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I was pleased to hear him put it in those terms. The other night, when we were alone, he didn’t seem so convinced. Maybe he’s being loyal to us. But, almost as soon as I had opened my mouth, I was wondering if Elspeth might be bending the truth, to hide the fact that she’s campaigning AGAINST Sacred Heart, and recruiting my husband as her ally.
“Have you looked at the SAT scores?” She came out of the kitchen with a large watering can in her hand. “I applaud you both for considering single-sex education, especially if you have a girl, but you have to look at the bigger picture, and if you plan on having one child—” I don’t recall telling her that. Did Matt? “—don’t you think it’ll be nice for all our kids to be at the same school? So yours won’t be all alone?”
“I haven’t decided—”
“We’ll have a buddy system!” she continued, heading toward the window. “It’ll be so much easier for us both. You know? I can pick yours up—or whatever. You’d better hurry up and get pregnant though! We don’t want them too far apart! And we’ll all have a chance to get to know each other better!”
By the time Matt arrived, and Elspeth had finished watering her plants, I was a nervous wreck. Strangely enough, she didn’t say one word about school during our dinner at Island.
Though I tried to muffle my anxiety in crab cakes washed down with mineral water, I was beginning to feel less smug about Jason’s absence. He sometimes puts in a good word for Loyola. Was he excluded from this dinner on purpose? And my husband’s lateness—whose idea was THAT?
In the cab, on the way back to Thirty-fourth Street, Matt squeezed my shoulder gently.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Getting to Elspeth’s! I don’t think we should discuss our plans with her when I’m still trying to get pregnant.” As he looked into my eyes, I felt like the object of a scam. “You have no idea how insensitive she can be!”
“Come on, honey.” Matt drew me closer, and I took refuge in my latest secret. “She’s just having a conversation with you.”
Something in his confident manner made me quite sure he was late on purpose. To please his sister, or persuade me to listen to Protestant reason.
But—what if Elspeth decides to go back to her job? Is she setting me up to become the babysitting aunt who ferries her twins home from school? Motherhood—the way I see it—is going to be an airtight cover for my business. The whole idea is to appear not to be working so I can work! But Elspeth may have other plans for me.
Later, I made a point of being the first in bed, so I could be asleep.
I was dozing on my side when Matt pulled back the sheet. Waiting for the cotton to slide back over my torso, I smiled and reached out. Touching him made me forget our conversation in the cab. He placed a tentative hand around my waist and lifted my pajama top. I turned around to lie on my back and pulled him toward me. His hand moved slowly across my stomach. As his fingers went lower, my mood was disrupted by a troubling question. Will the news of my pregnancy give me more leverage? Or—horrible thought, but I have to consider it—less?
Wednesday, June 12, 2002 79th Street
Today, a call from Trish, trying to persuade me to see a new customer. “I know how you feel about new people, but he’s not from New York.”
Last year, when Trish stopped calling, business slowed down, and I became impossible to live with.
“He’s from Philly,” she told me.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Thank God Trish is calling again, because it’s not easy to work at night when you’re married, and most of her business is in the daytime. Her dates are kinky and tiring, but lucrative. Without them, I barely meet my quota.
You aren’t a pro unless you have a self-imposed quota, you feel like a failure if you can’t make your quota, and the heightened security in hotels has made it harder to keep up. I was starting to feel like a shadow of my single call-girl self—until I lowered my weekly quota to a level I can actually meet. Though Matt isn’t aware of my job, he totally benefits when business is good, and suffers when business is slow. Perhaps not financially, but in other ways.
Come to think of it, my earnings can’t possibly hurt our bottom line. Unless I get caught, which would be awful. That’s why I’m afraid to see new customers—though I sometimes make an exception for Trisha’s.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I just don’t want to run into anyone who knows my husband. Or his family.”
I can’t bring myself to tell Trish about Elspeth’s former profession—which she could return to, if she ever runs out of Ubermommy juice. Trish might never work with me again if she finds out my husband’s sister was a prosecutor.
“I hear you,” she said. “Can you bring those handcuffs? And a few changes? Something pastel and innocent for the first hour, and something bitchy for the second hour. Do you still have those black boots? The ones that lace up the back?”
This new customer sounds younger than most of our dates, which makes him risky. Older guys (like Etienne or Milt) aren’t likely to be part of Matt’s circle. Should I really be doing this?
“He’s calling in a few days to confirm,” she said. “His schedule’s crazy. He might have to cancel.”
I crossed my fingers, feeling torn. If he cancels, I’m off the hook. I don’t want to get caught, but I don’t want to turn down business—especially from Trish. This might be my last chance to really work a lot.
Time to get ready for Chip. I won’t get caught seeing him. He’s been in my book for years, a known quantity, and I knew his father for much longer—though Chip, of course, has no idea.
Wednesday, later
When Chip walked into the apartment, the memory of his father’s face was, once again, playing tricks with me. It never fails. I still miss his dad, though he’s been dead almost six years. He was gentle, quick, always happy to wear a condom.
But Chip Junior is nothing like Chip Senior. In the bedroom, he’s determined to get his money’s worth—which means holding back for as long as possible while I straddle, doing most of the work. Just before I slid the condom on, he made some obligatory caddish noises about being “clean as a whistle, and-I’m-sure-you-are-too,” in an effort to dismiss the rubber.
I, in turn, smiled pleasantly, as I always do, and made my obligatory comment about birth control. “And,” I chirped, “I’ll have you know I’m much cleaner than a whistle.”
Abandoning the chirp, switching to sultry insistence: “I want you to wear this. So I can get you inside of me. It’s been too long since I felt your cock.”
This routine has been going on for so long it qualifies as a tradition. I don’t trust Chip around the New Girls—I mean, real newbies who might not have professional manners. They’re liable to give in because he’s good-looking (if they’re softies), or lecture him about STDs until he can barely get it up (if they’re sanctimonious college girls).
As I rode on his cock, I closed my eyes and played with my breasts. My nipples were getting hard. He reached up to touch. I bit my lip, made some hot little sounds, and moved his hand away, allowing it to rest on the side of my ass. I tried to keep my hands busy so he wouldn’t be able to get at my nipples. There’s something about his hand. He’s too forceful—not a brute, just intrusive.
Sometimes it makes me think, “If this were a boyfriend.” But why should I come with this jerk? All his banter about money, condoms, cleanliness—I think the only reason I see him is his father. I miss those visits.
But the involuntary connection between nipple and clitoris was making itself felt. I reached down to finger myself as he pushed his cock into me.
I won’t be able to have this kind of sex for much longer. And he won’t be the first customer I want to see after I—
Omigod.
How exactly do you deal with the evidence of a c-section in situations like this? The alternative is, um. Suddenly, my hips stopped moving. Vaginal delivery? Yikes.
Chip, feeling teased and slightly frustrated, began seeking his own kind of delivery. There is just no way, I thought, forcing myself to concentrate on his cock. I must sort this out. And is that why Trish has such kinky dates? So she never has to get completely undressed?
Later, as I tidied him up with a hot washcloth, I was tempted to quiz him about his children. He’s got two from his first marriage, and rumor has it he’s re-married, because he no longer sees girls at his apartment. The apartment, just off Park, where we’ve all cooed over the crayon art on Chip’s bathroom wall.
If I didn’t know any better, I would assume he’s too waspy to send his daughter to a school like Sacred Heart, but I know more than I should. His Episcopalian dad knew me as Suzy and saw me twice a month. He sometimes talked, with a hint of exasperation, about an ex-wife who wanted their marriage retroactively annulled, so she could re-marry. That “temperamental Catholic” was Chip Junior’s mother. But, if I ask Chip where his kids go to school, he’ll probably think I’m trying to blackmail him.
After seeing him to the door, I retrieved five hundreds from the top of my dresser and put them in my money drawer.
It’s really too bad. I can’t ask any of my regulars to help me get our forthcoming child into one of the top Catholic schools! It might be what everyone else does, but asking the people you know isn’t an option for me. The downside of being in this business is having to rely on my husband’s connections.
Relying on Matt is safe, sane, consensual—but rather unsatisfying. I probably know more guys who are plugged into the private schools than he does, but I know them too well, in the wrong way. To Chip, I’m Sabrina: a little bit classy, a little bit slutty, perpetually twenty-five (twenty-seven, tops). If “Sabrina” were to broach the delicate matter of getting her child into a Jesuit prep school, Chip would be dumbfounded. Doesn’t he come here to escape those conversations?
Friday, June 14
This morning, as I was leaving Thirty-fourth Street, already running late for my blow-out with Lorenzo, I was ambushed. I rushed back upstairs, thankful to be wearing black jeans, and opened a fresh box of tampons. So much for that!
As I sat in the pneumatic chair, staring at my non-pregnant self in the full-length mirror, Lorenzo tousled my damp hair with his fingertips.
“What’s wrong?” His thumbs were caressing my scalp. “You look … almost haunted.”
“I’m totally haunted. I’ve spent the last ten days looking at strollers! Ordering Dr. Seuss books. Arguing with my husband about pre-schools. And worrying about how my body will look after a cesarian!”
Of course, I don’t want Lorenzo to know what I was up to when the c-section dilemma introduced itself.
“Relax,” he told me. “You’ll ask your doctor to make the incision very low. If you start wearing a more natural look down there, your hair covers the scar. Unless—you haven’t had laser, have you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Good.” His lips went into an opinionated pout. “Laser in the back, never in front. It’s called keeping your options open. There’s a time and place for everything.”
Today, there’s a soft layer of dark fuzz on my outer lips because I wax every three weeks. I remember how abundant my pubic hair was, during my teens. I was trying, then, to look more womanly. Is it now time to grow it back?
“How do you know so much about … all that?” I asked.
“It’s my job.” He rolled his eyes. “Hair is hair. And hair is everywhere. And wherever there is some hair—” he adjusted the chair “—I am right there. Don’t haunt yourself. I’m excited for you, darling. You get to be a total diva for the next—”
“But I don’t!” I said. “I just found out I’m not pregnant!”
“Not?” He pulled a hairbrush out of a drawer. “Did you—? Are you okay?”
“Oh, I don’t think—you can’t call it a miscarriage when you’re only ten days late, can you?”
Lorenzo faced the mirror, a brush in one hand, a blow-dryer in the other.
“If you want to be dramatic,” he said, “you can call anything a miscarriage.”
CHAPTER THREE (#ud0d92b94-f107-5df2-9692-711b81b2a66c)
New York: The Loyal Opposition
Friday evening Manhattan
This afternoon, when I got to Seventy-ninth Street, I called Jasmine to announce my news. Actually, my lack of news.
“Hallelujah,” she replied.
“Oh?”
“Now we can move on! You were in the seventh circle of limbo! ‘A little bit pregnant’ is not a good look for you. Or anyone!”
“I see.”
“Either you are or you aren’t,” she said. “If you are, you should be drinking elderberry tonic. If you’re not, have a Kir Royale, for God’s sake. Not a fucking spritzer! You must be dying for a real drink. I’ll meet you after my five o’clock.”
I could hear Charmaine’s key in the front door of the apartment.
“I don’t think so,” I replied coolly. Perhaps calling Jasmine was a mistake. Charmaine, in her spinning class shorts and floppy sweatshirt, disappeared into the bedroom.
“It’s okay to have ONE DRINK during your period,” Jasmine was saying. “Then you’ll go back to cultivating potatoes with your husband. You know what I’ve been thinking? You should talk to your doctor about this. Isn’t there some way you can tweak things in favor of conceiving a potential buyer?”
“A potential what?”
“A male child! I think we’ll all be happier if you have a boy.”
Christ. Not this again. If Jasmine had her way, there would be ten males for every one of us!
“I think I’ll be happy if I deliver a healthy baby,” I told her. “I really don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl.”
“No hooker in her right mind wants to give birth to a girl. Your sister-in-law might love you for it. But your real friends will just resent you! For spawning more competition.”
“More … what? You’re talking about my future children!”
“Oh.” I wondered if Jasmine was coming to her senses. “I almost forgot. You’re planning to send yours to Catholic school. Well, of course. Everyone knows there are no Catholic hookers!”
“I don’t appreciate—”
“Listen, I almost forgot. Harry wants to see us together. Can you be here at noon on Monday?”
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked her. Does she think we can just go back to discussing business? “You have some fucking nerve!” Then I hung up.
Charmaine emerged from the bedroom, in her exercise bra and nothing else, looking startled.
“What happened? Who was that?”
“Jasmine!” I unclenched my teeth. My cellphone was starting to chime. I turned it off and threw it into my bag. “Jasmine has crossed a line.”
“Oh.” Charmaine can’t raise her eyebrows because of the Botox, but the devilish expression in her eyes said it all. “Jasmine? In my opinion—”
“Don’t say it,” I moaned. Charmaine has kept her distance, from the moment they laid eyes on each other two years ago. But Jasmine and I have been trading dates since our twenties. She helped me when I was in trouble and needed a lawyer. “We’ve known each other forever,” I said.
“I don’t know why you put up with that girl.”
Charmaine’s bare pussy—lasered to match her smooth, Botoxed forehead—was staring me in the face. Her up-to-the-minute enhancements were spilling out of her exercise bra. It’s not just that she’s twenty-three—her entire body looks like it was invented two years ago. She really is a New Girl, in more ways than one.
“Well—” I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite, but now I wanted to change the subject “—you don’t have to put up with her, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
She’s too young to understand my friendship with Jasmine, but she has her own business, pays her rent on time, and never seeks my advice. She looked, for a moment, like she was on the verge of giving me some, and I didn’t want to hear it.
When I was sure that Charmaine was completely immersed in the white noise of the shower, I checked my messages.
“Call me when your hormones stabilize. We can’t let your period stop you from seeing Harry!”
What is Jasmine thinking? Does she really think I have no idea how to disguise my period? I have two diaphragms—one for each apartment—and a year’s supply of cosmetic sponges from Duane Reade.
Which part of “You have some fucking nerve” does she not understand?
