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“George!” I interrupt. “Never mind all that right now. I was just trying to make a point.”
“And that point would be…”
“Well, basically, that if you want to turn your dreams into reality, you need more than a goal, G. You need a plan. And in order to execute that plan, you need a time line. And this…” I gesture expansively to include the entire bar, from the shiny black piano at one end to the velvet-draped windows at the other, “…this is the first step in the process.”
“Huh? What process?”
“It makes perfect sense.”
Still, a blank stare.
I sigh. “We’re here to find rich men.”
George practically chokes on the honey-roasted peanuts she’s been inhaling. “Oh… My… God… Did you really just say that? How completely disgusting. What a disgusting concept.” She shakes her head and stares at me in disbelief. “What happened? What’s going on with you? How did you get sucked into this whole Must-Find-A-Man syndrome all of a sudden? And a rich one? Even worse…”
“Don’t you see, George? It has nothing to do with that, it’s about the big picture, although I have been feeling a little down and out these days, as you know. First with the whole Jean-Jean thing…” I shake it off. Better not to think about that anymore. Those days are behind me. “Look. It’s not just about ‘finding a man.’ That’s just a secondary perk.”
“I suppose the money’s the primary reason, then?”
“No, no. Of course not. The writing is the reason. The motivation. The call to arms! G, you know I’ve been crazy lately, with work, with my love life, with Zoe. But something’s finally changed. It’s like I’ve been trying to read the writing on the wall for years and just now it’s coming into focus for the first time.”
George raises a skeptical eyebrow. “So what does it say?”
“It says, ‘You’ve got to do something, Holly Hastings, before it’s too late!’”
“I see. And tell me, how exactly do you plan to justify this scheme of yours?”
“Because ultimately, The Plan is to realize my own potential and make positive life changes—to write my book. The Plan is not just to hook up or get rich. Those are just parts of the process. Fringe benefits, if you will.”
“I don’t know, Holly. Those are pretty small distinctions.”
“Not to me! Nothing’s changed, except that I’ve finally figured out a way to do what I’ve always wanted to do. Besides, I’ve pretty much lost my faith when it comes to finding Mr. Right. And what sense does it make to wait around forever for someone I don’t really believe exists anymore? So I figure I might as well start looking for Mr. Financial Stability instead.” As I explained it to her, the whole thing was beginning to make even more sense than it had at the outset.
“Mr. Financial Stability? Sounds romantic…”
“For the first time, I feel empowered, George, actually empowered. Like something great is about to happen. I am no longer going to accept being a leaf blown about by the breeze. I will be the mistress of my own destiny! I will do what I want with my life, and what I want is to be a writer. A real writer. Not an obituarist at a small paper or a drill-press operator who writes on the weekends…a real writer. Full-time. And the only way I can think to make it all happen is to find a sweet but wealthy guy who believes in me just a little bit. Is that so wrong?”
“I don’t know. Is it?” She seems genuinely confused.
“And I’ll tell you something else…” I pause just long enough to prepare her for the enormity of what I am about to say.
“What?”
“I can now see that my existence makes very little difference to the vast majority of people on this planet. Whether I like it or not, I don’t matter much in the grand scheme of things. And quite frankly, I want to change that.”
“Well, Holly, we can’t all be Ghandi or Oprah,” she intones seriously.
“Can’t we, though? I’ve been thinking…”
“Haven’t you done enough of that lately? Maybe you should just take it down a notch for a while and—”
“Bear with me please. A big part of what I’ve realized is that I want to help people. I want to make a difference in real people’s lives. I want to be a philanthropist. A writer-philanthropist. And since I don’t have any money, and I can’t make any money writing until I actually write something, and I can’t write something until I don’t have to worry about making money, marrying rich—no, wait. That sounds so ugly, doesn’t it? Let’s call it ‘actualizing financial freedom.’ Yeah, so actualizing financial freedom is the perfect solution. It’s like killing two birds with one stone, see? Because once I’m a successful author, I will not only be deliriously happy and personally fulfilled, but I will able to use my various sources of wealth to do some good on a much larger scale!”
George, by now completely stunned, shakes her head in amazement. “You’re being manic, Holly. Are you okay? Do you want me to call Dr. Martindale?”
“I just want to make a difference, G. That’s all. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”
“God help me for even getting into this with you, because you’re obviously beyond out of control with this, but I don’t think being a philanthropist qualifies as a real aspiration. With all due respect to Grace Kelly, it’s like saying you want to be a princess when you grow up. It’s ridiculous.”
“Well of course it sounds ridiculous when you put it like that, but it isn’t. It’s complicated, and it may be hard to justify in some ways, but it makes perfect sense to me. I’m sure of it. This is what I want.”
“Do you really think you need a man to get what you want out of life?”
“A valid question, George. But look at it this way instead. I want a man so I can get what I need out of life.”
“That’s very cute.”
I pull out my notebook and write it down so I won’t forget.
George looks at me wearily. “What’s this about, now?”
I scooch over so that we’re right next to each other. “So this is where it gets really good,” I whisper.
She begins rubbing her temples with her thumbs. “I don’t know if I can take any more of this.”
“I can admit that on the surface it might seem like I’m just some run-of-the-mill gold digger. But as you now know, nothing could be further from the truth. Because even though my motivations may be personal, they’re also political. And that’s where my book ties in…”
“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?”
“My sister works for Avon,” he explains.
“Man, you’re so queer…”
