Diary of a Married Call Girl. Tracy Quan

she’s dating this guy who’s making a documentary about hookers! She went and spoke to his class at the New School because he wanted to make sure there would be an actual working prostitute to answer all his students’ questions! And now they’re going out together!”

      “What does he teach?”

      “Something to do with American Studies. He wants her to be in his documentary—and she hasn’t said no, which worries me sometimes. I don’t dare look at my e-mail when Matt’s around. What if he sees Trollop-at-Large swimming around in my in box? Allie’s turning into a liability.”

      But my shrink was looking impressed rather than horrified.

      “Your friend sounds rather brave.”

      “Brave! Allie’s not—I was hustling in hotel bars when I was fifteen! That was brave!”

      “Yes,” Wendy said “Perhaps—”

      “But if I continued to do the things I did when I was a teenager, I wouldn’t be brave, I’d be out of my mind!”

      “But what do you think Allison was doing? When she was a teenager.”

      “I know exactly what. She was a cheerleader! At some high school in Ridgefield, Connecticut! Allison didn’t have to clean her own room until she went to college! I had to clean my room, do the dishes every night, AND rake the leaves. Her mother picked up after her.”

      I had to nip my shrink’s budding admiration in the bud ASAP.

      “You have different parents and you’ve led different lives,” she said in a more neutral tone. “But you’re very close to her. Or you have been. Is friendship always about sharing the same values and experiences? Sometimes—”

      “It’s not about her!” I blurted out. “It’s me! I found out the other day that everybody thinks I’m some kind of overweight paranoid housewife who hates single women!”

      “Everybody? How did you find this out?”

      “My sister-in-law! She’s—she’s conspiring with my husband—”

      Wendy was staring at me intently.

      “—to invite Allison to a dinner party. There’s only one way to deflect Elspeth from hunting down Allison. I have to let her think I’m one of these, you know, hardcore wives who just wants to hang with other couples. I know how to keep Matt and Elspeth off the scent—but I hate myself!”

      “For betraying Allison?”

      “For being the victim of my own frumpy game! I guess I should feel like I’m winning. They have no idea what I’m really hiding. But my sister-in-law thinks I’m a clingy wife, shunning my single friends. And my husband is starting to compare me with his mother! I’m turning into…”

      I couldn’t say it.

      “What are you afraid you might become? Marriage can play havoc with a woman’s particular sense of her own identity,” said Dr. Wendy. “In your case, there are multiple identity issues—”

      “I don’t have multiple personality disorder!”

      “I didn’t say that.” Dr. Wendy was gentle but firm. “It’s clear that you’ve chosen your various identities. But what are you trying to say or not say about being a wife?”

      “Could I have become, in less than a year of marriage, the total embodiment of everything that causes men to see hookers in the first place? That’s so not fair!”

      I was getting shrill and looking around for the box of tissues.

      “That’s probably not how I would describe it,” she said. “But that’s how it feels to you. Today.”

      “Not just today—all weekend! But if I seem to be that and I’m not really, then I guess I’m doing a good job at being a wife?” I grabbed a few tissues. “In fact, I’d be doing a great job.”

      “Because you’re still in control of your identity.”

      “But if I’m really becoming what I was pretending…” I was fighting back tears of anger. “I don’t know how to do this—this married thing. And all these questions she was asking—my sister-in-law started pestering me about my French lessons. It was awful. Remember the plan I came up with, to become a translator?”

      “Yes. I remember that.”

      “It’s a lot more stressful than I thought it would be.”

      “Career transitions are emotionally demanding,” said Wendy. “I went through one myself when I decided to be a psychotherapist—after six years of teaching phys ed.”

      That explains the biceps! I’ve been to three different female shrinks, all on the West Side, and Dr. Wendy’s the only one who takes responsibility for her upper arms. I’m not saying that’s why I stuck with her, but it certainly didn’t hurt. It’s hard to take advice from a therapist who doesn’t take care of herself—like my first shrink, Dr. Anita Samson, who was very overweight and chain-smoked. During sessions! There’s nothing more discouraging than a shrink who looks physically unhappy. Dr. Wendy hasn’t got a clue about hair and she doesn’t bother with her nails, but she takes good care of her body. She has the cheerful yet earnest look you want in a shrink. Or a phys ed instructor.

      “But this is a fake transition,” I said. “I’m just transitioning from one cover story—one fake job to another!”

      “You aren’t the only person I’ve encountered who is juggling additional career narratives,” Wendy pointed out. “An imaginary transition is quite challenging.”

      Put that way, my situation sounds almost genteel.

      “From a therapeutic perspective”—Dr. Wendy adjusted her glasses and leaned forward—“the imagined career is as meaningful as a remunerative job. Perhaps even more so. Every career is an exercise of the imagination, if you think about it. Your transition is not unique,” she told me. “In the world of work, it’s common to exaggerate or invent. I knew a man who was unemployed for months. His family had no idea. He got up every day, put on his suit, and went out of the house, without ever missing a beat. The human imagination is pretty resilient.”

      “Oh my god. Like that middle-aged guy in The Full Monty? Are you saying I’m in the same boat as him?”

      The out-of-work factory manager with the bad lawn decorations? Who can’t tell his wife that he lost his job?? My self-image doesn’t really see itself that way.

      “That’s a good example of what I’m talking about.” Wendy looked pleased, as if she might be on the verge of handing out a gold star. “The boat is very full.”

      TUESDAY, 3/27/01

      When Allie called last night to set up something for this morning, I couldn’t say no. Matt was in the shower, and when my phone started vibrating, I answered cautiously. Despite misgivings about her lifestyle, I still trade customers with Allie. Besides, turning down business from another girl is rude when she owes you a date.

      Allie has never specialized in early-morning business. Today was a lucky exception. Ten am on a weekday is the married call girl’s favorite time slot. I don’t feel guilty about returning home by six if I’m starting to make money before noon.

      Ideally, I’m preparing dinner when Matt returns from the office. If I show up later than he does, I’m on the defensive, and he’s more likely to ask about my day. While it’s not always possible to keep a low profile in your own home, it’s something to aim for, and early-morning clients contribute to my effort.

      Getting from Thirty-fourth Street to Eighty-fifth should be a cinch—a straight line up First—but my cabdriver was forced to take a detour near the UN. When I arrived at Allie’s