Marrying Up (8 page)

Ms. Chase glanced at my torso and zeroed in on the hard sell. “First of all, our clients know that many of the women who come to us are extremely attractive, such as yourselves. Plus, it’s overly simple to think all wealthy men want is some trophy wife or blond-bimbo type with large breasts. Granted, some of our clients have gone that route in the past, but now they’ve come to realize they want a lasting relationship with more substance.”

“Someone they can bring home to mother?” George suggested.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. And to be completely honest, very few of our clients come from old money. Most are businessmen, shrewd investors or savers…we’ve also had a few lottery winners, that sort of thing. And these men, these ‘millionaires next door,’ as I like to call them, often come from modest backgrounds and want to share their lives with someone whom they feel they can relate to on an essential level.”

George seemed pleased. “So Playboy bunnies are out, then.”

“Our clients are wise enough to understand that once
wealth enters the equation, nobody just likes them for them anymore, perhaps with the exception of the people they knew before. The money is always there, prejudicing people in their favor. It would be the height of egotism to believe otherwise.”

I looked up from my pad. She was giving me great stuff here, and damned if I was going to miss a single word of it.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking notes,” I told her.

“She’s writing a book,” George added.

“You’re not going to quote me, I hope,” she said sternly, adjusting the flaccid bow at the collar of her silk blouse and tugging down her smartly tailored jacket. Apparently, Ms. Chase thought she was the only one who’d figured out a way to turn the workings of the male mind into a moneymaking venture, and she didn’t want the secret getting out.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “This is just a bit of preliminary research.”

She leaned back and continued. “So ladies, why do you think these wealthy men come to Moneyed Mates?”

“Sex?” George offered.

Ms. Chase shook her head. “They can get that at the local singles bar, Ms. Perlman-MacNeill. Or yacht club, for that matter.”

“Privacy?”

“No.”

“Desperation?”

“No.”

“Coupons?”

“Certainly not.”

“We give up.”

“I’ll tell you.”

“Promise?”

“Your curtness is unbecoming, Ms. Hastings, as is your sarcasm.”

“She’s very moody,” George explained. “It’s her cycle.”

“Sorry,” I said, stifling a laugh. “I’m just anxious to hear what you have to say.”

Ms. Chase smoothed back her too-black hair and continued. “What drives them here is the one quality they all have in common—pragmatism. They assume that most women will be after their money, anyway, so they just want to be in control of the game. They’re lonely, they work long hours and they have neither the time nor the inclination to play the dating game.”

We nodded. It all made perfect sense. There was just one more question left to ask.

“So…does this really work?”

“If you don’t get a date within two months, we’ll refund your membership dues minus the video sitting fee of two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“That seems fair, I guess. George—what do you think?”

“I don’t know…”

“We’ve had thirty-three marriages since we opened eight years ago, and plenty of serious relationships,” Ms. Chase added, sealing the deal. “Our receptionist Florence will provide you with a preparation packet on your way out.”

“Well, I guess we don’t have much to lose,” George concluded.

Exactly what I was thinking.

After handing over our credit cards at the front desk and scheduling our next appointment, Ms. Chase popped her immaculately groomed head out of her office.

“Ms. Hastings? Ms. Perlman-MacNeill? Before you come in to tape your personal profiles, I’ll remind you both to give some serious thought as to what you bring to the table. Be prepared to articulate exactly what sets you apart from the
crowd if you want to catch a wealthy gentleman’s eye. Remember, ladies, everyone wants to date
him
…but what would make
him
want to date
you?
”

I’m still unsure what my angle should be. How can you possibly convince someone—especially someone so highly sought after—that you’re the one for him in under two minutes of bad lighting and a background of fall foliage? I imagine it would take a whole lot longer than that, especially in my case.

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: Need
iness 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 least 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.

Love Lives, Past and Present

A
s 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 Vi
codin 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.”

“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…”

“I’ll have to include a chapter on that in my book,” I interrupt. “For now, let’s focus on the task at hand,” I say as I guide her toward the door.

“What’s that?”

“Well, you like him, so try and score a second date.”

“Yeah!”

“And easy on the Chianti! You know how you get when you’re drunk, and you don’t want to scare him off with all that girl power just yet. Remember where we found him—he has a fragile ego and dubious self-esteem, so go easy. Let him take the lead.”

She exhales deliberately, gathers herself up, and pushes through the door.

When we return to the dining room, Bobby is already gone. He’s left two $100 bills on the table, and a message with the waiter about a family emergency.

George puts on a brave face, smiles even, but turns to me with the saddest eyes. “He had a cold sore, anyway. Who needs that?”

“Holly, I like to begin each session by devoting a few minutes to
pranayama,
or yogic breathing. This will help to not only relax us physically, but also to prime our minds and ready them for any impressions or fragments that might rise
to the surface later. I assume you’re familiar with the
ujjayi
technique?”

“Of course,” I reply, and turn my palms upward.

“Okay, so let’s shut our eyes…relax…and
breeeeaaathe…
” Lacy Goldenblatt closes her eyes, snorts in loudly through her nose and growls out from somewhere deep within her abdomen. I tense the proper muscles accordingly and try to follow suit, though I can’t help but peek.

We are seated—Lacy in full lotus; me barely managing half—on a lovely antique Persian rug.

After we’ve breathed enough, Lacy instructs me to open my eyes.

“The fundamental principles behind past-life regression therapy are similar to those of Buddhism,” she begins. “We accumulate psychic baggage, much like karma, both good and bad, over the course of many lifetimes. In Buddhism, the ultimate goal is to end the cycle of rebirth and misery by attaining nirvana. In P.L.R., we take it one step further and try to identify exactly who we were in the past in the hopes of understanding who we are today. Once we can see our former selves clearly, we can function better on a daily basis in this life, unencumbered by what I call the ‘supraconscious’ guilt and trauma accumulated over millennia of lives lived.” She pauses to take a sip of something whose odor proves too much for the good scientists as Sharper Image. “Licorice bark and wormwood. Pungent isn’t it?”

I can only nod.

“So I like to call what we’re doing here ‘Checking our Baggage.’ Once we see what we’ve been holding on to, we can store it neatly away in the backs of our minds so that it doesn’t bother us anymore. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

“So…how does this work? How do we—I mean, I—get to that point?”

“Well, what I use is basically a form of hypnosis. Have you ever been hypnotized before?”

“Oh yeah. I’m as suggestible as they come.” I’d once admitted to having a crush on Pat Sajak in front of two hundred and fifty people in a Las Vegas dinner club.

“Excellent. So why don’t you just lean back onto some of those floor cushions there and make yourself comfortable. As soon as you’re ready I’m going to start counting back from one hundred.”

“Ready.”

Lacy lies down right next to me. “Just listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to relax and think about nothing. Just the sound of my voice…” Despite the distracting whiff of wormwood on her breath, I ease into the cushions beneath my shoulders and try to get with the program. “…my voice is all that you hear, all that you’re aware of, all that you’re thinking about. The sound of your own lungs filling with air and the swish of your beating heart are fading into nothingness, fading into the background, fading into the past…”

“What are you doing in there?” Jill asks.

“I can’t find my mittens,” I grumble, digging around in the back of the hall closet. “You know—those cute pink ones I got on sale at the end of last winter…”