confidence. As if passing it on shifted the sentiments it came with as well.
Olivia trailed her fingertips over the ridge of the card before turning it around. The other side was the same shade of sensual scarlet, and empty apart from a phone number hand-written in golden digits. She glanced at Sam, who puffed out a cloud of smoke. They’d been friends for years, years in which you get to know someone in a way that their behaviour becomes predictable, but Olivia had never expected this.
“The service is by referral only.” Even Sam’s voice, usually nasal, sounded sultry now. Olivia half-expected the cobbled streets to close up around them and transform into a private members’ club, burlesque show included. “Use your real name when you book the appointment.”
“Are you serious?” Olivia flipped the card between her fingers. “Who recommended it to you?”
“I can’t say.” Sam slanted her long wool-clad frame over the table. “And I sincerely hope you’ll do me the same courtesy when the time comes.” She stretched her body upward again, her long neck pale in the hesitant sunlight. “And yes, I’m deadly serious.”
“But—” Olivia started. I would never do that, she wanted to say. It’s repulsive. If I want it so badly I can go to a bar, get drunk on whiskey and take someone home.
“It’s not cheap, but worth every cent.” Sam had a strangely satisfied expression running across her face, as if the memories alone were enough to make her bask in delight again. “And then some.”
* * *
Olivia strolled along the Seine—a part of her still on the look-out for Véronique—and fingered the card in her pocket. She’d never been one for one-night-stands. Even in her twenties when she’d just arrived in Paris and she wasn’t shy of offers, she’d always insisted on an exploratory date first. Not that it had never happened, but mostly under the influence of too much wine and with a predictable anticlimactic outcome. Spontaneity was not in her blood. She was a woman of carefully deliberated decisions and calculated risks, indispensable character traits for the CEO of BearSoft, one of the biggest software companies in France. She’d long since resigned herself to the fact that, despite not being short of it, money couldn’t buy her everything. Sure, she could get herself a dose of idolatry from bespectacled geek dykes whenever she wanted, but she never did. She had enough cash for an endless supply of women who would tell her they loved her—and probably mean it—for the rest of her life. It only made the point so much clearer that real affections were not for sale.
Véronique was different because she was so ungraspable and unavailable. Sometimes, when an unexpected work event kept Olivia from a date with Véronique, she would deliberately not call. She’d wait until Véro texted her in a rage, demanding were she was. But Véro never did. It was as if nothing mundane could touch her, certainly nothing as common as the abrupt cancellation of a dinner date.
When Olivia arrived home she put the card on display on the mantle above the faux fireplace, the brash redness of it contrasting with the warm earth tones of her furniture. It stood there like an invitation to a party she must notforget, reminding her of its possibility. In the evening, when she watched TV, splayed out unladylike in the sofa, it seemed to transform into one of those paintings of which the subject’s eyes always appear to follow you no matter your position in the room. Before going to bed she took it down and buried it in a drawer of her nightstand beneath a well thumbed-through copy of Women In Lust and a few hand-scribbled notes by Véronique communicating important messages like I’ll be back in an hour and Don’t wait up for me .
The next morning, when she woke up before her alarm clock started bleating at six, the card was the first thought that occupied her mind.
* * *
For days the presence of the
Olivia trailed her fingertips over the ridge of the card before turning it around. The other side was the same shade of sensual scarlet, and empty apart from a phone number hand-written in golden digits. She glanced at Sam, who puffed out a cloud of smoke. They’d been friends for years, years in which you get to know someone in a way that their behaviour becomes predictable, but Olivia had never expected this.
“The service is by referral only.” Even Sam’s voice, usually nasal, sounded sultry now. Olivia half-expected the cobbled streets to close up around them and transform into a private members’ club, burlesque show included. “Use your real name when you book the appointment.”
“Are you serious?” Olivia flipped the card between her fingers. “Who recommended it to you?”
“I can’t say.” Sam slanted her long wool-clad frame over the table. “And I sincerely hope you’ll do me the same courtesy when the time comes.” She stretched her body upward again, her long neck pale in the hesitant sunlight. “And yes, I’m deadly serious.”
“But—” Olivia started. I would never do that, she wanted to say. It’s repulsive. If I want it so badly I can go to a bar, get drunk on whiskey and take someone home.
“It’s not cheap, but worth every cent.” Sam had a strangely satisfied expression running across her face, as if the memories alone were enough to make her bask in delight again. “And then some.”
* * *
Olivia strolled along the Seine—a part of her still on the look-out for Véronique—and fingered the card in her pocket. She’d never been one for one-night-stands. Even in her twenties when she’d just arrived in Paris and she wasn’t shy of offers, she’d always insisted on an exploratory date first. Not that it had never happened, but mostly under the influence of too much wine and with a predictable anticlimactic outcome. Spontaneity was not in her blood. She was a woman of carefully deliberated decisions and calculated risks, indispensable character traits for the CEO of BearSoft, one of the biggest software companies in France. She’d long since resigned herself to the fact that, despite not being short of it, money couldn’t buy her everything. Sure, she could get herself a dose of idolatry from bespectacled geek dykes whenever she wanted, but she never did. She had enough cash for an endless supply of women who would tell her they loved her—and probably mean it—for the rest of her life. It only made the point so much clearer that real affections were not for sale.
Véronique was different because she was so ungraspable and unavailable. Sometimes, when an unexpected work event kept Olivia from a date with Véronique, she would deliberately not call. She’d wait until Véro texted her in a rage, demanding were she was. But Véro never did. It was as if nothing mundane could touch her, certainly nothing as common as the abrupt cancellation of a dinner date.
When Olivia arrived home she put the card on display on the mantle above the faux fireplace, the brash redness of it contrasting with the warm earth tones of her furniture. It stood there like an invitation to a party she must notforget, reminding her of its possibility. In the evening, when she watched TV, splayed out unladylike in the sofa, it seemed to transform into one of those paintings of which the subject’s eyes always appear to follow you no matter your position in the room. Before going to bed she took it down and buried it in a drawer of her nightstand beneath a well thumbed-through copy of Women In Lust and a few hand-scribbled notes by Véronique communicating important messages like I’ll be back in an hour and Don’t wait up for me .
The next morning, when she woke up before her alarm clock started bleating at six, the card was the first thought that occupied her mind.
* * *
For days the presence of the
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