Hotelles (3 page)

“Ha! . . . Did you see the price?”

“Yeah, three thousand two hundred euros. You're going to have to put in overtime, hon, if you want to spoil your nabob!”

That one bauble alone would cost more than my living expenses for two whole months. Without counting  . . .

“I could never.” I sighed. “Not with Mom's medical expenses.”

Her down-market health insurance policy did not come close to covering all her medical expenses. I did my best to make up the difference. I wanted to give her a minimum level of comfort, both at home and during her frequent trips to the hospital. One week of chemo, one week of recovery, one week of something that resembled normalcy, followed by another seven days of intense treatment. That was her infernal schedule. She had sacrificed so much for me throughout my whole childhood that it only felt right giving her part of what I made, even if it wasn't much.

Another object drew my attention from behind the watch. A silver comb “that once belonged to the actress Mademoiselle Mars,” the accompanying note pointed out. A glittering remnant from the first half of the nineteenth century, for the bagatelle of one thousand seven hundred euros. Yet another wonderful thing I couldn't afford.

Without warning, Sophia took me by the arm and dragged me away from the tempting shop window.

“Come on, beautiful! It won't kill your Prince Charming if you can't give him baubles costing three months of minimum wage every time you see him!”

“I know . . .”

“And if I may, considering his income, he should be the one giving you nice presents.”

“That's the problem,” I said, nodding. “It's
his
income, not mine . . .”

My friend wasn't wrong. In the game of courting and gift exchange, I'd never stood a chance when faced with a competitor like David. How many times more than minimum wage did he earn a month? Was his income within the cap that a number of politicians had once suggested imposing on French executives; namely, fifteen to twenty times the basic living wage? In some ways, I preferred not knowing. I came from simple origins. My upbringing had been frugal, and I had strong opinions about what was appropriate and what was not when it came to money. Under normal circumstances, I would never buy such a watch. But I couldn't help dreaming.

“And does the monsieur even deserve it?” Sophia asked in a lighter tone. “I know you'd bend over backward for him, but where would you put him on your ‘best of' list? Top five? Top three?”

Now she was back to her favorite topic. She was acting like my little notebook, ever ready to record my deepest secrets. Soon she'd start calling it my “Ten-Times-a-Day,” in reference to the number of erotic thoughts I apparently had about it each day.

“David's different . . .”

“Different how? He isn't like other guys? He has you do weird things?”

“I love him.”

I had tried to say it without whimpering. I didn't want to seem sillier or more tenderhearted than I actually felt. But judging from the pout on Sophia's face, I could tell she was disgusted. She looked like she'd just eaten some bad whipped cream.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot . . . You loooooove him! So it doesn't matter how he makes love to you. He could be a board for all you care. How silly of me.”

“Enough . . . You know that's not what I mean.”

“Has your millionaire blown your mind at least once?”

She'd played her joker. I didn't want to respond. No, not just that. I didn't want to ask myself the question. Probably because I already knew the answer.

I shrugged and tried to smile mysteriously. She wasn't fooled. She knew me too well.

I quickly changed the subject, pointing at some posters for cabaret shows.

“So, about dancing . . . Do you have any upcoming shows?”

“Meh. ‘The economic crisis,' as everyone's been saying. I swear, it feels like I'm dealing with bankers as opposed to choreographers and producers.”

“What about your dance troupe in Neuilly?”

“It closed. Everybody's so broke these days, even the rich are going out of business.”

“Are you getting by okay, though?”

“Yeah, I'm managing . . . ,” she reassured me, though without much conviction.

I knew concretely what a lack of work meant for her.

“You mean, you're taking on more clients?”

“Mmm,” she murmured, as she let her eyes wander up to the multicolored neon lights.

“A lot?”

“About . . . two a week.”

Which meant more than her absolute limit. Would she be able to live with it? How was she going to get out of it? It was only supposed to be an occasional thing, and now it had practically become her regular job.

I wrinkled my brow. I was worried. Sophia wasn't going to quit the agency any time soon. People agree to do things they typically wouldn't with the idea that it will only be temporary. It looked like this one was going to last. It was her life now.

3

Paris, December 2008, six months earlier

I
'm not just being my usual discreet self. I really do not remember the exact circumstances under which Sophia first spoke of Belles de Nuit. I think it was before she started working there. She wasn't sure yet. She wondered about the exact nature of the services the agency promised its clients. She was troubled by rumors she had heard and by her own imagination. She remembered scenes from books and movies: Luis Buñuel's
Belle de jour
, Ken Russell's
Crimes of Passion
, and, more recently, the very dark
Mes chères études
, which was based on a true story.

How had she learned about the agency to begin with? Had someone approached her? And if so, who?

It was a mystery.

 

“BELLES DE NUIT,
BELLE DE
jour
. . . Granted, they aren't subtle,” Sophia critiqued. “But it's not like we're interested in their creativity.”

We were standing in front of a pretty posh building in the Marais, on a street that divides the gay district from the rest of Paris. The plaque above the intercom did not specify the nature of the business. Belles de Nuit easily could have been selling pillows as opposed to ladies of the night.
belles
de
nuit,
sixth
floor.

“I think it's kind of pretty,” I said, trying to remain positive, “poetic.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Soph. It's only a first meeting. I just want to learn about it, that's all.”

“Okay, okay . . . but I don't want you accusing me later on of pushing you into something you didn't want to do. Okay?”

I looked at the sky and fell back on my throaty, slightly coarse voice, the one I'd tried to erase in my radio training classes, a requirement for the journalism major. In four or five months, I would have my degree and go knocking on the doors of France's most prestigious media outlets. I would be like Balzac's Rastignac; I would do anything to see my byline on an article.

“I'm twenty-two. I'm a big girl.”

The elevator was really cramped, and in spite of our small dimensions, we had to squeeze in and hold our breaths.

“Come in, come in!”

The slender fifty-something blonde who greeted us oozed sophistication. Not at all what I'd expected of a brothel owner.

She extended a hand, which was covered in rings and bracelets to hide her age spots.

“Hello. Rebecca Sibony. I am the director of Belles de Nuit,” she introduced herself, in the husky voice of a heavy smoker.

A subtle yet intoxicating perfume followed her as she guided us to a soberly furnished office.

“Annabelle is a little . . . nervous,” Sophia said. I could have killed her. “She wants to know what
exactly
you expect of the girls who sign with you.”

Sitting up in my chair, I defended myself in a childish voice.

“Not at all! I understand everything perfectly!”

I was wearing a pair of old jeans I'd patched myself and worn ballerina flats. I hadn't been to the hairdresser in ages, and I looked awkward and penniless. I didn't need Sophia's help in that department. Rebecca scrutinized every square inch of my body before launching into a monologue she clearly knew by heart.

“Listen, I don't know what you've heard about us, but I am sure much of it is wrong. There are a lot of preconceived notions about what we do. A lot of bad-mouthing. In truth, what we offer here is very simple. And I want to be clear, it is perfectly legal: our clients are rich, single men who cannot, in all decency, show up alone to the various events they are obligated to attend throughout the year. If you join us, your role will be to wear your prettiest dress and smile for a whole night without hurting your jaw. You must also be able to speak competently if someone asks your opinion on the latest Woody Allen. As you can see, it isn't rocket science.”

“What did I tell you?” said Sophia, with an eloquent wave of her hand.

This was my same friend who, not so long ago, had told me about a hot rendezvous set up by Belles de Nuit. A mission without the slightest social justification. At the time, the episode had given me good reason to reject Sophia's offer to join Rebecca Sibony's agency.

“A booty call and a blind date all mixed together! It was just crazy!”

“Really? And how did you . . .”

“Well, like in the movies, hon. I had an appointment at the Raphael at three p.m., sharp. Above all, I was to be on time. The room's curtains and blinds were already drawn. I imagine he had given the personnel instructions. Then I was to put my naked self on the bed and turn out the light.”

“And then?”

“Then the guy arrived. Maybe about ten minutes later.”

“You didn't notice when he got there?”

“No, it was a suite with a separate entrance hall that made the room feel hermetically sealed. I'd only just noticed his shadow when he pushed open the door to the bedroom.”

“It wasn't kind of . . . creepy?”

“No! The opposite!” she'd cried. “At first, I was just a little cold, waiting like that, completely naked and not moving. But he got undressed and took me in his arms to warm me up.”

“Did you make love right away?”

“Not immediately. We kept still, our bodies touching, for a while before he started to caress me.”

“And he didn't say anything?”

“Not a thing. He had really soft hands. I swear, no one has ever touched me like that. I got wet crazy fast.”

“You didn't try to see his face? What if the guy looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame?”

“I don't think so, not from what I could tell by feeling his features. But honestly, seeing how he touched me, he could have been E.T. and I would have said yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. He spent at least fifteen minutes massaging me down there. With his fingers, his nose, his tongue . . . I couldn't take it anymore! I was completely drenched. I think I came at least two or three times like that, before he even entered me. And that was just an appetizer! We spent three hours in bed.”

“Two, three times,” I repeated, panting.

“What's more, the jerk smelled good!”

“Really . . . how?”

“Umm, I don't know, something really sweet. And I swear to you, his cock tasted like strawberries or raspberries . . . I could have spent all day eating it!”

“Soph!”

“What? It was amazing . . . like eating caviar blindfolded. When you can't see, all the other senses go into overdrive. Especially taste and smell.”

“Okay, okay, I think I get the picture.”

 

REBECCA STARTED TALKING AGAIN IN
her raspy voice, interrupting my memory:

“Of course, Belles de Nuit has a reputation to uphold. We only hire girls who are pretty, young, and put-together. They speak perfect French and are, above all, cultivated. I don't have time for ditzes and bimbos. But from what I've seen and heard, I don't think we should have a problem there.”

“And really, that's all?” I pressed.

“Yes. That is all you are committing to contractually with us, and that is what we bill our clients for.”

“Good,” said I, laconically.

“You seem disappointed. What were you expecting?”

Her tone had suddenly grown sharper, and she looked as haughty as Uma Thurman in that Schweppes ad. Rebecca Sibony definitely knew how to command respect.

Then a smile as faint as the Mona Lisa's bloomed over her face, and as she made a reeling movement with her hand, she quietly added:

“And, well . . . if the monsieur is to your liking, that's another story.
Your
story. You are as much a consenting adult as he. And who am I to stand in the way of your desires, or his?”

“That's what I always say,” Sophia agreed gravely.

I tried to block out the image of my friend naked in a dark, luxurious hotel room, waiting for that stranger who tasted like fruit, that skilled vagina masseur.

“It's not like I'm going to restrict myself to hiring perimenopausal women like me in order to avoid that kind of incident!”

Downplaying the subject, she punctuated the phrase with a sigh, and then snorted deeply from her throat. It almost sounded like a cough.

The message was clear: we were free to take clients to the Hôtel des Charmes—or any other hotel—after we had provided the service she'd sold them. But she didn't want to know about it, and even less to have it come to her attention. That part was up to us. The time, the pricing, the revenues. That said, we also assumed any associated risks. She warned:

“I offer no assurances about what might happen in those bedrooms. The moment you decide to walk through their doors is the moment I can't help you.”

“And what if he becomes violent?”

“Stop being so dramatic!” interrupted my friend. “We're talking about politicians, corporate lawyers, executives . . . These aren't the kinds of people who would take the risk of harming you, even as a joke.”

Did she really say “
as a joke
”?

“That's not the point,” Rebecca interrupted. “Let me reiterate: the second you cross the threshold of a bedroom with your client, you are alone. No matter what. Under no circumstances will I ever come to your rescue. Do you understand? Never.”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“And if you ever make the mistake of calling me for help or mentioning the agency to a third party, like the police, I will categorically deny ever having met you. I will blacklist you immediately.”

The iron mask she'd been wearing suddenly fell.

“Great! Congratulations! And welcome to Belles de Nuit!”

The next fifteen minutes were filled with paperwork. I was now officially part of the agency. I was also given some elementary advice, which Sophia had already filled me in on: never talk about your missions to anyone, not even someone close to you, not even a parent or another girl from the agency; never reveal any information or secrets learned about a client during a mission; never mention the identity of your clients; never try to see a client outside the appointments arranged by the agency.

“Sophia told me you were a journalist?” inquired the tall blonde, her tone slightly suspicious.

“Yes . . . well, not yet. I'm finishing up my degree.”

“Perfect. So I won't be reading about our meeting or your missions in the press . . . right?”

Her question sounded like a threat.

“No. I need the money. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Perfect!” she exclaimed, raising both hands. “The day after tomorrow, late morning, are you available?”

I froze. Was it possible she'd already found me a client? Based on what Sophia had told her about me? I could almost hear my friend vaunting my “aristocratic sensuality,” my “well-heeled sexual appeal.” Had Rebecca presold my services to one of her regulars?

I furrowed my brow, annoyed by the hasty way in which things were starting here at Belles de Nuit. Rebecca's demeanor immediately softened. She got up and put her long, bejeweled hand on my shoulder. A maternal gesture. Her fingers rubbed the cheap wool of my sweater:

“We're going to fix this. I'm going to help you. We're going shopping together. I adooore shopping!”

“Shopping?” I stammered.

From her chair, an overjoyed Sophia was stamping her feet like a middle schooler.

“Yes, you'll see. Two or three simple purchases, and you'll look magnificent!”

Magnificent.

That adjective seemed like an article of clothing that was three sizes too big. I'd have to get used to it, though. And fast.