Chapter 7
SANDRA'S car screeched to a halt in the Hubbard driveway and, after waiting a few moments, she tooted impatiently. There was no response, so she honked again, waited another minute or two and finally jumped out of the car, leaving the engine running. She started toward the house, elegant in a svelte spring dress and a new scarf of marten skins, but halted when she saw someone crouched at the flowerbeds on the side of the house.
Beth, devoid of make-up and wearing old blue jeans, a faded shirt and dirty sneakers, continued to dig with a trowel as she smiled up at her friend. "Meet the gal with the green thumb," she said.
Sandra was annoyed. "It's twelve-thirty, sweetie. Climb out of those rags and into some clothes-in a hurry."
"You'll have to go without me," Beth replied calmly.
Startled, Sandra hesitated.
"I've neglected my garden long enough. I've been weeding like mad, and I've got to plant nasturtiums. I think they'll look pretty next to the tulips, don't you?"
"Exquisite," Sandra replied dryly. "What's the gag?"
"It's no gag." Beth's eyes were tranquil. "I've always loved flowers, and I haven't spent one day working in my garden all spring."
"If you've got to play with mud pies in flowerbeds, do it in the mornings," Sandra said brusquely. "A different kind of bed is waiting for you."
"Not for me."
"I don't know what's gotten into you, sweetie, but there isn't time to argue. We're due right now at the Stamen."
Beth stood, dropped the trowel to the ground and hauled off her workgloves. "I'm not going with you today or any other day. I've quit the racket."
"You aren't serious."
Beth shrugged.
Sandra tugged impatiently at her scarf. "For God's sake, why?"
It was useless to explain her feeling that Bruce had betrayed her, Beth knew, particularly to someone who had warned her not to let herself become emotionally involved. "I've had enough, that's all," she said and shrugged.
"I happen to know that the fellow who was with you yesterday is wild about you. He wants more."
"He'll have to get it somewhere else."
"You're crazy. How many men pay that kind of money?"
Sandra certainly kept herself well informed, Beth thought. "To hell with Dave, and to hell with his money."
"I insist you go with me, right now." There was a new, strident note in Sandra's voice.
For a moment Beth thought her friend intended to strike her and instinctively took a single step backward.
Sandra was scarcely able to control her fury. "For the last time-"
"No dice. From now on, I'm a home girl. And that's final." Beth refrained from telling the other girl to mind her own business.
"There isn't time to argue now." Sandra glanced at her ruby and gold wristwatch, then stalked off to her car.
"Have fun," Beth called and turned back to her gardening, not looking up as the car roared out of the driveway.
It was strange, she thought, going to work with the trowel again, that some people weren't content to do as they themselves pleased, but felt compelled to meddle in the lives of others, too. Picking up a handful of loose dirt, she let it sift through the fingers of her glove to the ground. People like Sandra, she decided, were so mud-spattered they wanted others to be dirty, too.
At three forty-five in the afternoon Sandra returned. Beth had showered and, dressed in a sleeveless turtleneck sweater, wide belt and slim skirt with a kick pleat, greeted Sandra at the door as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Howdy, stranger," she said cheerfully. "It's so warm this afternoon I was just making myself some iced tea. Have some?"
Sandra followed her into the living room, then into the kitchen. "It's going to be plenty warmer," she replied grimly. "And as I've been drinking whiskey, I'll have some more of the same."
Humoring her, Beth went to the cupboard for the bottle of bourbon that Charlie kept there for his nightly whiskey-on-the-rocks. Taking some ice out of a refrigerator tray, she put it into a glass, and measured a small quantity of bourbon.
"I want a drink, not a sample." Sandra snatched the bottle and poured at least three more ounces into the glass.
Beth was distressed by her rudeness but had made up her mind not to quarrel and smiled sweetly.
Sandra added a small amount of water, then raised her glass in salute. "Here," she said, "is to your return to the oldest profession."
Beth stirred her iced tea. "Shall we go into the living room? It's much cooler there." She was determined to be a gracious hostess, no matter how unpleasant her guest's mood.
Sandra refused a chair and, standing before the empty fireplace, took a long swallow of her drink. "Dave was waiting for you," she said.
"Tough." Beth could feel neither pity nor any other sentiment for the Daves of the world.
"He was damned angry, I'll have you know."
Beth's good resolves vanished and she saw no reason to remain meekly on the defensive. "I made no date with him for today. So he had no valid reason to object."
"It so happens he did." Sandra paused, and her hooded eyes momentarily resembled a snake's. "He telephoned me late in the afternoon yesterday. I assured him you'd be there."
"Why would he call you?" Beth looked at her friend coolly. "And what right did you have to make a date for me? Particularly without asking me and without even telling me about it."
"I thought for a long time that you just put on that blank, naive act. But it's real." Sandra took another swallow of her drink, but refused a cigarette. "I've arranged every date you've ever had at the Stamen. Do you suppose it was accidental that Bruce happened to show up when you were there?"
"He made his arrangements direct with me," Beth replied indignantly, wishing that Bruce weren't being brought into the conversation.
"Maybe so. But he double-checked with me. To make it official." Sandra's voice was harsh, and her face was like a mask.
Beth stared at her in wonder for a moment, and then a light broke. "What do you think you are, a madam or something?" The idea struck her as ludicrous, and she laughed.
Sandra was not amused. "I'm not a madam, as you put it. But I do arrange the encounters and I charge each John a certain percentage for the arrangement. I got you into the game, just as I recruited all the others in our crowd. When a man wants a girl, he calls me. The Johns don't know any phone numbers except mine. I've made rules, and they've obeyed them. They know that if they cheat, if they start calling any of you direct, they're off my list."
Beth was stunned and suddenly knew why Bruce had never asked for either her address or telephone number.
He had invariably been content after casually suggesting a date to her.
"Now you know," Sandra said.
Beth wished she were drinking something stronger than iced tea but realized this was a moment when she needed to keep her head. "What's been in it for you?"
"I told you, a healthy percentage. But my financial arrangements are my own business. You've been paid plenty, and you have no beef. I haven't made you pay me a percentage-if I had, that would make me a madam. I take my cut from the other end."
"Do Carolyn and the others know all this?" Beth was wide-eyed.
"Of course," Sandra said contemptuously.
Trying to absorb what she had just learned, Beth felt cheaper than ever. All the time she had tried to hide behind the unjustified belief that Bruce had felt more than a physical desire for her, he had been calmly making business arrangements behind her back, buying her.
"I've been giving you a careful build-up," Sandra continued. "You made a big hit with Bruce, and he shelled out plenty for you. But there are men who can afford to pay more than a hundred a throw. Dave is one of them, as you discovered all on your own yesterday. There are others in his league, Johns who have so much money they have no better way of spending it than to shower it on some cutie. You've just now hit the bigtime, sweetie, and you'd better realize it fast. Word gets around, you know. Men like to boast. One tells another."
That, Beth thought miserably, was how Dave had learned about her. Bruce had bragged about the sensational housewife-whore he was meeting. She shuddered and buried her face in her hands.
"In this day and age," Sandra said harshly, "nobody swoons. Not even delicate little flowers like you. If you play this thing right, you can pick up a neat five hundred dollars for just two quick matinees a week."
Beth regretted the day she had met Bruce and had allowed Sandra to lure her into a hopelessly compromised position.
"Dave is whacky over you," Sandra continued. "And he's the kind who blabs all over New York. I know him, and I know his friends. You're all set for the greatest joyride of your life, sweetie. Just listen to me, and you'll have your own mink coat in no time." Sandra crossed the room and patted the stricken girl on the shoulder.
Beth shrank from her touch. "Get away from me," she said wildly.
"Really." Deeply offended, Sandra drained her drink, and her glass landed on a tabletop with such force that it cracked. "You think you're too good for me now, is that it?"
"I'd rather not talk about it," Beth sobbed.
"I'll do the talking. You'll do the listening. I'm stopping here for you at twelve-thirty tomorrow. You'll be ready, and you'll be wearing the slickest, sexiest outfit you own. You'll give Dave a great time. You'll make him think he's the most virile lover who ever climbed into the hay with a broad. You'll damned well see him."
The very idea of indiscriminate love-making with total strangers revolted Beth. Her memory of the previous day's experience with Dave sickened her, and the prospect of more such meetings was more than she could bear.
"You're moving up into a class that I couldn't reach," Sandra resumed, "except occasionally. And neither could the others. You're going to be the big star in my stable." Sandra became enthusiastic. "With your face and figure, you should be good for a run of two or three years. You'll be independently wealthy by the time you retire."
Beth was now weeping helplessly.
"I suggest that you cry all the way to the bank," Sandra told her coldly.
The tears came more rapidly.
"Stop it." Sandra reached out and slapped Beth, hard, across the face.
Blind anger replaced hysteria, and Beth leaped to her feet. "If you do that again," she cried, "I'll kill you."
"That's better." Sandra sounded pleased with herself. "A healthy desire to commit murder is better than tears.
Save those for the men. They're always impressed by the poor-little-me approach. Now, as I was saying-"
"Skip it." Beth faced her, feet planted apart and fists clenched. "I have no intention of meeting another man, ever. Not even Bruce." His name slipped out before she could stop herself.
"Oh, dear. You have a real yen for him. What a shame." Sandra shook her head and raised a hand to tuck a stray wisp of her glossy, sleek black hair into place.
"I refuse to see him again." Beth shouted.
"There's no need to scream at me, sweetie. I know very well you won't see him again, not for a long, long time."
Beth stopped short and stared at her. "Why won't I?" she demanded, half-belligerently, half-fearfully.
"Because you're too expensive for him now," Sandra said curtly. "I don't intend to waste a girl who can get two hundred to three hundred for a session on a man whose top price is one hundred. Simple, practical economics."
Beth knew it was perverse to feel faintly relieved. "But he still wants to see me!"
Sandra shrugged. "Hell, sweetie, he's a businessman. He knows better than to try to buy a Rolls Royce when all he can afford is a Cadillac."
Beth felt she was gaining the upper hand. "Suppose I call him and make my own dates with him? Just how do you think you're going to stop me?" She was posing the threat merely tb annoy Sandra, she realized. Certainly Beth would not call Bruce after what he had done to her.
Sandra became curt. "You won't be able to call him. You don't know his number. I've seen to that."
"Telephone books haven't been burned at the stake." Beth was almost enjoying the nasty exchange. "I can always look him up. In Boston. In every suburb. Wherever."
"You could." Sandra's smile was vicious. "But you're assuming you know his name. In case you haven't heard, Johns either keep their last names to themselves or else they give a girl a phony. Usually they try to protect themselves against blackmail." She laughed shrilly. "It's unusual, to say the least, for a John to go into hiding because some empty-headed little tootsie thinks she's in love with him."
"I'm not in love with anybody." Beth had no idea that she had raised her voice again.
"That's more like it," Sandra told her approvingly. "Keep your head, shut your mouth and let your body do your talking for you. You'll wind up with a fancy wardrobe and a portfolio of gilt-edged stocks."
"Everybody to her own way of life." All at once Beth felt unutterably weary and sank back into her chair. "You'll have to use Carolyn, or somebody else, to get the big money, Sandra. Maybe that snooty redhead who has been smart enough to keep her distance from all of us."
"I don't know how to get this across to you," Sandra replied grimly. "But you've been elected. Not by me. By Dave. And, after him, his pals."
"No. I'm through. Finished." Beth made a broad, emphatic gesture, then let her hands fall limply.
"Do you expect me to accept such idiocy meekly?"
"Frankly, I don't care what you do. I hope we can still be friends. I'm in no position to hold it against you because you want to stay in the game. But this sort of thing just isn't for me. I've learned my lesson, and I'm backing out."
"Like hell you are." Sandra walked to the chair, cupped Beth's chin in strong hands and jerked her face upward. "I don't intend to lose the best gold mine I've ever found. You'll go along. Or else."
Beth stared into the dark, angry eyes and felt a sudden spasm of fear. "You can't threaten me," she said, struggling unsuccessfully to free herself from the other girl's hold. "There's nothing you can do to me."
"Can't I?" Still maintaining her grip, Sandra viciously shook Beth's head. "Charlie is a very conventional man. With old-fashioned moral standards. He'd have a fit if he knew you've been unfaithful to him. And for money, at that."
"You wouldn't dare."
Sandra released her so suddenly that Beth fell back against the upholstery. "There's more than one way to skin a reluctant whore," Sandra said with relish. "You mentioned to me one day that you were sending money to some relative to protect an investment. I don't know the details, but I'm sure Charlie will. I don't even have to see him myself, or become involved personally in any way. A neat little anonymous letter will do the trick. All I'll need to do is ask him where you obtained the cash for your new clothes, where you found the money to send your relative. He'll ferret out the rest all by himself. He's a first-class ferret, Charlie. A rat from way back."
The room began to rock, and Beth thought she would faint.
"He'll divorce you so fast you won't know what hit you. He'll not only cut you off without a damned cent to your name, but he'll ruin your reputation for life. A respectable man doesn't like it when he finds out his wife is a prostitute. He gets mean. He wants lots and lots of revenge. And if I know Charlie, he'll put you through a real wringer."
There was no doubt in Beth's mind that he would do just that, and worse, if he could.
"I'll write the letter immediately, as soon as I get home," Sandra continued. "It will be all set to go. Then, tomorrow, I'll be here at twelve-thirty. If you aren't ready for a wrestling match with Dave, the letter will be delivered to Charlie at his office tomorrow afternoon by messenger. He'll take it from there. And by tomorrow night your security will be blasted. You'll be out of here sitting in the middle of the road on your cute little tail. Think it over, sweetie. You have until twelve-thirty tomorrow." Sandra turned swiftly and left the house.
Beth listened to the door open and shut, then heard Sandra's car drive off. The future appeared to be completely hopeless, and she knew of nothing she could do to save herself. The only alternative to a life she loathed was exposure, followed by permanent ruin. She was caught in a sex trap, and there was no escape.