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Emily had never intended to be a porn star. Actually, she had always wanted to be a veterinarian—a fact that never failed to entertain people in interviews. One interviewer had narrowed his eyes and said, “Not a
sex
veterinarian, maybe? Or a veterinary gynecologist?”

“No,” she had said regretfully, “that was long before I’d heard about sex.”

In fact, when she looked back on her life before meeting Babylona, her younger self seemed so naive that she sometimes wondered if she
had
heard about sex—sex for fun and profit, anyway, sex that wasn’t about getting married and having children until death did you part. Sometimes she still thought she would have been a happier person if she’d been left that way. She would have finished college and gone on to veterinary school. She would have met some nice man and had nice children in a nice suburban home. (To which Babylona always said, “I’m sure nobody actually does anything so miserable. They just say so to frighten us.”)

In the last days before Babylona, Emily had been going to NYU and working as a masseuse. It was a skill she’d picked up after high school, imagining it would pay her way through college—another idea that now seemed tragically naive. Working nights and weekends, she never made more than a living, and her tuition debts mounted alarmingly. This was so even though she turned out to be freakishly talented at giving massages. She had a deliciously soothing touch, with a hint of uncanny electricity in it—or so she was told. When she touched herself, it was disappointingly unelectric and unsoothing. But when she touched someone else for the first time, they tended to tense and then relax into bliss, muttering ecstatically, “That’s amazing. How do you do that?” One man had even refused to believe she wasn’t using some kind of machine. He’d said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe in that stuff.” Nothing she could say would convince him that it was safe.

But Emily could never say how she did it. And every attempt to teach other people amounted to her saying, “Well, you just have to feel their—you know. And then you—you know.” In fact, from her point of view, she was just rubbing their backs. Perhaps she did devote more attention than most masseuses. Touching someone’s body made her instantly rapt with that attention; she found the responsiveness of their skin and muscles fascinating. Perhaps she did fall into a dreamy state in which she was halfway feeling what they felt. Whatever it was, she couldn’t put it into words beyond “You know, you just try really hard. You know.”

Her night job in her senior year at NYU was in the spa at a five-star hotel. It had the advantage of set hours, and the further bonus that even when she was propositioned, it was done in a tasteful way. Almost nobody was under the impression (as clients in the outside world often were) that the masseuse at the Regency Park Avenue offered happy endings.

She first knew Babylona as her eight o’clock appointment. Sixty minutes without aromatherapy or hot stones. With any luck, a twenty-dollar tip. With good luck, possibly forty.

Babylona was five minutes late, which Emily would later realize was her idea of politeness—she was always, punctually, exactly five minutes late. “Everyone likes an extra five minutes in the day,” she would say. Although the hotel was overheated for March and the spa was positively steaming, Babylona arrived wearing a snow-white fur that hung to her knees. She was barefoot, and Emily couldn’t help noticing that she wore a toe ring that appeared to be a diamond solitaire—as if she were engaged to be married to a foot fetishist. She was also one of those rare women who could wear a toe ring with grace—her feet were as white as her fur, and had a sculpted elegance.

In fact, with her exquisite features and glittering aqua eyes, she was the most beautiful woman Emily had ever seen, an impression that was only strengthened when Babylona smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and swung off her fur to reveal that she was absolutely naked underneath.

“Oh, good,” Emily said, trying to seem unruffled. “So you’re ready for . . . I mean, there’s a hook there to hang your . . . clothes.”

Babylona’s hair—long, wavy red hair that set off her pure white skin—had been tucked under her coat. That whiteness—
alabaster,
Emily thought—in turn set off the perfection of her hourglass figure. In a hotel full of fake tans, the pallor was subtly lewd. It was as if Babylona was more naked than those women could ever be. At the same time, she wore her nudity casually. Walking to the massage table easily and gracefully, she said, “I am sorry if I startled you. But, you see, I’m coming from work.”

Then it was only natural for Emily to ask what her work was.

“Well,” Babylona said with a modest pout, “I suppose I am a sex tycoon. Only for lack of a better word, you know.” And, draping herself on the massage table with a lithe provocativeness that immediately gave credence to her words, she explained in detail.

In fact, if Emily had heard of sex—no-strings sex for fun and profit—she would have already known from the name on her appointment sheet. Babylona ran the largest and most diverse sex empire in the world. There were the string of sex shops, the touring burlesque show, the Institute for Sex Studies, and her new multimillion-dollar project, a television channel dedicated to erotic programming. “
Not
your usual porn channel, though. Our sex is tasteful. It’s not about close-up shots of organs, though of course those have their place. But porn is almost never sexy—don’t you agree?”

Having no idea whether she agreed—did women really watch porn?—Emily said, “Oh, absolutely,” and began to work on Babylona’s shoulders.

Two minutes later, Babylona was telling her she had a magic touch. A silvery touch—no, a
golden
touch. Ten minutes later, she was sitting up on the massage table and asking whether Emily had ever thought of changing professions.

The rest was history.

 

 

 

Greil helped her up off the bed and handed her a white silk robe embroidered with roses twining around the XTV logo, courtesy of Babylona’s signature negligee line. She was smiling and returning waves to the cameramen, sharing the wash of relief that always came after the adrenaline of being on air. As always also happened, she wanted to get out of the studio as quickly as possible, back to her dressing room to collapse on a couch and let the excitement wash out of her. So she was already leading a grinning and still-naked Greil down the corridor to the dressing rooms when he said, “I don’t suppose you ever see your former guests, I mean, socially.”

She was trying to think of a way to put him off—ever since the disaster with Evan, she had a policy of keeping business and personal life strictly separate—when she heard a familiar voice saying, “Hello, Emily,” and stopped just short of running into Ralph Anderman. Then she was standing there like an idiot, blushing to the roots of her hair. Greil stopped short, too, and was surveying Ralph with an expression of suspicion.

She caught her breath and said, “Greil Gage, this is Ralph Anderman.”

“Hi,” said Ralph, putting out his hand with perfect, unruffled calm. He showed absolutely no reaction to being presented with a stark-naked rock star on his way to . . . whatever he was doing here. Emily couldn’t imagine what that was. Meanwhile, his air of cool was troubling her. If he couldn’t approve of what she did, he could at least have the decency to be shocked by it.

“Yeah, hey, man,” Greil said, looking at the hand dismissively and crossing his arms. “You’re that guy who was seeing Marisa, right? I remember that.”

Ralph Anderman’s most recent girlfriend had been the supermodel Marisa Brice, a fact that had been returning to Emily’s mind disturbingly often recently. And she guessed Greil might actually not know that Ralph was also one of
Fortune
’s 100 Richest People in America, a businessman who had blazed a trail through several different industries, transforming them all in his wake. Greil
might
not know that, but she wasn’t placing any bets.

Ralph just said, with every appearance of friendliness, “Yes, I guess that’s what I’m most famous for.”

“And how
is
Marisa?” Greil said. “I haven’t seen her around.”

“Very well, hopefully.” Ralph looked at his watch. “Because she’s getting married right about now.”

“Whoa! Not invited to the ex’s wedding! That hurts,” Greil laughed, looking at Emily.

Emily blurted, “Could you both excuse me? Because I, um, I want to get dressed. Though, I mean, it’s good to see you, and . . .”

Ralph said, “Before you go, could I invite you to lunch?”

“Um, now?” Emily was aware she was blushing again, and that Greil was looking daggers at her. “I guess . . . Can you wait ten minutes?”

“I can wait exactly ten minutes,” Ralph said.

She smiled—mindlessly, she realized—and set off to her dressing room, with Greil scowlingly pacing at her side.

“Who is that guy?” he muttered. “I mean, who does he think he is? He just shows up here. I mean . . .”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wanted him to come on the show. So I guess . . .”

“The show? You’re going to have
that
guy—”

Greil stopped in his tracks. Emily almost kept on going, but realized belatedly that they were at her door—a hot pink door stenciled with a gold heart around the gold letters EMILY LISTER. She said, “Well, no, he said no, actually. But—”

“He said
no
? What is he, fucking crazy?”

“But—”

“So what does he want to see you for if he won’t even be on . . . the show?”

Greil was glowering at her with his arms crossed. Emily took a deep breath.

“Listen,” she said, in her most understanding older-sister tone. “It was great getting to know you, and I do hope to see you again, but I try not to get my personal life intertwined with—”

Greil had turned chalk white. He said, “Oh, shit. You’re dumping me.”

“Not dumping you. I mean, we never . . .”

“I get it.” For a second he stood there looking at the floor. At last he said, in a more subdued tone, “Yeah, I’m sorry. I guess this whole thing . . .” He gestured at his head. “I got the wrong idea. I guess that happens to you a lot.”

“Oh, well. It’s flattering. And yes, it does happen.”

“Well, I’ll . . . yeah, I’ll see you around.” Then he set off down the corridor again, his beautiful nude back looking suddenly thin and vulnerable. Emily was already inside before she realized he had been heading away from the guest dressing room and toward the staff canteen.
Oh, well
, she thought. Given that it was XTV, they probably wouldn’t even look up from their food.

Then she went to her clothes rack and stood there with her face in her hands for a minute. Ralph Anderman. Here to see her. Lunch. 100 Richest People in America. 10 Most Eligible Bachelors. 8 People Who Are Transforming Our World.

One man still capable of making Emily Lister behave like a besotted thirteen-year-old.

 

 

 

 

Z
aza dashed down the hallway, damning the high heels she’d decided to wear that morning (if she’d known!), each step sinking into the deep pile carpeting that covered every inch of XTV’s three surprisingly capacious floors. Zaza felt as if she had run a hundred miles this morning, and every step of it had been like running in sand. But of course it was only her first day; tomorrow she would wear flats. If she could still walk by tomorrow.

She came to an awkward halt in front of one of the dressing rooms—the gold heart enclosing the two names VALERIE LEBLANC and LILA PARKER. For a moment she allowed herself self-indulgent chagrin—if only she could have been Lila’s assistant (or, as another assistant had introduced himself that morning, “porn slave”). If there was one person in the world she could have been, it was Lila Parker, the voluptuous (and nice! Until today, Zaza hadn’t even known how important it was to be nice!) young star of
The Mountain Lion.
Instead she had to be working for Valerie “Most Hated Woman in Porn” LeBlanc.

She knocked, with a leaping in her heart—maybe Lila Parker would be there?—and when no one responded, took a deep breath and used the key she had been given. The door opened and she entered a room that was pointedly divided into two equal parts.

At a glance, she could tell which half was Valerie’s. Lila’s half of the room was a luxurious confusion of silk underwear, furry slippers, bouquets, and champagne bottles. Framed photographs (all of gorgeous men, to Zaza’s covetous eye) coated her wall. On a red velvet love seat, a pile of recently opened boxes were surrounded by their torn silver gift paper.
Oh, God, to be Lila Parker!
A mini-parade of Lila’s most recent amours marched through Zaza’s pining brain: John Banks, with his cool air of mystery; Ben Hartford, the most beautiful man in the world of erotica (voted as such by the union two years running); and, most painful of all, Zaza’s eternal crush, Jared Vairy. Zaza told herself to snap out of it (Late! She had been late for everything all day!) and turned determinedly to the other half of the room.