Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl. Tracy Quan

forget? Much less forgive?

      I pointed the handheld showerhead between my thighs, then aimed it cautiously at my breasts, to avoid splattering my hair. It’s an occupational hazard, showering four times a day: My hair has to look great for work, yet I’m constantly in danger of wrecking it…Catch-22!

      “He offered me a thousand!” Allie was saying. “Just to see me for—you know, the usual.”

      His normal rate is three hundred dollars. A grand for half an hour! That’s hard to turn down. But Allison doesn’t need to hear that. She needs to learn how to say no and mean it.

      “After what he did to us, I think it would be a major betrayal for any girl to make an exception,” I told her.

      “But I have—I mean, Jack and I had—a different kind of…” Her voice grew squeaky and faint. “Well, anyway, I’d like to hear his side of the story.”

      Yeah, I’ll bet she would! For a thousand dollars, who wouldn’t? But the point is, your word’s not worth much if you say yes to everything that looks financially appealing. Or easy.

      “His side? He has no side. I don’t care how much he pays, dealing with him is just too risky.”

      “He’s so easy,” Allie pointed out. “And he wears a condom for everything.”

      “We’re not talking about that kind of risk! And you have to stop thinking in the short term! He gives you a grand today and that’s great. What happens later? What if you lose all your contacts with the other girls? Jack’s generosity won’t make up for that. Ever.”

      As I slid the shower door open, Allison handed me a towel. That childish pleading look again! Even though we’re the same size—we can trade bras—I suddenly felt like the huge clumsy playmate of a delicate fine-boned little girl. I stared into the bathroom mirror and saw, reflected back, a surprisingly graceful neck. Not the awkward galumphing outcast—a ghost from early puberty—that I sometimes imagine myself to be. And my hair had kept its shape.

      Like me, Allie looks easily ten years younger than she really is. If we were aging at different rates, would we have stayed friends for so long? In fact, I wonder sometimes if looks are the basis for most female friendships: the looker who takes up with a lesser looker because it bolsters her ego; the attractive girl who (having learned that lesson) seeks out pretty friends so she won’t have to deal with another woman’s jealousy raging out of control—it’s easier to manage your own insecurities, after all. Those of another girl can be hard to read, impossible to quell, and therefore highly dangerous. Allie and I have our problems—I know in my heart that it’s not the healthiest friendship—but where looks are concerned, ours is a bond between equals. And that’s important.

      “I didn’t agree to do anything with him,” Allison was insisting. “We’re just talking about it.”

      “You shouldn’t even be talking to him,” I warned her.

      If I wasn’t as pretty, she’d suspect me of sabotaging her out of jealousy. And if she wasn’t as pretty, she’d hate me for being so dismissive of male admiration. Allie appeared to be listening respectfully, but she became distracted and started glancing at her watch. I gave up.

      Before she left, Allison begged me not to mention Jack’s phone calls to Jasmine. “You know how she jumps to conclusions!” she simpered. “Jasmine’s so judgmental. And she might tell everyone.” She tucked four hundreds into a shiny pink Louis Vuitton backpack and zipped it shut.

      Maybe I should take the cut from Allie, instead of relying on her to send me back a date, but her parting words killed that possibility: “Oh, good! I can pay my rent now. Thanks! I’ll send you someone soon. Okay?” Catching the look on my face, she added, “February’s rent! It’s due tomorrow. I have to get to the bank.”

      “You’re seeing guys to pay the rent the day before it’s due—?” Before I could finish, the phone interrupted me. Allie headed for the elevator as I grabbed the ringing phone.

      “I think I missed Steven’s call,” I told Eileen. “I have to go out now. I can see him around seven.”

      “Oh. Bummer.” Eileen sighed. “You have to get this guy while he’s hot. He’ll call next week. Do you have sheer stockings? They have to be sheer, not stretch. And please don’t wear platforms—he likes real heels.”

      “Platforms? Why would I wear platforms with a john?”

      “You wouldn’t believe what the last girl wore. These new girls! Listen, I know he’ll call. He wants to see an Oriental—badly. Don’t let him make an appointment for the next day, though. He’ll screw it up. If he calls when you’re not busy, that’s the best way to see him. He’s very fast. Three fifty. Be cold and bitchy but don’t order him around. He’s not a slave. But he wants to worship you…”

      What kind of guy knows the difference between sheer and stretch stockings? For $350, I’m quite intrigued. Eileen and I trade a lot of business—we both have clients who go for the petite Asian look, though I think my guys are less fixated on it. (A lot of my clients enjoy Allison, too—maybe it’s the blond contrast.) Funny how every call girl I know ends up with a certain type of regular. Eileen’s customers are fetishistic, Jasmine’s are among the quickest. I’m not sure how to define a typical Allison client…not sure I want to.

      “Hey, by the way. I’ve been getting these calls,” Eileen said. “Hang-ups! And voice mail with lots of stupid breathing. Ever since I heard from you-know-who.”

      “Oh god. Jack?”

      “Yeah. The nerve! He acts like nothing happened, you know? Like we don’t know.”

      “Well, don’t let on!” I said, alarmed. “Just tell him you’re busy and get off the phone—politely.”

      When you blacklist a client, he’s not supposed to know about it.

      “Look, I don’t have to humor him—not after what he did to me! Blabbing to that—”

      “If he finds out he’s being blacklisted, he might take it out on you in some way! What’s more important? Being right? Or being happy? And safe?”

      “Well, I hung up on him, okay? I told him to leave me alone. And now I’m getting these calls. I bet it’s Jack! He has no right to do this.”

      Between Allison wanting to make up with him, and Eileen self-righteously provoking him, I really don’t know what to do. The whole idea was to turn the volume down on this guy in the hopes that he would just go away and stay out of our circle. Ever since he—

      Yikes—almost 3:30. All the cabs are changing shifts! It will be a nightmare getting across town. Must log off NOW, SOON, five minutes ago, if I really plan to be on time for therapy.

      MONDAY NIGHT

      Despite the traffic, I actually snagged a taxi quickly, by offering an off-duty cabby twenty dollars. Stuck in Central Park traffic during the crosstown pilgrimage to Dr. Kessel’s funky West Side office, I couldn’t stop thinking about Allison and Jack. She still has a soft spot for the guy. Her taste in men has always been appalling. And yet she has a natural talent for this business. Strange…And Eileen will be pissed if she hears that Allison has been talking to him. As will Jasmine. And everyone else. Oh god. And they’ll be furious with me if they find out that I knew and didn’t tell them. Why does Allie put me in these impossible binds? Why do I tolerate it?

      As I emerged from the park, I spotted a big picture of Tony Soprano’s shrink on the side of a bus shelter. This week, the Sopranos are everywhere—magazines, bus shelters, you name it—and everyone seems to identify with Tony for some reason. But my shrink’s much hipper than Dr. Melfi; for one thing, she’s on a first-name basis with her patients. And, unlike