Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “I hope you don’t think I’m in any danger of joining the priesthood.”

  “Why would I think that? You’re Presbyterian.”

  “In college, my roommate converted and went to Latin America, to work with the Jesuits.” He was getting wistful. “I was a different person in those days. Before I met Elspeth.”

  It must have been Jason’s idea to name their son after a Roman Catholic anarchist!

  “For Berrigan’s sake,” I begged him, “please get on the next plane back to New York. When did you last speak to your wife?”

  “About five days ago. But we’re in constant touch. Voicemail.”

  “Is she returning your voicemail?”

  “No,” he admitted, “but that’s usually a good sign.”

  “Well, this time it’s not,” I told him. Should I repeat what Elspeth said about the fate of his balls? “Raoul Felder might be contacting you.”

  “Did you just say—?” Jason was now completely disoriented. “Raoul Felder?”

  “Elspeth thinks you’re having an affair. She’s telling Matt you lied to her about being in Paris.”

  “I was in Paris for a week, working on a deal. I didn’t—” He looked down at his cup. “I didn’t lie to Elspeth, but I haven’t told her where I am,” he added. “Yet.”

  “Elspeth thinks you’re having an affair with ME.” Jason stared numbly at my upper body. He’s never thought about me that way, but now—just hearing those words—he’s forced to reconsider. “She knows you called her from Marseille. She already knew I was here with my mom, and she put two and two together. Or so she thinks.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “She intends to communicate with you through Felder from now on.”

  “Felder! How the—”

  “You must have given her a reason to suspect. How exactly does a wife get an idea like that?”

  “Maybe she shouldn’t have quit her job. Elspeth needs an outlet. She’s a good prosecutor, you know.”

  “Well, her instincts in this case are all wrong! Mostly wrong,” I corrected myself.

  “What should I do?” Jason said. “Should I tell her about my novel? It’s been a secret since we met.”

  “No,” I said abruptly. That novel leads to Allison, to NYCOT, to God knows what, but he doesn’t know I know that. “You never saw me during this visit, we never spoke, you were never here, and I never saw you. No mention of St-Maximin. And nothing about this novel of yours.”

  “Really?” The cloud was lifting from Jason’s face.

  “Only if you get on the next available flight and get your butt back to New York. I don’t enjoy being the target of Elspeth’s rage. She’s scary when she’s like this.”

  “I’m spending five more days at Father Philippe’s museum.”

  Five more days contemplating what might have been. Daydreaming about Allison. Consorting with Tini, Roxana, the members of Les Putes. While I try to hide in Milt’s house, pretending to be at the hotel with Mother.

  “You can come back next summer,” I said firmly. “But first you have to patch things up with Elspeth. You can’t stay here another day! Elspeth has Felder on a retainer. Do you want Berrigan growing up in a single parent household? If Elspeth files for a divorce—”

  “Okay,” Jason conceded. “Point taken.”

  “Will you take my advice? Do we have a deal?”

  He nodded, still a bit incredulous.

  “But you can’t change your mind,” I added. “If you ‘never came’ to St-Max, you can’t break down two weeks later and confess. That will screw us both up for the rest of our lives! I’m willing to lie for you, but you have to promise not to tell a soul. Especially Matt. If you do that to me, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “I understand. It’s a deal.”

  “And turn off your fucking GPS.” I sighed. “You’d better NOT be having an affair. You can’t even tell a harmless lie and get away with it!”

  Jason smiled sheepishly. “I promise. I’m not having an affair. And I won’t mess this up.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  What Happens in Provence Stays in Provence

  Monday, continued

  As I walked toward the Couvent Royale, I saw the last yellow T-shirts climbing into a crowded minivan. Father Philippe waved happily, and the vehicle pulled away. He turned to Duncan, shook his hand, then opened his arms to greet me in his unique blend of English, French and Latin.

  “The double agent est arrivée! You came to St-Maximin to save our heritage! Blessed are the Bad Girls Sans Frontières. Beati qui persecutoniem …”

  “Blessed are those who have been persecuted,” Duncan explained. “Book of Matthew,” he added. “Eighth beatitude.”

  Father Philippe clasped his hands around mine. “Vous vous appelez …?”

  “Nnnn … Suzy,” I replied, looking sideways at Duncan.

  “Vous êtes un beau couple,” Father Philippe said.

  You—I began to blush—make a lovely couple. Is that really what he said?

  “Bonne chance,” he told Duncan. He had one eye on the second button of my blouse. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must fly toward the tea shop. I’ve an houseguest who needs help urgently. I hope I will practice my English with you one day.”

  As I watched the priest hurrying away in his black and white robes, Duncan said, “Father Philippe’s very grateful to us.”

  To us. Did he say that with unexpected tenderness? I wanted Duncan to repeat the words, just to be sure.

  A sound from the street made me turn around. A group of men in traditional costume—red sashes, white shirts—carried a square frame on their shoulders. A copper head with flowing copper hair was resting on top—mistress of the street, the center of everybody’s attention. As the crowd passed, I felt a strong urge to salute the Magdalen’s relics.

  “Now they’ll drive up to the mountain,” Duncan said. “Every one of Ruthie’s disciples is on her way to Vézelay now, so it’s safe.”

  ‘I can’t believe we did that. Did we really save the relics?”

  “We did.” He pulled me gently toward him, his hands resting lightly on either side of my waist. “How does it feel?”

  To be touched by you for the first time?

  Our bodies, which had never been this close before, seemed to be talking to each other. I felt something just below my chest, intense fluttering. My heart was beating faster, and the look in his eyes convinced me for a mad few seconds that he was my body’s true owner.

  In a quiet voice, I asked, “Do you think Ruth will ever find out what we did?”

  “We may have started a new myth,” Duncan said. “If all goes as planned, Ruthie will spend the rest of her days spreading the gospel, telling how the relics were taken back to their original home, but nobody wants to admit it. She’ll convince herself that she intended, all along, to take the Magdalen back toVézelay. She can tell her followers the T-shirt was a prophecy.” He let go of me. “People need beliefs.”

  We walked in the direction of Place Hoche, where Duncan’s SUV was parked. “Careful,” I heard him say. “I just saw Milt’s car. It’s better if we don’t run into his golf buddy.”

  He pulled me into a corner, where he could watch the BMW without being seen. “You mean,” I said, “if I don’t run into him.”

  “Just doing my job,” Duncan said. Then he turned to me. But now, in that tight corner, with his hands on my waist, he was leaning against my front, pinning me gently to the wall. “Is this what you wanted me to do?” he asked. “Out there on the pavement? When you looked at me like that?”

  “We can’t—I can’t—”

  “I know. But you can give me permission to kiss you.” Without which he pressed his lips against my mouth, opening my lips with his tongue while his right leg pushed my legs apart. I felt my entire body responding with silent spasms, and I kissed him hard, allowing myself to come while he held my arms down. “Again,” he insisted, pressing his leg against the zipper on my jeans.
This time, I began to moan and he had to silence me with another deep kiss.

  “We have to stop,” I whispered. “Milt’s too important in my life. I’m a professional.”

  I didn’t dare tell Duncan how badly I wanted to make him come—right there in that alleyway.

  “I understand,” he said. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks.”

  “Now you have.” I smoothed out my blouse. “We can put it behind us. Go back to being …”

  “Being what?” He had released my body, but his arms were blocking me so I couldn’t just walk away.

  “Colleagues?” I suggested. “We’re both doing business with Milt. And I’m not—” Allison, I almost said, but didn’t. I want him to think I fell asleep and saw nothing that night. “I wish we’d met under different circumstances,” I told him.

  His lips touched my forehead. “Me too,” he said. Then he took my hand and led me toward the cobblestoned square. Milt’s BMW was no longer there. A slender man, gray-haired, with excellent posture, was walking away from the parked cars.

  “Omigod!” I whispered. “What is HE doing here?”

  “Milt’s golf buddy?”

  “For a second,” I lied, “I thought he looked like someone I knew. I guess my nerves are shot.”

  What is Etienne doing in St-Max? And how does he know Milt? Does he live nearby? He says he lives in Paris, but I’ve learned not to trust the stated whereabouts of a john. They’re capable of lying about anything—name, occupation, marital status.

  As long as they don’t lie about your fee.

  Speaking of which, Etienne has always been more frugal than Milt. I can’t let them find out they both know me. They might compare notes!

  Monday night

  My mother leaves for Normandy tomorrow to close on the goat farm. Duncan just heard that Father Philippe’s houseguest—my brother-in-law—was summoned back to New York, due to “illness in the family.”

  “I need to sneak out of here tomorrow for a farewell lunch with Mother and Dodie,” I told Duncan. “I can’t possibly tell Milt I’m visiting my mother.”

  “I’ll figure something out,” he promised.

  Tuesday, July 23

  Milt was up earlier than all of us. The BMW’s gone. “Don’t look so worried,” Duncan said. “Your trip to the monastery has been simplified.”

  Later

  As I left the hotel dining room, I congratulated myself on managing Mother’s visit with maximum discretion and minimum disorder. She never suspected a thing—not even about Allie—and sailed through her time here completely unaware of the dangers she was facing.

  Dodie looks much happier, now that her daughter’s out of her hair—staying at a Benedictine hôtellerie in Vézelay with her followers, trying to figure out where the relics are hidden.

  “The nuns gave them a group rate,” Dodie told me. “Ruth says she can feel the presence of the relics.”

  “You must visit the goat farm when we’ve settled in,” Mother said. “Ruth might come for Christmas. Bring Matt!”

  In the lobby, I picked up my phone to call Duncan. Halfway toward the front door, I looked up.

  Milt and Etienne were sitting in adjacent armchairs, slightly sunburned from the golf course. As I walked through the lobby, they were vying for eye contact, the kind you make when nobody else knows you’ve met before. Each was a little too confident of the other man’s ignorance. I tried not to look, but Etienne couldn’t resist a forward smile.

  “This town grows more exotic and beautiful with each passing summer.” He spoke in a sage voice to Milt that was really directed at me.

  “Too true,” Milt agreed, loud enough for me to hear. “Too bad about the lousy plumbing.”

  Plumbing? Surely THAT wasn’t meant for my ears. I walked briskly through the gates to the main street and stopped in front of the Maison de Thé, phone in hand—but Etienne’s voice interrupted my call.

  “It is safe to say hello!” Etienne announced. “Bonjour cocotte, what brings you of all people to this remote place?”

  “Safe for you!” I told him, putting away my phone. “But not for me!” I looked around carefully. “I’m staying in that hotel with my mother.”

  “Ah.” He looked miserable. Then his eyes lit up. “But I’m staying there alone. I have a suite. You stay on the premises? It’s convenient. Your mother goes to sleep early, does she not?”

  At the door of the tea shop, he gestured with his head to a table in the back. “Here, cocotte, for your trouble.” He slipped a hundred euros into my open bag. “You should always carry a pretty bag like this. It’s efficient. Order yourself a refreshment. We will not sit together. If your mother sees us, she sees only a very lonely person trying to chat up her beautiful daughter. Which is natural.”

  There is nothing quite so businesslike as a veteran john. I installed myself at the back table and began reading a magazine. Etienne, at the entrance, was looking out for Milt. When he felt secure that the coast was clear, he wandered into the shop, paused over the vinegar section, then made his way to the table next to me.

  “You move like a panther,” I said quietly. “Nice that these tables are so close together.”

  “It comes from years of practice,” he replied. When a server came within earshot, he made a point of saying, “Vous parlez anglais? Where do you live?”

  I nursed my linden infusion. “I never imagined you in a town like this.”

  “Nor I you,” he said. “I came south to help my cousin’s husband sort out some business matters. He got himself into a spot of trouble. I had a similar dilemma myself, a few years ago, so I’m trying to advise him on possible solutions. But I have to stay at the monastery for a few days because they’re having the house renovated.”

  I almost choked on my tea.

  “There was a plumbing disaster so he can’t have me as a guest. When my cousin’s mother died, I urged her to sell the house. Her husband insists on keeping it. I’ll be very interested to see what a mess he’s made of the renovation. You know these Americans, they overdo everything!”

  “Indeed,” I said, catching my breath. So Etienne’s cousin is … Milt’s wife? It never occurred to me that Milt would have access to French citizenship through his wife. And Milt … didn’t buy that house. It’s been hers all along.

  “Do you have your own room or share with maman?” Etienne asked.

  “Share,” I said quickly. “And your cousin? She must be French.”

  I felt a twinge of guilt, snooping on Milt like this.

  “Yes, but Cécile grew up in Boston, very American. Her mother inherited a rather large house—one of our uncles ran it as a small hotel for many years and he owned a vineyard. He sold the vineyard and kept the building. Céci’s parents used it as a holiday place, but she always hated it. Being a fan of the best things in life, she found it rather lacking.”

  Even if the renovation was financed by my customer, I’ve been having sex every day with my favorite john in a house that technically belongs to his wife. Would it bother me if I weren’t myself a wife? With womanly feelings about my own household?

  All summer, I’ve assumed that Milt paid for this property the way he pays for everything else. It made me feel like a member of his harem, and it never occurred to me that Milt had married into property. Somehow that breaks up my harem fantasy big time.

  “I will be in room 235,” Etienne said.

  “I’ll try,” I replied, “but it’s almost impossible.”

  “You don’t think it would be a tragedy for us to miss this opportunity?”

  With a sad smile, I replied, “Life is littered with manageable tragedies.”

  Later

  Counting and sorting my euros. How to stash them safely for the flight home?

  Milt has said nothing about another visit, or about returning to New York. If his problems have anything in common with Etienne’s, then his solution—to relocate—makes sense. Milt, my bread and butter date, is becoming a foreig
n memory.

  This visit was a generous way to tell me goodbye. I have to accept that nothing lasts forever.

  Besides, I’m trespassing on another woman’s real estate, and that just makes me homesick—for my marriage.

  Wednesday, Air France, Flight 3210

  Allie is conked out in her seat, nestled into her inflatable plaid neck support, with a copy of The Making of the Magdalen on her lap.

  Before falling asleep, she confided, “Lucho’s meeting me at the airport. He doesn’t know about that night with Duncan. Anyway, it only happened once.”

  “Only once?” I said.

  “Only once,” she repeated. “I don’t have to tell Lucho about Duncan as long as Duncan knows about Lucho—isn’t that what you said?” Since when does Allison follow my advice about men? “I made Duncan remove my number from his phone,” she added.

  “You did? Why?”

  “I’m renewing my commitment to Lucho. Duncan wasn’t as upset as I thought he’d be. In fact—” she was pouting just a bit “—he seems to be relieved about Lucho. Do you think I was imagining that?”

  “Um, no. I mean, yes,” I riffed. “Duncan needs time to get over you.” Allie’s face brightened up. “But … how do you know he deleted your number?”

  “I was right there. I made him show me. This way, if I ever tell Lucho, I can tell him about that too.”

  “That was an excellent move,” I told her.

  Allie’s discreet ladylike breathing—she even has a pretty snore—is audible enough to the businessman across the aisle. When he glances her way, he smiles indulgently.

  The latest email from Matt was encouraging:

  Elspeth’s doing better. She’s liking the Prozac and Jason’s back. So it’s safe to come home. I miss you honey.

  The divorce is off, my sister-in-law no longer wants to “prosecute” me, and the wrinkles of her soul have been paralyzed.

  Thursday, July 25 New York

  I’m home again, many euros richer, with all my secrets intact.

  Last night, after three deception-fueled orgasms in the arms of my husband, I closed my eyes. As Matt wrapped an arm around my naked waist—the part of me Duncan touched through my clothes—I felt a shudder passing through my body. What was I thinking when I allowed Duncan to kiss me that afternoon? How could I let something like that happen?