. I like her view on it better. A part of me even believes her.
“Call me if you need to talk, when you'd like to set up another appointment.”
“I will.”
Our time is up. I leave her office, stepping back out onto the street. That ocean smell is there again, clearing my head a little. Maybe I should find a house close to the ocean? Change everything. Because I know already I'm not going to be able to hang on to any aspect of my old life. I'm changing already. I've taken that first step and begun to look at my life, look inside myself. Considered having a future different from my present. This is not a sabbatical. It's over.
I break out into a sweat as those words echo in my head.
It's over.
What the fuck am I going to do now? What am I going to be?
The only anchor I have now is Joshua. And I am about to lose him. But some small part of me is whispering that I can do this. Survive this. And as I make my way down the street, back to my car, I hang on to that voice as tight as I can.
Maybe I have to be my own anchor.
JOSHUA HAS LEFT TWO messages, but I avoid his calls all evening, sitting on my sofa in the dark in my favorite pale pink satin pajamas. They are the color of old roses. Not the best shade on me, but the softness of the color itself is soothing. The sound is turned down on the television and I have a gin and tonic in my hand. I'm not drunk yet, although this is my fourth. Or is it my fifth? I'm just buzzed enough not to care that this drinking binge is far too reminiscent of my mother. I'm buzzed and I'm fucking miserable, which is what being drunk is all about in my mind.
I am my mother's daughter. Not just that I'm using booze to drown my sorrows. But she was as much a whore as I am. She had sex with my father for the gifts, the attention. Isn't that what I do? Although for me, the orgasms have always been as crucial as the money, even if the money has been damn nice.
I've found the cure for the orgasm issue. The cure is Joshua. Or at least, he is some sort of powerful catalyst. I still don't understand it. But I know he is crucial to what's happening to me, the orgasms, everything.
How ironic that it's about to be over, leaving me with nothing?
I am not drunk enough to prevent myself from being thoroughly disgusted with my little pity party.
I am not delusional enough to think I can continue with Joshua without telling him the truth.
Looking at the blue glow of the TV, I flip through the channels. I'm not really paying attention until Pretty Woman flashes on the screen.
I laugh, a harsh, barking sound that hurts my ears. I almost want to watch it, to punish myself with those glamorized Hollywood images of the utterly impossible. Instead I shut the damn TV off, set my glass down, get up, and wander to the bay window. My orchids are there, their purple and white petals washed with silvery moonlight.
Below me Hollywood sparkles, like a handful of diamonds strewn carelessly over the dark landscape. But that's life, isn't it? All of us so careless, ultimately, driven by our own selfish needs. At least, it comforts me to think I'm not the only one doing it.
Joshua is possibly the only human being I've met who isn't entirely selfish. He may have had some rough times, been foolish, been self-indulgent in the past, but he seems to have truly worked through it all. Come out intact. Self-aware. Unshakable in his beliefs. He is the best person I know.
My whole body surges with longing for him, and I have to wrap my arms around my waist and hold on tight, staring out the window. He is out there somewhere, and I can hardly stand it.
Be with him. Tell him. Take a chance.
No. I cannot do it.
When the phone rings I know it's him. I tell myself I won't answer it, but by the third ring the receiver is in my hand.
“Hello?” My voice is breathless. I am breathless.
“Valentine? Have you been out? Did you get my messages?”
“Yes. I got them. I'm sorry. I should have … I should have called you. I know that. I just…”
“Are you alright?”
I pause to draw in a breath, blow it out slowly, pushing my hair from my face with my free hand.
“No. I'm not.”
“What's going on? Can you tell me?”
“I've been drinking … I don't know if… I don't know how clear I can be.”
“Valentine, what's happened?” Real alarm in his voice now. I feel like shit.
“I don't mean to worry you. I'm just… I've been thinking all day. Reviewing my life. Actually, I've been doing that since the night I met you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
I have to stop and think about it. I go back to the sofa, pick up my glass and drink, really gulp it down, letting the gin burn as it slides down my throat. Sharp edge of revulsion along with the burn, but I am too scared tonight to do anything else. “If you look at something,” I tell him, “really look, and discover that every aspect of it is wrong, what can you do but start over, change everything?”
“We talked about that, in relation to my life, anyway.”
“I'm just realizing how it applies to me, to the way I've lived, perceived myself. And so much needs to change.” I pick up my glass once more, but the scent of the gin stings my eyes. I don't want it anymore. “I've always thought I had it all figured out. Now all I know is that it was just a lie I told myself, one I've been telling myself my whole life. And I can't do it anymore.”
“Valentine, I'm coming over, okay? Will you just stay there? Wait for me?”
“Yes.” It comes out as a whisper. That's all I have the breath for. He's coming and it will all be finished soon. Too soon.
We hang up and I wait for him, numbly flipping the TV on again.
Julia Roberts' fresh face lights up the screen, wearing that red gown as Richard Gere fastens the diamonds around her neck. That famous laugh. Everything so damn clean and shiny. But I know that's not what life is like. No, life is hard and dirty, no matter how much money you have. No matter what kind of car you drive. There will be no Pretty Woman scenario for me. No limousine and declarations of love. There will just be the end.
Chapter Ten
IT SEEMS AS THOUGH only a few minutes have passed when he knocks on the door. I am acutely aware of how different this is from the last time I opened my door and he came into my house.
Still, my skin tingles as he moves in past me, shutting the door behind him. As he takes my hand, leading me to the sofa.
He sits down next to me, close enough that I can smell him. I pull in a deep breath of his scent, filling my lungs with it. Hoping to have at least that to hang on to when this is done.
His hands are on my shoulders, those gold and green eyes of his are cast in silver from the silent, flickering TV, as intense as ever.
“Talk to me, Valentine.” His voice is low, commanding.
I nod. I need a moment before I can begin. I can feel the alcohol in my system, but it is not numbing me nearly enough.
“I have something to tell you, Joshua. Something … crucial.”
“Has something happened?”
“No. Yes … Yes.” I can't tear my gaze away from his, but it hurts to look at him. Fucking painful, how beautiful he is to me. “What's happened is that I've led this strange life. It's strange even to me if I let myself think about it. Something I have not allowed myself to do. Until I met you. Then I couldn't help it. And now that I have to look at it, look at myself, I see it for what it really is. And it's unacceptable. And I am stopping right now. I'm done with the way I've lived for almost ten years. I swear I'm done.”
The tears are stinging at the back of my eyes, making my throat feel thick, tight.
He's shaking his head. “Please tell me what you're talking about.”
“Joshua …”
So hard to say the words out loud to him!
Just do it. Get it over with.
I try again. “Joshua. For the last nine years I've been a prostitute.”
“What?” He flinches, just the slightest bit, but I feel it like a blow to the head. To the heart. “What the hell are you saying to me?”
“I've been working as a call girl. Most of my adult life.”
He's shaking his head again. His hands drop from my shoulders, leaving them cold. He runs both hands through his thick hair, blows out a long breath.
“Is this the truth, Valentine?”
I nod my head. “Yes. It's true. Please, Joshua …”
He puts up a hand. “Just… wait. Give me a minute to absorb this. Fuck.”
He gets up and begins to pace, back and forth in front of the window, in front of my orchids. I'm shaking all over. I don't dare say anything.
He keeps pacing, running his fingers through his hair, pressing on his eyes. And I'm getting more and more scared.
Finally, he comes and sits down again.
“Okay. Tell me. Tell me everything. I want to know how you started doing this.” His voice is so tight I could cut myself on the edge of it.
“God, Joshua, don't make me tell you that.” I'm shaking my head. “Don't do it.”
“I have to know. Don't you see that? I have to know what your life has been like if I'm ever going to be able to accept it.”
“Accept it? How can you … how can you even think that's possible?”
“I don't know yet. I don't know how to feel. I don't know anything. Talk to me. Tell me.”
“God …” The tears are starting, trickling down my cheek. I wipe them away, angry, heartbroken. But I am going to do exactly as he's asked.
“I was twenty years old. I was in a bar. I shouldn't even have been there, but the doormen, the bartenders, will always let an attractive female in. No one ever bothered to check my I.D. And I met this girl, Jana. I don't even know if that was her real name. It probably wasn't. She knew a guy who had this house, and he was always looking for new girls.”
I have to pause for a moment. I cannot believe I'm telling him this. No one knows the whole story, except Enzo. But it's too late to stop. “They told me I could make a lot of money, which was something I'd never had. And to be honest, the idea of that kind of attention was attractive to me.
“I was scared the first time. But the guy was okay. And … and … fuck. I can't do this!”
“Tell me, Valentine. You owe me that much.” His voice is low, urgent.
I shake my head back and forth, staring at the floor. I cannot say these things and look into his eyes. He's too hurt. But I start talking.
“Until that night with my first trick, I hadn't ever … I had never had an orgasm with a man. I'd slept around, but it had never happened. And I knew right away that it was the act of him handing me that wad of cash that got me off so spectacularly. And it's worked every single time since then. As long as I get paid for it. But it's never been about the money. It's about control. Control.”
I'm going cold all over. A little hard. It's the only way I can do this. Too fucking awful, this whole thing. But I have to finish.
“So … that became my special talent. My marketing angle. And it wasn't long before I was discovered by a man who knew exactly how to market me. Enzo. He took me out of that place, sent me to school, polished me up, taught me how to dress. He did a real Pygmalion number on me. He made me what I am. But I don't… it was the best thing that could have happened to a girl like me. I'll always be grateful to him, because the alternative would have been much, much worse.”
I am desperate that Enzo not be blamed. I look at Joshua and he's watching me in that way he has, with total concentration. But I
can read the shock all over his face, in his tight features.
“Yes, I can see that,” he says quietly.
He gets up then, begins the pacing all over again. I'm quiet, watching him. I have no idea what to expect.
He stops in front of me, his eyes blazing. “Tell me what you've clone. All of it.”
“What? You want a laundry list? Joshua, why do you want to put yourself through that? Why do you need to know?”
“I just do. Tell me.”
“Okay. Okay.” I run a hand through my hair, squeeze the strands between my fingers. I feel sick. “I don't know where to start.”
“Have you had anal sex with these guys?”
I nod my head.
“Talk to me, Valentine.”
His voice is harsh. My heart breaks a little more. But I answer him.
“Yes.”
“What about group sex?”
“Yes.”
“Sex with other women?”
“Yes, all of that.”
“Kinky stuff? Bondage?”
“Not much kink, no.”
“Did you like it?”
“God, Joshua … you already know …”
“I need you to say it.”
“Yes. I liked it. Most of it, anyway. Is that what you want to know? ”
“Yes!” he hisses. He rubs a hand over his jaw, says more quietly, “Yes. Because … it makes it seem less wrong if you weren't compromising every bit of yourself to do these things.”
This is shocking, not what I expected him to say at all. He's still angry, though; I can see it in the clench of his jaw, in his burning eyes. I'm on the defense; I want to explain myself to him, even if he can never truly understand.
“So, do you really day trade, or is that just a cover?”
“I do some trading. I'm not dependent on it, but I make some declarable income that way.”
“And have you really been to college? Have you been taking art history courses?”
“Yes. Yes! That's all true. The only thing I kept from you was my … occupation. The rest is all true.”
“What else, Valentine?”
“I'm not hiding anything else from you. There's nothing left for me to hide. But you should know that I've been tested for HIV every six weeks the whole time. I'm clean. I don't want you to worry about that. I know that's not… normal. To have to live this way.
