Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl. Tracy Quan

golf course, I was tempted to turn my phone on.

      But there are so many callers I must avoid, starting with Matt who thinks I’m in La Croix-Valmer today. Milt has no idea Matt’s my husband—he assumes we’re still engaged—and he’d love to hear me snowing my “fiancé.” I haven’t got that much nerve, though.

      And what if Allie calls with bad news?

      Instead, I succumbed to a much safer temptation: checking out our driver from the back seat, while Milt, sitting next to me, checked his calls.

      Duncan’s neat sandy hair, cut so close to the nape of his neck, underscores his boyish appearance. In tidy jeans and a crisp navy T-shirt, he’s impeccably casual. Not absurdly buff. Built just right.

      What a waste! But—I never think this way. I’m too practical. Too concerned about my own looks to be eyeing a man who is, by definition, unavailable. Perhaps it’s a change for the better. Part of coming to terms with your thirties and being less self-centered.

      Milt, of course, has no inkling of Duncan’s sexual orientation. He believes in a part-time “girlfriend” sharing Duncan’s house in Tanneron. Gaydar isn’t part of Milt’s vocabulary. If a guy’s not really obvious and swishy, he might as well be straight. Another one of those generational things.

      “Your visitor from Barcelona. Do you know when she’s due to arrive?” Duncan asked.

      Milt, supposedly engrossed in his voicemail, looked up discreetly and wiggled his eyebrows at me. Visions of a ménage à soixante-neuf (well, it’s a multiple of trois) were dancing through his head.

      “She flies into Marseille next, um, Wednesday,” I said. “We’re just waiting for her to confirm the flight.”

      If she doesn’t? I’ll have to worry about that later. There’s no point revealing my insecurity, when the prospect of our next threeway is keeping Milt erotically stoked.

      And the prospect of Milt productively occupied for the rest of the afternoon is reassuring to me. Calling home when I’m staying in a customer’s house seems dicey, but I’m anxious to send some conjugal email soon.

      Unfortunately, when we drove back to town, Ste. Maxiphony—the Cibercafé-Teleboutique which claims to be open from 15H00 till 22H00—was still closed at 15H30. A resigned-looking teenager was standing outside, smoking a pungent cigarette, waiting for them to re-open. I coughed and moved away from the door.

      “C’est toujours comme ça,” the boy was telling Duncan. He shrugged, then he inhaled. “Ils font ce qu’ils veulent.” Smoke drifted toward me.

      “Omigosh,” I muttered, as we walked back to the SUV. “They smoke in there, don’t they! I’d forgotten all about that. I’ll find an outdoor café while you do your shopping. I need to call Allison.”

      Miraculously, Duncan’s actually got a list of all the smoke-free venues in the area.

      “Not that there are so many,” he warned. “Sit up front, I’ll drop you near the church. There’s a salon de thé where you can relax. A New Yorker’s idea of paradise.”

      He’s right. The No Smoking sign is gigantic, by French standards. In the kitchen, someone’s listening to Barry White, but the music is so faint you have to know the melody to actually hear it: You’re playing a game … it’s so plain … you want me to win.

      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

      New York: A Sinner in the City

       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