Are you okay?”
“Oh, I don’t think—you can’t call it a miscarriage when you’re only ten days late, can you?”
Lorenzo faced the mirror, a brush in one hand, a blow-dryer in the other.
“If you want to be dramatic,” he said, “you can call anything a miscarriage.”
New York: The Loyal Opposition
Friday evening Manhattan
This afternoon, when I got to Seventy-ninth Street, I called Jasmine to announce my news. Actually, my lack of news.
“Hallelujah,” she replied.
“Oh?”
“Now we can move on! You were in the seventh circle of limbo! ‘A little bit pregnant’ is not a good look for you. Or anyone!”
“I see.”
“Either you are or you aren’t,” she said. “If you are, you should be drinking elderberry tonic. If you’re not, have a Kir Royale, for God’s sake. Not a fucking spritzer! You must be dying for a real drink. I’ll meet you after my five o’clock.”
I could hear Charmaine’s key in the front door of the apartment.
“I don’t think so,” I replied coolly. Perhaps calling Jasmine was a mistake. Charmaine, in her spinning class shorts and floppy sweatshirt, disappeared into the bedroom.
“It’s okay to have ONE DRINK during your period,” Jasmine was saying. “Then you’ll go back to cultivating potatoes with your husband. You know what I’ve been thinking? You should talk to your doctor about this. Isn’t there some way you can tweak things in favor of conceiving a potential buyer?”
“A potential what?”
“A male child! I think we’ll all be happier if you have a boy.”
Christ. Not this again. If Jasmine had her way, there would be ten males for every one of us!
“I think I’ll be happy if I deliver a healthy baby,” I told her. “I really don’t care whether it’s a boy or a girl.”
“No hooker in her right mind wants to give birth to a girl. Your sister-in-law might love you for it. But your real friends will just resent you! For spawning more competition.”
“More … what? You’re talking about my future children!”
“Oh.” I wondered if Jasmine was coming to her senses. “I almost forgot. You’re planning to send yours to Catholic school. Well, of course. Everyone knows there are no Catholic hookers!”
“I don’t appreciate—”
“Listen, I almost forgot. Harry wants to see us together. Can you be here at noon on Monday?”
“Are you out of your mind?” I asked her. Does she think we can just go back to discussing business? “You have some fucking nerve!” Then I hung up.
Charmaine emerged from the bedroom, in her exercise bra and nothing else, looking startled.
“What happened? Who was that?”
“Jasmine!” I unclenched my teeth. My cellphone was starting to chime. I turned it off and threw it into my bag. “Jasmine has crossed a line.”
“Oh.” Charmaine can’t raise her eyebrows because of the Botox, but the devilish expression in her eyes said it all. “Jasmine? In my opinion—”
“Don’t say it,” I moaned. Charmaine has kept her distance, from the moment they laid eyes on each other two years ago. But Jasmine and I have been trading dates since our twenties. She helped me when I was in trouble and needed a lawyer. “We’ve known each other forever,” I said.
“I don’t know why you put up with that girl.”
Charmaine’s bare pussy—lasered to match her smooth, Botoxed forehead—was staring me in the face. Her up-to-the-minute enhancements were spilling out of her exercise bra. It’s not just that she’s twenty-three—her entire body looks like it was invented two years ago. She really is a New Girl, in more ways than one.
“Well—” I was beginning to feel like a hypocrite, but now I wanted to change the subject “—you don’t have to put up with her, and I don’t want to talk about it.”
She’s too young to understand my friendship with Jasmine, but she has her own business, pays her rent on time, and never seeks my advice. She looked, for a moment, like she was on the verge of giving me some, and I didn’t want to hear it.
When I was sure that Charmaine was completely immersed in the white noise of the shower, I checked my messages.
“Call me when your hormones stabilize. We can’t let your period stop you from seeing Harry!”
What is Jasmine thinking? Does she really think I have no idea how to disguise my period? I have two diaphragms—one for each apartment—and a year’s supply of cosmetic sponges from Duane Reade.
Which part of “You have some fucking nerve” does she not understand?
Saturday, June 15
This morning, as soon as I knew Matt was safely en route to his squash game with Jason, I bolted the apartment door and turned my phone on. With my right hand, I checked my messages. With my left, I emptied the dishwasher. Etienne, now in Frankfurt, managed to intercept one of his own voicemails while I was shaking a few remaining drops of water from a miniature whisk.
“Bonjour, petite mignonne.” His elderly purr was reassuring, but it brought disappointing news. “I regret this trip is delayed. I’m glad you finally answered your phone,” he added. “I tried to call you from Cologne. Don’t change your number!”
“Of course not,” I said. “Why would I do that?”
“So many things are changing these days. I take nothing for granted. Tell me, how is New York? Do the girls still remember me? Is it true? Nobody wears high heels anymore?”
“What? Oh. Don’t worry. We’re all wearing heels again.”
“Not just in your bedrooms?”
“Everywhere,” I said with more confidence. “I wore my favorite pair to dinner the other night.”
“Really! Can you describe them?”
“Not right now,” I said firmly. Etienne has never been a phone freak, and I would hate to be responsible for spoiling him.
Some would say I’ve been guilty of that for at least five years! I don’t tell other girls that I come when he goes down on me. You never know what another pro might think—or say—about a working girl having real orgasms.
“Why don’t you come back to New York?” I said in a warmer voice. “We can discuss my heels in person. I might even wear them!”
“That would be my preference, cocotte. A live appearance. But—” He paused. “There is something I haven’t told you. Something which prevents me from examining those pretty feet in person. Not to mention the rest of your delicious body.”
Oh dear. There comes a point in every girl’s career when some of her best customers start dying or faltering for reasons of age—and stop visiting. I held my breath. Not his prostate, I hope.
“I