The banging against the door is unsettling but somehow I sit here quite calmly in my mini dress, on this closed toilet seat. This is easily the nicest hotel bathroom I've ever seen, complete with a fancy pedestal sink made of porcelain so fine and so clean you can see your reflection in it that perfectly complements the white marble floor. There's something in the floor tiles that makes them gleam and sparkle against the lights in the ceiling and give off a luxurious illusion; almost like walking on diamonds. Crushed diamonds ground into a fine glittering powder; but diamonds nonetheless.
I'm usually not particularly fond of sparkly things but I can't deny it; this floor is beautiful.
"Open The Door, Now! I Paid Good Money For The Night."
"So What?"
I respond, feeling deeply annoyed that he'd interrupt my attempt to appreciate the beauty of the lovely floor tiles, and sigh a little as I reach into the ridiculously small clutch I brought with me for the evening. It's a miracle I didn't leave it laying around somewhere because I don't usually do the whole purse or handbag thing, but I figured I needed to look the part. No self respecting high class call girl would be caught dead without a clutch. At least I don't think she would; not having one would sort of give her away as not being careful enough to blend in, and the last thing your 'date' would want you to do is standout. Discretion is key in this business, I assume.
Or maybe I'm over thinking it.
The character outside the door -who once presented himself to be a sophisticated and respectable gentleman - is now belligerently drunk and grab happy. Sure, he paid the agency for my 'companionship' for the night, but there's no way I'm sleeping with this guy. I've had more than my fair share of unwanted advances from undesirable men: the difference tonight is that I don't have to endure it. I pull a bottle of clear nail polish out of the clutch and begin painting over my bright red nails, assuming that this tantrum fueled by hornyness, entitlement, and well aged scotch might last a while. I might as well do something moderately productive with my time.
"Bitch I said open the door!"
A very loud crack sounds as he strikes the door in violent frustration. I'm irritated more than anything else; it's rude of him to ruin the tranquility of this beautiful spa like bathroom with this sort of behavior.
"Hey look, fuck off or I'll call the cops."
I yell back, blowing on my fingernails afterwards.
"You're a whore! You can't call the cops."
"I'm a companion, you dick, and I'm not fucking you, so you can bang around all you want."
He kicks the door. I immediately feel a deeper appreciation for the strength of the lock that holds it safely shut, but the force of the blow makes the wood buckle a bit in the middle and then bounce back. It's unsettling in all honesty; the door is weakening, but his resolve is not.
This is a familiar scene to me; despite the fact that I'm brand new to the world of paid escorts I am all too familiar with having a predator at my door - a wolf clawing his way in to have his way with me. The doorknob begins to shake, a few pieces of wood splinter off of the frame around the door and land against the glimmering floor.
My time is running out.
I look around frantically, looking for a way out, and smile to myself as a simple solution appears; a window placed conveniently in the wall directly across from the shower. I close my nail polish and place it safely into my clutch before tiptoeing over to the shower. The miraculous window is just big enough for me to shimmy out of, and upon peeking out of it I see that it leads to the stairs of a fire escape.
I love New York City more than anything or anywhere else in the world right now.
I pull my heels off and tuck them into the dainty little belt pulled tightly around my waist. With my clutch clenched in my teeth I climb out of the window. As my bare feet rush down the cold and rusty metal rungs of the escape ladder I smile to myself in spite of the little stings I feel on my soles; if only the girls at the home could see me now.
-
I hike from the posh Upper West Side all the way over to where my sister and I live in Harlem but I don't mind it at all. Walking freely through the city while it's as quiet as it ever can be is a privilege I think. Still I am nothing if not exhausted as I let myself into our apartment and do a wobbly legged stagger towards my room.
Di is up of course; her meticulous personality makes her an early riser, she needs as much time as possible each day to keep her life in perfect order. So it is no surprise that she stands in the kitchen at this ungodly hour, looking her usual perfectly kept way; her hair in a tight top knot with not a strand out of place, her pajamas matching and girly and wildly appropriate, as she brews coffee before there's proper daylight outside.
"If you think you can stumble in here looking like that and go straight to bed you're crazy!"
Her voice is hushed but passionate. Di never yells: it isn't dignified. I stop in the middle of the hall and curse at my feet.
"Fuck."
"Come here CeCe....And fish a five dollar bill out of that clutch for the swear jar." She taps her finger on the oversized mason jar sitting on the island in the center of the space and full to bursting with dollar bills. My dollar bills. I like cursing more than I like having money I guess. I take a seat at our homey yet completely 'on trend' and 'chic' little distressed wood table and place my head to rest on my arms, looking innocently up at her through my eyelashes. She frowns. "I thought we were past this, CeCe."
I cringe, for whenever Di repeats my nickname at the end of almost every sentence she's disappointed. Really disappointed...in me.
"I wasn't out like that Di. I was trying to work, actually."
"Where do people write novels dressed like that?"
"Not that kind of work...real work. The kind you get paid for."
"Don't lie, okay Cece?"
"I'm not. I got a call from that agency, remember?" Her eyes widen in shock but as the corners of her lips start to curve up, I can tell she's amused, possibly even a little relieved. What exactly is my life when my sister thinks me going out as an escort is better than me going out to party? "They called and I went on like a whim I guess."
"Oh no, Ce-"
"I didn't do anything! I locked myself in a bathroom and hopped out of a window. I would have been home hours ago but I walked here from the Upper West Side."
"Why?!"
"I just felt like walking."
"You're crazy."
I smile a big wide toothed smile at her. She's been calling me crazy my whole life; for a while after I got back she had tried not to. I'm glad she's not trying so hard anymore; the tiptoeing was becoming tedious.
"A little bit. Anyway, for all I know old dude is still in the elegant hotel room...but then again he's bound to have broken down the door by now, and someone will surely have called the police.... Whatever," I state with a shrug. The situation is boring to talk about in retrospect. "It doesn't really matter. My life as a high class call girl has come to a rather abrupt end."
Di shakes her head and grins at me.
"I only gave you that paper as a joke. I was just showing it to you."
It's not news to me as I stand up and stretch, but I shrug her words off anyway. I grab a croissant on my way out of the kitchen, and begin walking to my room once again.
"I took it as a dare!"
I call to her, I hear her sigh a bit but I know she's smiling.
"I feel like I should be more concerned about this than I am..."
She mutters to herself and I enter my bedroom, wanting to flop onto my mattress. I couldn't imagine being more tired than I am in this moment, and my bed - which Di has made perfectly and scattered with decorative throw pillows- is very tempting but I can't simply get in it and pass out.
I have to get out of this ridiculous dress and shower first. I feel a familiar sense of being unclean that has nothing to do with walking through city streets barefoot. I only hope the hot water can wash it away this time.
I only went to the escort date because I was bored out of my mind. I signed up with the agency as a joke when I first got out of the home, when Diane gave me a list of job leads that were all nonsense, but I hardly thought anyone would want to request me. Clearly I was wrong. I knew I'd never be able to go through with screwing some stranger in a hotel room, no matter how much money they offered. I knew I shouldn't have gone.
But I did, ignoring my better judgment. I shake my head at myself and shut the water in the shower off. I feel much better as I walk down the hall back into my room, my towel wrapped tightly around my body. I can't exactly say I feel clean, but certainly better than I did before, good enough to forget my sense and answer the call without looking as I realize that my phone is ringing and vibrating on the dresser.
My mother's deeply affected voice intrudes on the relative peace I'd found since I stopped speaking to her.
"Hi Honey. I can't believe you answered! At this hour! I miss you. When will you come up and visit?"
It is too early in the morning for this shit.
"I'm not coming there, Mom."
I answer, my voice flat, emotionless, totally guarded.
"But why?!"
'But why?'
She says shit like that with a serious face.
I can't with her.
"I can't come there mom." Speaking slowly as though speaking to a child, but also with a considerable amount of sarcasm. "I'm pretty sure the restraining order still holds."
"Oh Cecilia." She says in a tone that's unmistakably dismissive, and I can easily imagine the taxed expression on her face, as though my reason is petty nonsense. "Peter will go away for a while, alright? To give us time to catch up. I haven't seen you since you got back out into the real world. You need me. I'm your mother."
Her patronizing isn't lost on me, and it makes me feel quite small, which in turn makes me feel quite angry. There are too many mines in that sentence for me to dance around, acknowledging any one of them in any way would lead to this conversation exploding into an argument of epic proportions and repercussions. So I will choose to ignore it and go on as though she said nothing of particular interest to me.
"Pretty sure it says seven hundred feet from his residence, mom. Not just him."
She sighs very deeply, a breath that I know is heavy with many things; memories of what I did, things I'd said, her guilt and shame, indignation at the shortness of my tone with her. I love her and I always will, but she chose her side. I can't pretend to be fine to make her decision easier.
I've done enough pretending for her sake.
"Well I'll come to see you some time then....And very soon. We love you very much, Cecilia."
I manage to mumble a response into the phone and end the call. My blood always boils at the very thought of Peter, who is the root of all evil in my life. Peter, who is the cause of all my problems - and that's not just me being dramatic because I resent my stepfather. I loathe him.
In the end I told her everything, every bit of what had occurred between he and I, and she not only refused to believe me she took his side. She stood by him in court, let them take me away instead of leaving him, and now she acts as though nothing ever happened and the past two years never occurred. I don't quite know how to blame her, because I know her; her status is her everything and 'my daughter is bat shit crazy' is a much more glamorous story to tell at the country club.
Certainly better than the alternative.
Yawns escape my mouth and my eyelids are heavy, but I could not sleep now even if I tried. The past has made itself present in my mind, and it won't be ignored. I resign myself to facing the day and dig a fresh outfit out of the drawers around my room
There will be no rest for me, no matter how weary I am.
Thanks for reading! If you like the story leave a vote and let me know in the comments.
xoxo
Chris