Sugar Baby (2 page)

I take a shower, renewed by the possibilities of this meeting. I fish out a form fitting black dress from the back of my closet, and literally have to dust off some matching heels. I haven't worn something that actually emphasizes my figure in a while, and am almost surprised by what I see in the mirror. I blow dry my hair for once, and add a simple coat of mascara to my eyelashes. I'm every bit as sexy as that girl Stephen was entertaining at the bar the other day. And I wonder what he did for her. I top the look off with a tailored business jacket, and make the call.

“Hello, Stephen?”

“Yes?”

“It's Kat... from
Rigatoni's
.”

“Yes, of course. Kat. What can I do for you?”

“Well... we were talking the other day, and you said that we might be able to get together? About... my cafe?”

“Yes! I'm glad you called. When would you like to meet?”

“Are you available tonight?”

Chapter Two

I arrive at the classy French restaurant early, fixing my hair in the reflection of the window before I enter, just in case he's already inside. I should have brought a hairbrush, with this wind. Lesson one in looking the part, I guess. I put on some lip balm, and decide that I don't look half bad, despite it. In fact, I haven't looked or felt this good in a long time.

The restaurant is softly buzzing with the sound of laughter and conversation, to accompany the fuzzy anticipatory feeling in my stomach. It has the warm feeling of Rigatoni's, but with a much more upscale vibe. Then, I put my finger on it. Romantic. I hear the respectful clinking of glassware, and a champagne bottle pop.

“There should be a reservation for Stephen?”

“Of course. Right this way, Miss.” I haven't been in a restaurant like this in a while, perhaps for an anniversary or something? Yes. Tyson. We just barely made it a year, before I called it off. A nice enough guy, and he loved me in his way, but he encouraged the lazy, comfortable, contented side of me. It felt like it was exactly what I needed to balance out my personality at the time, but before long, I realized that I need someone that will push me. Someone that is driven in his own life, that will support me in achieving my dreams...

“Kat! Lovely to see you,” Stephen says, standing, and kissing me Italian style, on either of my cheeks. He's dressed very sharply in a navy suit, with a cream coloured shirt that is open at the throat. I can detect his cologne ever so slightly as he leans towards me; a crisp, yet inviting smell.

“Hello! Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Of course! I was hoping I would hear from you.”

“Right,” I say a little awkwardly, as we sit. I try to place my file folder on the table, but the fancy place setting doesn't exactly allow me to. I opt for my lap, over the floor.

“I see you've come prepared?”

“Yes! Sorry. I didn't realize that it might be inappropriate.”

“Not at all. This is a business meeting, after all?”

“Yes,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. It's almost as if I feel the room's eyes on us. Not that it would be awful to be on a date with this man, if none of that mattered. In fact, I feel myself being drawn to him. Maybe that's why I'm feeling so nervous.

“A drink, perhaps?” He asks. I nod, beginning to peruse the drink list, when he orders a bottle of champagne. “Will that suffice?” Stephen confirms with me, before the server leaves the table.

“Uh, yes. I think so,” I blush, trying to contain my surprise. The waiter nods, leaving.

“So Kat, tell me. What is the reasoning behind opening your cafe?”

“Yes! Well, I've always wanted to, and I figure, that as soon as I save up the money...”

“But, you are impatient?”

“Yes,” I redden, laughing nervously. “Once I get an idea in my head...!”

“I think I can tell that about you, already.”

“Exactly... and, there doesn't appear any room for me to move up at my current position.”

“So, you think that this would be a good time to branch off and do something of your own.”

“Yes.” The champagne arrives. The waiter expertly pops the cork, and pours us each a glass. Stephen raises his.

“To Kat, the entrepreneur.” I smile, feeling empowered that he sees me that way, and clink his glass. It's light and bubbly, and not too dry. My chef's palate says that this might be a three hundred dollar bottle. “Please continue,” Stephen says.

“Well, despite the good timing, I don't exactly have all the funds I need.”

“And no luck with the bank, you were saying?”

“No. No luck. And my parents aren't able to, and my few friends aren't exactly in stable financial positions, either.”

“But, you are.”

“Well, yes. I have a plan, and I know how to budget. And, I'm a hard worker.”

“I can see that. It's not too often I come across someone like you. Do you feel like you're an anomaly?”

“Sometimes,” I reply.

We go through the rest of the bottle, as I lead Stephen through my folder. Business plan, projected earnings and overhead, food and employment costs. Licenses, permits, services. Renovating costs, interior design, marketing. Advantages and disadvantages of the finer details.

Feeling the effects of a half bottle of champagne, Stephen suggests that we order something to eat. He asks my preference before ordering several dishes to share. I notice that the prices are not listed on the menu, which is an indicator that money is usually not a concern for this restaurant's patrons.

“So, Kat the entrepreneur... what do you do for fun?” He asks, and I laugh.

“Not much, lately. I've been taking on so many hours at work, it seems like that's all I do.”

“What about friends?”

“I have a couple close friends, but I don't see them regularly anymore. I've grown apart from so many people in the past couple years. I have friend at work. Jeremy...”

“But, no boyfriend?”

“No! No. Not in a while. I've never had that much interest in boys. Lately, that hasn't been my priority, anyway.”

“I see. So, at this point in your life, you are open to...?”

“Romantically? Gosh. It's really not the focus. Only something very casual. I was joking with a coworker the other day, that it would have to be someone with a lot of money to even ping on my radar right now...” Stephen just raises his eyebrow, and I realize what I just said. “Oh! Gosh! I didn't mean... I'm sorry, Stephen. Really. It's the champagne.”

“Don't apologize,” he smiles benignly. “I am not offended. Just the opposite. You are a business woman, yes? And I am a business man. So, let's talk business.”

“Okay...”

“I am willing to offer you the rest of your funding for your cafe.” At that, I do everything in my power to resist screaming and jumping for joy. “This will be a gift, not a loan, and it will be distributed over a period of, let's say, two months.”

“Oh!” I say, trying to object, always intending to repay him fully in he offered anything.

“If at any time, the arrangement is not working out for either of us, the amount will be paid for the time you have given me. Do you follow, so far?”

“I think so... You want me to work for you?”

“No. Let me explain. With the utmost respect, I am proposing this to you. Some men, myself included, enter into mutually beneficial relationships with young women such as yourself. Unlike you, due to your maturity level; most women that enter into these relationships are only looking for a little extra spending money, extravagant gifts, and an expensive evening out, like the one we are having tonight. Sometimes, I come across a woman that is in need of help paying rent, who is supporting a child alone perhaps, or repaying loans, to get her life back on track financially. I have only heard of it until now, but you fall into a third category, of smart, independent women looking for an investment in their future.”

“Mm hm,” I nod, eyes slightly narrowed. I go to take another sip from my glass, but it's empty. I redden, a little embarrassed to ask the obvious question. “And what do these women provide for you in return?”

“Their company, mostly. Gratitude. Like you, I'm looking for a casual relationship. Someone as beautiful as yourself,” at this he smiles, but averts his eyes, “to take out after the long business day to burn off some steam with me. From there, we'll see. It's up to you. I only propose this to you, because I genuinely like you, and I think you might be open to something along these lines.”

Thankfully, as I'm feeling overwhelmed and quite drunk at that, the food arrives. Two servers present us with six plates of traditional French dishes.
Coquilles Saint- Jacques, Moules Frites, Veal Ragout, Steak Tartare, Foie Gras, and Gigot D-Agneau Pleureur.
The foodie in me is very excited.

“For now, let's eat. Shall we?”

Chapter Three

The next morning, I wake up in my clothes.

I groggily hit the alarm, peel off the black dress, and jump into the shower. I hum a tune as I wash my hair, feeling oddly at peace, despite the slight hangover. Even though I haven't exactly given Stephen an answer, I feel like my problems are practically dissolving in the hot water, and washing down the drain.

Running later than usual, I arrive at work with the other chefs. “Late night?” Jeremy asks in the change room.

“Hmm? Oh, kind of.” I look in the mirror, and see the remnants of mascara under my eyes. I'm not used to wearing makeup, and consequently, using makeup remover before my shower in the morning. All things I'll need to get used to, if I choose this sort of life for myself. I bask in that thought for a moment, looking at myself in the mirror while rubbing the area under my eyes with the back of my sleeve. I turn back to Jeremy, but he's already gone into the kitchen.

Today I work on the labour intensive
Sfogliatelle,
with its many thin layers of pastry. As we do everything by hand, I have to hand roll and stretch a long sheet of dough out on the prep large table, careful to create a fine balance of paper thinness throughout. I liberally brush with shortening, then painstakingly pull the dough to keep it stretched, rolling the log as I go. Tight, but not too tight. Disks are thoughtfully sliced from the end, careful not to crush or squish the many layers. The real art is in arranging the layers of each disk into an attractive pocket, fanning them into itself, so that each ridge is slightly visible. I bake the shells until crispy, then fill with a variety of cream, from the traditional ricotta, to the French or American version with a sweeter, whipped cream filling. It's an intricate process, with a good balance of skill and heart required, but the result is unequivocal in my mind.

“Chef?”

“What it is, Kat?” Daniel answers impatiently.

“I need to cut my hours,” I state confidently.

“What? Why?”

“Well, I've been forced to take on another source of income.”

“Do it in your spare time. I can't worry about hiring another chef right now. I'm still training Zach.”

“Sorry Chef, but I have no choice. I need more help financially. And I need it now.”

“Why tell me this, all of the sudden? I mean, I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making any promises...”

“Thank you, Chef.” He knows that if I left, he would have to hire two people to cover my workload. Leaves me in a pretty comfortable position for asking favours. And if I know him at all, there's no way he would hire someone now, either. He'd just pass the buck to that poor new sous chef.

I see Jeremy out of the corner of the eye, absentminded creating the perfect sear on a filet of salmon. If Chef doesn't recognize either of our talents, then this is not the place for us.

Once home, I begin furiously researching on the internet, but for once, it's not about my cafe.

Afraid I'm just romanticizing the meeting between Stephen and I, I want the cold hard facts about what we're doing. I want to know exactly what I'm getting myself into. I type in “mutually beneficial relationship”, and am surprised at the quantity of results. Hundreds of pages catered to Sugar Daddies, and in contrast, Sugar Babies. I recoil at the labels, but read on to find blogs and articles navigating the nuances of such a relationship, pages stating rules and expectations for beginners, cultural history of “kept women”, and dozens dating directories. There truly is a community of people that practice these types of relationships. Welcome to the Sugar Bowl.

Like Stephen said, I'm not the norm. Sugar Babies are by and large: sexy, fun, and easy going, with a youthful energy. Not that I can't be those things. I'm actually looking forward to indulging that side of me, for once. And despite what it looks like, it's actually a very logical approach to dating, which is very attractive to me. Besides a general, mutual feeling of familiarity, it's mostly; as Stephen emphasized, business. That said, there is something prevalent, though not outwardly stated, throughout everything I read. Sex.

I get out my cell phone.

“Stephen?”

“Yes, Kat. How are you?”

“Can we meet?”

This time, at a cafe of his choosing. A hip little place near the Italian district. I really like the vibe in here, I decide, as I order and pay for an espresso. Distressed wood in an industrially converted space, amid a good mix of modern versus vintage detailing. I turn around, to see Stephen rising from his chair, in a stylish dark pair of jeans and casual suit jacket. His face looks remarkably soft, as if he just had a straight razor shave.

“Does this mean your answer is no?” He asks, gesturing towards my coffee. I laugh.

“Oh! Because I paid for it? No, no.”

“I'm only joking with you,” he teases, planting a kiss on either side of my face. He pulls out a chair for me, and we both sit.

“I wanted to thank you again for last night.”

“Ah, think nothing of it. The pleasure was all mine.”

“I've... done some thinking on your offer. And some research.”

“If I'm beginning to know you at all, it would surprise me if you didn't,” he chuckles, and I smile back.

“Well, if I can jump right into it... what concerns me is that there is so much nuance. I'd rather know exactly what is expected of me, so that I could be sure to...” I don't finish, unsure of how to word it. “Likewise, I think I would need to know exactly what I would be getting in return.”

“I see what you're getting at. You wouldn't take a job, without knowing your salary, or what the job might entail, yes?”

“Yes,” I say, relieved.

“Except, it isn't a job. At least, I don't see it that way. Despite what you've read, an arrangement like this involves a connection between two people. And those two people's emotions, chemistry, and compatibility dictate where the relationship will go. Just like in the real world. There is a large aspect of this that is far above a simple contract.” I nod, listening, but with eyes averted. “But, before I deter you, I have drafted up a financial contract for you, for your records. It is unusual, but I thought you might ask for such a thing. I wanted to present it to you as an act of good faith, in hopes of assuaging your fears.”

At that, he hands me an envelope, and I hesitantly open it. The print guarantees me to $20,000.00 over the course of two months, with weekly payments of $2,500.00. Signed and dated, complete with his official business stamp, there is an escape clause, should either of us wish to terminate the arrangement prematurely, as well an option to renew. There is a form requiring my bank information, so that it can be directly deposited into my account. A morose feeling overcomes me, as I fold the letters and place them back it the envelope.

“That's right. Now, put it away. Because it isn't about that, is it?” He says, his kind eyes looking into mine. He smiles warmly, taking my hand. “It's about enjoying each others' company; while at the same time, helping you to achieve your dreams. Mutually beneficial.” I begin to tear up, and I immediately feel frustrated and embarrassed that I'm doing so.

“But, what do you really want from me?”

“Oh, Kat,” he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

“How many hours a week? And, what will we be doing exactly? Should you give me a schedule so I can be available? And, what if... I'm not...?”

“If it makes you feel better... let's say, two or three times a week, for a couple hours each. Dinner, drinks, an art gallery, a show, and then we go our separate ways. You work in the daytime, yes? So do I.”

“Okay...” I say, feeling myself recover.

“Okay. I promise you, it's nothing to be stressed about. All I want from you, is for you to be yourself, and enjoy yourself. No pressure. No strings attached.”

“Right.”

“You think about it, for as long as you need to. I'm not going anywhere,” he laughs softly. I can't help but smile, at how he dealt with me just then. So many people find me difficult. I look at him, feeling very warm feelings between us.

“Now, if only this place had your
Sfogliatelle...
”