Tracy Quan - Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

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, so Milt won’t knock them over.

My frilly white panties (open crotch) seem to work with that decor, but do I misunderstand his request? If middle-aged perversion is setting in, I should put my hair in pigtails and wear the white bra as well.

Or is Milt just being territorial about his newly acquired domaine ? In which case, my white panties, and nothing else, will be more appropriate. More alluring to greet him bare-breasted, stretching out on one of those small beds with my legs apart. He can discover his late afternoon quarry in masturbatory solitude.

…. Too bad I have no bedroom toys to bring with me to the nursery!

Packing for this trip was a delicate, sometimes terrifying, operation. I was much too nervous about getting through customs (and airport security) to even think about packing my dildos. When I landed at Nice, I discovered that my fears were misplaced. They barely noticed my bags and waved me right through. If only I had known.

But, if Allie gets here soon, this won’t be a problem. Didn’t she say something about bringing her Pyrex love baton to Barcelona? In her carry-on?

Saturday, July 6

Just woke from a remarkable dream.

Duncan, beckoning from the far end of the swimming pool, was waving something in his hand. A box of codeine pills? Fully clothed, he floated toward me, as if he were a rather efficient angel, sliding across the water’s surface on a pair of invisible waterskis. On closer inspection, I realized he was holding an electric shaver. ( No wonder he’s so clean-shaven , I thought.) As he drew nearer, I was disturbed by a buzzing sound.

My phone, vibrating under the pillow.

When I came to, the buzzing had stopped, the shaver was beginning to make sense, and my unknown caller had disappeared without leaving voicemail. Of course, it would have to be a private number. Isabel calling back with her international menu? But I really need to straighten things out with Allison before I start making plans with Isabel.

Allie’s silence is worrying, and I don’t want Milt to sense that I’m stressed out. I certainly don’t want him having any doubts about buying her ticket! I, after all, have been paid handsomely to monitor his girl-supply without letting the seams show. If something goes wrong with Allie, why should he trust my dealings with Isabel?

Milt’s going to Nans-les-Pins to play golf, and Duncan has promised to take me to the internet café. “Milt’s rather old school,” he explained. “He doesn’t want a computer in his hideaway.”

Later

Maison de Thé, Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, Saint-Maximin

Now I understand why Milt’s too lazy to drive his BMW to the golf course.

Behind the wheel, Duncan’s responsible yet fearless, unfazed by sudden curves and regional customs. Even the local hunters, who prowl around in the woods, drunk on Pernod, before getting into their pick-up trucks don’t worry him. He really is the ideal country concierge! As we neared the Sainte-Baume golf course, I was tempted to turn my phone on.

But there are so many callers I must avoid, starting with Matt who thinks I’m in La Croix-Valmer today. Milt has no idea Matt’s my husband—he assumes we’re still engaged—and he’d love to hear me snowing my “fiancé.” I haven’t got that much nerve, though.

And what if Allie calls with bad news?

Instead, I succumbed to a much safer temptation: checking out our driver from the back seat, while Milt, sitting next to me, checked his calls.

Duncan’s neat sandy hair, cut so close to the nape of his neck, underscores his boyish appearance. In tidy jeans and a crisp navy T-shirt, he’s impeccably casual. Not absurdly buff. Built just right.

What a waste! But—I never think this way. I’m too practical. Too concerned about my own looks to be eyeing a man who is, by definition, unavailable. Perhaps it’s a change for the better. Part of coming to terms with your thirties and being less self-centered.

Milt, of course, has no inkling of Duncan’s sexual orientation. He believes in a part-time “girlfriend” sharing Duncan’s house in Tanneron. Gaydar isn’t part of Milt’s vocabulary. If a guy’s not really obvious and swishy, he might as well be straight. Another one of those generational things.

“Your visitor from Barcelona. Do you know when she’s due to arrive?” Duncan asked.

Milt, supposedly engrossed in his voicemail, looked up discreetly and wiggled his eyebrows at me. Visions of a ménage à soixante-neuf (well, it’s a multiple of trois) were dancing through his head.

“She flies into Marseille next, um, Wednesday,” I said. “We’re just waiting for her to confirm the flight.”

If she doesn’t? I’ll have to worry about that later. There’s no point revealing my insecurity, when the prospect of our next threeway is keeping Milt erotically stoked.

And the prospect of Milt productively occupied for the rest of the afternoon is reassuring to me . Calling home when I’m staying in a customer’s house seems dicey, but I’m anxious to send some conjugal email soon.

Unfortunately, when we drove back to town, Ste. Maxiphony—the Cibercafé-Teleboutique which claims to be open from 15H00 till 22H00—was still closed at 15H30. A resigned-looking teenager was standing outside, smoking a pungent cigarette, waiting for them to re-open. I coughed and moved away from the door.

“C’est toujours comme ça,” the boy was telling Duncan. He shrugged, then he inhaled. “Ils font ce qu’ils veulent.” Smoke drifted toward me.

“Omigosh,” I muttered, as we walked back to the SUV. “They smoke in there, don’t they! I’d forgotten all about that. I’ll find an outdoor café while you do your shopping. I need to call Allison.”

Miraculously, Duncan’s actually got a list of all the smoke-free venues in the area.

“Not that there are so many,” he warned. “Sit up front, I’ll drop you near the church. There’s a salon de thé where you can relax. A New Yorker’s idea of paradise.”

He’s right. The No Smoking sign is gigantic, by French standards. In the kitchen, someone’s listening to Barry White, but the music is so faint you have to know the melody to actually hear it: You’re playing a game … it’s so plain … you want me to win .