Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “That crazy parade?” Milt chuckled. “It’s for serious participants only,” he warned her. “You really have to be some kind of fanatic to walk up that hill.”

  “You mean the mountain? The path to her cave? They aren’t fanatics,” Allie said. “They’re pilgrims.”

  “Fanatics—pilgrims. Tomato. Tomahto.” Milt pulled out a chair for Allie, then for me. With a sly grin, he took the middle seat. “I can see you both climbing …” He wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Climbing up that mountain, no problem. You’re both very fit. Well, the parade’s next week.”

  Allie and I were facing each other, but she was avoiding my questioning looks. When Milt turned around to look for a waiter, I peered directly at her. “There’s going to be a parade?” I asked.

  “Oh!” She giggled nervously. “Just a local custom. Ask Milt.”

  “Once a year, the locals get together,” he explained, “and the real diehards climb to the top of the Sainte-Baume mountain. The rest of it’s a mystery to me. But you have to admit, we do crazier things in New York. Saint Patrick’s Day, for example! Allison knows more about this than I ever will.”

  “Not much more,” Allie said. “Duncan’s the real expert!”

  The very sound of his name made me want to hurl the sugar bowl at her. I took a deep, painful breath. “But they told you the footpath is closed. The mountain’s not accessible.”

  Allie frowned and looked from side to side, like a trapped animal. Is she feeling guilty about Duncan and Lucho again?

  “Then maybe they’ll postpone the celebrations this year,” Milt suggested.

  “Maybe!” Allie said in a small voice. “But I don’t think so!”

  “Are you okay?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing! Oh! That’s sooooo nice,” she sighed, as the waiter arrived with our snacks. Onion tart for Milt, a croissant for Allie and a slice of chestnut gateau for me.

  I turned to Milt. “While you were detained in … Paris, we took a lovely ride to the mountain. We were planning to visit the grotto, but the path to the cave was closed. For security reasons?”

  “Right!” Allie agreed, breaking off a small piece of croissant. Again, she looked rather uneasy. “Maybe I’ll—I think I’d like a glass of white wine.”

  I sipped some Vittel, and said nothing. Allie has no business drinking anything after a night of rosé, Armagnac, foreplay in the SUV, and four missing condoms. “Just one!” she said. “Unless they have a nice rosé. It can’t possibly hurt.” Then, it hit me. OMG. Is she freaking out because—? But of course.

  “I’ll be back in five,” Milt said, after attending to Allie’s drink order. “I’m going to pick up a newspaper and call the office.” At this hour? It’s almost midnight in New York. But bankers—a shadow crossed my mind as I thought of my husband—do keep late hours. “Don’t let them take my onion tart!”

  As Milt rounded the corner of the Avenue Albert 1er, I leaned across the table. “Look, you have to talk to me about this.” Allie’s eyes were wide with fear. “It’s okay. I know all about Plan B, and I have a supply.”

  “What?” That trapped expression again as she sipped her wine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She was being ridiculously vehement.

  “Look, it happens to everybody—once.”

  “What happens?”

  “A broken condom. You were drunk. You probably weren’t paying attention. But if you take two pills tonight, when we get back, and two more—”

  “I’m fine!” she squeaked. “Where did you get the idea that—that—” She gulped some more wine. “Maybe you think I’m stupid, but I do know how to use a condom! I led TWO safe sex workshops in Barcelona, you know.”

  “I don’t think anything of the sort!” I protested. “But you seem so nervous and upset! I’m trying to help! What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing!” she sighed. “I guess I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Well, try not to let this thing with Duncan affect you so much.” I tried to sound simpatico. “You have a job to do, and so does he. If you don’t control yourself, you might jeopardize his situation with Milt.”

  Allison was half-listening, gazing into the Place Malherbe. Two middle-aged women were standing together in front of the fountain, leaning into each other, while a third—young and wiry, with spiky hair—took pictures of them. The two older women consulted a map while the third one waited, arms crossed. Then, as we watched, they wheeled their luggage through the square. The oldest, wearing a long denim skirt, led the way, pulling a hard gray suitcase behind her. Her hair was dark, almost black, mixed with white, literally salt on pepper. The youngest, in cargo pants and a blue T-shirt with some white lettering on it, was wheeling a duffel case large enough for an army. As they approached the café, I closed my eyes. I felt dizzy.

  “Are YOU okay?” Allie said.

  Was I hallucinating?

  “I don’t know!” I looked toward the busy square, frozen with shock, for the leader of this trio, in a tie-dyed shirt and brown Birkenstocks, looked exactly like my mother. Her outfit was on the baggy side, her pace was brisk, her posture impeccable. “It—it’s very strange, but that woman—that shirt and the way she walks. It can’t be—she reminds me—”

  The three travelers were in a hurry to get somewhere, and the woman who looked like my mother was staring straight ahead. As they neared the café, I could hear suitcase wheels rattling loudly. Instinctively, I bent down to look inside my handbag and hide my face. Then I heard my mother’s voice.

  “Goodness!” she exclaimed. Both mother and suitcase came to a halt. Her companions looked at each other, puzzled. Then, still wheeling the case behind her, she propelled herself to our table without missing a beat or allowing her suitcase to falter. A small dog scurried away in fear.

  “Why Nancy!” she said cheerfully. “Fancy meeting you here!”

  “Fancy!” I breathed. “How did you know I was here though? Did Matt—”

  “I didn’t!” she said. “What a coincidence!” She turned to Allie. “I’m Helen,” she said, extending a hand. “Nancy’s mother. How lovely to meet you.”

  “Allison! Allison Rogers! Nancy’s my neighbor in New York!” Allie was burbling aerobically. “Can we offer you something? Have a seat! Are you hungry? Wow! This is … so cool!”

  It’s so NOT. I looked around in panic. Where’s Milt? Isn’t he due back at any moment? How will I explain HIM to my mother? I glanced at her unpainted toe nails and took in her speckled hair. If my favorite customer sees this Birkenstocked figure, looking like me on fast forward, sans all the maintenance, going happily gray … Will he ever look at me the same way again?

  “How kind,” Mother was saying to Allie. “But we can’t stop! We’ve just seen the rooms at the Plaisance and had the good luck to find something more suitable at the Couvent Royal. They’ve had two cancelations. If we don’t get there soon, we might lose our room. It’s a busy time of year here. Dodie and I came down to keep Ruth company! We’re going back to Mortagne-au-Perche after the Magdalen’s feast day, to close on the goat farm.” How did Mother get so interested in Mary Magdalen? Isn’t she an atheist? “You’ll have to come and visit us! We’re selling the B&B—if I don’t, Sebastian will try to move in, and we can’t have that.”

  “No,” I agreed. “That would be—”

  “Ruth’s taking over the bookstore. Next month, we drive back to Wales and fetch Dodie’s wheel. And we’ll have to see about her kiln.” Mother, full of chatter about her move to Normandy, was talking as though it were the most natural thing in the world to run into her daughter in the middle of a remote French town in July. “And what are you up to, my dear?” But this was an afterthought and not a real query.

  She waved to her companions. So that’s Dodie, whom I’ve heard so much about. Pottery teacher with a used bookstore. Welsh Nationalist from Saskatoon. Lives down the street from Mother’s B&B. The one with all the eyebrow rings must be Dodie’s daughter, the
former addict. She had on a sky blue T-shirt—the color of heaven on a good day. The letters, bright and white across her chest, were clearer now. TAKE BACK THE MAGDALEN. ST-MAXIMIN 2002.

  While Dodie introduced herself, Ruth watched over her mother’s battered-looking suitcase, impatiently ignoring us. Her mind was on something else, incapable of distraction. Milt’s words echoed in my head: “Fanatics—pilgrims.” My mother’s more of a pilgrim. Ruth, however, strikes me as some sort of fanatic. There’s a grim look around the jaw which she didn’t inherit from her mother.

  How did such a good-natured personality produce a daughter who comes across as a profound harridan? Dodie, like Mother, is doing the natural look, but she’s less gray and more playful. Her hair is a mousy mess of curls framing a round childlike face, and her Birkenstocks are bright purple. Around her neck, against a striped tunic, she was wearing a large lavender-colored ceramic pendant—two linked female symbols—which, I’m willing to bet, she baked herself, in that kiln. So this is Mother’s best friend!

  “You’re looking for the monastery?” I finally said. “I can help you find it!” And it’s one way I can prevent Milt from meeting Mother. I prepared to slip away from our table.

  “Don’t be silly!” Mother said. “Dodie and I are seasoned travelers. We know exactly where we’re going,” she added briskly. “When we’re settled in, I’ll call. You have your phone with you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Shall I call your room in an hour?” Mother always keeps her phone shut off, to preserve the battery.

  “Oh, good. Yes! It’s been a long day.” And with that, my mother turned around, dragging her suitcase behind her. As her friends resumed their trek to the Couvent Royal, I noticed the back of Ruth’s T-shirt. END ALL SEX TRAFFICKING. STOP THE OPPRESSION!

  “Omigod!” Allie gasped. “They’re early!”

  Early for what? Milt, coming back from the Avenue Albert 1er with a small collection of magazines and newspapers, was still on his phone as he approached the café. Mother, Dodie and Ruth were growing smaller and fuzzier, as they continued across the square. I kept an eye on them, hoping, praying, that they wouldn’t turn around. As Milt was putting his phone away, they disappeared into the Boulevard Bonfils. It’s a rather long indirect route—and I do know the shortest way to the monastery—but try telling that to a seasoned traveler, especially when it’s your mother.

  Thursday morning

  Yesterday wasn’t exactly Milt’s day of rest. Flying back from Luxembourg, swimming those extra laps, hosting a three-girl orgy. Plus, having to drive on Duncan’s night off. I thought Milt would want to take it easy this morning, but no such luck. “Why not get it over with before Duncan returns?” I told Allison. “It’s easier when we don’t have to worry about being discreet. And then we’ll have the whole day to ourselves.”

  By now, it’s obvious to Duncan what we’re doing here, but I like it when Milt has his privacy and we girls can preserve what’s left of our mystery. When Duncan’s not in the house, I don’t have to worry about how much noise we’re making.

  Later

  We climbed into Milt’s bed half-naked, dressed in identical crotchless panties. Allison sat over his face, with her ass cheeks parallel to his forehead. She was frowning in a distracted way while I prepared both ends of the double dildo.

  Our purple toy was ready, covered in latex and lube. “MMMMmmmm,” Allie announced, “Milt’s so good at this! He’s getting me ready … I’m nice and wet!”

  Her speech was a little canned but Milt wasn’t bothered. When he’s got two or more to keep track of, the physical proximity of one girl’s pussy is more than enough to keep him happily occupied. We got ourselves into a position we almost never try because it requires real insertion. It’s one of those things you just can’t fake. Allie was on her hands and knees when I slid the dildo into her pussy from behind. She reached between her legs, clutched her end of the toy, and moaned intensely.

  When Milt tried to assist, I gave his hand a light slap. “Ladies only,” I told him. “You get to watch.” If Milt takes hold of the dildo when Allie’s not looking, he might get carried away.

  I turned around on my knees, facing away from Allie and pushed my end of the dildo inside very slowly. Breathing through my mouth, I was able to take more of the dildo, but it was almost too uncomfortable. In this position, it’s hard to relax completely, and the head’s rather imposing. The view, for Milt, was even more pornographic than he’s used to. He was staring directly at two similar-sized bottoms, bordered by shiny black fabric, and two sets of lubricated labia. We wriggled our pussies obligingly, and I felt the black satin fabric of my crotchless panties digging into my groin. My right knee was doing something strange, but Milt’s cock was doing something entirely predictable.

  “Omigosh I’m ABOUT to COME!” Allie exclaimed. “Are YOU coming?”

  I threw myself into slutty, orgasmic build-up, closed my eyes and—“Now! Now! Do it now!” I moaned.

  “Oh, but she’s just getting started!” Allie told Milt, “I’ll eat her pussy while you fuck me from behind.”

  I got onto my back and slipped a condom onto Milt, while Allie fondled his balls. Then I spread my legs wide and peeked to make sure Allie’s long hair was falling over the right parts of me. In real life, it’s impossible to eat a girl’s pussy with any kind of skill while also giving in to the wild sensation of getting fucked from behind.

  When you put on a threesome, go for the implausible. As I writhed and gasped, postponing my next pseudo-orgasm, my thoughts meandered. The purple dildo had rolled beneath my back. I dislodged it. Funny how this sleazy-but-functional device is exactly the same color as … Dodie’s lavender pendant. Which is the very opposite of this double-ended tool. Two decorative, wholesome circles: I wonder if Dodie has an entire studio filled with handcrafted granola lesbiana. Will she take the lot with her to Normandy?

  Wait. Why did Mother say we’re selling the B&B? Who is We? Is my mother’s restored Tudor cottage jointly owned? I had no idea. So … is Dodie … the other half of We?

  And they’re buying that goat farm together. How many of these cross-Europe car trips have they taken over the last ten years? Ten, actually. Once a year. Mother hasn’t, since the divorce, so much as been on a date with a man, has she? Well, she never talks about men …

  Those couple-ish snapshots at the fountain. Ruth was taking their picture. Is she in on my mother’s secret? Of course. She wouldn’t find it strange at all. Her mom’s not hiding anything.

  But neither is mine. I’ve just been horribly obtuse. Could Ruth and I end up in some sort of squabble over the goat farm? I mean, what if my mother—her mother—This is no time to be contemplating your hypothetical inheritance. I tried to focus on Milt’s thrusting motions instead.

  I removed a condom from one end of the dildo and pressed the bulbous head against my open mouth. Looking directly at Milt, I made sure he could see the movements of my tongue. My lips enveloped the largest part. I willed my mouth to relax completely. Still staring directly at him, with my mouth completely occupied, I was emitting a helpless wanton moan. There was a faint taste of the condom, alas, but his noisy reaction helped me to ignore that.

  When I called the hotel last night, I was a little surprised to find that Mother’s room is registered under Dodie’s name. I was expecting Dodie might share with Ruth. Apparently not. My God. It’s all starting to add up.

  Here I am, faking a great big over-the-top orgasm with my best friend, while Mother and HER best friend are, um, the real thing.

  Christ. How, for the last ten years, have I totally missed that? For some reason, I just don’t—didn’t—want to know. Just like Mother! Who never challenges a cover story. Lives in total denial about how I survived during my teens, made good during my twenties. But I certainly don’t want to think about all this NOW when Milt’s about to—Christ! No!

  I moaned some more, removed the dildo from my mouth, threw in a spasm, and made as much of a racket
as possible, hoping to wipe clean from my horrified mind the realization that my mother …

  … has a sex life? But she had sex with Dad, she must have, so what’s the big deal?

  I’ve been so busy hiding my sexual reality—especially from Mother—that I long ago stopped thinking about hers. Why do our own secrets—no matter how slick, worldly or decadent we imagine ourselves to be—cause us to lose sight of the most obvious facts of life?

  Later

  Duncan says he’ll drive me into town for un brushing—what the French call a blow-out—at that walk-in salon across from the Couvent Royal. If I told him what I’m really up to he would never believe me: sneaking out of the house to visit my mother?

  For some reason, Allie has changed her mind and declines to join us. “Don’t you want to check out the reliquary?” I asked. And doesn’t she want to hang out with Duncan?

  “I—I do,” she said. “But not today.”

  Lover’s tiff, perhaps? Knowing Allie, she’s sulking because Duncan didn’t call her every half hour while he was off-duty. But what does she expect? She’s the guest of his client. In other words, she’s almost a client herself. A concierge needs his space!

  She, of all people, should know how that goes, but I decided not to pursue the topic. We were sitting by the pool—she in a striped bikini under the sun, I in my gauzy jellaba under an umbrella—just two feet away from Milt who was going through his pile of news.

  He wasn’t really listening—but still, I didn’t want to risk an outburst. It’s not like Milt to look so studious after an orgasm. He was frowning intensely, systematically combing each daily. For what? He rifled through the Herald Tribune, folded it carefully, then started on the Telegraph. Is he looking at the same section of each paper? And how did Milt manage to track down a copy of USA Today? That’s not his usual fare. Then he proceeded through Time, Newsweek, the Economist.

  Could this be connected, in some way, to his sudden trip to Luxembourg?

  Thursday, later

  As I sat next to Duncan in the SUV, I remembered, suddenly, the afternoon when he reached for my seatbelt, how his hand against my breast seemed like a gay boy’s oversight. Then I remembered Allie’s seatbelt-assisted orgasm, and I had to look away.