Jackie Rose - Marrying Up

“Ah. Here it comes.”

“Okay, so this is the thing… I’m going to write a book detailing the entire process…”

“Ha!” she practically shouts. “The process of selling out and setting the women’s movement back about one hundred and fifty years?”

“Shhhhh! Keep your voice down, would you?”

“Why? If it’s such a great idea you should shout it from the rooftops!”

“That’s very funny, George. And you’re a fine one to talk about the women’s movement—you’re sleeping with the original Doctor of Misogyny! Professor Bales could write his own book on how to convince big-boobed undergrads that sleeping with him was their idea!”

“Don’t make this about me and Stuart. You’re the one planning to completely prostitute herself.”

“It’s not prostitution. Technically, it’s emancipation.”

“You say tomato, I say tomahto.”

“Cute. Don’t you want to hear about the book?”

“Go ahead,” she sighs. “Why stop now?”

“Okay, so on the surface, it’s going to be a step-by-step guide on how to marry a millionaire, complete with informational boxes, exercises, worksheets, all that stuff. A blueprint for my weary, downtrodden, working-for-the-man sisters around the world. That alone should make it sell a million copies.”

“Can’t argue with that. Go on.”

Her curiosity is getting the better of her. A good sign.

“But when you read between the lines,” I continue, “it’ll be an ironic commentary on male-female relationships, the history of the women’s movement, and the plight facing the modern woman/artist.” The idea is as close to brilliant as I can probably ever expect to come. “Tell me I’m wrong, G, but I think this book might have a little something in it for everyone!”

George twirls a curl around her finger. “I see what you’re saying, but what if the subtleties of sexual politics are lost on the average girl next door who buys your little manual or manifesto or whatever. It’ll just come off as an endorsement for gold digging.”

“It’ll be plainly obvious to anyone looking to debunk it. Trust me—How to Marry a Millionaire (And Still Love Yourself in the Morning!) will be immune from criticism. I do tongue-in-cheek very well, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“The irony, of course, is that I don’t know how to marry a millionaire, so I’ll have to find a rich guy in order to write this puppy. For realism’s sake.”

“I got that already, thanks. What a happy coincidence for you, by the way. And I don’t mean to nitpick, but if you ever read the New York Times or even Vanity Fair once in a while, you’d know that irony is dead. Been that way since 9/11…”

“Romance is what’s dead!” I slam my fist down on the table for emphasis. “This is not a quest for romantic love. It’s a quest for self-love, a pursuit of knowledge and insight and creativity which on the surface might seem like a grab for cash. But this is a search for something real. You’ve got to understand that.”

“Okay, now you’re just making me sad.”

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean that romance is dead dead. Just that it seems that way to me lately.” Losing one’s faith is contagious, and I certainly don’t want George suffering as I had. All I need to do is convince her there are plenty of other good reasons to come along for the ride. “Look, George. Maybe romance and love and chivalry are just hibernating for a while. Maybe in a few years, it’ll be trendy again to commit to an honest, monogamous relationship and all the men who’ve been holding out will come back from the dark side and flood the market. Who knows? But for now, my writerly persona will have to assume a detached skepticism when it comes to matters of the heart, or how else will I be able to push the pursuit of cold, hard cash over holding out for true love?”

“I guess it all sounds okay,” she says, scratching her head with a swizzle stick.

I lean in and hug her. “If you want, the real real irony could be that I actually do fall head over heels along the way. I mean, hey—I’m only flesh and blood! I’m definitely hoping to live happily every after when all’s said and done here.”

The more I explain it, the better it sounds. I would be free from a senseless job, perhaps even madly in love, artistically productive and obscenely wealthy—at first by association, but then, as the critically acclaimed author of a runaway bestseller, by my own merits.

Before I can prove to George why it’s in her best interest to be my partner every step of the way, a waitress interrupts. “Excuse me, ladies. Those gentlemen over there thought you might like these.” She plops two fruity-looking concoctions down on the table in front of us.

A couple of middle-aged suits a few booths over raise their martini glasses and smile. One of them has badly crooked teeth and neither has much hair to speak of.

“I… I… I don’t think so,” George stammers. I can’t tell if it’s the calorie count or our shiny-skulled suitors that has her spooked.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “It’s just one drink. They seem okay. Don’t they seem okay?” I ask the waitress.

She shrugs. “They’re in here an awful lot, so they’re either single, unhappily married or alcoholics.”

“Umm…yeah…well, thanks for clearing that up for us. Would you please just ask them if they’d like to join us?” She takes off for their table, shaking her head.

“Don’t say a word, G. This is just a trial run. And I think this place has just the right demographics, so let’s put our husband-catching hats on, just for fun, and—”

“Our whats? And did you just say we? So now it’s we? I don’t think—”

They slide in beside us before she has a chance to object any further.

“Hi guys! Thanks for the drinks,” I say to the better-looking one sitting next to George.

“Yeah, thanks,” she grumbles.

“You’re welcome,” he say. “I’m Trevor. And this is Ron.”

“Hi,” says Ron.

“I’m Holly, and this is George.”

George half smiles and looks down.

“George?” Trevor says. “Bit of a funny name for a pretty lady like you, isn’t it?”

“Maybe that’s, you know, like her work name or something,” Ron says to Trevor out of the side of his mouth.

“Her work name. I get it,” he nods.

George and I exchange glances. Who knows? Maybe they’re into names or something. “Well, even though I’m a Holly, I wasn’t born in December or named after Christmas or anything silly like that, though people often assume that I am. I guess my parents just thought it was a nice name, you know?”

But Ron and Trevor just stare at George as she proceeds to deskewer her sword of maraschino cherries with her teeth.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” Ron says. “That’ll do it.”

Trevor apparently agrees. “Let’s get to it, then! I assume you ladies are working tonight?”

“Huh?” I am utterly confused.

For a change, George is not. “They think we’re hookers, Holly.”

The burgundy leather banquette squeaks as the offending parties shift uncomfortably.

“What?! Are you joking?” Three drinks have not dulled my capacity for righteous indignation.

“Wait! It’s okay if you’re not!” Ron suggests frantically.

“Yeah, that’s totally fine, too. We just thought—”

“You just thought what?!”

“Holly, let’s get out of here…”

“No, G! I want to know why they would think we’re hookers!”

“Maybe it’s her hair,” Ron points at George. “And her…her…wow. Those right there. And your lipstick! I don’t think bright red is the way to go at happy hour.”

Trevor shoots him a nervous look. “What the hell are you talking about?”