Girl for Hire

Girl for Hire

Chapter 1

                  Betsy Wayne long ago ceased wondering about the twisted minds of her customers. At least the one she waited for now was harmless. As his time approached, she prepared for her role as ‘Sarah Morgan’ and dressed as instructed in black bra, black panties and stockings with black garters. She awaited his knock. He had instructed her to answer immediately when he knocked so she stood by the door ready for him. After a moment she heard soft footfalls and then a soft, single knock. Her hand rested on the knob, waiting. She slowly opened the door.
                  She did not consider his appearance; she gained no pleasure from any of them so it made no difference to her whether they were young, muscular and good-looking, or old, dirty and ugly. She somehow separated her spirit, which had feeling, from her body, which had none. She once read that in death the spirit leaves the body and that is why the body no longer moves or feels. When with her customers her spirit temporarily left her body, if not in actuality, at least emotionally. So she took no thought of their appearance. This man was paying thousands of dollars for the pleasure of her company for an evening. She could think, during this session, of what she might do with the money, or she could allow herself to not think at all and simply go through the motions as instructed.
She said nothing, further keeping with the instructions. She was to say nothing the entire night; not utter a single word. She didn’t care, she didn’t wonder why. It would not be hard to do. She preferred that to any kind of conversation.
         When he left the following morning she immediately showered, as she always did following a customer, in a stream of water as hot as she could bear.  She showered in the co-op where she conducted her business and then walked into a large closet and through a door in the back of it, into the adjacent co-op, which was her home.  There she became Betsy Wayne, her real identity, separate and distinct from Sarah.
              In her home she could relax for a little while until the next customer arrived, scheduled for noon that Sunday.  She seldom felt any emotion at all toward her customers but dreaded the one scheduled for noon. Buc did not often require her to submit to those with his particular fantasies. His instructions were for a little girl and she would dress accordingly, holding the doll he instructed her to buy and with which she would be playing when he arrived. Memories of her own history of abuse as a child were never far from her consciousness and the thought of submitting to this kind of man frightened her. But she felt more than fright; another emotion – devastating hatred - clutched at her heart as she anticipated his arrival, yet she could not act on it. She shoved these thoughts and feelings down deep, deep into that part of her heart where she stored them because she knew from years of trying that she could not rid herself of them. He was a customer – not a human being in her mind - and she would do her job as she always did. He paid thousands of dollars for his four hours with his ‘little girl,’ from which she would receive a significant cut. She knew from long experience that her feelings about him or the episode had no importance for the people who controlled her life.          
              She stepped out onto her balcony; she loved the beauty of Central Park in the spring. In the brightness of the sunny day she imagined that the delicate fragrance of spring flowers reached her this far above the trees. At her feet she felt the softness of Peony as she brushed against her legs, meowing for attention. Betsy bent down and picked up the cat, burying her face in her long fur.
            “Hungry? Or just feeling neglected?” She smiled as she walked to the kitchen, put the cat down on the counter and opened a can of food. Peony contentedly ate her breakfast while Betsy watched her.
              It was not yet 9:00 a.m. and her next client would not arrive until noon. She decided to enjoy the part of the day that she had to herself, so grabbing a light jacket and a novel she strode out the door to the elevator, and down seventeen floors to the lobby and out to the street. The light breeze played with her flowing blond hair, gently draping it like a silken veil across her lovely face. She smiled to herself as she walked into the park, avoiding eye contact like any good New Yorker, but enjoying the air, the smells and the freedom that she always felt when out of doors.  She joined with the mass of humanity - the men, women and children - bicycling, roller-blading, strolling together or alone, experiencing the warm morning much as she was. She felt close to no one, but during experiences like this, in the park on a beautiful spring morning, she could feel a kind of kinship with those present, feel at one with them, going about their business as was she, yet still enjoying something in common with them.
         Finding an empty bench in an uncrowded area by the lake she sat down and closed her eyes and allowed the warmth of the sun to bathe her. She could read or very discreetly watch the people, watch them enjoy their lives as they experienced the park with her. She tried to ignore the occasional glances – admiring or leering - that her appearance drew; they made her feel self-conscious and uncomfortable. Although people always noticed her, she herself could see no beauty when she looked in a mirror. Her clothes, when not playing a pre-assigned role, were always modest and conservative. She understood that she was somehow acceptable to men and learned to live with that fact. She hated the work although she made sufficient money to live well. She would have preferred almost any other occupation but did not have the luxury of choice.
                Occasionally, like any young woman, she would notice an attractive man. If they were not clients, if she were not required to have sex with them, she would allow herself to notice them. Often in the park, while appearing to be engrossed in a book, she looked discreetly at a man who wandered by, sometimes with a wife or girlfriend, sometimes with a friend, sometimes alone. Just a passing glance, noticing them – seeing friendliness, warmth, seriousness or any other characteristics, real or imagined, in their faces - but seldom giving them more than a brief thought. Today a young man who’d obviously been jogging and stopped not far from her caught her eye.  Tall, muscular with dark hair and chiseled features, he stretched against a fence. He did not appear to have noticed her, which suited her just fine, and she watched him for a few minutes, pretending to read her book. She never allowed eye contact; a discreet glance at the face and then a look at the body. Then a few seconds of appearing to read, then another look. As she took a second glance upward at his face, she saw him watching her as she looked at him. She immediately went back to the book and would not look up from it again until he left.
         Yet he had no intention of leaving; he’d caught the eye of a beautiful young woman and would follow-up to see where it might lead. He strolled over to the bench on which she sat.
         “Mind if I sit down?
                She made no response; it was as if she hadn’t heard him.  He sat beside her on the hard bench.
                She stared at her book and tried to ignore him, yet she remained keenly aware of his presence. The novel did not interest her nearly as much as he did, yet she would not let him know it. She tried to concentrate on the book, hoping it would distract her mind. She had no intention of speaking to him or even looking at him again. There was no room in her life for any kind of relationship, friendship or romantic. There had not been for many years and she’d long ago resolved never to make the mistake of trusting anyone again. Trust did not exist in her world. She’d accepted that fact a long time ago. She lived her solitary life, conducting her business until such time that she had sufficient funds that she no longer needed to. Then she would live quietly by herself. 
                Yet she could not help but be aware of his presence beside her. They were both young and attractive. She felt a chemistry that she did not often allow herself to experience. It puzzled her but she would not act upon it. She decided that she could allow herself to enjoy a moment of the presence of a good-looking young man. She would ignore him until such time that one of them left.
The sound of his voice startled her; she thought her chilliness would be sufficient to discourage him.
         “That’s a great book, I read it not long ago.”
         Flustered, she turned momentarily, nodded briefly without looking at him and went back to the book. She’d hope he hadn’t noticed her discomfort.
         “But you can read that anytime; you can only talk to me now.”
         It was not an original approach, but it amused her and she allowed herself to smile as she looked up from the book. She saw that he looked at her steadily, a wry smile on his face.
         “Oh, and why would I want to talk to you?” She spoke in the well-modulated tones she’d learned over the years.
         “I guess for the same reason you were looking at me a minute ago.”
         She smiled again.
         “Are you always this obnoxious with people you first meet? Not a very good first impression.” She maintained the calm voice.
         “No, but your first impression was when you were looking at me.”
         “Oh, was it?”
         “I think it matched my first impression of you.”
         “I don’t think I’ll even ask what that was.”
         “You don’t have to, I’ll tell you anyway. It was very positive.”
         “I’m so glad to hear it,” she said, combining humor with mock sarcasm, yet still maintaining the calm tone.
         “Yeah, I bet it makes your day.”
         “Not just my day, but probably my whole week.”
         “Yeah, well you looking at me made my day, too. So I guess we’re even.”
         “Yes, I guess so.”
         “Join me for coffee; there’s a little shop just a block or so from here.”
         “I don’t think that will be possible.”
         “Why not? You can read the book anytime.”
         “I can have coffee anytime.”
         He smiled at her as he sat back on the bench, making no response.       
                  She wondered why his wry look had such a mesmerizing affect on her. She could determine no reason.
              She figured she might as well join him for a snack; it wasn’t quite 10:30. She considered him amusing, non-threatening and nice to look at. By 11:30 she’d go back to her home and never see him again.  She had nothing to lose by spending a few minutes with him.
         “Alright,” she said, closing her book. “I think a cup of coffee would be very nice.”
         They rose from the bench and walked toward a nearby park exit.
                “I’m Mark Davis,” he said, extending his hand as they walked casually to the coffee shop.
                “Betsy Wayne,” she smiled as she took the proffered hand.
                “Nice meeting you, Betsy.”
                “Nice meeting you.”
                “Native New Yorker?”
                “Born and bred,” she lied, thinking it was just easier. “And you?”
                “Native, but I lived for a while in California. I went to UCLA and then worked out there for a couple of years. I’m back here for grad school, but I’m back for good.”
              “So you like being back in New York?”
              “I love it. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker.”
              She wanted to ask him another question. He’d given her some typical introductory information and she did not know what biographical information to provide to him. She could not remember when she’d had to tell anyone how she spent her days. The men she serviced knew exactly what she was despite the roles they paid her to play. Mark Davis had no idea of her occupation. She did not feel a need to disclose it to a casual acquaintance on a first meeting that she’d determined would also be the last.
              “Did you enjoy California?” She knew before she asked that he did. He struck her as the kind of man who would enjoy whatever environment he found himself in.
              “Yeah, it was great. But then it was time to come home.” He paused and looked at her, again with that smile. “What about you? What does Betsy Wayne do for a living?”
         “Me? Oh, I, I’m involved in my family’s business. Investments, but basically just, you know, kind of as an advisor.”
         She stumbled over her words, not sure where this particular lie came from. He didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness and she felt greatly relieved.
         “Something we have in common; my area of expertise is economics and finance.”
         She smiled, knowing that it didn’t matter that she knew little about investments. Such a dry topic would not be what a man on the move would discuss with a woman he just met.
         Entering the coffee shop, Mark ushered Betsy to an empty booth and a waitress promptly approached and took their small order. Coffee and pie were quickly delivered.
         “I’ve got a great idea, Betsy. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s get sandwiches for a picnic and spend the day in the park.”
         “I’m sorry, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I have…a commitment at noon.” She looked down at her pie, not wanting to catch the gaze of his arresting blue eyes.
         “Can’t you postpone it? It’s such a beautiful day – “
         “Oh, and why do you think I’d want to postpone it for a man I met thirty minutes ago?” She said it lightly, but with some impatience. It seemed that every man expected her to be at their beck and call, even those who were not clients. She had little control over her life, but would not let a casual acquaintance put her on the spot. She’d avoided eye contact with him as much as possible, but with this flash of subdued anger she dared to look at him directly; she had no reason not to. He was simply a man, manipulative like all men but pleasant to look at, comfortable to be with for the moment, but nothing more.
         But looking at him had been a mistake; the smile he gave her that lit up his face and accentuated his attractiveness, caused her to feel something she thought died years ago. The blue eyes were full of a humorous warmth that she found infectious. She smiled in spite of herself, looked down at her plate and spoke again.
         “No, I ..um.. don’t want to postpone it,” she lied.
         They completed their small snack. He left a few bills on the table with the check as they stood to leave. Walking to the door she felt an acute awareness of his physical presence just behind her. Despite the strong attraction she felt to him, relationships no longer had any part in her life and never would again. Even a casual friendship was out of the question. She had a few very casual acquaintances, but knew better than to trust them.
                  She thought again of Mark’s expectation that she’d drop her other plans to be with him, hoping to regain some of the mild anger that had created. She found it didn’t work.
         “How about later on? Does your commitment last all day?”
         “Yes, it does.”
         He strolled with her towards her building.
         “I’ll call you. We can make plans for a time when you’re free.”
She did not want him to see where she lived or to give him her telephone number.
         “I don’t want to delay you,” she said, hoping he would take what she thought was an obvious hint. But her words spoke little in comparison to the electricity that existed between them.
         “I’ve got the whole day to myself,” he persisted as they approached her building “Does your engagement extend into this evening?”
         “Yes, it does,” she repeated.
         “Then I’ll see you tomorrow: 7:00, dinner at the Livorno. I’ll pick you up.” This said as they stepped into the lobby of her building.
         “I’m sorry, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
         “Why not?”
         “You are obnoxious,” but she smiled as she said it.
         “Are you married?”
         “Is that your business?”
         “Sure it is. I need to know. If I’m going to get involved with a married woman—“
         “You’re not going to get involved with me,” here she hesitated. “And no, I’m not married.”
         He persevered.
         “OK, then, 7:00, I’ll ring your bell. What’s your apartment number?”
         “You can ring all the bells you want, I’m not joining you for dinner tomorrow.” She pressed the button for the elevator as he continued to smile at her. She wished he wouldn’t; it caused feelings within her that she thought had died and been buried long ago.
         “Dress casually; it’s not a fancy place.” The elevator door opened, she stepped in and pushed the button for the seventeenth floor. As the elevator took her up, she allowed her mind to imagine how nice it would be, in another life, to hear her bell, respond, and then hear his voice on the intercom. She would immediately go down and share a pleasant dinner with him. But the next time the bell rang it would be the pervert and she had to get ready for him.

Chapter 2
         Mark waited a moment and watched the dial indicate that the elevator stopped at the seventeenth floor. The doorman watched him; he didn’t know if a different doorman would be on duty tomorrow and this one may not be willing to direct him to her apartment number, based on what he’d heard of their brief conversation. At least now he knew the floor. He might not be able to get past the doorman but he could ring the bells from the outer lobby. There were only a few units on each floor, so knowing the floor would make ringing the right bell much easier. 
                  Although he always enjoyed a challenge, he knew that something other than that drew him to Betsy.  In their brief time together something about her – an impression of vulnerability coupled with an intense honesty – attracted him even more than her appearance did initially. He knew something held her back but did not doubt that she felt the same strong attraction to him that he felt for her.
                    From his early teens he’d always been told that he was good-looking; he could not comprehend why anyone thought that had any importance, although he was not averse to using his looks to open doors when he felt it helpful and necessary. But he believed that he had things to offer - humor, sensitivity, a great capacity to care - that would win people over. He believed that Betsy glimpsed some of those qualities during this brief interlude. However, if she hadn’t, he felt confident that his appearance would break the ice.
                    He left the building and took a cab to Greenwich Village. During the ride he thought about Betsy, considering her beauty and that undefined vulnerability.  She’d said she wouldn’t have dinner with him tomorrow; he didn’t know if she would or not, but he planned to proceed as if she’d agreed to. She wouldn’t be the first woman to ever turn him down, although it had not been a frequent experience. He hoped she wouldn’t be one of them; for some reason he felt a very strong desire to get to know her. When rejection happened in the past it never bothered him greatly, but he knew it would this time.
                    As the cab drove slowly through the congested streets, Mark considered his future, as he’d done more and more often lately. He’d obtained a solid education, worked for a few years, and now worked toward a graduate degree. While he actively prepared for a successful career he also looked forward to marriage and the stability and security he believed it would bring.
                    He wondered again, as he had so many times in the past, about his own parents’ marriage. On the surface it seemed idyllic, but he always felt that somehow, somewhere there existed a fundamental problem with it. He could never pinpoint why, but the feeling remained as it had since his childhood. He knew that he didn’t want that in his marriage. His mind wandered to the only other marriage he thought he knew closely: Paul and Janis. Paul had been a close friend since his first semester of graduate school, just over a year ago. He’d worked an internship at the financial firm where Paul worked and they’d become friends. Paul and Janis were clearly each other’s best friends. No one who spent an hour in their company could doubt it. Not that they were attached to each other; although Janis had given up her career to jump on the ‘mommy track’ with the birth of their daughter shortly before Mark met them, she maintained close associations with a variety of friends from her professional life. Paul balanced his work life with his more enjoyable roles of husband and father. They were a team, with shared goals, dreams, values and desires. Somehow, something in that winning formula seemed to be missing in his parents’ relationship, or so it always appeared to him. He would not marry until he established the kind of relationship that Paul and Janis had.
                Arriving at his elegant brownstone, Mark was glad to see that Susan had left. His intention to go for his morning run annoyed her; she’d envisioned lounging in bed with him all day. His interest in her did not reach a level sufficient for him to skip his run for her. But she had not been so angry as to leave the bed unmade; he found the room perfectly neat.
         He picked up the telephone and hit ‘1’ on the auto dial. After a few rings a masculine voice answered.
         “Hello?”
         “Paul, did I get you up?”
         “Of course not, it’s the middle of the day.”
         “I got the tickets; box seats, as you instructed.”
         “Oh, as I ‘instructed?’ As I recall you were the one who said it wasn’t worth going if we didn’t get box seats.”
         “Yeah, but you didn’t try to talk me out of it.”
         “Oh, so that constitutes ‘instructing’ you? Janice just said she was going to make lunch and I didn’t try to talk her out of it. I hope she’s not upset that I ‘instructed’ her to make lunch.”
         “You better be careful. One of these days she’s gonna leave you for me.”
         “I’ll instruct her not to.”
         “Tell me Paul, before you were married, did you ever meet someone you just felt different about?”
         “Well, by ‘different’ what do you mean?”
         “Just that; I can’t explain it any more than that.”
         “Then I’d have to say yes. And when I did, I married her. I’m assuming that you met someone you feel ‘different’ about?”
         “Yeah, I have.”
         “When did you meet her?”
         “This morning.”
         ‘It’s just hormones. You haven’t had enough time to feel anything but lust.”
         “Thanks, Paul. I’ve always appreciated your sensitivity.”
         “Any time, man, you know me: an endless source of wisdom and advice and always ready to dispense it.”
         They confirmed the time for the game on Tuesday and made arrangements to meet for lunch the following day.
         On Monday afternoon Betsy’s second and last customer of the day left at 4:00. She had the rest of the day to herself and tried to keep her mind from thinking about Mark. He had been an agreeable companion for an hour or so on a pleasant spring day in the park; nothing more. Since it was another warm, beautiful day she again decided to spend some time in the park. She knew she would not see him there or anywhere again. He would easily meet a woman not interested in resisting his considerable charms.
         She strode from her building, again with her book, and stepped into the still-warm sunshine, starting to fade in the late afternoon. She would return home later and eat a light supper in her apartment.
         Yet without conscious thought she had decided that she would prepare her meal later today than she usually did. In the recesses of her mind she held a glimmer of a hope that Mark would, indeed, ring her bell at 7:00. She shook the thought from her mind; if he did she must not answer. She must not complicate her life with a man. The men she serviced were not even human in her eyes; sex was not something to be enjoyed and in no way could she consider it an expression of emotion. It served as a means to obtain money, like selling real estate, writing computer programs or driving a taxi. She learned years earlier that people could not be trusted; even when all evidence suggested the contrary, that lack of trustworthiness existed as a simple fact. Her mind returned bitterly to her youth and the stepfather who had been so kind, so loving. She pushed the thought firmly from her mind. No, she would eat at 6:00; Mark would not arrive and if he did, she would not answer.
         She sat discontentedly for some time, unable to concentrate on the book. The park today seemed drab and unsatisfactory. She stood and strolled by the lake, hoping the sights and sounds would distract her. Finally she gave up and left the park.
         Returning to her home, she had no appetite and sat down at the piano. She longed to play well; the little she learned in an elementary piano class in high school stayed with her, and since purchasing this piano she had tried to build on that shaky foundation. She could not take the lessons she would like to have had due to her unpredictable schedule. Sitting at the piano she found she could not concentrate, so she prepared a light meal and sat down again to read. The book held no more interest for her now than it had earlier.
                  As she sat in her comfortable home she refused to recognize the tears that formed just beneath the surface of her eyes; she would certainly not allow them to fall. She could not concentrate on her book and tossed it aside and switched on the television. News, old situation comedies, a baseball game - nothing here interested her either. Peony jumped to her lap and she gently petted the purring animal, trying to evade emotions she did not want to feel. The soft fur beneath her hand gave her some comfort, but she still felt angry with herself; this restlessness was not like her and it was all due to the man she met yesterday. How had she allowed a brief meeting with an attractive man to upset her so?
         She looked again at the stately clock on her wall: 6:45. At 6:55 she’d step into the shower. She would not hear if he rang the bell, and wouldn’t know if he didn’t. Not knowing would give her no satisfaction, but she didn’t know how else to handle this situation. In time she would forget him.
         She rose and walked to the balcony for no reason other than to kill time. Turning and going back inside she walked into the kitchen and turned on the dishwasher, and over it’s soft hum heard the gentle tinkling of her doorbell. This was not the buzz from the co-op next door where she conducted her business, but the soft bell that seldom rang, to her home. She froze where she stood and heard it again.
         Stepping to the intercom panel she paused and, as she raised her finger to the response button, saw the unsteadiness of her hand. The bell rang a third time and she pressed the button.
         “Yes?”
         “It’s me. You ready?” She felt an uncharacteristic excitement at the sound of his voice. Yet she had told him clearly she would not be available for dinner. The pause lasted longer than she thought.
         “You there?”
         “Um, yes, um, I’ll, I’ll be right down.”
         Hurrying into her bedroom she quickly changed; blue slacks, pale blue blouse, complimentary earrings. A quick application of make-up and she grabbed a small bag, checked for her keys and rushed out the door to the elevator.
         The ride down the seventeen floors had never seemed so long. She did not know why she was meeting him. What was she doing? She didn’t need to open herself up emotionally to another wound where earlier wounds had healed but left painful, ugly scars. No, she must recognize this for what it was: a pleasant dinner with a good-looking young man. After dinner she would return alone to her home.
         Yet quiet doubts nagged her. She’s sworn she wouldn’t do this. Long before she ever encountered Mark she’d promised herself that never again would she be hurt. In order to keep that promise she needed to keep all human beings as far emotionally from her as possible. Her actions this evening, in joining this man for dinner, betrayed her own resolution.
                Reaching the lobby the elevator slid silently open and she saw him chatting with the usually stoic, silent doorman. Black jeans and a black tee accentuated his muscular body and she felt again a long-dormant excitement. He looked up when he heard the elevator door open and smiled broadly, indicating the pleasure he felt by seeing her. She felt a momentary impatience; like every other man on the planet he only valued a woman based on her looks. She shoved the thought from her. Why had she expected anything else? She’d decided to allow herself to enjoy this evening. It might be a mistake, but she’d already made the decision. For some reason she would consider later, she couldn’t maintain any feeling of anger towards him. They stepped toward each other in the roomy lobby.
         “For a minute I thought you weren’t going to answer the bell.”
         “Why would you think that? Just because I told you yesterday that I wouldn’t go to dinner with you?”
         “Is this where I’m supposed to say some cliché thing about how women always change their minds?”
         “You can skip it,” she laughed. “It’s probably more true than I care to admit.”
         He hailed a cab and they rode through the crowded streets down Fifth Avenue. At Washington Square Park he told the driver to stop, paid him and they stepped out.
         “It’s just a few blocks from here. I hope you don’t mind walking.”
         “Not at all; it’s such a beautiful evening.”
         She slipped her arm casually through his as they walked past the fountain and the few blocks down Thompson St., here and there smelling the sweet scent of marijuana. The restaurant was not crowded and they were immediately led to a tiny table in the back, passing the door to the kitchen from which emanated the rich scents of garlic, tomato sauce and various meats.
         “This isn’t a fancy place, but the food is wonderful.”
         After a few moments a stout, smiling waiter approached and gave them menus as a busboy brought them water. The waiter greeted them with a heavy Italian accent and then described the specials of the day. Mark listened intently. The waiter finished, smiled and departed.
         “I hate it when this guy is my waiter,” he said, just above a whisper. “I can’t understand a word he says.”
         Betsy had raised her glass of water to her lips, but her quiet laugh prevented her from taking a drink.
         “I was marveling that you could understand him,” she whispered, still smiling, putting her glass down and leaning towards him across the small table. “I had no idea what he was saying.”
         “They often have good specials here, but we’ll just have to order from the menu.”
         A few minutes later the same smiling waiter returned and took their orders.
         “How did you ever find this place?” she asked, looking around the small restaurant, beginning now to fill with dinner patrons.
         “’Find’ is the right word. It’s a great place: good food, good prices, you can’t beat it. Not like those fancy places uptown by your apartment.” He grinned as he spoke these last words.
         “Oh, and didn’t you say you grew up on Park Avenue? Talk about fancy!”
         “But I wouldn’t go back,” he said, more seriously now. “I much prefer the atmosphere in this neighborhood. No one cares what kind of car you drive, how many servants you have, what school you went to.”
         “I’m sure you’d do fine back on Park; UCLA and Columbia are probably acceptable there.”
         “I suppose so, but as I get older, status symbols mean less to me than ever, and they never meant much. But what about you?” he asked, looking directly at her and leaning on his elbows on the table. “Tell me all there is to know about Betsy Wayne.”
         She looked down at her plate; the intensity of his eyes distracted her, making her want to tell him everything about her. They drew her in and she knew she must not allow it; she felt that once drawn in by his eyes she could never escape. And the thought came to her that she would never want to.
         “There’s not much to tell, actually,” she responded, looking back up at him briefly and then glancing around the room, doing all she could to avoid his direct gaze. “No fancy colleges, no prestigious address….” She smiled. “Just me.”
         He looked at her with that same intensity but paused a moment before he spoke.
                She looked at him again an their eyes locked; she couldn’t have looked away if her life depended on it.
         “’Just you’ is probably pretty wonderful,” he almost whispered. She pursed her lips and looked down again, blinking back tears she felt desperate for him not to see. Why did this feel so different? How many nameless men shared her bed and spoke romantic lines to her, words without any meaning, words that were simply part of the deal?
         The waiter arrived to refill their wineglasses and she gave silent thanks for the brief interruption.  How could she, Betsy Wayne, longtime call-girl, be so naïve? Mark, like so many men, wanted her sexually; she had no more importance to him than that. She could enjoy the evening, but must not fool herself into believing anything else. But for some reason, deep down, she remained completely unconvinced.
         They shared a comfortable, leisurely meal. Betsy savored each course, aware that Mark’s presence enhanced the entire experience. She’d often eaten in far fancier restaurants, surrounded by almost unimaginable opulence, but in each of those cases she’d played a role for a customer. This evening she felt more like herself – Betsy Wayne -than she had in a long time.
         The busboy removed their plates as the waiter asked if they wanted coffee or desert.
         “Anything for you, Betsy?” Mark asked.
         “No, thank you, the meal was delicious, though, but I really don’t want anything else.”
         “Nothing more, thank you. Just the check, please,” Mark spoke to the waiter.
                They had been in the restaurant only two hours but Betsy had no consciousness of the passage of time. Mark was personable, intelligent and pleasant, and she could not remember when she so enjoyed an evening.  But it must be a one-time only experience; she would not - must not - see him again.
         Mark paid the bill and they sauntered out into the coolness of the late spring evening.
         “Shall we walk a little?”
         “I’d love to.”
         They strolled the streets of Greenwich Village in the comfortable warmth of the evening. Betsy enjoyed the feel of his strong body beside her and felt she would have been content to walk with him for years. She quickly dismissed that thought from her mind. They turned a corner.
         “I live just down here. Do you want to come in for a few minutes?”
         She knew all evening to expect this and she prepared for it. She decided in the restaurant that she would absolutely refuse any physical advance from him. She could not afford to do that to her heart. With that resolve, seeing his home could not hurt her.
         “For a minute.”
         The disappointment she felt angered her. In spite of her best efforts she expected better from him. Her anger was all self-directed. What man wouldn’t want to have sex with a beautiful young woman? She’d allowed herself to be deceived; he’d not deceived her.
         They walked to the middle of the block and turned up the steps of a stately brownstone. He unlocked the front door and they stepped into a spacious foyer.
         “Come on in,” he said, leading the way to the large living room. She had assumed that he rented an apartment in the building, but it immediately became evident that it was a single-family dwelling and he had the whole house. It amazed her; she knew what real estate prices in the city were.
         “Do you own this?” she asked, sitting on an elegant love seat in the spotless room. As soon as the words were spoken she regretted them; it was none of her business.
         If he noticed the inappropriateness of the question he obviously didn’t mind.
              “No, I just rent it. Like I said, I grew up on Park Avenue; my parents still live there. When I came back to New York for graduate school, I was lucky enough to find this place. Do you want to see the rest of it?” He seemed genuinely pleased that she liked it. 
                They walked through the spacious rooms: dining room, kitchen and study on the first floor and she didn’t even hesitate as he led her to the stairs. She saw the three large bedrooms on the second. Looking into one, she saw that he used it as an artist’s studio.
                “You paint?” She asked, impressed by what she saw.
                “Only for my own satisfaction,” he replied, seeming a little embarrassed.
                  “They’re very good.” She genuinely admired the various landscapes and cityscapes, including one incomplete painting of his own townhouse.
                “Thank you, but – “
                “No, I mean it,” she said earnestly. “You’re very talented.”
                Her hesitancy about being in his home was lost in her admiration for his artwork. But still she believed him; believed that perhaps he had a decency she’d never known before and had come to accept, however reluctantly, did not exist.
                “Well, thanks again. Let me show you the rest of the place.” She recognized a hesitancy to spend any time showing her his artwork. She smiled inwardly; this did not seem consistent with the confident, almost arrogant man of the park yesterday.
                They walked to the third floor and he opened the door onto a ballroom.
                “When people still had huge, fancy parties this room must have been great.”
                  Although now obviously used only for storage, she saw the elegant wainscoting on the heavily paneled walls, and imagined wealthy Victorians dancing in the room generations ago.
                They walked down the wide staircase to the second floor, and he paused on the large landing. Putting his arms around her, he pulled her close to kiss her. She gently but firmly pushed him away.
              “Something I said?” he asked, trying to keep it light.
                “No, Mark, not at all.” She spoke firmly; she’d made the decision earlier and simply acted upon it now.  But doing so gave her no satisfaction. Yet she clung to her resolve. “It’s just time for me to go home.”
              She hoped that the doubt and hesitancy in her mind and heart were not reflected in her voice. She looked at him briefly, smiling vaguely.
              “Let’s sit for a few more minutes---“
              “No, I really have to go.” He followed her downstairs and  they walked into the living room. He sat on a chair and motioned to the love seat where she sat earlier. She picked up her purse and stood in the door.
            “Thank you for dinner, Mark,” she said formally.
            “You don’t have to leave so early, do you?” His tone was friendly, his face still smiling.
              She sighed deeply before she responded.
              “I really should go,” but she made no effort to move.
              “Why? It’s still early.”
              “No, that’s not it.” She looked at him directly; she needed to face this. “I shouldn’t have come. It was a mistake I won’t make again.”
              Mark made no attempt to hide his bewilderment.
              “What mistake? Having dinner with me? Why is that a mistake?”
              She sighed. She didn’t want to hurt him, but could not let that be her priority; she would prevent any further pain to herself. She could not explain herself, and recognized that she had no obligation to do so. After one dinner, she owed him nothing.
                “Mark, you’ll never understand—“
                “Try me. You don’t know me well enough to make that evaluation.”
                She smiled wistfully, wondering exactly what to tell him. She could tell him nothing; she could simply walk out the door and take a cab home. But looking at him as he sat in his inviting living room she had a strong desire to offer him something.
                “I-I like you, Mark. You’re really nice and fun to be with but….”  She trailed off. What could she say that would make any sense, other than the truth, which she would never utter to him?
                “Let me see if I understand this. You like me, I’m nice and fun to be with. You forgot to mention good-looking, I might add,” he said with a grin, “so of course you can’t see me. Is that it?” Although the words could have sounded sarcastic he did not allow them to do so.
                  She hated being so tongue-tied, but there was nothing to say.
                  “It doesn’t sound logical and it’s not. It’s not you, Mark. But I know myself. I can’t—can’t allow myself….” Her voice did not break; allowing it to would have been too humiliating.  She looked down and shook her head, not knowing how to continue. But she could not trust herself to continue speaking, even if she could decide what to say. She could not explain this to him. How could she tell him that she was a paid prostitute, that she had been hurt more than she could bear by those she’d most trusted, and that she would never allow that to happen to her again? How could she tell him that she had no sexual interest in him, when the chemistry between them made that an obvious lie? She tried to compose herself, keenly aware that he never took his eyes from her.
                  “OK, Betsy, I don’t understand what you’re thinking. But I want to get to know you. Is that so wrong?
                  “Yes, Mark, for me it is. I can’t see you again.”
                  “I’ll take you home,” he said quietly, “but I can’t agree not to contact you again.”
                  “I won’t see you again, Mark, not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t.”
                  She’d told him only yesterday that she wouldn’t have dinner with him tonight, and they subsequently spent a wonderful evening at an Italian restaurant. She hoped her resolve not to see him would be stronger than it thus far had been. She must cause it to be so. She listened as he continued.
                    “Betsy,” he said, not looking directly at her, his tone serious, “you told me you aren’t married. It’s only fair---“
                  “That’s not it; I’m not married, engaged or involved with anyone. But if it helps to think of me as married, or otherwise committed, do so. I’m as unavailable to you as if I were.”
                “Ok, then ...”he trailed off, not understanding her reluctance. He smiled, trying to keep it light. “I’ll just have to overcome whatever it is that’s pushing you away from me.”
                  “You won’t, Mark,” she said quietly, but firmly, her eyes glistening with tears. “You won’t be able to.”
                “Betsy, you’ve got to admit this is a little unusual. We had a pleasant evening and if I came on a little too strong, I’m sorry. But-“
                “It’s not you, Mark. Believe that. It’s me.”
                  They left the house and walked a few blocks until they were able to hail a cab.
                  “You don’t need to see me home.”
                  “I don’t mind,” he responded lightly as he stepped into the cab with her.
                  They were silent during the cab ride. When it stopped at her front door they stepped out and Mark asked the cabby to wait, and walked with her into the lobby.
                  “Inviting you to my house wasn’t a great success,” he said, smiling to keep things light, “so I won’t offer to see you up to your apartment.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
         “Don’t, Mark, please. Don’t make this any harder on me than it is.”
                “You’re asking me to make it easy for you to refuse to see me? Sorry, Betsy, I can’t do that.” He smiled at her, tipped an imaginary hat in her direction, turned and walked out of the building.
                She pressed the button on the elevator panel and the door immediately opened. Absent-mindedly she stepped in and rode up to her floor. She would not cry; she would not allow herself to do so. These feelings would fade in time and until they did she must push them from her consciousness. She unlocked her door and Peony greeted her as she walked into her comfortable living room. She checked her answering machine; a call from Carol, which meant that she needed to call in for tomorrow’s appointments. Perhaps the deadness of sex with her clients would help to cure her of her feelings for Mark.