“When he grabbed my hand, I got nervous. He was so much stronger. And suddenly, I remembered that guy with the gun. I thought: I’ve come this far, I have my own clients, I don’t have to work for some sleazy escort service, I’m well-connected and go to the best hotels. My clients are the movers and shakers of the universe. They run Manhattan. But my own boyfriend turns out to be a random nutcase just like that guy! I’ve allowed a maniac into my home! At least, when I was sixteen, that guy didn’t enter my life—I could leave his apartment! For a minute I wasn’t really a success after all. Women who get killed by guys they don’t understand are, by definition, failures. Right?”
There was a pause. Dr. Wendy doesn’t like to call anyone a failure. “And then what happened?”
“He pulled out this beautiful Lucida ring and he was so incredibly gentle and persuasive and passionate, and everything was okay again. I realized that I was a success. My nightmare was a delusion. I never dreamed, when I was a sixteen-year-old hooker, that a guy like Matt would propose to me—that I would even want him to! Don’t you see? I was spellbound! By my own respectability!”
“That’s a lot of material to be processing while your boyfriend’s trying to propose to you.”
“After all the stories I’ve told him, and all the lies he believed, that story about the keys—I really believed him!”
“You fell for his ruse.”
“Yes. I took it as a sign! It made me feel that we belonged together after all. He used his wits—he figured out a scheme to get back into my apartment and into my life. I was so…” My heart still skips a beat when I remember the confusion, the fear, and the sudden realization that I had been romantically snared—by this guy who didn’t know exactly who or what I was but could still get the better of me. “It made me, you know, respect him as a guy. We had…” I paused and remembered the reckless love-making that had followed. “We had very good sex that night,” I added primly.
“But when Matt came to collect his keys you were reminded of an unsatisfied sex partner from over a decade ago—a man who also wanted something more than you could give.”
This certainly appealed to my therapeutic vanity. And my latent Sinderella Complex. The commercial nymphet in danger, saved by her scheming Galahad. But I fessed up.
“I know marriage is supposed to be the alternative to strange guys waving their weapons in your face. But the truth is, that’s the only time anyone has ever threatened me with a gun. I’m not in that kind of danger. Most of my guys are regular clients. I was just so dazzled. My heart was pounding because he had captured me. He proved that he wasn’t just my mental toy—he surprised me totally.”
“And now? In the cooler light of day?”
“Maybe girls like me aren’t supposed to marry. Wasn’t that the first thing Gigi’s aunt taught her? We don’t marry. Maybe those Old World courtesans had the right idea.”
Wendy knows that Gigi is one of my favorite adult fairy tales. The book, the movie, even the corny songs. So does Matt. He, however, just thinks it’s some kind of strange retro quirk.
“Gigi comes from a family of courtesans,” Wendy began. “But the only successful courtesan in the story is her aunt, who also happens to be the head of the family. And she masterminds a marriage for Gigi, despite herself. So, Gigi is really a story about ambivalence in the demimonde.”
I savored the phrase, the emotional geography. In the demimonde: ambivalence. A golden age of hooking when girls like me could retreat into their own social country. No wonder they could say, without regret, “We don’t marry.”
“But ambivalence about marriage is not unique to your profession,” Wendy continued. “I meet hundreds of women in my practice—and a lot of men—who use their work to explain a romantic disappointment or a fractured relationship.”
I nodded in agreement but felt rather wistful. So much for my Belle Epoque fantasy of a romantic caste system!
What with actresses wanting to be amateurs because they think it’s ladylike, and amateurs wanting to be actresses because they think it’s immoral, the theatre is no place for an honest workman.—GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
TUESDAY. 2 /1 5 / 0 0. The morning after the night off
In the cab on the way to Carnegie Hall last night, I felt my temperature rising as I checked the clock on my cell phone. As usual, I had not given myself enough time to find a taxi—a bad habit that I mostly indulge in with boyfriends and rarely with clients. I closed my eyes to block out the Valentine traffic jam on Second Avenue.
I opened my eyes at Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh. Two girls in smart black suits got out of a limo in front of the Four Seasons Hotel—where I would be tonight if I were working. Maybe I could somehow escape from this Sinderella Spiral and become, like Jasmine, a sexually active spinster—a woman with a past, a future, and no serious boyfriend. A woman without nosy future in-laws who ask awkward questions. A woman with less to lose! All the pieces of my life can’t possibly fit together for much longer. Something’s got to give—but what?
When I got to my destination, Matt was waiting in the lobby, looking a little shy—and rather adorable in the tie I gave him for Christmas, the one with small yellow giraffes on a bright red background. He’s mine! I thought, with a sudden surge of confidence. His face lit up when I approached.
“Each time I see you,” he murmured affectionately, “it’s a kind of revelation to me.”
I melted against the arm of his jacket and my regrets faded. The pieces do fit, I thought. With Matt, I have a future. My body, still tingling with anxiety about its checkered past, now felt safe, desirable, mysteriously protected.
My doubts drifted out of me during the recital. Later, in his bed, I closed my eyes while he—quite happily—did all the work. I reveled in my laziness and encouraged him to take his time.
WEDNESDAY. 2/16/00
A phone call this morning from Jack! “Suzy? Are you available today?”
“I’m sorry,” I said carefully. “I, um, have an exercise class in five minutes—can’t talk.” You should never tell a John you’ve blacklisted him. He’ll want to have a long conversation with you, attempting to explain himself, pledging to reform—or trying to convince you that he’s innocent. Or he’ll try to find out who spread the word of his misdeeds, if he’s vengeful. So I’m accidentally unavailable when Jack calls. Unlike Eileen, who feels the need to confront her foes, I’m very clear about not wanting to have enemies in this business. “Can I call you back?” I suggested, as a stall.
“No, don’t call me at work,” he said nervously. “My son’s in the office. Okay, fine, call, but if he answers, just act like you have a wrong number. Call me before five—I want to see you,” he added abruptly. “I’ll come right over.”
My other phone started ringing, and I quickly hung up.
