Authors: Scarlett Black
“Still,
man, I’m sorry about that.” He sat back in his chair and ran his fingers
through his hair. I wished it were my hand.
Normally,
I didn’t get so, I don’t know,
entranced
around guys. I had too many
responsibilities and too little time for such distractions. My girlfriends—all
happily married with husbands who helped, maids who cleaned, and no jobs to
stress over—had often tried to set me up on dates. I’d politely decline and
say, “Maybe next time.”
But,
Finn... Wow. If they’d tried to set me up with him, my next question would’ve
been, “Should we do calligraphy on the wedding invites, or not?”
It would be ridiculous to say I was under some sort of spell, but goddamn it,
that’s what it felt like. I wanted to wave his magic wand for him. Sprinkle
some fairy dust over me, whatever, but I would’ve climbed up on his lap right
there in the middle of the crowded coffee house if he’d asked.
And
where was it coming from, that pure, raw attraction? Was it because I hadn’t
been with a man since the month before Marcus walked out? Was that it? Was I
just…horny? It was such a foreign sensation that I barely remembered what it
felt like. I’d been so busy with life and work, taking care of my son, my body
had become nothing more than a vessel—something to carry me through each
exhausting day. Had nature finally allowed the flower to blossom after it had
lain dormant for so long?
Whatever
the case—all I knew was this: something had awoken within me, and I wasn’t
about to let it go back to sleep.
Like
I said, I wasn’t very good at flirting, but I figured that a little dose of
“hard to get” would be appropriate. If I’d learned anything from my sisters,
it was the fact that men loved the chase. I’d never used the trick before, of
course, but after seeing them in action throughout high school and college, it
seemed foolproof. I said, “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it. I’ll be quiet
and let you finish up. Silent Susie over here.”
Ugh,
Silent Susie? Where the hell did that come from? You’re playing hard to get,
Kim, not hard to understand.
I
worried that he’d see me as childish. Unworthy of his time. I looked older
than twenty-one, especially with my hair up in a bun and wearing work clothes,
but for all I knew he was into cougars. Yeah, I could officially be a MILF to
the right person—would Finn see it that way if he knew?
“Are
you kidding me?” he said, grinning. “No way. We can’t just sit here and let a
perfectly ruined morning go to waste. Let me buy you a coff—oh, no, um,
breakfast? How does breakfast sound? You deserve a treat for the day you’ve
had already.”
Do
I have to tell you that the way he blushed and stumbled over his words was so
innocent, so
sweet
, that it made me want him to melt in my mouth?
“That’s
so nice of you,” I said, still playing hard to get, “but I can’t let you do
that.” Teasing him, I added, “What would my poor mother think, eating bagels
with a man I’d just met?”
He
laughed and closed his laptop, held up his mug, offering a toast. “I won’t
tell if you won’t.”
“Oh,
dangerous,” I said, winking, tapping my mug against his. “I like the way you
think.”
Was
it sudden? Maybe. Did I care? No.
Within
a few minutes we went from “Hi, I’m Kim,” to sharing a blueberry bagel
absolutely loaded with cream cheese. We were talking and laughing, telling war
stories of horrible office life and how we’d both ended up where we were. I
felt like I needed to get at least one minor detail out of the way, so it
didn’t take me long to reveal that I was barely able to drink legally, but he
was so impressed by my work ethic and education that it didn’t matter. He even
said he’d known upper-level managers at previous jobs who weren’t as mature and
accomplished as I was. Truly, it made me feel better about myself, even though
I’d just gotten the boot from a job that I was far too overqualified for.
I
had to fight back against the guilt for not mentioning my little Joey—it’s not
like I was ashamed—but that was a conversation for later, after I’d felt him
out some more. You know, tested the waters.
Did
I say felt him out? I think what I really meant was
felt him up
.
We
talked for two hours.
Two
hours that sped by as quickly as two minutes.
And
in that time, I hadn’t learned a single thing about what he did
now
.
Everything had been about his past. Where he’d gone to school, where he’d
grown up, what pitiable office jobs he’d held while he was trying to make ends
meet. You know, the usual chitchat that happens when you’re first learning
about someone. Stuff like favorite TV shows, favorite books and favorite
movies.
His,
by the way, was
The Princess Bride
, which immediately earned him some
extra bonus points. I have to admit, it made me wonder what our children would
look like.
And
get this, we never had a single instance of that uncomfortable silence that
happens when you momentarily run out of things to talk about.
Not
a one.
I
don’t mean to sound shallow or full of myself, but most guys, they bored me.
Back before Joey came into my life, I hadn’t dated much for that specific
reason. Dreama had said it was because I was too smart—that I needed to find a
man on my level. When I asked her what that meant and where I should look,
she’d said, “Just check his knuckles. Make sure they haven’t been dragging on
the ground.”
Sage
advice from the woman who married a reformed alcoholic wife-beater.
But,
Dreama’s issues are her own and I don’t plan to get into those. Much.
Finn
balled up a napkin and tossed it onto his plate. He smiled at me, again
revealing those perfectly white teeth. I imagined him nibbling on the soft
skin of my neck and had to look away so he wouldn’t see me blushing. Had it
gotten warmer in the coffee shop, or was it me? Hard to say.
He
said, “I hate to do this, but I have a meeting to get to,” he checked his
watch, “in like ten minutes. I’m so not prepared for this. Maybe we could
pick this up tomorrow since you’re—well, you know, since you’re free.”
“Free,
huh? Is that what we’re calling ‘unemployed’ now?”
“I
didn’t mean—”
“Relax,
Finn. I’m kidding.” I patted his arm. “I’d love to hang out tomorrow.”
Ugh,
hang out? Hang out? You’re not some teenager thumbing out a text, Kim.
“Awesome,”
he said. “My calendar is wide open.”
While
I had looked forward to spending a full day relaxing on the couch and playing
with Joey, I was sure that my friend Michelle wouldn’t mind watching him for a
couple of hours. Was it selfish? Yeah, I’d say so, but I justified it by
thinking that it’d be wonderful for him to eventually have a father figure
around. Fingers crossed.
Finn
asked for my number. I gave it to him, more eagerly than I would’ve
liked—can’t seem too desperate, can we?—and he promised to call early so we
could make plans.
I
didn’t see him again for over a year.
Would
things have turned out differently if he’d called when he said he would?
I’m
sure of it.
All
I can say is, my world changed during that time. A lot.
Anyway,
what came next started with a classified ad in the local paper.
***
When
Finn didn’t call I spent the next day, and the day after that, and then the
next week staring at my phone, both begging him to call and dreading the
conversation we would have if he did. I worried that he’d looked me up online
and found pictures of me posing with Joey. But that wouldn’t have sent him
completely running in the wrong direction, would it? If that were the case, he
could’ve at least checked in to let me down gently.
He
had no social profile, at least not one that I could find. Then again, it’s
hard to track someone down when all you have is a first name.
How
do you go from two—okay, yeah, I’ll say it—two
magical
hours to never
calling someone like you’d promised? I mean, really, what the hell?
I
went through every possible scenario in my head. There hadn’t been a wedding
ring, but maybe there was a girlfriend or a fiancé. He hadn’t written my
number down, so what if he’d lost his phone? I decided that was the most
logical explanation.
I
briefly considered that maybe he’d died in a car crash, rushing to get to his
meeting. After all, it was partly my fault that he was late. I couldn’t find
his name in the obituaries.
Over
the next five months, the idea of a Finn-filled future faded somewhat, but I
didn’t forget about him.
And
by the time those five months were gone, my situation was honestly tougher than
I’d expected or could’ve planned for. It started slowly and before I realized
it, “I’ll get to it later” was no longer an option.
I
was still jobless, my severance pay stopped, I’d blown through my savings, and
my unemployment benefits were barely enough to feed Joey and me, let alone pay
bills or rent. It was hardly enough to afford gas money to drive to an
interview for yet another job I wouldn’t get.
Dreama
offered to help, but I declined. I could do it—
would
do it—on my own.
The absolute last thing I needed was to give her more reason to be disappointed
in the only daughter that didn’t live up to her expectations.
Sharon
was a fashion designer in New York, rubbing elbows with celebrities.
Samantha
was something of a minor celebrity herself, starring in commercials along with
a few bit parts in sitcoms down in L.A.
And
dear Sophie, the one sister that I actually connected with, she was living in
Hong Kong with her stock broker husband, writing novels, prancing up the
bestseller charts while chasing around my four nieces and nephews.
All
who were born
in
wedlock, as Dreama would emphasize.
And
then there was me. Poor little Kim. Unemployed…unemployable; brilliant, but
not street smart enough to figure things out; surviving on store-brand noodles
and rice, so that Joey could have healthier meals. Living in a deteriorating
studio apartment, driving a decrepit Honda that would surely fall apart if you
gave it an angry look.
Yeah,
you could say I was
this close
to rock bottom.
On
a rainy Monday morning in early August, I dropped Joey off at Dreama’s house so
I could speed across town for another interview.
Well,
that’s what I
told
her. Her eyes lit up when I mentioned that I was
under consideration for a low-level management position at a software company
and that the first round of interviews had gone well.
Total
bullshit, by the way. It went awful and there was no chance in hell I’d be
called back for another shot. I lied to her, because for some reason, Joey had
decided he would keep me awake half the night and I was exhausted; all I wanted
was a couple hours to nap. Yes, it felt like I was shirking my
responsibilities as a parent—that I was cheating the system—but that’s what
grandparents are for, right? To spoil their grandchildren and inadvertently
make sure their own child stays sane?
“Kim,
that’s wonderful!” Dreama said, hefting Joey up higher on her hip. At a year
and a half now, he was almost getting too big to carry. “But you don’t have
any management experience—how’d you convince them? Are you sure you’re
prepared for something like that?”
Even
though it was a lie, way to pop the bubble, Dreama.
“They’re
a new company, Mom. They have like, twelve employees total and what they
really want is to build a team of young, hip go-getters.”
“Go-getters?”
“That’s
what they said. Their words.”
“Did
you mention your MBA?”
“It’s
on my resume. I’m pretty sure they saw it.”
“Okay,
well, good luck. Make us proud.”
Her
tone suggested it was an
order
, not a simple platitude.
“We’ll
see how it goes,” I said. “Say your prayers for me.”
I
kissed Joey goodbye, and Dreama literally shut the door in my face. And you
know, I have trouble calling my own mother a wench—respect your elders and all
that—but she was toeing the line that day. But, given what happened in the
coming months, maybe she had some justification. Maybe.
As
I drove back to the apartment, one simple decision changed everything.
Isn’t
that how it always goes? Rather than eating breakfast at your own kitchen
table, you stop at a café and meet the love of your life. Or maybe you take a
left instead of a right, and two seconds later you watch as a delivery truck
plows through the intersection and demolishes the car behind you. Or maybe you
take a later flight and get bumped up to first class.
The
tiniest decisions flip you upside down. If you oversleep by ten minutes one
day, maybe you’ll retire in Costa Rica instead of middle-of-nowhere-Kansas.
It’s baffling how intertwined, but disconnected, life can really be.
Instead
of heading straight back home, where I would flop face first onto the mattress,
I let the guilt of lying to Dreama overtake me. I stopped at a convenience
store and bought a newspaper, intending to resume my job hunt.
And
there it was, in black and white, four short lines that saved—and ruined—me in
more ways than one.
WANTED
Professional Women Only
Evenings and Weekends a Must
Earn Thousands for a Few Hours of
Work!
I
called the number, for no reason other than to see what it was. I mean, I had
a notion, but for all I knew it was something ridiculous like stuffing envelopes.
“Hello,
thank you for calling The Midnight Fantasy Corporation; how may I help you?”
I
almost chuckled. Even an escort service had a better phone greeting than the
idiotic one back at my old job.
“Hi,
yeah, I’m—I’m calling about the ad? The one in the paper looking for
professional women?” I folded the newspaper and dug a pen out of the glove
compartment, ready to take notes. I’m fastidious like that.
“Oh,
yes. Thanks for calling. Let me put you through to Terri, the HR manager.
Hold, please.”
An
escort service needs a receptionist? And an HR manager? Interesting. I never
would’ve guessed.
Thirty
seconds later, a chipper, bubbly voice said, “Hello, Terri speaking.”
“Hi,
Terri. My name is Kim, and I’m interested in the ad you have in the paper.”
“Oh,
wonderful. So glad you called! We’re always looking for some top notch talent
around here.”
“Ha,
well, I don’t know about
talent
, but could you tell me a little more
about the position?”
I
almost added, “Or the positions I would be in?” but decided against it. I
didn’t know how the joke would be received, and for damn sure didn’t want to
give in to the idea of selling my body if it wasn’t required for the menu. I
had values. Good ones.
At
the time, anyway.
Sure,
I would show off the goods to a pansy-ass manager in hopes of keeping my job or
manipulating him into more money, but full on sex for cash? Totally different.
“I’d
love to, Kim, but it’s something that’s probably better done in person. Of
course I’ll need to see your resume and get a feel for qualifications, things
like that. If you could email that to me before you come in, that would be
great. And,” she said, pausing, “I always hate this part, but it’s necessary
to protect the integrity of Midnight Fantasy’s client relationships. There are
certain…
standards
.”
I
understood what she meant without having to ask for clarification.
Terri
added, “While I appreciate confidence in all forms—it’s a respectable quality
no matter how you look at it—I’m sure you’re the best judge of whether or not
you’d…whether or not you’d
fit in
with the staff. I hate to be blunt
like that, but it’ll save us both some time.”
“Right.”
“So,
now that we have
that
out of the way and we’re on the same page…what are
your thoughts? Should I set up an appointment for you?”
I
hesitated. It felt peculiar—the possibility of being judged based on my looks
instead of my education and job experience. But maybe it was what I needed, affirmation
from a different angle, because I hadn’t gotten it from any other place in a
long damn time. A little praise never hurt anyone.
Did
I even want to bother with wasting an opportunity for much needed sleep and
rest? I really had no intention of going through with it, no matter how good
the money was. It wasn’t something I could imagine myself doing. Not at
first.
My
curiosity got the better of me. I had to know what it took—what was
involved—to earn thousands of dollars for a few hours of my time.
“Yes,”
I said, “I think we should.”
“Excellent.
What’s your schedule like? It looks like the morning is open if you’re free.”
“Absolutely.
I can be there in an hour. I’ll see you then.”
“Oh,
not me, I’m afraid. I’m an off-site contractor. You’ll be meeting with
someone else.”
“Either
way.”
“Good,
good, I’ll put you on the calendar and make sure they’re expecting you up
front.”
“Just
one question.”
“Yes?”
“I
don’t want to sound…naïve, but how should I dress?”
I
could almost feel her smile over the phone. “Dress for the part. Go classy.
Or better yet, elegant, if you have anything like that hanging in your closet.
The bigger your image, the better your chances. Just send along your resume
and I’ll ping you back with any issues. If you don’t hear from me, good luck!”
I
jotted down the address on the newspaper and then rushed home, blowing through
a couple of yellow lights and doing slow rolls at stop signs. Hurtling through
my front door, sweats and sneakers went flying as I sprinted into the bathroom
and quickly rinsed off the funk. I didn’t wash my hair because I never would’ve
made it in time.
One
quick email later, with my resume attached, I began to flip through my clothes,
cursing my wardrobe and mumbling, “No…no…no,” over and over. How many dresses
did I own? Six maybe? All of them sundresses, nothing classy. I’d tossed out
the short skirt I’d worn the day I lost my job. The thing was a bad omen. And
besides, it wasn’t classy or elegant by any stretch of the imagination.
Could
I go in a pantsuit, the one I’d worn so many times to failed interviews?
Nope. Professional, but not classy. Not in the right way.
I
flopped down on my floor, grabbed a handful of the towel and balled it up in my
fists. Admittedly, I was bummed for a couple of minutes, because I knew I
didn’t have the right things to wear and certainly didn’t have enough time to
go shop for something appropriate. I had to laugh at myself, too, because I
was getting all worked up over a job I didn’t necessarily want.
Then
I remembered—hanging in the coat closet, by the front door, was the one
clothing item that I’d sworn would never touch my skin. Dreama had given it to
me so long ago that I’d forgotten I had it. When Joey and I moved into the
apartment, it went into the closet and stayed buried behind a wall of parkas
and windbreakers that I hadn’t worn in ages either.
A
champagne colored bandage dress by some designer who Sharon knew firsthand and
absolutely swore he would be the next big thing. It cost more than my car, I’m
sure of it.
Why
had I sworn never to wear it? Because it was a ridiculously expensive,
over-the-top attempt by Dreama to mold me into the daughter she wanted me to
be.
Need
I say more?
I
let a smile work its way across my lips. Wouldn’t it be such perfect
retribution to wear the dress to an interview for a job as an escort? I thought
so, too.
It
was wrapped in the same plastic packaging it came in, and when I peeled the dusty
cover away, I took one look and thought,
God, I’ll never fit into this thing
.
I’d
gained a pound or eight over the past five months. I partly blamed Finn—in the
couple of weeks I sat waiting around for him to call, I’m not stretching the
truth too much when I say I ate my weight in Rocky Road ice cream. And to top
that off, I’d been living on the cheapest food I could possibly find at the
grocery store. You’d think I would’ve had plenty of time to exercise without a
job, but my heart wasn’t into it. I was too tired, too depressed, and too
stressed to even go for short runs.
I
carried the dress over to the mirror and let the towel drop to the floor,
checking out my body, studying it with a critical eye—the eye of someone that
might want to do wicked things to it.
It
wasn’t
that
bad, and truthfully, the extra pounds had done me some
good. My breasts were fuller. I had some actual shape to my hips. I couldn’t
count my ribs.
Before,
I’d been too skinny, trying to live up to the not-an-ounce-of-body-fat image
that Dreama desired. Or maybe
demanded
. And it’s not like I wanted
to—I generally fought back against most of the demands she tried to force upon
me—but if you grow up a certain way and stick with one thing long enough,
whether you like it or not, it tends to become habit. Like the way I always
put my right shoe on first. Why? Couldn’t even begin to tell you. Muscle
memory, I guess.
I
stepped into the dress and lifted it up, sliding the wide straps over my
shoulders. It didn’t go on easily, but I didn’t struggle too much either. I fought
with the zipper—where’s a helping hand when you need it?—and then tiptoed into
the bedroom for a pair of heels that would work. None of them matched
perfectly, but I chose a pair of beige platform pumps that were close enough. Yet
another gift from Dreama that I’d never worn.
When
I got back to the mirror, I held my breath and counted to five, then stepped gingerly
sideways, sort of dreading what I might see.
Wouldn’t
you know it?
Hot.
Damn
hot, actually. There was no way in hell I’d ever tell Dreama that I liked
it—no, loved it—but the woman had taste and knew her daughter well. All the
right lines. The cut was perfect. My tummy didn’t show.
And
wow, my legs looked incredible.
See
what you’re missing, Finn?
One
quick look at my email revealed nothing negative from Terri, so I assumed I was
good to go.
I
checked the time. Twenty minutes left. Just enough to throw on a dash of
makeup, ensure my hair was fine, and sprint out the door. Well, as best as you
can sprint in platform pumps.
As
I fought traffic and cursed every late morning commuter and elderly person
going five miles under the speed limit, I slapped the steering wheel and begged
them to go faster. I began to sweat, stressing out over the possibility of
being late. Not good. Although the dress was sleeveless, it wasn’t the kind
of image I wanted to project. If I walked in there dripping from my armpits
like some construction worker, instead of the graceful poise of a woman in
control, it could ruin everything.
And
then it hit me: why in the hell was I stressing out over a job I neither wanted
nor had the time for?
I
eased back into the driver’s seat and took a deep breath, then another.
A
call girl. Or “professional escort,” something like that.
I
wondered if there was a difference. At the time, I was too inexperienced to
realize that
yes
, there was. I turned on the air conditioning and
lifted both arms at the shoulders, trying to dry off. Quite an awkward sight
to anyone that noticed.
I
thought, borderline prostitution? Really? Am I that desperate?
It
didn’t take me long to understand that the hours would never work, but God, I
really needed the money. And yet, I didn’t know the first thing about being an
escort. Did they always have to have sex with their clients, or did they
sometimes do nothing more than simply dress up, allow a senator or billionaire
to hook an arm around their waist, and play nice for a few hours?
I
drooled over the possibilities—paying off the debt I’d racked up, stashing some
money away while I looked for a real job, and maybe we could find a nicer
apartment, one with faucets that didn’t drip all night and a toilet that
flushed without jiggling the handle at just the right angle.
How
many clients could I avoid sleeping with before someone complained?
Was
it possible? There had to be a way around spreading my legs for some rich
businessman in town for the week.
Could
I do it for a while, long enough to earn a safety net, something that would
keep me afloat for the foreseeable future?
If
I could pull it off for a couple of months…
Could
I somehow convince Dreama that I had strange hours at the new, fake job? Maybe
until the end of the year? Four months? I began concocting stories in my
head, coming up with reasons why I had to work from six to midnight during the
week and at erratic, weird hours on the weekend.
I
concocted fantasies for something that
might
not even become a reality.