Page 98 of Madam, May I

To hell with new sessions being booked. That she could overlook. But what if someone was in trouble? Safety was her obligation to those women and the few men who worked for her.

“Shit,” Desdemona swore, closing out of the test and removing her spectacles as she rose and crossed the living room to pick up the phone. Number three. She wished Denzin had been available to be her safety net that night as well.

She set the phone back down but remained standing there as it continued to sound off.

Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

The testing would take nearly all day, and in preparation for it, Denzin was handling any emergencies that arose, but she wasn’t taking on any new sessions and overwhelming him.

But Francis McAdams and the sadness of his wife’s condition tugged at her heartstrings. She was so tempted to answer him, but she was intent on setting boundaries. She had to put herself first sometimes.

Cha-ching—.

She felt heady from the relief she felt when the ringtone ended.

Releasing a breath, she turned and made her way back to the table.Should I start over or just do some workbook?

She picked up the can of peach-flavored Perrier she was sipping through a straw.

Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.

Her shoulders drooped, and she felt like a noose was around her neck pulling her back to the phone. The steps across the room felt weighted. The obligation was tiresome.

“Hello there,” she said, forcing kindness into her tone as she crossed her arm over her chest in the oversize Versace tee she wore as a dress.

“My Kimber left me.”

His wife had passed. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, knowing his struggle with his wife of more than forty years slipping into a coma after a burst aneurysm nearly two years ago.

“She’s at peace, but I’m not,” he said.

“Well, Red is no longer with me, but I have someone else in mind,” she said. “I’m just not scheduling any appointments until the weekends now, and I’m booked until next Friday.”

“A whole week?”

“Yes,” she said, feeling it dragged from her like someone breaking up two people fighting to the death.

“Mademoiselle,” he began.

She shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do, Francis,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He began to weep.

Desdemona tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder and held up her hands in exasperation—at herself, not him. Guilt and her inane desire to come to people’s rescue led to that boundary she set evaporating. “For when, Francis?” she asked.

“Tonight.”

Well, damn.

“Let me see what I can get set up for you.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle.”

Pushover.

She ran through the list in her head of all the courtesans booked for the night—be it work or requested personal time—but paused. She really didn’t feel like it, and she was beginning to feel more and more like that every day.

Push through, Pushover.

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