“That's ridiculous! I've never had a job in my life, and you can't just cut me off like that. I have to take care of Pearl, and I have bills and…things...that I need...to buy.” My voice trailed off, knowing it was no use.
“I'm not changing my mind, Vanessa. You're going to have to figure something out on your own. You're a grown woman now and you can't depend on your mother and me forever.”
His voice was gruff and angry in my ear, and my heart sank as I realized he really meant it this time.
I was fucked.
I hung up on him in mid-sentence and plopped down on one of the massive turquoise leather couches in the ladies room, scooping up Pearl and holding her in my arms. Tears streamed down my face as I contemplated my predicament. I was quite literally fucked. I had nothing. No money in the bank. No savings. No income.
I did, however, have a very nice loft apartment that came with a hefty rent that was due in two weeks, and was full of all kinds of expensive things, but they were all things that I had grown to love dearly.
Like my leather boot collection. And my designer purses. Not to mention the rest of my wardrobe and jewelry. All of these things were worth tons of money.
But outside of Pearl, the most important things to me were my art. The supplies I needed to be a sculptor cost outrageous amounts of cash. When you’re making life-sized pieces out of marble, it wasn’t cheap.
But I had no money. And now, I didn't have any working credit cards to buy anything else, either.
Like I said, fucked. Completely and royally screwed.
I rummaged around my bag, searching for my wallet. I found a crumpled up fifty dollar bill, two singles and 87 cents in change. Lovely. We could eat. For maybe two days in Beverly Hills if I was frugal.
“Fuck!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, my voice echoing through the high-ceilinged room, causing Pearl to snuggle into my arm.
The sound of a toilet flushing startled me. I thought I was alone, but I hadn't paid much attention either. At this point, I didn't give a shit though. I didn't care if some blue-haired socialite saw me crying like a baby in the ladies lounge at Neiman Marcus. I had more important things to worry about.
Like obtaining money. And a job. And how I was going to stretch this fifty-two dollars in my lap as far as I could in the meantime. And how I was going to take care of Pearl. She had been my constant companion since she was eight weeks old and I was thirteen, and now at the old dog age of twelve years old, she required all kinds of expensive care.
Despite my initial phone call, I knew my father thought I would continue to beg him to change his mind but he was wrong. I was tired of his manipulative, controlling bullshit and this stunt was just another step in him trying to control me. I was twenty-five, for fuck's sake! He didn't like it that I wanted to pursue my art instead of working some boring corporate job or God forbid - become a politician like him. If I had agreed to go to some Ivy League school, he would have no problem funding that. But no, just because I have an artistic spirit and I had big dreams of being a sculptor, he thinks I'm being lazy or unambitious. I'm an embarrassment to him.
Not like my older sister, Kate. Kate the lawyer. Kate the graduate of Stanford Law School. Kate, the perfect daughter, with the perfect husband, and the perfect mother of exactly two-and-a-half perfect children. I adored my nieces and I was sure I would equally love my nephew as soon as he arrived. It was their mother that drove me crazy. How she was able to do it all so well, and make it appear so effortless, had baffled me for years. However, she wasn’t humble about it nor did she hide her disapproval of my chosen path.
Hence, the rift between us. We just didn’t understand each other.
I was the black sheep. The black sheep who just happened to like nice things.
We were total opposites, and it had always been obvious who our father loved more. The perfect one.
Well, I would show him. But first, I had to prove to myself I could do it. I had depended on his money for a long time, but no more! Today was the end of that.
I would just get a job. That's what everyone else did. It couldn't be that hard. I would figure it out.
The clicking of stiletto heels on the shiny floor interrupted my train of thought, and I looked up into the most beautiful blue eys I had ever seen.
“Oh! Mon petite mimi! Darling, you look like you need a friend!”
She sat down next to me and quickly pulled me and Pearl into her arms. As she caressed my back, I was engulfed with a heady waft of the most intoxicating fragrance I had ever experienced. Uniquely floral, it invoked memories of lilac and rose, but with an underlying musky smell I couldn’t quite place. I inhaled deeply, memorizing her scent, wanting her to never let go, wanting to smell her forever.
Sinking into her embrace, I silently laid my head on her shoulder and cried, profoundly thankful for her presence as Pearl wiggled in my lap.
From that moment on, my life was never the same.
CHAPTER TWO
Genevieve was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. French, regal and elegant, she commanded the attention of every eye in the room. Not a weak bone in her body, she had an underlying strength that was intimidating. She took command of every situation, and I quickly learned to stay out of her way. After taking me under her wing that fateful day in the ladies lounge, she changed my life in ways I never would have expected.
She had taught me to take charge of my own life.
Now six months later, I could pursue my art. Now, I had plenty of my own money and I was completely self-sufficient. Pearl had all her needs seen to. I worked for myself, with a small percentage going to Genevieve, of course. I hadn’t seen my parents since I met her, and I didn’t miss their nagging one tiny bit. I was even able to keep my apartment and all of my treasured possessions. I shudder to think what might have happened had I not met Genevieve.
Quite simply, I owed her my life.
The best part of all is that now I had a family. A real family.
Genevieve employed three other women, and while it was definitely work, there was an aura of friendship, sisterhood and family. In this line of work, you needed support. You needed people to talk to that knew what you were dealing with. Other women to give you tips for what to do when a client got out of line. A place to go anytime of the day.
A soft place to fall if the inevitable emotions decided to trip you up.
We were all young. Not a one of us was over twenty-five, except Genevieve, whose age remained a mystery. She could have been thirty or fifty, it was impossible to tell. Her appearance was impeccable and her inner beauty and poise only made her seem younger. Long, straight black hair flowed down her back, framing her high cheekbones and bright, blue eyes. In the six months I had known her, I had never seen her without her signature red lipstick and black stiletto heels. She wore them like she was born with them, gracefully and effortlessly.
Her sparkling eyes were her best feature, and by now I was convinced I would do anything she asked with just a flash of those azure beauties. She was kind and gentle despite her take charge attitude and I considered her a dear friend. I knew I could talk to her about anything, and I had.
After convincing me to go with her to the wine bar down the street from the store on Wilshire, we spent that entire first night talking and getting to know each other. She had a way of easing into a conversation that made me want to tell her everything about me.
I told her about my father, about Kate, about my sculptures. When she insisted on seeing my work, I took her back to my apartment and showed her my pieces. I was proud of them. I hadn’t had a show yet, but I had been working day and night to finish enough pieces so that I could.
Not many people had seen my stuff. I had shown Kate a few pieces, but she was totally uninterested and self-absorbed. She didn’t have one nice thing to say about it. And my father was entirely too busy to even stop by for a moment to see them, which wasn’t surprising at all.
But Genevieve was nothing like them. Her lavish praise was em
bellished with phrases that I never would have used to describe them myself, and I was seduced by her genuine kindness and appreciation. By the time she was finished looking at them I was blushing bright red and could hardly make eye contact with her.
My apartment was divided into two different loft spaces. The side that held my studio was slightly elevated. Genevieve walked around, lightly caressing the chunks of marble and heavy tools strewn about. Busts and marble carvings of nude women, some complete, some still in progress were scattered around us. She inspected it all with curiosity and a slight sense of authority, asking pointed, intelligent questions about my work.
Pearl and I followed her around like a couple of puppy dogs, inhaling her heavenly perfume, answering every question eagerly.
I loved the female form, and most of my carvings and sculptures were just that. Women in all their glorious forms, formed out of clay or marble - two completely different mediums. I was in love with them both, and had yet to be able to turn away from one for the other.
I felt my stuff was good, but as an artist, you are constantly plagued with self-doubt and a nagging voice telling you that the work you are producing is actually dreadful. I was humble, but sculpting was my nirvana, my peaceful, happy place, and so I kept doing it - mostly for me. A small part of me wanted to be successful and show my father that he was wrong, but I did it because I loved it.
Sharing it with others had always proven to be the hardest part about it, but by the time Genevieve had seen all my stuff, while slightly embarrassed, I felt on top of the world. She built me up so high, I felt like I was floating on the ceilings of my loft.
“Do you have any friends?” she asked.
“No,” I replied quietly. “Well, only Pearl.”
It had been one of my worst regrets of the last few years. I had a few friends in college but after graduation we had all drifted in different directions and I had become more and more isolated, only seeing my family every now and then.
“That’s what you need, mon mimi! Other women! To lean on for support, to help you laugh through everything you are going through with your father. A woman is naked without her own group of women to rely on. You need that, darling. Your sculptures are crying out for it!”
“Well, you might be right.” I knew she was right. I missed female companionship desperately.
I had a few boyfriends the last few years, but nobody ever stuck around for long. Either they already knew who my father was, and that’s why they wanted to go out with me - or they found out afterwards, and that was enough to chase anyone away.
No wonder I isolated myself and did nothing but shop and sculpt all the time.
Alone was comfortable.
But Genevieve saw more in me.
“Vanessa, I’m not kidding,” she had said that night. “I see you in the finest art houses in Los Angeles in six months. You’ll be the darling of the L.A. art scene. Stick with me, mon petite mimi, and I will introduce you to just the right people to make it all happen.”
And I believed her. How could I not when she was flashing those eyes and smiling at me like she had known me all my life?
And it wasn’t just me she had cast her spell on. The other ladies were just as enthralled with her as I was. It was impossible not to be.
Dakota Starling, Bobbie Fox, and Veronica Valentino obviously adored her. And she them. Like I said, it was a sisterhood. Thick as thieves, we were all fiercely loyal to her. Luckily for me, they had taken me into the fold immediately. And they fell in love with Pearl. She had never been so spoiled.
Dakota was a tall blonde with a perfect yoga body. Born and bred in Savannah, Georgia, she was raised to be a proper Southern belle. A debutante as a teen, she grew up on an old sugar plantation with her parents, her family having lived there for hundreds of years. When she was 18, there was an electrical fire and the house burned to the ground, killing everyone inside, her parents included. Dakota had been out on a date, making out in the back of the star quarterback’s pick-up truck ten miles away. With no home and no parents, she took her surprisingly small inheritance and moved to L.A. alone and afraid. After a year of floating around, she met Genevieve in a nightclub. She was the first girl Genevieve hired, and she had been working for her for three years now.
Bobbie was a tomboy from Austin, Texas, with legs that stretched for miles and short, black hair that was cut into the cutest pixie cut I had ever seen. Unless she was on a date, you wouldn’t find her wearing anything but jeans and a t-shirt. But when she dressed up for work, she was drop-dead, make-your-mouth-fall-open gorgeous! She escaped from her abusive family when she was thirteen and had somehow made it on the streets for ten years before Genevieve found her two years ago stumbling awkwardly through failing at her first day as a waitress at a coffee shop.
Veronica was the exotic one. Her silky, olive skin practically sparkled, and her thick, dark hair swung in heavy waves down her back. Somehow she managed to be voluptuous and petite all at the same time, leaving not a head unturned as she sashayed down the streets of Rodeo Drive, which was not an easy feat. Los Angeles was full of beautiful people, and a pretty girl was a dime a dozen. But Veronica could pull it off. And she knew it. And she also loved it. Confidence dripped from her and her sassy attitude was her most endearing feature. She grew up in East L.A. and had escaped from a family of gang members. She met Genevieve in a doctor’s office waiting room when she was only 18. Genevieve got her cleaned up, off the street and working for her. It was a far cry from where she grew up.
I fell in love with all of them.
If the job got a little challenging, it was okay. Because I knew I had them to talk to about it.
We all trusted Genevieve completely. We knew she would never put us in danger, and so far, nothing terrible had happened to any of us.
She had saved us all, in one way or another. And I suspected that in some way, we had also saved her.
CHAPTER THREE
The dates weren’t as bad as one might think.
Genevieve explained early on that it was our choice who we went out with. It’s our choice what we do on those dates. If the client wanted more than we were comfortable with, we graciously refused. Either way, we still got paid and more than handsomely.
When I first realized what the job being offered to me entailed, I balked. But after listening to Genevieve and the girls, and realizing that I would, in fact, be the one in charge of whatever direction the date headed and still get a fat envelope of cash at the end of the night, I became more and more comfortable.
Sure, I never expected to end up being essentially a high-class call girl, but I was able to spend one or two nights a week spending time with a classy gentleman and being treated like a princess, taken out to the finest restaurants, plays, and whatever other engagements Genevieve’s ‘friends’ (as she was fond of calling them) needed to attend with a beautiful woman by their side. It was always a good time.
They would pay me, and I would go home and sculpt.
Sure, so far there had been a few boring business dinners I had been asked to endure, but receiving ten thousand dollars - yes, ten! - at the end of the night made it all worth it. It certainly made it more exciting.
Tonight, I was being picked up by a limo and driven to meet a handsome oil barren that was in town from Texas. I had seen pictures of him, but tonight would be the first time I had met him in person. Most of Genevieve’s friends were handsome and rich, the kind of men who didn’t have time for conventional relationships and also happened to possess obscene amounts of disposable income that they didn’t think anything of spending a tiny portion of it on a gorgeous, engaging companion for the evening.
Sometimes, the clients wanted sex, but a lot of the time, it was all for appearances. Perhaps they had a client they were trying to impress. Or, maybe they were trying to prove something to a colleague or make another woman jealous. Whatever it was they needed, if we were comfortable with providing it, and the price was right, then we were committed
to making them happy, but completely within our own boundaries.
So we weren’t selling sex, we were selling companionship.
And, tonight, it just so happened that I received a free dinner at Scarpetta, one of the fanciest restaurants in Beverly Hills and a handsome sum in exchange for that companionship.
It all made perfect sense to me.
After going on dozens of dates for Genevieve, I had only had sex with three men so far. And nobody else had complained. In fact, it hadn’t even really come up that often. Every guy I said no to had been completely respectful. Men with that amount of money know they can get sex easily by other means, most of them have women throwing themselves at their feet, but they hired us for other reasons.
We weren’t unpredictable. While we were indeed going out with them for their money, we didn’t have any interest in marrying them and then taking half of their fortunes in an ugly divorce. We wouldn’t embarrass them with emotional outbursts at an important business dinner, nor would we saddle them with an unexpected pregnancy and derail their perfectly planned careers.
I could definitely see the appeal for them. And that’s why I was happy to provide the service.
The hard part was keeping yourself in shape, maintained and perfectly manicured. I was used to it, but girls like Bobbie were constantly complaining about all of the waxing, exfoliating, hair dying and nail polishing involved. She had no problem keeping in shape, spending her free nights at the park playing basketball and running religiously every single morning. But for Dakota, exercise wasn’t high on her list of priorities. Luckily for her, she seemed to be able to devour entire pints of ice cream and never gain an ounce.
We all had our challenges.
I spent hours getting ready for this date. I was expected to look and dress perfectly, and since that is what my date was paying for, that was what he would get.
I had spent the morning at the salon getting my hair and nails done. Three mornings ago had been spent enduring the painful process of having my entire body waxed by a tiny Japanese lady that all the girls swore by. Before working for Genevieve, that was one task I had taken on myself, but Genevieve and the girls had insisted I have it done by a professional. There was a huge difference between being completely hair-free and my usual maintenance. It was something that definitely took some getting used to.
RAW: THE ULTIMATE MC COLLECTION Page 64