“Are you saying I have to...have my own clients?” I hold my breath. This wasn’t mentioned earlier, but now that I’ve signed on to pay for Cross’s care I don’t think I can back out.
After a moment, he says, “Well, no. You’re a different sort of girl, or so we’re going to say.”
“But I don’t want to use my real name.”
I hear his low intake of breath. “You don’t want to use your name? Well Elizabeth, what do you think we’re selling?”
“My body,” I say. “Isn’t that what you sell? Women?”
“I don’t sell anyone,” he says, and I bite my lip because he sounds a little defensive. “The women—and men—who work here sell themselves. I’m more landlord than pimp. And with all due respect, Elizabeth, the photos I’ve seen of your body...well, it’s not compliant with the standard of this industry.”
I bite my lip, trying my very best to swallow back my pride. For Cross. Telling myself it’s nothing personal, I plunge ahead.
“I understand what you’re saying, Richard. The truth is, I’ve recently lost some weight, but I can lose more.”
“I’m looking at the photo you sent me, taken in November. Why don’t I put your weight at 165. Is that about right?”
I gape. “You really know your stuff.” I’m not 165 anymore, but I was in November.
“I’d like you to have it down to 140. I’d still like some curves, but I want you tight and toned.”
I look down at my body, already so much leaner than it was. Screw the numbers. I know where I look my best. I’ll make that mark.
“You do that,” Richard says, “and then come here. We’ll take care of the rest, and you can use an industry name. We could do a wig or something, too. We’ll put you up on bill boards around Vegas and we’ll talk you up. Something like…I don’t know. ‘Selling Scarlett.’”
“And I’m Scarlett?”
“Yeah. You like it?”
I’m not sure how I feel about it, but I say, “Okay. Scarlett sounds good.”
I hear his fingers snap. “There, the hardest part’s over.”
He laughs, and I know my chuckle has to sound weak. “How soon can we hold the auction?” I ask.
“I think three months, if you want to rush it.”
I feel a wave of cold sweat wash over me, and I want to kick myself for not going into detail this morning when we first spoke. “Three months, no. That’s not soon enough.”
“Miss DeVille, we aim for healthy loss and toning. We care about our women—and men.”
“I understand, but I need the money in a month.” I told NVIR I would have it to them then.
I can practically hear his shock in the static coming through the phone line. “A month?”
I rub my brow. “Is that doable?”
“Doable.” He chuckles. “Isn’t that the word? Of course it’s doable. Let me get off the line and get you started. We take twenty percent of the final bid, and we reserve the right to manage the bidding. Understand?”
I swallow. “Yes.” I don’t know what ‘manage the bidding’ means, but does it really matter? I’ve already signed on for this. I’m in.
“One month.” He laughs again. “Why don’t you get up here as soon as you can, and we’ll get you started with the girls.”
I nod and drive the rest of the way home in a fog of disbelief. The only thing left now is to tell Suri.
“YOU’RE DOING WHAT?”
Suri’s mouth is filled with pistachios, but she doesn’t spit them out or even choke. She simply speaks around them and then swallows, and I have the hilarious thought that Suri would probably be a great prostitute.
“I’m selling my virginity,” I tell her again, leaning on the iron breakfast table.
Her face is comical. All her features twist, like she might laugh. Then her mouth pulls down like a sad clown. “Lizzy, why? Why would you do that?”
I think for a second before replying, because I need to give Suri a certain impression. One that will prevent her from trying to stop me. I go for casual and shrug.
“I have it, and I definitely don’t need it.” An image of Hunter and Priscilla flits through my mind; I shove it away. “I figured why not do something useful with it? I’m thinking of making it a project for my PhD. You know, writing about value judgments people place on things. One sexual encounter is just that: it’s a twenty minute thing. And virginity? It’s just a hymen, an antiquated measure of a woman’s value,” I say, pleased with myself.
Suri is shaking her head, her horrified face the same color beige as her polka-dotted blouse. “Lizzy, you’re…wrong. It’s not like that. Sex is intimate, it should be done with a lover or a boyfriend or at least a really good friend.”
Someone like Cross, I think, and really wish I hadn’t.