She sensed that the greatest act of kindness she could do for Frank right now was to get Santiago off the subject of Cleo, and this would be most easily achieved by talking about food. She took another bite.
“Is that paprika?”
“You have to talk to her, man,” said Santiago.
“Best eggs in the city,” said Frank, forking what looked like half his plate into his mouth.
“I added a little ají panca too,” Santiago said, relenting.
“I can tell,” said Frank, choking into his napkin.
“Let’s talk about Zoe then.” Santiago turned and wrapped his arm around the back of her chair. “Tell me, how is it possible that a girl like you does not have a boyfriend? We need to find you a nice boy. Don’t you know anyone, Frank?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Zoe’s dying a virgin.”
“Don’t worry, mi amor.” Santiago winked at her. “I’ll find you a nice guy.”
Zoe hated talk like this, in part because of a growing fear that she was not a nice girl. Nice girls blushed and got giggly when they drank, could order wine and leave a half-moon of liquid still in the glass. Nice girls went to spin class and had savings accounts. They did not have seizures. They did not have debt. They did not let old guys have sex with them in hotel rooms and leave before they woke up. They did not only see their brother because they needed money.
“I don’t think I want a boyfriend,” said Zoe.
“Good,” said Frank. “Focus on your schoolwork.”
“Of course, focus,” said Santiago. “But youth and beauty are terrible things to waste.”
Frank began to say something, thought better of it, and continued plowing through his eggs.
“Well, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m happy to see you both.” Santiago rested his hand on the table between them. “What is this beer you’re drinking?” He shook his head and called to the server, who was anxiously wiping down the gleaming bar top. “A bottle of prosecco for my friends!” He turned and grinned at them. “What else are Saturdays for, eh?”
The day was already ending by the time Zoe opened the door to her apartment. Tali was out, and the place smelled like incense and cigarettes and trash. She needed to rest. If she went to sleep early, she could still have a whole day tomorrow, maybe check out a museum, then go to school on Monday refreshed for once. She lay down on her bed and listened to the Saturday crowd outside her window.
But her mind refused to settle. It kept reaching, instead, to fill the gaps from last night. She remembered opening a bottle from the minibar with her teeth, scattering M&Ms on the carpeted floor, being on her hands and knees … She kicked off her shoes with a violent shudder. She needed to think about something else. She opened her laptop, and the screen brightened onto her bank statement. She closed her eyes. She had not asked Frank for the money. She would not.
She was sinking into a fitful sleep when the sound of her phone chirping in her bag startled her awake. It was a message from her mother, asking how the internship was going. Mother messages were worse than no messages at all. She threw her phone back in her bag, then opened her desk drawer and inspected Portia’s card. It was not the first time she’d considered using it since meeting her at the Climaxing to Consciousness group, but it was the first time she’d felt desperate enough to act on it. She plucked it out of its hiding place and carried it and her laptop to the kitchen. There was no wine or beer left, so she grabbed the half-empty bottle of spiced rum from above the fridge and sloshed some into her blue Tisch mug. Then she slid with her back against the cabinets to the floor and typed in the website address.
An image of an attractive couple in black-tie appeared on the screen beneath the words “Find a mutually beneficial relationship …” The website was simple and corporate, remarkably untitillating, until Zoe clicked on the Sugar Babies tab to reveal image after image of girls. Most were taken by the girls themselves, pouting faces staring up at a camera lens raised above their heads, but there were also girls at the beach, girls in cars, girls on the couch, girls on boats, girls in bed. At the top of the page it read: “Want to provide companionship in exchange for getting pampered like the princess you are? Sign up here and connect instantly!” Zoe drained her mug and clicked.
She filled out her details quickly and mechanically. Under religion she put “Marlon Brando.” When it asked her to upload a photo, she scrolled through her pictures and chose a shot of herself in a black spaghetti-strap dress, taken after her opening night in Antigone. The sun had bronzed her skin and streaked her curls with gold; she looked honey-hued and wholesome. She pressed submit, and her profile populated onto the site. Hardly a rigorous screening process, she noted. She lay back on the cool tile floor. It had been almost too easy.