Oct. 14, 1999

Friday, August 27, continued

Matt was hinting pretty heavily that he'd rather sleep over at my apartment, but I pretended not to hear -- anything to avoid showing him the envelope from the U.S. Treasury Department.

As we strolled down Second Avenue, I had the feeling I was choreographing disaster. Why tell him about the envelope if I'm not ready to show him the contents -- or see them myself? Part of me wants a boyfriend who can fix things -- another part won't let him get close enough to do so. I've known, from the minute I opened my mailbox, what the letter might be about, but when I told Matt, I feigned innocence.

"Taxes." Matt says the word dismissively because financial matters come naturally to him. But taxes scare me, government forms are emotionally overwhelming and money has always been the one part of my life I simply couldn't quite control. I love it when a venerable madam like Liane gets the impression that I'm "obviously in control," but she hasn't seen the half-completed tax forms in my hat box next to the cashmeres in my closet ... nor has anyone else. And Matt has no idea how flaky I am with money -- he doesn't even know how long I've been out on my own. I'm always vague about those precarious but enchanted years when I ran away from my dull Canadian hometown to explore the hotel bars of London.

At 15, passing for 20, I picked up clients at the Hilton on Park Lane -- and knew I was making per trick what real adults earned in a week. Ignoring the older girls who advised me to save money, I blew it on restaurants and clothes, indulging my whims. Three days after turning my first trick, at 13, I'd spent the entire sum -- but that's not really where it started, either. Before I became a teen hooker, I frittered away my baby-sitting money on boarding-school stories and ice cream cones, then -- as my tastes evolved -- on foreign magazines, French pastries, handmade Turkish delight and the occasional schoolyard Quaalude. No matter how much I spent on these "delicacies," there was always another baby-sitting gig. The local parents thought I was wonderful! Responsible and mature. I was, but not when it came to money.

My mother's efforts to teach me about money management in exchange for an allowance just made me want to turn down the allowance altogether. I was determined to earn all my own money so I wouldn't have to listen to anyone. When I became a hooker, I learned to hide my spending habits. Most girls think I'm super-professional because I fanatically meet my self-imposed weekly quota, pay my cuts on time, possess a good, steady business. But I sometimes wonder: When will I grow up? The magazines and pastries have been succeeded by Hermes scarves and handbags but it all springs from the same girlish appreciation of instant gratification. It's easy to get caught in the cycle of being precocious. You wake up one day and realize you're not some smart little 16-year-old passing for an adult and -- uh-oh.

When Matt disappeared into his bedroom -- forbidding me to watch him tidy up -- I nursed a glass of merlot in his living room and thought about what he might be trying to hide. The look on his face when he returned was unmistakably that of a persecuted boyfriend. What was he doing -- hiding another girl's panties? Changing the sheets? I remembered how I felt when Matt almost found out about my secret phone number -- then found myself saying, in a dry but reassuring tone, "Housekeeping isn't supposed to be your thing, but I'm glad you have a conscience about it. Shall I pour you a glass?" He looked relieved that I was politely rooted to the couch, not snooping around his apartment.

As the wine mingled with the absurdity of our mutual evasions, I started to get teary. Matt disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a box of Puffs -- not his usual brand of tissue -- then sat gently holding my hand while I blew my nose into what had to be another woman's post-coital tissue supply. I didn't have the heart to point it out. If he has been involved with another girl, my affair with Randy should make us even -- but when do we ever really feel even about these things?

"I know I've been traveling a lot -- and I don't always have enough time for us, but I love you," Matt said, touching my face with his fingertips. "You have to know that," he added.

"Why now?" I asked, grabbing another tissue. "Why are you saying that now?"

"I don't know why I say things when I say them -- I'm a guy!" The dorkiness of this response cheered me up a little. The banality of cheating! Here we are in this ridiculously common predicament together. Neither of us wants an inquisition because we don't want to stop seeing each other. Without wanting to say it, we find each other alluring because we aren't sure what the other is doing at all times ... The other day, I felt transported -- possessed -- by Randy's desire, but last night Randy became sort of alien. I felt bound to Matt by our strange code of silence -- we had both decided to be adults, not to talk about something, to preserve what we have.

Randy's got a protective streak, but I could never tell him about an envelope from the Treasury Department -- he's a kid. Matt understands official channels, interest rates -- the serious business of living. I'm afraid to tell him about my knowledge of the unofficial channels, all the men I've been with, but I keep returning to that feeling: This is real, in all its dishonesty, and maybe even because of it. We both feel invested. What I have with Randy is a spending spree, not an investment. Randy's not investing -- he just hit the jackpot. But Matt's flawed, tender gaze was the look of a guy who's invested in me -- or maybe an illusion of me. For one crazy moment, just before I kissed him, I looked into his eyes and wondered: Could I give it all up for you? Not just the flings -- like Randy -- but my clients as well? My freedom?

Friday, later

My afternoon session with Milt brought me back to my senses -- and tested my patience. When he finally came -- in a condom, with the help of my mouth and my right hand -- he admitted that this was not his first orgasm of the day. As if I couldn't tell! "I tried not to have sex this morning -- but what can I tell you? Marriage is tough. I couldn't exactly tell my wife I was saving it for our appointment!"

When I told Milt about the envelope -- and Matt's desire to help me -- he sighed. "Show it to a lawyer -- and let your boyfriend concentrate on wining and dining you."

"A lawyer?" I said, startled. "Why?"

"My guess is, if you're afraid to open it, you may need a lawyer," he said. "This is a steady boyfriend, right? The guy you go to the Hamptons with -- the guy you sneak around on. He's got a good job and you could have a future with him. Don't screw it up, Suzy. Be careful about what you tell him."

I was about to show him the envelope. Then, I realized that it was addressed to "Nancy Chan" -- after seeing Milt steadily for five years, it would be awkward to suddenly reveal my real name, to acknowledge that all this familiarity was built on regular visits to a girl whose name he didn't know. I'm a little embarrassed about hiding my name -- after all, I know his. Funny, but he's the only client who makes me feel that way.