The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

by Jessica Brody

  So I wasn't sure what this woman could have been thinking. Did she honestly believe she was different? Special? That she possessed some kind of bewitching power that would keep my dad's attention for longer than a few minutes? I love my dad. I really do. It's taken me a long time to be able to say that, but it's true. However, that doesn't change the fact that my dad is who he is. I've learned to accept him despite his apparent flaws. I just wasn't sure I was ready to accept his new wife despite hers.

  Jamie called to tell me he was running about fifteen minutes late, and I was somewhat relieved. The thought of meeting this woman under the watchful, analyzing eye of my fiancé/shrink made me even more nervous. Especially after everything that had been going on between us. All I needed was for Jamie to find another reason to question my ability to commit to him.

  Neither of us had actually mentioned the argument we'd had on Friday night, but we did both agree that we should postpone our next appointment with Willa Cruz until I had a chance at least to complete the wedding questionnaire.

  There was a large part of me that didn't want to deal directly with whatever was going on between us. Eventually, I knew it would all work itself out. I just needed enough time to prove to Jamie that I was completely devoted to him, that I didn't, as he so wrongfully speculated, have commitment issues, and that I did want to marry him.

  I was hoping that if I could just get through tonight's dinner without suffering some type of mental breakdown (at least not an outward one), I might be one tiny step closer to proving my case to Jamie.

  But the longer I sat waiting for my dad and third wife to appear, the more unrealistic that goal seemed to be.

  Then at five minutes past seven, after I had thoroughly not read the entire menu at least four times, I saw them.

  My dad was following the hostess through the restaurant, and I could just make out brief flashes of black fabric behind him.

  When he reached the table, a woman in a tight-fitting dress stepped into view, and I laid eyes on my new stepmother for the first time.

  The first thing that popped into my mind was blond. The second thing that popped into my mind was young. Two things that my mother was not. Blond and young. The only thing she was missing to make the cliché complete was a set of $10,000 double-D's. I never thought I'd be so happy to see a woman's modest B-cup-size chest in all of my life.

  "Hi, Jenny," my dad said, leaning down and kissing me on the cheek. "This is Simone."

  I struggled to make eye contact as I stood up and politely extended my hand, but apparently, she wasn't having any of the polite pleasantries. Instead, she pulled me into a tight and slightly awkward embrace. Although I must admit, it was only awkward because I couldn't find it in myself to return the gesture. So instead my arms hung stunned and lifeless at my sides while her tiny, Pilates-enhanced limbs wrapped tightly around my body.

  "It's just so nice to finally meet you," she cooed earnestly into my ear. Her voice was soft and breathy. Not exactly like a phone sex operator, but not exactly like a non-phone sex operator, either.

  When she finally pulled away, I was able to speak. "Lovely to meet you, too," I offered with an attempt at sincerity. "My dad has told me so much about you."

  A complete and utter lie. But she didn't have to know that.

  I sat back down in my seat and watched her float gracefully into hers. As I did so, I tried desperately to discern her age. I searched for a wrinkle, a crow's-foot, anything that would put her in at least the 35–44 age box, but there was absolutely no evidence of that. She was clearly a proud member of my 25–34 box.

  "Well," she began breathlessly, as if this whole meeting exchange were the equivalent of running a marathon, "your dad just can't stop talking about you, either. He's extremely proud." She reached out and rested her hand on my father's leg. Not in the safe, appropriate, knee portion of his leg. That I could have handled. I'm talking mere inches from his crotch.

  Why couldn't she have started with an arm or a shoulder? Something PG to ease me into the evening. Did she have to go straight for the groin? Actually, I was surprised she didn't just bypass her own chair altogether and climb onto his lap.

  Calming sounds. Ocean waves crashing. The music of Mother Nature.

  I took a deep breath and forced out a grin. "That's sweet."

  "So where's this studly boyfriend of yours?" she asked, glancing eagerly around the restaurant.

  I fought a cringe. "Oh, he's just running a little late. He'll be here any minute."

  My engagement ring was still stuffed in the inside pocket of my purse from when I'd come into the office that morning. I had planned to wait until Jamie arrived so that we could announce the news together, and then I would put on the ring and let Si-moan fawn over it for an hour.

  "So your dad tells me you run an agency that finds nannies?" Simone said, resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm.

  I nodded, glancing past her toward the front door. "Yes. That's right. And housekeepers and tutors, too."

  "That sounds fascinating," she replied, her eyes wide. For a minute, I thought they might pop out of her head, so I was careful to make good eye contact. I really didn't want to miss that.

  "Tell me more about that."

  I pulled a piece of bread from the basket and began smearing butter on it. I thought about Katie at the Stanton residence with those obnoxious twin boys, just biding her time until Mr. Stanton officially made a move on her.

  "Nothing to tell, really," I said with a modest shrug. "I interview the families and try to match them with the right nannies." And then for an extra ounce of credibility, I threw in, "I just placed one of my girls with a very nice family in Beverly Hills that has nine-year-old twin boys. It's a fun age."

  "I had a nanny once," she replied, looking dazedly off to the side. "She was really nice. I think she was from Sweden. Or maybe it was Norway. You know, one of those countries. She was always dating like seven different guys at once. One of those types, you know?"

  "Mm-hmm," I replied, taking an oversize bite of bread.

  Definitely not a day older than thirty-two.

  "So, how did you go from investment banking to finding nannies? That seems like a pretty big change."

  I immediately launched into the spiel I had created specifically for my parents when I decided to form the Hawthorne Agency. Investment banking was getting to be too stressful, this job allows me to keep more regular hours, I feel like I'm helping people, blah, blah, blah.

  She nodded understandingly. "Definitely. I mean, everyone needs to find good help, right?"

  My dad smiled lovingly at her and leaned over to kiss her bare shoulder. "That's right, baby."

  I felt nausea creep up in my stomach, and I forced it down with another bite of bread, despite the fact that I hadn't yet completely chewed and swallowed my previous bite.

  Who was this woman? Where on earth did my dad find her? He was fifty-nine. And she was barely in her thirties. Did it not bother him that she was practically my age? And did it not bother her that when she's forty-five, he'll be collecting Social Security?

  The only logical explanation was money. And my dad did have plenty of it. He may not have been Donald Trump, but he could certainly afford to buy her plenty of Botox. But I just couldn't understand how my dad was capable of marrying such a cliché. A blond, thirty-something named Simone with a 900-number voice? Did he not realize how ridiculous he looked flaunting her all over town?

  Although I had to admit: To other fifty-something men out there, he probably looked like fucking James Bond.

  "So how is everything?" my dad asked, reaching out and gently tapping the table in front of me. Clearly he could tell that my attention was elsewhere.

  "Oh," I said, refocusing. "Fine. Just fine. You know, same old, same old." I thought about the ring hiding in my purse. The quicker I got it out, slipped it on my finger, and let everyone gush about it, the quicker I could get out of here. But I knew I couldn't tell them until Jamie was h
ere.

  "Work is good?" my dad prompted.

  I smiled sweetly. "Oh, it's great. Never been better." I took a long swig of wine. "And how about you . . . um . . . two? How is everything going?"

  My dad shrugged and started to reply, "Oh, just—"

  But he was quickly interrupted with another of Simone's verbal orgasms. "Oh," she gasped, "absolutely amazing. Things have been great. Jack just took me on this gorgeous Alaskan cruise, and of course, I thought, you know cruise, time to show off my new favorite bikini! So there I was in like Nova Scotia, with a suitcase full of nothing but sarongs and minishorts, and oh, my God, was I freezing! But thankfully we had time to do some shopping in Vancouver, and I bought some really nice sweaters. But the glaciers up there? Oh my God . . ."

  I was trying really hard to be objective about this whole thing. So what if the girl didn't know that Nova Scotia wasn't anywhere near Alaska? Maybe she was just nervous. As I listened to her rattle on, I tried to put myself in her shoes. She was meeting me for the first time, too, and she probably felt a lot more pressure to impress me than I felt to impress her. Maybe she wasn't really like this. Maybe once you got to know her, she was actually very likable and calm. Some people, like me, get quiet and reserved when they're nervous. Maybe she just gets really . . . annoying.

  I braved another glance at her hand in my dad's lap. It was actually moving farther up his leg. I didn't think that was possible. And with every sentence she spoke, she somehow felt the need to accentuate them with a squeeze of his upper thigh.

  Let's face it, I was sitting across from every twenty-nine-year-old girl's worst nightmare. A new stepmom I could handle, but this was too much. I saw enough of it at work. I didn't need it at my so-called family dinners as well.

  It's unbelievable. The older a man gets, the younger the woman he needs to make himself feel validated. Just look at Todd Langley. In his late forties and just couldn't wait to get twenty-five-year-old Keira Summers into his hotel room.

  And then, as I half listened to Simone jabber on about the glaciers in Alaska and how global warming really is such a pity, a disturbing thought struck me. Jamie was eight years older than me. And he had been married once before . . . to someone his own age. And when he met me, he was technically still married.

  Suddenly the room got very cold. I pulled my cardigan sweater tighter around my body.

  My thoughts were stabbing at my brain like tiny icicles floating around in my head. Was it possible that Jamie had fallen for me for the same reason that my father had fallen for Simone?

  For the past year, I had been so convinced that Jamie was nothing like my father. But what if the exact opposite was true? What if Jamie was actually just like my father? And even Todd Langley, for that matter?

  Then what did that make me? His Simone?

  I barely had time to entertain the disturbing notion when I saw Jamie hurrying across the restaurant toward our table. "Hey! I'm so sorry I'm late! Traffic from Century City was brutal. They closed two lanes on Santa Monica."

  Jamie gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and I introduced him to my dad's cliché. (Although I was careful to use her real name.)

  As I watched him, too, get mauled into one of her apparently trademarked bear hugs, I studied his face for any sign of surprise or disapproval. Surely this situation had to bother him. Surely he could spot the colossal age gap between the two of them, and something to that effect would register on his face.

  But I saw nothing. His smile was as genuine as I'd ever seen it. And his handshake as he met my father was as respectful as if he had been greeting a foreign ambassador.

  Simone and everything she represented did not appear to concern Jamie in the slightest.

  "So did you tell them?" he said, looking excitedly from me to my dad, his gorgeous green eyes sparkling.

  I smiled back and shook my head. "Not yet."

  Simone gasped dramatically. "What? Tell us what?"

  Jamie's grin beamed off his face as he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. "I think you should do the honors, Jen."

  I could feel the words in my mouth, but I just couldn't force them out. What if Jamie was like my father? What if I was just the younger, newer, hotter model that replaced his ex-wife? Just as Simone had been the new model that replaced my mom. And if that was the case, how long would I get to park in the garage before he traded me in as well?

  Jamie laughed at my silence and patted my hand. "Jen's still a bit overwhelmed by it all."

  I looked into the anxiously awaiting eyes of my dad and his third wife, and I dug deep down inside of me and finally found the strength to say, "We're engaged."

  In my mind, the sentence had ended with an exclamation point. But when I heard myself speak it aloud, somehow a simple period found its way to the end instead. At a moment like this, I wanted so desperately to be one of those exclamation-point girls. You know, the ones who throw them into practically every sentence because everything in life is just that exciting. "Here's that file you asked for!" or "Maybe we can carpool!" and, of course, "We're engaged!!!!"

  But apparently, right now, just getting the words out was difficult enough. Conjuring up exclamatory punctuation was a near impossible task.

  The screams came. Well, really it was just one. And it was coming from the brand-new BMW 7 Series sitting across from me.

  My dad's reaction was a little more subdued. Still, I had never seen him look happier. He stood up and came around to my side of the table and kissed me on the top of the head. "Oh, Jenny. I am so happy for you."

  "Where's the ring? Where's the ring?" Simone chorused.

  "Oh, right," I said, still somewhat dazed as I reached into my bag and pulled out the diamond.

  Simone frowned. "Why was it in your purse?"

  And as I snuck a sideways glance at Jamie, I couldn't help but notice the dissatisfaction on his face as well. I opened my mouth to plead my case, but my dad beat me to the punch. "Because she wanted to surprise us," he explained.

  "Exactly," I confirmed, stealing another glance in Jamie's direction to see if that heartbreakingly judgmental look had vanished from his face. But as far as I could tell, it was still there. Maybe it was just me. I had seemed to be viewing the world through judgment-colored glasses recently.

  "If I showed up at the table wearing it, you would notice it right away." I was looking at Simone when I said it, but the statement was directed entirely at Jamie.

  I slid the ring onto my finger and held out my hand for my dad and Simone to see. She grasped it and practically pulled me across the table in an effort to get a better look.

  My dad then stepped over to Jamie and opened his arms to him. "Welcome to the family," he said in a deep, mobster voice.

  Jamie laughed and stood up to hug him. "Thanks, Jack."

  My dad patted him firmly on the back in that classic "man hug." "I guess you're one of us now."

  I laughed politely along with everyone else at the table and then drew in a long, deep gulp of my wine, praying that my dad was anything but right.

  After dinner Jamie and I drove home separately. My mind was in a haze.

  I didn't know if I was being paranoid or incredibly perceptive. My dad was clearly stuck in some kind of pattern. He married his first wife when he was only twenty, then left her at age thirty to marry my mother, who was only twenty-one. And the moment she, too, began to feel less than novel, he started cheating on her with my twenty-year-old babysitter. And now, at age fifty-nine, three and a half years after my mom finally divorced him, he was married to a woman who could easily have been one of my classmates.

  It was as if my dad suffered from some kind of relationship ADD. Never being able to stay satisfied with one woman for more than a few years.

  I thought back to pictures I'd seen of my mother when she and my dad first got married. She was so beautiful and radiant and . . . young. I guess my mom might now be a used 1978 Toyota Corolla, but at one point, she was the shiny new model.

  She was
the cliché.

  So what did that make me?

  I turned up the volume on my meditation CD and tried to calm myself with the enchanting melody. But for some reason, now it was feeling more haunting than anything else.

  I couldn't help but think that maybe the Electra complex was inevitable. That we really had no control over who we fell in love with. And that somehow, despite my years of bitterness and resentment toward my father, I had still managed to fall in love with a carbon copy of him. Without even realizing that I was doing it.

  I was planning to broach the subject with Jamie when I got home, but the minute I walked in the door and saw him already sitting on the couch, his jacket and tie already discarded, I was struck with an overwhelming sense of foolishness. Clearly I was just being paranoid. This was Jamie, for God's sake. Not some random guy I had just met in a bar. He was the sweetest, kindest, most genuine man I had ever known. He didn't suffer from relationship ADD. And I felt stupid for allowing my unfounded anxieties to convince me otherwise. Especially when he hadn't done anything to give me reason to doubt him. And weren't actions supposed to speak louder than paranoid thoughts?

  All of this third wife stuff had taken my mind for a delusional joy-ride. It had awoken suspicions inside of me that I never knew existed.

  So what if Simone was a brand-new BMW 7 Series that my father would probably trade in for a newer model in a few years? In Jamie's eyes, I was a classic. One of those 1955 Chevys you see at old car conventions that everyone stands around and gawks at, praising the owner for keeping it up so well. Those cars never get traded in for newer models because they just keep getting more valuable with time.

  Yes, that would be me. No matter how old I got, Jamie would never dare get rid of me.

  By the time we got into bed that night, I had convinced myself that all I really needed was a good night's sleep to clear my head. Things always looked different in the morning. New, more grounded perspectives always seemed to magically materialize somewhere in the middle of the REM cycle.