Marrying Up (6 page)

But I also began to see how Zoe’s substantial cash flow likely has a lot to do with their overall happiness, their success, both as a couple and professionally. It’s what has allowed each of them to be living exactly the lives they want to be living, which in turn frees them from ninety percent of the stresses the rest of us have to deal with every single day—the little things, like mortgage payments and business trips and mean bosses, which, in turn, all too often lead to the bigger things, like bankruptcy and divorce and broken dreams. Zoe and Asher are blessed with the freedom to put into their relationship the tremendous effort it requires to sustain a happy one, no matter how perfect or loving, while the rest of us are left bickering over bills, too exhausted by the end of the day to do anything but watch TV and not have sex.

Yes, the money really does seem to be a crucial part of the equation. And if actively looking for a partner who has some makes me materialistic, shallow, whatever…then I can live with that, too, provided he’s there by my side to lovingly fib to me and tell me it isn’t at all true, that I’m not like that, while we toast each other’s successes in the hot tub.

“Virginia Woolf said that a woman can’t write without a room of her own.”

“But Holly, you already
have
a room of your own,” George
points out. We are well into our second drinks, huddled in a dark booth at the back of the bar. So far, she isn’t overly impressed with The Plan. Bringing her onside isn’t going to be easy.

“And I spend fifty hours a week at work so that I can have that room! How can I be expected to write if I work fifty hours a week?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But you rarely work fifty hours a week, Holly, and if I’m correctly remembering the bedtime stories of my youth, Woolf was talking about the dearth of women writers throughout history and how the root cause wasn’t that women were inferior to men, obviously, but rather how having the physical space in which to write and the time to devote to it are necessary prerequisites to sustaining any kind of artistic endeavor. She was bemoaning the fact that most women didn’t have that luxury, as well as the fact that even the wealthier ones who did also had to contend with meddling husbands and demanding children and a spate of oppressive sociocultural expectations that stifled their creativity beneath the endless, mindless minutiae of everyday existence. I don’t think she was urging women to marry rich so they don’t have to work. Quite the opposite, actually. Woolf believed that—”

“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. Be
sides, 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-phi
lanthropist. 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.