HIRED HELP

2

Véronique had disappeared four months ago, leaving Nicki’s bed cold and empty. She’d just gone, back to Bordeaux or wherever it was she came from—that particular piece of information had always remained vague between them, as if it needed to be kept secret for their transient affair to work.
“I am unattached,” Véronique would say, her words English but the sounds unmistakably French. “I’ll stay for a while, but not forever.”
She stayed for two years, certainly long enough for Nicki to get attached to her unattachedness. Véro drifted in and out of her life, sometimes lingering for days on end. Days filled with smoking cigarettes while hanging out of the window of Nicki’s fourth floor flat on the Rue Madame. Nicki clung to Véro’s irrationality and all the parts of her she couldn’t tie down. Maybe it wasn’t love—at least not the kind Nicki had thought she was after—but it sure had a close resemblance to it. The way it hurt when Véro walked out of the door, usually on a Sunday night well past midnight, and Nicki could tell, just by the way Véro held herself, that she wouldn’t see her lover for days, maybe even weeks. Until one last Sunday four months ago when Véronique had curved her neck so her lips couldn’t be closer to Nicki’s ear and said, “Je t’aime.” Not something you would expect unattached people to say. Nicki had roamed the city throughout winter, a messy wet season in Paris. She’d braved the cold and stuck her head in cafés she’d otherwise avoid, in search of Véronique. If you wanted to disappear a metropolis was easy. Nicki disappeared as well, into the streets
around the Gare du Nord and their rough kind of acceptance of everyone, especially people looking for something. She could buy everything she wanted there—drugs, men, women—but she only wanted Véronique, who was nowhere to be found. After work she’d change into a pair of sneakers she used to wear to play squash in another lifetime, and face the darkness. She walked and walked through rain, sleet and the occasional melting snow storm, the icy
drops on her cheeks a constant reminder of what she was missing. After two months she’d given up her quest. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been warned. The branches of the tree outside her window at last showed signs of spring. Nicki stirred sugar into her coffee and let her gaze wander over the puffy clouds in the Sunday morning sky. The day stretched out in front of her like a succession of desolate hours. She’d do yoga with Sam at noon, followed by lunch at Les Philosophes. An old routine they’d revived after it had finally sunk in that Véronique wasn’t coming back and a normal social life was an easy way to pass time. Nicki could choose to drink the afternoon away at a heated terrace in le Marais. It’s what she usually did on a Sunday afternoon, but she was trying to quit smoking, which was too much of a reminder, and casually consuming alcohol wasn’t the best catalyst to kill die-hard habits. She checked the length of her raven black hair in the reflection of the window. Maybe she should cut it off and give her appearance the spring cleaning it had been lacking for years. “I disagree,” Sam said, a glass of rosé in one hand and a lit Gauloise in the other. “Blond would only make you look more desperate. As if you know your midlife crisis is looming.”
“I’m only thirty-eight. It can’t be that obvious.” They sat huddled together, still strapped in warm winter coats, squinting into the careful midday sun.
“You have millions in the bank, Nic. You don’t need a new haircut to boost your confidence, you need a shag.” Sam stated it matter-of factly, as if reading from one of the economical reports she specialised in during business hours. Nicki reached for Sam’s pack of cigarettes and tapped one out for herself. There was only so much abstinence she could bear.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“The hell it is.” Sam held her gaze, a glimmer of defiance brimming underneath those long lashes. “I work ten hours a day, Saturday usually included. And the current state of the economy doesn’t seem to agree with my libido.” She sucked hard on her cigarette and made the tip glow bright orange. “A fact that pisses off my sexy French girlfriend to no end.” “At least you have a girlfriend.” Nicki realised it sounded bitter and petulant, even a tad resentful. Sam had been single by choice for years because she wanted to focus on her career. A week after she had gotten her last and biggest promotion—the one forcing her to work even longer hours—she’d met Sylvie. “Whom I’m not having lazy Sunday sex with because I’m listening to you whine.” They both burst out laughing—a high-pitched nasal snicker in Sam’s case, unstoppable giggle fits in Nicki’s. Sam grabbed her purse from the empty chair opposite her and delved inside, trying to unearth a solution to Nicki’s problem judging by the sudden solemn look on her face. Sam hid something in the palm of her hand while fixing her gaze on Nicki.
“Listen to me.” Sam chewed her bottom lip which, Nicki knew, signalled a rare case of lacking bravado. “I never told you this because, well, I never told anyone.” “A lady is allowed her secrets,” Nicki said, curiosity buzzing through her body. She watched Sam fidget with a deep red piece of paper.
“I was single for a long time and this service was recommended to me by a dear friend.” Sam slipped a business card towards Nicki’s fingers. “I’m a satisfied customer.” Now that she was no longer holding the card, Sam seemed to have regained her confidence. As if passing it on shifted the sentiments it came with as well. Nicki trailed her fingertips over the ridge of the card before turning it around. The other side was the same shade of sensual scarlet, and empty apart from a phone number hand-written in golden digits. She glanced at Sam, who puffed out a cloud of smoke. They’d been friends for years, years in which you get to know someone in a way that their behaviour becomes predictable, but Nicki had never expected this.
“The service is by referral only.” Even Sam’s voice, usually nasal, sounded sultry now. Nicki half-expected the cobbled streets to close up around them and transform into a private members’ club, burlesque show included. “Use your real name when you book the appointment.”
“Are you serious?” Nicki flipped the card between her fingers. “Who recommended it to you?”
“I can’t say.” Sam slanted her long wool-clad frame over the table. “And I sincerely hope you’ll do me the same courtesy when the time comes.” She stretched her body upward again, her long neck pale in the hesitant sunlight. “And yes, I’m deadly serious.”
“But—” Nicki started. I would never do that, she wanted to say. It’s repulsive. If I want it so badly I can go to a bar, get drunk on whiskey and take someone home.
“It’s not cheap, but worth every cent.” Sam had a strangely satisfied expression running across her face, as if the memories alone were enough to make her bask in delight again. “And then some.”