Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “Where do you teach?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “Not!” he exclaimed. “I’m allergic to organizations. Only like to study them.”

  “Independent scholars have to maintain their objectivity,” Miranda said.

  “There’s no such thing,” Ian told her. “What we have to maintain is our funding. I’m currently in league with people at the Ford Foundation. Or should that be in liege to? It’s rather a fine line.”

  “Ford?” Claire said. “I used to audit their books.” Claire’s a chartered accountant. “What do you mean, no such thing? An auditor has to be objective.”

  Later, when Miranda overheard Ian offering me a lift to the hotel, she gave me a worried look.

  “Let Dennis take you,” she said. “Ian’s been drinking all afternoon.”

  “Oh? And Dennis hasn’t?”

  “But Dennis has been driving here all his life, he knows his way around.”

  SATURDAY, 4/28/01

  A phone call this morning from Ian. “What about lunch?” he suggested. “My treat. I’d like to interview you for my book. You might be the key to understanding the Laytons.”

  “But I have no connection to the family business,” I told him. “I know nothing about soft drinks, insurance, or plumbing supplies. I don’t even share the family religion. My mother’s anti-Catholic.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. I’ll book a table downstairs. Unless you’d rather eat by the pool.”

  “Oh god! Not the pool. It’s much too humid. But your timing is excellent.”

  After seven days of hanging out with relatives, I am definitely in the market for some Layton-free downtime. Though, I guess, given the reason for this lunch, Layton-lite is more like it.

  SATURDAY NIGHT, 4/28/01

  Lunch wasn’t exactly Layton-lite. Ian’s been studying my family for almost a year: following Uncle Gregory to the office, interviewing the other uncles, and having the occasional meeting with Anthony. His first question—“Do you mind if I tape this?”—made me fidget with my cutlery.

  “You’ll take this the wrong way, but I’m averse to recorded conversation,” I told him.

  “No worries,” he said, taking out a small notebook. “The tape was only to protect me in case…Shall I trust you not to sue me?”

  “Oh, really. We’re not all lawsuit queens,” I protested. “I’ve never sued anyone in my life! Besides, a true Layton only sues another Layton. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “Quite so. I understand this isn’t the first intra-Layton lawsuit.”

  “I have no idea why my uncles are behaving this way. It’s a turf war, I guess.”

  “Anthony is continuing an old masculine tradition,” Ian said. “It all started when he tried to install his ‘outside son’ as an heir within the company. Following in the footsteps of many European monarchs. A bastard son was trusted more than a legitimate son, because the illegitimate son of a king had nothing to gain from his father’s death. In fact, the bastard son needed his father’s support. He wouldn’t be daydreaming about regicide in his spare time. He might even take steps to prevent it. So, when your outside cousin appeared on the scene, instead of rejecting him, Anthony embraced him.”

  For business reasons!

  “Have you mentioned this to Uncle Anthony? I guess he’d be flattered,” I said. “By the king thing.”

  “Not yet,” Ian said. “He’s rather complex.”

  “Complex? He’s just a youngest son with a bad attitude. I have two younger brothers. I know about these things.”

  “You speak as a sibling and not as a niece.” Ian made a quick note, then looked up with an amused half-smile. “And your mother’s anti-Catholic?”

  “Totally. I never took Communion. Miranda thinks Mother is a free spirit, but she’s very mistaken. My mother watched my diet like a hawk. She was a foot soldier in the war on sugar. No, make that a general. I came down here for summer vacation when I was nine and my cousins were drinking soda, eating candy bars—I couldn’t believe it! Mother was obsessed with our developing teeth. I was never allowed to have soft drinks. Not that I mind. I never had a cavity in my life. I just don’t eat enough sugar.”

  “That’s remarkable. You’re the only Layton I’ve met who hasn’t got a sweet tooth.” He scribbled some more. “So your mother rebelled against sweet drinks and religion. Sugar’s like a religion, isn’t it? I wonder what her relationship with your grandfather was like.”

  “Not good, I think, but don’t quote me on that. He sent her to college in Canada. He didn’t approve of my dad but she came back here and married him anyway. My parents left the island shortly after I was born.”

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  “I once asked my dad, ‘Why do you still have an accent and Mother doesn’t? When did she lose her accent?’ Do you know what he said? I was floored! ‘She always talked like that.’ She adopted her transatlantic accent when she was a teenager. So what does that tell you? And she insists that if it weren’t for her, you know, cultural ambitions, my dad would have stayed right here. For the rest of his life.”

  “Forgive me, but which Layton sister is your mother? I don’t think I’ve met her.”

  “The youngest. Helen. But I don’t know if sugar’s a religion,” I said. “Rejecting sweets isn’t like rejecting God. It’s more like rejecting polyester. Or plastic furniture covers.”

  But soft drinks were my grandfather’s bread and butter. So to speak. In a way, Mother reminds me of the difficult daughter in Mrs. Warren’s Profession. Kitty Warren’s daughter rejects her disreputable mom. But Mrs. Warren’s profession made it possible for the daughter to get an education! So she could reject her own mother!

  I decided not to go there. Ian might scribble it down and open a total can of worms in his next book by making improper analogies. It’s one thing to talk about kings and their illegitimate sons. Another thing to compare Granddaddy with a Shavian madam. I stuck to sugar, instead.

  “Mother convinced me that, even if I liked sweets, and what kid doesn’t, I was superior to every child whose mother allowed soft drinks and candy in the house.”

  “Very effective!” I leaned over to look at Ian’s notepad. He was drawing a chart with arrows and lines. “Isn’t that why British colonialism still matters?” he said. “She internalized the expertise of her colonial rulers and established her own quasicolonial ideology.”

  “I don’t know if I would take it to those extremes. But Miranda might like your theory.” And Mother would not! “The strange thing is, my mother taught me that people who drink soda and eat all these sugar products—these people were tacky and vulgar. Much later I found out my family sells these products. I’ve never told her this, but I feel she hid the truth from me, for as long as she possibly could. About how her family made its money.”

  “I wonder if your mother has time for a conversation with me.”

  I borrowed Ian’s phone and dialed Miranda. She was surprisingly terse when I told her I was lunching with Ian: “Your mother’s upstairs. Should I disturb her?”

  “Just let her know I called. I’ll try later.”

  “Well, thanks for telling me,” she replied.

  “Telling you what?”

  “About your lunch. With Ian.”

  And then she hung up.

  Yikes. What was that about?

  MIDNIGHT

  Finally tracked my mother down—by calling the landline. Thus avoiding Miranda, who seems to be in a snit.

  “Ian Pritchard wants to meet you. He’s an anthropologist,” I told her.

  “He is? He does?” My mother has never heard of him. “What for?”

  “He’s writing a book about the family. Nobody told you? He was at the funeral and wants to interview you.”

  “Is he studying us?”

  “Sort of. Well, yes. I know it sounds weird but he has insights into Uncle Anthony’s behavior that—”

  “You didn’t discuss your uncles’ lawsuit with
him!”

  “Mother, no, I didn’t discuss anything with him. I just had lunch with him. It’s you he wants to interview. Anyway, there’s nothing much about Uncle Anthony that he doesn’t know already. It’s been all over the newspapers, and he’s got access to Anthony. He’s been living here for a year, following Uncle Gregory to court, to the office, everything.”

  “Does Gregory know this?”

  “Of course! Ian’s not a spy, he’s an anthropologist. He’s already written about Granddaddy in his first book.”

  “And nobody told me about him. That’s very strange.”

  “Well, I just told you. But anyway, if you don’t want to meet, I’ll just tell him you’re too busy.” I paused. “He suggested a lunch at the Hilton.”

  “I don’t like the interest he’s taking in your uncle’s lawsuit.”

  Which uncle? And which lawsuit? But I didn’t press the issue.

  “He’s very impartial. He sees it as part of the human…” I stopped myself from saying “comedy”—the last thing my mother wants to hear about her brothers—and opted instead for “…condition.”

  Twenty minutes later, Mother called back.

  “Are you still awake? I spoke to Gregory about Ian Pritchard.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” she said. “I suppose I could meet him. Actually,” she lowered her voice. “I could use a break.”

  I called Ian.

  “My mother’s dying to get away from that compound. I think she’d love to talk. But you mustn’t tell her anything I said today. Well, you can tell her I don’t have a sweet tooth. And she doesn’t want to discuss The Lawsuits.”

  “Understood. Shall I meet her in the restaurant at noon? Tomorrow? Perhaps you could join us for dessert, after the interview.”

  SUNDAY MORNING, 4/29/01

  A pile of e-mails from the last few days, including some cryptic smoke signals from a john.

  Re: Noon

  Possible to compare notes at noon? Meeting downtown until 11. Will call when I leave WTC to come uptown. Don’t call the office today. Something’s up. Not in a good way.

  Darren likes to leave all his messages in code. His next was suggestive but clever, in a boyish way:

  RE: Monday Monday

  Tried to call yr cell! My loss. How about Monday 2:30? Will you have access to your storage unit? If not I arrange a place to put the documents. These documents NEED yr attention! No kidding! A quick read-through is all I have time for. But document’s huge. Or will be. Dentist appt later.

  And his most recent was indiscreet, yet flattering:

  Re: Did you get my message?

  There’s a window of time on Monday and I really want to see you! Call me soon, gorgeous. The coast is now clear. Will your apartment be in use that day? Tell Charmaine to scram so we can get it on. This is a priority. E me over the weekend. Have BlackBerry, will travel.

  I didn’t want to ruin his mood with heavy details, so typed back:

  Family visit. Sorry to be so out of touch this week. Will call the minute I’m free! Is that a BlackBerry in your pocket? R U just happy to hear from me? Apologies to Mae West.

  I changed free to available and hit Send. I was knocked offline by a phone call from Mother, full of questions about Ian Pritchard.

  “Is this man going to ask me about Anthony’s son?”

  “He wants to talk about you. He’s got all these ideas about the transnational family.”

  I didn’t mention his theory about sugarphobic mothering as a form of colonialism.

  “Oh? Well, I’m looking forward to it, I suppose. Miranda’s dropping me off. She says he’s quite accomplished.”

  “And I’ll join you for coffee after your lunch. Why don’t you ask Miranda if she’d like to pop in at the end as well?”

  LATER

  Miranda showed up five minutes after I arrived. She was wearing a saronglike skirt I’ve never seen before, a pair of perfect Prada sandals, and a top that revealed just a flash of midriff. In deference to her aunt who might say something to her father, she made sure the navel stud was covered.

  When she sat near Ian, it was the first time I fully realized how madly she adores him, how badly she wants him to want her. No wonder she was snippy with me the other day! I feel sorry for Chris who could never, in a million years, have this effect on Miranda.

  Ian doesn’t seem to realize that he should flirt back, if he cares about her feelings. If he has any manners! Men can be such jerks.

  Instead, his eyes were trained on my mother in her loose tiedyed shirt, sipping coffee while he reloaded his tape machine. She turned to look at Miranda.

  “My goodness, you look very stylish,” Mother said.

  Finally, Ian stopped focusing on the Laytons in general in order to give his full attention to one in particular. Miranda’s lips parted with raw delight when he gazed with approval at her clingy top and her bare arms. But he still wasn’t getting it. I felt a pang of frustration, remembering that summer when I fell for Miranda’s older brother—who barely knew I existed because, after all, I was only nine and he was twelve.

  When Ian returned to the inevitable subject, Mother told him: “V.S. Naipaul came from a huge family. So there was a Naipaul in every classroom. One of his sisters went to India.…She was older than my year. I remember when she returned from her trip and came back to the convent for a visit. Her appearance in sari really caused a stir! I remember how elegant she seemed, though I only got a glimpse. We felt so drab in our shapeless uniforms and she was wearing this beautiful sari! But this was something new. People in saris were mostly market women, food vendors. I wasn’t used to meeting ladies in saris.…Things changed.”

  Miranda stared at my mother in awe. You don’t expect to hear fashion history about the Naipauls or fashion commentary from my mother. And we’ve never heard this story. It’s amazing what a stranger can bring out in your own mother.

  And your cousin, too. Miranda is so ready to bed this man. Is Ian just playing dumb because he doesn’t want to seem like a lecher in the presence of her aunt? The age gap’s much more than it was with Dennis and me—technically, Miranda could be his daughter.

  Suddenly, Miranda’s phone was bleating.

  “Yes? Oh hello, Matt. Not bad, considering. Actually, she’s right here.”

  As the only Layton who can be bothered with a GSM phone, she has become a call magnet during this trip—but Matt has my room number and knows how to leave a message.

  Her slim brown arm extended across the table and brushed Ian’s sleeve.

  “Honey?” My husband, sounding tense and perplexed. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Shall I call you later?”

  “I found something in the guest bathroom. Under the sink.”

  Is that possible? But he never goes in there! I said nothing and closed my eyes in horror.

  “Are you there?”

  “What—what is it?”

  “I found almost ten thousand dollars rolled up in an empty tampon box.”

  For one mad second, I thought about denying it all. It could have been sitting there when we moved in, couldn’t it? But he’ll never believe that—he’ll know it’s mine because it was wrapped in rubber bands and stashed in a box with a spare key to my other apartment. And the spare key’s on the Tiffany key ring he gave me when we first met!

  “You did?” I said weakly.

  Miranda looked at me oddly but Mother was completely engrossed in her conversation with Ian.

  “Is it yours?” Matt asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What kind of—why was it sitting under the sink?”

  But why was he nosing around under the sink? That’s not like him at all.

  “Can I call you from my room? I’m having lunch with my mother.”

  “But where did all this money come from? I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll discuss it later.”

  He sighed. Then his voice became much harder.

 
; “I deserve an explanation. If you’re in some kind of trouble this could affect me, too.”

  “I’m not in any kind of trouble!” I squeaked. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Now my mother was paying close attention. Ian was, too. “This trip has been stressful enough! I can’t talk right now.”

  I passed the phone back to Miranda and stared accusingly at Ian’s tape machine.

  “Was that recording? I have to go upstairs. Something terrible happened. I have to call New York.”

  But what do I tell Matt? How can I explain the money?

  My room phone has been ringing and ringing for the last five minutes. It could be Miranda. It could be Matt.

  I’m afraid to answer.

  9

  The Rise of the Fallen Woman

  MONDAY, 4/30/01

  God. Well, I hope I have this under control but it’s hard to tell. My e-mail to Matt was brief:

  Honey. Please don’t call right now. I’m sorry I blew up like that but I’m totally stressed out. Things are not going well with Mother. Sebastian went missing and he was supposed to be a pallbearer. Everybody’s upset. I will explain everything when I get home. I’m not feeling well, and it’s hard to talk. I guess I’m not used to all this island food!

  Actually, I have a cast-iron stomach, like the rest of my family. There’s nothing I can’t digest! But Matt lives in a different world. Island Food conjures up a major challenge to his senses, not to mention his Anglo-Saxon digestive tract. I knew intuitively that marrying a WASP was the best option for a girl like me, but wasn’t sure why exactly. Now I know.

  His response:

  But what should I DO with this? Are you crazy? Under the sink? I can’t leave it in the apartment.

  My husband deals with huge amounts of money every day, in the abstract, but he rarely handles the stuff—physically—in bulk amounts. We really do live in different worlds.