I had a horrendous row with one of my girlfriends. I’d been short of cash, and had been using men from Match.com to buy me dinners. It seemed obvious, eat an apple for breakfast, half a bagel for lunch, then a big dinner, plus wine, with some city boy picking up the tab. They want a date, I want a meal, fair exchange.
“But it’s prostitution,” she had yelled. She’s a bit of an old feminist, and has paid her own way since girlhood. What I’m omitting here is that her daddy’s rich, gave her an allowance through her teens, sent her to Harvard, and bought her an apartment in Manhattan. She’s never had to wait tables or scrub floors.
“I’m not actually sleeping with them,” I said. This wasn’t entirely true. I’d slept with a couple, who I’d really liked. But I saw that as entirely separate from the dinner transaction.
A few days later, we made up. “I care about you Cara,” she told me. We did the crying-hugging thing. I was still a bit hurt at being judged. I resolved to live off tinned ravioli while I looked for a better job or a cheaper apartment. “You were right,” I said, “it’s a slippery-slope.”
“Why do British people say that?” she asked.
“It just means that one thing turns into another,” I said.
“Come and live at my place if you like, you can have the spare room,” she said,
“I thought you were going to rent it out,” I said, I remembered this had been part of the plan. Her father was canny like that.
“That can wait, I’ll just tell dad I need the space.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Not sure, maybe, let me think about it.” The last thing I needed was to feel obliged to someone.
I mention all this because it helped me piece together what might have happened with Katy.