Not yet,” I said in a demure voice. “We haven’t tried that. I think he’s afraid to hurt me.”
“He doesn’t know what a hot little cunt you’ve got,” Bernie muttered. He was thrusting quickly, and I reached underneath to discreetly check on his condom. At this point, I was glad the engagement ring was tucked into my make-up bag. “That’s right, play with your clit, baby. I’ll bet he has a big cock, though. Does he know how much you like to suck cock?”
His hand was resting on my right buttock, and I felt a light pat that seemed to flirt with the idea of a spanking.
“Y … yesssss,” I moaned. “He does! I love sucking his cock …” When Bernie collapsed against me with a loud gasp, I held onto the condom and wriggled away from him, hoping my precautionary measures wouldn’t seem too professional.
After seeing Bernie to the door, Liane burst into the bedroom, looking unusually animated. I was still dressing.
“Isabel is your answer,” she said. “She’s got a new apartment in St-Tropez and a group of lovely new girls! You must call her before you fly. This is a much better choice. Allison would have been a mistake, dear.”
“A mistake?” I adjusted the zipper on the side of my dress, and followed her into the living room, where a pot of mint tea was brewing. “Allie would have been ideal!” I protested, though I didn’t tell her why Allie’s unavailable. “She’s someone I know and trust.”
Liane’s enthusiasm is making me nervous. What’s happened to her innate insularity?
“How do we—” sounds nicer than you “—know Isabel’s discreet enough?” The chatty emails. Her new contacts in St-Tropez. Do I detect a loosening of standards? It’s worrying to think that Liane, of all people, would let an economic slump affect her old-school values. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but it can’t be safe for me to do business with someone you’ve never met.”
“Dear, I don’t mind at all.” Liane, in her favorite armchair, leaned forward, extending a delicate, tapered hand toward the teapot. “Some girls are much too greedy to stop and ask the right questions.” As she poured, a diamond bangle sparkled discreetly against the sleeve of her blouse.
“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.”
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