LITMIR.BIZ

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identical triplets playing in a garden. “—can you actually get rid of the scar?”

      The probe moved to the right.

      “Nancy.” Dr. Peele withdrew the probe. “Childbirth is not cosmetic surgery.” I suppose she’s right. “We can discuss vaginal deliv—”

      “I don’t think so!” I tried to sit up.

      “Don’t panic.” Dr. Peele was holding up a speculum. “One more thing to do here.” I tried to relax. “Breathe through your mouth. Good. Many women are having voluntary c-sections. It’s safer when you can prepare for a c-section. But you have to realize, it’s major surgery. And some of your questions should be answered by a dermatologist.”

      I glanced at the triplets, then averted my eyes. “Maybe I need to postpone this project.”

      “You mean pregnancy?”

      “Yes.” When she removed the speculum, I took my feet out of the stirrups and sat up slowly. “When I thought I was pregnant, I was excited. But when my period started? I was disappointed at first, and then I was so relieved!” Dr. Peele was perched on a stool, looking at my medical records. “The other day, I was visiting a girlfriend.” I bit my lip.

      “Go on,” she said. “How many children does your friend have?”

      “None. And she’s single.”

      “Ah.” She placed the paperwork to one side. “I think I see.”

      “I was walking down the street,” I told her. “It was so nice out! I felt sort of naughty.” Dr. Peele doesn’t know anything about my job, but I told her what I could of the truth. “And I felt free. I was wearing my size four jeans. It took me six months to get back into those!”

      “And?”

      “I don’t think I want to be pregnant. I want to wear my size four jeans!”

      “Then you should not be. Pregnancy is more dangerous for your health than being a size four.”

      Dr. Peele—closer to a fourteen than a four; founder of an A-list fertility boutique—said that?? I feel so vindicated.

      On my way to Seventy-ninth Street, I stopped at Duane Reade to drop off my new prescription. I had just enough time to change into a miniskirt and get ready for Ted’s mid-morning blow job.

       Thursday, June 20, 2002

      A call from Milt. For the first time in weeks, he insists on seeing me solo when I want him to spring for a threeway! I was hoping to pay Allie back for Monday. Normally, he’s more than willing to be my currency du jour. But not today. “We have some important business to discuss.” More important than MY business? But I didn’t protest. Sexual book-keeping should always be invisible.

       Later

      I was wrapping a hot post-coital washcloth around Milt’s cock when he announced, “My house in France is almost done. You should come over with me.”

      “With you?” I adopted a dreamy tone and pressed the damp cloth against his lube-drenched groin. Some girls long to visit the Riviera with a rich guy in exchange for massive amounts of shopping money. I fear being away from New York, beholden to some guy who has paid for an oversized chunk of my time, unable to retreat from a diplomatic nightmare. “I should?”

      “Yes!” His hand stroked my rump. “It would be nice to have this in my bed,” he mused. “Your skin’s so smooth. And you can practice your French.” As he felt my body pulling away, he said, “Don’t worry. I promise not to abuse my privileges!”

      “What exactly are you planning on my behalf?” I asked with a skeptical smile.

      “I’m going to spend a few weeks in the new house,” he explained. “Make sure everything’s in working order. Get out of my wife’s hair for awhile. They’re working on the pool as we speak. You’ll have a great time breaking it in with me.”

      “It’s in the Luberon?”

      “An hour and a half from Nice. Right next to a vineyard … off the beaten track … we had the pool rebuilt.”

      “But I don’t swim! I’m not much of a poolside girl, you know, and I’m allergic to sunshine. Are you sure I’m the … houseguest you have in mind?”

      “Of course I’m sure! Stay in the shade, then. It’s a fully equipped house. I just installed a new exercise room. I converted one of the dairy sheds into a media hut. There’s a nice library with a fireplace … What’s wrong?” he asked.

      “You might wear me out! I need my beauty sleep, eight hours minimum, and I don’t think I can sleep in the same bed as—”

      “You’ll have your own bedroom,” he promised. “I may be a dog, but I’m a well-trained dog. If you want, you can sleep in a separate wing with the door locked. This place has more bedrooms than we need. You’ll have first choice.”

      “How many bathrooms?”

      “Who can remember? Six? Anyway, the upstairs rooms all have their own.”

      “They do?” My body relaxed a bit. “The next time you invite a girl to your house, tell her about the en suite bathrooms upfront, Milt. You’ll save her a lot of anxiety.”

      “That’s my point!”

      “Your point?”

      “You’re the one who knows how to talk to girls! And I’ll make it worth your while.”

      “Really? Should I find someone to keep us company?”

      “Now you’re talking. She’ll have a very nice room.” Milt sat up and looked at his watch. “I’m flying to Nice via Paris. I can try to get you both onto my flight or—”

      “I have to think about it,” I warned him. “I haven’t promised you anything.”

      “I know. But the last time you said that …” My favorite customer appeared to be suppressing a smirk. “You came around to my point of view. Remember?”

      “Now look here!”

      “Never mind,” he laughed. “Take your time and think it through. Tell me what it’s going to cost. I’m sure you have to get all your ducks in a row and make a few calls. I leave the third member of our house party in your capable hands. It’s all up to you.”

      “My fiancé—” I began. “I can’t just go to France without—”

      Milt placed his hand on top of my wrist. “It’s okay, kiddo. I know you’ve got a life.” His touch was light and reassuring. “So do I. When you have it figured out, call me.” He reached for his boxers. “That boyfriend of yours doesn’t know how lucky he is. A two-week break will keep the guy on his toes.”

      Milt doesn’t realize that Matt’s my husband. Would he still do business with me if he knew?

      On my way out of the elevator, I spotted Charmaine in the vestibule, coming in from the street.

      Ten feet away, the super (who isn’t “supposed” to know she lives here) was hauling a recycling bin toward the back of the building. Charmaine’s a perfectionist about the apartment. Given that we could both be evicted for violating the rent stabilization laws—never mind the business we’re conducting—she’s the model roommate. As she passed me in the hall, I nodded silently, and she winked in the deliberate, labored way Botox-users must when seized with the impulse to wink. Every facial gesture’s a major decision with that girl!

      If I take this trip with Milt, should I bring Charmaine? I can count on her to keep all my secrets. But first, do I really want to spend two weeks with a customer?

      I’ve never spent more than a

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