don’t know anything like that at all and I’ll thank you to leave my mother out of this.”
“But she’s an integral part of it.” Maggie reached out to pat the back of Barbara’s hand, but the younger woman pulled away. “Let me explain.” Briefly Maggie told Barbara about her heart attack and how she had suddenly found herself in the Mad Tea Party with Lucy and Angela. “They can’t decide whether I’m to go…” Maggie made a thumbs-up with one hand and a thumbs-down with the other. “So they gave me a project. You.”
“I don’t for a moment believe any of this,” Barbara said, drinking more of her wine, “but why me?”
“I told you before,” Maggie explained. “It was your mother. On her way through, she asked the girls to help you out.” Maggie’s head tipped to one side and she gazed into space. “Actually, I don’t quite understand how your mother ended up in the computer room. According to Angela and Lucy, the interview process is only for the undecideds. Your mother’s goodness seems to have left the girls little choice. Maybe it was a special request of some kind.” She refocused on Barbara. “Anyway, I’m now here for you.”
“Your reference to the Mad Tea Party is accurate. I still don’t believe you.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there, actually. I assume you want to get out more. Date. I saw the way you looked at your boss this afternoon.”
Barbara’s head snapped up. “How the hell do you know how I looked at my boss earlier?”
“The girls have a monitor and they can tune in on people. We watched you at work today so I would know who you were.”
“This gets crazier and crazier,” Barbara said. “Do you mean that they could be watching us right now?”
“Probably not. With the millions of people they have to check on as people come through for approval, I doubt whether they have time for idle peeping.”
Barbara shivered. “It gives me the creeps nonetheless.” She found she was actually playing along with this fantasy. Or was it a fantasy? “So you’re supposed to give me a makeover. What’s this going to cost me?”
“Nothing. And it’s more than a makeover, it’s a whole change of attitude. According to your mother, you’re…How can I best say this? You’re a bit of a prude.”
“Nonsense. I’m just selective. Just because I don’t let every Tom, Dick, and Harry into my bedroom doesn’t make me a prude. Not in the least.”
“Selectivity is good, Babs, but it’s not life.”
A handsome face suddenly flashed through Barbara’s mind and her patience snapped. “Don’t call me Babs. I hate it.”
“All right. Don’t get huffy.”
“I’m sorry. I just really hate Babs. Anyway, you were telling me about my makeover.”
Maggie sipped her wine. “Well, as I understand my job here, I’m supposed to teach you about yourself and sex and men and dating and all that. In the end, you’re supposed to get out more, go dancing, make love.”
Barbara toyed with her fork. “And what makes you such an expert?”
“I am, or was, a…Again how to put this. I was an expert at making men happy. Let’s just say I did it professionally.”
The fork dropped out of Barbara’s hand. “You were a hooker!”
“I prefer call girl. Very highly priced, I might add.”
“But you look like you could be my mother.”
Maggie winced. “Ouch. That hurt.” She walked into the hallway outside the kitchen and looked at herself in the ornate mirror that hung just inside the entrance. She studied her face for a moment, then returned to the table and sat down. “I don’t look that bad, despite my current circumstances, I’ll have you know.” She paused. “But I guess I am almost old enough to be your mother.”
“So why would some man…?” Barbara suddenly realized that without being totally insulting she had no way to finish the sentence.
“Why would some man want to make love with me? Because I know how to make men happy, how to fulfill their fantasies, how to make them feel strong or weak, brave or pitiful, whatever they want. I’m damn good at what I do and I have a client list as long as your arm.”
“What do you…I mean, did you charge?”
“I was worth the five hundred a night that men paid me.”
“Five hundred dollars? For one night?” Barbara’s mouth literally hung open.
“Not the whole night, of course.” Maggie ran her long fingers through her hair and fluffed it out at the sides. “And more if they want something special.”
“I don’t want to know about that part,” Barbara said. “Look, I don’t pretend to understand any of this, but I really don’t need your help. I’m happy just the way I am.” In response to Maggie’s raised eyebrow, Barbara continued. “Really. My life is just what I want it to be. And I’m just the way I want to be.”
“Sure,” Maggie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Listen. You’ve heard enough for one evening. You really need to take a day to digest all this. Let me run along now so you can think about what we’ve said.” Maggie paused, then asked, “By the way, what day is it?”
“It’s Tuesday,” Barbara said, her head spinning. She was sitting in her kitchen having a conversation with a dead prostitute. She certainly did need some time to digest this. But she didn’t need any help with her life. None. Absolutely not.
“What date? What year?”
“It’s Tuesday, March 4, 1996. What did you think?”
“I’m totally disoriented. This bouncing from time to time. The last date I remember was July 18, 1995.” Pain flashed across Maggie’s face as she recalled Paul Crowley and their phone conversation that last evening. I wonder how he felt when he found out about me. “And where are we? It looks like New York, but everything wonderful looks like New York to me.”
“We’re about twenty miles north of the city, in Fleetwood.”
“I know the town well.” Paul lived in Bronxville, the next town up. With a sigh, she emptied her wineglass and shook off her negative feelings. “I’m not sure how this time thing will work, but I think I can manage to be here, same time tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to seem rude, but I don’t want you to come back. Just go away and leave me alone.”
“Sorry, but I can’t. I have a job and my ultimate future depends on doing it well. And remember, this is what your mother wanted.”
“I’m sure my mother didn’t want some whore giving me makeup tips,” Barbara snapped. Then her head dropped into her hands. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“Yes, it was. But I am what I am. I am—I was—a woman who made men happy for money. I did my job well, and
