on, I work like a dog all year. And this renovation cost a fortune! Don’t I get a reward?”
“The library’s a possibility,” I offered. “But the wine cellar’s kind of impractical, don’t you think? All those hi-tech temperature controls.” Anything more than a quick hand job would surely play havoc with the artificial climate. “And the solarium’s totally exposed! What if Duncan sees us?”
Milt’s cook lives in Tanneron—a bit of a trek, so he’s been sleeping in a guest room downstairs … right next to the solarium. Duncan’s politely enigmatic, and acts like he has no idea what I’m doing here. Whether or not that’s true, why ruin a good thing by making a spectacle of myself? Even though he’s gay—so it’s not like I’d be giving him a free hard-on—I need to maintain some decorum around the staff.
“I’ll find something for Duncan to do at the post office. He’ll be gone for at least an hour. And the gardener can stay home. Only a few wild rabbits will see us!”
If I do Milt in the solarium, have I got enough SPF 90 to cover my entire body? And what if the sunscreen comes in contact with the condom?
“Well …” I don’t want to rain on Milt’s parade. “Wait till Allison gets here. I’ll see to it that you get off in almost every room. With one of us, or both of us … Allison loves going down on me.”
But Milt doesn’t know I’ve been trying to reach her ever since she landed in Barcelona. All he knows is he paid for her ticket! Allie wouldn’t stand us up—would she? I’ve put in a call to Isabel, but I doubt any of Isabel’s girls will be up for the solarium when they find out there are ten perfectly nice bedrooms—six with en suite bath and bidet.
“I like the way you’re thinking!” he said. I reached under the small of his back to retrieve my lace panties. Duncan’s SUV was pulling into the driveway. “You’re the perfect houseguest,” he added. “I think I’ll jump in the pool while Duncan unpacks the groceries.”
Friday, July 5, 2002
The light in this part of France is, indeed, special. Last night, I forgot to close the shutters in my room and woke when the sun began to rise. After checking my cellphone for a message from Allie, I tried to go back to sleep. Instead, I spent two hours hiding with the door locked, treating my eyes to an oxygen mask.
I’ve known Milt for longer than I care to admit. I knew he kept Wall Street hours, but had no idea he’d be such an early riser when I agreed to come to St-Maximin. Isn’t he on vacation? He gets up at eight-thirty, and calls that sleeping in! Still, if he finds out I’m capable of waking before he does, he’ll be disillusioned. I am, after all, a luxury.
I tiptoed around the bedroom, terrified of being overheard. Then, I spent an hour perfecting my natural look for our poolside breakfast, keeping one eye on my silenced cellphone.
I hope she gets here soon, because Milt needs a threesome—and so do I. When he doesn’t have an extra girl (or three) to distract him, he stays hard forever. If I could figure out where he keeps the Viagra, I would totally hide it! Coordinating this trip with Allie is turning into a major headache. Speaking of which, by the time I was dressed, I had been awake sans caffeine for hours and was feeling the symptoms. But headaches are another no-no. A smart call girl never feels unwell. She mysteriously disappears until she’s better. No explanations. Well, she might claim to be visiting her mother. Polite code for out of town with a man possibly richer than yourself.
Keeping all this straight comes naturally in New York: normally, I spend no more than two hours with a customer. It’s more of a challenge when Milt’s around all the time. The trick is to appear comfortable without becoming too comfortable.
From my bedroom window, overlooking a cluster of olive trees, I monitored the sunniest corner of the swimming pool. I waited until Milt was stretched out on a wooden lounger with his Herald Tribune and a croissant, then wandered downstairs, determined to look like a carefree princess. Not a sleep-deprived working girl with a head full of enlarged blood vessels.
Milt was reading the paper with his shades on. I guess it’s generational? He finds sunshine invigorating. When Duncan began opening my table umbrella, Milt leapt up from his cushioned lounger and took over.
“Uncle Miltie to the rescue!” he said. “Damsels in distress are my thing.”
The aroma of Milt’s croissant, sitting on a plate nearby, made my eyes go wide, but I forced myself to inquire about fresh fruit.
“Blackberries,” Duncan informed me. “The figs are just right, and the croissants—”
Yikes. “Not for me, thanks! I’ll come get some black coffee. Then I’ll organize my berries and figs.”
I followed Duncan back to the kitchen where a breakfast buffet had been arranged on a red-tiled counter top. As I poured my morning fix from the half-empty cafetiere, I took him into my confidence.
“Just between us? I have the tiniest headache coming on. Is there anything like Tylenol in the house? I don’t want to bother Milt while he’s reading the paper.”
“What’s in Tylenol again?” Duncan was rummaging through a drawer. “How about some Prontalgine. Twenty milligrams, codeine, works like a dream.”
“Don’t you have something, you know, over-the-counter?”
“Codeine is over the counter.” As he handed me the box, our eyes met, and I tried to place his accent. New Zealand? “Welcome to France,” he said, with a twinkle. “I have the cure for your mal de tête.”
Gosh. Could Duncan be … my surrogate hairdresser? Not for my hair, of course. But for my general well-being. He really is a treasure. And his coffee is excellent.
Later
The countryside is ten times trickier than Manhattan.
First, if you’re going to be seen at all hours of the morning by a john, fourteen days in a row, you need to do some sort of clarifying mask every day. Bare skin’s a high-maintenance look. You can’t be walking around in full make-up with a vineyard next door—lip gloss is out of the question—so you’ll need to cultivate a natural glow.
Okay, the Chemin du Moulin isn’t exactly hardcore countryside. We’re minutes from the town center, but you’d never know it. Milt’s house is set back so far we can’t hear the traffic and is protected by a wall of hundred-year-old pine trees.
I’m trying to limit our shared activities: sex (different position each day), meals, the occasional excursion. Milt’s never spent this much time with me, so my inherent mystery is at risk. He’s been my favorite customer—forever, it seems. But if I become a too-familiar presence during this vacation—his, not mine—there’s a chance his frequent visits could peter out when we return to New York.
Duncan was right. My headache’s evaporated! Is codeine really available over the counter at this strength?
Instead of the solarium, I’ve promised Milt an appointment in the nursery. The guest room down the hall is equipped with two single beds, a child’s wooden rocker, a chest of drawers with large blue butterflies for knobs, and a toddler’s denim armchair. I’ve taken the liberty of moving the chairs,
