Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  I covered my mouth, turned around, and disappeared into the garden with my glass of brandy. When I returned to my pool chair, I realized I was shaking. Not crying, just shaking. Uncontrollably. I downed the rest of my drink, then picked up another glass of brandy.

  “How could you?” I whispered. But who was I saying it to?

  CHAPTER TEN

  France: Access to Evil

  Wednesday, July 17, 2002. The Morning After

  Milt returns in a few hours, and I need to be ON. Cheerful. Sexy. No make-up. Glowing with confidence. Witty. Though I feel, at this moment, socially retarded, sexually inept, an exile from All Things Call Girl.

  Last night, after consuming that third Armagnac in bed, I was numb. When I woke, my pillow had fallen to the floor, the phone was buzzing, and I was in desperate need of a Prontalgine. How fucking thoughtful of Duncan to provide me, in advance, with the answer to this morning’s headache. The perfect … concierge, I thought bitterly.

  I waited for the sound of his SUV pulling out of the driveway. Okay, he’s on his way to Marseille, and the codeine is kicking in. I opened my window. Another beautiful morning in Provence!

  Allie was sitting at the edge of the pool, wearing a sleek white one-piece with a diamond-shaped cut out that shows off her back, and a white sun hat, splashing her feet like a carefree child. I watched as she threw her hat onto a chair. She jumped into the water and began floating, in a rather aimless way, on her back, then switched to a butterfly stroke.

  I emerged from my sad cocoon, and tiptoed into Allison’s bedroom. Her suitcase was still on the floor with most of its contents untouched, except for one box of Trojans. I couldn’t bear to look, but I did. I covered the ripped box with a T-shirt. Then I removed the T-shirt and forced myself to count. She took FOUR condoms to Duncan’s room? The pile on her unused bed—maps, camera, books—was exactly as I left it before dinner.

  Just as I suspected.

  She fell asleep in his bed. In his arms. I felt a knot in my chest. That day in the library when I wanted to grab Duncan and pull him very close. Why did I think he was off-limits to girls? What’s his deal? Is he bi?

  But wait. Allie never thought he was gay. Milt doesn’t either.

  What made me think it? Am I the last person in this house to figure out that Milt’s cook, object of all my lurid unprofessional fantasies, isn’t into guys at all? Let’s face it. When it comes to males under thirty, my gaydar’s a pathetic mess. I’ve spent too many years dealing with guys like Milt. Straight boys seem gay, and gay guys seem too masculine.

  I rushed out of Allie’s bedroom into my own, filled with an awful kind of hatred. Hating myself. For hating my best friend. No. I hate myself for HAVING a best friend. A friend who could make such a fool of me.

  My phone was buzzing again, reminding me that—omigod—while I was inspecting another girl’s recreational condom stash (arguably none of my business), I was supposed to be taking care of business. When I picked up, Izzy was terse.

  “Are you all right? This is my third attempt to return your call.”

  “Sorry!” I gasped. “It’s been a busy morning. I, um, had some other calls to make. Mil—My friend’s coming back from Lux—from Paris—in a few hours. I’ve been meaning to call!”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that. Please don’t babble. I’m trying to sort this out.” The impatience of a madam who could write the Call Girl’s Encyclopedia of Excuses. If she only had time. “Katya won’t be arriving until fourteen-thirty. Is that going to be a problem? I have Natalia—she could be there earlier. Blonde. Like Katya. Quite similar.”

  The more players in Milt’s bed, the more distracted I’ll be. The orgy was surely invented, by some heartbroken hooker, a million years ago, as a form of occupational therapy. Perhaps he’d like four girls? No. Better to dish out the supplementary girls one at a time. For a guy like Milt, three is plenty.

  “Who’s younger?” I asked. “Katya? Or Natalia?”

  “If that’s the issue …”

  “Well, it’s not really, but it might be nice to have someone super-young. Just for a change of pace, you know?”

  “Katya’s nineteen,” Isabel told me. “She’s what you have in mind.”

  Nineteen. That’s about twenty-five in hooker years. But still, younger than Allie. And, if blondes are anything like Orientals, they’re fundamentally a lot more jealous of each other. It’s no coincidence that Allie’s closest friends (that would include me!) aren’t blonde.

  What if I bring in a succession of MUCH younger blondes, just to needle Allison? And what if Duncan develops an interest in Katya? Hit her where she lives.

  Can I really engineer that?

  The trouble with jealousy-rejection-betrayal is the outsized megalomania. In your waking dreams, you have unlimited access to evil and you’re everyone’s worst nightmare. But your ego’s all dressed up with no place to go. Then you start to implode. The pain you’d like to inflict on others starts chewing up what’s left of your soul.

  “Katya today,” I told Izzy. “And let’s book Natalia for Friday. Is she pretty?”

  “She’s actually, to be blunt, more beautiful than Katya. And takes care of her body. But she’s older than Katya.”

  “Then it’s perfect. If he sees them in the right order, he’ll appreciate what he’s getting. And they’ll both look totally gorgeous.”

  “Exactly,” said Izzy, and I could tell she was warming up to me. “I never book them together.”

  “No,” I agreed. “That would be … a total waste of blondeness, wouldn’t it?”

  Later

  The Lexus, bearing Katya, was prompt. Serge arrived while Milt was taking his post-swim shower. Duncan—best laid plans!—wasn’t here to greet them after all, so I did the honors.

  As Katya climbed out of the back seat, flashing her long delicate legs, Serge held out his hand to help her. I see what Izzy means: she’s plain yet ethereal, with a dreamy expression that makes her pretty. Katya straightened her dress, and smiled shyly as she took his hand. For a split second, their eyes locked. There is definitely something—something between them.

  With Tini, the other day, there was none of this courtly tenderness. They treated each other like mates—though Tini also seemed to regard him as a kind of functionary cum errand boy.

  Not so with Katya. She was carrying a large square tote bag, and wearing a simple summer dress, sleeveless, with expensive black and white sandals, very flat. Her limbs are long and soft—this isn’t what twenty-something passing for nineteen looks like. She’s slim, smooth, has probably never exercised, yet has a gorgeous body.

  Upstairs, my suspicions were confirmed when she undressed— she’s really nineteen! A Pilates virgin without even the embryonic hint of a six-pack. Just a very girlish accidental flatness. As I went through the obligatory motions, I noticed that, lower down, her natural golden hair—much fuller than New Yorkers are used to—showcases her innocence. And perfectly matches the soft waves on her head.

  But something began to worry me.

  Could her mind be as new to this game as her body looks? Then what’s with Serge? He’s obviously been around this business for awhile. Is he playing her? Getting money from her? Why am I thinking this way? Could his tenderness be genuine? What I saw between them in that brief second felt so real, but you’d have to be a romantic fool not to wonder what he’s up to.

  And maybe that’s what she is.

  Katya seemed to be meditating on her back, almost bored, while we gave Milt a three-girl show. But when it was her turn to straddle his cock, she woke right up. Her movements became more efficient and focused. She said very little—“Your cock, it’s too big for me”—but said it with just enough of an accent, and just enough volume, to keep Milt hard. Something about the economy in her movements, her withdrawn manner, tells a story. Katya’s been coached by someone who doesn’t want her getting too close to the johns or the other girls. Before she met Isabel, she probably worked in a house with a v
ery high turnover. Girls like that feel no obligation to make small talk—their obligations lie elsewhere.

  As for Allison, I should have realized—she’s way too self-absorbed to see Katya as any kind of threat to her visual franchise.

  Downstairs, Serge was sitting by the pool, reading Milt’s copy of the Herald Tribune. Improving his English. Could that be a pimp thing in France? Or am I being … unfair? Someone has to convey Izzy’s girls from St-Tropez to St-Max, but why does that someone have to look like Serge? He’s too good-looking and doesn’t even pretend to keep his distance from Katya.

  As he looked up from the paper, she gave him a deliberate nod. And this time, when he held the car door, there was playful adoration in her gaze. Those eyes which had been so expressionless for the last hour revealed a lot in that brief exchange. He stood very close to her for a moment, responding to her flickering look with something deeper and less playful.

  If I hadn’t been standing there, watching? And what the hell did I just see? Why do I care what they do? It’s none of my business but—I care because … because my heart was responding to their flirtation, beating a little faster. And the sensation made me understand why Katya can’t be saved from whatever she’s doing with Serge.

  This routine of theirs, driving her to a date, waiting while she (cold, quiet, in control) makes another man come, must be a huge turn-on. And it must be addictive. As addictive for them as lying to my husband is for me.

  I never wanted a man like Serge in my life. The time for that is when you’re starting out. Even then, I was doing it so one man could never own me. Turning tricks made me feel unfaithful, and I was shocked when I found out that some girls do it because they’re being faithful—to a man. But which way is really better? Lying to a straight guy like Matt? Or being truthful with a man you can’t bring home to Mother? The hardest part of being with a pimp would have been the loyalty factor—reporting the truth about my earnings.

  I returned to the house, in a state of muddled emotion.

  “Nancy!?” Allison’s panicky whisper startled me when I reached the door of the library. She was standing inside, waiting for me to saunter past. “Are they gone? Can you talk?”

  “What are you doing?” I said. Allie was peeking through a crack in the doorway, wearing just her bra and panties. “Why are you walking around like that!”

  “I had to come in here to take a phone call,” she said. I shut the door behind me. The small table next to the armchair was covered with books. Her phone was sitting on top of a large atlas. What’s going on in here? “I need to talk to you!”

  “Listen to me,” I hissed. “You cannot walk around dressed like—I don’t care what you do with Duncan when Milt’s not here, but this is totally inappropriate! And—and you have to observe protocol! If Duncan sees you like this when Milt’s here—if Milt sees you parading around in front of Duncan in your panties—”

  “Duncan’s in Tanneron!” she protested. “He’s taking the night off, and he’s not coming back till tomorrow.”

  “He’s not?”

  “Why are you mad at me? What’s wrong?”

  “Nobody tells me what’s going on around here! Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  Allie blinked nervously. “I thought you knew! Where’s Milt? Is he taking his nap?”

  “Out like a light.” He did forty-five laps today, followed by a foursome—he’s entitled to some rest. “Who were you talking to on the phone?”

  Did Duncan call her from the road? I feel sick just thinking about it.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” She has no idea what she did to me. Thank God. If she knew, I would never hear the end of her efforts to discuss my feelings! And it’s best for all concerned if I keep those to myself. “I—I’m worried about something,” she told me.

  “Oh?”

  “Well, um, last night?”

  “If Milt finds out …” I warned her.

  “Duncan doesn’t want him to know either! Anyway, that’s not the issue!”

  “Well, you’d better not repeat the experiment. It will totally screw up Milt’s vacation if he finds you in bed with his cook. I brought you here and I’m responsible for what you do.” It gives me some satisfaction to know she has to refrain from fucking him again, but Duncan’s reaction is hard to predict. Guys get far more interested when they can’t have a second helping of something they like. Will this hands-off situation create a Romeo and Juliet effect?

  But Allie was worried about something else entirely.

  “I’m not sure what to tell Lucho.”

  “About what?” Is she thinking of leaving Lucho for Milt’s cook? That’s madness. He lives in France and she lives in New York!

  “I just remembered that I promised Lucho I won’t sleep with—I mean, only with customers, you know?”

  “You just remembered? How could you forget something like that?”

  “I mean—for the last few days, it sort of slipped my mind! Don’t you understand? How that could happen?”

  “No, I don’t. I really don’t.” I understand having sex with someone and keeping it a secret because you broke an agreement. But I can’t understand how you forget an agreement when you’re about to break it! What is she thinking? And how can you manage your secrets when you’re this scatterbrained? Didn’t Jasmine once call Allie a moral idiot? I’m beginning to wonder. “When did you remember that you’re not supposed to be having affairs?”

  “This morning! When I … when I woke up in Duncan’s bed.” She looked at the carpet. “I told Lucho I don’t do overnights. I won’t sleep in the same bed as a customer. Lucho’s the only guy I sleep with now. I mean, sleep. Like falling asleep. I actually fell asleep with Duncan.”

  “I get it. You don’t have to explain.”

  “I thought we would just make love and then I’d … Anyway, I don’t know what to tell Lucho. I broke our agreement! And the worst thing is—it’s an agreement I pushed for! Because I couldn’t stand the thought of HIM falling asleep in another woman’s—”

  “Look,” I told her. “I hope you don’t intend to discuss this little slip-up with Lucho.”

  “I was thinking that maybe I—we—he deserves …”

  “Well, don’t. Just don’t. If that’s what you agreed to, leave it alone.”

  “But I broke my agreement!”

  “Exactly! And you have to be willing to pay the price. You have to be able to live with your secret,” I told her. “If you tell Lucho about this, you’re making him share the cost. Why should he? It’s not his fault you cheated. This is one bill a girl has to pick up on her own.”

  “Did I—did I really cheat though? I fell asleep because I had too much wine.”

  Why did I bring Allison to Provence? Stop speaking to Jasmine? Because she’s tactless and self-centered? What was I thinking? Jasmine would never do something so unprofessional.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You’ll never see Duncan again. I mean, after you leave France.”

  “But I gave him my phone number. I watched him enter it into his phone. What if he calls when I get back to New York? You think he won’t?”

  “Does he know about Lucho?”

  “Um, no.”

  “I see.” I couldn’t hide my sarcasm now. “You just forgot, did you? Well, that puts another—”

  “How can you talk that way? You don’t tell your customers you have a husband!”

  “But they’re customers. That’s business. And they don’t want to know.” Anyway, I’m doing that to protect my husband’s reputation, but Allie wouldn’t understand. “If you have an affair, you have to let the other guy know you have a boyfriend. Or a husband.”

  “Have you ever had—” Allie paused “—an affair? While you’ve been with Matt?”

  “Once,” I admitted. “When we were still dating. But not since we got engaged. Where would I find the time?”

  CHAPTERE ELEVEN

  France: Postcards from the Edge

 
; Wednesday, very late

  I was sitting by the pool, catching up on back issues of the Herald Tribune. Milt appeared, looking rested from his post-coital nap, in a boxy linen shirt, khakis and his favorite safari sandals. Allie, lost in her copy of Revue de la Basilique Marie-Madeleine, barely looked up. Though she knows only one word of French—and a trendy one at that: la putophobie—the Revue is full of old photos, floor plans of the basilica and maps of the vieille ville. When Milt offered to drive into town, Allie stopped reading and sprang to attention. “If we get there before six,” she said, “I can take, um, a closer look at the reliquary. Just wait!” She ran upstairs to get her camera.

  Unfortunately, the gate to Marie-Madeleine’s tomb was already locked. In the gift shop, a cheerful gawky boy sat behind the register, mesmerized by Allie and eager to do her bidding—if only he could. “Je suis désolé,” he said. “I have not the key.”

  “You can’t always get what you want,” Milt told us. He winked at the boy in a collegial way, and ushered us out of church. “Okay, ladies. Let’s get you some refreshments.”

  As we strolled past the fountain in the Place Malherbe, toward the outdoor tables of the Café Renaissance, Allie was still pouting. “I really need to get that Before shot.”

  “Duncan will drive you to church tomorrow afternoon,” Milt offered. “You’re taking Before and After pictures? Of what?”

  “It’s just for my scrapbook,” she said nervously. “I’m taking pictures of the relics before the procession. And maybe after.”