The Currency of Love

by Jill Dodd

  Nano’s hugs and kisses were the only affection I got growing up. She always tucked me into bed saying, “Good night, honey, God love her.” It was so comforting.

  My sister, Nano, and I would bake cakes, eat bologna sandwiches with soft Wonder Bread and mayo, and play cards at the kitchen table late into the night. Nano’s constant giggling was the icing on the cake. Grampy went to bed early, and the three of us would laugh to tears at his loud, funny-sounding snoring. Nano would take me to the supermarket across from Fletcher Jones’s car lot, where I’d watch the old ladies play the slot machines that ran the length of the store windows by the checkout stands.

  The old women would sit, decked out in their polyester ensembles and wigs, chain-smoking. They’d pull the black ball on the slot machine handles, balancing red-and-white cardboard buckets of nickels on their laps.

  After dusk, when the outdoor temperature cooled, we would venture outside, away from the air-conditioning. Cicadas buzzed and bats flew around. At dark, we’d lie on the driveway, watching stars for hours. The desert was so dark that the stars lit up the night sky. My sister always spotted shooting stars.

  These days, Nano’s house is much quieter. Grampy’s stroke paralyzed him and he is in a wheelchair. Nano never complains about caring for him. Since the stroke, Grampy can’t control his emotions, and just the sight of me coming in the door makes him cry. Cooking, playing cards, and pushing Grampy through the mall are our simple pleasures. Their home is my sanctuary in the middle of the beautiful Nevada desert.

  Adnan’s bed is the one place where we both can escape the stress of the world. He has two bedrooms at the Sands, and we spend most of our time in the quietest, most private one. It is also the tackiest, because it hasn’t been remodeled since the Howard Hughes days, a relic of sixties decor, complete with a gilt framed mirror on the ceiling above the bed. The one unifying thing is the ever-present scent of vanilla candles.

  We lie in bed, drinking champagne, talking, and laughing, while his staff tiptoes in with silver platters overflowing with seafood and fruit. Day bleeds into night as we indulge in each other.

  Cocaine, the white powder I once feared, has now become a mainstay, heightening our emotional and intellectual connection. Adnan pours a pile of coke on my breast and inhales it from a shiny silver tube. “So Jill, tell me again about your lesbian lover.”

  “I told you I never had a lesbian lover!” I laugh.

  He dabs cocaine on my vagina, licks it off. “Okay then, tell me again about how you lost your virginity.”

  “Do you really want to talk about that now? You’re crazy!”

  He busts up laughing. “No, I really don’t want to hear about that. You’re right.”

  “What about you and Lamia?” My vagina is numb.

  “I’m the one who should be jealous.”

  “Lamia? She’s . . .”

  He draws the shape of a square on the sheet with his fingertips. “You’re more fun.”

  “Thank you.” I dip a strawberry in hot fudge and feed it to him.

  While he feeds me lobster and shrimp, he asks me again how many lovers I’ve had and how old I was the first time. I tell him again that my only lover was Jack, and that I was eighteen when it began. I still don’t mention Gerald.

  He loves playing head games, tricking me, and making bets like, “Do you know how many pyramids are in Egypt? If you’re right, I’ll give you five thousand dollars. But if I’m right, you pay me five thousand.”

  I’d interrupt, “I can’t afford to lose that much!”

  “Okay, two hundred dollars.” We have a deal. His brain is on fire. He has a crazy amount of mental energy. Sometimes, when I first arrive, I forget how intense he is until he sideswipes me with a confusing, sometimes sarcastic, tricky comment. But I love bantering with him.

  We debate everything from world history and archeology, to health, fashion, and religion. There are always books around the bed, and we read poetry and Shakespeare to each other. I feel safe with him, so much so that when we are apart, I picture his face in my mind to feel calm. He must feel safe with me too because he allows himself to fall apart in front of me, sometimes crying in my lap.

  I’m not here for power, but knowing that the wealthiest man in the world is in love with me is a powerful feeling. If I were the manipulative type, I could see how a woman would think, He bows to me in bed and he’s wealthy and powerful. So how powerful does that make me? If I can control him in bed, then I must have tremendous power.

  Looking back, I wonder . . . he must have thought I was a strange girl. I must have been the only person he knew who wasn’t after his money. Yet, he always repeated to me, “Stay with me—you’ll be the richest girl in the world.”

  His currency of love, Paris, 1980

  THE CURRENCY OF LOVE

  “Jill, I need to explain the seating at our dinners. There’s a specific structure to it. The wife who’s been with me the longest always sits directly across from me.” We’re lying in bed in the jazzy Howard Hughes suite.

  “You mean way across at the other end of the table?” I ask. “Wouldn’t you want to sit next to her?” This makes no sense.

  “Yes, directly across, either lengthwise or in the middle,” he says, logically.

  “Well, I like sitting close to you.” Why would the closest one emotionally be the farthest away? I flash back to Sabine in Kenya, always sitting at the opposite end of the long table from him. I hadn’t known they were involved, but was putting it together. “So Sabine, in Kenya, was she your number one wife?”

  “Yes, because Lamia wasn’t there. Lamia is my only legal wife and has seniority. Whichever wife is present and has the most seniority will always be across from me.”

  “So, Sabine is a pleasure wife?” I want to be clear.

  “Yes, she is.”

  In my mind, all men behave badly—at least Adnan is up front and honest about it. Maybe this is the perfect arrangement? If I don’t expect monogamy, then I can’t be disappointed.

  “Have you met Camille?” he asks.

  “I saw her a couple times with Ines at Caesars.” I flash to an image of her in red leather pants, stilettos, and a red-fox-fur coat, her long, wavy, mane of golden-brown hair draping everywhere.

  “I’ll tell you a story. She was living in an apartment I bought her on the Île Saint-Louis in Paris.”

  “That must have been nice,” I say.

  “Yes, but I had a feeling she was lying to me.”

  “About what?”

  “About a man she was seeing. She kept telling me they were just friends. You know what I did?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I bugged her apartment and recorded her having sex with him—which would have been okay if she hadn’t lied about it. I confronted her, and she lied again. So I took out the recorder and pressed Play.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “I can’t stand lies.”

  We never run out of things to talk about. One time he blurts out, “I just ordered five AWACS for Saudi Arabia.” (Congress had just passed a bill allowing the US to sell AWACS to Saudi Arabia.)

  “What did you say?” I ask.

  “AWACS. It stands for ‘Airborne Warning and Control System.’ They’re like reconnaissance planes—air defense equipment,” he explains. “It’s a totally new technology with a rotating radar dome on top.”

  “Oh, so you buy military equipment?” I ask.

  “I sell it,” he says, and sits up leaning into me, very excited about the topic. “If you want to make a lot of money, Jill, go into sales. There’s no limit to what you can make on commissions.”

  My imagination is big, but I never would have thought he was referring to a commission on an $8.5 billion deal.

  “Doesn’t selling military equipment promote war?” I ask.

  “All countries have the right to protect themselves,” he responds, which sounds logical.

  “I guess you’re right.” I go back to reading Shakespeare to
him.

  “Want to know how I get the advantage in my business deals?” he asks.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  He gets even more animated. “I use their ego. I have businessmen picked up in a limo and brought to the airport, where they board my DC-8. My plane is stocked with girls, champagne, and cocaine. The girls work for me, the coke inflates their egos, and by the time they meet with me, they’re feeling so sure of themselves that they’re easy to play.”

  He tells me that he has the girls brief him with any insights before the meetings, and that he uses this strategy on his boat too. “In the beginning of our meeting, as they sit down, I put extra pillows behind them, like I’m being a good host, but really I’m pushing them off balance and making them uncomfortable. It’s all a game to gain the advantage over your opponent.”

  “Wow, does it work?” I say, amazed, picturing these scenes in my head.

  “Of course. Men always talk after sex.” Adnan talks a lot after sex too, but I’m not trying to steal his secrets.

  I take my relationship with AK seriously, yet I think Lamia probably sees me as just another girl passing through. When I run into her around the grounds of the Sands, I try to strike up a conversation, but she’s not interested in being my friend. It’s awkward.

  He prefers sex with me, yet she has known him longer. She looks like Priscilla Presley in the sixties, when she married Elvis: big black bouffant, white trousers, bright-patterned blouses, and dripping in diamonds. When I ask if I can see her earrings, she leans over with a manicured finger behind one of them. The sparkling cluster is two inches long, shaped like a leaf, and encrusted with huge diamonds. I am starting to understand that these extravagant gifts are a reflection of his love, as well as physical evidence of his commitment.

  Big jewels—I think that I’d never be comfortable settling for that as the currency of his love. Yet, it isn’t long before I crave them.

  Back in bed, he says, “I want to share something with you. Lamia and I have a young son. In my culture, we don’t have baby showers when the mother is pregnant and uncomfortable. We have them when the child turns one year. Our son, Ali, is one now, and I’d like you to come to his party on Saturday. Will you?”

  “Of course, I’d love to.” I act happy, but feel confused. I had no idea they had a baby. Maybe they’d hit that ten-year mark? I wonder if I’ll want to have a baby with him too in ten years?

  “Do you still make love with her?” I ask.

  “Not anymore. I like making love with you.”

  I feel flattered but awkward. Ines had made Lamia sound like she was a daughter to him. Maybe they were like platonic family members now. He did say his sperm was frozen in a bank, so she must have been artificially inseminated. Whatever the truth, I don’t care about his sperm. I need to know I hold his heart.

  I go to the mall to look for a baby present. What do you buy the baby who literally has everything? And what should I wear? I settle on a stuffed animal and blue satin blanket for baby Ali, and a conservative lavender floral dress for myself.

  A baby shower fit for a prince is all set up in a private suite. Flowers, balloons, dainty finger sandwiches and desserts, and champagne are arranged on long tables. There are men and women, not like the all-girl baby showers I had been to. I am the only pleasure wife. Lamia walks in looking glamorous (think Joan Collins in Dynasty) in a body-hugging, royal-blue velvet dress, matching pumps, and serious blue sapphire and diamond “queen jewelry,” just like I saw in the catalogs at Adnan’s Paris mansion.

  Adnan arrives carrying little Ali, who has big brown eyes and long eyelashes just like his dad. As I remember, his outfit is also blue velvet, matching his mom’s. Adnan and Ali play together on the floor while Nabila, his almost nineteen-year-old daughter, singles me out and says, “I hate my father’s girlfriends. He spends too much time with you. I tried to hate you, but it’s hard to hate you for some reason.”

  “I’m glad it’s hard to hate me.” I feel bad for her. How could he possibly spend enough time with her? She seems so angry. Who could blame her? She and I are just three years apart, but being her father’s lover makes me feel a lot older. At that point, I excuse myself and go to ask the pastry chef how he creates all of the delicacies.

  This is one strange family dynamic. I am infinitely more comfortable with Adnan, alone in his bed, where all things are equal.

  After the baby shower, I never see Lamia again, so at all the business dinners I now have the power position across from Adnan.

  At one dinner, the table is dotted with foreign heads of state, some in Arab robes and headscarves, others in European suits. It is important to Adnan that I engage and amuse his guests. These conversations are some of the most stimulating I’ve ever had.

  Next to Adnan sits an unbelievably beautiful girl, who reminds me of Grace Kelly. I’d never seen her before. “This is Milla. She’s studying to be a doctor in Finland,” Adnan announces proudly. How would he introduce me? This is Jill, a model from Los Angeles? I had no idea he dated college students. I am knocked off my throne and envious.

  After the champagne and many courses, we all rise to kiss cheeks and say good night. Adnan and I leave in his silver bulletproof limo and return to the Sands.

  I am welcomed by the comforting sight and smell of vanilla candles flickering next to his bed. He unzips my dress and helps me out of it. I undo his tie and unbutton his shirt. We stand between his bed and his dressing area on the cold marble floor in our bare feet. He is within an inch of my face, his olive skin glowing. I’m sure he feels my insecurity.

  He takes my face in his hands and looks into my eyes saying, “I’ve been giving it some thought. I know you feel like you need to work. But if that’s the case, you need an education. You need a serious career, Jill—not modeling.” I stand silently, as tears run down my face. “You know I support college students all around the world. I started the school in Kenya. Everyone needs an education to pursue their passion.”

  I nod. “I know you’re right. It’s so hard for me to accept things from you. But this, I will accept.” I am devastated and serious. I’m on the cusp of an enormous change and can’t stop crying.

  Adnan has just handed me the key to my future and I know it. After being out in the world modeling, instead of going to college like most of my friends, I know how important an education is. I don’t want to wind up as an aging model with limited career choices, and I don’t want to end up waitressing or doing some other mind-numbing job. I know now more than ever that an education is crucial. I know he is right.

  He leads me to the bed and wipes my face with his hands. “Let me know what you decide, and find out how much it will cost. I’ll pay for whatever you need.” I am so emotional with him over every single thing. We make love while I cry. After saying good night, I walk the dim hallway to my room, where I sit at a desk, legs curled up on the chair, with the lamp on the lowest setting. It’s four in the morning, but I’m too excited to sleep.

  As I linger in the quiet darkness, I remember an event from years ago. During high school, I talked my parents into taking me to check out the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising (FIDM) in Los Angeles. I was convinced I needed to attend, but the tuition was $1,250 a year, five times more than community college. My parents said I could go after earning a Bachelor of Arts at a state school. But that meant four years of college before I could even start FIDM. My impatience and determination had to find a faster way, and my way was modeling. However, I had gotten so wrapped up in it that I had forgotten my original goal of going to FIDM.

  I said out loud, “I want to go to fashion design school!” I picked up the phone, made a flight reservation, and jumped on the first plane out of Vegas.

  Paris high-rise, 1980

  FIDM

  March 1981, Las Vegas to Los Angeles

  I stare out the plane window at the pastel desert, nervously excited, my mind racing with possibilities. Paris has a fashion school, but if I go there I’ll nev
er return to live in the US and would miss my friends.

  New York has FIT, the Fashion Institute of Technology, but I was afraid that I’d be tempted to dive back into modeling there—because modeling is like a drug and can be addicting. No joke. The highs are high and the lows are low. I return to the original reason I started modeling in the first place: to attend FIDM.

  When I visited FIDM during high school, I remember it being in a tacky strip mall. Now, it occupies several floors of a high-rise in downtown. The woman in the admissions office tells me the tuition is $4,500 a year (which is expensive in 1981, but not for Adnan). The counselor says that the school puts on a big fashion show for the graduating students each year, where industry professionals come to watch. Some students are hired right out of school.

  I return to Vegas to tell Adnan the news. He’s in bed working when I rush in. “I found the school I want to go to! FIDM. It stands for the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising, and they teach fashion design, illustration, and patternmaking. It’s perfect!” I’m hoping he’ll share my enthusiasm.

  Adnan puts his papers aside. “Come here, darling.” He lifts the sheets. I step out of my boots and jump in. “This is such good news. And when you graduate, I can open a couture house for you in Paris if you’d like. Remember, I helped Kenzo.”

  “I figured out that I’ll need about ten thousand dollars for the two-year Associates of Arts program, including books and supplies.” Adnan goes to his safe at the foot of the bed and pulls out two large stacks of bills wrapped with paper bands.

  “Here’s twenty thousand dollars. This should cover you for a little while. No working while you’re in school, okay? You need to focus on your studies. Now, do you need a car? Can I buy you a house near school?”