The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  He got up and made himself another Scotch.

  29

  * * *

  The Delusion

  The alarm on Nat’s phone beeped: 7:00 A.M. She stretched dreamily, relishing the soft sheets that smelled subtly of Gabe’s cologne. It was Monday; she didn’t have time to lie around. She had classes in a couple of hours. She had to find a new place to live. She had to get her boxes out of Brooklyn. But, as she had for the past two days, she allowed herself a moment to enjoy being there, in that sumptuous apartment on Park Avenue. She allowed herself to pretend it was her home.

  Climbing out of bed, she padded to the kitchen in her T-shirt and panties and turned on the coffee machine. She opened the fridge and peered inside. There was a jug of organic milk, a dozen eggs, some cheese, and an onion. She could make an omelet or scrambled eggs. Did she have time? She didn’t, really, but the thought of cooking in Gabe’s kitchen was strangely appealing. She was rummaging through his kitchen cupboards when her phone buzzed.

  Reaching for it, she saw Gabe’s name on her call display.

  “Hey, babe,” she said, her voice still throaty with sleep.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I’m up. I was just going to make coffee.” She didn’t mention the eggs, suddenly feeling guilty for being so familiar in his kitchen.

  “How’d you sleep?” He was driving. She could hear the hum of the freeway, could tell his attention was divided.

  “Great. But I was lonely here without you.”

  “I spoke to a real estate agent,” he said, getting down to business. “He’s going to find some apartments in Manhattan. Somewhere small but comfortable and close to school. Are you around this week for viewings?”

  “Of course.”

  “I was thinking Chelsea or the West Village. They’re safe areas and there are a few rent-stabilized buildings.”

  “Sounds good.” But her voice trembled.

  “What’s wrong?” He sounded surprised, mildly perturbed.

  “Nothing,” she said, but found her throat was clogged with emotion. “I’m just . . . grateful.”

  And she was. But she was also disappointed. Without articulating it to herself, she had hoped Gabe would invite her to stay with him. For good. Some naive, overly romantic part of her had longed for an offer to become a permanent part of his life. His live-in girlfriend. It was a delusional concept. It was way too soon; they barely knew each other. But she’d allowed herself to believe that all the drama—Cole, her roommates’ confrontation—had happened for a reason. She had hoped it meant they would be together.

  “It’ll be great to have you living closer,” Gabe said. “It’s been a pain in the ass having to schlep you back and forth to Brooklyn.”

  Like she was a parcel. A document. An annoying child whose divorced parents shared custody.

  His words, so businesslike, so matter-of-fact, forced a sudden burst of clarity. Gabe did not consider her live-in girlfriend material. He viewed her as a sex partner, a companion, paid to keep her physical and emotional distance. She was an escort. It was stupid and pathetic to try to turn their debauched relationship into something real. She was desperate and needy, clinging onto her older lover because of her daddy issues.

  But, no . . . Gabe had protected her from Cole, had rescued her from homelessness. He had told her he loved her. True, it had been said in the heat of passion, after numerous glasses of Scotch. But he’d said it. And the way he looked at her, the way he touched her . . . What they shared was real. It had to be.

  “It’ll be a lot more convenient,” she said, forcing an upbeat tone. “I’m excited.”

  30

  * * *

  The Studio

  Nat’s new apartment was in a four-story building situated on a leafy street several blocks from the School of Visual Arts. It was a studio, barely big enough for the double bed and plush sofa Gabe had had delivered. Nat had scoured thrift shops and secondhand stores, cobbling together a fun, kitschy collection of furnishings. The space had a cool Southeast Asian vibe thanks to a hand-carved teak coffee table she’d discovered, some brightly colored jacquard throw pillows, and a decorative Buddha next to the beaded turquoise lamp.

  This was the first time Nat had ever lived alone. At first, she was afraid she’d feel isolated, but she’d felt far lonelier living with her mom and Derek in their new house in Blaine. She’d been much more solitary in the Bushwick apartment, hiding herself away from her judgmental roommates. Nat savored having her own space. She could watch TV in her underwear while eating Chinese takeout straight from the carton. She could invite Keltie and Ivan over under the auspices of working on a project and then end up drinking white wine until 2:00 a.m. It was the first place Nat could call her own. If she could call it her own.

  It was her name on the one-year lease, but, without any discussion, Gabe had handed her a stack of cash for her damage deposit and first month’s rent. When May 1 rolled around, Gabe had taken care of her rent again. He was wealthy, she knew that, but could he afford to house his ex-wife and daughter, his mistress, and himself? She hoped so. Without his support, there would be no way she could afford her new home. When classes finished, she would offer to get a job to help with expenses. Hopefully, he’d tell her it wasn’t necessary. She’d allowed herself to envision a summer spent sketching, painting, enjoying the city with Ivan, when he wasn’t at one of the two jobs he’d taken on to allow himself to stay in New York over the school holidays. (Poor Keltie would be going home to Pittsburgh.) And, of course, Nat would spend time with Gabe.

  Skipping down the stairs and through the small tiled lobby, Natalie let herself out onto Twentieth Street. It was only a ten-minute walk to the main school building, heaven after her long subway commute from Bushwick. Afternoon sun was filtering through the leaves of the linden trees, dappling the sidewalk as she strolled to class. As happened often since her relocation to Chelsea, she felt an odd sense of déjà vu. It was different, though . . . more like simultaneously being out of her element and exactly where she was meant to be. The life she was now living felt both surreal and right. Even fated.

  Her relationship with Gabe had intensified since she’d been living in the city. It had also normalized. They’d been together for three months now, and they were slipping into a comfortable groove. On Tuesdays or Wednesdays, they went out: to dinner, to the theater, even the opera once (though she’d only pretended to enjoy it). Every Thursday night, around ten, he would come to her apartment on his way home from work. She would set her studying aside, put on something sexy, open a bottle of wine. They would talk—about his day, her day, books, or even politics—and then they would make love. On the weekends, she let him be with his daughter.

  Her fascination with the girl had not diminished with time. Perhaps this was due to Gabe’s increased openness about his only child. He had mentioned Violet’s impending graduation ceremonies, a party his ex-wife was going to host at her home somewhere on Long Island. Gabe had wanted his daughter to go to Princeton like he had, but the girl was planning to do volunteer work in Honduras (fucking Honduras, he called it, but Nat admired Violet’s social conscience). The way he spoke of his daughter confounded Nat. Sometimes with affection, often with confusion, even with a sense of loss. Nat’s curiosity had to be slaked.

  Violet Turnmill was easy to find on Facebook. Nat had thought only older people were active on the platform, but apparently teens with a lot of strong opinions used it, too. Violet had lax privacy settings and posted regularly: articles about the environment, memes on women’s rights, and feminist Instapoetry. She shared photos of the intersectionality play she had written, directed, and starred in. She railed about bi erasure, about racism, and battery cages for chickens. From scanning the girl’s posts, Nat was able to discern that she was pansexual, a vegan, passionate about theater and the disenfranchised.

  When the younger girl finished high school, went off to Honduras or Princeton, Nat’s relationship with Gabe would evolve. They’d b
e able to spend weekends together like a legitimate couple. Maybe they’d fly out to Blaine so Gabe could meet her mom. It would be awkward, given Gabe’s age, but her mom would accept him eventually. Given time, Gabe would be comfortable introducing her to his friends and colleagues . . . even to Violet. Nat was happy with the status quo, but craving romantic progress was only natural. She was in love.

  Nat had reached campus now. She had just one exam left, and then the semester was done. The school year had flown by. When she thought about her arrival at the School of Visual Arts, so young, so naive, so broke, she couldn’t believe she was the same girl. She had a sophisticated, older boyfriend. She had money, new clothes, and an apartment. With them had come a new sense of self-confidence, of self-worth. Contrary to her earlier suppositions, she found her paid relationship with Gabe empowering.

  Entering the classroom, she slipped into a vacant desk. Just ahead of her and across the aisle, she spotted her pal. “Keltie,” she called in a loud whisper. The pierced girl glanced over her shoulder, briefly, but didn’t reply. There was something tense and purposeful in her ignorance of Nat’s overture. Had Nat done something to piss her off? That’s when she felt the weight of eyes on her. Several of her classmates were looking at her, whispering among themselves. She shifted in her seat, self-consciously.

  As the exam booklets were handed out, Nat brushed away her paranoia. Keltie had no reason to snub her. Her friend was probably just stressed about her final exam, about packing up her dorm room and moving back to Pennsylvania for the summer. Nat, though jobless, could afford to stay in the city year-round. Keltie might be jealous.

  The exam was surprisingly easy. Nat had worried she hadn’t studied enough (she’d been busy with Gabe all week), but she was sure she’d done well. When it was over, she loitered outside the room, waiting for Keltie. Her friend emerged about five minutes later.

  “What did you think?” Nat asked.

  Keltie kept walking, so Nat fell into step beside her.

  “Easier than I expected,” the girl said.

  “Let’s celebrate. Ice cream? Margaritas? I’m buying.”

  Keltie stopped then. “Have you looked at your Instagram this morning?”

  “No, I was running late. Why?”

  Her friend leaned in, lowered her voice. “Have you heard of Tag a Sugar Baby?”

  Oh, shit. “No.”

  “It’s an Instagram page that outs escorts and sponsored girls.” She took a deep breath. “Someone sent a screen shot of you to that page. They posted it.”

  “How did you see it?” Nat’s voice was shrill with panic. “Do you follow that page?”

  “No, of course not. I think it’s mean and ugly. But someone tagged me in the photo. And your Instagram profile is public. A bunch of your followers were tagged to make sure they’d see it.”

  With trembling hands, Nat pulled out her phone and tapped the app. In the search bar, she typed in: Tag a Sugar Baby. The page had 8,045 followers. Beneath a tiny profile photo showing a girl in a bikini lounging on the hood of a Ferrari, it read:

  Think you can get away with it, bitch? Think again.

  And then:

  Direct message us a screen shot if you want us to post a sugar baby.

  With a sick feeling in her throat, Nat found the tiny photo of herself and tapped it. It was taken at the Metropolitan Opera. She wore a tight black dress, flawless makeup, and a self-satisfied smile. She remembered taking the selfie—Gabe had gone to the lobby to make a phone call, so she’d snapped it, sitting in her deep red seat in the opulent theater. It was the first (and only) time she’d been to the opera, so she’d posted it. She’d thought sharing her glamorous experiences couldn’t hurt, now that she didn’t have to worry about her roommates. She’d thought wrong.

  Beneath her photo was a caption:

  Full-time student with an NYC apartment, nights at the opera, Michelin-starred restaurants, alone in every pic = #sugarbaby #sponsoredgirl #thanksdaddy

  Nat went pale. Her mom was on Instagram. (What better way to show off her highly photogenic blond children?) Had she seen this? By tapping the image, Nat was able to see who had been alerted to the salacious post. Her mom’s name appeared, along with another classmate from SVA, an old friend from back home in Blaine, a cousin. . . . Someone had covered all the bases. Soon, everyone would know.

  “Who would do this?” Nat gasped, but it had to be Cole. Even after the beating Gabe had ordered, her ex had found a way to ruin her. He would pay for this. . . . But there was no way to prove it was Cole. And there were other possibilities, too many. Mara and Toni. Miguel. Even Ava might have betrayed Nat, may have felt she was protecting her.

  “There’s a website too,” Keltie said. “You’re on it.”

  “Oh my god . . .”

  “I don’t care what you do to make money. It’s your body; it’s your life. But not everyone feels that way.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” The voice was male, hostile. Ivan. Keltie must have shared the page with him.

  Nat opened her mouth to respond, but she couldn’t find the words to defend herself. Ivan, while progressive in many respects, obviously maintained some traditional values. His voice was shrill, loud, cutting.

  “I knew something was up when you went to Vermont. And then when you moved into that apartment . . . It didn’t make sense. But I never thought you were a hooker.”

  “I’m not a hooker,” she whispered.

  “Just because you don’t get paid by the blow job, doesn’t mean you’re not a prostitute.”

  “Ivan, stop,” Keltie scolded. “You’re being an asshole.”

  “She’s having sex with old men for money! It’s disgusting!” A crowd of classmates was gathering around them, all of them looking at Nat, some looking at their phones. All of them judging her. She felt Keltie’s hand squeeze hers, and it was that small show of support that unraveled her.

  Tears blurred her vision as Nat turned and fled. Scurrying blindly down the streets, back to the apartment Gabe paid for, she told herself it would be okay. That it would all blow over. When school resumed in the fall, they’d all have forgotten. She would call her mom and make up a story—a vindictive former friend out to disparage her. A free ticket to the opera.

  But alone in the tiny studio, her shame felt overwhelming. She’d made peace with the nature of her relationship, had stopped feeling guilty about the money Gabe gave her. Because he cared for her, loved her even. He’d told her so. Just because he hadn’t repeated the sentiment since that night when they’d had amazing sex in his apartment, didn’t make it less true. Gabe loved her; she knew he did.

  She needed to see him. He was her boyfriend, and it was normal to crave his support at a time like this. It was Friday afternoon—he would likely be heading to Long Island to pick up his daughter at school. But just this once, Violet could spend the weekend with her mother. Just this once, Natalie could come first. She dialed his number.

  He answered after one ring. “Hello?”

  Did he sound annoyed? Or was it concern that gave his voice that edge? Gabe had made the parameters of their arrangement clear: weekends were for his daughter. But that conversation had happened months ago. Their relationship had evolved since then. Hadn’t it? She suddenly felt afraid, was tempted to hang up, but she couldn’t. Not now.

  “I need you,” she said.

  31

  * * *

  Self-harm

  When the call from Nathan came in, Gabe was on the Montauk Highway, just past Bridgehampton. Had Natalie called ten minutes later, he would have been at his picture-perfect country house and wouldn’t have answered it. Her voice was shaky, tearful. Someone had outed her sugar baby status on social media and she was humiliated. (He’d found a tactful way to ask if he’d been identified; he hadn’t.) Natalie had wanted to see him, needed his comfort and support, but he was already in the Hamptons. She’d pleaded for him to come back early, to spend the weekend with her, just this once. He’d made up a
n excuse, an important fund-raiser at his daughter’s school.

  “Don’t let their judgment bother you,” he’d assured her. “You know that what we have is real.”

  “I know,” she’d said, and he had heard relief and gratitude in her voice. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I know how I feel. I know how you feel.”

  “I’ll try to come back Sunday morning if I can.”

  “It’s okay,” Natalie had said. “Soon Violet will be off to college or on her trip, and we can be together every weekend.”

  “Right,” he’d replied weakly. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  It was Saturday afternoon, and he’d been trapped at the Sagaponack house until now. Celeste’s parents had been visiting from Montreal, were just now heading home. They’d been there all week while Gabe had been in the city; he’d left work early Friday afternoon to have dinner with them. He’d been relieved it was just one dinner. Gilbert and Sylvie were fine but, even though they spoke perfect English, they insisted on speaking French, which drove him nuts. He had no idea what they were saying and often assumed they were mocking or disparaging him without his knowledge. Violet was fluent, but she always responded in English. He doubted it was for his benefit, but he appreciated it nonetheless.

  He was in the massive kitchen, making himself a sandwich with the leftover pork loin Celeste had made last night. As he spread Dijon mustard on his multigrain bread, his mind returned to Natalie’s words on the phone.

  Soon Violet will be on her trip, and we can be together every weekend.