Made For Sex (27 page)

Fran looked, really looked at Eileen and smiled inwardly. Everything her friend had said about her body was true. Maybe, just maybe there was a small chance, a very small chance, that she could pull this off. She shifted her backpack and linked her arm in Eileen's. “I think I love you,” she said.

Later, they sat across a tiny table in a small Italian restaurant in the east Fifties. They had spent the better part of two hours talking about everything and nothing, but the subject of her visit, even the name Nichole St. Michelle, had not come up so far.

Eileen finished telling her the latest publishing joke, then said, finally, “Okay, it's time to do a bit of semi-serious planning. The apartment is only a few blocks from here. You can take a few days to get used to the city, visit the museums and such, or we can get this Nicki thing started now. What's your pleasure? But just remember that we have only three weeks to create Nicki. Actually two, since I told Sandy you'd be arriving on the 12th. She wants to see you as soon as you're settled, which will mean lunch probably that Monday.”

“I hate deceiving her.”

“I know, but it's all an illusion. Let's talk about how you'll present yourself when we get closer to the date. So what's it going to be?”

“You know I'd love to crawl into the apartment and curl into a little ball, but I can't.” She took a deep breath. “If I'm going to do this, let's get this show on the road.”

“Good girl.” Eileen squeezed Fran's hand and stood up. She looked at her watch. “I told Carla I'd probably be calling around two o'clock and it's just two-fifteen.” She grinned. “I'm not half bad. I'll be right back.” Eileen walked quickly toward the front of the restaurant, fumbling in her purse. As she reached the coat check, she brandished a coin and grinned back at Fran.

As she waited, Fran thought, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

Eileen arrived back at the table and said, “She's on her way over. You'll love Carla. She's actually got some time free and she's anxious to give you a hand with everything.”

“Tell me about her. Is she an old friend of yours?”

“I've known Carla for about two years, since she sort of moved into a brownstone next door to my building. We started running into each other at the cleaners, the supermarket and we just got to talking. She's actually from Bronxville, widowed with three great kids, all boys. I took a day off last fall and we all went to the Big Apple Circus together. I thought the kids would be jaded, there's so much on TV and all, but we were all delighted, dazzled and amazed.”

“Does she have a husband?”

“Not anymore. He died several years ago.”

“Oh. That's too bad. What does she do for a living? Or is she wealthy?” Inwardly, Fran winced. Am I going to be tutored by some rich New York socialite who's deigning to educate some small-town hick? I don't think so. She brought her mind back to Eileen. “I mean it must be tough raising three boys and having two homes.”

“It's a long story and I'll let Carla tell you all about it. Oh, and wait until you see her brownstone. It's got all sorts of unusual amenities.”

They chatted for a few minutes and then Fran noticed that Eileen's attention had strayed toward the front door. Just inside, handing a camel colored coat to the coat check woman, stood a statuesque woman in her late thirties. She was immaculately dressed, wearing a pair of pale beige wool slacks and a soft deep-gold blouse with a medium-brown wool vest. She wore heavy gold earrings and a matching neck chain. She might be a bit overdone for midafternoon, Fran thought, but it's so put-together. I know I'm going to hate her and then how do I get out of spending time with her. Eileen's already set all this up. I feel like I've just seen my blind date and I can't stand him.

Eileen waved and the woman walked over and took the third seat at their table. She hugged Eileen warmly, then turned to Fran. “You must be Nicki. I'm Carla Barrett. I read your book and, well, wow. I'm a devoted fan.” Her smile was wide and warm and Fran couldn't help but be warmed by it. “I can't put two coherent English sentences together without them sounding like a breakfast cereal commercial.”

“Actually my name's Fran Caputo. Nicki's an alter ego and not really me at all.”

“I know that,” Carla said, “but Nicki's the woman who's going to win The Madison Prize.”

Eileen added, “And Carla's just the person to help you become Nicki. I can guarantee it.”

“Look,” Carla said. “This is really awkward for both of us. So let's just chat for a while, and I'll tell you what I think I can do to help. If you think you want to let me, that's great. If not, well, I'll understand. I don't want you to feel pressured in any way.”

Fran felt herself relax. She had a way out. But did she want to take it? This woman wasn't at all what she had expected.

Eileen leaned forward. “Carla, how are the boys?” To Fran she added, “They're all teenagers.”

“They're teenaged boys.” She shook her head. “BJ's fifteen now and so damn precocious I can't stand it. Since he started high school he's got girls calling him at all hours. He has his own phone so at least I have some peace.”

“And Tommy?”

“Please,” Carla said, rolling her eyes, “it's Tom. Tommy is for children and, at thirteen, he's all grown up. At least according to him. He'll be in high school next fall and he's already impossible. Thank heavens for Mike. At twelve he's my baby, and he never changes. He's still a jock. Softball, tennis, swimming. Even though my mother does a lot of the chauffeuring, it still seems I am in the car from the time school is out to dinnertime and often after. I never thought I'd say this, but I can't wait until BJ can drive and help out. Fortunately my darlings are all otherwise occupied for the day.”

“Do they look like you?” Fran asked, thinking about how handsome they must be.

“BJ does, but Mike and Tom look more like their father.”

“I gather you're a widow,” Fran said. “It must be difficult.”

“Sometimes is it, but my folks help out a lot. My husband's been gone for a lot of years and I've gotten very used to being the boys' only parent.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm not,” Carla said. “My husband was not a very nice man and it was actually a relief when he was killed in an accident.” She waved a carefully manicured hand. “Past history.”

“It must be nice to have a place in the city. You can see shows and visit friends.”

Carla giggled and looked at Eileen. “How much have you told her?”

“Actually, nothing. I thought your lifestyle was yours to tell.” Eileen stood up. “Listen ladies, I have things to do and places to go. Why don't you get to know each other and then I'll meet you two at your place, Carla, at say…” She looked at her watch. “…six-thirty? Then maybe the three of us can have dinner and afterward I can show Fran the apartment. Or do you have plans Carla?”

Carla winked. Some secret joke? Fran wondered. Carla said, “Actually I do have plans for the evening, but before then I would love to have some time to get to know Fran. Why don't I take her over to my place and explain a few things? Six-thirty works well since I have to be uptown around eight.”

Fran felt a bit pressured again, but brushed the feeling away. Somehow she knew that she could tell Carla that she didn't want to spend time with her and Carla wouldn't be insulted.

“That okay with you, Fran?” Carla asked.

Carla was a nice enough person and what harm could a little chatting do? “Of course.” To Eileen she said, “You go and do your errands and we'll see you at six-thirty. I suspect we'll have a much better idea of future plans by then.”

“Okay, I'll see you a bit later,” Eileen said, blew the two women a kiss and hustled off. A kiss into the air. That's so New York, Fran thought.

As Fran fought down a moment of panic Carla waved at the waiter and ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of extremely gooey pastry. “Have something,” she said.

“I'm still on Omaha time and I was up at six to make an eight-thirty flight. I think I left my stomach somewhere over Pennsylvania.”

“More coffee then?”

“It's tea, and yes, I'll take some hot water.” Fran reached into an outside compartment of her backpack and pulled out a plastic bag filled with tea bags. When she saw Carla looking at her, she said, “I carry my own herb tea. I can't have caffeine. It gives me migraines.”

“Nasty. But you seem well prepared. That sounds like a wonderful little affectation for Nicki.” Carla cocked her head to one side. “I cannot abide caffeine,” she said in a deliberately lowered voice. “It does such terrible things to the system.”

The two women laughed while the waiter served them. As Carla buried her fork in a mountain of whipped cream, she looked seriously at Fran. “Tell me a little about yourself. Eileen tells me you are divorced.”

“Eric and I split several years ago. I'm not sure whether it was over or whether it never really started. We had known each other since high school and drifted into marriage because everyone, including us, expected us to.”

“Kids?”

“No, thank heavens.”

“Hey, don't put kids down. I love mine.”

“I'd like to have a husband and kids someday. I'm just glad, since the marriage didn't work out, that there were no children to be tossed around and used as weapons. This way Eric and I have no ties. I got the toaster oven and the microwave, he got the canoe. And that was that.”

“I gather it wasn't a particularly good marriage.”

Fran thought for a moment. “No,” she admitted. “But it wasn't really bad either. It just was.”

“And your sex life? That, at least, must have been great, judging from your writing.”

“Actually, no. It wasn't. The increasingly infrequent roll over, fondle here and there, and then do it.”

“Other men?”

“Nope. Eric was my one and only.”

Carla looked startled. “You're kidding. I've read
The Love Flower
and I just assumed that you wrote from experience.”

“It comes from reading quantities of romance novels, and erotic stories and learning at a distance. Sort of vicarious orgasm.”

Carla laughed. “This makes things a bit more awkward. Eileen didn't tell you about me at all?”

“Only that you were a friend she had met in the neighborhood.”

“There's lots more to the story.” Carla put a mouthful of cake and cream into her mouth and closed her eyes. “I don't normally eat things like this,” she said, her mouth full, “but I'm treating myself today. Tomorrow, the gym.”

“You look like you don't have to diet.”

“Sweetie, only women who are wonderfully slender like you can think like that. I'll bet you never had to lose a pound in your life. I envy you.”

“I guess I never have had to lose weight,” Fran said, not having ever considered her tiny body an advantage. “I've always wanted to gain, particularly in certain places.” She glanced down the front of her green shirt.

“You mean the bosom? I'd love to lose a bit there. I wonder whether there's some way I could give you some.”

“You have a great shape,” Fran said seriously. “I always wanted to be, well, let's just say, well endowed.”

“You mean like Rhona? She was really built.”

Fran smiled. “I guess my characters look the way I wish I looked.”

“The grass is always greener,” Carla said, putting another mouthful of rich cake into her mouth. While Carla chewed, Fran dunked her tea bag in the pot of hot water the waiter had brought and added a packetful of sugar.

“Oh Lord, this is wonderful,” Carla said. “Okay. I've been putting this off long enough.” She put her fork down and leaned a bit closer to Fran. “I have to tell you why Eileen thought I'd be right for this project. You see, Fran, I'm a prostitute.”

The teapot Fran had been holding stopped in midair, halfway to her cup. Unable to speak, she just stared.

“Pour your tea,” Carla said, “and I'll explain.”

Fran poured the tea, knowing there was no way this woman could ever explain.

“I'm a very high-priced, well, let's call me a lady-of-the-evening. I entertain men for a living, and a very nice living it is.”

“You're kidding. You've got to be kidding. I mean you have kids. You're so…”

“Normal?”

Fran looked down as she put the teapot back on the table. “Well,” she said, “yes. I don't understand. I've read about the Mayflower Madam and Heidi Fleiss, but, well, that's another world and it's not populated with real people.”

“I'm a real person,” Carla said, “and I earn a great deal of money being a living fantasy for special men. All my customers come highly recommended, friends of friends. They're out-of-town businessmen, people who believe their wives wouldn't be interested in the activities they enjoy and people without partners who want to have a good time.”