Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  I waited five hours to reply:

  do what u think best

  cant stay online right now feeling weak/need to sleep

  will call xxoo

  Hopefully, the thought of his delicate wife napping at four pm, too weak to punctuate her e-mail due to digestive distress will keep him at bay.

  But why was he snooping in the guest bathroom? Did he have a visitor? Was somebody using our bathroom? Is he cheating on me??? Would he do that? In our apartment?

  LATER

  Still dodging the phone calls. But checking voice mail.

  I’ve got the 21st Century Vapors.

  Back in the good old days, whenever the going got weird, a married lady had a spell of the vapors. When we run out of new ways to have the vapors, we’ll know the institution of marriage is really dead.

  Fortunately we’re not quite there yet.

  THURSDAY, 5/3/01. FLIGHT 501 HOMEWARD BOUND

  Pleading discomfort, I delayed my flight for an extra day and spent some quality time with Mother. She seems to believe my explanation—that Matt and I had a misunderstanding about a confused debt collector.

  I fantasized about staying at the upside-down Hilton forever but e-mail from Elspeth brought me to my senses:

  We saw Matt last night and he’s not himself! Are you coming to Janet’s baby shower? Will you be back in time?

  A baby shower for Elspeth’s neighbor. I would love to miss that.

  But more to the point, I wonder if Matt told Elspeth about the money? Whatever excuse I have for keeping ten grand in a tampon box—whatever story I come up with, will it also have to fly with Elspeth? What does she know and when will I know that she knows it? If she knows about his discovery, she must think my disorder sounds “convenient.”

  But maybe she’s not as tuned in as I fear she is. My sister-in-law’s the type of woman who doesn’t do vapors. If Elspeth had lived a century ago, she wouldn’t have bothered with marriage. She would have been a well-born spinster, running a good works project, whizzing around on a bicycle in her divided skirt, rather self-satisfied. Women like that never had the vapors. Today they must “have it all”—or at least have sex which invariably leads to relationships with men which leads to marriage and—

  What would a girl like me have been up to? Dying in a hospital ward of syphilis? Surrounded by flowers and grateful suitors?

  Only if you were high class. If not, I think syphilis was a lot less romantic.

  Thank god for condoms. And other things, like my covert supply of monophasic birth control pills. I took my first pill on Sunday morning. Then emptied the pack into an Advil bottle. But I’ll have to find a better way to disguise them because Matt (a) knows what an Advil looks like and (b) might need to take one. And (c) he can’t be trusted to stay out of my normal hiding places anymore.

  I mean, how did he end up looking through my tampon supply? It doesn’t make sense. Unless somebody—someone female—was hanging out. In our apartment. And suddenly asked him for a spare tampon.…

  It can’t be Elspeth. She’s breast-feeding! Friend? Ex-girlfriend? You have to be on very intimate terms with a guy to hit him up for a tampon! Personally, I’ve never been that intimate with Matt. Or any guy.

  A crazy pickup? Would he do something like that? I don’t know who my husband is anymore.

  Thinking cap is on. But the brilliant alibis elude me. Oh my god. I have to find an explanation for this money. Before I land.

  FRIDAY, 5/4/01

  Last night, I timed my arrival to be home before Matt left the office. My plan was to get back to the apartment, run a bath, unpack, and greet Matt in style. Instead, the flight circled JFK interminably and landed on the runway long after Matt had finished an entire pizza. So much for style. I felt like a limp rag when he greeted me, but was determined to stay on the offensive. “There’s something I would like to discuss,” I told him. “If you don’t want to, fine. I respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask what you were doing while I was away.”

  Matt looked surprised.

  “Doing? Eighty percent of my compensation is bonus. What do you think I’ve been doing. I’m working on a deal.”

  “Did you have a visitor?”

  “You mean a houseguest?”

  “You know what I mean! Don’t make me spell it out!”

  “Would you calm down? Why don’t you spell it out? I have no idea what you mean!”

  “Don’t I have a right to know who was borrowing my tampons?”

  If he says Elspeth, I’ll know he’s lying!

  “I guess so. But nobody was borrowing your stuff, honey.” He shook his head. “You need to rest. You’ve been flying all day and you need to rehydrate. Take your shoes off.” He propelled me toward the kitchen and poured a glass of water. Then he took my hand. “I’ll show you what I was doing.”

  He pulled me toward the guest bathroom and opened the door. Oh my god. The original sink has been replaced with a gorgeous stand alone model. Wraparound shelving eliminates all privacy, and tampon boxes in three sizes are neatly stored on one wall, along with my thong liners. They were under the old basin for a reason, of course, but I don’t want to criticize the new aesthetic. He really put his heart into this renovation! Although I don’t think my sanitary supplies—which he was never supposed to see—should be out on display.

  “You…had this done while I was away?”

  “I did it myself.”

  “You repainted, too? But you couldn’t have installed the new sink!”

  “Well, I got someone to help with the sink. I did the shelves. And the paint.”

  “And you picked everything out?”

  “Of course!”

  “Oh honey. It’s gorgeous. I never imagined…”

  Without saying anything, he reached out to hold me. Tears of relief were flowing down my cheeks.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he said gently. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I thought—I thought you had one of your ex-girlfriends over for old times’ sake and she asked you for a tampon!”

  “You what? I put your stuff on the tank and a couple of boxes fell when I was moving the old sink! Why would I—” He stopped talking abruptly and held me tighter. “How could you think that?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered, nestling against his shoulder. Everything was okay again. Sort of. I broke away to blow my nose. “I want to explain about the money,” I lied. Well, this might be the best time to do it. “Where did you put it?”

  “I got a box at the bank. You can have the key. We have to go in together and put it in both names.”

  The money I got…from all those other men…is currently in a box that only my husband has access to! I tried not to show my dismay. I have to get that key from him, but I don’t want to seem too eager.

  “Did you—did you tell anyone about this?” I tried not to look concerned. I don’t want him to lie about whether he blabbed. “It’s better for me to know.” Confronting this money together—I never planned for this. It was supposed to be my personal treasure. Secret insurance. Having something that nobody knows about makes me feel safe. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Of course not.” His hands on my waist felt so firm. “Let’s open a bottle of wine.” Is he trying to make me more talkative? “You must be starving.”

  “Not really,” I said. “I’ve been feeling rather delicate,” I reminded him. “Can we open the wine in bed?” The best place to execute all your confessions. “I need to lie down.”

  In the bedroom, I waited, clad in my good girl pajamas, lit by the glow of a lavender-scented candle. He placed a glass of zinfandel next to my side of the bed.

  “There’s something I never told you.” I took a sip. “Please don’t be upset with me?” He stroked my hair as I imbibed. “And promise me you won’t tell Elspeth about this? You have to keep it between us.”

  “Okay,” he murmured, sliding closer to me. “But I think you worry about Elspeth too much. What does Elspeth
have to do with any of this?”

  Nothing, I hope!

  “She’s a prosecutor,” I pointed out.

  “Was a prosecutor. Not anymo—” Suddenly, he pulled away from me. “Did you steal that money?”

  “No!” I cried. “I didn’t steal it, I—”

  Earned it, I almost blurted. But stopped myself in the nick of time.

  I grabbed the wineglass and almost upset the contents on my pajama top. He reached out to steady my hand.

  “Nancy, listen to me.” He held my wrist with one hand and removed my glass with the other. “Don’t have anything else to drink. You need to keep your mind clear. Talk to me.” I was perspiring with fear and anger. How dare he suggest that I stole my own hard-earned stash! I wanted to scream, I’m a liar, not a crook. “Tell me everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “If you’re in trouble, I’ll make sure you have the best lawyer we can afford. Don’t lie to me. And don’t worry about my sister. I’ll protect you, I promise. But only if you tell me what’s going on. I can’t help unless you’re upfront with me. We’re partners—. Honey, please don’t cry. You need to talk to me.”

  “But I’m not in trouble with the law!” I insisted. Only with my husband! “And I can’t believe you would accuse me of stealing!”

  “Honey, no.” He grabbed my shoulders, hard. “That’s not true. I didn’t accuse you. I said I would be there for you if you did! There’s a difference,” he added softly. “A big difference.”

  My heart was beating madly. He would be there for me if—?

  “What are you saying? You’d be okay with it if I stole? I don’t get it!”

  “Look, I’m a banker. Not a prosecutor. My sister’s the prosecutor. Was,” he corrected himself. “If you’ve done something, I’ll do what I can to keep us both out of trouble. If you need a lawyer—”

  “Stop that!” I exclaimed. “I am not a thief, okay? I’m just subletting my apartment!”

  He blinked.

  “You’re what?”

  “I—I didn’t want you to know. I never gave up my old apartment.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I’ve got an illegal subletter and that money I saved—she pays cash.”

  “But why—” He grew quiet and looked utterly deflated. Had he been turned on by the idea of being married to a larcenous ripoff artist? Did I let the air out of that one too quickly? After a few moments of contemplation and some more wine, he said in a flat voice: “Why did you lie about it?”

  “I didn’t. You never asked.”

  He nodded slowly. He was looking a little dazed.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It never occurred to me. You didn’t lie.”

  “Are you angry at me? I didn’t know how to tell you. I thought—”

  “No,” he interrupted. “Why should I be angry?”

  “I thought you would take it the wrong way. You might resent it.”

  He sighed.

  “You really are crazy. Can I ask what you’re charging?”

  “Almost…” What should I be charging? “…nineteen hundred.”

  “You could get twenty-five hundred for your place! Ask for more!”

  “But she gave key money. I don’t want to soak this girl! She’s a struggling actress!”

  He handed me my glass. “Does this mean I can have some wine?”

  “We both need it,” he said. “‘But why are you worried about Elspeth? I won’t tell her. You asked me not to. But what do you care if she knows?”

  “It’s illegal! My name’s on two leases. And one’s rent stabilized.”

  “But it’s not like you’re breaking the law. I mean, you’re breaking the law but you’re not committing a crime.”

  “Oh?” My husband’s logic feels oddly familiar. “How so?”

  “You’re not supposed to have a rent-stabilized lease if you don’t live there. But you can’t go to jail for having two leases. You can’t be prosecuted. You would just have to leave the other apartment. Honey.” Holding both of my hands, he looked into my eyes. “Why did you hide this from me?”

  “I don’t know.” This lie felt more true than fake. I really don’t know why—why I was so shortsighted. Why didn’t I think up an airtight story before we married? “I was afraid,” I said finally. “I thought you might object and then I wouldn’t have this extra income. I didn’t want you to take it away from me.”

  My good girl PJs were no impediment to making up. He started unbuttoning the top.

  “Did you—did you mean what you said before?” I asked him. “About…” I suddenly felt too shy to say the words.

  “…looking out for you?” He opened the last button and leaned over to kiss my neck. I felt his lips against my earlobe, my pajamas sliding away from my hips. “More than you realize.”

  LATER

  At two-thirty this afternoon, I was struck by a terrible realization. I called Charmaine pronto.

  “Can I call you back?” she asked.

  “No,” I told her. “We need to change the top lock. Today. Now. Yesterday. I’m calling the locksmith as soon as we hang up.”

  “Can’t we do it later? I’m getting ready to see someone. I’ve had a slow week!”

  “You don’t get it!” I said. “This is urgent. After your guy leaves, we need to change the lock.”

  “What happened?”

  Getting into my recent ordeal would be too embarrassing.

  “You have to trust my judgment,” I said. “I’m doing this for us.”

  In the aftermath of making up, I forgot to ask Matt what he did with the apartment key. It was hidden under the money. Did he put it in the safe-deposit box with my cash? Accidentally discard it? He never mentioned it, not once. I looked in every conceivable area of the bedroom and bathroom. Calling him in the middle of his day will just draw too much attention to my other apartment. Fine, so now he knows I still have the lease, but I want him to stop thinking about that place. Put it out of his mind. What if he held on to the key? Is it on his key ring? Anything’s possible, and I have to—no matter how much I trust him, I have to be sure he doesn’t have access to the place where…!

  “I can’t tell you why,” I said. “But my conscience won’t rest until we change that lock. Somebody else has access to the apartment now—”

  “Call the locksmith!” Charmaine said quickly. “I’ll cancel my date.”

  I rushed uptown and met the locksmith in the lobby. As agreed, Charmaine stayed in the bedroom, out of sight. Tony’s shop is right around the corner. He’s one of those neighborhood guys you can totally count on, but who knows whether he gossips with our super? As soon as he was gone, Charmaine came out of hiding, dressed for her next date.

  “Is it okay now? Who got the key? What happened?”

  “I can’t tell you. Here’s your key.”

  “Why?” There was a new, unexpected sharpness in her voice. “Don’t I deserve an explanation? I live here. I turn tricks here! How could you let someone else have the key?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake. I didn’t do anything of the sort. And I can’t tell you what happened right now. But I didn’t endanger you.”

  “How long did you wait to tell me about this problem?”

  “Ten minutes! I am on top of this. Okay?”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Why would I lie to you?”

  “Because,” she said, heading toward the bedroom, “everybody fucking lies to everybody! And I think the least you could do is tell me the truth when we’re in this together! My phone was dead, all week, no business. I finally have a good day and you come in here and wreck it—and—and—I’m sick of living with all these lies!”

  She slammed the door behind her. I sank onto the couch and waited. I could hear Charmaine blowing her nose. But Charmaine’s a loner, she doesn’t want me in there playing big sister. She needs to get a grip so she can see her next guy. When she came out, she was calmer.

  “I’m sor
ry,” she said. “I freaked out when you told me about the key. I’m glad we changed the locks.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” I insisted. “I can’t let my husband have access to this place.”

  “Your…husband?” She looked stricken. “Does he know?”

  “Of course not! He knows you exist—I had to tell him that, but he doesn’t have a clue what you’re doing here. And he doesn’t know your name. He thinks you’re an actress. If you ever meet him, for any reason, that’s what you tell him. You’re trying to make it as an actress and you work for a catering firm. You’re a temp. A waitress. Something actressy.”

  Wait a minute. What did Charmaine say? About living with lies? Aside from all the usual “suspects”—our landlord, the super, and her parents—who else is she lying to? Is she having a love affair? She’s a hard one to read, and doesn’t ask nosy questions about boyfriends or husbands.

  It’s unwritten but strictly observed: you can’t just ask another girl about her problems with men or her family unless she gives you the signal. Not if you want to do business together and stay on good terms.

  SATURDAY, 5/5/01

  Matt hasn’t said one word about going to the bank together and putting my name on the box, but I haven’t said anything either. The less I say, the better, as far as I’m concerned. I’d like him to think it’s his idea to give me access to my own money. Is this the right strategy? The last few days have been scary enough, and I need to make sure things feel back to normal around here.

  Last night, I went through his pockets while he was showering, hoping to find the key to my apartment. The key is useless now but that’s not the point: You must never stop trying to understand what makes your husband tick. Never take your husband’s psyche for granted. When you think you have him figured out, that’s when disaster strikes.…Where he put the key will tell me a lot about what he’s thinking. So, it’s not on his key ring or in his wallet. Maybe it’s in the bank vault, after all.