Free The Seven Year Bitch by Jennifer Belle Page A

auction hadn’t called me yet but I supposed he eventually would since he’d paid good money for me. “And why would they hire someone in finance? I’m not a teacher or an editor.”
    â€œShe said they would hire you. They’re hiring ex–Wall Streeters. I suggested Russell should do it, being in publishing, but they only hire women. At least take down the number,” my mother said.
    â€œNo,” I said, taking a pen and my little date book out of my bag. “I don’t have a pen.” My mother recited the number anyway and I wrote it down. “I’m not writing it down.”
    Then I got off the phone and went to my gym.
    I’d joined the New York Health and Racquet Club on Thirteenth Street between University Place and Fifth Avenue years before when I was at Stern, and I’d never wanted to make the switch despite the fact that it was so inconvenient. I could use any location, and they’d just built a new one with top-of-the-line equipment right near me, but I preferred the one on Thirteenth Street because I was by far the youngest and thinnest member. It had a tiny pool and Jacuzzi and as soon as I saw it, escorted by a peppy salesman, I felt like I had walked into Boca Raton, 1970.
    A dozen old wrinkled bosoms floated at the top of the Jacuzzi. Rolls of fat and folds of skin paraded without shame above forests of veins. Pale gray hair glistened in tufted armpits and all around bikini lines. And it was the only hair showing, because faces beamed under every manner of pastel bathing cap—the old-fashioned kind with giant yellow flower fringe, rubber appliqués, under-chin straps.
    â€œYou know, we uh have a newer location,” the salesman said nervously when he’d signed me up. “They have spinning, kickboxing, Pilates, funk, masala bhangra, capoeira, pole dancing for strippers . . .”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I’d said. “I like it here.”
    â€œThat’s a lovely suit, dear,” a woman said to me as I headed downstairs from the locker room to the pool. “Where did you get something like that?”
    â€œSoHo,” I said.
    It was a one-piece (obviously) white suit with blue ticking and a slight iridescent shine. I looked like I had just come from performing in a production of South Pacific .
    â€œYour figure looks wonderful in it.”
    â€œI just had a baby,” I said, not even bothering to hold in my stomach as I slid into the Jacuzzi. Working out with old people was the best-kept beauty secret in New York.
    When I got home, there were two messages on the answering machine. The first was from Deirdre-Agnes wanting her crib—the crib she had given me—and the second was the call I had been dreading.
    â€œHi, this is Gabe Weinrib calling for Isolde Brilliant,” a man’s voice said. “I’m the lucky man who won you at the auction. I’m calling to set up a time to meet.” He left his number and I wrote it down on the box of Cheerios in the kitchen. He sounded like the kind of man I usually couldn’t stand—lurid, a little goofy, possibly a Wall Streeter, his voice half an octave too high—the kind of man who had strict weight requirements for women. I did not want to sit with this man and give him investment advice.
    I called him back from my cell phone and got his voicemail. “Hi, Gabe,” I said. “This is Izzy Brilliant calling you back. I’m so sorry but I’m away in Paris for a few weeks. I’ll call you when I’m back in New York.”
    I hung up, relieved that I had put that off for a while. Then my cell phone rang and I didn’t answer it in case it was him again. It was him again, and he left a message that he was actually in Paris and we should meet there.
    I stared at the phone wondering if I was actually going to have to fly to Paris now to meet with this guy.
    I called back and miraculously he didn’t pick up and I