Diary of a Married Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “I really miss this place,” she sighed. “There’s nothing like it near my house.”

  She paused in front of some cannoli.

  “Not for me,” I said.

  “You look great, by the way. I don’t know what this is all about. You keep telling me you gained weight but you still look like a New Girl! Tommy really thinks you’re twenty-five.”

  “Well, after sixty, they all think we look like kids.”

  “Not this one! If a girl’s not young or pretty? I never hear the end of it. Tommy’s picky. And he was happy with you.”

  “Thanks. I need some salad greens.”

  But there was a tense moment when Trisha picked up a container of dressing for hers.

  “No thanks,” I said, as she offered me a container, “I always make my own.”

  “You do?” She looked amused. “This is good stuff! You should try it!”

  “No, really. I never serve a dressing I haven’t made myself.”

  “It’s so much easier to get it here. And it’s better than Paul Newman’s. This is balsamic, you know.”

  “I’ve never…” been near a store-bought salad dressing, I started to say, “…tried that,” I replied. “I’ve, um, moved on from balsamic, actually. I’ve been using aged red wine vinegar and walnut oil.”

  “I don’t have time for all that. Do you really think guys know the difference? They’re like kids.”

  What is she talking about? I preferred homemade dressing as a child. I remember watching my mother tossing salad in a big wooden bowl in her first bachelor apartment, a month after my parents broke up. The stove and fridge were separated from the dining area by a wall she constructed with cinderblocks. Her kitchen table was fifties Formica, rescued from a garage sale. Except that, having no fondness for anything of the fifties, she hid the table under a flowery sheet that worked quite well as a tablecloth.

  “My husband can’t tell whether I’m serving Paul Newman’s or balsamic from Zabar’s. Men are visual. If it looks good, they think it tastes good. Anyway,” Trish said, grabbing a box of steamed shrimp, “if I can fake an orgasm, why not salad dressing?”

  “You fake orgasms at home?”

  “Oh, sure.” But Trish looked quite cheerful. “What’s the big deal?”

  “My husband would know if I was faking.”

  “An orgasm? Or the salad dressing?”

  “Both! He likes my cooking. And I want him to like it.”

  Trish was pushing her cart toward the coffee section.

  “You sound like Betty Crocker,” she mused. “Don’t tell me. I’ll bet you grind your own beans, too.”

  She seems to regard my way of life—which I thought was a lot like hers—as a quaint, irrational museum exhibit. Real sex, homemade salad dressing, and freshly ground coffee. But I can’t think of anything sadder than eating dressing out of a bottle—and having sex with a guy who’s neither paying nor getting me off! What kind of home life has Trish settled for?

  “Did you ever have good sex? What happened?” I wanted to know.

  “With Jake? Oh, sort of. It’s not really about that. He’s a great father…. I’ve had better and I’ve had worse. Coming isn’t that important to me.”

  But she has such a great business! Does having a low sex drive give her an edge??

  SATURDAY, 3/31/01. THE VIEW FROM MY IN BOX

  Five spams entitled “The Mother Of Your Children Caught You Looking @ Free Pussy?!” Gosh. How many buttons can you push in one subject header?

  Special instructions from Elspeth Re: “Dinner Bash 2nite, Kids! Shhhh!” How does she find the energy to orchestrate a surprise for Jason involving twenty people? I still can’t get over the fact that the twins are barely one month old.

  A New York Times article from Charmaine, about Rentocrats who pay $326 for rent-controlled palaces that they actually inherit:

  Should we be concerned? It’s the first of a series! Worried. C.K.

  According to this crusader at the Times, rent-control tenants are as lazy as landed gentry—they never have to work very hard because the monthly nut is so small. Could this be the start of a crackdown? He’s making a list of the ten worst Rent Stabilization abusers—and naming them! I guess I’m a rent offender—though hardly a ‘crat since I paid key money to get my lease. That’s illegal, of course, while inheriting a lease from your parents is within the law. But surely the person who pays key money is morally ahead of the person who inherits! Besides, I use my apartment to keep my work a secret—not to avoid work.

  It’s hard to give up a rent-stabilized apartment once you have your name on that lease. No matter what happens with Matt, I know I’ll always have a roof over my head. But if I told him that, he’d be insulted. Matt wants me to believe he’ll always protect and support me. I want Matt to believe I believe him. And what would this crusading Times reporter say if I ended up in his column? That rent stabilization promotes infidelity?

  A rather blunt e-mail from Miranda, my very single, very downtown cousin who, strangely enough, is responsible for my marriage.

  I have to leave Elspeth’s before dessert—think she’ll mind? I want to arrive early but not spoil her surprise. There’s a book party for my boss at The Gershwin and I MUST be there. Elspeth keeps talking about that rightwingpreppy who was chasing me at her last party. Why is he still available if he’s so great? Call me! Cousin M.

  Uh-oh. Hopefully she won’t find out that I’m to blame for Elspeth’s match-making efforts.

  Miranda introduced me to Matt on the grounds that “two conservatives might be able to start a fire.” Just because I don’t pierce my navel, she thinks I’m a total fogey—an assumption I’ve never challenged—and just because she does pierce hers, she considers herself a cultural exile. Well, Miranda hides her piercing from her parents, but if I wore a navel ring, my parents would be quite unfazed. Not that I would!

  While cleaning up spam, I spotted a bulletin from “Trollop-at-Large.” Instinctively, I turned around to see if Matt was nearby. But I could hear him doing something in the kitchen.

  Wow! Guess what? Two NYCOT members have been invited to speak @ the Open Society Institute by George Soros himself! And *I* am one of them! I have to prepare a 20 minute speech and they’re paying an honorarium.

  I’m on the panel with Gretchen who wants to compare the street outreach programs in the Bronx with the harm reduction agenda in Glasgow. Anyway, Roxana says Gretchen’s talk will be ALL ABOUT THE INEQUITIES. So I should be more upbeat.

  I’ve never been PAID for this before—it’s a great honor! I’ll put it towards the legal fees for Noi. I know, Barry H. says he won’t charge us but I feel like I should give him SOMETHING. Don’t you?

  I just wrote to Lucho. Want to see his reply?

  >>darling allison, having you in my life is a delight. I >>love being in love with the goddess of social change >>who happens to reside in 5H. See you very soon >>but not soon enough. 8 oclock? L.

  And I met with Barry this morning. Thank you BIGTIME! I’m learning about the obstacles to getting Noi her visa. He’s got some ideas about how we can get around the rules. Something about a waiver? I showed him the website and he was very impressed with the sewing machine logo.

  Hugs!

  Allie

  Followed by an e-mail afterthought.

  PS: I’m not sure about Roxana’s advice. If I’m TOO upbeat, Gretchen will hate me. Don’t you agree?

  Gretchen, who was a streetwalker at fifteen, now has a masters in public health. Not only has she got more street cred than Allie, she has an extra degree—from Columbia. In Gretchen’s view, call girls are just pampered lightweights. And Allison, who went to Marymount, hasn’t been able to change Gretchen’s mind about that.

  NYCOT’s an alternative universe for hookers, with its own laws. No wonder Allie’s intimidated.

  But Lucho’s saying all the right things now. That little dispute about Allie’s pubic hair seems to be on hold. And Barry has completely distracted he
r from wanting to consult Jason. “Thank Goddess” for Barry Horowitz!

  Almost two-thirty. MUST sort out my Dinnerwear. Something that won’t look eager or dressy. As a married guest, I don’t want to look like I’m trying to outdo the single females. I always feel safer around Elspeth when I’m wearing flats—the unconscious trademark of sexual virtue! Of course, they have to be good flats—I don’t want to look frumpy around my sister-in-law. Casual Saturdays are such a minefield.

  SUNDAY MORNING, 4/01/01

  When in doubt, wear black. Last night I wore my Bottega slippermules: black satin with subdued beading. And a black tailored blouse over black Gucci jeans.

  Casual black’s coherent. And a dressy black outfit is the essence of simplicity. In any case, black looks self-confident no matter the format, like you almost don’t give a damn. As long as you’re not wearing too much jewelry.

  Miranda arrived, wearing the single, downtown version of my all-black outfit: tighter pants with a sassy fringe around the hem, smaller top, chunky heels. She was carrying a canvas messenger bag and wearing…a rasta hat. She’s been listening to a lot of reggae lately, and preaching about how we, “the children of Trinidadian Diaspora,” need to make common cause with Jamaicans—a concept I’m just not sure about. She kissed me on both cheeks, hugged Matt, and bestowed upon Chris—standing across the room—a perky but distancing wave.

  So far, so cordial. She pulled out a bottle of champagne from her messenger sack and disappeared into the kitchen, where Elspeth was convening with her caterer.

  Chris, hoping to play it cool, stayed out of the kitchen and attached himself to Matt and Jason. But Miranda wandered over to the drinks table, casting a beckoning glance in my direction.

  “What is Elspeth thinking?” Miranda hissed. “She says Chris has been asking all these questions.”

  “No idea,” I lied. “What kind of questions?”

  “About V.S. Naipaul! He wants to chat with me about that reactionary coolie?”

  Miranda, who spent her childhood in Trinidad, occasionally says things like “coolie,” which I find a bit shocking. I left when I was a baby so never learned to use these expressions. My mother never spoke to me in the local slang of her birthplace, and my father waited until I was an adult to fully indulge his verbal peccadillos.

  “He wants to discuss The Enigma of Arrival,” Miranda continued. She looked like she was ready to spit.

  “Relax,” I counseled her. “He’s trying to be well read. And multicultural.”

  “The new socially acceptable code for covert exoticization!” Miranda said. “Every suit is reading The Enigma.”

  “Well, have you read it?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell him that. And tell him why. Talk to him about what you like to read.”

  “Why must I talk to him at all?”

  “Would you at least smile at him? He’s looking so forlorn.”

  Brokering a friendly impulse from my twenty-something cousin was not an easy task. I wonder if this is how a madam feels when business is going badly.

  Ten minutes later, I wandered past a corner of the room, where Chris had managed—after much effort—to engage Miranda.

  “The tragedy,” I could hear her saying, “is that Jamaica succeeds in exporting all this wonderful revolutionary pop music to the rest of the known world while Trinidad’s cultural export is this”—I prayed that she would not say “coolie” to this wellmeaning WASP who was leaning toward her angular brown cheeks, lapping up every word—“self-hating, colonized racist despised by his own people and embraced by…”

  I decided to rescue Miranda from the intensity of her admirer’s gaze: “Is it possible that steel band music isn’t as universal or as good to dance to as reggae music?” I asked. “Or maybe calypso’s too local.”

  “But it’s as relevant as rap,” Chris said. “Isn’t The Mighty Sparrow still a contender? Trinidad exports words and Jamaica exports music. And what about Byron Lee? He’s Jamaican but he plays Trinidadian music.”

  Miranda was not prepared for this.

  “Trinidadian music has a following throughout the Caricom region,” Chris added. “Maybe that’s more important. And soca’s big in Britain.”

  It seemed like a good time to leave them alone. Isn’t that what a madam would do?

  How did this sandy-haired, slightly freckled lawyer from Darien become so familiar with The Mighty Sparrow? I’m almost sure he had no idea where Trinidad was a year ago. But Miranda inspires him in some way. He’s been doing his homework, the sort of thing girls were once instructed to do when dating an eligible man. When I looked back, Miranda was actually sitting down on a large ottoman next to Chris. There was a tentative, softer look in her eyes as she listened to Elspeth’s pet bachelor waxing multicultural about Caricom and the global reach of calypso.

  I found myself drawn into a small circle of wives—two of whom had adopted, like me, the all-black strategy. My hostess linked her arm through mine and said, “Nancy’s gonna be finding that out for herself!”

  A birdlike blonde began to enlighten me: “Elspeth was just saying that finding the right ob-gyn is as tricky as—”

  “…nailing down Mr. Right!” Elspeth explained. “I had a hell of a time finding a doctor who would let me deliver Bridget and Berrigan vaginally. But I knew I could do it. You have to hold out for the right guy and the right doctor. I should start a matchmaking service for mothers and obstetricians—I interviewed twelve in two weeks! I know each one’s MO and each one’s specialty.”

  “You do?” someone asked. “How about Dr. Wallace. My sister went to her for—”

  “Fertility,” Elspeth told her.

  “Yes! She’s supposed to be one of the best.”

  “She is but only for getting pregnant. She won’t deliver twins unless you agree to a C-section. And I knew I could do it myself.”

  “How did you, um, know this?” I dared to ask.

  “A Woman Just Knows.”

  The birdlike blonde looked as faint as I felt. I stared with sympathy at her slim hips.

  “Well,” she sighed. “More power to you. I myself wasn’t ready for—”

  “I’m not saying it’s better,” Elspeth assured her. “Just because I chose vaginal!”

  Nobody was buying that but it would have seemed rude to say so. A tall pale redhead broke the awkward silence. “I’m sure your babies will be beautiful,” she told me. “My nephew’s half-Korean, by the way.”

  “And half-Irish,” Elspeth added. “He must be adorable! But Nancy keeps telling me she isn’t ‘pure Chinese.’”

  “I’m partly Indian,” I explained. “On my father’s side. Like Miranda—but she gets it from her mother.”

  Miranda’s mother, Kasturi, grew up as a nonobservant Hindu in Port of Spain. Aunt Kas went to a convent school and converted at sixteen. As a hyper-Catholic Indian, she was able to marry Uncle Gregory, my mother’s eldest brother, without too much opposition from my grandmother, also a devout Catholic. Grandmummy would have preferred a Chinese wife for her first son. In Trinidad, people don’t make adoring remarks about the mixing of the races. They either take it for granted or disapprove. My Chinese grandparents disapproved and took it for granted.

  “Nancy’s adding some melanin to the lineage,” my sister-in-law said. “Her kids will have suntanning capacities that Matt and I could only dream about.”

  Thank goodness Miranda was safely out of hearing. She would probably start in about Matt’s genes diluting the suntan capacity of our line.

  “Time for a refreshment break!” Elspeth was looking at her watch. “And after this feeding I can have my glass of champagne. Yay!”

  When Elspeth emerged from the bedroom area, Miranda was already en route to her next party.

  “What happened to Chris?” she asked hopefully.

  “He went downstairs to help her into a cab,” I told her. “Even though she believes in hailing her own.”

  “Good move!” Elspeth
rejoiced. “How did you pull that off?”

  Later, Matt and I stood by the elevators on Elspeth’s floor. We were the last guests to leave. After too many hours of circulating, drinking, and socializing, we were finally alone. He kissed the top of my head while I leaned against his shoulder. Then he placed a gentle hand on my cheek. I moved my right hip a little closer to his body and, feeling some hardness under his pants, made a quiet purring demand. With both hands on my waist, he made me face him and started kissing my mouth with real authority.

  Suddenly, a door opened. I turned around. Elspeth’s voice filled the hallway.

  “ASK ME ABOUT cryogenic cord blood storage! Don’t forget.”

  6

  “Yet” Means “Now”

  “If we want things to stay as they

  are, things will have to change.”

  —Giuseppe di Lampedusa

  SUNDAY NIGHT, 4/1/01

  This afternoon, I returned from Pilates to find Matt barefoot and pottering in the kitchen.

  Wearing dalmatian-covered boxers and a black T-shirt, he stood before a random collection of bottles, cans, and jars. The sight of his sturdy limbs and rumpled hair made me want to undress him. Something about Matt, available in the kitchen, felt novel, intimate, and just right.

  “What’s this?” I asked, setting down my gym bag.

  Leaning against his muscular arms, I felt more like a girl than a woman. Despite an hour of upper-body rigors, designed to pump me up, I was intrigued by his relative strength. Ready to be overwhelmed.

  A dozen tins of imported tuna were neatly stacked on the counter. “I’m sending the tuna to a homeless shelter,” he said. “I’m not sure about the anchovies. And we should talk about these,” he added, holding up a bottle of cod liver oil capsules. “Why do you take this stuff anyway?”

  To keep my pubic hair from getting dry when it grows back! But that’s kind of personal, isn’t it?