“Got any coffee?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t drink coffee.”
“I’m fine, then. Don’t really care much for tea.” You amble about the living room, peer out the window from a far enough distance that I suspect you’re afraid of heights. Yes, you shudder subtly and turn away, shrugging uncomfortably. Move to the Van Gogh. “This an original?”
I laugh, but kindly. “No, unfortunately. The original is at the MOMA. That is a reproduction, but a rather excellent one.”
You move to thePortrait of Madame X. This one captures your interest for a few moments. “This is interesting.”
I do not comment. I do not talk about that portrait, or its relevance to my name. I do not talk about myself at all.
Finally, you turn away and take a seat on the couch, extend your long legs and cross them at the ankle, fling an arm across the back of the couch. I perch on the armchair catercorner to the couch, a mate to the one in my bedroom. Knees together, legs angled to one side, ankles crossed beneath, red Jimmy Choos ondisplay. That’s a ploy, that display of my shoes. See if you look at them, notice them. You do not.
Time to take this appointment by the scruff. “You are not what I was expecting... Miss Tompkins.”
A scowl, then. Curl of the upper lip, corners of your mouth downturned. Disgusted, derisive. “Name’s George.”
“Explain.”
“Explain my name?” You seem truly baffled, then angry. “You first.”
Ha. Neatly parried. Point, Tompkins. “I am named for that painting.” I point at the Sargent.
“And I’m named for the state.”
“So your name is Georgia, then?”
You give me a hard stare, eyes gone hard as jade. “Last person who called me Georgia ended up needing dental implants.”
I smile. “Noted.”
Another long, awkward silence. “So. How’s this little program of yours work, Madame X?” A pause. “And do I really have to call you Madame X all the damn time? It’s a helluva mouthful.”
“Simply ‘X’ is fine, if you prefer.” I let some hardness enter my gaze. You don’t look away, but I can see it requires effort. You have backbone. “I’ll confess, George, that your case may require some... modification of my usual methods.”
“Why? ’Cause I got tits and a twat?”
My lips thin at your vulgarity. “Yes, George. Because you are a woman. My methods are geared for men, and my clientele are, exclusively—at least until now—men. Or rather, boys hoping to become men.”
“What is it you do, then? Dad was pretty vague. Told me I had to come to New York and see you, and do what you told me, and I didn’t have to like it, but I couldn’t fuck it up.”
“That’s all you were told?”
“Basically.”
I chew on the inside of my mouth and stare out the window, wondering, thinking. “Your father may have been confused about the nature of my services, in that case.”
You lean forward, drawing your feet together, elbows on knees. “What are your services?”
“Consider it... etiquette training, of a sort. Manners. Comportment. Bearing. Appearance, speech patterns, first impressions.”
“So you teach rich little assholes how to be less douchey.”
I blink and have to stifle a laugh. You really are funny. “Essentially, yes. But there’s more to it than that. Bearing comes in to play a lot. How you present yourself. How the opposite sex perceives you. How you assert yourself, even passively.”
“How are you supposed to passively assert yourself?” you ask.
“Body language, strategic silences, posture, eye contact.”
