I’ve known Milt for longer than I care to admit. I knew he kept Wall Street hours, but had no idea he’d be such an early riser when I agreed to come to St-Maximin. Isn’t he on vacation? He gets up at eight-thirty, and calls that sleeping in! Still, if he finds out I’m capable of waking before he does, he’ll be disillusioned. I am, after all, a luxury.
I tiptoed around the bedroom, terrified of being overheard. Then, I spent an hour perfecting my natural look for our poolside breakfast, keeping one eye on my silenced cellphone.
I hope she gets here soon, because Milt needs a threesome—and so do I. When he doesn’t have an extra girl (or three) to distract him, he stays hard forever. If I could figure out where he keeps the Viagra, I would totally hide it! Coordinating this trip with Allie is turning into a major headache. Speaking of which, by the time I was dressed, I had been awake sans caffeine for hours and was feeling the symptoms. But headaches are another no-no. A smart call girl never feels unwell. She mysteriously disappears until she’s better. No explanations. Well, she might claim to be visiting her mother. Polite code for out of town with a man possibly richer than yourself.
Keeping all this straight comes naturally in New York: normally, I spend no more than two hours with a customer. It’s more of a challenge when Milt’s around all the time. The trick is to appear comfortable without becoming too comfortable.
From my bedroom window, overlooking a cluster of olive trees, I monitored the sunniest corner of the swimming pool. I waited until Milt was stretched out on a wooden lounger with his Herald Tribune and a croissant, then wandered downstairs, determined to look like a carefree princess. Not a sleep-deprived working girl with a head full of enlarged blood vessels.
Milt was reading the paper with his shades on. I guess it’s generational? He finds sunshine invigorating. When Duncan began opening my table umbrella, Milt leapt up from his cushioned lounger and took over.
“Uncle Miltie to the rescue!” he said. “Damsels in distress are my thing.”
The aroma of Milt’s croissant, sitting on a plate nearby, made my eyes go wide, but I forced myself to inquire about fresh fruit.
“Blackberries,” Duncan informed me. “The figs are just right, and the croissants—”
Yikes. “Not for me, thanks! I’ll come get some black coffee. Then I’ll organize my berries and figs.”
I followed Duncan back to the kitchen where a breakfast buffet had been arranged on a red-tiled counter top. As I poured my morning fix from the half-empty cafetiere, I took him into my confidence.
“Just between us? I have the tiniest headache coming on. Is there anything like Tylenol in the house? I don’t want to bother Milt while he’s reading the paper.”
“What’s in Tylenol again?” Duncan was rummaging through a drawer. “How about some Prontalgine. Twenty milligrams, codeine, works like a dream.”
“Don’t you have something, you know, over-the-counter?”
“Codeine is over the counter.” As he handed me the box, our eyes met, and I tried to place his accent. New Zealand? “Welcome to France,” he said, with a twinkle. “I have the cure for your mal de tête.”
Gosh. Could Duncan be … my surrogate hairdresser? Not for my hair, of course. But for my general well-being. He really is a treasure. And his coffee is excellent.
Later
The countryside is ten times trickier than Manhattan.
First, if you’re going to be seen at all hours of the morning by a john, fourteen days in a row, you need to do some sort of clarifying mask every day. Bare skin’s a high-maintenance look. You can’t be walking around in full make-up with a vineyard next door—lip gloss is out of the question—so you’ll need to cultivate a natural glow.
Okay, the Chemin du Moulin isn’t exactly hardcore countryside. We’re minutes from the town center, but you’d never know it. Milt’s house is set back so far we can’t hear the traffic and is protected by a wall of hundred-year-old pine trees.
I’m trying to limit our shared activities: sex (different position each day), meals, the occasional excursion. Milt’s never spent this much time with me, so my inherent mystery is at risk. He’s been my favorite customer—forever, it seems. But if I become a too-familiar presence during this vacation—his, not mine—there’s a chance his frequent visits could peter out when we return to New York.
Duncan was right. My headache’s evaporated! Is codeine really available over the counter at this strength?
Instead of the solarium, I’ve promised Milt an appointment in the nursery. The guest room down the hall is equipped with two single beds, a child’s wooden rocker, a chest of drawers with large blue butterflies for knobs, and a toddler’s denim armchair. I’ve taken the liberty of moving the chairs, so Milt won’t knock them over.
My frilly white panties (open crotch) seem to work with that decor, but do I misunderstand his request? If middle-aged perversion is setting in, I should put my hair in pigtails and wear the white bra as well.
Or is Milt just being territorial about his newly acquired domaine? In which case, my white panties, and nothing else, will be more appropriate. More alluring to greet him bare-breasted, stretching out on one of those small beds with my legs apart. He can discover his late afternoon quarry in masturbatory solitude.
…. Too bad I have no bedroom toys to bring with me to the nursery!
Packing for this trip was a delicate, sometimes terrifying, operation. I was much too nervous about getting through customs (and airport security) to even think about packing my dildos. When I landed at Nice, I discovered that my fears were misplaced. They barely noticed my bags and waved me right through. If only I had known.
But, if Allie gets here soon, this won’t be a problem. Didn’t she say something about bringing her Pyrex love baton to Barcelona? In her carry-on?
Saturday, July 6
Just woke from a remarkable dream.
Duncan, beckoning from the far end of the swimming pool, was waving something in his hand. A box of codeine pills? Fully clothed, he floated toward me, as if he were a rather efficient angel, sliding across the water’s surface on a pair of invisible waterskis. On closer inspection, I realized he was holding an electric shaver. (No wonder he’s so clean-shaven, I thought.) As he drew nearer, I was disturbed by a buzzing sound.
My phone, vibrating under the pillow.
When I came to, the buzzing had stopped, the shaver was beginning to make sense, and my unknown caller had disappeared without leaving voicemail. Of course, it would have to be a private number. Isabel calling back with her international menu? But I really need to straighten things out with Allison before I start making plans with Isabel.
Allie’s silence is worrying, and I don’t want Milt to sense that I’m stressed out. I certainly don’t want him having any doubts about buying her ticket! I, after all, have been paid handsomely to monitor his girl-supply without letting the seams show. If something goes wrong with Allie, why should he trust my dealings with Isabel?
Milt’s going to Nans-les-Pins to play golf, and Duncan has promised to take me to the internet café. “Milt’s rather old school,” he explained. “He doesn’t want a computer in his hideaway.”
Later
Maison de Thé, Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, Saint-Maximin
Now I understand why Milt’s too lazy to drive his BMW to the golf course.
Behind