Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “I’m looking for some of that poire William,” I said. “Just a tiny hit. Is—is Milt around?”

  “I haven’t seen him for an hour and that usually means he’s in bed.” I winced at this remark, and tried to cover my reaction with a polite smile. “In repose,” Duncan added, “when it’s this late. He’s a very early sleeper.” He handed me a shot glass and opened a shimmering steel drawer beneath the counter, stocked with bags of ice and other provisions. “You can always feel free to raid the deep freeze.” I could feel my shoulders relaxing as he poured. “I’m not the nanny, you know. Just the cook.”

  “I don’t know what to do!” I sighed. “Everything’s going wrong. And I have to make some difficult decisions.”

  “Are you saying—” he turned on a faucet and lowered his voice “—that you need legal advice?”

  Gosh. Does he really mean that? He was peeling a carrot, and the faucet was still running, muffling our conversation.

  “Nothing that serious,” I said, moving closer to the water. I peeked into the stock pot and saw an entire chicken, split in two. “Maybe it’s safer if I go home! The thing is, Milt would never understand. He would take it the wrong way. And I can’t possibly tell him about …”

  Duncan nodded. “I see what you mean.”

  “Was there anything in the Herald Tribune?”

  “Not yet. It’s a very local story, don’t you think?”

  “Not local enough for me.”

  But let’s say it does appear in his daily paper, would Milt notice? With all the emphasis on Serge Dolmy’s misdeeds—since Milt never heard of Serge—maybe it will go right over his head. He might skip past that particular bit of news, if we’re lucky. But if he DOES read it, he’s sure to notice Isabel’s name. Some coincidence!

  “Speaking of local,” I confessed, “there’s one person in New York who might be able to help. But I’m afraid to call.”

  Duncan put down his paring knife and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, head cocked toward the running faucet. “Afraid because?”

  “Embarrassed, really. Someone I’ve known for years. We quarreled last month. I guess it’s a girl thing. I haven’t spoken to her since. And I miss her sometimes.” I gazed at the soup greens on the shiny counter tiles, then sniffed my glass. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I just realized an hour ago that I’ve stopped talking to one of the few people I can actually trust. A guy wouldn’t understand. She’s kind of tactless!”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “But you’re in an awkward spot and you can’t talk to just anyone. When you say she’s tactless—?”

  “She’s discreet about the important things. She’s just tactless about—” I felt foolish admitting this “—about things that don’t matter in the long run.”

  “Right! One of those. Well, maybe you just needed a break.”

  “Promise me you won’t discuss this?” I can’t come right out and ask him not to tell Milt—can I? Milt, after all, is his client—mine too. How much do we owe each other at this point? How much loyalty do we owe the client?

  “Everything we discuss is strictly entre nous,” he said. Again, I had the eerie feeling nobody could come between us. Except that … the person who HAS done that very thing is upstairs, giving herself a mini-pedicure! And I certainly don’t want HER to overhear us.

  “There’s no reason for either of us to ruin anyone’s vacation,” Duncan said. “Especially since neither of us is on vacation.”

  Allison, I was dying to point out, is certainly ACTING like she’s on vacation, but I decided not to mess with a good thing by bringing her into it. I’m also, for once, oddly grateful to her for coming downstairs and spending the night in his bed. Clarifying for Duncan that I’m the one who WON’T.

  It’s better this way. Duncan’s no prude, but I have a sneaking suspicion he’s easier to talk to because I haven’t fucked him. Didn’t he leave for an entire day—and night—after they made love? That’s not a coincidence.

  “I can’t possibly understand it the way you do,” he said, “but it sounds like you know on some level that it’s time to get over whatever hassles you’ve had with a longtime friend. These things happen.”

  We looked at each other and I wondered, Does he realize what I’m feeling?

  If I were a decade younger, starting all over again, an ambitious twenty-something hooker, and I met someone like Duncan—streetwise yet discreet, good-looking, well-mannered. Someone I can talk to. Fall for. Capable of giving me decent advice. Willing to look out for me. A strategist I confide in …

  Would my life have turned out differently? Is this what Milt means when he tells me, once a year, how he feels about “us”?

  I suddenly imagined making it work with Duncan—like Serge and Izzy without all the ugly problems. We would buy a small house, keep each other’s secrets, launder our money intelligently.

  What am I thinking! I’ve never entertained such ideas about a guy. Why now? My heart, for a moment, was breaking over the impossibility of it all. A dream that never occurs to you until it’s passed its sell-by date. He’s having a summertime fling with my best friend—and I married a guy I’ll never confide in. But Matt can’t betray me the way Serge betrayed Izzy.

  “Are you okay?” Duncan said.

  “I’m going upstairs,” I gasped. “It’s getting late. I’d better call my girlfriend—but I think I need one more.”

  I returned to my bedroom, fortified by that second shot … and called Jasmine. If I have to apologize for my long silence—well! I swallowed my pride with the rest of my eau-de-vie.

  “So,” she said, as blasé as ever. “Where the fuck are you?”

  “The south of France,” I said meekly.

  “France. Huh.” She sounds more impressed than miffed. Not what I expected at all. What drove us apart—she has no CLUE how I’ve been feeling and doesn’t really care—is what brings us back together. She’s oblivious to my nervousness about losing face. “I think Allison said something about a gig—are you in France TOGETHER?”

  “Yes,” I told her. “And it’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my entire life.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Well, don’t speak too soon. The worst is yet to come!” Jasmine said with a knowing cackle. “What else is new?”

  “This trip is turning into a disaster. I might need Barry’s help.”

  The cackling stopped. Invoking the name of our lawyer, Barry Horowitz, made Jasmine turn quite steely.

  “Is this Allison’s fault?”

  “No! It’s someone I met through Liane!” I told her about Isabel, then Serge, and read a few choice bits from the Mail. “Has this reached the New York papers?”

  Jasmine, a daily consumer of all the papers nobody admits to reading, believes that the real news almost never appears in the New York Times. She’s got a point. If you define real news as being about … people like us.

  “Well, there’s nothing in the Post,” she said. “I’ll take another look at the News. You met this chick through Liane? That’s incredible.”

  “And now I’m afraid to tell her! But she needs to know. I can’t tell her like this, out of the blue. The phone seems wrong.”

  “Totally,” Jasmine agreed. “Liane might have a stroke! But listen. I have to go see her. She says it can wait till Monday, but I do owe her a cut. So I’ll tell her I want to drop off the money this weekend, and I’ll break it to her gently! I’ll see if I can find the Daily Mail online and show her—”

  “Don’t!” I pleaded. This is Jasmine’s idea of gentle? “Those pictures of Serge will totally freak her out. And the headlines! You know how she is.”

  “True. But doesn’t she have a right to know about Isabel’s pimp?”

  “Don’t say that word to Liane! I don’t want to be responsible for—what you said about a stroke! Jesus.”

  “Fine, I’ll call him her image consultant!” Jasmine sai
d. “I just hope Allison doesn’t say anything stupid in front of your customer. You know how these guys are, they want everything discreet, and they don’t like to think they did business with some AIRHEAD who ends up in a newspaper complaining about her pimp! All we need now is for Allison to organize a protest in front of the prison gates!”

  “She doesn’t know! And she’s never met Isabel, thank God. But she’s caused enough trouble as it is! I’m not telling her a thing.”

  “Good move,” Jasmine said. “But … she has nothing to do with Isabel. What are you talking about?”

  “You have no idea what she’s done!” I lowered my voice and stuck a pillow over my head. Allie is dangerously near—across the hall. “She invited the entire membership of her international movement to THIS TOWN, and those lunatics are staying in the same hotel as my MOTHER. And they walk around in bright red T-shirts that say WHORE in big black letters! And Allison has the nerve to tell me she picked out the font!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Have you been drinking absinthe or something?”

  “I swear to God, I am totally sober,” I sort of lied.

  “Did you just make up that entire thing about Isabel? I think you’re going crazy.”

  “I am not hallucinating! Do you think I would be foolish enough to drink absinthe at my age? Wait.” A call was trying to get through. I stared at the phone number, relieved it wasn’t New York. “It’s my mom. I’ll call you later.”

  “Well, I have this guy coming tomorrow at EIGHT in the fucking morning, can you believe it? So don’t call too early. I’ll be catching up on my Booty Sleep. But we’ll talk about your situation tomorrow. I don’t think France agrees with you.”

  As Jasmine hung up, Mother went into voicemail. When I heard the message, my heart froze:

  “I just spoke to Matt.” Omigod. How did he get through to her? Mother always keeps the phone turned off. To save the battery. I’ve been counting on her predictable frugality. “Anyway,” her message continues, “we’re looking forward to seeing you tomorrow! Maybe you’d like to bring Allison. Ruth will join us.”

  Omigod squared.

  At the very least, I owe my husband a phone call. Do I also owe him an explanation? I can’t possibly deliver THAT without knowing what Matt and Mother actually said to each other. I can’t let on that I’m hiding something from my husband or using her as an alibi. She’s never been the kind of mom you involve in your secrets. Though I’ve heard that such mothers exist, that was never Mother’s MO. This is neither the time nor place to chance it. All those stories I told him about Mother’s quest for a Provençal homestead—did he get into that with her? Did she tell him how we met in the town square?

  When you owe your husband an explanation—but don’t quite know what that should be—email’s the safest course. Well, Duncan did say it’s okay to raid the Sub-Zero, and I don’t have to see Milt until morning. So can I allow myself a third?

  Just a small one.

  Saturday morning

  No message from Matt. But a voicemail from Jasmine came in while I was sleeping. “I just called Liane. I’ll let you know after I see her. Let’s hope she doesn’t go into a coma! What was all that about your mom? Did I hear you correctly?? I’m going to the newsstand FIRST thing in the morning. Well, as soon as that guy has his clothes on.”

  Later

  On my way to breakfast, I delivered my empty shot glass to the kitchen, and quietly buttonholed Duncan. “I need to go to the internet café kind of soon! Can you take me later when I—” get done with Milt, I almost said. After last night, it seemed like the most natural thing to say. “… when I go to the hair salon? I have a few things to do in town today.”

  “Perfect,” he said. “I’ve got to pay a visit to Pasquale. The rabbit breeder. Allison’s got some errands to do as well. I’ll swing by and pick you both up on the way back from Draguignan.”

  Errands to do?

  “Has Allie told you …” Uh-oh. This is very questionable terrain. I SHOULD find out what she’s told him about Roxana and Ruth, but I can’t ask Duncan to tattle on Allie. “… how she feels about rabbits?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry,” he said with a cheerful wink. “I’ve got the entire meal sorted.”

  If I went down that road—more a back alley than a road—it would ruin what I now have with him.

  An hour later, from Milt’s bed, I could hear Duncan rearranging pool furniture while I rubbed my left nipple against Allison’s pussy.

  “Mmmmm,” she said, approvingly, “That feels good on my clit!” She giggled like an excited schoolgirl, then turned her face toward Milt’s cock.

  What exactly do we have, Duncan and I, that I hesitate to ruin? I should be afraid to confide so much—I hardly know him—but I tell him things I could never tell Matt or Milt. Or Allison. She hasn’t said one word about Isabel. If Duncan told her, she wouldn’t bother to hide it from me. That much I know.

  As I slid into position, teasing Milt’s latex-covered erection with the opening of my pussy, Allie slipped her fingers between my thighs and held my lips apart. I felt a light, perfunctory flick of her tongue, more contact than I’m used to. Milt wasn’t expecting to see that. Caught off-guard, he began thrusting. It seemed too good to be true, but soon enough he was coming—way ahead of schedule.

  Thanks to Allie’s well-timed excess, I can get to the cibercafé and email my husband before they close for lunch.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  France: Arrested Developments

  Saturday afternoon

  Foiled by the whimsical ethics of those people at the cibercafé. Not yet twelve-thirty, and Ste. Maxiphony was already closed for lunch.

  Coiff ’ Cassien, the hair salon on Rue Gutemberg, is more businesslike. Not only are they open when they promise to be, they’re doing a big promotion on … nail extensions. I negotiated a colorless manicure instead—no thanks on the ongles américains—along with un brushing, while Allison arranged her next BGWB strategy session.

  “You are not having your lunch with Roxana at the monastery,” I told her. “We can’t let her see me there with my mother! She has no idea my mom’s around, and I’d like to keep it that way. Why don’t you tell her to meet you at the Renaissance? I think it’s the least you could do, after everything you’ve put me through.”

  Allie shot me a guilty look. “I’m sorry!” she sighed. “I never imagined that your mother—! And Ruth—! How was I to know! Do you think it’s … a sign?”

  “Oh please.” I was trying to suppress my bitter tone. I never imagined it either! “A sign of what exactly?” The coiffeuse gave us a curious look. She beckoned toward a row of basins at the back of the shop. “I have to get my hair washed. Remember,” I said. “You can’t say anything to Roxana about how I know Ruth. Not. One. Word.”

  “Okay,” Allie replied, in a small but sincere voice. “I promise! The Renaissance is nicer for a meeting anyway.” Her appeasing ’tude—like Milt’s early orgasm—was much too good to be true.

  “It’s me again,” I heard Allie saying, as my scalp submitted to a soapy massage. “LISTEN! I have an idea.” Hot running water drowned out the rest of her call, which I was straining to hear. When I emerged from the back with my head wrapped in a towel, Allie was gone.

  Forty minutes later, I approached the Place Malherbe feeling like a new woman, fully blown-out and ready for (almost) anything. Braver, too, about tackling Mother on the question of Matt’s phone call. I must remember I am no longer ten years old. I have a natural right to know what my husband and mother have talked about. A wife who’s not sneaking around would take that right for granted. For God’s sake, play the part.

  To be on the safe side, I passed by La Renaissance on my way to the monastery. From the doorway of Crédit Agricole, I caught sight of some girls in militant red T-shirts sitting at an outdoor table laden with food. I could see the back of Allison’s head. Roxana was talking on her phone and eating at the
same time. Suddenly, a girl at Allison’s left turned around.

  My God.

  Is that Tini? Did Allie recruit her to the cause right after our session??

  Incredible.

  I put on my sunglasses, fluffed my hair up to cover my face and tried to get a better look without being recognized by Roxana. Tini and Allison, it can’t be denied, are the best-looking girls at the table. That controversial T-shirt is the uniform du jour. Everyone was wearing it. Except for Tini—in a revealing denim vest—and Allie, who would be flying the flag … if only she hadn’t come to St-Max on business.

  Five minutes later, in the monastery lobby, I spotted Ruth’s teenage foot soldiers dressed in their T-shirt—sky blue today, instead of black. I made my way to the dining room where an entire table was occupied by women wearing the sky blue TAKE BACK THE MAGDALEN END ALL SEX TRAFFICKING T-shirt.

  Now I see why Allie takes them seriously. They coordinate their colors like an army! Did Ruth tell me the T-shirt comes in five different colors? One for each day of their conference, I suppose.

  At our own table, I detected some role-reversal. Mother sipping an aperitif, Dodie drinking tea.

  “I’ll have what you’re having,” I said to Dodie. All those pilgrimatic feminists! I was longing for a sip of wine to steady my nerves, but it seemed wiser to keep my wits about me.

  Mother was making small talk about why the basilica’s plus-size organ wasn’t destroyed by rampaging mobs during the Revolution: “Napoleon’s brother rescued the church organ for secular reasons—he liked playing La Marseillaise.” Well, that makes it okay then! Mother, always looking for an atheistic silver lining.

  “I’ve been trying to reach Matt all day,” I told her. “I think there’s something wrong with his phone.” Technology can be your friend AND your scapegoat—in fact, these two categories needn’t be mutually exclusive. “How, uh, was he sounding?”

  “As he usually does.”

  Thanks a lot. Can’t she offer some hint of his mood? Drop a clue? “Did he seem upset?” I asked.