“You’ve got to take a good hard look at what’s driving you to do this,” Sophie offered.
“I know what’s driving me, Sophie,” I said sharply. “I love him. I love Matt and I want to be with him.”
“That part I can live with, but what’s behind this ridiculous plan? You’ve had to notice that no other women are out there doing this. We live in a very large city, Prudence. A city where people are known for doing their own thing, no matter how offbeat. Have you ever heard of any other woman doing this?”
“Maybe they should!” I defended. “I don’t know why basic human kindness is considered diagnosable by you three. I completely understand why I’m doing this. What’s driving me,” I mocked her.
“Look, there’s no need for you to get snotty. I’m just suggesting you take a look at what’s motivating you to act so, so extreme.”
“Is that how you handle things, Sophie? Examining every step you take?” I said, terrified of her reaction.
“You’re right, Prudence. You should only take advice from people who are perfect.”
* * *
Jennifer and Chad arrived at Sophie’s just after ten, twenty minutes after Sophie’s last words. The two had just been to the opening of a restaurant where one of Chad’s friends is the head chef. “You two missed a great party,” he reported. “Lisa is a genius in the kitchen. I would’ve eaten the garnishes if they weren’t so gorgeous.” He looked at Sophie. Then at me. “Why so tense? What did I miss?”
“I’m sorry, Sophie,” I ignored Chad.
“I’m sorry too,” she playfully pouted her lip before scampering across the room to hug me.
“What did I miss?” Chad said again.
Jennifer looked tired, but was eager to read the letters women had written to Reilly. “Let’s divvy these up, read through ’em and make three piles. Yes, no and maybe. Plan?”
The idea was to quietly read the letters to ourselves, then sort them for callbacks or rejection. That plan fell by the wayside within ten minutes. “Must share this one,” Jennifer was the first to call out.
“Reilly my dear,
I know we have not met, but my psychic says we are destined to be together because we were lovers in a past life…”
“Freak,” said Chad. “This one is even better.”
“If you choose me as your wife, I will do whatever you want so we can be happy. I will love you, cherish you and keep you close to my heart. We will have good times and bad times, mostly good…”
“Who is this woman, Darva Conger?” he quipped.
“Who?” we all asked.
“You remember that dippy blond from Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?”
“Toss that one,” I instructed. “She’s too accommodating. Reilly needs someone a little more —”
“Conniving?” Chad finished.
“No,” I teased back. “Someone with a spine. Ditch Darva and let’s move on.”
The floor became our “no” pile. One-word dismissals like “desperate” or “loser” were quickly followed by letters flying to the floor. Some women sent photos, which made it harder to reject them as quickly because it was a reminder that we were talking about actual people. Some women were attractive; others less so. A surprising number mailed in photos from Glamour Shots, the studio where they doll up women and produce a soft, muted photograph that makes them look like 1940s film stars. Or cowgirls.
“Listen to this one,” Chad offered.
“I’ve got long red hair, I love the outdoors and I am loyal through and through.”
“Sounds like a golden retriever,” he said, tossing her letter to the floor.
“Talk about a has-been who never was,” shot Jennifer, reading a list of close calls with fame a woman had experienced ten years ago.
“This woman is naked!” shrieked Sophie.
“Who?” we all asked.
“This lady sent a naked photo,” she laughed. The picture was of a young bottle blond in a Santa Claus hat and a wide-open red velvet jacket with white cotton trim. She was posed on a stuffed reindeer, holding a whip. Sophie was right. Other than the jacket and hat, the woman was completely nude.
“I want to be your nasty Santa,” Sophie read. “Whether you’ve been naughty or nice, I’ve got a special gift for you this Christmas — a ride on my one-horse open sleigh…”
“This lady is a slut,” Sophie said.
“What happened to your sluts-as-free-thinkers philosophy?” I asked.
“This one wrote a poem for Reilly,” Chad said of another letter. He cleared his throat.
“There once was a man named Reilly…”
“Good Lord, it’s a fucking limerick,” he rolled his eyes. “Okay, let’s see where Miss Cutie Puss goes with this.”
“The thought of him makes me all smiley.”
“No, no, no, no,” he speedily dismissed. “Next.”
“This one sounds normal,” I chimed. “She’s a lawyer, she’s divorced…. Let’s see, let’s see,” I said skimming the page. “Okay, she sounds like a keeper.”
“Did she send a photo?” asked Jennifer.
“Nope.”
“Red flag,” she said. “Good looking women include photos.”
“I want to keep her,” I whined like a child who brought home an alley cat.
“This one sounds sweet,” Sophie announced before reading the next letter.
“Too sweet,” we all agreed after hearing the rest of her sappy note.
“Her stationery stinks like perfume,” Chad added.
“This lady sounds like she’s pissed off at Reilly,” Sophie said.
“If you want some little cupcake who’s going to agree with everything you say, I’m not for you. If you want some tootsie to fan you with a palm leaf, look somewhere else.”
“What is she talking about?” Chad asked. “We never said anything about fanning Reilly with a palm leaf.”
“Who said she would have to agree with everything he says?” Sophie defended.
“Where’s this attitude coming from?” Jennifer asked.
“If she’s so pissed at Reilly, why is she answering his ad?” I wondered aloud.
“Bipolar,” said Chad, grabbing the letter and tossing it to the floor.
“Traditional values,” I read sticking my tongue out at the pink letter.
“Likes to have fun,” read Sophie. “This city is full of sluts.”
“Needs commitment-oriented man,” Jennifer read. “How ’bout meeting the man before you demand a ring, bitch.”
“I like long walks on the beach and romantic dinners by candlelight.” We all groaned.
“Open minded.” Bisexual.
“I need a strong man,” Chad read. “Because I am a weak woman,” he finished for her.
“I don’t cook,” recited Jennifer. “Who asked you to?”
“My last boyfriend had sex with my mother,” I read. Way too much information.
Sophie cleared her throat. “I am a classy lady who enjoys the finer things in life.” Gold digger.
“I am drop-dead gorgeous so people are always telling me I could be a model.”
“Photo?” Jennifer asked. Chad passed her the picture of the woman. “Deluded,” she said, dropping the head shot to the floor.
“I may not always succeed, but I get out of bed every day and try my very best to do the right thing.” Ex-con, we all agreed.
“Looks not important,” I read. “And I hope to hell they’re not important to you either because I am one ugly woman,” I read between the lines.
“Ageless.” Old.
“Stable.” Medicated.
“Slightly overweight.” Obese.
“Christian.” Won’t fuck.
“Adventurous.” Will.
“Passionate.” Abusive.
“Tornado blew me straight from Kansas, but there’s no place like New York!” What can we possibly say about a grown woman who likens herself to Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz?
“I’m
really very shy,” read Chad. “Except for my little habit of trolling for men in the newspaper.”
“Cannot deal with another misogynist,” Jennifer shared. “Don’t you ever wonder about these women who think every man’s a misogynist? Wake up, honey. Maybe it’s just you they hate.”
“I am a goddess,” I read.
“Get over yourself, Prudence! Woman ropes in two men and thinks she’s Venus,” Jennifer laughed.
“Very cute. Look, the goddess sent a photo,” I said, holding up her head shot. The room was silent. This woman really was exquisite.
“What the hell is she doing answering a personal ad?” Chad asked.
The letter said she is very busy lobbying for a women’s health organization, and doesn’t meet any men. “She says here that the only men she ever meets are elected officials and she’d rather not end up in the river, the tabloids or missing,” I said.
After a long pause, Chad decided this was cute. “Edgy, but cute.”
We agreed to keep the cynical goddess of gynecology.
“I can go from jeans to evening gown,” Sophie read. “Big deal, my five-year-olds change their own clothes too.”
“I want you in my life, Reilly, but I don’t need you.” She owned a vibrator, we decided.
“I can make the perfect martini,” Chad laughed and shook the letter. “I want to respond to some of these just to tell them that listing their bartending skills is only going to attract alcoholics! Can you just imagine who’s going to answer this ad?” Chad made his voice slur. “Hey love, let’s say you make another one of those perfect martinis for me.”
“What’s wrong with making a perfect martini?” Jennifer challenged. At first I thought it was just for sport, but it turns out that Jennifer also makes a perfect martini. “I took the Perfect Martini class at the Learning Annex. She probably did too. What’s wrong with that, Chad?”
“Is this the first thing you’d have to say about yourself, Jennifer?!” Chad laughed and showed her the letter. “Look, right here she writes, ‘Hey there. My name is Wendy and I make the perfect martini.’ That’s it. Straight to the chase, this is the most important thing you need to know about me.”
Sophie sided with Jennifer. “She was probably trying to be a little different, and put some fun things up front. Everyone else started with their jobs, looks and where they were born. Boring. Maybe she knew we’d be tired after looking at these letters and wanted to let us know, hey, I could mix us up some cocktails right about now. Fuck this, what’s her number?”
“Whatever,” Chad said with an exaggerated drama. “All I’m saying is that if some guy came up to me and said, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, I make acid in my garage,’ I’d take it as a hint and a half to run the other way.”
“Look, why don’t we just settle this right now and call her, bring her over and have her make some of these so-called perfect martinis?” Sophie said, only half kidding. “Come on, it’ll be a howl. We’ll tell her if she really wants to meet Reilly we need to be good and sure her martinis are all they’re cracked up to be. If she says no, we’ll ask her what she’s afraid of.”
“You guys,” Jennifer playfully whined. “I can make a perfect martini. I took the class too.”
Sophie threw a couch pillow at her. “Come on, let’s see if we can get her over here.”
“Let’s see if we can get her to some sort of twelve-step group,” Chad maintained.
“Looking for a woman to spend quality time with? Fed up with the bar scene? Want to meet someone really special?” Jennifer read. “Look at the way she draws you in with questions where the only answer is yes. She’s good. She knows her stuff. Work it, baby!” Then she stopped to read further. “Shit, this is an ad for a dating service. They answer personal ads?!”
And on and on our wife mining went until we made it through all 361 letters to Reilly. Who knew he was such a catch?
“This one sent reference letters,” Sophie said as if she couldn’t decide whether she was impressed or disgusted.
“Book the reception hall,” Chad demanded after reading one letter.
We fell in love with a grad student from NYU who fed homeless people in Washington Square Park and organized the Red Cross Blood Drive on campus. “That’s so like her, isn’t it?” Jennifer joked, wiping a fake tear from her eye.
“Cum laude from Princeton. You go girl,” I exclaimed at another prospect’s letter.
“This one’s a photographer,” Chad said, though no one knew why this excited him.
“Look at lovely Lisa,” Jennifer said, doing a Groucho with her eyebrows.
I couldn’t wait to start dating them!
* * *
Chad and I shared a cab back to SoHo at one in the morning after we tossed hundreds of letters and a pizza box into Sophie’s incinerator. On the ride home, my cell phone rang. “Hey, it’s me,” he said. “What you been up to tonight, Malone?” I would have loved to give him a blow-by-blow of our night, but this was one area of my life that would have to remain in the closet. So instead I told him we went to see a performance art piece about single life in the city. Close enough.
Chapter 10
As I put on my lipstick, I realized I was actually nervous about my first date with Reilly’s prospective second wife. I looked in the mirror, ran my fingers through my hair and checked my teeth for loose spinach salad that might be lingering from lunch. I reminded myself that these women were not dating me, but rather meeting Reilly’s pre-screening sister. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a bit jittery. I hoped they’d like me. For Reilly’s sake, I needed to make a good impression.
I hadn’t experienced such pre-date butterflies since my first official date with Reilly back when we were at Wharton. We had been out together socially a few times with other friends, but our first time alone together was when Reilly asked me to attend his brother’s wedding at their family home in Moon Township near Pittsburgh. The following day, he promised to take me to the Carnegie Museum of Art, which I had once expressed an interest in seeing.
I was amazed at his depth of knowledge of the museum collection. When we entered the Hall of Sculpture, he told me that the design was modeled after the Parthenon in Athens.
“Notice the double tier of columns,” Reilly began. “The inner sanctuary of the Parthenon had to accommodate a forty-foot statue of Athena. The white marble used in this hall is from the same quarries in Greece that provided the stone for the Parthenon.”
Unbelievable, I thought. Here’s a man who appreciates art as much as I do.
Reilly had a commentary about every exhibit. He knew all about the artists, their inspiration and style. He was amazingly well-versed. I remember thinking that he must have spent every weekend of his childhood lost in the Carnegie.
Then he was busted.
A tour group passed by, and the guide recited Reilly’s dissertation verbatim. Every single word Reilly uttered during our afternoon at the Carnegie was written by the museum curator or guest relations department. There was no room for backpedaling so he confessed.
“I knew you were into art so I drove here last weekend and took the tour so I could impress you,” he said. It’s a long drive from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, so I recognized what a tremendous effort Reilly had made. “I guess you’re pretty pissed at me.”
“Why would I be angry?” I asked.
“Because this is fraud. I really don’t know anything about art,” he said.
“I don’t think it’s fraud. Did you memorize the entire museum tour?”
“Every word of it,” he said sheepishly, playfully backing away for an anticipated swat from me.
I’ve never had a private museum tour before. I’ve had a few since, but only ones where the goal was to solicit or maintain funding.
Reilly and I slept in separate rooms at his parents’ house, and I wasn’t too surprised that he didn’t pay me a visit in the middle of the night. We were in town for his brother’s wedding, after all. I’d wondered where I went wro
ng when Reilly offered a mere peck on the cheek when we returned to Philadelphia.
I was convinced I would never hear from him again, despite his promise to call the next day. Reilly said he had a good time with me, but also seemed eager to end the date. The words and actions seemed out of synch.
The next day he called.
“You sound surprised to hear from me,” Reilly said.
“Actually, I am.”
“I said I’d call you today, Prudence.”
“Yes, but you also left rather quickly. I thought you were just being polite.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just really tired after so much driving. It was after eleven and today started early for me.”
Reilly continued to take things slowly in our relationship, which was the first time a man had tried this approach with me. At first I thought it was some new reverse-seduction routine they were pushing through the locker room network, until I realized he honest to goodness wasn’t in a mad rush to have sex with me. Both flattering and insulting. Ever since I was fourteen, guys I’d dated had a single mission. Getting home early for a restful night’s sleep was not it.
On my very first date, Willie Fitzgerald told me if I didn’t have sex with him, he would explode. On our second date, he continued a short but zealous campaign.
“Come on, Prudence. You are so special, I want to show you how much you mean to me,” he pleaded. He tried a few more lines over the course of October and November before hitting the jackpot. “Prudence, don’t you see how much I love you.”
From there on, our dates consisted of having sex in his family room after school, before his parents got home from work. Willie and I had an unspoken agreement. He would tell me he loved me and I would give him all the sex he needed in order not to explode. He didn’t break up with me as much as we mutually tired of one another. That was life in the fast lane in ninth grade. Willie didn’t gossip about me maliciously, but he could not resist telling his friends that he had, in fact, done it. Not surprisingly, this made me extremely popular with the boys at school. A year earlier, I had earned the highest score of anyone in our grade on the statewide math Regents exam. One hundred percent, actually. This did not earn me half the collateral that my blow jobs did.
The Wife of Reilly Page 9
