I hope Raymond didn’t rip me off.
“How was it?” Patty exclaims as I push through the door and kick off those painful stilettos. She’s sitting on the floor, a series of storyboards sprawled around her, and what I know to be a homemade extra dirty martini at her lips.
“Okay. I guess.” I head straight for the bedroom to peel off the dress and replace it with a tank top and boxers, tossing the bag on my bed. When I’ve washed my face and brushed my teeth and delayed the inevitable for as long as possible, I finally hazard a look into the bag. Inside, I find the cash that was promised—five hundred bucks—plus an extra three hundred, plus a diamond necklace that’s got to be worth . . . I have no idea.
“Did he give you a little extra?” Patty hollers. “He usually does.”
“Uh . . .” I stare at the sparkles wordlessly. Is this okay? Is this appropriate? I mean, I guess some could argue that none of tonight was appropriate but . . .
“Let’s see!” Patty appears at my side. “Wow! Nice!” The smile on her face tells me she’s not entirely surprised. “He likes to buy jewelry. You know that rose-gold bracelet I wear out sometimes? Raymond gave me that.”
“This is just . . .” Four hours of hanging off his arm, eating, drinking, and looking like a queen, earns me eight hundred dollars and diamond jewelry?
She shrugs. “These guys have a lot of money and they like to spend it. This is nothing to Raymond, but he knows that it’s life-changing to you.”
I look at the pile of cash with a twisted sense of hope. Three nights like that a month and I could easily afford to stay here by myself. “So now what?”
“Now you pay twenty percent to the house. Of the original fee, of course. The rest is yours to keep. Just don’t say anything about it.” She winks. “I’ll give you the address to her place. You can drop it off tomorrow and see about getting added to the regular call list.” She wanders back to her work.
Leaving me to stare at a dozen sparkling diamonds.
And consider new possibilities.
CHAPTER 11
Maggie
December 3, 2015
My chest tightens as I flip the pages.
She said yes.
Some rich, lonely old geezer with an oversized nose plied her with martinis and diamonds, and an invitation for another function in a month’s time, and she said yes.
Why did she have too much pride to accept my money but not too much to sell herself? Several unread journals lie in front of me. My stomach twists at the thought of what they will reveal: that there’s enough evidence in this shoe box–sized apartment to suggest that Celine had many nights with rich, old geezers who only wanted arm candy.
As well as nights when someone may have wanted more.
And Celine may have agreed.
Taking a deep breath, I turn the page.
————
December 4, 2015
Streetlights cast a glow behind the gauzy curtain. A quick time check shows that it’s now two in the morning. I must have succumbed to exhaustion. Or vodka, based on my throbbing head.
It definitely wasn’t the reading material that put me to sleep.
Sure, it started out innocent enough. A date with an older gentleman, a bag of diamonds and money. More social functions hanging off his arm. Then the arm of another wealthy older man, who paid even more and liked to send her to Bergdorf ahead of time, to pick out dresses and charge them to his account. And then another, until she had several wealthy men taking her on “companion outings” each month. This went on for a year-and-a-half, blurring her boundaries and building her confidence, as well as a nice little education nest egg. It also allowed her to move from her dingy apartment in Brooklyn to this one on the trendy Lower East Side of Manhattan in early 2014. Making as much as she was, she figured she’d have enough saved to pay her full tuition in another nine months, right in time for the start of the program. Of course, there was still the issue of supporting herself during the fifteen-month-long full-time program, because she’d have to quit her job at Vanderpoel. But she figured it was nothing a few “dates” a week couldn’t solve.
And Celine was so happy. Finally feeling like she was in control of her life and her future, and that lack of money would no longer hinder her from doing what she was meant to do, what she loved.
She was halfway through the Hollingsworth application paperwork when Rosa was diagnosed with breast cancer. Everything changed. The extra flights home, Rosa’s living expenses and medical bills—the ones that I didn’t find out about so I could pay them—quickly depleted Celine’s nest egg, leaving her back at her starting point instead of starting school last fall. Only she had missed so many weekends with her regular gentlemen over those months that they were forced to move on to new “companions.”
It was last year, in October, that “L” suggested a new guy. A guy who “L” sold as “younger and will pay double” but . . . there was a catch.
There’s always a catch.
The new guy wanted a happy ending.
I don’t know who this “L” person is, but she better hope I never find her.
Celine, nervous and conflicted and not knowing how she’d keep her apartment let alone save enough for tuition to start school the following year, invested in some slinky lingerie and a bottle of Grey Goose. Because God forbid she ask for some help from her wealthy friend, who would jump on a plane and fly over and personally kill her if she ever knew what she had been doing for money.
I flip through page after page of journal entries, overwhelmed with relief on the days when Celine was focused on the latest antique she had scavenged, or a fun night with Dani, out for Thai food. Smiling as I read about the day Rosa was declared “in remission” and the day that Celine finally submitted her application to Hollingsworth Institute of Art, to begin her MA if they accepted her. Which they did.
But there are many days when her “dates” continue, thanks to “L’s” seemingly endless clientele list. With time, gentle coaxing, and the lure of big paydays, soon there doesn’t seem to be much that Celine won’t do, because for the first time she’s not worried about how she’s going to pay tuition or her rent, and she can do it all on her own. In fact, with the kind of money she’s making now, she’s already replenished her lost savings and then some. She’ll have enough to cover the first semester within months, assuming her mother is still in remission by then.