Trophy Husband (22 page)

But Tristan’s merely asking me on the show
as an expert, right? He’s not asking me to talk about my quest. He
wants to know how to appraise boy toys. I can do that. I can help
other women who’ll come after me. I’ll just postpone today’s blog
til the afternoon, and I’ll go get ready for Helen’s show now.

Besides, I still have fight in me. I haven’t
gone soft. I won’t let a little peaceful easy feeling with Chris
make me forget there’s still a battle with my ex, and I’m not
through getting even.

“I’d love to be on the show.”

A town car arrives at my house an hour
later, after I’ve touched up my makeup and picked out a new outfit,
a perfect one for TV.

I spend the next thirty minutes on the drive
pecking away at my phone, trying to whittle through the mess of
email and Facebook and Web messages that have accumulated this
morning. Viewers are still following the contest and want to know
what’s going on and why there’s no report today. It’s going to have
to suck when I pull the plug this afternoon. But they’ll be cool
with it, right? I’ve always had a good relationship with my
viewers. Everything will work out fine, everything will work out
fine, everything will work out fine...

Then I see a text from
Chris.
Hey, where’s your video? Can’t wait
to see it…

My stomach plummets. He’s been waiting for
my blog. There’s probably a part of it that must feel like closure
to him, like the final end of one relationship – my relationship
with a contest – and the start of a new one. With him.

But that finality won’t come until
later.

I hit his number, exhaling as I wait. I feel
like a heel as he answers.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

There’s an awkward pause and I’m sure he can
read my mind and know that I haven’t pulled the plug yet. “So, what
are you up to?”

“I’m about to be on Helen’s show,” I say,
and then I explain how it’s my last hurrah, and then I’ll bow out
gracefully.

He doesn’t say anything. The silence
stretches through several blocks.

“Chris?”

“I’m here.”

“Are you mad at me?”

He pauses and sighs, and in that sigh I hear
the resignation and the frustration. “No. I just was hoping this
would be over. I was hoping after this weekend that I’d have you to
myself.”

“But you do,” I say and I wish I could hide
the desperation I suddenly hear in my voice. “You do have me.”

“Yeah, maybe it seems that way to you. But
to me, it still feels like you’re involved with some kind of crazy
pursuit. With some kind of revenge thing you have going on. And
hey, look. I respect the need for closure. I’m totally fine if you
need more time or whatever to deal with stuff,” he says and lets
his voice trail off.

Stuff. Like my ex. Like all the baggage I
bring. Have I not fully dealt with it? Yet, that’s why I started
this contest in the first place, right? Because I wanted closure
with Todd. But how much more closed can our relationship be?

I sigh and try to explain. “I just want to
make a point. That’s all. I want to prove that women can do what
men can do.”

“I know, McKenna. I know,” he says in a soft
voice, but one tinged with resignation. “I know this is a point
that’s important. And what I’m saying is when this point is no
longer important to you, that’s when you should call me again.
Goodbye.”

Then he hangs up, and I am surrounded by an
all-too familiar feeling of being left. Of being alone. I clench my
jaw because now I’m mad at Chris, and besides, if I don’t call upon
these seemingly endless stores of anger in me, I’ll probably break
down and cry.

And I don’t want to ruin my mascara before I
go on TV to make a point.

* * *

The car pulls up to Helen’s studios and the
chauffeur opens my door. I thank him, then reach for my pirate girl
bag, keeping my chin up and my focus on. The security guard buzzes
me in. I show my ID at the desk and sign the guest register.

A tall, handsome and immaculately dressed
man in pressed khaki pants and a pink polo shirt greets me. His
hair is light brown and his face is full of freckles.

He reaches a hand out to shake mine briskly.
“McKenna Bell, I’m Tristan Quinn. So glad you could be here.” He
holds a clipboard in one hand and gestures with the other to the
hall. I walk alongside him down an air-conditioned hallway. Photos
in blond wood frames line the walls every few feet. Each one
features Helen with a different guest. Singers, actors, even other
Web show hosts.

I wonder if their stomachs were tied in
knots before they taped as well.

* * *

I can hear Helen chattering with the
audience from my backstage post. Tristan is positioned next to me.
He grips his clipboard tightly. He wields that thing like a weapon,
ready to brandish it at any moment. He’s methodical, organized. He
points to the stage and places his hand over his ear, his gesture
to make sure I’m listening.

“I’m really excited about our final guest.
Her name is McKenna Bell, The Fashion Hound, but you probably know
her better as a woman on a mission.” Tristan taps me on the
shoulder, holds up his hand and begins counting down with his
fingers. “Her video blog with fashion tips is a huge hit, and it’s
taken off like crazy in the last month since she started her own
sort of reality competition online. She’s looking to land a Trophy
Husband. Let’s say hello to McKenna Bell.”

As Tristan points to the stage I walk out,
the bright lights on me, a smattering of applause from the
audience. Helen shakes my hand and we sit down on her white couch
as the cameras keep rolling. She’s wearing white slacks and
sneakers, a long-sleeve button-down and a black sweater vest. I’m
wearing my favorite poodle skirt, Mary Janes, and an emerald green
fitted tee-shirt with my silver heart necklace. I ignore the fact
that my shirt is the color of Chris’ eyes.

“First of all, love the shoes,” she
says.

“Yours rock too,” I say gesturing to her
Keds.

“Let’s dive right into this. I want to put
your skills to the test right now,” she says, then turns to the
audience. “I have a surprise for The Fashion Hound. She didn’t know
about this in advance, but she’s going to teach us what makes a
good Trophy Husband.”

She points back stage. “Bring out the boys,”
Helen says and then three good-looking men walk onto the stage.
Helen stands up, gesturing for me to join her. “Since you’re the
world’s leading expert on Trophy Husbands, we thought we would pick
your brains about what makes a good candidate.”

Okay, I didn’t expect that.
I thought this appearance would be more about the
why
of Trophy Husbands,
and the chance to turn the tables. But I’m on TV, so I need to go
with the flow.

“Just like picking a wine.”

“Exactly. So you’re the sommelier. I want
you to evaluate these men and tell us how each one rates as a
potential Trophy Husband.” She points to the first guy. “This is
Troy. Say hello, Troy.”

He follows her orders. “Hello,” he says with
a wave. Troy has thick brown hair, deep brown eyes, a nice tan, and
high cheekbones.

“Troy is twenty-three, six-two, a tennis
pro, and is fluent in French. What do you think?”

That he’s nothing like Chris. That I have
zero interest in him. That I don’t want to appraise men as if
they’re livestock.

Instead, I stick with the
original definition of a Trophy Husband and give my answer swiftly
and immediately based on that criterion. “Height is perfect. I like
that he’s athletic. The job – tennis pro – kind of sounds like
you’re probably not into working very hard,
which
is a good thing for a kept man,
but at least you have a skill to keep you busy. And I have to say
the French is a nice touch. Very nice.”

I tell myself this is like speed dating, and
it’ll be over soon.

“Next, we have Ethan.” Helen moves to the
guy in the middle. Ethan has straight brown hair, streaked with
blond highlights. His hair hangs a little shaggily across his
forehead, covering his blue eyes a bit, until he sweeps it back.
His hair reminds me of Chris, but I force myself to push the
thought of him away for now. “Ethan is twenty-one, six feet tall,
an amateur skateboarder, and knows how to cook Indian food.”

“I
love
Indian food, so that is a big
plus. But the skater part worries me. Skaters can be slackers, and
while I don’t need you to work, I do need you to not be a complete
bum.”

Helen continues with the final man. “Here is
Javier.” Javier is a little shorter, in good shape, with
close-cropped black hair and warm hazel eyes. “He is five-eleven,
hails from Brazil, works as a lifeguard, and loves to give
footrubs.”

“Foot rubs are huge, Helen. Any Trophy
Husband worth his salt should be skilled in footrubs. And the
international flare is a great touch. I can trot that out easily in
social circles to impress people.”

“So, right now, if you had to pick, who’d be
the best Trophy Husband?”

“Troy,” I say firmly. “Il parle
francais.”

“Voulez vous to you,” Helen says. Then she
dismisses the men and they disappear offstage. We head over to her
couch. “Look at you, just sizing them up and slicing them down,
just like that. So this Trophy Husband project is all about
empowerment, alpha females, going against the grain.”

“Two can play at the trophy spouse game, I
say.”

“So this is a crusade, a cause?”

“Exactly. But now I want other women to take
up the mantle. We’ve been told for years to date older men, but we
can snag younger men too. Much younger men.”

Helen becomes more excited. “You’re amassing
followers, aren’t you?”

“So many we should form an army.”

Helen can’t get enough of this. She slaps
her palm on the arm of the couch. I take that as a cue to keep
going. “I believe women can do what men can do. And we don’t have
to feel bad. We don’t have to explain ourselves. We can just do
it.”

The audience loves this, they are
enraptured. I am going to end this on a high note. No one will
remember that I bowed out the same day. They will remember the
message and a generation of women who come after me will collect
Trophy Husbands and they will remember this moment when I led them
to the promised land of equality.

“I can’t imagine you’ve had any trouble
finding takers though. So where do we stand in your quest? You’ve
been dating JP and Craig and this guy Chris, but we never saw the
video from that date. Are you really going to go through with this?
Are you going to walk down the aisle?”

I open my mouth to answer, but no words come
out.

Helen is a pro though and she ably fills in
the silence with humor. “What I really want to say is can I help
you pick out your dress? Maybe help you get a tiara for your hair,
a little princess crown or something? And maybe we can schedule
your wedding to the Trophy Husband winner to air on TV too?”

The prospect sounds horrifying, and it’s as
if there’s a weed in my stomach, twisting its way around my
insides, latching onto my organs. A few hours ago, I thought the
cause still mattered. I thought the point was worth making. But
despite the new threats from Todd, the lying is gnawing away at me,
and I don’t want to feel consumed by revenge anymore. If he’s going
to go after my business, I’ll have to deal. That’s what lawyers are
for and my friend is married to the best of them. I’ll get through
whatever mud Todd slings my way just as I got through the break-up
– with a little help from my friends.

A million thoughts race through my mind in
this instant, a million voices. Chris saying ‘When this point is no
longer important to you, that’s when you should call me again.’ I
hear Andy’s words: ‘He doesn’t care what you do. He doesn’t care if
you prove him wrong. I doubt Amber cares either.’ I hear Hayden’s
daughter: ‘I think you should find a nice boy. I want you to be
happy. I want you to find your sailboat in the moonlight.’ And my
sister Julia: ‘ When I find someone I can actually talk to that’s
when I’ll know I’ve found the one.’ The voices grow stronger,
louder, like a Greek chorus, echoing in my ears.

And that chorus guides me on to this moment.
To this truth: there’s no more getting even, just living my life,
moving on.

Helen is staring at me, and I can tell she’s
getting ticked that I’m no longer rattling off quips and snark.
This is TV, after all, and she doesn’t want any dead time. I don’t
want to let her down. I want to give her something good. And I
realize this is the perfect way for me to move on. To drop the
anger, to say goodbye to getting even, and to step into my
future.

“Actually Helen, I have a confession to
make.”

She rubs her hands together. She’s glad this
segment may be back on track. “Do tell.”

I take a deep breath. “The contest is
over.”

“Over?”

I nod. “Yes, I made the decision this
weekend, and I’m announcing it now for the first time. It’s over
because I don’t want a Trophy Husband. It’s over because I don’t
want to marry a younger man just to get even. It’s over because no
contest, no boy toy, no hot young thing will ever change the fact
that my ex-fiancé ditched me for another woman. But most of all,
and most important, it’s over because I met someone along the way,
and he’s the one I want. And there’s one more thing I want to say,
and I hope you don’t mind me saying this on your show.” I look to
her as a flock of nerves descends on me, beating their wings. But I
have to live with this vulnerability. I have to be okay with it. I
think I am.

Helen is surprised with the curveball, but
she’s not a national TV show host for nothing. “As long as you
don’t swear on my show.”