by Tracy Quan
“You have to see this!” Allie beckoned to me. “This is Mary Magdalen’s skull! Christianity’s Third Most Important Tomb.”
OMG. Well, the presentation’s both garish and ghoulish, but there’s something compelling going on here. Pilgrims, kings, Dominican priests, hotel chains. They’ve been making a huge fuss over these relics for eight hundred years. I peered into the shrine and studied the face of the skeleton.
“You can’t possibly know if it’s her, Allie. And what is that?” I pointed at a glass tube, encased in a gold seal.
“That’s the noli—noli—” Allie touched her forehead with her index finger. “Something Christ said to Mary Magdalen because she thought he was the gardener. He could touch her, but she couldn’t touch him.”
A curious deal—if Mary Magdalen was, indeed, a hooker.
“It’s a little bit of skin or something from Mary Magdalen’s forehead that got preserved,” Allie said.
“It can’t really be.” I shook my head, sighed deeply, and looked at the ceiling of the crypt. Is this Allie’s latest hobby?
“Noli me tangere,” said one of the men in a low, jovial tone. Do not touch me. He turned to his friend and smiled wryly in my direction. “Elle ne croit pas.”
No longer vying for a glimpse of the unattainable relic, they were appraising the real live blonde before them and her skeptical Asian friend. They probably can’t afford us, but that never stops anyone from looking. And we do look rather good together. Something about our bodies being almost the same but slightly different. A man just knows he won’t have to worry about favoring one over the other—because we’re equally pretty.
The altar girl, in her severe linen robe, appeared in the doorway. Her precocious aplomb must have put a damper on whatever fantasies those two were having. They scurried upstairs.
During the service, the little gatekeeper tag-teamed with an African altar boy whose face is as round as hers is long. “Isn’t that sweet!” Allie whispered, when the two children stood before the priest. The boy holding an open bible with both hands; the girl holding aloft a cordless mic in hers.
You shouldn’t need a mic in here! Wasn’t this church built for sound? But microphones are to priests as the internet is to call girls. A done deal. The priest who works unmiked. The hooker without a website, who still believes in getting new business the old-fashioned way. We’re all becoming relics.
Though relics, if that crypt is any indication, can have staying power. Thank God for old school madams like Isabel and Liane, then.
Monday, July 15
Tini arrived at noon, in a black Lexus, driven by a tall, muscular man with a permanent suntan, as the French sometimes say. You wouldn’t want to mess with Serge—he’s got bouncer cred—but his manner, with me, was both gentle and cordial.
Serge offered to wait in his car, but Duncan urged him to hang out on the chaise longue in Milt’s media hut. The converted dairy shed (!) has air conditioning, a small bar, and a plasma TV that fills an entire wall. “Or the pool, if you prefer?”
They chattered quietly about road work on the A8 and municipal politics in St-Tropez—Serge, practicing his English; Duncan, putting his French to work.
I whisked Tini upstairs to her designated bedroom, where I handed her an envelope—2000 euros for an hour of pleasure and God knows how much travel time. I wonder what the split is, with Isabel.
“I woke up at seven to get here on time!” She moaned in a good-natured way, opened the envelope, and counted the money carefully. “I hope this man of yours is not going to be difficult. I’m not used to these early mornings.”
Who, among us, is? And I’m not used to girls I work with counting the money in front of me. Then I remembered: it’s been many years since I did business with someone—whether madam, client or call girl—who is almost, well, actually, a total stranger. I felt rebuked, but couldn’t really blame her. Maybe she hasn’t known Izzy as long as I’ve known Liane. In which case, my connection to Izzy through Liane would mean nothing to her.
“You’re very beautiful,” I told her. “Even more beautiful than Isabel suggested.”
Tini smiled—a glittering, happy, feline smile, the smile of a working girl who has invested many tens of thousands in her body and her face. Far more than Charmaine, since her work is more intricate. She knows the value of praise. Her skin is flawless and creamy-smooth. Her eyes may have been done—but they’re gorgeous almonds, not round and childlike, the way some cosmetically altered eyes end up. If Charmaine could see the work on Tini, she would be floored.
There’s a shiny elegance about her. If she used to be—still has some of the attributes of—a man or a boy, you would never know it. With her clothes on—she was wearing a trim white pantsuit, beige patent leather sling backs—Tini looks thoroughly post-op. She’s taut-limbed, with precise cheekbones—you can’t buy those—and must have been a tiny male. Now she looks like a beautiful girl, period, and knows it.
“Do you mind if I ask? Is that your hair? If it’s a wig, I should be careful not to touch it in bed.”
It’s supernaturally long and thick, almost black. She ran her fingers through it, flipped it over her shoulders and said, “All mine.” Wow. Is that from all the hormones she’s taking? But I don’t know her well enough to ask. “Don’t worry about my hair,” she laughed. “You can touch it. But I don’t do girls. Don’t touch anything else!”
“He might ask you to, you know, do stuff with one of us—and there’s another girl staying here.”
“I’m not worried.”
I suppose, with all Tini has going for her, she doesn’t worry too much about the consequences of saying no. I felt a twinge of envy for this gorgeous Asian call girl who has that extra something I lack. Maybe it’s because I’ve never worked with an Asian tranny before. Sandra, in New York, is Brazilian—or says she is. Will Milt be making comparisons? Could Tini be some sort of idealized version of the call girl he sees twice a month, sometimes three times, in New York?
I wanted to ask how recently she had the work done, whether she plans on staying pre-op for life. But I didn’t. She, however, surprised me by asking: “Where are you from?”
“New York,” I told her. “By way of London.”
“No, I mean—where are you really from?”
“Well, I was born in Trinidad, but I left when I was a baby, then I grew up in Ottawa.” Why was I telling Tini so much about myself? Was I maybe trying to please her? Keep her in a happy mood, so nothing would go wrong in the bedroom? Get her to trust me more?
“But you look—what about your family?”
“My mother’s Chinese,” I said. “Is that what you mean?”
She nodded. “I’m going to take a quick shower, no problem?”
There was something unnerving about the whole exchange, the closed look on her face when I said Chinese. Is this a Malaysian thing? Then I remembered that I once told a guy—my first customer—that I was Malaysian. I couldn’t think of anything else to be, for some reason. I wanted one word to describe myself, not ten or twenty. Whatever Tini’s background, she’s come a long way from somewhere—maybe it’s not really Malaysia—and she’s got something against the Chinese. Should I have said something else?
In the bedroom, when all three of us ooohed and ahhhed over her unusual beauty, Tini warmed up. She allowed Milt, but not Allison or Suzy, to touch her high, perfect breasts. I felt like keeping my bra on, just to keep up, so to speak. That was easy enough—Milt was focusing on Tini.
Allie and I became administrative assistants, taking care of Milt’s lower body, while she monopolized his eyes and his mouth.
“You are one gorgeous incredible hot piece of, ahhhh, well, work of art,” Milt sighed, reaching up to play with her nipples. “Suzy’s been telling me how much she wants to suck your cock!”
Tini threw me a dirty look. Well, what else was I supposed to tell him? Sure, I’d like to, just to be able to say I’ve tried it, like a new restaurant. But mostly, it’s
the polite thing to say. At all times. About ANY other hooker who’s sharing your customer’s bed. That you’re hot for her. So why the prima donna scowl? Maybe something to do with where I’m “really” from?
“Mmmmmm. So do I!” Allison said. “Want to, I mean.”
Tini was kneeling over Milt, rubbing her cock on his chest and his face. She tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “I’m not into women,” she said. “I don’t do anything with girls.”
Allie looked crestfallen. However, Tini’s bitchiness wasn’t bothering Milt. His cock was growing harder, and I sensed that a little more pleading on our part might do the trick.
“Are you sure?” I asked her. “Just once?”
Allie was rolling a condom onto Milt with her mouth. Without missing a beat, with Milt’s cock still in her mouth, she handed a condom to Tini.
“Don’t put that on yet,” Milt gasped. He intercepted Tini’s condom. Would she or wouldn’t she? Let Milt perform some bareback oral sex?
Allie and I were kneeling on the bed across from each other, with Tini’s tight, yet not too muscular, back hiding our faces. Allie gave me a shocked “Now what?” stare.
Like most girls, I think it’s fine for a customer to go down on me without a barrier—and so does Allie, despite all the NYCOT rhetoric about dental dams—but I always use a condom to go down on HIM. I thought our double standard was based on a hierarchy of sex organs—a cock is always held to account, a pussy gets away with more. Tini’s double standard seems to be purely about herself. Like mine.
She dipped forward, placing her uncovered cock between Milt’s lips. You can’t argue with success. Milt came so fast that, if I hadn’t known him this long, I’d be tempted to develop a complex.
Ten minutes later, I was surprised to find Allison in Tini’s room. As I entered, I heard Allie saying “down some stairs”—or maybe not. They both fell silent. Allie was still in her underwear, trying to hide her camera, but she had nowhere to put it.
Pretending not to notice all this, I handed our guest a roll of post-orgasmic euros, hastily organized by Milt. “Thanks for taking him off our hands. He’s taking a nap now! But he asked me to give you something extra. It’s just between us. Nothing to do with Isabel.”
Allie slipped out of the room, looking like a child who’s been caught raiding the cookie jar. Tini gave her a cool wave and began changing into her equally cool travel gear.
When I returned to my room, I noticed that my phone was vibrating noisily—signaling a voicemail. What a joy it’s been, alone with my phone for the last eleven days! I never have to erase Call History—and I’ve actually begun to feel more relaxed—because I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder.
Matt’s message was an almost dutiful “just checking in” voicemail. Occasionally, I get a late-night email that’s a little sentimental, a little casual. The emotional routines of a happy husband, a successful marriage!
I’ll be sad to leave this oasis of extramarital calm to return to New York, but all good things must come to a gentle (not screeching) halt. If you want the best of both worlds, you have to quit while you’re ahead. And who knows, perhaps Milt wants me to come back to Villa Gambetta next year.
He’s clearly impressed with my international connections and, more to the point, doesn’t have direct access to Isabel. But …
What was Allie doing? Taking pictures of Tini for her scrapbook? I really have to talk to her about this camera when she gets back from the cibercafé. And make sure she hasn’t done something to gum up my relationship with Isabel.
Monday evening
When Milt knocked on my bedroom door, late in the day, I was sprawled on my bed wearing nothing, save a thick layer of grey cream on my face and neck.
What’s up? He never does that!
“Ummmmm. Ummmmm. One sec,” I called out. The mask was making it hard to move my lips.
“It’s all right, kiddo, I’m going for my swim. I’ll meet you by the pool. We need to talk.”
I rinsed my face quickly and, just this once, since nobody else was home, appeared poolside wearing nothing but a bright pink polo shirt, bikini panties, and my pony-skin flip-flops. I settled into a long pool chair next to the deep end and listened, with my eyes closed, to the sound of Milt swimming.
He stopped near my chair, grabbed the side of the pool and began to kick the water vigorously.
“It’s good we can talk alone,” he said, panting slightly.
“What’s wrong?” I turned a little so I could see his face. “Did something happen?”
“I have to go to Luxembourg. There’s something I need to deal with there. I’m sorry to leave you alone like this, but I’m leaving tonight. Duncan’s driving me to Marseille.” He stopped kicking the water. His hands were resting on the side of the pool and he looked up at me. Our eyes met. In the more than ten years we’ve been doing business, has he ever looked at me quite like that? He was more direct and businesslike than usual, none of the usual kidding or lechery in his gaze.
“Nobody else has to know where I am. Don’t answer the phone—it goes straight to voicemail. You’ll have a way to contact me at all times. If there’s a problem, I don’t want you to be stranded here. But Allison and Duncan don’t have to know where I am. It’s just between us. If Allison asks—you can tell her I went to Paris. But Duncan won’t ask … Come here.” He reached up with one hand. “Don’t worry,” he laughed. “I’m not going to pull you in. That ain’t my style. I like knowing you’re safe and dry.”
Extending my hand cautiously, I allowed him to hold it lightly. An unusual gesture for a customer, even one as familiar as Milt. He was careful not to enclose my hand, but found a way to keep it there.
“I really enjoy your company, kiddo.”
“And mine enjoys yours,” I said. “Will you be back in time to kiss me goodbye?”
“Oh, I’m just going for the day,” he said. “Sure. But where do I get to kiss you?”
“Any place below my neck,” I told him.
“You’re a nice girl, but you’re nobody’s fool. That’s a pretty outfit. I’ve never seen that particular combination before. Your breasts are just right. Natural.”
“Oh?” I smiled. Three hours ago, he was fondling Tini’s silicone splendor! Men are such inconsistent freaks. “Flattery will … get you somewhere, I guess.”
“I guess it will,” Milt said, laughing. “If we had both been single and I were just a bit younger, we’d be a couple. I would have made it my business to court you.”
That again! I like hearing it—once a year—but he’s so wrong about us.
“You’re saying all these things because I’m leaving soon.” But I said it in a warm, teasing way. “You guys are all the same.”
“No, kiddo. It’s actually my way of asking you to stay an extra week. I realize I’m not the most interesting company—maybe you can persuade Allison to stay, too, if she’s not all booked up in New York. I know how busy that girl gets.” No, you don’t quite know how, but that’s okay. “Whaddaya think?”
He let go of my hand and ran his fingers along the tiled lip of the pool, while I thought.
“I need to … figure some things out.” And, if I stay another week, get a pedicure!
“Okay! So let me finish my laps, pack, get my butt to the airport. I’ll call you when I land, and we’ll take it from there.”
“But,” I warned him. “I can’t guarantee Allison. You know how busy she gets.” She probably needs to lead her first Intimacy Coaching workshop! Or chair the next NYCOT meeting.
I raced upstairs to call Isabel, to see who else she might have for us.
Though I haven’t officially made a decision—I’d like to keep Milt dangling, for some reason. Could that mean I’m developing real feelings for the man?—I want to get all (or at least most) of my ducks in a row.
What should I tell Matt? And, more to the point, should I deliver my alibi via phone? Or email?
CHAPTER NINE
; France: There’s Something About Marie
Monday, much later
On his way out the door, Milt left a small envelope in my bedroom: “In case you want to go shopping,” he told me. “It’s on the dresser. Do some sight-seeing with Allison, Duncan will take you girls anywhere you want. I’ll be back soon.” He winked at me. “You get cuter every summer.” And then, he hopped into Duncan’s SUV.
Allison was sitting at one of the outdoor tables near the pool, with a bottle of rosé, contemplating the setting sun. Now that Milt’s on his way to Luxembourg, we can drink as much as we want! I found a glass in the kitchen and sat across from her, slipping out of my flip-flops.
“It’s soooo pretty and still!” she said with a wistful sigh. She topped up my glass. “When does Milt come back from Paris? Can we—can you ask Duncan to drive us to the mountain? There’s something I really need to see. And—” her tone was strangely urgent “—I should really see it tomorrow.”
“Which mountain? Sure, I guess, why not? What do you need to see?” Allie is unnaturally well-informed about this town. Is she doing this to curry favor? With who though? Milt? Duncan? Certainly not with me.
“The interior of Mary Magdalen’s cave,” she informed me. “It’s an important part of my camera project.”
Oh. That reminds me. “Have you been taking pictures of this house?”
Allison looked shocked. “No! Why would I?”
“I don’t know. You said you were documenting your visit. Milt’s very flattered by the way—he likes it that you’re interested in the local history. But you have to realize that we’re here on business. Milt needs to have his privacy protected. You know he’s married, and he’s a partner in his firm.”
And, I didn’t tell her, he’s obviously worried about something. Something that occasions a day trip—to Luxembourg, of all places. He’s also delaying his return to New York. Business? Or something marital? No, it wouldn’t be marital. But I can feel it when he’s got something on his mind. And I remember how, three summers ago, that scary girl from California tried to blackmail him. If Milt sees Allie walking around with a camera, he might—in his current frame of mind—be reminded of that.
