Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “Oh?” Ian looked at me quizzically. “I won’t if you both prefer, but it’s hardly a secret—people, places, and things all have names.”

  I was completely mystified. As Ian turned to greet someone, Miranda waved at the entrance. “Matt’s looking for us! Why can’t he see us?”

  I felt my phone vibrating in my bag and spied my husband holding his phone to his ear, but my cell phone access was blocked—by the ruthless cosmo in my right hand. When we caught up with him, he looked surprised.

  “You made it!” said Miranda. “I saw you coming in but I couldn’t catch your eye. It’s starting to feel like a pattern!” she added.

  Matt grabbed a drink from a passing tray. He placed an arm around my waist and I could tell that he was inhaling my perfume. He pressed a little closer.

  “I saw Matt—well, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was Matt’s lookalike,” Miranda told us. “But I thought I saw Matt coming out of an apartment building on Wednesday afternoon—and I tried to catch up with him.” Matt seemed to be drinking more rapidly than usual. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

  “Wednesday? I spent the whole day in, uh, meetings. In the office. Couldn’t have been me.”

  “This guy looked just like you but when I tried to get his attention, he started walking very fast. And he almost fell over trying to hail a cab.”

  “That doesn’t sound at all like Matt!” I exclaimed.

  “No,” Miranda said gaily. “It couldn’t be. But you know how sometimes you see a person who just has that—well, there’s someone out there who looks just like Matt. Come to think of it, everybody knows bankers never get out of the office until midnight!” She patted Matt’s shoulder. “You have an evil twin!”

  Before I could ask where she had seen my husband’s body double, she half-yelped, “Be right back!” and walked briskly toward the circle surrounding Ian. I felt Matt’s body relaxing somewhat.

  He pressed his lips against my right temple. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in three days,” he sighed. “You look gorgeous tonight.…Let’s go to La Goulue. I’ll see if I can get us a table.”

  As my husband negotiated a table for two, I could see Miranda and Ian in animated conversation with a small group. Miranda was shaking hands with a handsome olive-skinned man and…it couldn’t possibly be!

  Allison?

  She hadn’t noticed me yet. Too busy enjoying her cocktail. If we could just slip out of the room without being waylaid by Miranda, I can avoid Allison.…I looked around frantically for an exit. Allie and her companion were very cozy. That must—with his dark eyes and thick wavy hair—be Lucho. Ian and Lucho hugged like long-lost buddies. Omigosh. Is this chronicler of the Layton Saga actually Lucho’s friend? A colleague of my former best friend’s boyfriend? Allison, chatting to Miranda, was looking much too happy, and Miranda was giggling madly like a girl with a new playmate. If I had a fire hose…I’d spray them down right now.

  “An hour?” Matt was saying. “Nothing sooner?”

  “Let’s just take the reservation and go!” I hissed at him. “If we show up early, we might get lucky!”

  “Hold on,” he told me. “I’m trying Verbena.”

  Allison’s face lit up as she spotted me across the room. I’ve been missing her calls for a week, but she seems to have no idea this is intentional. When she waved at me, Miranda turned around. Both girls were now urging me with expansive arm gestures to join the crowd. Did they both realize they were waving at the same person?

  I moved closer to my husband, clinging to his jacket sleeve for dear life. Then, fearing that the foursome might be moving toward us, I chose the lesser evil and went over. “I’m just going to talk to some people,” I mumbled.

  Matt—engrossed in the pursuit of a table—retreated toward the stairs with his phone.

  “Poor Matt!” Miranda laughed. “Slaving away in the middle of all this. Nancy’s husband is a banker. He gets no rest.”

  “I am Lucho Rivera,” said Allie’s date, extending a hand. “Allison has told me so much about you.”

  “About…? Maybe a different Nancy?” I ventured.

  “Maybe so!” He gave a courtly smile. “But whichever Nancy it was—she said charming things. I think,” he turned to Allison, “I have trouble keeping all those Nancies in your life entirely straight.”

  Lucho didn’t miss a beat. He’s sharper than the average boyfriend—which shouldn’t surprise me. But it does.

  “It’s amazing!” said Allie. “I never thought I’d run into you here! Did you get my voice mail?”

  “My, ah, voice mail is a mess! I don’t know what’s going on.” I was dying to find out how Lucho knows Ian, but questions about that might provoke more of a conversation about me. I was eager to avoid that—and to pry Miranda away from Allison, who might, after one more sip, feel empowered enough to share her personal story! What wheels might start churning in Miranda’s mind if she discovers that her own cousin is acquainted with…a member of the New York Council of Trollops? I’m as attached as she is to my slightly uptight image.

  When my bag started buzzing, I looked around for my husband and quickly found my phone.

  “Where are you?”

  “I got us a table,” Matt said.

  “Can we add a third?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Come outside. We’re going to La Goulue.”

  “But Miranda might—hello?”

  Matt was gone. Strange! But I wasn’t quite ready to join him. When Ian was pulled away by two handlers, I held my breath. I can’t leave Miranda in chat mode with Allison!

  Much to my relief, Miranda was unwilling to play it cool with Ian. She was here to get into his pants and, when she realized what had happened, she followed him downstairs. Maybe her bohemian dating strategy will actually save my neocon reputation: if she stays focused on her mission for the rest of the evening, she might never talk to Allison again.

  “Matt’s had a rough day,” I told Allie and Lucho. “He just organized a romantic dinner for the two of us. I’d better not dawdle.”

  “Romance is a priority,” Lucho said. His eyes twinkled with intelligent mischief. “Your husband knows what he wants. And should therefore have it.”

  On the sidewalk, Matt was pacing nervously, talking on his phone. I heard fragments of deal jargon: “Black-Scholes…disastrous model…and what if they decide to read the thing? We’ve had ten conversations about this and you’re telling me…”

  Despite his tone, he looked blissful when he saw me approaching. He grabbed my hand and ended his call. In the cab, as we headed uptown, he was eager to hear more about Allie and Lucho.

  “Was that Allison’s new boyfriend? What does he do? We should have dinner with them sometime.”

  Later, we sat, knees gently touching, at our favorite corner table, and I didn’t have the heart to ask why he was avoiding Miranda. I was too grateful for my own escape.

  I couldn’t ask but I couldn’t help wondering. Much as I want to, I can’t deny what I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own ears. Miranda had a near-encounter…with Matt’s double? There are guys who look like my husband, I suppose. But…his reaction, his sudden disappearance, just at the moment when all the elements of my life were threatening to become entangled?

  Too good to be true.

  Last night, for all the wrong reasons, we had what every healthy marriage needs in order to survive. A shared goal. A common purpose. Complementary needs.

  What if this is as mutual as it gets?

  SATURDAY, 6/16/01

  Why did Matt really start using condoms? Was I kidding myself about my own cleverness? Could his renewed commitment to condoms have something to do with…that odd business of (perhaps) being spotted by Miranda in the middle of the day?

  If so, then what about his sudden interest in Catholic issues? Was that some clever ploy on his part? All this time, when I thought I was operating like a Cold War mole…Is Matt capable of doing the same? Could it be that he’s b
eating me at my own game?

  There is one solution to being outsmarted. Play dumb. In short, outsmart him right back. But where does that really get me, other than the catbird seat?

  LATER

  Today, a call from Miranda dying to gossip about the party.

  “How do you know those friends of Ian?” she asked. “They’re a good-looking couple, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, from around the neighborhood,” I said. “I used to go to Allison’s gym.”

  “They’re the last people I’d expect you to be hanging out with! Lucho’s so lefty.” Miranda giggled. “And his girlfriend’s a hoot! What does she do?”

  “I always thought Allison was a little deranged. She makes up these bizarre stories. Well, I think she makes them up. She’s very nice, but I’d keep a healthy distance if I were you.”

  I felt a tiny prick of remorse over this comment, but the guilt passed: it’s not like I’m depriving Allie of a business opportunity.

  I was dying to ask Miranda about that strange conversation with Matt. Where exactly was she when she “didn’t really” spot Matt? How do I ask? Without sounding like a neoharridan?

  In the eyes of the world—well, in the eyes of my cousin—a question like that would weaken my marriage. I can’t have people thinking that I doubt my husband’s integrity or devotion when we’re still newlyweds! And there’s nothing more uncool than being labeled as a snoopy wife.

  Instead, I asked about Ian’s schoolmate, Miranda’s boss. The one who’s not supposed to know about our family.

  “What was all that about not telling Jane Berry? I thought you were quite proud of Ian’s research! Don’t you want your friends at the museum to know all about it?”

  “I am,” she said. “But it’s complicated. Nobody at work knows about our family. They all think I’m Afro-Caribbean.”

  “They what? How did they get that idea?”

  Miranda so wishes! But it’s me who’s got the Afro-infusion, somewhere in Dad’s lineage. I’ve always had to keep that quiet on my job but Miranda, who works for a museum, is stretching the truth—way the other direction. Did she make this up to get her job? Or is it a story she invented to go with her Rasta hat?

  “Did you, um, say this when you were applying for your job?” I asked.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “Well, sort of. Anyway, if that’s what people think, why not let them?”

  New Yorkers of any color don’t think “Miranda Layton” sounds Chinese. But Layton comes from a Chinese ancestor, an indentured servant in Guyana trying to simplify his paperwork by adopting his employer’s name. And now Miranda’s going around telling her New York friends that the Laytons…are descended from African slaves?

  “Does your mother know about this?” I asked.

  “Of course not. You know how she is!”

  I do, indeed. Aunt Kasturi, who gave Miranda that brown complexion, would not relate to her daughter’s racial ruse. Call it a generational quirk.

  The things we manage to hide from our mothers!

  SUNDAY, 6/17/01

  This morning, I felt compelled to answer Allie’s e-mail before deleting her message from my inbox:

  Dear Nancy, What’s going on with your phone? I’ve tried to call you to give you an update on Noi’s situation. It was great seeing you the other night! Too bad we didn’t get a chance to hang out with Matt. And your cousin seems really cool! Love, A.

  I quickly wrote back:

  My cousin’s very nice but somewhat unstable. Not someone you should get friendly with. I’ll explain later. But I urge you to be cautious around her. Let me know if she tries to contact you.

  I should feel guilty, but what else can I do? As for Noi, I’m afraid to ask what the update might be.

  SUNDAY NIGHT

  Matt is still at the office. This shouldn’t bother me since I know that bankers keep strange hours. But…is he really working on a deal? Even if he is, does that explain his behavior?

  Why has he stopped asking me to take a position on therapy? He’s no longer pushing me to meet him on his terms, and he acts like he’s more committed than ever to preventing a pregnancy.

  What’s the real reason for Matt’s sudden change of mind? For being at the office until ten pm on a weekend? Last night, he was affectionate but rather silent. The quieter he gets, the more tender, like he’s trying to compensate for something. Is Matt having an affair with someone who doesn’t use condoms? That would really piss me off.

  16

  Attics and Basements

  MONDAY, 6/18/01

  This morning, I cornered my husband in the breakfast nook while he was pouring a second cup of coffee: “I spoke to Miranda last night.” Matt looked wary. “There’s a party,” I lied, “at her boss’s apartment. Tomorrow. She wants us to come.”

  If he says yes, I can always change my mind.

  “I may have to work,” he said abruptly.

  This confirmed my suspicions. He’s totally avoiding Miranda.

  “Are you still thinking about relationship therapy?”

  Matt looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee, allowing both topics to hang before us.

  “Would you agree to having our children baptized?” I asked him. “The way I was? Then they’ll always have the option.” Backing down completely would be unnatural. “Maybe Catholic school isn’t really the answer,” I added.

  Matt’s arm circled my waist, pulling me close.

  “I…I was hoping you’d come to this conclusion.”

  “Why didn’t you suggest it, then?”

  “Because…” he sighed. “I was going to. I should have.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s something I have to tell you. If I don’t, someone else might. Well, someone has, in a way. Already.”

  “What are you talking about?” I had to pretend not to know he was talking about Miranda, after bringing up her name to test his reaction. I looked into his eyes and he looked straight into mine for the first time in many days.

  “Miranda saw me on Eighty-seventh Street.”

  Feigning confusion, I asked, “When? What do you mean?” I don’t want Matt to think I remember their conversation in so much detail.…Hang on a second. Did he just say Eighty-seventh Street?

  “Last week, I almost ran into Miranda on East Eighty-seventh in the middle of the day. It was really embarrassing. I felt like an idiot.”

  “You mean when she saw that guy who looked just like—. That was you? But you said—”

  “I know what I said. It was me.”

  “But it couldn’t be!”

  My entire system is based on the premise that Matt is nowhere near the Upper East Side, especially in the afternoon!

  “Honey…” He cleared his throat. “When we found this apartment, a buddy of mine asked me to do him a favor. It’s kind of weird. I should have told you this a long time ago.”

  “Maybe it’s not something I need to know,” I said in a shaky voice.

  “I don’t want us to have secrets.” He looked at the microwave clock. “Can we talk about this later? I promise—”

  “No!” I was at my wit’s end. “Don’t tell me anything! Don’t promise me anything! What are you talking about?”

  “I just want time to sit down and explain—”

  “What is there to explain?”

  “I never gave up my apartment! When we moved in here, I just kept paying the rent on my old apartment.”

  “But—but—you never—when I told you—”

  “When you told me about your apartment, I wanted to tell you about mine but I felt guilty. Your situation makes a profit.”

  “You’re not subletting? What are you—” I was afraid to ask.

  “I can’t justify the expense,” he said. “It started out as a favor for a buddy. He wanted a place to hang out with…” I tried to look uncomprehending. I wanted him to spare me these lurid detai
ls, but straight people, when the going gets rough, have a tendency to get graphic. “Gary was seeing—having an affair. She’s married, too.”

  “Gary? That guy from your office? The one who lives in Scarsdale?”

  “So does she. They’re neighbors.”

  “I can’t believe you’re—you’re involved in something so tacky!”

  “Neither can I.” He looked sheepish and ashamed. “I promise I’ll never do something like that. But I wanted a bolt hole, a place to be alone. I love you. I’m committed to this relationship, to our life together. But when I was growing up, my dad always had a room in the basement where he could go and bang on a piece of wood or something. When we signed the lease here, I felt my options closing off. Gary was just there at the right time. When you told me about your place…”

  I suddenly remembered Matt explaining the ins and outs of rent stabilization, how it works and what would really happen if my landlord finds out. He knew way too much about the New York housing laws. Why didn’t I guess?

  “…I wanted to tell you about mine but I was afraid you would stop trusting me. I’m not having an affair, Nancy. Please don’t look at me like that.”

  “But what do you do there?”

  “I watched the whole World Series last year without ever turning on the set in our apartment. Or having to negotiate with you. Maybe that was a cop-out. I’m sorry. I just wanted a little male space.”

  But he said he was at the office! How much time does he spend at the office and how much…?

  “Last week, Gary’s wife found out about the affair. He told her everything. She got hold of the key, went in there, and smashed the TV set. She caused a flood in the bathroom and poured orange juice all over the mattress and the carpet. Then she called the landlord. The day I ran into Miranda, I was up there trying to straighten things out. It’s a disgusting mess.”