Diary of a Married Call Girl. Tracy Quan

I a lab rat under scrutiny? Or a valued emotional stakeholder? I couldn’t quite tell.

      “Change is always a challenge,” Dr. Wendy pointed out. “Even when we expect it.”

      Her therapy room is more soothing than her new waiting room: plants everywhere, peachy hues, a harmless quilt on the largest wall.

      “But Josephine Baker seems out of place in there.”

      “Really?” As Dr. Wendy leaned forward, some light bounced off her glasses. “In what sense?”

      “Not for racial reasons,” I added. Wendy looked relieved. “She’s the only one showing any flesh.”

      “That’s a good place to start,” Wendy replied. “Nu?”

      “Yiddish?”

      “Just keeping my hand in. I’m not that invested. Or proficient.”

      “Well, speaking of…proficient, I did some business on Sunday.”

      Dr. Wendy’s reaction to this short-term achievement report was hard to read.

      “I know it’s risky to work on Sundays—it’s safer when Matt’s at the office. But I took the call and guess what? I almost made my quota.” I told her about my visit to the Waldorf and the ensuing muddle. “Matt was so happy when I finally showed up at the Gap, he didn’t suspect a thing. But the situation almost turned against me. His sister could have called him, said something incriminating. Or he could have spotted me leaving the hotel. But I got a fairytale ending. For now.”

      “For now is not an ending,” she said. “How do you feel about the outcome?”

      “Well, I didn’t get caught—which is good. But I still have this nagging guilt.”

      “Because you kept Matt waiting?”

      “Because I fell short of my quota for the third week running! When I got married, I had this policy—never on Sunday—but it’s totally clashing with my quota. And my quota is much older than this policy. Or this marriage. It’s too important.” I felt my face growing warm. “I can’t just abandon it.”

      “Many things are older than your marriage. But some women in your position would adjust their expectations. Is it realistic to set the same goals when you have a new living arrangement which might impact your energy level?”

      I blinked at Dr. Wendy. So I’m like a working mom who should be on halftime? But I have no kids, and Trisha (who does) is just as driven as any unmarried hooker. Okay, she no longer has a place where she can see guys, so her expectations may have changed—but now she has a stable of outcalls, really good ones, who stay at hotels.

      What’s my excuse?

      “Are you telling me I should reduce my quota?”

      “No,” Dr. Wendy said firmly. “That”—her tone grew softer—“is not my role. I’m asking how you feel about that idea.”

      “When we were engaged it was easier to hide my business. Now I have to sneak out, find some place to get ready for a date, do the date, get unready, hide the money. It’s like working two jobs and getting paid for one! And I’m sharing my old apartment with a New Girl—she’s only been working for a year or two. Matt doesn’t know about that, of course. He thinks I gave up my apartment because I moved all my best furniture into the new place.”

      When I moved my art moderne bedroom set into our newlywed nest on East Thirty-fourth Street, Matt never asked what I was doing with my queen-size bed. Or my 310-count sheets. The upheaval, the unpacking, a different neighborhood—if you can call this cluster of generic dwellings a neighborhood—made it easy to forget things. Besides, when leaving his bachelor apartment, he thought nothing of leaving his own bed for the landlord to dispose of. We never questioned the purchase of a completely inexperienced mattress and box spring for our new life together.

      “It’s a lot to keep track of,” Wendy said. “But you’re not alone. Some women call it ‘the second shift.’ Taking care of a household and a personal relationship while maintaining your professional foothold.”

      “In secret?” Well, I suppose keeping secrets might qualify as relationship upkeep.

      “Most people have secrets. But if the secrets are too numerous, keeping them becomes a full-time job. In today’s world, it’s common to have more than one part-time job. But most people would find it impossible to hold down two or three full-time jobs.” Dr. Wendy paused. “I want to call the management of your secrets ‘the third shift.’ Is this a useful concept?”

      “So the first shift is what you do for money. The second shift is what you do for love. And the third shift?”

      “Maybe it’s what brings you here.”

      I told Dr. Wendy about my discovery, how this morning it suddenly occurred to me that I’ve been almost faithful in a roundabout way for more than a year.

      “In my own fashion,” I added ruefully. “I don’t think my husband would understand, though.”

      “The arithmetic of emotional fidelity is extremely private,” Wendy assured me.

      “Are you sure it’s arithmetic? And not geometry?”

      Dr. Wendy wasn’t sure.

      “But you do have a system for making sense of your actions. I’m pretty sure of that.” She paused and gave me a quizzical smile. “Were you good at geometry?”

      FRIDAY, 3/16/01. EAST SEVENTY-NINTH STREET

      The last few days have been profitable and peaceful. Charmaine, true to her word, has gone to Florida, leaving our shared onebedroom spotless and orderly. Dust-free. Charmaine’s even more of a clean freak than I am: buys her lubricant in those disposable one-use packets, has an air purifier in the living room, and keeps a box of surgical gloves next to the kitchen sink. On the twentyfifth day of each month, she hands me a neatly arranged pile of hundreds and fifties, her share of the rent and utilities. I couldn’t ask for a more desirable roommate.

      All her things are stashed in the hall closet as agreed, and I have the run of this place until she returns. It’s like being single again—when I’m here, that is—and my phone has decided to cooperate. It rings often, making me realize that I still have what it takes: an active client list and a safe place to work from.

      This apartment’s safe because the neighborhood’s safe. I’ve taken steps to ensure that Matt has no excuse to be strolling past my apartment when I’m here, and no reason to be uptown on a casual basis. That’s why we moved to Thirty-fourth Street, to a neighborhood I don’t even like. I nixed every place we looked at that wasn’t safely south of Seventy-ninth, even when I found my dream condo with the perfect balcony on East Eighty-fourth. It was too close to my stomping grounds, so I made a huge sacrifice and chose, instead, the impersonal two-bedroom with the twenty-ninth-floor view, in a part of town that feels like a giant parking lot. When people ask how Matt and I can live so close to the heliport, so far from all the great food shops, I cite the FDR and limitless views. I sometimes think about the apartment on Eighty-fourth Street that I fell in love with and walked away from, but never with regret.

      Today, I saw Howard at noon, followed by a surprise visit from Steven. After Steven left, I examined my naked body in the mirror and liked what I saw.

      My breasts look perky and my stomach somewhat flatter. (I don’t eat as much when I have all these consecutive dates.) My face looks smoother because I’m more relaxed when I see my customers here: less chance of being spotted by my husband—or someone who knows him. Better working conditions make a girl instantly better looking.

      Woman with a past has a warped new meaning this week because I feel like I’m playing a trick on time itself. When Charmaine returns, things revert to the married