Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “Of course.” Tini sprang into action like a military nurse. “White or red?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  France: Return of the (Not So) Repressed

  Saturday, continued

  Tempted to drown my fears in a second glass of wine, I cut myself off, and called Duncan.

  “I’m ten minutes away from St-Max,” he said. “Can you meet me in the Place Malherbe? Across from the fountain.”

  “I’d better not have more to drink,” I told Tini. “I’m having dinner with, um—” That guy we did last week, I almost said, but that sounds so trashy and immature.

  “Your sugar daddy?”

  “He’s just a customer.” Then I backtracked, suddenly possessive, not wanting Tini to think of Milt as fair game. After that phone call, he feels like the only sure thing I’ve got! If Elspeth tells Matt, well, at least my marital meltdown comes at a time when I have some serious money in hand—thanks to Milt. “He’s been very good to me,” I told her. “I’ve been seeing Milt for ten years. But he doesn’t know about Isabel. I hid the newspapers.”

  “Good,” Tini said. “Don’t involve these men in our problems unless they have a way to help. He can’t help with this, no point telling him.” Her bold, concerned gaze made me think twice about lying to her. “Who called you before?”

  “Someone I know in New York.” I felt a knot in my chest. Elspeth’s message was replaying in my head. Does she actually know about Isabel? Or only know about Milt? Am I in trouble with the law, with my husband, or both?

  “New York?” Tini looked relieved, and pulled out a business card. “If the French police bother you, call Renaud. Immediately. Say I told you to.”

  “Renaud?”

  “Renaud Rety. Our lawyer. Tini Avelino sent you. This—” she pointed with one of her impeccable white fingernails “—is his mobile.”

  “He’s representing Isabel?”

  “Yes. Not Serge, of course. His lawyer is a rascal. He will outsmart himself, if we’re lucky.”

  “Serge?”

  “The lawyer. Serge could not outsmart even himself.” Tini rolled her eyes heavenward. “Serge never had it so good. And he never will again.”

  Now back at Villa Gambetta, checking messages in vain. Did Elspeth find her way to Jasmine? Involve her in some kind of investigation? If Jasmine gets a call from any manner or form of law enforcement, she’ll be on the phone to her lawyer yesterday. I know she can protect herself, but it wouldn’t be wise for us to talk under these circumstances. It’s unwise to call ANYone at this point. Even Charmaine.

  Unless …

  Later

  Duncan was in the den—alone, thank goodness—organizing some magazines on the coffee table. “Would it seem strange,” I said, “if I borrow your phone for five minutes? I have to call New York and I’m afraid my number could be …” I can’t bring myself to say out loud that my phone number is now tainted—damaged goods.

  He nodded sympathetically—“No need to explain”—and reached into his pocket. “You’ll get better reception in the library.”

  Charmaine was surprised to hear my voice. “I didn’t recognize your number,” she said.

  “You never saw this number, okay? Don’t call. Has anyone been bothering you?”

  “You mean, like, a stalker?”

  “Well, it might feel that way. I can’t get into it now, but you need to be careful. Don’t talk to people you don’t know. Especially a woman—”

  “Nancy! For God’s sake, tell me what’s going on!”

  “Go to the web and google ‘Isabel Morgan St-Tropez.’ There was something in the Daily Mail this week. If you see anything in the American papers, I need to know. Send me a link, I think that’s safer than the phone. I’m away from the computer now, but I’ll check tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Charmaine said, rather tersely. “But keep me in the loop. Don’t leave me exposed! Do you really think email’s safer?”

  “In this case, yes. I really think so. Listen. I need to stay in the apartment when I come back.”

  “What?”

  “I know it’s a change from what we agreed, I’ll sort it out with you. And I’ll try to find somewhere else, but I need to know I have a place to sleep. I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll sleep on the couch—we’ll work out a different financial plan. I know it’s inconvenient, I don’t want to mess up your business. I promise I’ll make it up to you—”

  “It’s okay! We’ve never had a problem with money. But—can’t you tell me what happened?”

  “I’m not sure yet.” And now I realized my voice was getting shaky. “It’s hard to say. It’s not how I wanted things to go. I’ve only been married two years …” And it’s embarrassing to be telling my twenty-something roommate how badly I’ve botched things. Begging her to let me sleep on my own couch.

  “I think I get it,” she said. “Look, if you need to sleep here, we’ll just work it out.”

  “I’ll call in a few days,” I told her. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk anymore. I have to get ready for dinner with Milt.” I turned Duncan’s phone off, and collapsed into the armchair—where my favorite client fucked me two weeks ago—feeling like a complete failure as a wife.

  I keep hearing Elspeth’s voicemail in my head: “I wonder what my brother will do when he finds out. How long did you think you could play this game?”

  What exactly was my game? And what did I want to prove? That I could have it all?

  All I’ve proven is that I can’t.

  Later still

  What about Matt? Will he ever be the same after discovering that his wife’s … a hooker? Could he ever understand? “I’ve been unfaithful in my fashion,” I want to tell him, “but only to you.” And the person you tell the biggest lie to is the one who really matters. The man you’re cheating on is the one you care about.

  No, my husband wouldn’t understand, nor should he have to. Didn’t I tell Allie that the emotional cost of cheating is OURS and we pick up this tab ourselves? Here I am, stuck with a huge tab and no-one but myself to blame.

  Dressing for a poolside dinner, I kept one eye on my phone. Sitting at my desk, waiting for the serum under my eyes to dry, I reached over to check my voicemail. The silence in my message bank was maddening. I stopped myself from dialing Jasmine and turned the phone off, afraid to let it ring—what if Matt calls?

  A familiar dish was making its presence known throughout the house. Duncan, at work in the kitchen, having his way with my senses. That fragrant combination—young olive oil seeping into sweet peppers while they roast—sent my mind elsewhere. This aroma that went swirling through my head ten days ago, when I allowed Milt “just this once” to get me off … while allowing myself to think of Duncan. A breakthrough in my sex life, you might say—my inner sex life. Always off-limits to the man I have in mind or in bed.

  Instead of returning to New York and having to explain myself to Matt, what if I could stay here forever, sustained by Duncan’s cooking and Milt’s money? Sneaking off to the media hut once a week to sample Duncan while Milt plays golf. Paradise + Salvation. Better together.

  I slipped into raw silk pajama bottoms, pony skin flip-flops, then assessed myself in the mirror. Casual, relaxed—reassuringly expensive. My nipples were alert, pushing against a transparent black bra.

  There was a light tap on my door. “It’s me!” Allie whispered. “Can I come in?” She was clutching a fluffy bath sheet around her naked body, and her hair was wrapped in a small white towel. “My blow-dryer just died! I don’t understand. It’s brand new!” Once inside, she grew wary. “Are you—ummm—mad at me, Nancy?”

  “Now why would I be mad at you.” I made no effort to retrieve my dryer and continued playing with my pajama top, experimenting with the buttons.

  “Well, Tini’s mad at me.” Allie, uninvited, took a seat at the edge of my bed. “But she says you KNEW about Isabel.”

  “We’re not here to discuss Isabel. And it’s not something Milt needs to k
now about. If you let one word slip out around Milt or Duncan—”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t!”

  “I want to know what you plan on doing Monday afternoon. Tini says you’re part of a procession to the cave! And you’re the coordinator? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I’m going to, I mean, was going to!”

  “I can’t trust anything you tell me anymore. We’ll talk about this later. Here—” I handed her the dryer. “Do us both a favor and do not under any circumstances move the settings. If it’s on the wrong setting, it will overheat and die. And then we’ll be stranded here on a SUNDAY without any alternative means of—-”

  “I know!” she gasped. “That would be awful!”

  When I appeared poolside, Milt was in one of the upright wooden armchairs, immersed in the Daily Telegraph, sipping Pernod. Yesterday Isabel was in the Mail. Today, a story in a Swedish tabloid. Could she also be fodder for the Telegraph? I suppressed a violent urge to snatch the paper out of Milt’s hands. Instead, I snuck up behind him. Allowing my hair to tickle his face, I leaned over his right shoulder. My breasts grazed the back of his head as I studied the paper. Nothing about Isabel so far. Why is Milt so focused on those Barclays bankers up on Enron charges?

  Milt made no effort to move. He spoke in a quiet voice. “Kiddo, your hair on my neck is reminding me of something you did this morning. My cock is harder than it’s ever been. If Duncan weren’t twenty feet away I would ORDER you to sit on my lap.”

  “Would you like …” I kept my voice equally quiet. “… my panties on or off?”

  “I’ll try it both ways.”

  “He’s so near,” I murmured, looking in Duncan’s direction. “But so far,” I added, “he hasn’t seen a thing.” Milt twisted his head around, and his brow brushed against my breast. “Twenty feet?” I caught a glimpse of Duncan through the kitchen doorway and drew a sharp breath. I didn’t have to fake my reaction. I was almost embarrassed to be sharing, for the first time, a feeling Milt and I never talk about. “How many meters away is he?”

  “Good question. I’m lousy at conversion. But—” he folded his paper and tossed it aside “—maybe I should start thinking metric.”

  “Oh?”

  “I might have to stay here. I don’t think I’ll be returning to New York right away.” Allie was now standing barefoot on the other side of the pool in a flowery wrap-around dress, sipping a glass of white wine. “Let’s talk about it later when we’re alone,” he said. That low insinuating growl made me wonder if he was up for an after-dinner session. That would be a first.

  I grabbed the newspaper, then perched myself on the arm of Milt’s chair. Facing away from him, I wriggled a bit and kept my eye on the kitchen doorway. Milt couldn’t help noticing that my ass was inches from his lap. I imagined myself complying with my client’s “order,” then being caught by Duncan’s curious gaze, and felt grateful to be wearing panties. A wet spot on my silk pajamas would be awkward just now.

  I did my best to impersonate a casual unmotivated reader, enjoying a pre-dinner round-up of current events lite. For one thing, if MILT’s monitoring the news for personal reasons, I don’t want him to think I’ve noticed.

  That trip to Luxembourg. Isn’t that where all the secret bank accounts are? Now that Switzerland’s become rather notorious? Could this explain his inclination to stick around St-Max and learn how to measure in French? He’s so preoccupied. Isabel’s arrest would be the last straw. I must never become the kind of girl who reminds Milt of other people’s sordid, unsolvable problems—especially if he’s trying to solve a few of his own.

  After dinner, I turned my phone on and felt my throat closing up when the voicemail robot announced two messages. First, a call from Jasmine. Finally. “Liane canceled last minute.” Uh-oh. But Jasmine also sounds like she’s been drinking. “I got a little paranoid,” she admits. “Turns out she was showing her apartment! The broker had to come early. Did you know she’s selling her duplex? She might have a buyer. Anyway. I just saw her. She knows what happened. There’s nothing in the paper, but I told her all about it. Says it’s a sign from the universe. Sell the place sooner, not later! I told her wait a few months, the market’s too soft. Call me!”

  Do I dare call Jasmine from this phone? She sounds nothing like a girl who’s been sitting under a bare bulb fending off interrogators. More like a girl who’s been sitting under a hairdryer with a martini in her hand. So that’s one less thing to worry about.

  But my husband’s voicemail is one more, and I keep replaying it for clues. “Honey?” He sounds subdued. Definitely subdued. “When you get a chance—” suddenly, he takes that brisk tone, the one he sometimes uses to critique my grocery list “—check your email.” Is this what a man in the market for a nasty divorce sounds like? Maybe so. God. “I don’t want to talk about it until you’ve read the email. But we need to talk.” Is he worried? Angry? I don’t get it. Could it be that he doesn’t believe his own sister? And how long could that last?

  Who’s worse? His sister, for telling him? Or his wife, for letting him find out?

  Sunday morning

  Allie and I were ingesting our first dose of caffeine when Milt surprised us with a sudden change of plans. “I’ll have to take a rain check on our threeway. Emergency golf date at ten!” he announced, stretching his arms in front of his chest. “Anyone care to accompany me?”

  Allie, beneath her umbrella, couldn’t conceal the panic on her face. This messes up our entire routine—we’ll have to do him later in the day, when we’d rather be getting dressed for dinner. And does he want us to join him on the golf course? Neither of us is prepared for that much sun.

  “But I’ve never played,” I said faintly. “I’m a golf virgin!”

  “I’m passing through St-Max,” he explained. “I was thinking you girls might like a ride to church.”

  “Oh!” Allie perked up. “I just LOVE Sunday Mass. That would be so cool!”

  “You might get a chance to photograph the relics for your scrapbook,” Milt said.

  I frowned at Allie. “Photos are …”

  “Forbidden in church,” she said agreeably. “I don’t want to get thrown off the premises,” she told Milt. “I’m waiting until Monday for—” My cup clattered on its saucer as I threw her a warning glance.

  “And I need to send some email,” I interrupted. “That would be perfect.”

  With a regretful grimace, Allie rushed upstairs to change for church.

  “This came up last minute,” Milt said quietly. “There’s something I have to sort out if I stay in St-Max the rest of the year.”

  “How can—you’re really staying till December?” I wonder who he’s meeting. I didn’t dare ask.

  “It’s possible, but I can’t make a decision yet. What’s wrong, kiddo?”

  For some reason, Milt staying in France when the summer is over makes New York seem unsafe, less familiar. Less like home. Well, I can’t say THAT to a john. And that’s what Milt is. Always will be. But he’s always been there for me! Or so it seems, as my marriage comes screeching to its disastrous conclusion. Was I counting on a familiar signpost to make the landing less bumpy? Some sexual and emotional landmarks? You should never count on these guys. They’re not landmarks, they’re customers. What was I thinking?

  “Nothing,” I said lightly. “New York won’t be quite the same. We girls will just have to manage without you.” I smiled slyly. “Wait for you to change your mind. Get bored with France.”

  “I’m flattered!” he said. “Well, you never know.” His silence on the subject of a return visit made me bite my lip. His wife must be coming over to spend the rest of the year with him. But this is a strange order in which to arrange your year. Shouldn’t his family be here during the summer? Leaving him free to bring his playmates to Villa Gambetta in the off months? But nothing Milt does these days quite makes sense.

  Nothing adds up. This oversized, overly renovated hideaway, in this out
-of-the-way location is large enough for three families. But why didn’t he buy in La Garde-Freinet, or some obviously chic spot? Aside from the books in the library, everything’s brand new and just so. Sometimes too much so. That media hut feels like the inside of an eighties limo!

  I stared at the stone tiles bordering the pool. He can’t possibly sell this place at a profit, can he? It’s far more luxurious than anything I’ve seen around St-Max—including the monastery hotel. Without the historic buildings, St-Max would merely be tacky.

  If he’s madly in love with the locale, why no interest in its lore? What reason would Milt have for buying in a town like this, if he’s not completely fascinated with its history? Milt couldn’t care less about that old basilica, and Monday’s procession is just “that crazy parade”, for fanatics.

  “Let’s get you to the internet café,” he said. “And when I know more about my situation, I’ll take you somewhere for a quiet lunch.”

  Something about his confiding tone made my face feel warm, my heart beat faster. After more than ten years, are my feelings for Milt becoming less manageable? Or is this just one of those opportunistic moods? How it feels to be on the verge of losing your husband while trying to hold on to the most reliable guy in your stable?

  Sunday, later

  I joined Allie in the back seat of Milt’s BMW where she was perusing a floor plan in Revue de la Basilique. “Where’s Milt?” I glanced around quickly. “Listen, he’s not dropping us at the church, okay? The last thing I need is to run into my mom when we’re with Milt. If anything goes wrong, tell my mother Milt’s your uncle. She thinks we’re visiting your family.”

  “MY family?” Allie looked startled. “But nobody would believe …”

  Milt was strolling toward the BMW, a golf bag over one shoulder, wearing a pair of wraparound shades. “It doesn’t matter what my mother would or wouldn’t believe about YOU. All that matters—” I stopped talking and placed a hand on Allison’s thigh so that, as he got closer, he couldn’t help seeing, through the open door, a furtive gesture. Allie giggled and covered my hand, her lap, with the open book.