The Best Laid Plans (11 page)

“Yes it is.”

“Like the pearl choker.”

“Say the word and it can be yours.”

Sienna looks up. “For heaven’s sake, what are we talking about? I know you love books the way the rest of us love Twitter, but why did you insist on meeting at the library?”

I take a deep breath. I know that Sienna’s going to be a hard sell, my idea
is
unconventional. But who ever made it big without taking a few risks? Can you imagine what Steve Jobs’s parents had to say about it when he wanted to drop out of college?

I point to the caption and Sienna reaches for her glasses, the ones she almost never wears in public. I watch her carefully as I wait for the words to sink in.

“ ‘Veronica Franco, 1546 to 1591, Venice. Courtesan and Poet,’ ” Sienna reads. “Well, that’s certainly an unusual job description.” Obliviously, she skips ahead a few pages to look at Tintoretto’s
The Last Supper
—a much more energetic version than the famous Leonardo da Vinci painting, where the diners are sitting in repose. Seconds later, Sienna furiously flips back to the lovely Veronica.

“
Courtesan and poet
? What’s going on in that brain of yours?” she asks suspiciously.

“I’m thinking that Veronica Franco had a good life. She was intellectual and artistic and elegant and witty. She published two books of poetry.”

“And she slept with men to get what she wanted. Isn’t that what a courtesan does?”

“Well, technically, yes. But for goodness’ sake, one of them was the king of France, a girl could do worse!” I pause. “Have you ever thought about all the men who could have helped us whom we didn’t sleep with because we were too high and mighty to trade sex for power? And then have you ever
thought about the guys we
did
sleep with who didn’t give us anything—and ended up being jerks anyway?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Sienna yelps. “You and Peter have been together since college—is there something you forgot to tell me? Who exactly were these men who could have helped you who you didn’t sleep with? And better yet, who were the jerks you did?”

“Okay, so I’m only speaking hypothetically about myself. But we had some pretty heated conversations about this in my women’s studies classes. Look at these,” I say, pushing an impressive stack of biographies in Sienna’s direction. “Coco Chanel, Madame de Pompadour, Sarah Bernhardt, all of them were paid by men for the pleasure of their company.”

“So you’re suggesting that I should have taken Bill’s money?” Sienna asks disbelievingly.

“Well, not just Bill. I mean, that’s what gave me the idea and if you do something about his cowlick, I have a feeling you two could be good together. But I was thinking of something a little more ambitious. I was thinking that we could form a company to arrange for lots of different men to meet wonderful women. Act as a kind of matchmaking service.”

Sienna arches an eyebrow—then she laughs. “Tru, honey, have you gone completely around the bend? A matchmaking service for men to sleep with women? There’s a name for that. Besides, it’s illegal.”

“Is not,” I say quickly, offering the results of my research. “There’s nothing illegal about introducing men to women. What they do after the introductions is totally up to them. It would be a service business, like any other service business.”

“A service business. You mean like being a personal shopper? Except instead of a new tie, we help you find a blow job?”

“Something like that. Although if the men want help picking
out their ties I’m sure that could be arranged, too. There must be lots of men like Bill, good respectable guys who are a little shy with girls. We’d be doing them a favor, helping to turn social nerds into datable dudes.”

“I don’t know why you think Bill is shy. He’s been leaving messages on my machine every hour.”

“He adores you, he’s called me a dozen times to ask what he could do to get you back.”

“He’s sent so many flowers that my house looks like the Duggar family’s on Mother’s Day.”

“At least flowers are pretty. Remember the billionaire who gave you that awful six-carat diamond pendant in the shape of a gecko?”

“It was a turtle.”

“Whatever. Do you remember what you said? ‘I wish he’d just given me the money,’ those were your very words! So why not just get the money and pay off our bills? Frankly, I need to do something or we’re going to find ourselves living on the sidewalk. Besides, I think I’d be good at running a business. I’m well organized and detail oriented. And after years of dealing with impossibly demanding benefit committee members like Avery Peyton Chandler, I have pretty good people skills. This could be my calling.”

“Your calling, to be a madam?”

“No, not a madam, I’m not going to be running a brothel. More like Madame Chairman of whatever we call our corporation. And you’ll be the CEO. Or if you want
you
can be Madame Chairman and I’ll be the CEO.”

Sienna’s mouth drops open and she shakes her head. “Ooh, no, no, not ‘we,’ Lucy. I’d rather stomp on grapes or sell Vitameatavegamin. This Ethel is not taking part in your cockamamie scheme!” Sienna stands up to leave, but I tug at her skirt and pull her back into her seat.

“First of all, missy,
you’ve
always been Lucy. This would be the first time in practically our whole relationship when we did something that was my idea. You owe me. Remember the April Fool’s Day I helped you scratch out letters on the faculty parking sign so that it read ‘
Cult
Parking’ and we got suspended for three whole days? Wasn’t it you who suggested those glycolic peels that left us swollen and blistered right before the Women in Film Luncheon? A director at the party invited me to be in a documentary she was making about burn victims.”

“Jessica Alba goes to that same facialist, I still can’t imagine what went wrong. Besides, those peels were harder to get than tickets to the Inaugural,” Sienna says, applying the peculiarly New York logic that the longer you have to wait for something, the more precious it becomes.

“Well, today’s your lucky day, no waiting at all for your next appointment.” I throw on my coat and take Sienna’s arm, assuming a take-no-prisoners managerial style that’s new but coming remarkably easily. “I can’t do this without you and I won’t take no for an answer. We’re swinging by Dr. B.’s office to get my face fixed and then we’re meeting Bill for lunch. He’s already working out the details.”

B
ILL’S SITTING IN
the back booth of a dark Midtown spaghetti joint, looking and acting like a character out of
The Godfather
. He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses and instead of his usual lawyerly Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, and red tie, he’s sporting a black shirt and an even blacker shiny tuxedo jacket. As Sienna and I approach the table he brings an oversized goblet of wine to his lips, takes a sip, and whirls his hand in the air, motioning for us to sit down. Sienna had balked about coming, but at the sight of Bill’s goofy transformation, in spite of herself, she can’t help smiling.

“Ladies, welcome,” he says, folding his hands on the table and speaking like a marble-mouthed Marlon Brando. “I’m here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.” Then he takes off his sunglasses and turns to Sienna. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’d do anything in the world if you’ll let me make it up to you.”

Bill takes Sienna’s hand and despite her warning to me that nothing would come of this meeting, she doesn’t pull it away.

“This is an awful lot of trouble to go through,” she says.

“I would climb the highest mountain, I would swim the deepest river, I would—”

“Okay,” Sienna laughs. “Now you’re getting me worried. Quit while you’re ahead. I forgive you.” Then her eyes narrow and she swivels her head between me and Bill. “But just to set the record straight for both of you nutcases, I’m not going into business with either of you.”

Bill puts his sunglasses back on and gestures for us to do the same. When Sienna protests, I fish out a pair of Ray-Bans from her pocketbook and plant them on the bridge of her nose. Then I put on my own Persols, the ones I bought last spring when we were still spending money on luxuries. I read once that if you’re depressed you can trick your body into feeling better by looking at yourself in a mirror and grinning. If Sienna’s in costume, maybe she’ll recite the lines Bill and I want to hear. Besides, Bill’s wacky presentation is a lot more fun than a PowerPoint—and it’s already helped him worm his way back into Sienna’s good graces.

Bill takes out a yellow legal pad scribbled with notes and places it squarely on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. He picks up a book of matches, and reading by the light of a candle stuck in the top of a Chianti bottle, he proceeds to make his case. The three of us will draw up a partnership agreement to run a “temporary help agency.” Since Sienna and I are
broke, Bill will put up the initial investment money and he’ll take out his share of the profits first. We’ll have a corporate bank account, a Federal ID number; we’ll even be taxpaying citizens. The women who work for us will be independent contractors. They’ll pay our agency a commission and be responsible for their own withholding taxes. We’ll recruit the ladies through perfectly legal magazine ads, and only accept clients by referral.

“I know dozens of guys, guys like me who are smart but a little backward when it comes to their social skills. Better yet, they’re the hotshots negotiating bailouts and bankruptcy filings. They may be the last people in the universe to still be making tons of money. And I can’t tell you how many of them would pay a fortune to meet a woman.”

“What’s a fortune?” Sienna asks, running a finger around the lip of her wineglass.

“Eliot Spitzer was ponying up fifty-five hundred dollars an hour to his escort service, but the Luv Gov was only interested in quickies. We’re offering a more refined service. Clients and escorts will enjoy parties and dates and hopefully develop longtime relationships. With that in mind I’m thinking fifteen hundred an hour. With a four-hour minimum.”

“Six thousand dollars?” Sienna asks incredulously.

“Right, for the basics. Blow jobs, deep French kissing, swallowing—those will all be extras. And we’ll offer discounts for more extended dates. Why don’t we say ten thousand for overnights?”

“Twelve thou,” I say.

Bill laughs. “Twelve thousand it is. And our commission is forty percent.”

“But why would these guys—or anybody—pay that much money to be with a woman?” Sienna quibbles.

“Exclusivity,” I tell her. “Why do you pay four hundred
dollars for designer jeans that are made from the same denim as the thirty-eight-dollar ones you could get at the Gap?”

“It’s the same reason that people are willing to pay a premium for good sushi. Clients want to know that what they’re paying for comes from a reliable source,” Bill says. “Our women will be attractive, smart, the kind of woman you could take to a dinner party with your boss or home to meet your parents. Then in bed, she’ll be a man’s total fantasy.”

I can see from the look on her face that Sienna’s starting to toy with the idea. Until, that is, Bill adds one last detail.

“And by the way. Everyone who works for us will be at least forty.”

“Forty? Forty-year-old hookers?” Sienna shrieks, pounding her fist on the table. “Now I know the two of you have both lost your minds!”

“Not hookers, courtesans,” Bill says patiently. “And I’m quite serious. To be successful in today’s business world you have to have a niche, and my gut tells me that this could be ours. Inkjet printers, bamboo flooring, one of my clients is a psychiatrist who specializes in CrackBerry addicts—each of them filled a need in the marketplace that wasn’t being met.”

“Older women and younger men. It’s a trend, just look at Hollywood,” I say. “Courteney Cox Arquette is seven years older than her husband, David; Demi is sixteen years older than Ashton; and Katie Couric is seventeen years older than her boyfriend.”

Bill pulls off his sunglasses and reaches over to take off Sienna’s, meeting her gaze as if they were the only two people in the room. “What I love about you, Sienna, is that you’re smart and sexy and worldly. It’s not like being with a girl—I feel like we could be together forever and I’d never be bored. And I think other men would feel that way, too. I mean they’d
feel that way about other women,” he adds quickly, lest Sienna get the impression that he would be willing to share her. “The guys I know are successful and smart, but they’ve spent too much time focusing on their careers. They need an experienced, sophisticated woman to teach them about life in the outside world.”

What I love about Bill—oh, let me count the things I love about Bill at this moment. That he thinks this is a viable idea and he seems to have figured out how to make it work. That after knowing my best friend for all of forty-eight hours he guilelessly used the L word that it sometimes takes months—and a crowbar—to wrench out of a guy. And that for a seemingly meat-and-potatoes American dude, his tastes are delightfully European—he appreciates an older woman and all she has to offer. As luck would have it, Sienna’s phone beeps and she reaches expectantly for her BlackBerry—the same BlackBerry that used to chirp with news scoops and dinner invitations and that since her firing seems to have gone silent. Except to deliver bad news.