Frederick kept talking about money, and I was annoyed that I had to multiply everything by two. It seemed that his whores got paid a whole lot. I stopped messing with mental math when he finally dropped a phrase that clued me into just what was going on: "one-in-a-million opportunity."



I was being offered a job.


I tapped my demitasse spoon against the saucer.



"Tonight at Nobu we'll be with four footballers and two of their managers. They want six girls and there are five coming. You'll get paid £2,500 for the night. We're going to a suite at the Dorchestor afterword."



"Are you out of your fucking mind?" I said, suddenly. "I'm very well taken care of by my parents, thank you."

Actually, I had quite a bit of credit-card debt and I was barely making ends meet by working multiple short-lived and often fairly demeaning waitressing jobs. But my financial well-being should have been second to the fact that I had a teaspoon's worth of integrity and pride, right?



"Darling, darling, please. Sweetheart. I do hope I haven't insulted you, but I'm sure that you aren't so well taken care of that you'd mind returning to New York with £5000 in your purse."



"What are you talking about?" I said, before I could stop myself. "You just said £2,500." I had just officially argued about money with a pimp.



"Let's get off the phone now. I'm afraid someone is tapping this call," Frederick said. He rang off and I thought about ordering a glass of wine. The waiter came over and told me not to think so hard.

I tipped him £2 — four dollars — and left.

I think it's very lucky that I've gone through some periods of self-loathing in my life. When I used to party, I would wake up after a weekend that had extended into the week and pick apart all the badness in everything. While still an undergrad, I crashed particularly hard for the first time and couldn't stop myself from hysterically crying. I had just moved into a dirty little space on East 9th St. and I had yet to decorate or take anything out of boxes. I lay on my dirty linoleum floor in the dark, unfurnished bedroom, and finally picked up the phone and dialed one of my friends.



"What's wrong?" she asked me, hearing the snot and tears in my voice.

"I don't know," I said. "I just-just-feel like Li'l Brudder."



"Who's Li'l Brudder?"



"The cartoon puppy with only one leg," I said. "I'm not sure if I'm gonna make it on my own."

After I left the café, I went to Top Shop and tried on some understated tops and slacks. No short skirts — lady-like items. They looked stupid, and I looked stupid too, like a four-year-old brat in her mother's discarded high-heels. I came to the conclusion that I'd sleep when I was dead and I'd dress like an old maid when I hit fifty, and if that meant that I had to keep my wits about me to keep from peddling my pussy for even a million dollars, so be it.



I ended up buying some underpants — "knickers" — and a leather belt. I did some wandering. Ultimately I ended up back at my hotel, suddenly feeling very tired and apprehensive. I looked down from my third-story window at Montague Street, scanning the block for a black Mercedes.

Then I ordered some fish and chips from room service and made a list of all the things I wanted to do the next day. I was beginning to understand why people felt compelled to drink so early in the morning on Russell Square. I drew the curtains and took a bath. By the time I settled into bed with a book, I felt as though I was performing in the PG-rated version of my life. All the while my little British phone did its Private Call jig, and I didn't pick up.
 n°

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