Authors: Scarlett Black
With
the advance from Roman, I got the makeover he requested—hair, nails, various
treatments and peels, eyebrows—every possible thing a woman tortures herself
with to magnify her beauty. If he thought I was stunning before, he should’ve
seen me when I walked out of Lana’s salon. Even I was impressed.
Lana
took some headshots as well and sent them into Roman—something for the
clientele to peruse. I equated it to online dating—shopping for people.
His
final request—a Brazilian wax, because apparently the clients preferred it—went
as well as those things can. I’d never had one before, mostly because it was
an unnecessary expense, and Michelle often complained about how painful they
were. But, to tell the truth, I actually enjoyed it, at least the
aftereffects, once I was finished nearly biting through my lip and wiping my
watery eyes. After the initial pain subsided, I found that I loved the feel of
the soft cotton fabric against the newly exposed skin. I probably could’ve
done without the “little girl” look down there—the thought brought with it a
certain sense of weirdness—but hey, if that’s what the clients wanted, and they
would pay extra for it, then so be it.
Supposing
they ever got to see it, obviously, but I’ll get to that.
Why
the change of heart about what I would be doing?
I
don’t know—I guess I felt
different
when I walked out of Roman’s office
that day. Before, I was completely and utterly apprehensive about the idea of
becoming a professional escort. What was I getting into, what would it be
like, could I look myself in the mirror, stuff like that. But once I saw how
Roman responded when I asserted my dominance, things began to fall into place
somewhere within my psyche. If someone who was supposedly as unbendable as
Roman could surrender to unwavering demands, it occurred to me that I should
have no problems interacting with, and standing up to, men who weren’t quite as
self-assured.
I
wish I’d understood how ridiculous that notion was at the time. Senators,
governors, billionaires, and celebrities…they’re made of cocky overconfidence.
It defines them. I had to learn that the hard way.
But
let me back up a bit. In the week following my makeover, I didn’t hear a word
from Roman; I began to wonder if I’d pushed too far, thinking he was avoiding
me on purpose, punishing me by not offering work because I’d beaten him into
submission. Would he be that petty? I didn’t think so—it didn’t make good
business sense.
Tried
and true, never let your emotions get in the way of money, right?
I
spent my time shopping for high-priced dresses and evening gowns, new lingerie
(just in case) and heels. I enjoyed the look of surprise on each and every snooty,
bratty store clerk’s face when I’d pull out a handful of hundreds to pay for my
items.
It
didn’t help that I went in wearing ratty mom clothes with Joey in tow—I don’t
blame them. I would’ve turned my nose up and gotten snippy if I’d been on the
other end of the shopping experience, too. After it happened a couple of
times, I started doing it on purpose. Dressing sloppy, leaving Joey’s food
stains on my shirt. It became a game to me, to see how much I could viscerally
offend a patronizing shop owner before flaunting enough cash to make their
week.
I
heard things like, “Miss, I’m not sure that’s—well, let’s just say that it’s
probably not in your budget. You know, with the little one,” and, “Miss, might
I suggest our discount rack?”
One
clerk, this uptight, white-haired woman with posture so rigid she could be a
ship’s mast, had the audacity to tell me, “Miss, I
assure
you, you
cannot
afford this,” as she held a gorgeous red low-cut dress away from me. I didn’t
want to go overboard—it wasn’t like I’d won the lottery or anything—but the
look of defeat on her face was worth more than the thousand dollars I paid for
the pleasure.
I
started shopping around for a new apartment, too. I wasn’t ready to move just
yet, because I figured that if I did too much too soon it would arouse
suspicion with Dreama. Little bites, tiny nibbles of situational improvement
would prove safer. And besides, Joey and I had lasted in that shithole
apartment for so long, waiting it out for another month or two was no big deal.
I’d
give it a couple of weeks, then inform Dreama that I had gotten a proper job,
doing what I was qualified to do, at some place she’d never heard of and leave
it at that. I was certain she’d insist on visiting me at my fake office, so I
planned to tell her that my fake company had a bunch of fake offices and I’d be
hard to pin down.
If
it ever got to the point where she demanded to come see me, I could always
agree and then cancel at the last minute. Who knew how long I’d be able to
keep the façade alive, but I hoped it would be long enough to stash some
earnings away and then leave Roman and Midnight Fantasy if I needed to, in case
things got too dicey with Dreama. I had no idea how she would react if she
found out.
It
all seemed simple enough. I was already deep inside a house of lies and it
didn’t seem like too much trouble to live there a while longer. Dreama didn’t
deserve the truth. I wouldn’t go as far as saying it was mental abuse, but
after years of listening to her subtly—and not so subtly—complain about my
inadequacies and making me feel less and less worthy, I had no desire to give
her another opportunity to lose her mind over one of my decisions.
Although,
the idea occurred to me that I
should
tell her about what I’d done, that
I’d agreed to become a professional escort. If wearing the dress she’d given
me to the interview was a perfect example of silent defiance, then telling her
about my chosen profession would’ve been a stinging smack to the face.
The
only thing that stopped me was Joey and the thought of losing him, because I
wasn’t so sure that Dreama wouldn’t call Child Protective Services on her own
daughter.
I
couldn’t risk the truth. Lies were safer.
I
began to work out again during that week of waiting. According to Roman, I
looked fantastic already, but joining Michelle for yoga and a few other
exercise classes made me feel better about my own self-image, and that
certainly never hurt anyone. I was able to afford better food at the grocery
store also, and did a quick, giddy happy dance when I got on the scale and saw
that I’d already dropped two pounds.
Small
victories.
By
the time he finally called, I’d worked myself into a bit of a frenzy wondering
why I hadn’t heard from him.
I
was sitting on the living room floor, playing peek-a-boo with Joey late one
afternoon when my cell rang. I didn’t recognize the caller ID, so I answered
with a hesitant, “Hello?”
“I’ve
got a job for you if you’re available tonight.”
“Roman!
Hi! God, I was getting worried that I’d never hear from you. What took you so
long?”
“Sorry
about that, but you’ll never believe me if I tell you.”
“Tell
me what?”
“It
took me a couple of days to get you into the system, but once I had the time my
phone started ringing off the hook. Ten different clients, all asking who the
new girl was and if they could request you for a night.”
“Noooo…”
I said, letting the word trail off in pure disbelief. I still had trouble
grasping it. Why me? Could it really be true, that I was that desirable? And
if so,
Jesus
, what had Dreama done to me psychologically over the
years? A therapist would have a field day.
“It’s
the truth. I let them know up front, like we agreed, that your first trip out
into the jungle would be date-only, and it didn’t matter. Some backed off when
they found out, but four—
four
—different clients begged to be your
first. I normally assign jobs on a first come, first serve basis, but it
seemed like the perfect time to try something new.”
I
got up from the floor and walked into the kitchen. “Like what?”
“A
bidding war.” I could tell he was smiling on the other end of the line.
“Really?”
“Remember
how I told you that the date-only package starts out at two grand an hour?”
“Yeah.
I mean, yes.”
“Do
you want to guess the number?”
“No,
just tell me.”
“They
pushed it to
ten thousand
an hour. And honestly, I think they could’ve
gone higher, but I didn’t want to put too much pressure on you.”
I
nearly dropped the phone. “Oh my God.” I felt lightheaded.
“I
couldn’t believe it either. You’re the one. How does that feel?”
“A
little scary…but sort of fantastic at the same time.”
“You’ll
get used to it. So, we’re all set and you’re on from six to ten tonight. And
let’s see…that’s forty grand, forty percent of that is sixteen thousand, minus
your advance. Six thousand dollars, Kim. It’s all yours. You earned out and
get to take home some extra, all in one date. No peach pie involved.”
I
leaned up against the kitchen counter because I couldn’t hold myself upright.
I shook all over (Pick this one, she vibrates!), except this time it was from pure
excitement and relief, rather than fear and anxiety. “For four hours…”
“For
four hours. All you have to do is show up, entertain him, look pretty, and
you’re golden.”
The
only thing I managed to say was, “Wow.”
“You’re
meeting him at
La Fleur
, the French restaurant downtown. Don’t be
late. And in fact, get there early. This one has a bit of an ego complex, so
he’ll like the fact that you’re waiting on
him
.”
“Who
is it?”
He
chuckled. “Normally it’s my policy to tell employees up front who they’ll be
working with. It’s good to have that heads-up so they’re not surprised.
But…in this case, I don’t want you to be too nervous beforehand. It might be
better if you just see him for the first time at the restaurant, you know?
That way you can jump right into dinner without having time to give yourself
the sweats.”
“Roman,
don’t do that to me.”
“It’s
better this way, trust me. You’ll
do
fine, you’ll
be
fine,
you’ll
look
fine. Think of it this way; it’s a blind date and you have
nothing to lose. There’s none of that pressure that comes with legitimate
dating. You don’t have to worry about whether or not he’ll like you tomorrow
and you don’t have to sit around staring at the phone for three days, waiting
on him to call. There’s none of that.”
My
mind went immediately to Finn. I didn’t mention the fact that I’d stared at my
phone for weeks, practically begging for it to ring. I grabbed a bottle of
water from the refrigerator and took long, slow gulps. It didn’t matter how
much Roman attempted to comfort me—the nervous thirst was unavoidable. Anticipation
shuffled my nerves like a deck of cards.
Roman
said, “Are you there?”
I
swallowed the last of the water and wiped my mouth. “Yeah.
Shit
, I
mean yes. Sorry, I keep forgetting.”
“You
can relax about that. I made that up.”
Playfully,
I said, “You’re such an ass.”
“That’s
the fun part. Okay, so you’re good for tonight? You can get a babysitter,
right?”
“Got
her on speed dial.” Which was true, in a sense. A couple of days before, I’d
gotten in touch with a sitting service, then found and interviewed a sweet
elderly woman, named Gertie, who had no family in the area and could be ready
on short notice. I’d promised to pay her an extra twenty-five dollars an hour
to stay exclusive to us so there’d be no chance of having to scramble for
someone else. She’d agreed without question.
“Good.
Got yourself a new wardrobe? Lana did an amazing job, by the way.”
“Amazing?
I looked freaking incredible.” There it was. The confidence had returned, somewhat,
and it felt good.
“I
couldn’t agree more. And if you’re as half as entertaining as you were in my
office last week, you’ll do perfectly fine. Come by tomorrow for your check.”
We
said our goodbyes and hung up, then I thought about something he’d said.
Entertaining
. It was an interesting word choice
and made me wonder if he’d been onto my game the whole time. Had he known all
along that I was putting up a front? Had he intended to give me more than the
usual cut from the very beginning? Had he made me work for it? Had he acted
the way he did
on purpose
, giving me an opportunity to find my inner
strength while he pretended that I’d thoroughly destroyed him?
I
chose
to believe it wasn’t true. I
chose
to believe that I was
as good as I thought I was.
And
that made all the difference in everything that would come later.
Gertie
arrived at five-thirty, and Joey lit up when he saw her at the front door. It
was a relief because I’d worried that getting away for the evening would be a
problem. Not so. He didn’t even act that way around Dreama, which gave me a
nice dose of petty solace.
Ha…ha.
Take that, Dreama.
I
knew it was an infantile reaction. I didn’t care.
I
wore the gorgeous red gown that the snooty clerk had assured me I couldn’t
afford and a pair of red, open-toe pumps that matched perfectly. I had my hair
up to show off the small diamond earrings I’d splurged on—at a heavy discount
sale—and a pretty necklace. Lana had insisted that my neck was fabulous and an
updo would be the best way to show it off.
Listen
to the experts. They got that way for a reason.
Gertie
looked me up and down, whistled, and said, “My, my. Would you just look at
that? You better be glad I don’t have your curves, little lady. Otherwise
that dress would be coming home with me.”
“It
looks great, doesn’t it?”
“Honey,
‘great’ ain’t the word for it. You just be sure that whoever he is, you help
him pick his tongue up off the floor when he sees you.”
“Oh,
I don’t have a date. I’m going to work.”
“In
that
?”
“It’s
part of the job.”
“You
have to wear something like that to work? What are you, a model?”
“No,
I’m a profess—” I caught myself mid-word, realizing that I’d forgotten such a
minor detail. My job—the fake one—hadn’t come up during the interview with
Gertie because we’d been so focused on her qualifications and Joey’s needs.
“I’m a professional hostess at
La Fleur
. They want us to look our best
for the customers.”
“That
fancy restaurant downtown? Well, I can believe it. I’d never have the money
to eat there.”
“Oh,
gosh. I wouldn’t either,” I said, which was a total lie, or would be after
tomorrow. “I just show the rich people where to sit.”
With
an impish grin, Gertie said, “I’d like to tell ‘em where they could sit, too,”
and I’m sure she didn’t mean at a table. Somewhere hotter, and eternal,
probably.
“I
should be back by ten-thirty at the latest. And thanks, Gertie. I really
appreciate you being available on such short notice.”
The
first inkling of guilt didn’t show up until I closed the front door behind me.
I was leaving my son, with a stranger, to go sell myself for a night. What
kind of mother was I? Did it matter that I was doing what was necessary? And
it was only a date, for God’s sake. I couldn’t imagine the level of regret I’d
have if I agreed to something more for a client.
Necessity
builds the structure, but reality shakes the ground beneath it.
***
With
ten minutes to spare, I walked through the front doors of
La Fleur
and
stood among the throng of people waiting to be seated. I’d never been,
obviously, but I’d heard stories of how insane the demand was for a table
there.
Contrary
to popular custom, they didn’t take reservations, so it was almost a badge of
honor if you showed up one evening and managed to get seats without waiting for
hours.
A
while back, months ago, when I was daydreaming about the possibilities with
Finn, I’d read an article about the place in a local magazine called
Flavor
.
In the interview, the owner talked about how the elite, rich members of the
community had created a game between themselves, assigning points based on how
often they were able to get a seat in under an hour. The less they had to
bribe the host or hostess for a table, the more points they earned. As of a
few months ago, when the article ran, they were still trying to declare a
winner.
While
I waited—and considering the fact that I had no idea whom I was waiting for—I
looked around the restaurant, hoping to get a feel for the atmosphere and to
gauge how all the diners were behaving. Were they quiet? Did they have
perfect posture? Did they hold their wine glasses a certain way? Was I
dressed the same or better? Were the women eating salads while the men ate
whatever they wanted?
From
what I saw, the answer was yes to all. I could tell that I was dressed more
elegantly than most, and there were some wandering eyes on me because of it.
The only noticeable gap between my falsified stature and their real one was the
fact that my diamonds were quite a few carats smaller. Many, many carats
less. My earrings could be used to punctuate the end of a sentence, while most
of theirs could be used as priceless golf balls.
I
made a mental note to revisit the jewelry store once I’d been on a few more “dates.”
If it meant projecting the proper image, it had to be done. Maybe I could
write it off as a business expense. (I knew better, but I debated looking it
up.)
The
restaurant itself smelled delicious—its air so heavy and thick with the scent
of food that it was almost tangible enough to bite and chew. My tummy grumbled
and I prayed no one had heard it. Unlikely, due to the incessant chatter going
on around me.
I
listened to mumbled complaints about how long they’d been waiting, whether it
was worth it, and also to a man who had been steadily increasing the amount of
his bribe to the hostess. If I overheard correctly, he made it to just below
three hundred dollars before she picked up two menus and said, “Right this way,
please,” which was followed by a chorus of whispered boos and a sea of shaking
heads.
I
watched them stroll into the dining room, where the music was low enough to
provide atmosphere. It had paintings of the French countryside and rows of
grapes on the dark red walls. They weaved through the tables with white
tablecloths, past couples eating steaks and salads, nibbling at their desserts,
and clinking their wine glasses together. Probably toasting how much money
they had.
I
was excited to be there—to be a part of it—yet disgusted by the opulence at the
same time. It was magnificent, glorious, and…such a waste. Blame it on the
fact that I had been rigorously watching my expenses for so long, but I could
think of a thousand different, and better, things that I could’ve spent their
money on. Perhaps if, and when, I had some of it myself, I’d look at it
differently. Does money change people or their perception of the world? Or is
it the same thing?
As
I said, the waiting area was packed nearly shoulder-to-shoulder, but I felt a
presence beside me, as if someone had sidled up closer to me than all the
rest. Next came a voice in my ear, low but mixed with a hint of
condescension. It said, “These rich bastards really put on a show for one
another, don’t they?”
I
turned to my right, intending to politely smile and nod, but then almost gasped
when I saw who it was.
Eric
Landers, the owner and CEO of a company called PayGrowth, who’d developed a software
suite designed to be hip and cool, created specifically for twenty-somethings
to help them manage their money. It was also tied to their social networks,
which somehow encouraged social accountability. Within the software, there was
a lot of language like, “Dude,” “Bro,” and “Awesomeness.” Two years ago, he
had a staff of twenty and was in danger of shutting down until he caught the
eye of some big time Wall Street gurus. A month ago, he sold PayGrowth for
three and a half billion dollars.
I
knew all of this because his was one of the startups recruiting me, before
Marcus, before Joey. Eric Landers had been the only person that hadn’t cared
that I’d gotten pregnant—but he couldn’t get my potential hiring past his board
of directors. He’d been so nice to me at the time that I paid attention
whenever his name popped up in the news.
“Hi,
Kim,” he said.
“Eric,
so nice to see you.” And it was, really. He was cute in that rich nerd sort
of way. Somewhere in his early thirties and totally not dressed like anyone
else there. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a collared shirt that wasn’t tucked.
His tie was loose at the knot. His dark blue blazer looked like he’d stolen it
off a sleeping hobo.
Very
casual, his dress, but I suppose with almost four billion dollars in the bank,
you can afford to not give a shit about what people think.
He
must have noticed me examining his attire, because he said, “I hate ties, but
there’s a dress code. When in Rome, right?”
“I
know. I feel so out of place here.”
“You
certainly don’t look it, that’s for sure. Are you meeting someone?”
“Yes.”
I gave myself a small, mental pat on the back for remembering to say “yes”
instead of “yeah,” even though now I knew I didn’t need to. I quickly tried to
come up with a lie about who my date was, but figured the less I said, the less
I’d have to remember. That’s how liars get caught. They try to fill in
too
much detail and then have trouble remembering the grandiose complexities of
their stories. “First date jitters. I’m shaking like a leaf.”
“Been
there before.” He smiled and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. Small
wire frames with thin lenses that were likely more for show than correction. I
remembered that two years ago he was prematurely losing his hair, and now he’d
shaved his head razor-bald. It was a good look. Under different
circumstances,
extremely
different circumstances, I could see myself
going out with him.
For
a moment, I worried that whomever my “date” for the evening was would walk
through the door and get offended that I was talking to another man, so I
glanced past Eric’s shoulder to make sure I wasn’t getting any jealous glares
from a lone male.
Satisfied
I was in the clear, I turned back to Eric. “Congratulations on your sale. I
always knew PayGrowth had potential,” I said, politely making small talk while
I waited.
“Thanks.
Yeah, it almost didn’t happen, but some guys came through at the zero hour and
I walked away with an all-cash deal.
And
, the best part was, I managed
to save everyone’s job in the takeover. It couldn’t have gone better.”
“Are
you staying on to help run things? It has to be hard letting someone else take
control of your baby.” My words hit me hard in the stomach when I thought
about Joey at home with Gertie—who, as wonderful as she could be, was a
complete stranger.
“Staying
on?
Pffft
. No way. I’m done with it.”
“Really?
Why? I thought you’d always stay down in the trenches. You were so passionate
a couple of years ago.”
“Hah,
well, that passion gave me two heart attacks before I was thirty-three.”
“Oh
my God, seriously? Are you doing okay now?”
“Couldn’t
be better. I took the money and walked—figured I had to before I croaked, you
know? The way we structured the deal, I get a smaller payout each year to
reduce the tax burden. It’s basically like winning the lottery and then taking
the twenty-year payout instead of the lump sum.”
“Smart,”
I said. I hadn’t discussed business since I walked across the stage at
graduation. The familiarity of it was a welcome distraction, considering my
date was now fifteen minutes late. But, Roman had said that the guy enjoyed it
when people waited on him, so I didn’t mind hanging out with Eric until he
showed up.
It
never occurred to me that I was already talking to the man I was supposed to
meet. Not until Eric said, “Hey, look, I don’t want to bore you with this
stuff,” and then sidestepped over to the hostess. “Ariana, can you show us to
our table, please?”
She
grabbed two menus, smiled a big, bubbly smile and said, “Right this way, Mr.
Landers.”
My
toes went numb. The sound around me dulled to a quiet hum. I could barely
breathe.
Oh
no. No, no, no. Eric Landers? God, I should’ve known this would happen.
I
felt a mixture of shame, revulsion, and that unwelcoming sense of being caught
doing something you shouldn’t be. I was angry, too, with Roman for putting me
in this position. But was it misguided? Maybe he hadn’t known about my
history with Eric. Maybe it was all coincidence.
Or
maybe it wasn’t. Was that why he didn’t tell me who my first client would be?
Eric
had to have seen my photos, recognized the bright girl from Stanford, and then
informed Roman that he knew me and wanted the opportunity to meet. And
considering my boss’s penchant for the almighty dollar, he’d most likely
instigated the bidding war in an attempt to squeeze a few thousand more from
Eric.
The
bastard had used me.
I
hated
feeling used. I hated feeling like a tool in Roman’s arsenal, a
bargaining chip to fill his coffers. Yes, I realized that I’d signed up for
it—because really, that’s what employees are, right? Tools to get the job done
for a profit. However, deliberately manipulating someone so they could have me
for a few hours, for a higher price, was
not
okay. Not by any means.
It
was business—that was all—but shady business nonetheless. Should I have
expected anything different from Roman?