Chapter 25

  That afternoon, Darren greeted Elena with a grin. "Hey, stud," she said, but she was not feeling the levity.

  "Solan. Hey." He had made a habit of loosening his tie right away and tossing it over the back of a chair, but he kept his tie on. Continued standing.

  She was on the bed. She wore a baby blue, semi-see through negligee. New for him. She'd needed to buy something to get her mind off the sand dump.

  He cleared his throat. "I won't be seeing you again. Today's my last day."

  She sat up, alert. "Why?"

  A sheepish grin. "Couple of reasons. The practical one is that I can't afford you anymore. The other reason is Jan."

  Ah. "Jan found out."

  Darren tugged at his tie. "No, actually."

  Guilt, then. You do love her. Respect her. You want to tell her about your day.

  He wandered to the window and drew the curtains apart. Looked out for a second, and then fixed her with an intense gaze. "There's no Jan. Never was."

  "No Jan?"

  "No Jan. I'm single. I've been single for four years. Jan is my grandmother's name, God rest her soul."

  I picked the name of a client's grandmother. Elena pictured dentures and cataracts. Nice, Elena. Real nice. You’re someone's grandma.

  "I made the story up that I have a fiancee."

  "I gathered."

  He turned back to the window. The sky was a cloudless, brilliant blue. Like Frances's eyes. "You're one of the good people, Elena."

  "Thank you."

  Wait.

  Elena?

  Her chest squeezed.

  "Kevin told me about the ashes. I'm sorry about Isaiah. Real sorry, Elena. I can't imagine how--hell, I couldn't--I wouldn't--damn. I don't have kids, but I have a nephew. If something happened to him…to have your kid drown when you're right there and…"

  Elena stared, her heart pounding furiously. Darren stood unmoving, his profile sharp and white against the sky. Darren is how Kevin knows.

  "You're one of the good people, Elena," Darren repeated. He jammed his hands into his pockets. "Once you've had time to think about things, give me a call. We have something, Elena. I know we do. I can't lie to you anymore."

  "Kevin hired you."

  He nodded. "Kevin and Felicianna, yeah."

  Felicianna? Elena wanted to laugh. Felicianna? Oh, Christ.

  "They were worried about you. Your odd hours, the calls. You wouldn't tell them anything."

  She supposed she should be angry. Maybe she would be later, when the news had time to sink in. However, the emotion that darkened her veins was betrayal. She covered her mouth, but a hysterical giggle escaped. "Felicianna? That's funny. That’s hilarious."

  He frowned and moved toward her. Reached for her shoulder. She jerked back. "Leave."

  "My name really is Darren."

  "I'm happy for you. Get out."

  He tugged at his tie. His eyes reminded her of the green "sand" in Frances's necklace. "Take care of yourself, Elena. Goodbye."

  *****

  Elena entered the gym. She changed her clothes. She got on a treadmill, in the section without TVs, so she would not have to risk seeing Frances, Daniel or Marissa. She started right away at the 6.3 setting. No warming up.

  Stray thoughts collided.

  Felicianna a few months ago: You can tell me anything, Elena.

  Her own bright, bubble-gum noncommittal replies.

  Felicianna again: Are you into drugs? Or, uh, prostitution?

  Elena's angry reply, her freeze-out.

  Elena was not sure what to do. Confront Felicianna? End their relationship? To do that, she would have to see Felicianna.

  Anger swept Elena. At herself. Only at herself. Kevin and Felicianna had done what they had to do. Elena had been hell bent on suffering alone, and they didn't want that.

  She hated them, though. Damn it, she hated them.

  *****

  The prostitute was under the bedcovers when Frances arrived at the HoJo room.

  "Well, hello," Frances said. She took care to keep her words, her tone, casual, but she was feeling the opposite. Why had the prostitute kissed her on the mouth? Yes, the kiss had been done casually, and quickly, but…

  "I'm naked and ready for you," the prostitute said. A rose perched on the pillow next to her.

  Frances squeezed her eyes shut for a second. They burned from sleeplessness, but the weariness of the day began to lift. The next few hours would be her dessert, her little vacation from reality.

  The prostitute smiled, but something in her smile, in her gaze, was vacant. "I got you a rose."

  "I see it." Frances undressed and slid into bed. She brought the rose to her nose. Ticklish, like a cat's whiskers. She'd had a few cats, but none after she married. Daniel was allergic. Frances inhaled the flower's sweet perfume. She lowered the rose to the prostitute's breasts, rousing her nipples. "You all right?"

  "Yes."

  "What's the rose for?"

  "Just because."

  Frances laid the rose on the prostitute's stomach. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

  "Sweetie?"

  "I don't want to call you Jan. Will you tell me your real name? Someday?"

  "I'm fine. Bit of a bad day. Any updates on Marissa?"

  "Bad day how?"

  No answer.

  Frances allowed her eyes to relax again. Ahh. Felt so good to not have to see. "Can we stay like this until time's up? Not doing anything. I just…I think I’d like to do this." Hold you. Have you hold me.

  "And this, too?" The prostitute brushed her lips against Frances’s mouth. "That okay?"

  Frances went weak and weightless. Oh, God. Of course not. Dangerous. Why was the prostitute kissing her again?

  Frances was no in shape to verbalize her protest, however. Because she wanted the kiss.

  The prostitute parted Frances's lips, their tongues found each other, and they kissed, Frances was not sure for how long, but long. Maybe more than ten minutes. The kiss was sweet, with a dreamy and deep intimacy. Finally, Frances had no choice but to break the contact. "Don't. Not with your rules." You are not my lover, nor do you want to be. The prostitute had found someone she clicked with. Someone she could have fun with until their time was up. "This isn't a game for me. It's real life. My real life."

  The prostitute jerked in a shallow breath, and Frances regretted her words. Maybe this was real life for the prostitute, too. "I apologize," the prostitute said. "I thought you--I thought you--I thought we had--I thought we were--I apologize. I thought it might help you. I was selfish. I'm taking my bad day out on you."

  If this is how you "take out" a bad day on someone...

  "I won't."

  Frances lay her head on the prostitute's breasts and fiddled with the rose stem.

  "Tonight's on me," the prostitute said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I was unprofessional. I'm sorry. Tonight's on me. You keep your money."

  "That's a lot of money for you to--"

  "I got it covered."

  Frances propped her head up. She traced the outline of the prostitute's nipple, and then moved her hand to the prostitute's pussy. "Do you break the rules with everyone?"

  "No."

  "Do you have sex with people in real life?"

  "Are you worried because I didn't ask you to put on finger condoms the other night?"

  Frances set the rose aside and rolled on top of the prostitute. She brought her mouth to the prostitute's, caressed her lips more than kissed them. "There," Frances said. "I violated a rule. So, tonight's on me. The money's yours."

  "Frances. Ahhh." The prostitute's voice was frustrated. "No. Tonight's on me."

  "Why did you kiss me?"

  The prostitute's eyelids twitched, and she could not meet Frances's gaze. "Like I said. Kissing you would make me feel better. I thought it would make you feel better, too."

  Frances got the finger condoms from the top of the nightstand. Slipped them on. "You can kiss me again. Anytime."

  "No, that's uh…it won't happen again. I was unprofessional."

  "You liked me inside you," Frances whispered.

  "I did."

  Frances entered the prostitute. Slowly. Giving her time to object. One finger. The prostitute clenched her teeth. "God."

  Two fingers.

  Rough breath. "That’s good."

  Third finger.

  The veins in the prostitute’s neck constricted. "I think your name is Mildred," Frances said.

  The prostitute laughed. "Mildred Bubba Lee. Yep."

  Frances moved her fingers up. Down. Put a quick stop to the prostitute’s levity. The woman groaned. Squirmed.

  "Or Fluffy. You have a cat’s name." Frances did her fingers thing again, and the prostitute arched her hips. Shuddered. Her chest heaved. Sweat glistened on her forehead. You’re beautiful. How did I get so lucky?

  The prostitute shot Frances a small smile. "My name’s Spot. I’m a dog. Woof."

  "You never said how I was at kissing."

  "Lovely. Delicious. How was I?"

  "You were--you were--I don't think it could have been better. Does that make sense?"

  "Yes."

  I want to kiss you again. Lots. Frances glanced around the room. What was this? This woman deserved better than being the object of some loser forty-two-year-old closeted chick’s affections. Fluffy Rover--no, Spot--Jan, whoever she was, was being fucked under a superficial stock photo of the Capitol. On bed sheets that probably had not been laundered.

  "Frances? You going to finish me off?"

  Frances remembered how Randy had felt after Joseph broke up with him. Like an elephant reared up and crushed his chest. Exactly the current state of Frances’s chest. I’m inside her. Some crazy part of me took over, and I’m inside her. Without asking for permission. "I won’t do this again. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I--"

  "It’s okay. Just hurry. Please. Do it hard. Hard."

  *****

  Frances was drifting off to sleep when the prostitute said: "Elena." So low that at first Frances thought she was mumbling gibberish. Then, still whispering but with clear enunciation: "E-l-e-n-a."

  Frances tensed, but understood enough to feign sleep and pretend she had not heard.

  Elena. Frances’s mind caressed each letter, kissing the vowels, nibbling the consonants. The name fit her. Elegant, gorgeous. Dismaying. Oh, Elena. You should not have told me your name. I’m sorry I asked. There was personal, and then there was too personal.

  But Frances had to remember the prostitute was an actress. Elena was not her name. Nope. Her name was probably something like Jill Smith or Ann Jones. The prostitute had taken her cue from Frances and run with it. She probably did break her rules with quite a few clients. The kissing rule, anyway. Made sense. Have a simple, easy-to-break rule so that when you broke it, clients felt special.

  Frances would tip her extra, despite being afraid the prostitute’s name really was Elena, but not so afraid that she wanted to kiss the prostitute all over and make love to her. Elena, Elena, Elena. Rolled off her tongue like silk. Frances loved the name. Elena, Elena.

  She would tip the prostitute extra for another reason. They had gone way too far. Frances did not want to fall in love, not now. Especially if this was real life for the prostitute, too. Easier to believe the prostitute was still acting.

  The prostitute should not have kissed her. Should not have let Frances inside her. So, Frances would tip the prostitute extra to last her until the day before Thanksgiving. No sense seeing her until then, when they had to make the trip to West Virginia.

  *****

  Elena's cellphone alarm beeped at eleven p.m. Frances went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The bathroom fan was low, and Elena could hear Frances urinate, in a long hiss. Their intimacy was strange. Strange, but she loved it. Elena dressed slowly. Her vagina was sore. A good ache, from Frances’s fingers. The kind of ache that signaled an incredible fuck. Elena sprayed breath freshener into her mouth, wondering what would happen next.She had told Frances her name. And did not regret it. She was tired of running, of lying and hiding.

  Elena heard Frances wash her hands and return. Frances got the usual envelope from her briefcase.

  "No," Elena said. "Tonight is on me."

  "Take it. Busy times coming up. I won't see you until the day before Thanksgiving."

  "What? But that's--" That's a week and a half away.

  "Really hectic times coming up. I need to get business in order before I come out. Meet me at my penthouse? Say, two p.m. next Wednesday? Then we'll drive to St. Albans." Frances frowned. "Maybe we should leave earlier. Traffic."

  "But--" Stop. Elena was at risk of sounding like a whining, irritable child. Besides, Frances's eyes told the truth. The name scared her.

  Elena wanted to say: Can I stay with you tonight? Then I'm okay not seeing you until next Wednesday. But what would be the point? She did not want to hurt Frances. Temporary. Frances was right; this was not real life for Elena.

  "Okay," Elena said. She put the envelope in her briefcase. "Good luck. Take care of yourself. You need anything, just call."

  "Maybe a quick kiss before you go."

  Elena stifled a smile. Good to know she had not screwed up completely. "I can do that." She drew Frances's face to hers, and their lips met for a series of slow, shivery kisses.

  Chapter 26

  A few days later, Elena went to the doctor for her biweekly diseases testing. Then Thursday and the meeting with King Albert X arrived. Elena--and Cindi and Jacqueline, the two other prostitutes from last year--showed up at Blair House at four o'clock. Blair House, a guest residence of sorts for visiting heads of state, was across the street from the White House.

  "How's it going with the client?" Cindi asked.

  "Fine," Elena lied.

  "Good," Cindi said. "These are my favorite clients."

  "How did you know Mark was different from the others you fell for?"

  "I'm not so sure he was. It was the right time, right place. We were in the right places in our lives."

  "Good." Right place, right time definitely was not the case for her and Frances.

  The king's men patted Elena and her group down and did a cursory inspection of their briefcases. The men were good at acting like she and her group were not prostitutes. They conveyed their royal protocol instructions in a firm voice, their British accents betraying no hints of sniggers or of disrespect. The instructions were the same as last year's.

  -- You are not required to curtsey. If you choose to curtsey, place your right foot behind your left heel and bend your knees slightly.

  -- Do not show His Majesty your back. Yeah, right, Elena thought, remembering the hot candle wax Albert dripped on her back last year.

  -- Shake the king's hand only if he offers it to you first.

  -- Speak only after he speaks to you. Never start a conversation with him.

  -- Use His Majesty's formal title for your first reply. For instance, if the king asks how you are, you would reply: "I'm fine, Your Majesty." Thereafter, you can address him as "sir."

  Last year's experience had been eye-opening for Elena. The king, never married, had a reputation of being a playboy and father of several illegitimate children. She had found him funny, a good conversationalist, and playful. He told her, Cindi and Jacqueline that call girls, no matter where they were--in England, in America, in Australia, in Africa, wherever--gave him the best conversation. They were honest and knew the pulse of the people.

  His needs last year had been basic. He showed up thirty minutes late for their two-hour appointment. He wanted blow jobs and for the three women to have sex with one another. Afterward, he dismissed Cindi and Jacqueline and asked Elena to stay.

  Thus the hot wax.

  The thought of giving him a blow job tonight, of him dripping wax onto her back, made Elena sick. She told herself that was a good thing. She was beginning to feel again. Really beginning to feel again. The soul-stripping numbness, the coal in her heart from Isaiah's death, was dissipating.

  Elena, Cindi and Jacqueline waited in the Principal Suite Sitting Room near the fireplace and an Andrew Jackson portrait. About six forty-five, one of the assistants informed them the king would be fifteen minutes late. No surprise.

  Cindi and Jacqueline chatted with each other, and Elena mainly kept to herself. She wondered what Frances was doing. If Frances had met, or was going to meet, the king. Elena also wondered what Marissa was doing. What Marissa's other name was. If Marissa would someday open the hourglass gift from this prostitute who was fucking her mother, or if Frances would have gotten rid of it by then.

  Elena had memorized Frances's phone number from her letter.

  So if you ever want to talk, if you ever need my help, I am here.

  Elena wanted to talk. Badly. She missed Frances. She hated that she had hurt Frances. She wanted to ask Frances how it was possible she, Elena, had gone from a rather boring mother to, in less than a year, blowing the king of England. That was not supposed to happen after your child drowned. Her life had become a tragic comedy.

  She wanted to ask Frances what was going on between them.

  Strike that. She did not want to ask. The answer scared her. She did not want to be Frances Dourne's girlfriend. Going public as her girlfriend, anyway. The media harassment. The attention. The hate.

  But, damn, they were good together.

  Elena's fingers took over. She pressed a few buttons on her work phone, but then stopped. She switched to her personal phone. Got Frances's voice mail. She left a message: "Hello, this is--" She paused. Jan? Elena? Your prostitute? "You know who. I’m calling to see if--I thought we could talk. Your letter said to call if I wanted to talk, so--anyway. If you're not busy. Tomorrow night, Friday? Six? Howard Johnson, as usual." Elena was whispering, but she lowered her voice further: "Don't bring money. Please."