Lucy
The decision was easy. I didn’t even need to think it over. One year of my time as the “companion” to a wealthy, well-connected man for a ton of money? It wasn’t really about the money at all. I mean, that was definitely going to help, of course. I was able to keep myself in high fashion through secondhand stores in the city, but what I really needed was to network. I wanted to rub elbows with the elite of New York City, finally making a name for myself. No more being the intern, no more fetching coffee. Mostly, no more ‘small town girl in the big city’. I would be on the fast track to notoriety, finally.
I left home when I was eighteen. School had come easy for me, and when I secured a scholarship to New York University, it was no surprise. My mom couldn’t afford to send me, and she wouldn’t have helped me, even if she could. She blamed me for my father leaving my entire life. I wasn’t even angry about that, or her abuse, anymore. I simply did what I had to do to get out of there. Small towns have a way of holding you back if you aren’t careful. Small towns breed small minds. I left it all behind and hadn’t been back in five years. In fact, I had no plans of ever returning. There was nothing left for me in New Jersey, except for maybe the beaches.
Everyone thinks New Jersey is all Hoboken and the wannabe shit part of New York, but it’s not. There’s a whole lot of New Jersey that’s all pine barrens, farmland, and beach. When the hurricanes hit is usually the only time anyone remembers we have beautiful beaches. My fondest memories of New Jersey all took place at the shore, and usually included my high school boyfriend. I left him behind too.
As soon as I moved to Manhattan, I stopped going by Lucy. No one in New York knew who I used to be, and it was my chance to reinvent myself. The Lucy of my formidable years was no more. I’d become Lucinda Quinn. For years, I’d daydreamed about moving from the small town to the big city, and while it wasn’t quite like I’d dreamed, I was one step closer to the woman I wanted to be.
I’d been working for a PR company as an intern - unpaid, of course - through the last two years of my undergraduate program. On top of that, I’d managed to find work as a cocktail waitress at a high-end nightclub downtown. I knew that the me I wanted to become was too good for serving drinks in a low-cut tank top, but I was willing to do anything to get where I wanted to be. Our nightclub was frequented by the ‘who’s who’ of Manhattan, and if serving drinks gave me even the slightest opportunity to meet the city’s elite, it wasn’t above me at all.
When the opportunity arose to interview as an employee for New York’s best kept secret, Infidelity, I wasted no time. Sharon, the owner of Seasons, the nightclub I worked at, told me she’d spent one year as the companion to a wealthy finance guy, and she agreed to be my sponsor. The thing about Infidelity, is that it’s much like Fight Club. The first rule of Infidelity is that it doesn’t exist. Confidentiality was paramount, and you were never to speak of it. Immediately, I assumed that it was a ‘sex for money’ exchange, and she corrected me immediately. In fact, she’d also become an employee to network around the city, and used the money she earned to purchase the nightclub she now owned. That kind of real estate doesn’t come cheap, and Sharon had turned a shitty, rundown property into one of the hottest spots downtown.
In simple terms, Infidelity was an agency that matched up companions. The client - in my case, a man - paid for my services. Those services could be attendance at events or general companionship, that sort of thing. Karen Flores, the woman I interviewed with, made it very clear that Infidelity was not in the business of prostitution, and that sex with the client was not a requirement at all, which was a huge concern for me. She had a standard line she must have said a hundred times: “At Infidelity, our clients buy poise, class, companionship, and compatibility.” She also went on to explain that the clients at Infidelity were exclusive and successful.
“Your contract is binding. When we find a compatible match, you will be, for all intents and purposes, in an exclusive relationship for one year. Do you understand that?” she asked me.
I watched her stare intently at me as she stood in front of the floor to ceiling glass windows in her office. Without hesitation, I acknowledged her directly. “I absolutely understand, and I look forward to the arrangement.”
I was paid five-thousand dollars for my time that day, and instructed not to contact her again. I had gone through extensive questioning during the interview, much of which highlighted my goals and ambitions, as well as my history, which she already knew much about. Apparently, the wealthy are well-equipped to investigate you and find out that you work an unpaid job, you serve cocktails, and they can even find out that your abusive alcoholic of a mother tries to call you once a month to ask for money.
Being honest to a fault was my greatest weakness, and I admitted my relationship with my mother was strained at best, garnering no evident reaction from Karen. It seemed that the questions about my past were mostly to ensure that I wasn’t lying, because she already knew everything I had told her.
“We are interested in you because, yes, you’re beautiful, but we like ambition in our employees. Our clients are smart, wealthy, and successful, and they want companions that can keep up. Your hustle makes you desirable, and I don’t think we’ll have to wait long to find you a suitable match. Do you have any more questions for me?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.
“No, I believe I understand the contract, and the expectations,” I replied.
“Okay. Then we will call you soon. Do not reach out to me; I will contact you.” She looked at me sternly, and it was clear our interview was over.
“Thank you very much for your time,” I said as I stood up to leave. My heart was racing with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to get matched up with someone. And begin the next chapter of my future.