Chapter Eighteen
A town car arrives at my house an hour later, after I’ve touched up my makeup and picked out a new outfit, a perfect one for TV.
I spend the next thirty minutes on the drive pecking away at my phone, trying to whittle through the mess of email and Facebook and Web messages that have accumulated this morning. Viewers are still following the contest and want to know what’s going on and why there’s no report today. It’s going to have to suck when I pull the plug this afternoon. But they’ll be cool with it, right? I’ve always had a good relationship with my viewers. Everything will work out fine, everything will work out fine, everything will work out fine...
Then I see a text from Chris. Hey, where’s your video? Can’t wait to see it…
My stomach plummets. He’s been waiting for my blog. There’s probably a part of it that must feel like closure to him, like the final end of one relationship – my relationship with a contest – and the start of a new one. With him.
But that finality won’t come until later.
I hit his number, exhaling as I wait. I feel like a heel as he answers.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
There’s an awkward pause and I’m sure he can read my mind and know that I haven’t pulled the plug yet. “So, what are you up to?”
“I’m about to be on Helen’s show,” I say, and then I explain how it’s my last hurrah, and then I’ll bow out gracefully.
He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches through several blocks.
“Chris?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you mad at me?”
He pauses and sighs, and in that sigh I hear the resignation and the frustration. “No. I just was hoping this would be over. I was hoping after this weekend that I’d have you to myself.”
“But you do,” I say and I wish I could hide the desperation I suddenly hear in my voice. “You do have me.”
“Yeah, maybe it seems that way to you. But to me, it still feels like you’re involved with some kind of crazy pursuit. With some kind of revenge thing you have going on. And hey, look. I respect the need for closure. I’m totally fine if you need more time or whatever to deal with stuff,” he says and lets his voice trail off.
Stuff. Like my ex. Like all the baggage I bring. Have I not fully dealt with it? Yet, that’s why I started this contest in the first place, right? Because I wanted closure with Todd. But how much more closed can our relationship be?
I sigh and try to explain. “I just want to make a point. That’s all. I want to prove that women can do what men can do.”
“I know, McKenna. I know,” he says in a soft voice, but one tinged with resignation. “I know this is a point that’s important. And what I’m saying is when this point is no longer important to you, that’s when you should call me again. Goodbye.”
Then he hangs up, and I am surrounded by an all-too familiar feeling of being left. Of being alone. I clench my jaw because now I’m mad at Chris, and besides, if I don’t call upon these seemingly endless stores of anger in me, I’ll probably break down and cry.
And I don’t want to ruin my mascara before I go on TV to make a point.
* * *
The car pulls up to Helen’s studios and the chauffeur opens my door. I thank him, then reach for my pirate girl bag, keeping my chin up and my focus on. The security guard buzzes me in. I show my ID at the desk and sign the guest register.
A tall, handsome and immaculately dressed man in pressed khaki pants and a pink polo shirt greets me. His hair is light brown and his face is full of freckles.
He reaches a hand out to shake mine briskly. “McKenna Bell, I’m Tristan Quinn. So glad you could be here.” He holds a clipboard in one hand and gestures with the other to the hall. I walk alongside him down an air-conditioned hallway. Photos in blond wood frames line the walls every few feet. Each one features Helen with a different guest. Singers, actors, even other Web show hosts.
I wonder if their stomachs were tied in knots before they taped as well.
* * *
I can hear Helen chattering with the audience from my backstage post. Tristan is positioned next to me. He grips his clipboard tightly. He wields that thing like a weapon, ready to brandish it at any moment. He’s methodical, organized. He points to the stage and places his hand over his ear, his gesture to make sure I’m listening.
“I’m really excited about our final guest. Her name is McKenna Bell, The Fashion Hound, but you probably know her better as a woman on a mission.” Tristan taps me on the shoulder, holds up his hand and begins counting down with his fingers. “Her video blog with fashion tips is a huge hit, and it’s taken off like crazy in the last month since she started her own sort of reality competition online. She’s looking to land a Trophy Husband. Let’s say hello to McKenna Bell.”
As Tristan points to the stage I walk out, the bright lights on me, a smattering of applause from the audience. Helen shakes my hand and we sit down on her white couch as the cameras keep rolling. She’s wearing white slacks and sneakers, a long-sleeve button-down and a black sweater vest. I’m wearing my favorite poodle skirt, Mary Janes, and an emerald green fitted tee-shirt with my silver heart necklace. I ignore the fact that my shirt is the color of Chris’ eyes.
“First of all, love the shoes,” she says.
“Yours rock too,” I say gesturing to her Keds.
“Let’s dive right into this. I want to put your skills to the test right now,” she says, then turns to the audience. “I have a surprise for The Fashion Hound. She didn’t know about this in advance, but she’s going to teach us what makes a good Trophy Husband.”
She points back stage. “Bring out the boys,” Helen says and then three good-looking men walk onto the stage. Helen stands up, gesturing for me to join her. “Since you’re the world’s leading expert on Trophy Husbands, we thought we would pick your brains about what makes a good candidate.”
Okay, I didn’t expect that. I thought this appearance would be more about the why of Trophy Husbands, and the chance to turn the tables. But I’m on TV, so I need to go with the flow.
“Just like picking a wine.”
“Exactly. So you’re the sommelier. I want you to evaluate these men and tell us how each one rates as a potential Trophy Husband.” She points to the first guy. “This is Troy. Say hello, Troy.”
He follows her orders. “Hello,” he says with a wave. Troy has thick brown hair, deep brown eyes, a nice tan, and high cheekbones.
“Troy is twenty-three, six-two, a tennis pro, and is fluent in French. What do you think?”
That he’s nothing like Chris. That I have zero interest in him. That I don’t want to appraise men as if they’re livestock.
Instead, I stick with the original definition of a Trophy Husband and give my answer swiftly and immediately based on that criterion. “Height is perfect. I like that he’s athletic. The job – tennis pro – kind of sounds like you’re probably not into working very hard, which is a good thing for a kept man, but at least you have a skill to keep you busy. And I have to say the French is a nice touch. Very nice.”
I tell myself this is like speed dating, and it’ll be over soon.
“Next, we have Ethan.” Helen moves to the guy in the middle. Ethan has straight brown hair, streaked with blond highlights. His hair hangs a little shaggily across his forehead, covering his blue eyes a bit, until he sweeps it back. His hair reminds me of Chris, but I force myself to push the thought of him away for now. “Ethan is twenty-one, six feet tall, an amateur skateboarder, and knows how to cook Indian food.”
“I love Indian food, so that is a big plus. But the skater part worries me. Skaters can be slackers, and while I don’t need you to work, I do need you to not be a complete bum.”
Helen continues with the final man. “Here is Javier.” Javier is a little shorter, in good shape, with close-cropped black hair and warm hazel eyes. “He is five-eleven, hails from Brazil, works as a lifeguard, and loves to give footrubs.”
“Foot rubs are huge, Helen. Any Trophy Husband worth his salt should be skilled in footrubs. And the international flare is a great touch. I can trot that out easily in social circles to impress people.”
“So, right now, if you had to pick, who’d be the best Trophy Husband?”
“Troy,” I say firmly. “Il parle francais.”
“Voulez vous to you,” Helen says. Then she dismisses the men and they disappear offstage. We head over to her couch. “Look at you, just sizing them up and slicing them down, just like that. So this Trophy Husband project is all about empowerment, alpha females, going against the grain.”
“Two can play at the trophy spouse game, I say.”
“So this is a crusade, a cause?”
“Exactly. But now I want other women to take up the mantle. We’ve been told for years to date older men, but we can snag younger men too. Much younger men.”
Helen becomes more excited. “You’re amassing followers, aren’t you?”
“So many we should form an army.”
Helen can’t get enough of this. She slaps her palm on the arm of the couch. I take that as a cue to keep going. “I believe women can do what men can do. And we don’t have to feel bad. We don’t have to explain ourselves. We can just do it.”
The audience loves this, they are enraptured. I am going to end this on a high note. No one will remember that I bowed out the same day. They will remember the message and a generation of women who come after me will collect Trophy Husbands and they will remember this moment when I led them to the promised land of equality.
“I can’t imagine you’ve had any trouble finding takers though. So where do we stand in your quest? You’ve been dating JP and Craig and this guy Chris, but we never saw the video from that date. Are you really going to go through with this? Are you going to walk down the aisle?”
I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out.
Helen is a pro though and she ably fills in the silence with humor. “What I really want to say is can I help you pick out your dress? Maybe help you get a tiara for your hair, a little princess crown or something? And maybe we can schedule your wedding to the Trophy Husband winner to air on TV too?”
The prospect sounds horrifying, and it’s as if there’s a weed in my stomach, twisting its way around my insides, latching onto my organs. A few hours ago, I thought the cause still mattered. I thought the point was worth making. But despite the new threats from Todd, the lying is gnawing away at me, and I don’t want to feel consumed by revenge anymore. If he’s going to go after my business, I’ll have to deal. That’s what lawyers are for and my friend is married to the best of them. I’ll get through whatever mud Todd slings my way just as I got through the break-up – with a little help from my friends.
A million thoughts race through my mind in this instant, a million voices. Chris saying ‘When this point is no longer important to you, that’s when you should call me again.’ I hear Andy’s words: ‘He doesn’t care what you do. He doesn’t care if you prove him wrong. I doubt Amber cares either.’ I hear Hayden’s daughter: ‘I think you should find a nice boy. I want you to be happy. I want you to find your sailboat in the moonlight.’ And my sister Julia: ‘ When I find someone I can actually talk to that’s when I’ll know I’ve found the one.’ The voices grow stronger, louder, like a Greek chorus, echoing in my ears.
And that chorus guides me on to this moment. To this truth: there’s no more getting even, just living my life, moving on.
Helen is staring at me, and I can tell she’s getting ticked that I’m no longer rattling off quips and snark. This is TV, after all, and she doesn’t want any dead time. I don’t want to let her down. I want to give her something good. And I realize this is the perfect way for me to move on. To drop the anger, to say goodbye to getting even, and to step into my future.
“Actually Helen, I have a confession to make.”
She rubs her hands together. She’s glad this segment may be back on track. “Do tell.”
I take a deep breath. “The contest is over.”
“Over?”
I nod. “Yes, I made the decision this weekend, and I’m announcing it now for the first time. It’s over because I don’t want a Trophy Husband. It’s over because I don’t want to marry a younger man just to get even. It’s over because no contest, no boy toy, no hot young thing will ever change the fact that my ex-fiancé ditched me for another woman. But most of all, and most important, it’s over because I met someone along the way, and he’s the one I want. And there’s one more thing I want to say, and I hope you don’t mind me saying this on your show.” I look to her as a flock of nerves descends on me, beating their wings. But I have to live with this vulnerability. I have to be okay with it. I think I am.
Helen is surprised with the curveball, but she’s not a national TV show host for nothing. “As long as you don’t swear on my show.”
“I didn’t just meet someone. I fell for him. I fell in love with him. I couldn’t help it, and he swept me away. That’s what happened. That’s how I feel. Like magic, and music, and everything the love songs promise. The kind where there’s no question about it, and it can’t be any other way. And that’s why there will be no Trophy Husband, because if he still wants me like I want him then I’m here to say that I’m much happier with a boyfriend than I could ever be with making a point.”
Her lips quirk up, as if she’s assessing me. But then she looks to the studio audience. “What do you think?”
They clap and they cheer, and soon there’s a collective sort of “aww” coming from the crowd.
Helen pumps her fist and nods appreciatively at me. “I love this woman! She had the crap kicked out of her by love, and she got up on the horse and rode again. Forget revenge fantasies. You are the poster child for taking a chance again at love.”
I like that title better. A lot better.