Marrying Up Read online

  What didn’t take long was for Ms. Chase’s patience with me to run thin. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Valium?” she asks again after the seventeenth take.

  Our little afterschool special is quickly degenerating into Valley of the Dolls.

  “Why? Is seventeen takes a lot?”

  “Yes, Ms. Hastings. The most we’ve ever had.”

  At least that’s something. “I don’t know what to say—everything that comes out of my mouth sounds so…I don’t know…desperate?”

  “Just be yourself, for heaven’s sake. Maybe your voice won’t shake so much if you pretend you’re having a conversation with an old friend. And don’t say anything snarky this time. Coyness is one thing, but rudeness is quite another. Bob—get ready.”

  “How come she didn’t have to do hers over seventeen times?” I ask, pointing to George. She flew through her profile in no time. Ms. Chase and Bob the cameraman both agreed the first take was perfect.

  “It must be the twins,” George says, squeezing her boobs together with her arms and making a kissy face.

  “Fine. Just give me a few minutes to prepare this time, okay?”

  Ms. Chase makes a big show of looking at her watch, and Bob drags himself over to the coffee machine.

  Hmmm… What do I bring to the table?

  What do I, Holly Marie Hastings—bitching obituarist, fallen optimist, aspiring philanthropist—bring to the table?

  Well, the table itself, for one thing, if you included my chest.

  But so what if I did? I don’t know too many men who would kick Debra Messing or Kate Hudson out of bed, and they’re not exactly stacked.

  Always attuned to my state of my mind, George pops over to help me work it through.

  “You may not be busty, but you are tall and willowy,” she offers. “And believe me—that’s a good thing.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly say willowy. I’m barely five-six.” With heels, though…

  “Holly, compared to a five-foot-one bonsai like me, you’re a willow. Trust me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Of course. And lots of guys love that.”

  “I guess. But what about my hair?”

  “Have you tried a volumizing shampoo?”

  “I meant the cut. It’s so blah. I was thinking of getting one of those choppy bobs…”

  With that, Ms. Chase clickety-clicks out from behind the backdrop. “Don’t cut your hair. Men like it long. Ninety-two percent of husbands who cheat do so with women who have longer hair than their wives.”

  “An interesting statistic, Ms. Chase, but somehow, I don’t really care,” I say.

  “Just trying to help,” she says curtly and withdraws.

  George heads over to inspect the box of Krispy Kremes next to the coffee machine, while I prepare by mentally reciting my Calming and Focusing mantra. An oldie but a goodie, it’s one of the many helpful exercises gleaned from Sandeep, an Ayurvedic mental health practitioner I’d found in the Yellow Pages. The principle? Clearing one’s mind readies it for inspiration and understanding. The practice: Repeating gibberish until nothing eventually means something…

  Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum…

  The source of my tension isn’t my haircut or my bra size. So what is it? Why am I so nervous? Why can’t I come up with anything good to say?

  Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum…

  Am I afraid of failure? Afraid of success? Am I sabotaging myself?

  …Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum… Umbalabumbum…

  “Are we ready yet, Ms. Hastings? I have another appointment in fifteen minutes.”

  “Umbalabumbum! For $995, you’d think you could cut me some slack! I’m trying to figure out exactly who I am, and how to get that across to anybody who might remotely care.”

  She shoots me a dark look and motions for Bob to return to his post. “Ms. Hastings, remember when I told you to just be yourself for the camera?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, maybe you should try something else.”

  Eureka!

  “Why, Ms. Chase! You’ve just given me a wonderful idea…”

  I clear my throat and open the top button on my blouse, exposing more of what obviously isn’t there.

  “Any time you’re ready,” I say to Bob.

  My instinct, understandably, had been to cover up all my insecurities and flaws, as we all tend to do when the stakes are so high. But I’d forgotten my own cardinal rule: Neediness bad, confidence good. And nothing leads to desperation and self-doubt more than having to sustain a bunch of whopping lies about yourself. This is too important to be playing games. If any guy, rich or poor, is ever going to be interested in me, and stay that way long enough to fall madly in love, he’ll need to see exactly who I am. The real me. Not the public Holly, but the private Holly. No bullshit.

  I look straight into the camera.

  “Hi out there! I’m Holly. My age isn’t important, because I’m still young. My height isn’t important, because I’m not too short or too tall, and my weight isn’t important because I’m thin enough. I’ll admit that I may be a bit shy in the boob department, but hopefully that won’t be a deal-breaker for you. And if it is, then you should probably just move on to the next profile. Or give me implants for our first anniversary. Whatever. So what else can I say about me? Well, I don’t like walks on the beach, because the only beach I really know fronts on the lake and you have to step over dead fish and used condoms about every three feet. I don’t like eating in fancy restaurants, because I prefer a burger and fries. I don’t smoke, but I used to, and can’t promise that I never will again. I do indulge in the occasional cocktail and I hope you do, too. I don’t really like my job anymore, but I do enjoy lots of other things, like writing and Halloween and the smell of gasoline.”

  I pause to take a breath, and glance off to the side. Ms. Chase’s eyes are wide with horror.

  “Oh! I almost forgot—I’m in therapy, and proud of it! Not that I’m balls-out crazy or anything, but I am a teensy bit neurotic. Most of my shrinks seem to agree that my problems stem from being an overthinker, except for one wannabe Freudian who thought I was mired in some sort of unresolved Electra complex, which I doubt, frankly, and you would too, if you’d ever met my dad, which hopefully you will one day! But that’s another story. Where was I again? Oh yeah—therapy. Anyway, ideally, you’re in therapy too, because I strongly believe that getting to know yourself from the inside out is one of the most important parts of life’s long and lovely journey. Okay! So as for what I’m looking for in a man, here’s the deal…. Since I’ve only been in one committed relationship, and that was ages ago, I pretty much have no clue. I suppose the most important thing about you for now is that you like me. And yourself. But not too much. Because I find narcissism totally unattractive. That’s about it. Oh, and no cat people, please. I am not fond of cats, either. Or people who like them.”

  I close my laptop and put it aside. I’ve decided to write my introduction at the very end, after all is said and done and I have the benefit of hindsight, but I am already well into my first chapter. Even though it’s just a rough point-form outline of what will eventually become the first draft, How to Marry a Millionaire (And Still Love Yourself in the Morning!) is practically going to write itself. All I have to do is stay attuned to any potential research opportunities, wait and see if the Moneyed Mates thing pans out, and incorporate it all into the manuscript in the meantime.

  Although I am still frustrated by the soul-crushing banality of my workaday world—Jill and Boyfriend’s bedroom giggles have been driving me nuts all night; my job completely sucks, day in day out; my brothers seem in constant need of my babysitting services—I can sense that things are starting to change. First of all, I am writing at home, or at le
ast trying to, which is something I haven’t done in years. My life feels less out of control. Most importantly, though, hope is gleaming again on the horizon.

  chapter 6

  Love Lives, Past and Present

  As the crisp and colorful autumn days fade into a cold and dreary November, I grow increasingly weary of Martindale’s constant mocking. He is extremely opposed to The Plan, and never tires of sharing with me the many reasons why. Even Berenice has failed to see things my way, and couldn’t, in good conscience, lend her approval. Though they’ve made some valid points—Martindale felt intentionally marrying rich would undermine any subsequent success I might have as a writer, while perpetually, deliberately impoverished Berenice wouldn’t wish a million dollars on her worst enemy—I know the time has come to make a clean break and find me another shrink.

  According to the rumors bouncing off the walls of the Bugle at the speed of sound, a therapist by the name of Lacy Goldenblatt was the genius who’d helped Virginia Holt through her extremely messy divorce and subsequent Vicodin addiction last year. Frankly, I was just as surprised to hear that retail therapy had failed her as I was that Virginia had turned to past-life regression as a solution.

  Happily, when I called to inquire about the possibility of making an appointment, there had been a cancellation. “Lucky for you, Dr. Goldenblatt had another breakthrough this week!” The receptionist was apparently a true believer. “The 6:00 p.m. spot on Tuesdays is now available. Just so you know, the session fees are $80 each, plus $120 for the doctor’s initial ‘Getting to Know You’ meeting.”

  “I could really use a breakthrough,” I told her. “Fast.”

  “The doctor works quickly. Don’t worry.”

  I’d long since committed the slim volume known as Bluebird Group Health’s “What’s Covered” pamphlet to memory, and I knew there was no way this would fly, seeing as how Dr. Goldenblatt’s medical prefix came courtesy of a Ph.D. in Multicultural Studies from Walla Walla University, most likely mail-order to boot (I’d looked her up on the Internet to make sure she was a certified regression therapist). Still, I had the feeling there were lessons to be learned here.

  “Could you put half on my MasterCard and half on my Visa?”

  “If you like, we have a new installment plan with a preferred interest rate.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  “Dr. Goldenblatt doesn’t want financial considerations to prevent anyone from attaining Realization.”

  “Of course she doesn’t. So maybe I could just settle up with her in my next life?” Die now, pay later?

  “She’s in with a patient now, but if you hold on, I’ll ask her…”

  “No, wait! It’s okay. I’ll take the payment plan.”

  “Good thinking. Money might be tighter the next time around.”

  As usual, George’s lusty good looks landed her one step ahead of the game.

  Less than a week after we’d taped our personal introduction, Ms. Chase called with some good news: It seemed a well-to-do young fellow (her words, not mine) had been extremely impressed by George’s tape and was already champing at the bit. After viewing his profile, George agreed and a date was set for Saturday night.

  “But was he good-looking? You haven’t really answered my question.”

  “For the tenth time, Holly, I told you I don’t know,” George moans as the cab pulls up to the restaurant. “It’s hard to tell just from watching a tape. He seemed okay, I guess. Ms. Chase has met him a bunch of times and she said he was all right.”

  “Exactly what did she say? What were her words?”

  “That he was ‘not unhandsome’ or something like that. Look, we’re going to find out for ourselves in about ten minutes so let’s just go over the signals before he gets here.”

  George insisted on my being a secret chaperone for her first date with Bobby Garrett, despite Ms. Chase’s assurances that he was a perfect gentleman. But if I were in George’s shoes (which I soon hope to be), I would want someone there to keep an eye out, too, just in case things got weird, especially since we’d each signed a waiver releasing Moneyed Mates from any moral or legal responsibility should one of their clients attack, harm, deceive or offend our persons in any way.

  And what did we really know about this guy, anyway? That he was from Carson City, Nevada. That he liked sushi. That he was some sort of self-made shipping magnate at the tender age of thirty-four. For all we or Ms. Chase knew, he was also a bigamist with rage-control issues and a crotch full of pubic lice.

  Since neither George nor I was exactly, ahem, the best judge of character (not by a long shot), we decided to play it extra safe with Bobby Garrett. Because it’s one of those lessons best learned before it’s too late, I was also planning to insist—in either a full chapter complete with cautionary tales or, at the very least, an important appendix—that my readers take all the necessary security precautions on early dates, as well, and possibly hire a private investigator to follow up with a thorough background check when and if things get serious. But before we could find out if Mr. Garrett had any outstanding arrest warrants or restraining orders in effect, we’d have to see if he was second-date material.

  George is tucked into a booth at Trattoria Casa Linga by ten to seven. I take my place at the bar, glance over and give her the thumbs-up. She looks great—a tight but not too tight red faux cashmere V-neck, tall black boots that give her almost three extra inches and a demure charcoal DKNY pencil skirt we found on sale at Kaufmann’s in the Walden Galleria just in time for the big date. Her layers of dark curls are pulled back into a low ponytail, with a few errant strands to complete the I-Hardly-Bother look. A bit of lip gloss, a bit of blush and easy on the eye makeup. All in all, pretty, pulled-together, but very relaxed.

  At precisely seven, Bobby Garrett appears in the doorway. I can tell it’s him because George’s face flushes bright red the moment she looks up and sees him. He smiles as soon as he notices her and makes his way over to the booth, where he shakes her hand and slides in across from her, his back to me.

  Though I only see him head-on for a moment or two, he seems fine. A bit on the short side maybe, but other than that, the basics are in place. Hair, clothes, face, body—all come together in a way that isn’t altogether unattractive.

  My God! This might actually work…

  We’d been to the restaurant for lunch earlier in the week to case the joint and choose seats that would allow me to both see and hear what was going on. George needed to know that I had her back in case she felt the need to suddenly excuse herself and not return.

  But she needn’t have worried, because shortly into George’s first real date in more than four years, it is becoming painfully obvious that Bobby Garrett is the one who wants to chew off his own leg in order to get away. George hasn’t stopped blabbing since he sat down, barely giving him the chance to get a word in edgewise. By the time the calamari arrives, she’s told him the entire story of her conception and birth, from insemination to placental abruption; by the time the salads show up, Bobby has heard all about what an asshole her professor was. Although I can’t see his face, the poor guy has been nodding for almost forty minutes straight. Whether he is falling asleep or simply being polite I cannot tell, but either way it’s a bad sign.

  The third time he looks down at his watch, just as George is launching into an explanation of why Trekker and not Trekkie is the preferred term, I catch her eye and give her the emergency bathroom signal.

  “What? What is it?” she asks as soon as the door closes behind us.

  “Ummm… How’s it going?”

  “You’ve heard everything. It’s going fine,” she says impatiently as she reapplies her lip gloss. “I like him. He’s cute.”

  “Well, I think you better slow down.”

  “Slow down? What do you mean?”

  “George, you’ve been talking nonstop.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes. You’ve hardly asked him a thing about himself.”
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  “I haven’t?”

  “No.”

  “Really?” She puts her gloss back in her purse and glares at her reflection.

  I shake my head. “Aren’t you curious about him? Who he is?”

  “Who he is…?” she asks cautiously, turning to me.

  “God, George, this is like basic dating etiquette.”

  “Tell me, quick.”

  “Well, maybe you should be asking him stuff like if he’s close with his family, where he went to school or if he has any pets, you know? Or how he got into the shipping business, considering he’s from a land-locked desert state. That sort of thing. I mean, you say you like him, but you don’t know anything about him. Oh, and by the way, most men don’t respond well to Star Trek trivia on the first date, G. Or even the hundredth date, for that matter. It’s not sexy. At all.”

  She plops down in an overstuffed chaise, devastated. “God. You’re right. Did I fuck it all up?”

  “Not yet, but when you go back out there, take a breath, have a bite of food and listen to him for a bit. Give him a chance.”

  “I guess I’m not used to this. Maybe I’m trying too hard.”

  “You’re just nervous. And out of practice. You have to take it easy. Be patient, you know? Who you are is going to come out in time. Let him get to know you, but slowly.”

  “I see what you’re saying, but whatever happened to letting it all hang out? You’re the one who thought psychoanalysis and boob jobs were worth mentioning in your personal introduction, need I remind you.”

  “Exactly. And who’s the one with the date tonight?”

  “But I thought honesty was always the best policy…”

  “Of course it is, in general, but this is your first date, so a little bit of restraint is also called for. Otherwise, how are you supposed to build an aura of mystery? You need him to be wondering who you are, wanting to know more about you. You don’t have to beat him over the head with it.”

  She stands up and smoothes her skirt. “You’re right. You’re really good at this, Holly. Maybe you should be a dating advisor or something. That would be a great business—or wait!—a great reality show, following pathetic women around on dates and pointing out what they’re doing wrong…”