Minted, p.4
Minted, page 4
“Like the one I have now?”
I can’t help laughing. At least this time it sounds more natural. “Yes, exactly like that. An account where someone snapped a photo of the hottest guy at the office and they’re trying to convince people that they’re him.”
“Are you saying I’m the hottest guy at the office, Barbara?” Why am I suddenly noticing how sultry he sounds?
My laugh’s back to being super shrill. “No, I mean, I have no idea. I’ve never been to your office.”
“Well, I’m going to take the compliment. Where should we meet tomorrow?”
“I’m not picky,” I say, and then I have to suppress a groan. He’s going to be thinking that what I said is totally true. You don’t get as big as I am by being picky about food.
And now I want to crawl into a hole.
“Well, think it over, and we can pick something tomorrow. Maybe you’ll have more cravings or something by then.”
I realize that this is my moment. I wanted to use him as my shield earlier, and if my ex and his girlfriend watching me eat some Girl Scout cookies sent me into a tailspin, I definitely need one before I brave my way through all those holiday parties. “Hey, instead of paying me, would you have time to do me a huge favor in return?”
That’s when I realize that he wants me to spruce up his profile. I’m asking him to spend twenty hours of his life with me—enduring boring work talk. Maybe asking for all the parties is overkill.
Right?
Right.
“Yeah? What can I do?”
“You said you’d be here during the holidays,” I say, “and for work, I have to go to a few parties with my ex and his new girlfriend.”
“Yeah, you said. That really sucks. I wasn’t kidding about the job. I’m sure we could find you—”
“That’s more than a simple favor,” I say. “And you may think this is too much, and it’s fine if you do. But I was thinking maybe you could go with me to some of them as my plus one.”
Silence.
“Not as an actual date or anything.” I cough. “But the thing is, just having someone there with me, a friend at my side, would help.”
“Why not as your date?”
Now I can’t breathe. Is he making a joke? It’s probably a joke.
“I never told you this, because it would have sounded petty or jealous or something coming from me, but I hated James.” He chuckles. “I hate him still, I guess. More, now. Before I just didn’t like him, but now? I want to punch him. A lot of times.”
“No punching at work things,” I say. “Though if it happened in the parking lot. . .” I make a weird Eh sound.
Now he’s actually laughing. “I’ll keep that in mind. But listen, I’d be happy to be your date. Or to go as your friend, if that’s better for you. Whatever you want.”
He’d go as my date. Or not. Whatever I want.
Something must be wrong with my hormones, because I swear an image of Bentley in swimming trunks at the Hamptons flashes through my mind. I shake my head to clear it. “Really? That would be amazing. I have a lot of parties to attend, but if you could just do a few of them, I can just say you have conflicts on the others, and I won’t feel nearly as self-conscious.”
“The beauty of owning your own company is that any conflicts I have, I can remove. Just text me when they all are, and I’ll clear my calendar.”
Holy holly. I just landed the hottest date in New York State for what I thought was going to be the most miserable Christmas of my life.
5
Bentley
My mother had this purse—a Birken—that she loved. It was the right size. It was the right color. It had pockets for all the things that needed pockets. She would rave about it to friends, to family, and to neighbors. Of course, part of that was because it was limited edition, and she had one of only one hundred that were ever made.
I’m pretty sure she liked that bag more than she liked me.
I wish that was a joke.
To my parents, I’ve always been a bit of an accessory. To my tutors, I was a nuisance they were paid to teach. To my teachers, I was a scary problem—if I got bad grades, my parents who paid their tuition complained. To my coaches in sports, I was a tool to help them find success. To everyone in my life, I was something to be used.
Except to Dave Fansee.
He was the first person who ever treated me like someone he loved—someone he actually cared about. He saw me as a person. So while we were growing up, he always thought that I had the good life. But when I went to eat dinner at his house, I would bask in the shiny, warm love of his rambunctious and affectionate family every second I could before I went back home.
I know.
Poor, little rich boy. My parents always provided the very best for me, and I’m not someone who spent a lot of time complaining. But when everything you eat is a carefully prepared and executed meal made by a Michelin chef. . .sometimes you just want a Big Mac.
Now, at forty-three, I’m looking around at my life, and I’m beginning to think that the reason I’ve never found my Seren is that I’ve been going about looking in entirely the wrong way. Dave wasn’t even looking when Seren fell in his lap, so I thought I could do the same. I would just live my life, and she would simply find me.
Did you think some woman is going to show up and present an engraved invitation that says, ‘Bentley’s Future Bride’? Dave’s words keep rattling round and round in my brain. I mean, obviously I didn’t think some woman would show up with my name in blinking lights. I didn’t think it would be that obvious.
But I had been hoping I’d just meet her, and BAM. It would be clear that we were meant for each other. That reminds me of how not obvious it was to Dave when he met Seren. He wasn’t looking, so he didn’t see. I had to shove his face in it.
So if I have to do a little work, at least this time I’ll have a competent guide.
Translator might be a better word for Barbara. For the first time, I have a secret weapon. Barbara’s going to be my translator for all things female. Maybe she’ll pick up the cues I’ve been missing and help me find the right kind of girl, too.
When I swipe to open the eHarmony app, I’m prepared for double or even triple the matches I had last night. Thirty women as potential options that Barbara can help me work through, and guide me in messaging.
I’m utterly unprepared for two-hundred and eighty-seven matches. I nearly throw my phone.
I’m worried that Barbara will change her mind. There’s no way that helping me—a remedial dater—and trying to work through this massive pile of misery will be equal to me going to a few holiday parties and eating some red and green appetizers while we make small talk.
She’s going to quit, and I’ll be back to square one.
I text her. HOW WE LOOKING FOR DINNER?
She texts back right away, thankfully. NOT SURE IT’S GONNA HAPPEN. CRAZY DAY, TURNS OUT.
Well, shoot. REALLY? I add a crying emoji.
COULD YOU MEET IN TEN FOR BREAKFAST INSTEAD? BAGEL STOP.
It’s a scramble, but I tell her I can make it. If my hair’s not combed, well, she’s my consultant. It’s not like this is a date. Because I had to take Lucky out, I’m three minutes late, and she’s already ordered two bagels—one of them with extra schmear. As always, she remembers the tiny details. That may be the most impressive thing about Barbara. She pays attention to people and does kind things without even thinking about it. She’s wearing a suit that looks perfect on her—the light pink making her dark hair even richer, and her complexion light and bright.
“Thank goodness you squeezed me in,” I say. “Because, look.” I swivel my phone around and practically shove it in her face.
She sets her bagel on the tiny table at the edge of the park we’ve staked out. “The world isn’t fair.” She shakes her head and perches on the strange high stool the city planners must’ve been drunk to order. “You know, I’d be lucky to get this many matches in a month, but slap up a decent photo for a guy and say he makes two hundred a year and this happens.”
“Dave should have put a hundred a year, right?”
She’s smiling when she glances up at me. “It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“What does that mean?” I can’t help arching an eyebrow.
“It means your face is probably the primary draw,” she mumbles, taking a bite of her bagel as she scrolls.
“I know you’re super busy, so thanks so much for meeting me.”
She sets the phone down and levels a stare at me. “I need to know exactly what your goal is.”
“I want to be married this time next year.”
Her eyes start scanning the area around me and not looking at me.
“Is something wrong?”
She snorts. “Well, about four women within earshot just locked in on you.” She sighs. “Look, you can’t just say stuff like that in public, not when you look like you do. And especially not when you pulled up in that Bugatti.”
“Excuse me.” A woman with dark hair and sunglasses bites her lip and steps closer.
“Yes?” Barbara says.
“I just wanted to see whether you wanted a coffee. I could grab you one.” She shoots a frosty gaze at Barbara, and I realize she’s asking me.
“Um, no. I don’t drink coffee much. Upsets my stomach.”
The woman frowns. “A juice then?”
Was Barbara serious? Is this woman hitting on me because I said I wanted to get married? I reach over and take Barbara’s hand. “I think my girlfriend might be upset if you did that.” I force a smile.
The woman swallows awkwardly. “Sorry. I misunderstood.” She makes big eyes at Barbara and walks off, finally.
Barbara yanks her hand away.
“Sorry. It seemed like a good way to get rid of her.”
“Listen, if I know your goals—what kind of girl you’re looking for—then I can help you narrow these matches down. We can also fine tune your profile so that you’re attracting the right kind of girl.”
“No wonder you’re so busy at work,” I say. “You know a lot about this kind of stuff.”
“Social media’s my whole job.”
“Whereas I’m a complete dope at it.”
“It’s become a little too much a part of our lives, I think.” She pulls out a notepad. “Now, tell me what you want to find.” She looks up at me, and I can’t help noticing how cute her expression is when she’s working. Her lips are pursed. Her eyes are alert and intent. She’s so serious that I want to just. . .boop—touch the end of her nose.
Which is ridiculous. She’s a competent businesswoman, a friend, and she’s doing me a huge favor. The last thing I need to do is patronize her. “I want a girl who’s smart. Competent at whatever she does.”
She’s scribbling, but she shakes her head slowly. “That’ll narrow down two thirds of our applicants.”
“Not seriously, surely.”
“You’re right. I’m being unfair and catty.” She looks up. “And?”
“A sense of humor,” I say. “Common sense. I don’t want to date someone I’ll also need to babysit.”
“What’s your age parameter?”
I blink.
“How young a woman will you date?”
“Oh.” I hadn’t really thought about it. “Thirty?”
She nods. “That’s reasonable. It will also eliminate a lot…” She picks up my phone, uses my face to unlock it, and then starts tapping. “Okay, when I select for some college, and when I remove anyone under thirty. . .” She swivels it back around. “Fifty-eight matches.”
“That was like magic.”
She shrugs. “It’s almost like I’ve been online dating for twenty years.”
I can’t help my sarcasm. “So clearly it works well. . .”
When she sets my phone down, it looks like she’s miffed.
“I wasn’t trying to insult you, though. I just mean that—”
She drops her pen. “There are no guarantees in life, and certainly there aren’t any in dating either, Bentley. If that’s what you want, you’ll need to talk to someone about an arranged marriage.”
“Whoa,” I say. “Calm down.”
“Sorry.” She picks her pen up. “Sometimes some of my divorce bitterness just. . .” She waves her hand through the air. “Escapes.”
“Good to know.” I throw my hands around too as if to dissipate it. “And for me, sometimes rich entitlement just sort of. . .bubbles over. When that happens, maybe just swat at it and we’ll be even.”
“Swat it?” she asks. “Or you?”
“Either,” I say. “And you didn’t ask about this, but I’d really like to find someone who doesn’t like me because I’m rich.”
She freezes and looks up at me. “Bentley.” She grimaces. “I’m not sure that—”
“That anyone will like me unless they know?” That’s what I was afraid of. I’m a little pushy and a lot opinionated, and I only have a few friends. I’m pretty sure they’re friends with me because they’ve known me for so long.
“No.” She’s smiling as she shakes her head. “You idiot.”
“What?”
“Bentley, I’m saying that as soon as they meet you, they’re going to know. So even if you pick people who think you’re only making two hundred a year, as soon as you meet them, it’s game over.”
“Why?”
Barbara opens her mouth and closes it. “Well.” She picks up my keys, which are resting on the table, and clicks the button. My Bugatti chirps. “You have at least three cars that cost over a hundred grand. And.” She points at my cufflinks, which are diamond studded. “Or.” She points at my jacket, slung over the empty stool next to us. You can just barely make out the Gucci label.
“Who looks at the tag on the inside of a man’s suit coat?”
She shrugs. “People who make less than a few million a year don’t buy Tom Ford suits. Or Armani suits. Or Hermes or Luis Vuitton dress shoes.”
“I don’t even go shopping for myself. I pay someone to pick things.”
“That’s another thing you really shouldn’t say. Everyone else in the world does their own shopping.” She looks serious.
“I knew it,” I say. “I’m a remedial case, and you’re rethinking our deal.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not, but you might want to consider switching cars with Dave for your dates, and maybe buying a few things that are reasonably priced to wear.”
I reach for my keys, to put them in my pocket, and she grabs my hand and twists so that she can better see my wrist.
“Bentley. For the love of—your watch costs more than most people’s cars.”
“It was a gift,” I say. “And would regular people even know?”
“They’ll know Cartier is expensive, or at least, the gold-diggers will.”
I sigh. “Fine.”
“You don’t even know where to go shopping for cheaper things, do you?”
I hate that I have to agree with her, but. . .
“Look.” She glances at her watch. “I was going to spend the morning—never mind. I can be a bit late to work, since I’ll be at that holiday party tomorrow. So let’s just go grab a few essentials, but then you have to give me a ride to work.”
“Deal.”
“I’ll scroll through these fifty matches on the way to the store, and we’ll look for a handful of winners.”
“I’m not done yet,” I say. “I want someone I click with. Someone who’s easy to talk to. Someone who gets me.”
“You’ll have to meet them to find out that stuff,” she says. “But what about activities? What do you want them to like doing?”
“Someone who’s active and likes to travel,” I say. “Someone who has a career of some kind, but doesn’t mind prioritizing family.”
She freezes. “You want kids?”
“Don’t you?”
Barbara sighs. “I do, but it may be too late for me. It’s never too late for guys, I guess.”
“Too late for you? You’re not even forty yet.”
“Next year,” she says. “But I don’t mean that. By the time I find someone, and we date, and we get married. . . Once we have a solid foundation, I’d be beyond forty by a wide margin, and it just gets harder and harder to have kids for women.” She shrugs. “I’m trying to wrap my brain around the possibility that it may not happen.”
“You’d be such a great mom, though,” I say. “Maybe it’ll be like a lightning strike. Maybe you’ll meet him and fall madly in love.”
“That would be nice,” she says. “So far, that has never once happened for me.”
“Me either.” I stuff the last piece of bagel in my mouth.
She opens my phone again and starts filtering through women. She’s not asking me to do anything with them, so I’m not sure. . . “What are you doing?”
“I’m ruling out the idiots and the flakes before you’ve had a chance to see their photo and decide to give them a chance because they’re pretty.”
I can’t help laughing. “Isn’t that important?”
“Sure,” she says. “But let’s find people who might be a fit and then decide whether they’re attractive.”
She’s smart with this, that’s for sure. We head for the store she rattles off, but she spends most of the drive over scrolling in silence. We’re nearly there when she says, “Okay, let’s meet our finalists, shall we?”
“Sure.”
She makes a drumrolling sound, and after I park, she turns the phone around. “First up, we have Denise Chitton, a graduate in finance who works at an investment bank in the City. She’s sporty—plays handball three times a week—she’s witty—references Shakespeare in a clever way in her profile—and she’s pretty.” She holds the phone closer and swipes through a dozen photos.
She’s not wrong. Denise is tall, lean, and makes a mean duck face. I can’t put my finger on why, but I’m not excited. Still, Barbara looks eager, so I shrug. “Okay.”
“She passes. Nice.” She makes a note, and then starts typing on my phone.
