Romance Is My Day Job (14 page)

I'm suddenly a romance editor (well, assistant editor, but still), within six months of moving to New York. Maybe I'm not dating because I get my fix all day long, plus we don't have an influx of XYs on the floor. I'm all about romance on the page.

Lucky for me, my time at work couldn't be more enlightening. I read historical romances mostly—sneaking in a few contemporary romances—plus, Harlequin has branched out into Christian romances (no sex, but yes on the hand-holding), a booming market, which Tracy manages within our walls. Some of the stories make me cry, as do the historicals. A gorgeous preacher helps a woman regain her faith after a death in her family. A medieval lord sleeps with his late brother's wife, then must marry her when she's with child. Neither is looking for real love until it just happens. These stories appease some of the loneliness of living in Manhattan.

One of my early jobs is to clean out the library and rearrange some of the books. Imagine about 70 percent of the Harlequin books written in the past twenty years in one room. The shelves are packed with those precious thin volumes, along with bigger books by rising stars in the genre. While the room is mighty dusty and I sneeze everywhere, I marvel at the vastness of romance. As I move books around, I get to look at covers from several decades and see how the genre has evolved. From the long-haired Fabio to short-haired heroes. From mustaches to that sexy stubble after a long day of espionage in a war-torn country. Every now and then comes a weird cover, a hero with a rainbow above him or a tornado behind him, perhaps indicating time travel. Some of the heroines seem like damsels waiting to be saved as they dangle off a cliff. Over time, these damsels turn bold and are able to pull themselves up from the cliff.

In the middle of all my research, there's a name I hear often, with glowing praise. I don't go too long without someone saying how much she loves Nora Roberts. This author's written for years, and her name has raced up the bestseller charts in a major way.

Reading her is almost a cliché, one I resist for months until I oh-so-subtly slip
The Fall of Shane MacKade
into my purse. Maybe I'll just read a chapter or two. That can't hurt. When I'm done, I'll just slip it back into the library.

Five chapters later, I'm a total goner. It should be called
The Fall of Patience
. The author hooks me from the first paragraph, and I'm totally smitten by this Shane hero. He's a player but somehow manages to stay on good terms with all his conquests. And then he falls in love with a bookish girl (like someone else we know!) who conducts scientific experiments. His passion for her is beyond his control. He can't stop sleeping with her—they have super-orgasmic sex. How does Nora do this?

I read the rest of the books in the series, my heart holding a special place for Shane. It becomes clear that writers of this genre are firmly grounded in the art of storytelling. You're not liable to study symbolism or foreshadowing in a romance novel, but without knowing why, you want to read on. By the end, you may be swept up in a whirl of happy images, joyful thoughts, hopes for the future. At least that is what Shane does for me.

Not too long after falling for Shane, I get to meet Nora Roberts. We're waiting outside a conference room. She's about to speak, I'm about to listen.

“Have you met Nora?” our mutual friend asks.

My breath freezes in my chest. She looks fabulous. Armani suit. Perfect hair. “No.” I try to breathe again. “I'm Patience Smith.”

“That is an
excellent
name,” Nora says.

“Thanks!”

We both whip out our tins of Altoids at the same time, then the workshop starts.

With all these accomplished people around me, I forget to obsess about my own lack of a love life. Or at least about having a relationship. True love is not what I'm after, though I'll go out on a date. How could any real-life hero compare to the countless Darcys I read about every single day? I'm not saying I'll never look for Darcy again—he's fun to visit with in books—but I just don't need him.

2001–2008

No sooner do I finish
Bridget Jones's Diary
than I decide to date again. Bridget Jones and I have so much in common, aside from a neurotic obsession with our neuroses. She works in the editorial department of a publishing house and surely knows that the publishing calendar is the most important one there is. Poor Bridget falls for her handsome yet toxic boss, which costs her a job. She reinvents herself before stumbling into an even better romance with a man she's loathed most of her life. Well, the only qualities she and I share are our profession and our commitment to self-improvement. As I read a local magazine, I notice an article about online-dating, that everyone's doing it, like it's the most efficient way to connect with potential suitors. Meeting someone online seems the perfect solution for the shy girl who wants to date but doesn't know how.

Why not?

I'm ready to pull out my short dresses and heels, get my hair blown out, join a gym, and date in earnest. It's time for me to find a companion who is not my brother or one of my girlfriends at Harlequin (though they are excellent plus-ones). My brother, Patrick, and I resemble the titular characters in
Will & Grace,
calling each other constantly to comment on what we're eating, who's cute, how great Julia Roberts is, how many times we've seen
Notting Hill,
whether
Sex and the City
is as good as Julia, where you meet cute guys, whether Mom really soaks all her food in a stick of butter. (The answer is yes.) Because Patrick and I spent much of our lives in separate places, we make up for lost time in New York.

We set up a time for him to take a picture for my online-dating profile: at Mom's special July Fourth family dinner. The Fourth of July, our nation's birthday, is not so amazing in the city. I generally see this celebration as a small-town thing, with picnics and fireworks. In Manhattan, you try to find a roof where you can see fireworks, though you usually wind up watching the show on television.

Good thing my mother and Don invested in a weekend West Village apartment with roof access. We have an amazing view. For the occasion, I get dolled up in a tan miniskirt and a flattering yellow shirt, get my hair blown out, and put on red lipstick and skyscraper heels. I stumble to my mom's place on the other side of town.

As I enter the apartment, my stepfather, Don, barks hello and goes back to his book. Mom is cooking dinner (in a pot full of butter) and I give her a kiss. I sit down on the couch after getting myself a glass of red wine.

Patrick enters the room and sees me. “Wow, look at you!” he says.

“It's the new me.”

He sets up his camera and starts taking pictures.

“So the new you is a nineteenth-century French prostitute?” Don says.

I flash him a look of utter contempt—which, sadly, resembles my come-hither look. Click. My brother captures the expression and this picture gets me dates for the next few years in Manhattan.

I should thank my stepfather. Who knew that the thought
You're being a dick
would enrich my social life? Over eight years of onlinedating, I learn a few lessons:

Manage Expectations:
The person you meet won't be as gorgeous in person as in his picture. Though neither am I (unless I devote a couple hours to it). Every once in a while, I am pleasantly surprised and he is who he says he is. Do as Bridget does: Smile anyway. Reward yourself with a glass of Chivas and an éclair afterward.

Obvious Agenda:
If you choose to date online, you're admitting that you want something: marriage, babies, security, sex—something. Know what you want and don't dial down your desire. While you're only shopping at the beginning, don't lie on your profile by saying you want “friendship” when you really want marriage. If he feels you're trying to trap him, then he's a jerk.

Hasn't It Been Called Buffet Dating Before?:
When you're at the buffet, you think you want the roasted chicken with almonds. Then you see the ginger-encrusted trout and choose that instead. But then you catch a glimpse of the shortbread and chocolate mousse s'mores. You know, I get it. Being the roasted chicken, though, is not so great. In New York, there's a strange mentality of dating for the sake of dating while always keeping an eye on the better dish up ahead.

Pack-Dating:
Some guys date in batches. Use a condom and cover it with Purell.

Vanishers:
With online-dating, promising dates can appear, then disappear, like magic! He contacts you for a rendezvous, sets it up, then doesn't clinch the deal. Or he goes out on one date with you, then never calls you again. It happens all the time. Enjoy as much as you can before his untimely disappearance.

Resurfacers:
Resurfacers come back after they've vanished once—and they keep resurfacing until you tell them to go away. Resurfacers are bored Vanishers, but they're never satisfied and need quick fixes. If an ex or ex-date comes back, you're better off pressing the “delete” button, unless you're prepared for another vanishing. Then again, if you're really, really bored and want to stir up drama (I've been there!), go for the gusto.

 • • • 

The best part about online-dating is the practice, especially if you're not used to going out and meeting people. Each date is unique. While my potential heroes have distinct attributes, they aren't a good match for my inner romantic heroine. The more I read, the more I can't help linking my guys to these particular storybook heroes. . . .

The Enchanting Earls (with Accents!)

The Romance-Novel Hero

Hugh Westingham, Earl of Buttershire, wakes up with a nasty hangover. After his wife died in a freak carriage accident, he hasn't been the same. To keep his fortune (according to his grandfather's will), he must find a new bride, and the idea of marrying again renders him positively beastly . . . but really sexy and rich, too. All the
ton
is abuzz over which lady he'll choose. It can't be the plain-Jane third daughter of a modest family, the little chit standing in the corner, talking to no one. There he goes, about to ask this fragile creature to dance. . . .

The Real-Life Version

Charles Middle Name Middle Name Willingham III, a Brit who once played tennis with John Taylor (my old crush, who by now is divorced from Amanda De Cadenet and remarried to Juicy Couture's Gela Nash—not that I keep careful track!), requests the honor of my presence in the isle of Manhattan, chez Starbucks, Murray Hill.

He's my first official online date, and British accents make my knees buckle. I wait a good five minutes before he arrives, sporting khaki shorts and a T-shirt. We smile and wait in line. Here comes the saddest part: After ordering our coffees, I whip out my wallet and insist on treating. Did I just inhale too much rubber cement?

“I like that,” Charles says.

“My mother taught me always to pay my own way,” I answer smugly. As if this is the coolest way to win over a future husband. According to his profile, he makes six figures doing something lucrative in the art field. The way he dresses, though, I have this feeling he might be incognito and married.

Charles and I talk for an hour before I have to return to work. He says he'll call me but doesn't until a week later. My phone rings at eleven thirty
P.M
., just when I'd given up on ever hearing from him again.

“I just saw
Bridget Jones
. It's bloody good,” he says.

“Oh, really?” I pretend I haven't seen it twice already. After this, the conversation fizzles and Charles vanishes . . . until he resurfaces two years later, then two years after that.

 • • • 

Right around the time Charles leaves my dating sphere, 9/11 happens. It's one of those times when I am grateful for my life. Like the entire city, I am horrified and thoroughly heartbroken. My insomnia returns with a vengeance, to the point where I start popping Tylenol PM, trying not to fall asleep at my desk. The great part of online-dating is that everyone is going through the same thing. We talk about our shared experiences.

Secret, Temporarily Penniless Earls

The Romance-Novel Hero

Aidan O'Sullivan is the bastard son of Duke Lindsay Buckingham of Taliashire. After a tryst with a maid results in a son, Lord Lindsay sends her back to her native Ireland and cuts off all contact with her, never acknowledging paternity. Aidan grows up bitter (and gorgeous). He's determined to amass a fortune and destroy his dear old dad. Without revealing his identity, he becomes close to the dying Lord Lindsay, who recognized him all along. Aidan feels a magnetic pull to his dad's nurse, a wholesome woman who knows the truth about Aidan and teaches him to do the right thing—and they make passionate love in her attic room, after which Lindsay's evil wife tries to kill them both so he won't inherit anything.

The Real-Life Version

Lesley is articulate, Irish, and, from his profile, could be the little brother of R.E.M.'s Michael Stipe, as in he's adorably hairless. We make a date to see
The Royal Tenenbaums
. I spend three hours washing, drying, and blowing out my hair because I have to be as beautiful as in my picture. I throw on my red sweater, heels, my Little Black Riding Hood coat, and shiny, sleek black pants.

Standing out in the cold, I wait for Lesley, and finally, this short man walks by me, eyes me questioningly. He smiles, twinkles the way Irish men do, and says my name. Lesley is not what I expected, but then they never are, dear. It's cruel that I'd rule him out based on one second, but suddenly I am grateful for the movie date, that I won't have to pretend to be attracted to him.

We do the pre-date chitchat and I find myself enjoying him more and more. He's literary and high up in the advertising world but doesn't reek of affluence. He's not psychotic. He seems almost poor (takes my ten dollars for my movie ticket).

I accept a second date. Then a third.

Am I crazy? Not at all. I'm under the spell of that guy who's not classically attractive but grows on you like a virus. You can't get enough. The baldness. The charm. The ever-so-slight walleye. Add an accent to this, and I'm absolute toast. I even tell him I'm not that into him. He smiles, nods, and waits for me to fall into the hole, which I do. I don't just fall; I dive in,
Fatal Attraction
and all.

While I love his company—even as a friend and café companion—I know deep down the minute he asks me to read his novel that he's mostly interested in free editorial advice, which I'm happy to give since he is, in fact, a talented writer.

It's wise to steer clear of this kind of guy as a lifelong mate—and he would agree. I wish I could take my own advice. It takes me five years to get Lesley out of my system. We remain friends.

The Secretive Hero (Who May Be Hiding Something Really Bad)

The Romance-Novel Hero

Rafe Blackstone roams the earth, taking on dangerous assignments that could get him killed. He is tormented by guilt because he killed his father. When Dad went after Mom with a broken bottle, Rafe stepped in and beat him to a pulp. As a result of his adolescent rage, Rafe keeps to himself, secretly fearing he may carry the same violence within. He's reluctant to take on his new assignment, to find the heroine's kidnapped sister in a South American jungle. But within a few days, Rafe discovers a wild attraction to her and exposes his vulnerability as they swipe mosquitoes. The heroine assures Rafe that he's not his father.

The Real-Life Version

Terminal Illness meets me at Joe Allen, a cute establishment on restaurant row. TI resembles a young Michael York and hints that he has some terrible disease. Prepared to be Florence Nightingale, I gently ask him what's wrong with his health, but he turns his face away as if to swallow the emotion. The conversation is pleasant enough that I drop by his office with him that same night to “pick up a folder.” We make out in front of a weird painting and I never see him after this.