Authors: Barbara Palmer
The challenge was to find a unique niche in the sex trade.
Something to separate herself from the pack. She came up with the role-playing idea and put a one-night limit on any man’s access. It was a complete reversal of the usual practice of high-end escorts who established a stable of regular clients. It proved to be a stroke of genius. Maria understood early on that what was rare and hard to get would always command a higher price. She hired a top New York fashion photographer, sent her portfolio to the largest-circulation men’s magazine and landed the centerfold spot. That sealed the deal. She could barely keep up with the demand even at her inflated prices. Her value was not so much in how she performed, but in the men’s eyes, her celebrity status.
Few women around the world belonged to this elite group, and she had climbed her way to the top with nothing but her wits and her allure.
To keep up the appearance of legality, she cloaked her business as an event management enterprise—an added layer of protection for both her and her clients. Maria used the good taste and social graces drummed into her by her adoptive mother to create events around her performances—parties or elaborate dinners—harking back to the famous courtesans who entertained their “guests.” She named herself after Claudine Alexandrine Guérin de Tencin, a sixteenth-century French courtesan famous for her salons. The heroine of Colette’s novels—her favorite French novelist—also inspired her choice. In no time at all, she gained an international reputation.
D
ressed in boot-cut jeans and a faded red T-shirt, Maria wore little makeup and looked no different from the end-of-term students strolling about the lawns. The heat,
unusual for late April and so cloying in the city, was mitigated by the shade of the elm and cherry trees on the Connecticut campus. The cooler air carried the heavy perfume of spring flowers filling the beds. She took a deep breath. Here in the small world of the campus she could truly relax. No one to impress, no one to seduce. Because of its massive collection of volumes in all aspects of the arts, she spent most of her time at the Robert B. Haas Family Arts Library. Given the season, she had no problem finding an empty carrel. She took her tablet out of her satchel, set it in front of her and booted up her digital copy of
Fanny Hill
:
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.
Of all the so-called pornographic works, it was her favorite. She loved the carefree, bawdy, comic undertones of the story—little more than a string of explicit, sexually rambunctious episodes. John Cleland had written it out of boredom while incarcerated in debtors’ prison. He bet a friend that he could write a pornographic book without using any common, lewd words, and it became the most banned book in history.
She took a swig from her water bottle, remembering Lillian’s admonition to keep hydrated, and scrolled through the text to find the section she’d intended to highlight: an account of a gathering at Mrs. Cole’s establishment where Fanny was initiated into group sex.
Immersed in the book, she didn’t hear the footfalls approaching from behind or see the hand reaching for her shoulder. She jumped at the warm pressure on her skin, and whipped around in her chair.
Reed Whitman raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Hey, hey. Take it easy! You didn’t remember, did you?” Her old drama professor flashed a dazzling dimpled smile to show the missed appointment wasn’t a big deal.
“I’m
so
sorry, Reed,” she said. “I lost track of time.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you. You were on another planet.”
“Yes, catching up on some reading. How’d you know where I was?” She began packing her tablet into her satchel.
“It wasn’t hard to figure out where to find you, Maria. You’re a creature of habit. It’s after two—have you eaten? How about some lunch?”
She could feel her empty stomach complaining. “Sounds good.”
“I’m not up to student fare today, so let’s give that a pass. I thought Jade would be fun. You know it, right—on Chapel Street?”
“Pretty fancy.”
“Glad to make it my treat. I’m guessing you’ve been cracking the books pretty strenuously, from the looks of those shadows under your eyes. Consider it a reward for your hard work.”
Maria didn’t really want to take the time for an extended lunch, but after missing their appointment she didn’t feel like she had a choice. And she knew Reed could well afford it. It was rumored he owned a couple of commercial buildings in Manhattan and a large summer home on the coast somewhere east of New York State. Still, what she had expected would be a quick meeting was turning into something resembling a date. She pushed down her annoyance.
He took her to an intimate private room on the second floor of the restaurant. Their balcony table overlooked a flagstone patio, shaded by an enormous aged tree. Ivy had grown around its trunk to such an extent that the bark was no longer visible.
“I’d forgotten how fabulous it was here,” she said as they took their seats.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” Reed said, taking the credit. He reached over and squeezed her hand. “The food’s incredible here. They have a top-notch chef.”
Maria eyed his hand upon hers. An adjunct professor who taught a few drama classes, Reed had been one of her favorite teachers; his charisma and wit made students flock to his lectures. He was wealthy aside from any teaching income and also owned an off-Broadway theater. And when you were a bit groggy and hungover from a long night at the clubs or hitting the books, seeing his handsome face at the front of the lecture hall didn’t hurt. He had a well-defined Roman nose over sensual lips, an olive complexion, heavy brows and well-cut salt-and-pepper hair. Late forties, she guessed. No wedding ring. He fit her client profile to a tee.
Their drinks arrived. Perrier and ice with a twist for her and chilled Chablis for him.
“As I said in my message, I think your work shows great promise, and I wanted to see you to offer my help. Is there anything you’d like me to assist with? If so, fire away.”
She withdrew her hand, the warmth of his touch still on her fingers. “I’ve written an outline and the first few chapters of my thesis—but that’s all. Would you consider looking at it? I’d love your opinion on whether or not I’m on the right track. My supervisor is great on feedback. Still, it’s always useful to have another pair of eyes.”
“Sure. Tell me more about it. Erotic literature—what’s your approach?”
“It’s titled
Forbidden Texts: Eighteenth-Century Erotic Narratives.”
“Hmmm. Pretty big range there, everything from
Fanny Hill
to
Justine.”
Whenever she told someone her thesis topic, they responded predictably with a smartass comeback. She appreciated Reed taking the subject seriously and warmed to her topic.
“That’s right. I’m comparing
Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
with de Sade’s
The Misfortunes of Virtue
and Richardson’s
Pamela: Or, Virtue Rewarded
.”
“No Henry Fielding?”
“Fielding differs too much from the others.”
“Still—quite a range. But here’s to virtue, an antiquated notion these days—present company excepted.” He grinned devilishly and they clinked glasses.
She considered, naughtily, of toasting to vice as well, but thought better of it, not wanting to give Reed the wrong idea. “Actually, I find de Sade excruciating to read. The brutal boarding school scene he described is horrific. I suggested dropping him from my thesis. I don’t think his work is genuinely erotic. More of a torture manifesto.”
“What did your supervisor say?”
“She said no. To keep it in. That the three books have parallels even though they seem so different on the surface. They’re all firsthand confessions from women who started out as innocents and became entangled in a life of vice. Women oppressed by sadistic males.”
Reed crossed his legs. He wore chinos, which she would have dismissed as nerdy but on him they looked good, displaying sinewy thigh muscles. She bet he played squash.
“I agree with your advisor. You can’t ignore de Sade just because
he offends you. You have to challenge those notions of propriety head-on in your thesis—otherwise, what’s the point? I’m very interested in hearing your take on the ingénue. The simple country girl who is forced by circumstances into a life of sin. Quaint notion these days when college kids tweet their favorite sexual positions and upload twerking videos. They could teach us forty-somethings a few things, no doubt.” He cocked his eye. “I was referring to myself, of course. You can’t be much over twenty.”
She didn’t take the bait. “You think innocent young women caught in a vice trap is a thing of the past? No way.”
“Well, maybe if you’re talking about girls hooked on crack or something.”
“I don’t think so. Massage parlors are full of them. Women from Eastern Europe, Asia—country girls promised jobs as nannies—come to the States and are screwed remorselessly by their traffickers to get them ready for the men they’ll service. When they finally end up in the bordello or massage parlor, or wherever, they don’t even try to escape. By then they’re too psychologically damaged.”
Reed colored slightly. “Of course. Didn’t think of that.”
Maria wondered if she’d sounded too shrill. She hadn’t meant to pontificate. Fortunately the waiter arrived with their order, giving her the space to switch tracks.
Reed had suggested an assortment of appetizers to share and they ended up ordering one of each from the menu. The waiter deposited the small plates in the center of the table, each dish garnished so artfully it almost seemed a shame to spoil them. Maria helped herself to hummus on toasted pita and popped it
into her mouth. Other dishes held fat popcorn shrimp, steak tartare perfectly spiced and something called Flammkuchen, an Alsatian thin-crust pizza with bacon, onion and sour cream.
“This is delicious,” she said between bites. “I was really hungry.”
Reed swallowed and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Very reliable here, no? Let’s come back for dinner—tomorrow night. I’d love to see you again.” He lolled back in his chair, and leveled her with his eyes. “In fact, I insist.”
She set her water glass down on the white tablecloth, so crisp it seemed to actually gleam, and wished now she’d ordered something stronger to drink. No question, the thought of spending time with him was appealing. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt her scholastic goals. But right now her after-hours work trumped everything else. “That’s a nice thought, Reed. Thank you. The problem is I have a really tight schedule these days. I’m rushing hard to get more work done now because I’m going to be away a lot over the rest of the spring and summer. How about I take a rain check for the fall when school’s back in session?”
Reed couldn’t hide his look of irritation but he covered it up quickly. “Much sooner than that, I hope. I’m not letting you off the hook so easily.” He pushed his plate away, then dangled the lure: “You’re not teaching yet are you? Do you take any tutorials?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t have time. I bulked up on courses last winter so I could get through faster.” Even to her it sounded like an awkward lie. Her other profession barely left time to write. “I hope to start teaching next year.”
“You should reconsider. Taking on a tutorial or two is essential if you eventually want an academic post.” He took her hand.
“I’m happy to organize something. I’m on pretty good terms with the administration, you know.”
That was an understatement. He was a prized staff member. But the implication was unmistakable. Play nice and you’ll move up. She had a feeling he’d find a way to do it without breaching any of Yale’s strict guidelines.
On the other hand, Reed was a perfect choice for a mentor: distinguished, influential. Even though she got on well with her supervisor, another point of view would only enrich her work. It would be foolish to decline his offer. She gave him a slow smile that she knew had a distracting effect. “I’d love your help, Reed. Thank you.”
“Excellent. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but without teaching income, how do you manage? Postgrad studies don’t come cheap. Mom and dad still helping out?”
“A small inheritance,” Maria said. “It’s hard to make ends meet. I’m pretty frugal. I’m hoping that will see me through. I haven’t exchanged more than a few words with my adoptive mother in years.”
“Oh. Pardon me. I didn’t mean to pry. I have a bad habit that way.”
Maria had perfected the narrative of her life story and practiced it on others until it became watertight and utterly convincing. The secret to credibility was to stick close to the truth. She’d been caught off guard by the detectives that morning, and had deviated from her usual script. She’d had to tell the truth about the age she was adopted—she wasn’t sure if Romanian adoptions were sealed and she didn’t want to raise their suspicions by lying. “Not at all. I was born in Romania,” she explained. “My birth parents were killed by Ceausescu’s secret police. I
ended up in one of those horrible orphanages you hear about. Lucky for me, an American woman adopted me as a baby. Plucked me out of all those mistreated kids, horribly imprisoned in their dirty cots, and brought me over here.” Reed’s eyes followed her fingers as she smoothed her hair. “My adoptive mother wanted a fair-haired child.”
“Wow. That’s quite a story. Do you have any memories of Romania?”
“I was too young. I wasn’t yet two when I came here. I did go back once. By then, the government had shut down the orphanage.” Her mind went back to the trip she’d taken several years ago when she’d learned the truth about her parents.
“Must have been terrible for you,” he said sympathetically.
“Once Ceausescu was gone, conditions in the orphanages improved—so I’m told. I don’t remember it.” She smiled pleasantly and changed the subject. “Enough about me! Your theater’s in SoHo, right? What are you working on?”
Reed’s face lit up. “
The Balcony
by Jean Genet. An incredibly important work. Set the stage for postmodern drama. I’ll take you to a rehearsal. Are you familiar with the story?”
She tried to hide her dismay at how once again the conversation was touching sensitively on the private side of her life. “I know of it. It’s set in a brothel.”