Allison appeared to be listening, so I pressed on.
“Look,” I said very patiently. “Your girlfriends have been sticking together and we’re not seeing this guy—”
“That’s why he keeps calling me!” she said brightly. “And offering me so much money! None of the other girls will see him. Maybe I should ask for three thousand.”
I shrank back in horror.
FRIDAY MORNING. 2/4/00
Last night, after our appointment with Harry, Jasmine dragged me to the Mark for a martini. Not wanting to show up blotto for dinner with my fiancé, I opted for a ladylike Kir Royale—”just one.” Jasmine ordered her usual: Absolut, straight up, with an olive.
“I’m worried about Allison,” I confided.
“Stop the fucking presses!” Jasmine sputtered. “When have you not worried about Allison? What sort of problem might Her Blondness be causing—I mean, having—this week?”
I told her about Jack’s showing up at her building without an appointment and Allison’s latest bright idea, the $3,000 question. “Don’t discuss this with Allie,” I added. “Promise you won’t say a word about what I’ve told you!”
Jasmine gave me a searing look that unnerved me.
“Allie might say something about us to Jack,” I explained. “Do you want him as an enemy? Who knows when he might get interviewed again by the IRS? Or if she might tell him that we turned her against him…not that we did exactly…”
My sheepish voice trailed off into a maze of denial. I tried not to think about the sin I was committing. Spilling one best friend’s secret (against her specific wishes) to another best friend! Is there a special place in hell? I hope there’s a waiting list.
“That girl…” Jasmine was muttering darkly. “That girl’s soul is composed of cotton candy.” (I see what Allie means about Jasmine being judgmental.) “She’s a moral idiot!”
And if Jasmine knew that Allison had asked me to keep a secret? Would she trust me not to blab her business around? But I would never tell Jasmine’s secrets to Allie. That’s the difference. I swallowed the rest of my apéritif. The sweet alcoholic potion was doing its job, morphing into a weird elixir of self-justification, smoothing out my wrinkled conscience.
“And Eileen’s been getting creepy phone calls from him,” I went on. “She slammed the phone down. He retaliated by calling her back. And now Eileen’s telling everyone who will listen how she stood up to this jerk! What should we do?”
Jasmine frowned into her empty glass. “We should get another drink. And keep Jack in perpetual limbo—if we can. Eileen’s too confrontational for her own good.” As she signaled to the waiter, her wrist glittered winningly. (That guy on Forty-seventh Street who does those Bulgari knockoffs. I must remember to ask for his number.)
Jasmine sighed and shook her head. “Eileen reminds me of those big dumb guys from my old neighborhood who were always getting into bar fights!” she said. Eileen’s about five feet tall, but Jasmine has a point. “They never went anywhere in life, and they’re probably still getting into brawls and getting kicked out of bars. But Eileen should know better! How long has she been around? Eight years? What is her problem? Why is she provoking a phone fight?”
Suddenly, Jasmine’s attention shifted. “Did you pay retail for that?” She was eyeing my pony-skin Baguette with harsh curiosity.
“Of course not!” I lied.
“It really works with the sweater,” she acknowledged, “but you spend money as fast as you make it. That’s gotta stop!”
Who does she think she is? My mother?
“Hey, look.” She pulled an envelope out of her black crocodile tote (a sleek find at 70 percent off, last summer) and waved an invitation in my face. A benefit for the S________ Foundation. “Two Benefactor-level tickets courtesy of Harry. He’s got a conflict that night. This is a great way to find new guys. Maybe we can pick up some Super-Benefactors. Their tickets are in the megadig-its.”
“They’re not spending that kind of money to sit with mere Benefactors,” I pointed out. “They’ll be at their own tables—miles from ours.”
Jasmine doesn’t usually venture beyond our private circle for new customers. The girls we work with operate strictly from their books. There are very few acceptable methods for getting new business: You can trade dates with another girl or pay a cut for each new client. Work for a reputable madam and risk her extreme displeasure if she catches you “stealing.” When a girl is leaving town or retiring, you might buy her book. But how often does a good book become available? It’s rare. Sometimes an established customer refers a new client, but that’s also rare. Most of my regulars would be a little turned off if I had sex with their pals.
Of course, other kinds of girls—through advertising on websites or working for escort services—can afford to eschew these niceties. They have an endless supply of new guys (obtained at great risk), but private girls and reputable madams don’t work with them. Very few “escorts” have the patience to cross over. A small number will try to make a go of working privately, but the minute things get slow, a hard-core escort goes right back to the escort agency, or to advertising. And if she gets arrested? All the private girls in her address book are at risk.
A private girl braves the slow months to preserve the quality of her book, her contacts—her way of life. I should know. I crossed over a long time ago. And stayed here. I’ll never go back. No matter how slow it gets.
“Look,” Jasmine was saying, “this isn’t like advertising. It’s a totally cool way to enhance your client book.”
“Soliciting at a social event?” I was appalled.
“Noooo,” she said disdainfully. “We’ll work these guys as sugar daddies, do a little research on them, make sure they’re legit—and find out how rich they are. And then…say you have a monthly expense. Like, you’re taking some lessons at the French Institute. That’s five hundred dollars a month right there! So you hit the guy up for your French lessons. Or a summer share in Sag Harbor. You get the idea.”
“Or your ailing mother’s hospital bills?” I suggested, rolling my eyes. “I’m a professional. And so are you. That stuff’s for lite-hooks.” (Girls who kind of sort of sometimes maybe in a way get paid for sex. More often than they admit, but not often enough to make a living at it.)
“You’re missing the point! If you’re pretending to litehook, then it’s different—you’re not really a litehook! You’re the ultimate pro. Passing for a litehook.”
“Surely you’re not that desperate for new business.”
“Desperate? Please. You should always be building your book. Never take your existing customers for granted. Cultivate your john book as if it were a vegetable garden.” Jasmine was twisting the stem of her martini glass between her fingertips. “Water it, plant new seeds. Grow potatoes in the fall, tomatoes in summer. Learn about new farming technologies.” Her eyes shone as she warmed to her theme: the hooker in the dell.
“Potatoes?” I said. “How glamorous.” I studied the invitation. “I can’t,” I said, sipping my second Kir Royale carefully. “I promised Allison I would go to a meeting with her that