Your Big Break (5 page)

“Our client, Jamie, discovered that her best friend, Lyndsey, was sleeping with her fiancé. So Jamie bedded down Lyndsey's boyfriend, and now she is kicking Lyndsey out of her apartment and her life.”

“A revenge affair,” Craig muses. “I like it!”

“Shows style, huh?” Amanda chimes in. “What I wouldn't give to see the look on Lyndsey's face when you deliver that letter.”

Oh, yeah, it's going to be a real treat.
Maybe Lyndsey will slap me across the face out of anger
. A few months ago, one jilted woman spit on my shoe after I informed her of her new single status. And a mortified ex once commanded her dog to attack me. But it was Pekingese, so the only casualty was the left corner of my Dooney & Bourke tote.

“Good work, ladies,” Craig calls, ducking out of my office.

“So, do you wear a Kevlar vest when you go out on a job?” Amanda jokes.

“Funny.” I roll my eyes. “No, I don't. But that being said, make sure you always follow rule number two.”

“Rule number two?” she asks, giving away the fact that she hasn't read the company handbook very carefully.

“Rule number two is: Never reveal your last name. It's not that you're in any danger, but you don't want to open yourself up to potentially harassing situations—angry exes phoning your house or leaving a flaming pile of dog poop on your front door. That kind of thing.”

Amanda shrugs and wrinkles her nose. “I'm glad I won't be working in the field.”

Steering us back to where we were before Craig interrupted, I resume my instructions.

“Breaking up friendships is the same as breaking up lovers: The most important thing is to adhere to the client's requests,” I explain. “We're here to make the parting as easy for them as possible, yet we have to keep their preferences in mind.”

“Obviously,” Amanda agrees. “But can you be really vicious? Can you tell a guy his girlfriend left because his dick's too small?”

Technically, yes, but I don't tell Amanda this. “I always try to let them down easy.”

“But what if the client asks you to be rude? Like with Jamie?”

“Then I'll be a teeny bit rude. But never outright hurtful. Any other questions?”

“Yeah, what are some good, standard lines you use to dump people?”

“We try to avoid using run-of-the-mill excuses,” I say.

It's true. If people want clichés, they could come with them on their own. There's a whole secret language to dumping somebody. I've cracked the code. I flip to the back page of my legal pad, where I've scrawled out:

“That takes all of the fun out of it,” Amanda says, interrupting my thoughts.

“What does?” I ask, startled. I quickly flip my legal pad shut before she can read it. The last thing I want to do is give Amanda any clichés she can use.

“Being nice. It's so easy and dull.”

Easy? Dull? Is she clueless?
“I hate to tell you, but dumping people isn't exactly a walk in the park.”

“But breaking up
in
parks is good, huh?”

By the way she says it, I can tell she's embarrassed about being caught out on rule #2. “That's right—rule number one, any public place will do.” I quickly outline Your Big Break Inc.'s five basic rules.

 
Then I get back to the friendship-ending letter.

“Too dramatic?” I wonder. I don't know why I'm asking Amanda. She hasn't even worked here a full week.

“Nope, not too dramatic, not too plain,” she says, grinning. And in a voice that reminds me of Goldilocks, she adds, “That sounds
juuuust
right!”

 
 
I have this ritual when I get home from work. It starts with a piping hot bath (bubble, if I'm so inclined), followed by some of my favorite music (U2, No Doubt, and Tori Amos—all the must-haves), topped off with a scrumptious meal from whatever takeout place comes next in the rotation, which goes: Chinese, pizza, deli sandwiches, Indian.

Then I plop down on the couch to write breakup letters, pick out “guilt” gifts for the dearly deserted, and match-make. Okay, so maybe that last one doesn't have much to do with Your Big Break Inc. In fact, it's in direct conflict with the business. But I really enjoy fixing people up and, like an addict, I can't seem to stop myself.

Can you blame me? I have an endless pool to choose from.

Every day I meet newly single people, all of them ready to jump back into the dating world. It's fun to try to pair them up. Evan Hirschbaum's ex-girlfriends are always good. Over the last year, I've found dates for five—count em, five!—of Evan's former flames. Granted, only one of these fix-ups actually turned into something lasting, but it was fun nonetheless.

Tonight, I'm planning to tackle the Jason/Lucy fiasco. Maybe Jason was onto something when he suggested taking Tai Chi to impress Lucy. I'm going to recommend that he try a few introductory classes.

It certainly couldn't hurt.

Even if he doesn't win Lucy back.

5

YBB INC. EMPLOYEE RULE #3
Avoid cheesy euphemisms.

 
 
 
 
 
A full-figured, voluptuous red-haired woman is standing in my doorway. It's early Tuesday afternoon and I'm chewing on a pencil, reading a case file. “Can I help you?” I ask.

“A man named Craig sent me back here for a free consultation,” she begins. “He said you could help me. I'm having a problem with my”—she pauses—“
in
significant other.”

“You want to tell me about it?” I ask, inviting her to sit down.

“I don't even know where to begin!” she cries, flopping on the chair opposite my desk. She brushes back a lock of her curly, red hair. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to fall apart. I'm usually much more composed than this. I'm just so upset over what's happened!”

“Can I get you something to drink?” I offer, smiling encouragingly. “Coffee? Water?”

She shakes her head. “No thanks, I just want to get this over with.”

I study her face. She seems embarrassed, nervous. “Get what over with?”

She squeezes her eyes shut and blurts, “Dumping the bastard! That's what you do, right?”

That's one way of putting it
. “I help people sort out messy relationships,” I clarify, putting down my file and devoting my full attention to her.

“Then you're exactly the person I need to see.” She snorts. “Because if things don't change soon, I'm going to throw myself off a bridge!”

“Ah, come on. It can't be that bad.”

“Worse.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, then, we'd better get started right away. I'm Dani, by the way.” I lean across the desk and pass her one of my business cards.

“I'm Gretchen Monaghan.” She pauses, then stuffs the card into her Kate Spade tote.

I smile reassuringly and pull out a legal pad and flip to a clean sheet. “I'm going to take a few notes as we go along,” I explain, to prepare her. Sometimes it makes people nervous when I start writing down their responses. I think they feel as though they're lying back on a couch, confessing all to a shrink. I can understand the feeling. There are definitely some similarities.

Gretchen settles back in her chair. “Where to begin,” she says. “I know, I'll tell you about Lester. Stockbroker bastard.”

I lean forward and write
Lester
on my legal pad. Underneath it, I jot down
stockbroker
. “How long have you two been involved?” I ask.

“We got engaged last Christmas,” she says, and I quickly hold up a hand to stop her.

“We actually don't handle marriages or engagements,” I explain.

Gretchen laughs. “Oh, Lester and I aren't engaged
anymore
. We broke up when he checked himself into McLean.”

I gulp. “McLean—as in the mental institution?” McLean Hospital is legendary in Massachusetts. It's known for having once housed Sylvia Plath and Ray Charles, among others.

“Mmm-hmm. Don't worry, he's not dangerous or anything. In fact,” she bemoans sadly, “Lester was perfect in every way—until he turned out to have borderline personality disorder.”

I let out a low whistle. “Borderline what?”

“Take your pick. Borderline jerk. Borderline asshole.” She sighs. “It's a bunch of psychobabble. What it basically means is that he's incapable of having a meaningful personal relationship, that he's chronically unsatisfied. Once he gets something, he no longer wants it. No woman will ever be good enough for him . . . blah, blah, blah.”

“That sounds like pretty much every guy I've ever dated,” I joke.

For the first time since I met her, Gretchen smiles. “You, too? And I thought I was the only one with a penchant for jerks.”

I laugh. “Nope, it's a common problem. Many women today suffer from it.”

“Well, anyway, after the whole Lester debacle, I'd sworn off men forever. That is, until I met The Big Jackass six months ago. He drew me in right away; I couldn't resist him.”

“The Big Jackass?” I repeat.

She groans. “At first he was a dream come true. Totally devoted, handsome, great personality, great in bed. The total package. Of course, his ‘package' wasn't fully operational without Viagra,” she recalls, flexing her fingers. “But considering he's in his late fifties, I'd say it's par for the course.”

“Late fifties!” I exclaim. I don't know how old Gretchen is, but I'm guessing early thirties.

As if reading my thoughts, she says, “I'm thirty-five; it didn't seem like that big a stretch. Besides, I've had such bad luck with men my age.”

“But now I take it things with this older guy aren't working out too well?”

“That's the understatement of the year.”

“How did you two meet?” I ask.

“I answered his online personal ad.”

I nod and jot that down.

“I don't know what I was thinking,” she continues. “I'm a fiery Leo and he's a hardheaded Capricorn, so we were doomed from the start. But he seemed so sweet, and I really do like older men. . . .”

We're getting off track, so I change the subject. “Before we go any further, I need to ask you a few questions.”

“All right, fire away.”

I have to make sure that Gretchen understands how Your Big Break Inc. does business, and that she's willing to abide by our rules. Likewise, I have to find out if I'll even be able to take on her case. Certain things we just don't do: marriages, engagements, or anything that feels “unsafe.” A lot of it is guesswork. I have to watch out for volatile personalities, potentially violent situations, and anything that generally seems too risky.

“Does this guy—”

“The Big Jackass,” she supplies.

“Right. Does he have a history of violent behavior?”

“No.”

“What about mental instability?”

She shakes her head.

“Does he abuse drugs or alcohol?”

“No.”

I write down her answers. “Any obsessive tendencies?”

Gretchen gives me a pointed look. “Are you asking me if he's a stalker?”

“I have to be on the lookout for potentially dangerous situations,” I explain.