Page 54 of Dirty Diana
It.He can’t even say the word.
“Sure.”
“Nice to have you back.” His kiss is quick and he’s out the door.
As soon as I hear Oliver’s car pull out of the driveway, I snuggle deeper into the couch cushions and apply the ice. It feels surprisingly good. I imagine how ridiculous I look and my cheeks burn with humiliation. Did I really expect it to be so easy? I remember the resolve I felt on the plane:I’ll keep making stuff, even if I don’t yet know what it is.I find my laptop and take it to bed. Then, like a serial killer returning to the scene of a crime, I book a room at the Rosevale for next week. I book a single night, though I’ll only need it for the day. A hotel in the middle of the day? It feels unnecessarily clandestine, but where else can I go that’s quiet and private?
—
When I arrive at the Rosevale, I’m relieved to see the suite flooded with sunlight. It has a huge living room with soft colors, every wall padded in fabric, velvet chairs, the couch perfectly erect and the carpet just vacuumed. I open the glass doors onto a small veranda overlooking the pool. It’s hot enough for a swim but the pool is deserted except for an older couple reading the newspaper in their chaise lounges.
I set out several bottles of water and wait for the first knock on the door. I’ve spent the last several days arranging three interviews, one after another, all with women I’ve never met. When I asked Alicia’s advice on who I should talk to, she suggested I cast a wide net—Ihung flyers outside my painting class and even placed an ad on Craigslist. One respondent has already flaked over text, but that leaves two others.
I check myself in the full-length mirror beside the door. I’m wearing a cream silk blouse and camel trousers. Pearl studs in my ears. If I put on a lab coat, I’d look like a well-dressed gynecologist.
There’s a knock and I open the door. The woman standing on the other side is drop-dead gorgeous, like a supermodel from the eighties, tall and statuesque, with thick, lustrous hair, and an actual mole to the right of her wide smile.
“Diana?” she asks.
“Yes, come on in!” I move to let her pass, but she stops to kiss my cheeks. “Sandra,” she says, “with a long A.” Then she sweeps by me in a cloud of ylang-ylang perfume and leather, a Louis Vuitton handbag and Gucci heels.
“This hotel is gorgeous. I love coming here.”
“You’ve stayed here before?” I ask.
“All the time. The calamari from room service is amazing.”
“We can order some?”
“Maybe later.” She smiles warmly.
She flops her bag on the couch and slips off her shoes. “I never answer Craigslist ads—I was helping my brother-in-law post about a job when I saw it—but I read it and thought, hey, this one looks interesting.”
“Right?” I laugh. “I bought a futon off there once…” Sandra’s gaze has an unnerving effect on me. “Thanks for coming today.” I pull out my phone and set it on the table. “It’s okay if I record us?”
Sandra shrugs. “Sure.”
She sits on the sofa and pulls her long legs beneath her. “What do you want to know?”
“A long time ago, I did a series of paintings—a book actually—all about women and sex and how they feel right after. Only now, I’m more interested in bodies and how they feel during, or even before sex. I’m interested in desire. Is there a moment for you, something that comes to mind when you think about feeling most inside your body?”
“Work related or nonwork related?”
I flash on Oliver and me when we first dated, how we used to sneak away and make out in the office stairwell. My urges took me places, led me on adventures. “Depends. What do you do?”
“You’re funny.” She crinkles her nose at me. “Let’s see.” She folds her arms behind her head and leans back. “I’ll tell you about a client who flew me to Paris. Does that sound interesting? But why don’t we settle up before I dive in?”
One might think that while sitting in a hotel room across from a woman who answered an ad I placed on Craigslist, I would have put it all together—what she does for a living—a little quicker. But it only clicks now. A million questions flood my brain.
“You can pay cash, right?” Sandra asks.
“Of course,” I say, still trying to recover. I hand her a hundred-dollar bill across the table.
She looks at the money. “I’m two grand an hour, Diana.”
“Right, right,” I stammer. I wish I had enough cash to talk to her for a couple of hours, but I have nothing close. After apologizing profusely for wasting her time, I walk Sandra to the door.
After she leaves, I sit on the couch, stunned. I’m even surprised by my own surprise. I try to gather my thoughts. Did I think this would be simple? I pour myself a Jack Daniel’s from the minibar and sip it slowly. I think about canceling the next appointment. There was no name in the woman’s email to me, just “The Sexagenarian” and a phone number. When I called, she answered the phone on the secondring with no hello, only, “I’ve been expecting you!” Then she very warmly accepted my invitation to meet.
