Arranged (22 page)

Frustrated, I go back into the living room and sit down at the desk he’s set up in the corner to write. His appointment book is sitting there, open to today. He’s meeting his editor, Ted, for drinks at five-thirty.

I check my watch. It’s six o’clock. He probably won’t be home for a while. Maybe I should go meet him at the bar. No, no, that’s crazy. Relax, Anne, relax.

I sit on the couch, turn on the TV, and flip through the channels. I can’t rest on a channel for longer than ten seconds, and after a few minutes, I realize I’m sitting on something uncomfortable and bulky. I reach under me and find a large stack of paper held together with a clip. I turn it over. It’s Jack’s work in progress, the one he never lets me read.

Its title makes me feel queasy. With shaking hands, I start reading.

Married Like Me

Prologue

I was kicking around my editor’s office about six months ago, waiting for the inevitable “So, what’s your next project going to be, Jackie, my boy?” It was the only reason he’d ever call me in for a meeting.

Great guy, Ted, but in the years we’ve worked together, he’s assumed a role of parental concern about my career, my general lack of drive, and my revolving door of six-month girlfriends. He also has this unnerving ability to call me at the exact moment when I most need a kick in the ass. And since the final proofs for my book were approved two weeks after Jessica, my last six-monther, demanded her key back with a shrill “Never call me again,” I knew it was only a matter of time before Ted started talking about the future.

“Jackson, your presence is required in my office tomorrow at two sharp.”

“Yessir, Master Ted.”

“Knock it off, Jackass. Be here.” He clicked off, on to his next problem child.

He has a stable of about twenty of us. All men. All writers of middling success. All in need of his tough love, without which, according to him, we would never get off our “keisters” and produce anything salable. “And then where would you be?”

“So, Jackson, what’s the plan?” Ted said, now that he had me in front of him.

“I’ve been toying with the idea of doing one of those survivalist adventures where they drop you off in the woods for two weeks sans everything.”

“Jesus, Jack. Have you been reading women’s magazines for inspiration?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep my temper.

“Gwyneth Paltrow just did that for
Vogue
.”

Ted’s an insomniac, and he reads—and remembers—everything under the sun. He’s also a hub of information: celebrities, quasi-celebrities, people who might be celebrities and even average Joes—chances are Ted knows them or knows something about them.

“What about sending me up McKinley? People keep dying there.”

“Isn’t it called Denali now?”

“So?”

“Why not Everest, Krakauer wannabe?” He knew he was hitting a nerve, and he was enjoying it. I looked at him sitting smugly at his desk, his feet propped up and his head resting on the back of his chair. I realized I was missing the obvious.

“Why don’t you just tell me what my next project’s going to be?”

“Finally got there, did you?”

“Looks like.”

He brought his feet to the floor and leaned forward with an excited look in his eyes. He asked me if I’d ever heard of Blythe & Company. When I told him no, he asked me to close the door. He had a book idea for me that was going to “knock my fucking socks off.” All I had to do was one little thing.

“What’s that?” I asked with a hint of trepidation.

He paused dramatically. “Get married.”

Chapter 21

An Unfinished Project

I
read Jack’s book all the way through, frozen on the couch, barely breathing, barely thinking.

There are so many shocking things in this book, it’s hard to know where to start.

But the highlights:

He uncovered a lot of details about Blythe & Company, details I failed to find in my limited search on the Internet. Details that show me to be either a terrible journalist or a stupid girl looking for a fairy tale. Maybe both. But now, thanks to Jack, I know all about the aging guru couple behind it and their enormous house and Swiss bank accounts. Whether Blythe & Company works or not, is real or not, someone’s making a lot of money off it.

Jack also tracked down some of Blythe & Company’s former clients. Some were deliriously happy and spoke about the company the way people used to speak about the Peoples Temple. Others ended up poorer, divorced, and bitter. They spoke about the “process” like kids talk about their grades in high school: how it was all random, how there was no method to any of it. I can’t tell if their relationships failed because it
was
all random or because they’d never given it a real chance. Were they part of the 5 percent?
Was
there a 5 percent?

And then, and
then,
he writes about me, about seeing me for the first time. Oh, he gives me a different name: Diana Barry (c’mon, Jack, couldn’t you make up a name instead of using one from the same book I was named from?), but it’s recognizably me.

Jack knew all kinds of things about me before we ever met. When he received his slip of paper from Ms. Cooper, he got a friend to hack in to their computer system and learned my full name. Then he Googled me to death and read everything he could find.

The first time he saw me wasn’t in Mexico. He followed me around for a day, watched me buy some of the clothes I got for the trip. In the book, he speculates on what a person like me (good-looking, successful, educated) would want from a service like this. Was it my fault all of my relationships had failed, or did I just have bad luck?

He has that freaky ability the best journalists have of remembering conversations verbatim, or nearly so, without taking notes. So every time he quotes me in the book, it’s something I said, or it sounds like something I could’ve said, even if I don’t remember saying it. And Jack’s accuracy doesn’t make it any easier to see it written down on the page, or to be editorialized by him.

By the time I read about our first night together, I’m nearly hyperventilating. And while this is the most restrained chapter, it makes me sick to my stomach to see these moments I thought were so private captured starkly on the page.

Ten pages from the end, I throw the manuscript down and run to the bathroom, throwing up what’s left of the lunch I ate hours ago. When I finish, I sit down on the cold porcelain floor and rest my head against the wall. The act of throwing up makes me furious. I hate throwing up. I hate the tangy metallic taste in my mouth and the lack of control and—

I hate Jack. I hate him.

I start to cry.

The cold, hard floor makes my butt ache. And my heart aches, it
aches,
so I cry and cry until there are no tears left in me.

Fuck, fuck,
fuck.
What am I going to do? What am I going to say to Jack? How will I be able to speak to him, see him, share any space with him for longer than one second? I don’t think I can manage even that. One second is too much. I need to leave before he gets back. Write a note for him and tell him to get out, that I never want to see him again. Don’t contact me, don’t call. And don’t bloody publish that book, or I’ll get Sarah to sue your ass to kingdom come. You think you’ve been unsuccessful before? You have no idea. I will own you and everything you produce until you die, you asshole motherfucker!

God. What time is it? Jack’s going to be home soon. I need to get up. I need to pull myself together.

Get up, Anne, get up.

I hear a key in the lock.

“Hold on a sec, Ted. I think I left it on the couch,” Jack says, crystal-clear though he’s rooms away. Even his voice is too close.

I hear a murmur of a deeper voice but not the words. Through a supreme act of will, I stand up, run some water in the sink, and wash the grief off my face. Feeling unsteady, I dry myself on a towel. I don’t want to see Jack, but mostly, I don’t want him to find me in here like this.

“Anne? Anne? Are you here?”

“I’ll be out in a second,” I croak. “Give me a minute.” A little louder, a little stronger.

“I want you to meet Ted,” Jack calls from outside the bathroom door.

Are you fucking kidding me? He wants me to meet
Ted,
the mastermind behind this whole shit show? Just the idea of it makes me so mad, I’m filled with a burst of energy.

“In a minute,” I say as firmly as I can.

As his footsteps recede, I start formulating a plan, a way I can deal with this and retain (maybe) a small measure of dignity. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m a disaster, but I can fix it. I brush my hair, apply some mascara, and tuck in my blouse. I check my reflection again. I look presentable. I look normal except to myself.

I square my shoulders and leave the bathroom.

Jack is in the living room with a man in his late fifties who’s about the same height as Jack, with a large beer belly that protrudes vertically from his body. He has short graying hair and wears glasses that are too big for his face. He’s holding Jack’s manuscript under his arm.

I extend my hand and put on a pleasant smile. If my eyes are daggers, I can’t help it. “You must be Ted. Jack’s told me . . . well, not that much really, but I’ve been reading all about you.”

Ted shakes my hand, looking puzzled. Jack comes over and kisses me on the temple. I try not to flinch when his lips touch my skin.

“Hey,” he says, “you’re back early.”

My lucky day.

“Yeah.”

“What did you mean when you said you were reading all about me?” perceptive Ted asks.

“Oh, in Jack’s book.” I motion to the manuscript under his arm.

Their faces turn to shock. Jack’s mouth actually falls open. I’ve never seen anyone do that before, like in a cartoon.

I make myself laugh. “Boys, boys, no need to look so surprised. I read Jack’s book, and I know this has all been a big experiment, a project.” I wave my hand around the room, as if this room is the project, Jack’s half-finished shelves. “So I know. And now you have the ending for your book. It’ll come out of nowhere. Whammo!” I smash my hands together. They make a loud smacking sound. “No one will see it coming.”

Jack finds his tongue. “Anne, please—”

“Please what? You can explain? Don’t even bother trying. I’ve read the book, remember? Now, Ted, I think you can see that Jack and I have a few things to discuss, so why don’t you leave?”

I shoo him toward the door. He opens it and turns to me, a sad look on his face. “Anne, let me apologize . . . I don’t think either of us really thought this through before we did it—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you did. You just didn’t think about me. Now, why don’t you give me that manuscript? No point in reading it if it’s never going to be published, is there?”

Like a child who’s been busted for stealing candy, he hands it over.

I hold it tightly to my chest. “Goodbye, Ted.”

He opens his mouth to say something but decides otherwise. He nods to Jack and leaves. Jack is sitting limply on the couch, his hands loose between his knees.

“Now, Jackson. Or do you prefer Jackass?”

“Anne, babe, please—”

“Don’t you dare call me that. Don’t you even fucking dare.”

Jack stands and walks over to me. His palms are open and facing me as if he’s surrendering to the police. His face is his white flag. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’m going to Sarah’s. When I get back here tomorrow, I don’t want there to be a trace of you left in this apartment. It shouldn’t take you long to get your stuff out. Remember what you said when you moved in? A couple of hours should do the trick. And when you’re done, I want you to forget you ever met me.”

“Anne, can we please talk about this?”

“No.”

“Will you just give me a chance to apologize, to explain?”

“No.”

He steps closer and takes hold of my arms above the elbow. “Anne, I love you. I know you don’t believe me right now. I know you might never believe me, but what I wrote in there, it’s just the way I had to write it.”

I step away from him. “That’s such horseshit, Jack. You didn’t have to write anything. And you certainly didn’t have to write about
me.
”

“No, you’re right, I didn’t. I started writing it before I met you, and it was too late to change it . . . but I want to. That’s what I was telling Ted.”

“Jack, stop lying to me, okay? You’ve been
happy
with the way your book’s turning out. You’ve been telling me that every day.”

This silences him. His hands hang limply by his side.

“I thought so.”

“Anne, I love you. And I know you love me. We can work this out.” His voice is wavering.

My throat constricts. The only reason I’m not crying is that I left all my tears in the bathroom.

“Anne, please. Can’t we start over? Can’t I do or say something to change all this?”

A small, stupid part of me wants that to be possible. But I can’t give in. I can’t. I take a deep breath. “No.”

His eyes crowd with doubt. “Why not?”

“Because . . . I don’t love you.” My voice sounds shaky and unconvincing. I try again. “I know I said I did the other night, but I was drunk and tired, and I didn’t mean it.”

“Anne—”

“No, Jack. It’s true. You were just my friend. And now you’re my friend who’s done this completely shitty thing to me. So I don’t need you in my life anymore. I want you to pack up your stuff and go.”

His face is filled with sadness, but the doubt is gone. He believes me now.

I take his rings off my finger and place them on the table. They clink against each other, making a hollow sound. I imagine this is what the inside of my heart would sound like if it weren’t shattered.

“Anne, please. I know I fucked everything up. I know I’ve been a complete asshole. But please . . . don’t go.”

There they are. The words I wanted to hear six months ago from another man. The words that might have kept me in place. But not now. Not today.

“Goodbye, Jack,” I say, and then I walk out the door.

W
hen Sarah opens her door, I fling myself into her arms and hold on as if she’s a life raft.

“Anne, what’s wrong? Did someone die? Anne?”

I can’t talk. All I can do is gulp for air. She walks me to her couch and sits me down. “Anne, you’re scaring me. Please tell me what’s going on.”

I wipe my nose with my sleeve and take several shaky breaths. My words come out in staccato bursts. “You’re never . . . going to believe . . . you’re going to think . . . insane.”

“Is this about Jack? Did you have a fight? Fighting doesn’t make you insane, Anne, it’s normal.”

I shake my head and pull Jack’s manuscript from my purse. “Sarah, you have no idea.”

W
hile Sarah reads, I change into a pair of her pajamas and curl up on the couch to watch a
Gilmore Girls
rerun. It’s the episode where Luke and Lorelai finally kiss for the first time. I love this show, this episode especially. It’s perfect and romantic and the last thing I should be watching right now. But what can I say? I like fairy tales.

Every page or so Sarah reads something that makes her exclaim “No fucking way” or “You’re shitting me.” Thirty pages in—I can guess it’s when Jack starts speculating about what would make me use a service like this—she says, “Fuck you, asshole,” in a particularly vicious tone. I enjoy these exclamations. There’s a strange comfort in being involved in this drama, this crazy, sensational story, and listening to Sarah’s reactions to it all.

When Sarah is halfway through, Mike comes home and wants to know what’s going on. She wordlessly hands him the part of the manuscript she’s already read. He sits down on the couch next to her and starts reading. His first “holy shit” escapes about two minutes later. Sarah shushes him and keeps reading. They read through two more episodes (it’s a
Gilmore Girls
marathon, apparently), almost never at a loss for words.

Sarah gets to the last page, further than I could. No surprise. She’s always been stronger than I. She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Anne, how could you?”

I wrap a fleece throw tighter around my shoulders. “I don’t know. I just thought it might work out, you know?”

“But all that money. All your book money.”

“It’s only money, Sarah. It was for my life, and I was trying to have one.”