A 21st Century Courtesan (28 page)

His jaw is clenched. I've made him angry. And that makes me want to cry. But I don't.

“Do you think this is easy for me? That I fell in love with a woman with your history? I don't mean to hurt you, Valentine, I really don't. But we have to be honest with each other. And the truth is, loving you scares the hell out of me. But I love you. There's no getting around that, so I deal with it. And it's not denial, if that's what you're worried about. It's a process, but one that's happening on the inside. I feel like it has to, or I'd be punishing you for the way you've lived your life, and I can't do that to you, to what we have together.”

He stops, rubs a hand over his face. I can see beard stubble shadowing his chin. He looks so human to me right now, so vulnerable, the tension around his eyes, his mouth. I hate that I do this to him.

He goes on. “I need you to know that I don't think there's something bad, evil, in what you did. I didn't think it of those girls I paid for sex in Amsterdam all those years ago. But I understand there are reasons why you ended up in that life. I know you're working on it now. And I'm sticking while you do that. I think you can do it, overcome your past.

“But I'd also be a liar if I said I can be one hundred percent certain everything will be okay. I understand I have very little control over how it all goes with us, and that makes me fucking crazy. But I love you. What else can I do but wait and hope you get it worked out in your head? There's not one more God damn thing I can do.”

I want to cry, the tears fighting to come out. I bite my lip, hold them back. “Alright. I get all that. I really do. But… Joshua, I need to know if … if you forgive me.”

He looks taken aback. “Forgive you? Of course. No, that's not it. Because I don't think there's anything to forgive. I couldn't be with you otherwise.”

“I guess I don't understand how you
can
be with me.”

He's quiet again, but his jaw is loosening a bit. I'm still shivering, but it's not the cool night air.

He's quiet a few moments, gathering his thoughts.

“I told you how in love my parents were. They were really happy for a long time,” Joshua goes on. “And then they went through a rough period after my sister was born. Lanie was a difficult baby, didn't sleep for two years. She was sick a lot. It took a toll on them both. And Dad cheated.”

“What?”

I don't know why I feel so shocked. It happens all the time. But the relationship between these people sounded so solid. So sweet.

“Yeah. I didn't know about any of this until Dad died.
The day of the funeral, Mom was sitting out on the back porch, alone, while there were probably a hundred people in the house. I found her out there and it all came pouring out.”

“God, Joshua. You were so young to hear all that. To handle it.”

“It was part of the reason why I took off for Europe. Knowing too much damaged the way I thought of my dad for a while. It hurt. I'd always had him up on a pedestal, and when people die, we tend to deify them, anyway. So it really blew my mind. But eventually I realized that we are all human. We all fuck things up. And the fact is, my mother took him back, forgave him. And together they got over the hurt. She made a point of telling me that. They did it because they loved each other that much. Because that's what real love is. That's how powerful it is. I believe that. That's what helped me work through my own shit. Knowing that is helping me work through this with you. It showed me what a force love can be, defined it even further than just knowing how much my parents loved each other. It showed me that people who love each other can get through anything. Anything.”

“I understand it works that way for you, Joshua. I understand that your experiences, your parents' experiences, led you there.”

“But… ?”

“But I'm not there yet.” I'm trembling, but I need to be honest with him. “I love you. But I don't have that kind of faith.”

He blows out a long breath. Runs a hand through my hair, his fingers catching in a tangle. “Fuck, Valentine.”

The tears are stinging my eyes again. I blink, hard, shake my head mutely.

“Fuck,” he says again before he pulls me into his arms,
holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. “As long as you love me. As long as we can work on this.”

I'm nodding into his shoulder. “I do love you.”

“Okay. Okay.”

He strokes my hair with his hand, and I swallow my tears, warm and weak all over with relief.

I'm going to try to believe that love is enough, that it will get us through this. That we can survive not only the reality of what I've done, but my own shame.

I wish I could make the heavy pit sitting in my stomach go away. That pit still holding on tight to the belief that things will be over, sooner or later. That I am not worthy of his love.

You do not deserve him.

Oh, yes, that is the thought running through my mind like a broken record. Even now. No matter how much I've thought things through, faced the issues of my past. How much stronger I've been feeling lately, how determined.

I don't know how I will ever make it stop.

WE HAVE BEEN TOGETHER
for just over a month. I've gone home a few times, brought my car, some clothes and personal items back to his place. I can't stand to be in my house, the house I once loved so much. I'm not even as concerned about my orchids. I pay my housekeeper well to go by twice a week and care for them. But if they all died I wouldn't be crushed, as I might have been once.

I am still floating in some odd state, still spending much of my time at the beach, reading, or sitting at the little café drinking coffee. I've brought my laptop with me from home, and I take it there and cruise the Internet, looking for books: art, poetry, cookbooks. I've looked at some resource websites for troubled teens.

I've been back to see Lydia a few times. Probably not as often as I should. But I've run out of things to say. At this point I feel I have to work a lot of things out on the inside, in my head, before I can really move on to the next level in therapy.

When I was a kid there was a small playground by our house. Maybe it's still there; I don't know. I used to go there and swing on the swings. I'd go as high as I could, pumping my legs until they ached, just for the dizzying thrill of the height. I was an escapist even then. That excitement would take me right out of my head, and in those moments, nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. I've spent my life searching for that same sensation. And I found it, didn't I?

When I'd gone as high as I could, I would jump off, flying through the air. It scared me. But I still did it every time. Those brief moments when I was sailing through the air, waiting to hit the ground, were truly terrifying.

I sort of feel that way now. Terrified, but choosing to jump anyway.

I don't know why I'm thinking of this now. Maybe because Joshua got up early this morning, too early for me; I was feeling lazy, and he went to the Farmers' Market they have in Santa Monica every Sunday. I've been tense ever since he left the house, missing him, wishing I'd gone with him. Too much time alone to think. I do enough of that during the week, when he's working and I'm alone. The house is too quiet for me, but I don't want to leave; I don't know when he'll be back.

I get out of bed, go into the kitchen, and put the kettle on for tea, decide to check my messages at home.

One from my accountant with a question I can deal with on Monday. I make myself a note on a pad of paper next to the kitchen phone, wait for the next message.

The Broker.

“Hello, Val. I hadn't heard from you. I hope you're well. I think we should talk. Come to my apartment. I'll be here on the weekend, then I'll be in London for a week. Best if you see me now.”

The royal command. I don't want to go. But she's right, we do need some sort of closure. Maybe it'll be good for me?

I take a quick shower, get dressed, leave Joshua a message on his cell phone when he doesn't pick up, letting him know I'm meeting an old friend for lunch.

The Broker could hardly be called my friend. But I don't want to say those words to him: “my madam.”

I'm in my car, heading for Deirdre's place before I realize I haven't called her to tell her I'm coming. But she'll be there.

It's a short drive up the 405 to Wilshire, then east on Wilshire Boulevard into Beverly Hills. Deirdre inhabits one of those ridiculously expense penthouse apartments on condo row, right at the mouth of Beverly Hills. It's one of those towering, pseudo-old Hollywood buildings, so picture perfect, as though no one actually lives there. This entire section of Wilshire looks this way to me. Too pristine. It's all beautiful but sterile. Just like Deirdre herself.

I check in with the doorman and he calls up. In moments he's holding the door aside for me. I walk inside, and the temperature drops, all icy marble floors, bright lighting in flawless golden fixtures. Everything so perfect. Do they know one of Beverly Hills' most successful madams lives here? Maybe not so perfect after all. Maybe Joshua is right—nothing is.

I get into the opulent, mirrored elevator and the attendant, dressed as though he's a liveryman from another era, holds the door for me, pushes the button for the penthouse, politely inquires how my day is going.

The door slides open with a heavy whisper and I step into the penthouse foyer, another cool space filled with marble and an enormous urn ovflowing with what I know must be hundreds of dollars in fresh Casablanca lilies, trailing ferns, smaller accent flowers. Very European. Very Deirdre.
Everything stunning, speaking of staggering amounts of money. Which I now know is not everything I once thought it was.

Deirdre's maid opens the door leading into the apartment, and I nod at her, try to smile. I don't know her name. I've only been here a handful of times; The Broker doesn't encourage much personal contact with her girls.

She leads me down a long hallway. The floors are done in pink, gray, and white marble laid in a harlequin pattern. There are gilt-framed mirrors on the walls, more tall vases full of flowers. The scent of lilies is a bit overwhelming, a bit too sweet. My head is pounding by the time we reach the living room.

The view is incredible: all of Beverly Hills laid out below. But the woman standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows commands even more attention than the view.

Deirdre must be in her fifties, but her figure is better than most twenty-year-olds. She is dressed in a black pencil skirt, a white silk blouse. Her skin is luminous, her fine bone structure flawless, her face perfectly made up in an understated way. That icy elegance. Except there's a certain flatness in Deirdre's large brown eyes that reminds me of a shark.

“Val, you've come.” That familiar, crisp British accent. I've always wondered if she's really as upper crust as she appears. Are any of us what we appear to be?

“Yes. You asked me to.”

“You didn't return my call, however.”

She arches an elegant brow. She does love to scold people for the smallest infraction. I used to bow down to it, I realize. But I'm not bowing now. No, now I'm a little annoyed.

“I knew you'd be here,” I say. “You told me so in your message. And you did ask to see me, for me to come here.”

“Yes.”

She seems unsure for one moment, but it's fleeting. The Broker isn't a woman anyone can unsettle easily.

“Come, Val, sit clown.”

She gestures to a delicate gold and cream settee. She has a good eye for French and English antiques, and the apartment is full of these pieces.

I sit, and she takes a large chair on the opposite side of the table; not too close. The chair appears thronelike with her elegant figure seated in it. Something she's thought out, staged, I'm sure. Deirdre is nothing if not incredibly clever. That's how she's come as far as she has.

The maid is at her elbow, and Deirdre speaks softly to her. I can't hear what she's saying. The maid hurries off.

“I've ordered tea. I hope that's alright with you.” She doesn't wait for my answer. “Tell me what you've been up to, Val. You've seen Lydia?”

“Yes, a number of times. Thank you for referring me to her. She's been very helpful.”

I have to give her that. It's true.

“I'm quite happy to hear it. And have you moved beyond this burnout stage, do you think?”

She is so fucking condescending.

“Deirdre, this isn't a burnout stage. That's not what it's about for me.”

“What are you saying, Val?”

I hate when she calls me that. Not that I really want her to call me anything else. But it grates on me. It reminds me of what I am to her.

The maid returns with a tea tray, and we spend several minutes going through the polite ritual, with Deirdre pouring, dropping a cube of sugar into a translucent china cup, handing it out to me on a saucer.

“So,” she says. “Please continue.”

“Deirdre, I'm not coming back to work.”

“Oh?” She is trying to appear calm, but the tight line of her lips betrays her. She's surprised to hear it.

“I can't do this anymore. I'm done. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.” It feels good to say it to her. It feels fucking wonderful. But my pulse is racing, thready.

She sips from her cup, sets it carefully on a side table, taking her time. Finally she says, “You think you're done, Val?”

“I know I'm done.”

She's really pissing me off now.

“Let me tell you a story. It's not one I share often.” She pauses. A bit dramatically. I imagine I'm supposed to be impressed. “Do you know how I came to be in this business? How I came to be in this position?”

“I didn't think anyone knew.”

“Few do. But these are special circumstances.”

Another dramatic pause, and I want to roll my eyes. But I don't do it.

She goes on. “When I was twenty-one I came here from England. I had hopes of becoming an actress, as many young girls do. I'm not proud to say how naive I was. But I was quite young. One of those casting couches we all hear about, which we all know exist, led me to this business.

“There was a woman who had a house set up here in Beverly Hills. And I became one of her girls for a time. Does that surprise you? Yes, I can see that it does. It surprised me, too, at the time. I never became used to it. Luckily, one of my clients, a very well-to-do older man, was quite entranced with me. He asked me over and over to become his private mistress, but I refused. There was no security in such a position, after
all. Once he realized I was serious about my refusal, he proposed marriage.”