Chapter One

 

I woke up feeling a little smothered, opening my eyes to a dimly screened vision of light coming through the large back window. I reached up and pushed my hair out of my face, then sat up with a sigh. It was a work day, so my mind kicked quickly into gear and I swung my legs out of bed.

I live in a brownstone in Brooklyn. It wasn't the whole brownstone. Like many of the older places it had been subdivided into four different apartments on the four floors. I got the top floor, which was good, in a way, but bad in most.

No elevators, of course, would be the worst of those ways.

But it was a gorgeous apartment, for all of that. I guess it had to be to make up for the walking. The twelve foot ceilings, huge bay window in the living room, the fireplace and old mahogany panels and wainscoting all helped to give it a sophisticated tone.

But your furniture had better be either lightweight or easily disassembled, and you had to get your groceries often, because you had to haul it up the stairs yourself. Or I could let Jeff on the second floor help me, but I didn't want to encourage his already very obvious interest.

Letting unrelated men help me with things like that was always an uneasy exercise for me. None of them expected me to sleep with them as immediate payment, of course, but they were pretty much all aiming in that direction, instinctively if not intellectually.

I haven't quite figured men out yet, at least to sorting out what they did because it was in their nature, and what they did because they thought to ingratiate themselves with me for more than friendship, but my mother was Catholic and so I was ever wary of appearing to promise more than I wanted.

I knew men hadn't figured women out yet either, you see. It was fairly easy for some of them to completely misinterpret what I hoped to be friendship into something more along the lines of romance or 'friends with benefits'.

The truth is I'm not that into men. At least, most men. I have a narrow set of criteria which I kind of keep an eye out for in terms of a guy who I would actually be very interested in dating, and I don't come across it as often as I'd like.

Looks, yes, that plays a part. I'm not above it. Few people are, no matter how they say otherwise. But I was introduced to modeling at the age of twelve. By the time I quit at eighteen my view of humanity had become more than slightly jaundiced.

Too many of the other girls were vapid, self-centered and emotionally immature. Too many of the men were either not men at all by my standards, or totally into thinking with their little heads instead of their big ones.

Thank God I'd quit when I had before I got sucked into that horrible culture permanently.

I looked out the window and made a face as I noted the temperature on the outside thermometer I'd screwed to the frame. It was already hot, and, according to last night's weather report, was going to be hotter. I like hot, sunny weather if I'm going to the beach or something. Otherwise, forget it.

I padded out of the room and out to the kitchen, phone in hand, scanning overnight texts and emails, and doing a quick response to ones from my mom "Good morning to you too. Yes, I had a good sleep. Yes I'm working today", my friend Andrea "I told you he was a jerk", my cousin Devon "You two look great together!", and then a <hug> and sad smiley to my friend Suzanne whose boss yelled at her and who was taking the day off.

The kitchen was small, but tidy, and very modern and brightly lit. I made an instant breakfast, then carried it to the bathroom to get ready for work, checking first personal emails, then my work account.

Getting ready for work, and the time it took, depended on the work. Since appearance is important among the class of people I would be associating with today, and I didn't know them, I had to be at my very best. Fortunately, my years as a model did give me considerable insight into how to do that with minimal fuss. And it wasn't like I was making myself up for an evening out. The standards are quite different for daytime business.

Most of my time was spent on my hair, as usual. It's longer than most women, hanging halfway down my back, but if I take pride in anything it's my hair. My main nervous habit is sliding my fingers through it.

Five years ago my hair was rough feeling and fragile, but after escaping from the life of a model, and all the chemicals their hairdressers insist on using, it's reverted to a soft, silky texture, and a natural chestnut. For business, I part it in the center of my forehead. And since the client was a man, I let it hang straight, rather than drawing it back.

With my toilette done I padded back into the bedroom. There I opened the doors of my grandmother's armoire, the one where I kept the pricey work clothes I used only when going on a job for important people.

I couldn't afford any of the clothes in there, except that I only used them for business, and was able to write off the cost on my taxes.

I'm a translator. I'm good with languages. It's a natural aptitude which has seen me in good stead so far, and promises to continue on into the future. I speak three languages well enough to call myself a professional translator, aside from English, that is. The languages are related, which helps enormously, of course. They are French, Spanish and Portuguese. I am reasonably good with Italian, too, but not good enough, in my opinion, to take a job as a translator.

The reason I've never accepted a permanent position with any of the organizations which have offered to hire me is that working as a contract translator offers up something new with every job. Not only does it keep things from being too boring, but it helps expand my vocabulary and repertoire.

I also prefer to act as a personal translator, rather than sitting in an office translating documents. Mind you, the latter is actually much more difficult and pays better.

I've worked on and off for the United Nations on contracts, but the private sector, most especially the higher corporate levels are my main customers. If I'm translating documents I sit at home in my pajamas or sweatpants and tank. If I'm doing it in person, of course, then I have to dress quite formally.

This is especially so if, instead of translating for a group, say on a tour, I'm translating for one individual who is up reasonably high on the power scale. Such people move in circles where others can fairly easily determine from your clothing, mannerisms and the inflection of your voice, whether you belong or not.

Since I was going to Dirageo's, then, to translate for Victor Sebastien, who was, I had been informed, the CEO of something called XM Incorporated, out of Paris, I had to dress with all due care.

I didn't know where we were going. Monsieur Sebastien was to meet with various clients to consider their offers of production, and would be eating at L'escale, an upscale French restaurant, and I would be joining him.

I was intending to wear my Philip Lim outfit, which was very lightweight ivory linen, so opened a chest and drew out a lacy white thong and matching bra. Then I pulled on the soft, pale green silk button-down blouse with the high collar. I stepped into the wide leg, drawstring trousers, then slipped on the blazer. Together with my strappy, open toed leather sandals it was an outfit that set me back two thousand dollars.

I make a good living as a translator, but in no way can I afford to lavish that kind of price on clothing. Nor would I, if I didn't believe it was required. Repeat business is what I'm after, and the impression one makes, both with my client and those other high echelon people he deals with is very important.

I said he. It is almost always a man. And on those occasions when my client is a woman, well, I rarely get repeat business. I'm not really quite sure why. I treat them exactly the same. But it is true that men, even wealthy men, if given a choice, would rather have me accompanying them than, say, another man, or even, perhaps, a less attractive woman.

Meanwhile, some women, I've discovered, particularly older women, don't really want to be shadowed by a tall, attractive girl who makes her age and weight issues seem even more apparent to the casual eye.

I don't say that arrogantly or with pride. I freely acknowledge that my looks are largely a product of the genetic lottery, though I do work out carefully to keep in shape. I am also blessed, at twenty three, with youth, and have never had children. Saying I'm better looking than them is simply acknowledging a fact.

But while I don't take pride in it I resent being the subject of their jealousy and resentment. It smacks too much of the mentality of teenage models I fled years ago. As for the men, well, it embarrasses me sometimes, to be frank, that men would choose me over one of my colleagues because I am, in the words of one client "easy on the eyes". I consider myself a professional, and it annoys me to have men consider me eye candy.

That's one of the reasons I prefer to dress in suits, including trousers, to discourage that sort of thinking. I can't afford to entirely discourage it, of course. I want the repeat business, as long as they mind their manners. I have not accepted follow-up requests from the man who told me I was easy on the eyes, for example.

I took a cab to Manhattan. There was no way I was going to risk showing up sweaty with my hair blown around by the wind. Worse would be sitting in something on the subway.

The cab driver kept glancing at me in the rear view mirror. I pretended not to notice, looking out the window instead at the people walking by, and the various shops. I love walking in Manhattan. There's so much to see here! There's so much diversity, so many different types of activities, shops and people!

But getting around can be difficult. The traffic, especially if you're not willing or able to ride the subway, is horrible during rush hours. That's why a wise New Yorker takes such things into consideration and leaves early, particularly when she has an appointment she can't afford to be late for.

And I can't afford to be late for any of my appointments.

There are layers of ability in translating, in shifting through context when words can't be exactly translated. All the client really notices, though, is how quickly you translate, and they generally can't tell if you're better or worse than the last translator they had. So what do they base preferences on when looking for one? Reliability, of course, but looks, unfortunately, do come into play.

And yes, that's a natural advantage I do have which some of my colleagues do not and which they quite naturally and understandably resent. I don't blame them, though I swear I don't court that sort of thing. At the same time, I refuse to dress down or make myself look less than my best.

I like being attractive. Who doesn't appreciate being considered beautiful? I have a friend who dresses down because she hates being stared at by men. Perhaps that's one of the only things my modeling taught me which was of value, that is, to take that sort of thing for granted and shrug it off.

Like the staring cabby.

The model stare comes in useful as well, of course. When you're on the runway, even as a fourteen year old, you are strictly taught to notice nothing. You pretend there is no one in the room and you're walking down an empty stage. Your eyes see no one's face, meet no one's eyes.

It can be seen as arrogance or snottiness, in other circumstances, but when men are being rude by staring, it comes in quite useful. I worked with a Japanese businessman for two weeks once. He knew English very well but needed a translator in dealing with a Spanish Client. That inscrutable look the Japanese did so well was also highly useful.

If the Japanese decided not to notice something then it was as if it wasn't happening. No expression, no response, no notice whatever. I had been very impressed.

I had been less impressed when his assistant suggested, obliquely, that a ten thousand dollar bonus might be added to my account if I were willing to be... nice... to Mister Hiromoto on his last evening in New York. Since I was fairly certain his definition of 'nice' meant translating in his hotel room sans clothing, I declined.

The Japanese are incredible perves, but they are generally, unless drunk, flawlessly polite about it. Such an offer from a Japanese businessman (who was all of five feet tall) wasn't entirely surprising, from what I had gathered from my colleagues who translated Japanese. And they bore no ill-will for being turned down.

I wasn't insulted, given the context of their culture. To be perfectly honest, I was even kind of flattered. I mean, ten thousand dollars for one night? That's a lot of money. He could have hired five of the top escorts in New York for that, as far as I know about what those girls charge.

There was a small bell at my hip and I reached down and slipped my phone out of its holster, then opened the text message. I felt a bit of a shock, though since it was from Emily, I probably shouldn't have. It was a cock, an erect one, black, and from the looks of the small hand around its base, a pretty damn big one.

You are such a slut, Emily, I thought ruefully.

"And what did YOU do yesterday night?" the text said.

Emily had been a model with me. We even looked superficially alike, save she was a blonde, and had smaller boobs. But she was the next thing to a nympho, and very determined to enjoy her youth, sexually and every other way. Some models got to be that way. They lived for the moment, becoming real party girls.

"SLUT!" I typed in capital letters, before sending it.

"What's your point?" she texted back.

I smiled and shook my head. Emily was very enthusiastic about physical pleasure, and almost totally uninhibited. I envied her, to a degree. But I have an innate sense of personal dignity and pride (and that Catholic upbringing) which won't allow me to indulge in the sexual behavior she often enjoys.

But my sexual fantasies, such as they are, are often derived from the outrageous stories she tells me about things she's actually done. How can I condemn her for doing something I secretly fantasize about doing myself?

Like that black erection she'd sent me. Sure, that's one of my fantasies.