Exposed (Madame X, #2)(3)

Your life is sex, I think.

And work.

You sleep with me, though. Like, actually sleep. Three hours in the morning, from nine to noon, and usually, unless “work” intervenes, another three hours from ten at night to one in the morning. Strange hours. You’re always on the move, always going. You wake suddenly, completely, and immediately. Your eyes flick open, you blink twice, and then you get up and dress. No stretching, no rubbing of your eyes, no yawning. No hesitating on the edge of the bed, rubbing your stubbled jaw with a palm. Just . . . awake, totally. It’s eerie.

Living with you is bizarre, that’s what I’m learning.

I’m never bored anymore.

I still work. But now I go down to what was once my apartment, which has been converted into an office, and meet my clients there. My bedroom now has a computer, and there’s a large flat screen TV in the living room. It is my space. If I have a “home,” it is there, not really the penthouse with you.

There is no evidence, visually, that I live with you. I do not know if this is unusual or not. I have not changed any of the decor. I have a section of your closet for my clothes; by “closet” I mean two thousand square feet dedicated to clothing storage. Your home—which is the entire upper floor of the building—is open plan, certain areas sectioned off with movable screens. The closet, then, is a very cleverly designed area, screened off so as to be invisible from anywhere else in the apartment, built-in racks to hang suits, slacks, and button-downs, shelves for T-shirts and underwear and socks. And my clothes. But apart from the shelves and hangers of my clothing, a casual visitor—of which there are none, not ever—wouldn’t know I’m a resident. There are no pictures of you, of me, of your family, of anyone. Just abstract art by unknown artists. Macro photographs of a leaf or an insect head, the surface of a lake so still it could be a mirror, splotches and swaths of color, textured paintings using glops of paint an inch thick, an elaborate line drawing of tree. Weird, impersonal, beautiful.

Like you, in many ways.

My space is my old apartment. I still stand at my window and make up stories for passersby on the sidewalk below.

My life is the same, really. Except now I live in the penthouse, and I watch TV and surf the Internet and you have access to my body whenever you are home. Ostensibly, I suppose I could leave the building if I wanted.

But I still have no money of my own. I never see a check or a single dollar bill. I have no identification.

I still have no control over my clientele.

I have no name but Madame X.

No further knowledge of my past, other than that I’m Spanish . . . or so you say.

? ? ?

They sniff a tumbler of scotch, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. Assessing.

“What kind of whisky is this?” comes the question.

“It’s scotch, actually,” I answer. “Macallan 1939.”

Their hands clutch the crystal tumbler, thin lips touch the rim, golden liquid slides. Tongues taste, a pink smear visible through the distortion of the crystal. “Damn. That’s f*ckin’ amazing.”

“For ten thousand dollars a bottle, it had better be very good,” I answer.

They do not flinch at the number. Of course not. Today they are a rich boy of the highest caliber. Family homes in the Caribbean, Mediterranean, in the south of France, even a ranch on the pampas of Argentina. They are used to absurdly expensive goods, watches, liquors, cars, private jets. A ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch is de rigueur.

This does not, however, mean they are possessed of a refined palate or discerning taste.

Or manners.

Of course not.

I struggle to remember the name from the dossier; this is their first appointment.

Clint? Flint? Something like that. Bland. Like them. Tall, but not too tall. Flat brown eyes. Average brown hair, albeit expensively cut and coiffured. High, sharp cheekbones, at least. Not too well muscled or defined, no extravagant amounts of time in the gym for them, it would seem. A kind of throaty voice, as if they speak through a bubble of phlegm. It is maddening, actually.

Clint. That’s their name.

“So, Madame X.” Doc Martens rest on my coffee table, rudely, barbarically. “How’s this work, exactly?”

I inhale sharply, for patience and for effect. “First, Clint, you remove your feet from my furniture. Then, you tell me whether you read the pamphlet and the contract.”

“I skimmed the pamphlet. Sounds like a modern version of Emily Post etiquette lessons for men, except you charge a grand an hour.” A sip of the scotch. “And yeah, I read the contract. I mean, no shit. Who doesn’t read a contract like that before signing it? It’s not like online terms and conditions or whatever. So I get it. No touching you, no hitting on you. Whatever. I’ve got a girlfriend, and I don’t cheat, so that’s not a problem. I just want to get this bullshit over with, to be honest.”

“Why are you here, Clint?”

“’Cause Daddy holds the purse strings for now, and Daddy says I need my edges smoothed out.” This is said with extreme sarcasm, virulent bitterness.

“And you disagree?”

A shrug. “No shit. I mean, I don’t see the point. What are you gonna do, tell me to stop swearing and teach me which fork to use at black-tie dinners? Fuck that.”

I am very tired of this whole ruse, suddenly.