After outlining the situation in Provence, I offered a special incentive: “I’m only taking twenty percent. I really don’t mind.” Allie, at least, wasn’t on the verge of tears anymore.
“Omigod,” she sighed. “I really wish I could.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “You have to! I can’t go to France alone. And you’ll have so much extra cash when you come back, you’ll be able to spend an entire month doing NYCOT stuff.”
“I know, but NYCOT needs me in Barcelona!”
“Barcelona? What the—”
“It’s the international AIDS conference. Bad Girls Without Borders is hosting a shadow conference, and Roxana’s chairing a panel on medical ethics, so I have to present for NYCOT during mobility rights.”
“Can’t you work around this? There must a way.”
“My panel’s right in the middle of the AIDS conference! I can’t just—I’m sorry, Nancy! Roxana NEEDS me, I’m the only person she trusts at this point. She’s counting on me to represent NYCOT at Barcelona. Sex workers are coming from all over Europe and Asia! I gave her my word! Besides,” she said, “we don’t want to disappoint the Cambodians.”
I might have known—when I actually need Allie to come through, she’s got a date with Roxana to save the world.
“And,” she said, in a breathless voice, “it’s a historic moment for me. I’m finally part of the solution!”
“Part of—what did you just say?”
“Sex workers are part of the solution. That’s our new T-shirt! It’s all part of our HIV awareness campaign,” she explained. “We’re bringing a hundred T-shirts to Barcelona! Roxana picked out the font, and I chose the colors.”
They must be very pink.
And now they’re part of a much larger problem!
Later
This afternoon, as I scrolled through my inbox, I spotted one of Darren’s boyish BlackBerry messages:
re: as marvin gaye likes 2 say …
LET’S. so, are we ON? Thursday, 3:30?
While I typed a businesslike e-ply—
ok, I GET IT. Confirming 3:30!
—a rambling apology arrived from Allie.
Re: HIV & me!
Hey Nancy? I’m sooooo sorry about the conflict with our shadow conference! Roxana says it’s crucial for NYCOT to be on lots of panels because the Europeans don’t appreciate how international we are. It’s, you know, the most global HIV event in the world! The Russian outreach workers are coming. There’s going to be a very radical keynote address about HIV research from Miguel X. He’s a former “rent boy” from Brazil, and it’s MY JOB to introduce him! Gretchen was supposed to, but something happened, I don’t know what exactly, but now I REALLY have to be there because we want a New York sex worker to introduce Miguel. Pleeeeease tell Milt: I really wish I could be in two places at once but I have to be at the HIV shadow conference!
Does Allison think she’s the only girl in town? Of course, I’ll tell Milt nothing of the sort, about Allie OR this conference. When I DO find a girl for him, he must never suspect she’s my second choice. As for Allie’s conference, Milt must never hear about her activism.
The very thing that makes Milt feel safe—a successful call girl with a secret life, quietly snowing polite society—is also what turns him on. Allie’s attempt at a militant new look, complete with HIV slogans, would surely have the opposite effect?
A huge message from my mom with a slightly misleading subject header:
Re: Normandy Postcard
Brief—with enough JPEG attachments to fill a scrapbook.
Having lovely time looking at farmhouses. Let me know what you think. Currently rather enthused third from top. Take note goats and half-timber. Sebastian’s at Renascent House again. Thought you wd like to know. Best decision he’s made this year, I think. Dodie sends her best. Love to Matt.
Mother does what she can to put a positive spin on my little brother’s crack problem without getting pulled in. Last month, when he tried to move into her B&B in the Welsh countryside, she closed the house and took off on a road trip to Mortagne-au-Perche with her best friend Dodie. Ever since Grandmummy died, Mother’s siblings have been renovating or selling up. Not one of these rustic Norman properties is less than twice the size of her farmhouse in Wales. All those rumors about the will, which Mother won’t discuss, may actually be true. And her timing couldn’t be better, given Sebastian’s rehab needs.
An email from Liane—at seventy-something, still newly excited about the internet—startled me:
Bernie’s in town! He’s on fire to see you, dear. I know JUST how to spice up your visit to Provence. Will you be near St-Tropez? I have a number for you. Let me know when you get this message. I’m trying to add a return receipt but the silly thing won’t cooperate!
Liane, who began turning tricks when call girls had rotary phones, has had email for less than a year. It makes me nervous to see her talking so freely about business while she’s still learning how to send messages. Yesterday, when I called to ask for her advice about Milt, I never imagined she would be careless enough to talk about my plans in email. How can I tell her this isn’t what you’d expect from a reputable madam? Lectures about discretion and etiquette have always been HER métier. Besides, she’s older than my mother!
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
Today’s session with Bernie was only one part of Liane’s solution. As Bernie “introduced me” to the rigors of sex on my hands and knees, Liane was taking a call in the other room from her contact in St-Tropez.
For a few years, Bernie’s been under the impression that he’s my first—or only—customer. That said, he’s not entirely deluded, since he’s one of the few who knows about my marriage. Liane raised our fee on the grounds that it was the only way he could coax me out of newlywed bliss for an hour.
When we met, I was supposed to be a college student—now I’m a twenty-something bride married to her college boyfriend. His ideas about college girls and young couples must have been formed thirty years ago watching porno movies about wet co-eds. As I steadied myself on the edge of Liane’s bed, I slid my hand across the sheet, so Bernie could see my wedding band.
“You need to get fucked,” he told me. “I can tell. Does your husband ever take you from behind?”
“Oh! Not yet,” I said in a demure voice. “We haven’t tried that. I think he’s afraid to hurt me.”
“He doesn’t know what a hot little cunt you’ve got,” Bernie muttered. He was thrusting quickly, and I reached underneath to discreetly check on his condom. At this point, I was glad the engagement ring was tucked into my make-up bag. “That’s right, play with your clit, baby. I’ll bet he has a big cock, though. Does he know how much you like to suck cock?”
His hand was resting on my right buttock, and I felt a light pat that seemed to flirt with the idea of a spanking.
“Y … yesssss,” I moaned. “He does! I love sucking his cock …” When Bernie collapsed against me with a loud gasp, I held onto the condom and wriggled away from him, hoping my precautionary measures wouldn’t seem too professional.
After seeing Bernie to the door,