Droplets of rain were landing on my bare legs. I closed my umbrella carefully. I was here to see a powerful woman. As she greeted me, all expectations seemed to cement.
You see, her reputation surpassed her. Everyone in the know knew that she was very fussy. And to have a madam sell you meant proper money. Stefanie Powers, who was the spitting image of my madame. While I stood facing this lady of vaster years, the image of Stefanie Powers from the TV series, Hart to Hart, decked head to toe in Versace, stared at me β up and down, down and then up.
Her chestnut-colored hair sat perfectly coiffed, long and just the right amount of bounce. In the corner of the room sat a mahogany bar, fully stocked with crystal glasses and high-end spirits. The Gallery was the name of this place, and its maroon-colored walls were covered with professional photographs of high-end call girls.
My focus trailed this collection of women. Footsteps and creaking could be heard getting louder and heavier.
A large stranger with a mop of thick grey hair appeared in the doorway. My new client. He wore a monogrammed blue blazer. He was probably fifty years old, handsome and healthy looking. Marika offered him a glass of brandy and a cigar, as they made small talk. I stood there in my short, white, pleated cotton skirt and low-cut black fitted sweater, waiting for him to decide if, at twenty-one, I was a little bit old for his tastes.
