Tracy Quan - Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

The walls are lined with jars of linden honey and anchovy-fig pesto, bottles of Coteaux Varois rosé and artisanal vinegars. A cliché, perhaps, but an attractive smoke-free cliché.

A positive argument for Duncan’s surrogate hairdresser potential.

The tables are tiny, and the gray-haired lady to my left is lost in her Michelin guide while her husband pours black tea from a glass pot. I feel conspicuous. The only customer not part of a cozy couple. Trying to leave a businesslike voicemail for Allie without raising my voice: “Milt’s cook is coming to pick you up, but he needs advance notice—the airport’s a two-hour trip. Don’t worry, he’s a gentleman, you’ll be in safe hands. And he’s cute! But you have to leave a message because I can’t always answer. And don’t block your number! I’ll pick up if I know it’s you! I’m counting on you to be here Wednesday. And remember. Milt has no idea what you’re doing in Barcelona. Let’s keep it that way. And don’t forget to call me Suzy.”

Should I really be alerting Allie to Duncan’s looks? I feel a twinge of guilt about dangling him in front of her—without telling her the whole story—but I MUST use whatever psychological weapons I have at my disposal to get her onto that plane. Reminding her that she’s expected in Provence might not be enough. She might linger in Barcelona, rush back to New York or … who knows with Allie?

In any case, this little slice of solitude really hits the spot. Here comes my chestnut crepe. And this glass of rosé sure beats—

I can hardly believe it.

Last month. Was I really reduced to ordering a white wine spritzer ?

CHAPTER TWO

One Month Earlier

Monday, June 10, 2002 Manhattan

This afternoon, after dropping off $500 with Trish—her cut from my date with Terry—I met Jasmine for drinks at the Mark.

Dressed for a summer quickie, in a pale green wraparound skirt, uncreased linen blouse and Chanel flats, she had just finished doing a call across the street at the Carlyle. From a distance, Jasmine’s a deceptively conservative brunette. Until you get within earshot. When you might also catch a glimpse of her eighteen-carat Bulgari knock-offs.

“A spritzer!” She was indignant. “When did you start drinking THAT?”

“Today, actually. Just in case.” I tried not to look at her dry martini.

She swallowed some of her Grey Goose vodka, placed the cold glass on the table, and gave me a long, thoughtful once-over.

“I’m six days late!” I told her. “That makes me what? Three weeks pregnant? I haven’t told Matt yet. It’s too soon.”

“I thought you were on the pill again.”

Matt has no idea about my secret stash of birth control pills. Jasmine—and Dr. Peele—are the only ones who know. And the Duane Reade pharmacist, of course. But only Jasmine knows it’s a secret.

“I was. Then I wasn’t. Then I—”

“Six days? Hard to tell. At this point, you’re late. That’s all we know.”

I shook my head. “It’s never happened before. My cycle’s always been as reliable—”

“As a clock,” Jasmine said. “I remember. Maybe your body’s taking a stand. All this on-again off-again pill-popping! So where’d you get the idea you can drink spritzers? What do you think? You’re ‘a little bit pregnant’?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” I tasted some bland fizz. “That’s exactly what I am. One tablespoon of white wine can’t possible harm a developing baby.”

“No! But imagine the harm to the mother! Spritzers are so eighties.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather go cold turkey. Actually—” Another sip of martini, and she was almost mollified. “Any child exposed to spritzers in the womb HAS to be a moderate drinker. That’s a good thing!” She frowned. “So let’s say you’re more than a little bit pregnant.”

“You mean pregnant.”

“Right. Have you decided what you’ll do with your phone?”

“My business isn’t for sale, if that’s what you’re asking.”

My secret apartment is close enough to the East Side preschools—but not so close that I risk being spotted by the other mommies. I’ve got a plausible strategy for my child’s education, but I still have to figure out how to avoid answering my phone without losing all my customers. The mommy track’s starting to look like the mommy tightrope .

“You’re not going to be like Trisha!” Jasmine said.

“What exactly have you got against Trish?”

“Nothing. But she married a bum! He’s constantly getting fired—well, that’s what she says. I sometimes wonder if he’s ever had a job. Your husband’s in a different league.”

I don’t like the sound of Trisha’s husband either, yet feel an obligation to defend her. It’s tacky to trash someone who sends you business—and there’s more to it than that.

“Nobody knows what goes on in another girl’s marriage,” I said. “You can’t judge from outside. I’ve never asked Trish what the deal is with her husband.”

And she doesn’t ask what the deal is with mine. Every marriage is based on a secret code. Married hookers respect that; single girls like Jasmine just don’t get it. A call girl who’s never been married feels comfortable expounding on the most excruciating details. Things you instinctively shy away from when you’re married.

“You don’t have to hustle the way Trish does.” Jasmine reached toward the bowl of nuts. “Soon Matt will be earning enough to hire a nanny for your nanny! Let’s face it, Trish stays with that guy because he IS the nanny.”

“He’s the father of her child,” I said tersely. “What they do is none of our business.”

“Whoa. You’re pregnant for all of THREE MINUTES, and already you’re closing ranks with the other mommies! Soon you’ll be shopping for baby clothes with your sister-in-law! Have you been stroller-shopping yet?”

“I won’t be discussing my pregnancy with Elspeth. She’s very big on vaginal delivery.”

Even though she had twins!

“Vaginal WHAT?” Jasmine looked horrified. “Where do people GET these crazy ideas?”

“Well, actually …” Vaginal was the default setting for most of human history, but I know what she means. “Childbirth isn’t our biggest area of disagreement. Schooling is. Elspeth’s planning on sending her kids to Dalton. When she found out I was looking into Loyola, she started talking to Matt behind my back!”

“Isn’t Loyola … a Catholic high school? You’re talking about an embryo .”

“It’s co-ed and Jesuit. We have to plan ahead,” I explained. “And I need Matt’s help. He has to find out if anyone at the office has a child at Saint David’s. Or Sacred Heart. I want to get started at a Catholic pre-school, but Elspeth’s telling Matt we should take advantage of her Dalton connections. Trying to brainwash him against my plans! I have no intention of running into Elspeth every morning and afternoon when I—”

“Hang on a sec. You’ll send your kid to parochial school just to avoid your sister-in-law? You can’t let her intimidate you like this!”

“Elspeth was a prosecutor,” I pointed out. “Have you forgotten she worked for the DA’s office before she had the twins? She’s always asking me to invite my single friends to her parties. And she’s trying to find a girlfriend for her favorite bachelor—that guy with the new sailboat? He’s a prosecutor too! And what about Elspeth’s husband? I’m trying to keep my distance from Jason,” I reminded her. “Elspeth wants to know why she’s never met you .”