Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “I’m glad you care,” she said. “That’s why we’re talking. After my girlfriend Hilary—” Liane looked away for a moment. “She was a little older than I was, and lived most of the year in Cannes. We sent each other a lot of business back then … You’ve met some of Hilary’s people, you know. Isabel bought her business. Hilary moved back to Edinburgh to take care of her aunt.” I wonder if there was more to Hilary’s departure than her ailing relative. Is she still alive? “Anyway.” Liane smiled gently at her teacup, then looked up. “We can trust Isabel. She moved to France a few years ago, and sends me new business sometimes. Hilary always liked her. They met in London.”

  “Isabel doesn’t have a website, does she?”

  “I can’t imagine why she would!” Liane said. “Dear, why are you always talking about these websites? It seems to be an obsession with you.”

  “Because! That’s what so many people do these days. You never know if they’re advertising behind your back, and not telling you. Imagine the risk!”

  “People do what they have to do, and we mustn’t judge. But,” Liane insisted, “we don’t know anybody who would have to do that!”

  Oh yes we do, but Liane would freak if she knew about Charmaine’s site.

  “Well,” I explained. “Some girls have a very nice website, and they’re careful about meeting new clients. But you never know how careful. Do you?”

  “No,” Liane agreed. “But there would be no reason for Izzy to do that. She inherited Hilary’s customers. And this is much better for you! If this gentleman’s an important client, you should keep him entertained with girls who won’t be calling when he returns to New York. Staying in that house with him might give Allison ideas.”

  She paused to refill my cup.

  “Men will be men,” she said. “Don’t take your best people for granted, and don’t underestimate your best friends. Allison might grow jealous of your good fortune. What if she tattles to your husband? Or your client? Did you say he’s in the dark about your marriage? Isabel doesn’t know you’re married, and her girls won’t know a thing about you. It’s dangerous to rely on a girl who’s close to you.”

  Madams are sometimes hard to read. Is Liane promoting Isabel because she owes her some business? Or because she wants to remold me into the best mini-madam I can be?

  “There’s a lot at stake,” she pointed out. “Izzy will provide the gentleman with variety. That’s what keeps your relationship with him stable and secure.” She reached into the pocket of her long slim skirt, and handed me a small white card. On one side, in her graceful handwriting, a phone number. No name.

  “This makes me quite nostalgic!” she said. “Hilary was a beautiful girl in her prime. When we strolled up and down the Croisette in our summer dresses, everybody used to stare at us. She had a friend from Monaco who stayed at the Hôtel du Cap at Antibes. He sent a car, and I went for a week. It’s wonderful to be in your thirties, still passing for twenty-five!” Liane sighed happily. “Make the most of it, dear. Of course, it’s up to you, but Isabel’s expecting your call.”

  Exiting Liane’s building, I felt my hair wilting in the damp air. As I walked toward Madison, I checked my phone and discovered two impatient voicemails from Trish: “That guy from Philly? He just called from the St. Regis. Call, okay? He wants to see you!”

  It’s unprofessional to keep hoping he’ll cancel again, but I don’t trust new customers under forty. Trish has only seen him once or twice. How does she know he lives in Philadelphia? What if he’s some married Wall Streeter? Maybe I’ve met his wife at one of Matt’s corporate barbeques. So many of these guys fudge their whereabouts, to protect their own house of cards, never realizing they might be endangering ours!

  “Can you make it tomorrow at noon? I don’t have anyone else who’s your type, and he’s totally fixated on Asian!”

  Yikes. If a customer’s counting on a girl to supply my type, it seems inconsiderate—downright rude—to ignore her pleas. Especially when I’m her only Exotic.

  Wednesday morning, June 26, 2002

  At six A.M., Matt got out of bed to meet one of his clients. My head started buzzing with the logistics of a kinky nooner in midtown involving three changes of costume. I couldn’t even pretend to sleep, so while he showered, I started the coffee.

  I was standing in the kitchen, in PJs and bare feet, chopping an apple, when my husband appeared in the doorway wearing a towel around his waist. “Honey,” he protested. “I’m having breakfast with this guy at his hotel.”

  He looks disarmingly heroic like that, but I forced myself to overlook his dewy biceps—and his slightly damp chest hair.

  “When you’re meeting a client at this hour, you want to keep an eye on your glycemic index.” I handed him a vitamin pill and a small glass of pear juice. “Where’s he staying?”

  “Peninsula.” He swallowed his juice. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” The Peninsula’s practically next door to the St. Regis. Should I be doing hotel calls at this point in my marriage? Trish has her own worries, but running into her husband at a Manhattan hotel isn’t one of them. Thank God it’s a breakfast meeting! I spooned some sheep’s milk yogurt into a bowl. “This’ll prevent your blood sugar from crashing.”

  “Is that?” Matt peered into the bowl. “Some kind of cereal?”

  “Two chopped brazil nuts, half an apple and a tablespoon of yogurt,” I said, daring him to ignore my nutritious snack. “Now you’ll be totally alert when you meet him. If your client’s still waking up,” I added, “so much the better!”

  He chewed slowly and gazed into my eyes—a bemused, longing look that made me forget my job, my monthly quota, and today’s obligations … for about two minutes.

  Now to marshal my resources.

  Those black lace-up boots are truly a pain—I worry about lacing them too tight against the back of my thighs—but they are, as Trish points out, effective. I always need help adjusting them, and guys appreciate it when you’ve got a gimmick.

  Charmaine’s Wednesday guy is pathologically prompt, sometimes early. Must get to Seventy-ninth Street NOW.

  Wednesday, later

  When I arrived at Seventy-ninth, Charmaine, dressed in lace bicycle shorts and a matching navy bra, was vacuuming the living room carpet.

  I closed the bedroom door so I could concentrate. Then I put my boots in a large Duane Reade bag, which I placed at the bottom of yet another bag. A big purple Bergdorf Goodman shopping bag is perfect for getting a pair of thigh-high boots into a midtown hotel without arousing the security guard’s curiosity. Makes me look less like a working girl, more like an out-of-town guest on a spending spree. (Duane Reade bag screams Local Schlepper—a tactic that should only be used when trying to throw your husband off the scent.)

  I packed some lingerie—innocent pastels for our first hour, vampy black corset for the second—and a few pairs of colorful strappy heels. My final touch was a convincing layer of white tissue paper. Now I really look like I’ve been shopping. Then I changed into a loose ladylike blouse, soft black pants, and low heels—the kind you wear to go shopping. I was ready, or so I thought, for a wrinkle-free journey in the midday heat.

  My first miscue was an SUV-wielding cabbie who thought I really was an out-of-towner, confusing the St. Regis with the Regency. “No!” I insisted. “I know where I’m going! How long have you been driving?”

  “A week,” he said. “Where is the Regis?”

  “I’ll show you.” I was trying to locate the pillbox in my make-up bag so I could hide my rings. “Don’t take Second Avenue!” Instead, I stashed my diamond ring and my wedding band in a case of powder. When we arrived at Fifty-fifth Street, I felt so guilty about my frantic, bossy directions that I overtipped. As I struggled to get out—still not used to the heavy, sliding doors on these new cabs—the pressure on one fingernail made me squeal with pain.

  I adjusted my sunglasses and managed to glide past the doormen into the lobby. I’ve executed this
elementary move thousands of times in my career, but everything about this day was conspiring against my nerves. Matt’s meeting across the street. My fears concerning Trisha’s new customer. My bag of incriminating outfits. My lack of sleep. My newly cracked fingernail.

  And now, to my horror, talking urgently on his cellphone, scanning the lobby with expectant eyes—Elspeth’s husband, Jason! My brother-in-law was standing in the lobby of the St. Regis, guarding a thick, boxy briefcase, and peering at the entrance. I froze for a second, but he was too involved in his conversation to spot me in the crowd.

  Grateful to be wearing my shades, I turned quickly, and walked as casually as I could. My heart began to race. Underneath my demure blouse, I was perspiring. Now I was in a corner where he couldn’t see me. I pulled out my phone so I could pretend to be engrossed, and looked up cautiously. Jason was pacing while he talked, looking toward—no, away—yes, away from me. Thank God!

  But now, he was deciding to sit down in one of those red chairs! And he was putting his phone away, staring around the lobby with a sense of purpose that made me want to run. Instead, I forced myself to breathe slowly. I turned again so he wouldn’t see my face, and pretended to be deeply involved in a phone call of my own.

  I can’t get to the elevator without walking right by him! What if I call his cellphone repeatedly? I have a blocked number, he’ll never know it’s me. Get him distracted. I could sneak past while he tries to figure out what’s wrong with his phone.

  But I don’t actually have Jason’s cellphone number! We never have any reason to talk, outside of his living room or mine, damn it.

  Jason reached into his briefcase, pulled out a copy of American Lawyer and settled into his chair. His legs relaxed as he studied the magazine. I studied my route to the elevator, while trying to look like a cellphone user studying her missed calls. Jason picked up his phone again, and the magazine went back into the briefcase. He was looking in my direction. I bent over my shopping bag, so my hair would cover my face, and fiddled with the tissue. A bulky man in a suit—security, for sure—began walking toward my corner of the lobby.

  If it weren’t for my brother-in-law, I could face down the security, as I’ve done in the past, and have them call the room. But—what choice did I have? I walked quickly toward the hotel entrance, making sure Jason would only see my back. I could feel security closing in as I reached the front door. When I hit the street, I walked faster, afraid of what might happen if I made the mistake—like Lot’s wife—of looking back.

  When I reached Fifth Avenue, I hopped into a cab. “Thirty-fourth and First,” I said, without thinking. As we neared First Avenue, I suddenly realized—I can’t bring this bag into my home! “I’m sorry,” I told the cabbie. “I have to change my destination. Can you take me to Seventy-ninth and First?” The one place where I feel safe, but I can’t go there right away—Charmaine’s seeing her regular. “Ummmm.” Staring at my compromised fingernail, I amended my trip once more. “I’d better go to York Avenue instead.”

  Not until I was safely installed in the waiting area of the nail salon did I realize: OMG. I have to call Trish! How could I have forgotten to call her from the cab? As soon as I turned it on, my phone began chiming.

  “Where are you?” Trish said in a low voice.

  “I’m—I had a terrible thing happen!” I explained. “I can’t really say—I’m in the nail salon—”

  “THE NAIL SALON?”

  “It’s not what you think—I saw someone in the lobby—I had to avoid—and I panicked—I had to come here because I can’t get back into my apartment and since my nail got—”

  “YOU’RE GETTING YOUR FUCKING NAILS DONE?” Trish was talking over me. “HOW COULD YOU FORGET ABOUT OUR SESSION?”

  “No!” I said. “Please listen—I have to call you back—wait, wait.” I got up, slid the purple shopping bag into a corner, and headed for the door, so I could talk on the sidewalk, away from the other customers. “I saw somebody in the lobby—I couldn’t—”

  “I don’t care what happened! I’ve been here since noon, and you can’t even be bothered to CALL me? It’s almost one o’clock! What kind of—is this how you do business?”

  “You know it’s not! I was so scared I forgot to call! My brother-in-law—”

  “I wasn’t born fucking yesterday!” Is Trish yelling like this in front of her client? Omigod. “Whatever your fucking excuse is, this is the last straw, okay? Lose my fucking number, you stupid bitch!”

  “But—”

  “Don’t ever call me again! I will have you fucking blacklisted—”

  I had to hang up. When I returned to the waiting area, and my perfectly organized bag of tricks, I was trembling with fear and shame.

  Later still

  How could I screw up so badly? It’s not the first time I’ve experienced Trisha’s temper. If only I had called from the cab! She might have listened, tried to finesse things.

  What was I thinking? My problem is—I wasn’t. I was reacting. Like an amateur. Like a part-timer! Reacting to the immediate crisis when I should have been thinking about the bigger picture. This is what I’m known for. Thinking ahead. What Liane says. “Asking the right questions.”

  Christ.

  Am I losing my professional edge?

  Even later

  And if I’ve lost it, can I get it back? Or is it gone for good?

  My husband, exhausted from a day of successful, back-to-back meetings, is snoring in the bedroom, blissfully unaware of my insomnia. Not to mention my catastrophic afternoon, and the career path that got me here.

  To think that I built my own business out of nothing. I started out in this city as a scrappy teenager with no customers or contacts of my own, and two pairs of shoes! I managed to become one of the best-connected private call girls in Manhattan.

  And now I’m being insulted—blackballed—humiliated by a pro-domme who lives in Westchester.

  What went wrong?

  Could Milt’s offer be my salvation?

  Thursday afternoon 34th Street

  After knocking myself out with Tylenol PMs, I slept until noon. Still groggy from prolonged sleep, the first thing I reached for was my cellphone, a lifeline to the career I once had.

  A voicemail from Milt made my heart sink: “Something came up, kiddo, call me. It’s about our trip.” Oh no. Provence … canceled? Did Milt’s wife decide to go with him? Never count on salvation, especially in the form of a john.

  Followed by a message from Allie. “If you haven’t booked someone else for Milt’s vacation, I think I could—should—maybe I can leave Barcelona early. Can you call me? I have an idea!” she burbled. She sounds so upbeat (as usual) that I feel like crying. No matter what happens, she’s afflicted with a chronic optimism. How does she do it?

  A message from Jasmine—“Roberto wants to see you Friday”—caused a pang of regret. He’s an easy hand job—my share, $400—and he’s always in a hurry. But more to the point, I can’t tell Allison, Liane or Charmaine what happened yesterday. It’s bad for my reputation, and totally embarrassing. Jasmine—always skeptical about Trish—is the one girl I would confide in, if I were still speaking to her.

  I’m no longer working with Trish, but I won’t go crawling back to a former best friend just to replace some lost business. Were the situation reversed, Jasmine—like me—would stick to her guns.

  I don’t have the heart to call Allie or the nerve to call Milt!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  New York: Escape from New York

  Friday, June 28, 2002

  Early this morning, after spending yesterday in hooker purgatory, I forced myself to answer my cellphone.

  “Where’ve you been, kiddo?” The concern in Milt’s voice touched me in a surprising place. Perhaps I’m not quite ready to retire from the only day job I know.

  “I—uh—just dealing with some family stuff,” I riffed. “Sorry! Tell me about France!” I added, trying to sound cheerful.

  “I’m flyin
g on Sunday. Something came up. I’ve been trying to talk to you about nailing down the dates at my house. Do you think you can join me?”

  “I thought you were canceling!”

  “Why would I do that?” Milt paused. “Suzy, are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine! Really!” It was hard to suppress my sudden mood shift. “I have our additional playmate—playmates—all figured out. It’s a surprise,” I added.

  “Good work, kiddo. You sound like yourself again.”

  Being offered big bucks to spend time with a guy as successful as Milt is rather ego-enhancing. Puts what happened on Wednesday in a quite different light.

  In Provence, I’ll get ahead of my quota. Never have to worry about running into my in-laws. Stock up on fresh lavender oil. Figure out my next move. (Should I try to get pregnant next year?)

  Perhaps I’ll even have a chance to relax.

  I called my husband at his office and left a message on his voicemail. “Honey? I really need your advice. I don’t know if I should try your other phone.” If I disturb him on his cell, that’s even better. I’m less likely to trip myself up during a short call. He answered his cellphone on the first ring.

  “What’s up, babe?”

  “My mom’s a little upset,” I lied. “Sebastian started doing drugs again. He’s in rehab but … She’s been driving around France, looking at real estate in …” Okay, Normandy isn’t even near Provence—that was a bit of a stretch. Much as I’d like to invoke the Calvados orchards and half-timbered barns in Mother’s JPEGs, I probably shouldn’t lie that much about my actual destination. I outlined, briefly, my mother’s putative needs, leaving her Birkenstocked travel buddy out of my story, and keeping the regional flourishes vague. “I don’t know. Should I go?”

  “Of course you should, honey.”

  Did he say that a little too quickly?

  “I don’t know, though. It’s like emotional blackmail!” I sighed. “And is it my fault Sebastian has a drug problem?”