Diary of a Married Call Girl

Though somewhat tempted to share the truth with Liane, I held back. A trustworthy timeshare is hard to find and I don’t want to alienate Charmaine by gossiping about her new implants—or whatever the mystery process of the week happens to be.

“I wonder if Bernie would like to see a naughty little married girl,” Liane said. “I could tell him that you graduated and met—”

“I don’t want Bernie to know I’m married! Nobody’s supposed to know!”

“Well, not if you feel so strongly about it, dear. But it might pique his interest. A restless wife can be titillating. And it makes you respectable. You know how important that is. And it gives me an entree. I can’t just say, ‘How about Nancy instead of the New Girl?’ I’ve got to have a nice story to tell! A way to make you sound new.”

“Maybe another time,” I said. “I have to hit the cheese counter at Agata Valentina before they close. I’m making something special tonight.”

“Of course, dear. What are you preparing for dinner?”

“Baked pecorino cheese with toasted pine nuts and truffle honey. Followed by a whole trout. Steamed with bay leaves. And an arugula salad. With a very light pinot noir.”

“I think it’s wonderful that you’re taking this marriage so seriously! I’ve always said that women like us make the best wives.”

But I still prefer to keep my marital status under deep cover. Even Milt isn’t sure I’ve actually tied the knot—he thinks I’m still engaged. If the customers find out I’m actually married, it might spook them. They might fear a spying, curious husband or an enraged, jealous one. Worse yet, they might think he knows what I’m up to, that he lets me hook. Not the sort of image I want to be promoting at all.

What if they think I married a guy who can’t support me or mistreats me, that I turn tricks in order to make ends meet? Maybe they’ll think I have to support him? I don’t want my customers to think I’m that kind of hooker—that I married purely for love. Rich girls can sometimes marry for love, but girls like me, we’re supposed to marry smart. Not get taken advantage of. You can be in love, sure. But use your head. If you seem to be the kind of call girl who marries a ne’er-do-well or behaves foolishly with men, the clients lose respect.

It’s sexy to let on that you’re a lady when you’re not working, a hooker who feels equally at home on a pedestal. But it’s not just my vanity kicking in—I also want to protect Matt’s image. What if I run into one of these clients when I’m at the theater with my husband?

Do I want them looking at Matt and thinking he’s a bum? Not!

And yet, if they know I’m married to a banker, they’ll think I don’t really need the money. When it’s time to raise my prices, I invoke the high cost of living in Manhattan. There are times when I must appeal to a client’s desire to help a brave, defenseless single girl. If a john finds out that I’m married to a guy with a good income, he’s got a ready-made excuse to keep the price “stable.” You’re just doing this for extras, pin money, or cheap thrills.

I made that mistake only once, with Etienne, who now lives in Paris. When I tried to hit him up for something extra on his last visit to New York, my marital status worked against me. Never again!

Trish doesn’t tell her clients she’s married—or that she has a kid. It’s understood that we can trust each other not to blab. Jasmine and Allie are both under strict orders to keep mum. Charmaine I have to trust—in the hope that she values the great deal she has here, enough to keep her promise of silence.

Liane might be right—married women can be alluring—but I don’t want to go there with her clients.

SUNDAY MORNING, 3/18/01. EAST THIRTY-FOURTH STREET

This morning, while cleaning out my in box, I almost deleted two e-mails from Allie. Thrown off by her new address, I took m.power@trollops.org for just another spammer.

Subject: Come to the NYCOT Cabaret!

A benefit for the New York Council of Trollops at The Pussycat Lounge…featuring punk soprano Wiltrud Mars…Miss Chelsea Jane at the piano…the Triple-X Cheerleaders…stand-up comedy’s Domina Blue. Doors open 7:30 pm.

Members of the Media: Please contact our fabulous EmCee, ALLISON m.power@trollops.org for ticketing, interview requests and more.

The Pussycat Lounge? Is Allie planning to appear on stage? And what’s all this about the media?

This was followed by another e-mail with a more personal subject header:

Re: urgent lunch need yr advice

Hey! Lucho is taking me to a special party next weekend. Lots of people from his faculty! Do you think it’s too soon to meet his friends? What should I wear? It’s all the way uptown near Columbia. Can you meet for lunch? It has to be soon because I need your advice!

PS: He used the L word last night! Twice! But he’s making some really strange demands and I’m not sure what to do. Don’t tell Jasmine but…I couldn’t hold out til third date. And now there’s this THING that he wants me to do. I’m crazy about him too but—not ready for this!

Strange demands? Thing that he wants her to do? I wrote back immediately.

What is this THING? Let’s discuss in person.

3 The Ballad of East and West (#ulink_817c444d-b7b6-5ba6-9b5b-1e54ab7ac56a)

SUNDAY EVENING, 3/18/01

This afternoon, a pilgrimage to my sister-in-law’s shrinking Carnegie Hill condo. Her once-spacious two-bedroom has been completely transformed. As we entered, there was a whiff of baby powder in the air but no sign of the twins themselves. Or their father.

Elspeth held a finger to her lips, and told Matt, “Your niece and nephew are finally asleep. And so is Jason!”

She, however, was showing no signs of fatigue. She placed our present—still in its shopping bag—next to a box of disposable diapers.

“You went to Bambini! I love their clothes! But I’ll wait till Jason gets up before we open it.”

Two high chairs with gingham-covered seat pads stood next to the foyer closet. A Peg Pérego stroller built for two was blocking Matt’s access to the living room couch. I pushed the crowded vehicle cautiously to one side. The front unit was harboring a blanket covered with appliqu袠ducks and daisies. In the backseat, more baby presents, decorated with pink and white ribbon, were jumbled together, waiting to be opened. In the storage area below, I spotted a large diaper bag designed to match the gingham seat pads.

“This carriage is huge! How do you manage?” I asked.

“Oh, I had the mommy biceps before I was even pregnant,” Elspeth said. “I call it the baby Hummer,” she added proudly. “Want some herbal tea? Or”—she gestured toward the kitchen—“I could fix you a cappuccino with steamed breast milk.” Snickering at her younger brother’s discomfort, she changed the subject, sort of. “Yams are the culprit! Everybody’s eating yams twice a week for the betacarotene but you end up having twins because of all the plant estrogen. Well, Jason and I were planning on having two, anyway. Nancy, I want to show you something. This is right up your alley!”

She returned seconds later with a square box.

“I want Bridget and Berrigan to learn Spanish; Jason thinks they should be learning Japanese.” The box was decorated with words and numbers in various languages. “How’s your schoolwork going?”

I flinched inside. I haven’t actually attended a class yet, but I’ve been carrying around my French textbooks just to get Matt accustomed to my new alibi.

“Oh…kind of rusty,” I said hesitantly. “But I’m determined to make a go of it.”

“Nancy plays these tapes at night. I can’t understand a word.” I felt Matt’s arm on my waist. “She’s studying for the…DALF?”

“DELF. Eventually. Not yet. I have to get up to speed conversationally.”

“Well, they say that learning a language will increase a baby’s IQ. What are you working on these days?” Elspeth asked. “I’m still waiting to see the acupuncture book!”

“Oh that”—my voice trailed off—“was nothing but problems! I’m waiting, too.”

Elspeth thinks—or I hope she thinks—that I do some freelance copyediting. Last year, I convinced Matt, Elspeth, and my own family that I was toiling over an illustrated guide to acupuncture. Since there’s no hope of the book actually materializing, I’ve decided that the author is having a personal crisis that prevents him from finishing the final chapter.

“Well, my part of the project is done,” I told Elspeth. “And,” I said, with more conviction, “I feel like that part of my life is done. I’m ready to focus on something else. So I’m just working on my French. No distractions.”

When Matt and I met, he assumed—quite wrongly—that my family was paying my rent. I concocted a few slacker gigs to generate income for those extras that a moderately supported adult would have to buy for herself. It wouldn’t make sense to pretend I’m rich. (What if he tried to marry me for my money? The complications would be embarrassing for both of us. Not that Matt is the type who marries a girl for money. But still.)

Now that we’re married, I can’t fall back on freelance editing. He would surely expect to see me carrying around a manuscript from time to time. Poring over a stack of papers. So I announced a career transition and became, instead, a student at the French Institute on East Sixtieth Street, a student who aspires—one day in the future—to pass the DELF and become a translator.

Matt finds my fuzzy career plan quite plausible. For some reason, when Elspeth starts asking questions about it, I can feel the moisture rising on my skin.