Diary of a Married Call Girl
The witty, sexy sequel to Tracy Quan’s bestselling ‘Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl’.Like everyone, Nancy finds that as life goes on, she has to adapt. She’s learning to hone her respectable image as the wife of investment banker Matt, cooking fashionable meals and taking his shirts to the cleaners, while turning a few tricks on the side. Volume is down, but the sex is kinkier. And she finds herself pulled into the discreet subculture of the married call girl. Some women’s husband’s know what they do, some don’t, and some ‘know, but don’t know.’ Nancy’s is in the dark, although her best friend Allison’s increasing presence in the media spotlight threatens to expose Nancy’s secret. Meanwhile, Matt wants a baby, but Nancy isn’t so sure. Motherhood could end her career for good – and what will it do to her body?Will Nancy have to give up her career to save her marriage? What if she becomes the frumpy wife her clients often come to her to escape? Fans of Quan’s first Nancy Chan novel, readers of Candace Bushnell’s ‘4 Blondes’, and anyone who enjoys a walk on the wild side will love this revealing romp.
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Diary of a Married Call Girl
TRACY QUAN
For Paulo Henrique Longo
Table of Contents
MONDAY, 3/12/01
Dear Diary,
My two best friends are no longer at war: They invited me to brunch on Sunday. Do I want this unlikely alliance to succeed? Let’s just say I’m ambivalent.
Yesterday, I was late for the brunch at Quatorze—which I had to embroider into a birthday celebration when my husband started asking too many questions about my day. Sliding into a banquette, I looked around furtively. Jasmine, sitting next to me, barely noticed my arrival.
“You can’t fuck him on the first date!” she was telling Allison. “You’re becoming a public figure!”
Across the table, Allie was sipping a mimosa.
“What do you mean, ‘a public figure’? I’m just me,” she protested.
“He met you at that crazy conference!”
“That was a panel discussion. For Lucho’s course. Re-Writing the Extra-Colonial Body. He’s fostering a dialogue with sex workers! And he wants to discuss his plans for a documentary. He was too shy to introduce himself at the harm-reduction conference. So we didn’t really meet till last week. Tuesday will be our first chance to—”
“Discussion, conference. To him, you’re a public figure. This isn’t like turning a trick! This guy’s a fan. Fuck him right away, and you’ll destroy his illusions. Listen, those panties stay on if we have to glue them on.” Jasmine paused. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint a fan…would you?”
Amazing. Jasmine has gone from blanket rejection of Allison’s “sex worker activism” to micromanaging all the details now that Allie’s a budding spokesperson.
Allie blushed. “A fan? I never thought of it that way! But”—she began to looked worried—“I don’t want Lucho to have illusions. I want him to really know me.”
“For god’s sake, he knows too much about you as it is. Now look at Nancy. I’ll bet she didn’t fuck Matt on the first date.”
“Please,” I warned Jasmine. “I am so not in the mood to dissect Matt!”
“What’s wrong?” Allison was glad to change the subject from her latest crush to my new husband. “Is everything okay? With you and Matt?”
“Matt’s fine,” I said tersely. “I’d much rather hear about your professor friend. You met him at…a harm-reduction conference?”
Should I tell Allison about the birthday ruse?
Maybe not. There are things your single girlfriends just don’t understand. Especially a friend like Allie, who seems to be grooming the man she just met for an illusion-free romance. Which sounds as appealing to me as a sugar-free meringue.
“When you became a spokesman,” Jasmine told Allie. “You gave up your right to sleep with guys on the first date.”
“I—what are you talking about?”
“He knows you’re a working girl! If he doesn’t, you can sleep with him anytime you want. Because he won’t know he’s getting free sex from a hooker! But he knows. And you’re not just any working girl. You’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
“A reputation. This isn’t the 1950s,” Allie objected.
“No kidding! If you sleep with him right away, he can go on Craig’s List. Or yap about it on his website! You have to find out more about his past before you fuck him. And don’t tell him anything about yours.”
The waiter appeared at our booth. Jasmine ordered a martini and I, with genuine remorse, a businesslike Evian.
“No kir royale?” he asked.
“Not today,” I said. “Medication,” I added, as both girls were giving me owlish looks. “I have to leave early,” I explained, when the waiter had drifted away. “Something at the Waldorf.”
Alcohol and work don’t mix. Or shouldn’t.
Jasmine eyed my pale blue yoga pants with curiosity. Then my matching hoodie and my gnomish tote bag, larger than usual, chosen for its excellent zipper. The last thing you want, when carrying lots of dildos and a pair of fuzz-lined manacles (not to mention a serious change of shoes, underclothes, and a Donna Karan suit) is a clever bag with nifty magnets, Velcro flaps, or gimmicky pockets. A laptop case—my usual cover for a hotel call—is way too small for all this gear. And you don’t want the zipper to jam!
“Smart move,” Jasmine said, staring down at my new suede sneakers.
Faux sloppy is a look I’ve been cultivating since my marriage began. It’s pulled together but says “no special plans.” The goal here is to look vague, not mysterious.
Allison, who never has to think about married-girl mufti, was perturbed.
“It’s a long story,” I sighed. “Charmaine’s using the apartment, so I have to change in the hotel bathroom!”
Or maybe here? But no, this restaurant’s too intimate for that sort of thing. Why did I ever go in on this deal with Charmaine?
