applaud you both for considering single-sex education, especially if you have a girl, but you have to look at the bigger picture, and if you plan on having one child—” I don’t recall telling her that. Did Matt? “—don’t you think it’ll be nice for all our kids to be at the same school? So yours won’t be all alone?”
“I haven’t decided—”
“We’ll have a buddy system!” she continued, heading toward the window. “It’ll be so much easier for us both. You know? I can pick yours up—or whatever. You’d better hurry up and get pregnant though! We don’t want them too far apart! And we’ll all have a chance to get to know each other better!”
By the time Matt arrived, and Elspeth had finished watering her plants, I was a nervous wreck. Strangely enough, she didn’t say one word about school during our dinner at Island.
Though I tried to muffle my anxiety in crab cakes washed down with mineral water, I was beginning to feel less smug about Jason’s absence. He sometimes puts in a good word for Loyola. Was he excluded from this dinner on purpose? And my husband’s lateness—whose idea was THAT?
In the cab, on the way back to Thirty-fourth Street, Matt squeezed my shoulder gently.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Getting to Elspeth’s! I don’t think we should discuss our plans with her when I’m still trying to get pregnant.” As he looked into my eyes, I felt like the object of a scam. “You have no idea how insensitive she can be!”
“Come on, honey.” Matt drew me closer, and I took refuge in my latest secret. “She’s just having a conversation with you.”
Something in his confident manner made me quite sure he was late on purpose. To please his sister, or persuade me to listen to Protestant reason.
But—what if Elspeth decides to go back to her job? Is she setting me up to become the babysitting aunt who ferries her twins home from school? Motherhood—the way I see it—is going to be an airtight cover for my business. The whole idea is to appear not to be working so I can work! But Elspeth may have other plans for me.
Later, I made a point of being the first in bed, so I could be asleep.
I was dozing on my side when Matt pulled back the sheet. Waiting for the cotton to slide back over my torso, I smiled and reached out. Touching him made me forget our conversation in the cab. He placed a tentative hand around my waist and lifted my pajama top. I turned around to lie on my back and pulled him toward me. His hand moved slowly across my stomach. As his fingers went lower, my mood was disrupted by a troubling question. Will the news of my pregnancy give me more leverage? Or—horrible thought, but I have to consider it—less?
Wednesday, June 12, 2002 79th Street
Today, a call from Trish, trying to persuade me to see a new customer. “I know how you feel about new people, but he’s not from New York.”
Last year, when Trish stopped calling, business slowed down, and I became impossible to live with.
“He’s from Philly,” she told me.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
Thank God Trish is calling again, because it’s not easy to work at night when you’re married, and most of her business is in the daytime. Her dates are kinky and tiring, but lucrative. Without them, I barely meet my quota.
You aren’t a pro unless you have a self-imposed quota, you feel like a failure if you can’t make your quota, and the heightened security in hotels has made it harder to keep up. I was starting to feel like a shadow of my single call-girl self—until I lowered my weekly quota to a level I can actually meet. Though Matt isn’t aware of my job, he totally benefits when business is good, and suffers when business is slow. Perhaps not financially, but in other ways.
Come to think of it, my earnings can’t possibly hurt our bottom line. Unless I get caught, which would be awful. That’s why I’m afraid to see new customers—though I sometimes make an exception for Trisha’s.
“Okay,” I agreed. “I just don’t want to run into anyone who knows my husband. Or his family.”
I can’t bring myself to tell Trish about Elspeth’s former profession—which she could return to, if she ever runs out of Ubermommy juice. Trish might never work with me again if she finds out my husband’s sister was a prosecutor.
“I hear you,” she said. “Can you bring those handcuffs? And a few changes? Something pastel and innocent for the first hour, and something bitchy for the second hour. Do you still have those black boots? The ones that lace up the back?”
This new customer sounds younger than most of our dates, which makes him risky. Older guys (like Etienne or Milt) aren’t likely to be part of Matt’s circle. Should I really be doing this?
“He’s calling in a few days to confirm,” she said. “His schedule’s crazy. He might have to cancel.”
I crossed my fingers, feeling torn. If he cancels, I’m off the hook. I don’t want to get caught, but I don’t want to turn down business—especially from Trish. This might be my last chance to really work a lot.
Time to get ready for Chip. I won’t get caught seeing him. He’s been in my book for years, a known quantity, and I knew his father for much longer—though Chip, of course, has no idea.
Wednesday, later
When Chip walked into the apartment, the memory of his father’s face was, once again, playing tricks with me. It never fails. I still miss his dad, though he’s been dead almost six years. He was gentle, quick, always happy to wear a condom.
But Chip Junior is nothing like Chip Senior. In the bedroom, he’s determined to get his money’s worth—which means holding back for as long as possible while I straddle, doing most of the work. Just before I slid the condom on, he made some obligatory caddish noises about being “clean as a whistle, and-I’m-sure-you-are-too,” in an effort to dismiss the rubber.
I, in turn, smiled pleasantly, as I always do, and made my obligatory comment about birth control. “And,” I chirped, “I’ll have you know I’m much cleaner than a whistle.”
Abandoning the chirp, switching to sultry insistence: “I want you to wear this. So I can get you inside of me. It’s been too long since I felt your cock.”
This routine has been going on for so long it qualifies as a tradition. I don’t trust Chip around the New Girls—I mean, real newbies who might not have professional manners. They’re liable to give in because he’s good-looking (if they’re softies), or lecture him about STDs until he can barely get it up (if they’re sanctimonious college girls).
As I rode on his cock, I closed my eyes and played with my breasts. My nipples were getting hard. He reached up to touch. I bit my lip, made some hot little sounds, and moved his hand away, allowing it to rest on the side of my ass. I tried to keep my hands busy so he wouldn’t be able to get at my nipples. There’s something about his hand. He’s too forceful—not a brute, just intrusive.
Sometimes
