Family matters

Traveling across the country just ends up making the world smaller -- turns out I hadn't even begun getting to the bottom of Anabel.

By Tracy Quan

Jan 20, 2000 | Sunday morning

Miranda's phone call was just the beginning of my Saturday evening adventure. I couldn't understand why Matt was quizzing my younger cousin about my alibi, when he could easily call my cell phone and ask me ... "Did you tell Matt we have an aunt in San Francisco?" Miranda was asking.

I held the phone away, to see if I had any unplayed voicemail -- from Matt perhaps? None.

"He wanted to send you flowers," she explained. "So he asked for our aunt's address in San Francisco. I said we don't have an aunt in San Francisco, so he asked where you were. I said I had no idea. Well, I don't think he wants to send you flowers now," she added lamely.

"Just tell him to call my cell phone," I said abruptly. "I'll explain later." Relatives! They can really fuck things up! And to think that Miranda, my own cousin, introduced him to me.

The meeting in Room 603 was temporarily diverted by my dilemma. "Doesn't want to send you flowers?" Jasmine snorted. "We'll fix it so he sends you flowers every day for the next millennium!"

"You need to acknowledge the person you really are," Roxana gently interrupted. "The closeting of our sex work leads to anger, betrayal, self-hatred. We can change the world one relationship at a time by educating our loved ones about who sex workers really are. Every prostitute is somebody's daughter, somebody's potential life partner -- "

"Please!" Jasmine covered her ears. "Nancy's invested an entire year -- well, almost a year -- of her off-time in a guy who's a serious catch. He's in love with her. And you're telling her to trash that? I've met him," she added. "He's definitely worth lying to." Her vehemence surprised me.

Anabel -- recalling the days when I knew her as Jeannie (or Mary) -- beamed at me like a mother. "You're dating a normal guy? I'm so proud of you, Nancy! I always wondered what became of you after I left New York. I was sure you would end up supporting a musician -- or worse -- because you were always falling in love with the coke dates!"

I cringed as all present -- except for the chivalrous Hugh Loebner -- turned to stare at me. Oblivious to my deepening embarrassment, Anabel continued to expand on her theme. "Don't get me wrong! Your clothes were very chic. And you had such nice manners! But your taste in men -- I'm so glad it's improved, honey."

For God's sake, I came out here to save Anabel's reputation, not to have mine paraded before a roomful of friends and acquaintances. And where does Anabel get off talking about taste?

"Can we keep this meeting focused on the present?" I said in a frosty voice.

"Let's talk about the present and the future," Hugh said soothingly. "And put our differences aside. There is so much we all agree upon -- "

"There is?" Jasmine asked.

"I'm delighted that Anabel and Nancy have found each other," Hugh added, with a politic nod to the more subdued Anabel.

I'm humiliated! I wanted to snarl, but didn't.

"Now that Nancy can attest to Anabel's reputation, April's terrible rumors can be laid to rest," Roxana said. "But I think we all need to agree on Nancy's story."

"Why does Nancy need a story?" Anabel demanded. "I never ripped off April -- or Nancy -- or any of my girls! This is supposed to be a hooker's conference! Why do we have to tell each other stories? I just want Nancy to tell everyone the truth about me!"

"Jeannie," I said, using one of her former names. "If I tell everyone that I worked for you when I was 16 it won't help you. April will use it against you."

Actually, I'm not dying to reveal my early career as a Yellow Pages escort to the rest of the conference! I'd rather not tell Molly or Cozy Von Booty or Lucia that I once worked for Anabel -- even if it makes them like me more. Hell, I'd rather risk being disliked than have my tawdry past dredged up like this.

This time, when my cell phone rang, I stared at the incoming number. Matt was calling from his cell phone. Like a French aristocrat hoping to escape the guillotine, I let him go into voicemail ... .

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