The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (8 page)

"Good idea."

"I'm just gonna hop in the shower!" I called eagerly as I was halfway down the hallway. Once I had reached my bathroom, I couldn't get into that shower fast enough. I turned on the faucet, threw my shirt over my head and whipped off my sweatpants and underwear, and bounced into the stall.

I wasn't really that excited to take a shower. I was just trying to get as far away from that phone as possible.

After Jamie had left for work, I stood fully dressed and ready to go in front of my bedroom mirror. Everything about me—from head to toe—screamed professional businesswoman, from the dark gray pants suit over the black cotton camisole to the simple knot in my hair, twisted and pinned at the base of my head. The clean lines of my makeup, the unadorned strand of pearls hanging across my neck, even the Louis Vuitton briefcase I held in my right hand.

As with any other day, there were so many elements that made up my outfit selection. So many pieces that came together to form the meticulously designed representation of myself that I chose to display to my employees and my clients.

Yet today, all I could see was the big, fat, sparkling diamond on my finger.

It stood out like a beacon, drawing the attention of anyone in its vicinity. I may as well have had a spotlight pointed at my left hand.

I tried to imagine myself walking into the office with the brilliance and shine of this newly acquired accessory lighting the way ahead of me. There was no doubt it would be noticed. No, not only noticed.
Revered,
admired, gushed over, celebrated, and most of all . . . questioned.

Because before today, I was a mystery. My life outside of the office didn't even exist. Every time I walked through those double glass doors, I left all aspects of Jennifer Hunter behind. And until six
P.M.
that night, I was known only as "Ashlyn." A woman who, as far as everyone else was concerned, had no dates, no prospects, no friends, and no family to speak of.

I stared into the mirror at the ring on my finger, my eyes nearly burning from its radiant reflection.

This ring makes me a different person.

The thought entered my mind so fast, I had no time to process the root of its origins. But where it came from didn't matter much. As soon as it was out there, I knew it was true. This ring
did
make me a different person. Not because I was, in fact, different just by wearing it, but because people's
perceptions
of me would change the moment they laid eyes on it.

I thought about the appointment I had later this morning with Camille Klein, the wife of the real estate agent Teresa had tested last week. She was coming in at eleven. How would she react when she saw this ring on my finger? Would she glance at it out of the corner of her eye but try to ignore it as she listened to me deliver the results of her husband's assignment? Would she judge me for wearing it while I gave her the most heartbreaking news of her life?

I would if I were her.

Because everyone knows a diamond ring on someone's left hand isn't just a diamond ring. It's a hopeful promise. Or in my case, a bold statement. Asserting to the world that I refuse to end up like the majority of my clients.

Even though I wasn't the one conducting the actual assignments anymore, I was pretty sure that being married or even engaged while running a fidelity inspection business was some kind of conflict of interest. I guess this is one of those rare industries where people trust you
more
when you're single.

And in one swift, fluid movement, I slid the ring off my finger, dropped it into an interior compartment of my briefcase, and closed the flap, keeping the
new
me safely concealed behind a wall of expensive Italian leather.

"All right, let's get this over with," Zoë announced later that evening as she strode through my front door. "Bring on the glue sticks and the glitter."

Sophie entered right behind her, carrying three large shopping bags full of supplies. She groaned loudly, clearly not appreciating Zoë's sarcasm. "For the last time, Zoë, there is
no
glitter. It's my wedding, not my sweet sixteen."

"Whatever." Zoë waltzed into the living room and plopped down on the sofa. "Where's the pizza?"

"I ordered it about twenty minutes ago. It should be here soon," I replied, glancing curiously into the hallway behind Sophie. "Where's John?"

Zoë rolled her eyes. "He's out with his new
boyfriend.
He said he'll stop by later."

I stifled a frustrated sigh. I had been waiting to tell my friends about my engagement all day. Through two difficult and disheartening post-assignment meetings. Camille Klein cried on my shoulder for ten minutes when she found out her husband had seduced Teresa in one of his for-sale homes, and Neal Carter had punched the wall when I told him that his wife had invited Cameron back to their home for coffee when his kids were in school. Then I had to call in a repairman to fix the dent.

I was looking forward to doling out some
good
news for a change, and I wasn't sure the information would stay trapped inside of me much longer. I was honestly planning just on blurting it out the minute everyone had crossed the threshold, but apparently, it wasn't going to work that way. And John would kill me if I didn't wait for him.

My shoulders slumped as I closed the door behind Sophie and watched as she covered my coffee table with newspaper and then proceeded to empty the contents of her shopping bags.

"Okay," she said, spreading out the supplies in perfectly divided sections across the table. "I've devised a system that should help this assembly process run smoothly."

Zoë shot me a look and then turned her attention to our bride-to-be. "Sophie," she began in her infamous "don't piss me off" tone, "they're place cards, not circuit boards."

But Sophie simply ignored her remark and began to explain to us the complicated inner workings of her carefully devised plan.

Thirty minutes into the evening, I was a nervous wreck. John still hadn't shown up, and I couldn't bring myself to eat any of the pizza that had been delivered because I was positive I'd just throw it right back up. Plus, I had already ruined four place cards (much to the dismay of Sophie) owing to the shakiness of my hands. Just for the record, hot glue guns and nerves? Not a good mix.

Sophie had divided the three of us into ministations. First she wrote the name onto the card in silver paint pen, then I hot-glued the stems and the flowers down, and finally Zoë was in charge of gluing down the thin strips of silver foil along the outer edge.

"What's your problem, Jen?" Sophie scolded me for the tenth time, possessively taking the hot glue gun from my hand and showing me the
correct
way to glue a flower to a stem. "Correct" meaning without getting glue all over the rest of the card.

"Sorry," I mumbled, setting a handful of dried daisies on the newspaper tablecloth and wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans. "I guess I'm not very crafty."

"I'll say," Sophie agreed.

The truth was, I didn't have the brain capacity at the moment to think about flower-and-stem placement. The only placement I
could
think about was my engagement ring conveniently tucked away in the top drawer of my dresser. I hadn't worn it all day and was somewhat antsy to put it back on. As if I were afraid it might lose its sparkle sitting idly in my drawer.

"Are you gonna eat that?" Zoë asked, pointing to the untouched piece of cold pizza on my paper plate.

I shook my head and nudged it toward her. "No. Go ahead."

She happily reached across the table and grabbed the slice, stuffing it into her mouth. "Oh my God," she began, her lips shiny with pizza grease, as though she had just applied a fresh coat of Chanel gloss. "I have to tell you what happened to me this afternoon at the parking garage at the promenade. . . ."

I only half listened to Zoë's dramatic road rage (or should I say
parking
rage) story because my eyes were darting back and forth between the place card in front of me and the door, waiting for a knock to come from the other side of it. I couldn't believe how late John was. My heart was thumping so loudly in my chest, I was certain Zoë and Sophie would be able to hear it and ask me what my deal was.

". . . but clearly I had been waiting for the spot,
with
my blinker on. So I totally rolled down my window and started yelling at the woman. . . ." Zoë was gesturing wildly with the hot glue gun in her hand, causing me to duck and lean repeatedly to avoid second-degree burns.

"And she was like, 'I don't fucking care if you were waiting for the fucking spot. I'm in a fucking hurry!' "

I knew Zoë well enough to know that the word
fuck
was not used quite as liberally in the original enactment of this story. Zoë likes to decorate her narratives with the F-word almost as much as Sophie likes to decorate little index cards with artificial flowers. But I kept my mouth shut and my eyes focused on not messing up "Jackson Henry's" place card. I didn't know who the hell he was, but I was positive he wouldn't appreciate a deformed flower next to his name.

"So then I'm just about to scream something back to her when she totally trips over a curb in the parking garage and like face plants on the pavement. And I'm like
fighting
not to laugh because that is just
so
karma in action right there, and I know if I laugh, I'll just be storing up bad karma for myself, so—"

"Zoë," Sophie interrupted sternly, nodding toward the place card in front of her. "You need to pay attention to what you're doing. You're holding up the assembly line."

Zoë looked down in front of her to see a pile of undecorated place cards stacked up next to her. "Sorry," she grumbled, and leaned back over her half-foiled card. "You know, you
could
help glue some of these silver sparkly things on yourself. Since you seem to be so efficient over there."

Sophie frowned. "But that would mess up the system."

I could see in Zoë's eyes that she wanted to escalate this argument, but I shot her a look and shook my head. All of us had been doing a lot of conceding in the past few months out of respect for Sophie's "big day." And we all suffered through it only because we knew that once that day was over, we could go back to mocking her obsessive personality as usual.

"Whatever," Zoë mumbled.

"It
was
a funny story," I offered her as a consolation. She looked up at me and gave me a grateful half smile.

By 9:45
P.M.,
John still hadn't shown. I could almost
hear
the engagement ring calling out to me from the top drawer. Begging for me to acknowledge it and set it free from its velvet-covered prison. Sophie, having become incredibly fed up with the hot-gluing efforts of her two minions, had officially taken over the entire assembly line, and Zoë and I were sitting on the couch, watching the end of a
Weeds
episode. But I could hardly concentrate on the dialogue of the show because I was far too distracted. I didn't know how much longer I could wait.

When the doorbell finally rang at ten o'clock, I bounded off the couch and yelled, "He's here! John's here!"

Zoë and Sophie both peered up at me with the strangest looks on their faces. "Okaaaay," Zoë stated hesitantly before turning her attention back to the television.

I ignored her and continued for the door, opening it with a wide swing and a relieved breath. As soon as John was visible, I practically leaped into his arms and hugged him. "You made it!" I cried passionately.

John just stood there, his arms hanging lifelessly at his side. He finally reached up and awkwardly patted the middle of my back with one hand. "Um, yeah. Nice to see you, too, Jen." He disengaged himself from my grasp and made his way into the living room. "What's with her?" he asked, pointing back to me as he plopped down on the couch.

Zoë shrugged. "Apparently she hates making wedding place cards even more than I do."

Sophie smacked her on the leg with the back side of her hand.

"So, Jen," John said, grabbing a piece of pizza crust off Zoë's paper plate and nibbling on it. "What's the latest?"

Well," I began hesitantly, still standing by the door, "I have some exciting news, actually. The other day—"

"Wait!" John's eyes immediately lit up with anticipation. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. One of your associates took a bribe from a subject to keep quiet? No! I know! The client showed up in the middle of the assignment and called the whole thing off!"

I sighed dramatically. I should have known that John had been asking about
Ashlyn's
life, not mine. Ever since last year when he found out (completely by accident) what I really did for a living, he's been the hugest pain in the ass. I guess you could say he's my biggest "fan." If I were a band, John would be my groupie. He always wants to know every tiny detail about every little thing that happens at the Hawthorne Agency. I think, to him, my work is like a reality show or something, and he's always on the edge of his seat waiting to find out who was last voted off the island. Or in this case, which cheating spouse got voted out of the marriage.

"Actually—" I started to say, but I was instantly cut off again, this time by Sophie.

"No," she interjected, obstinately shaking her head. "No talk of cheating this close to my wedding. It'll soak into the place cards and curse the marriage."

"Oh, please," Zoë begged. "Let us talk about
something
besides weddings. That's all we've talked about for the past six months!"

I looked down at my feet, shifting my weight nervously.

"Well, that's because I'm getting
married,"
Sophie was explaining to Zoë, as if it were the first time she was being presented with this information.

"Well,
obviously,"
Zoë replied, motioning to the various crafts supplies spread out on my coffee table. "But do we really have to
talk
about it twenty-four seven? I mean, all I hear about nowadays is wedding, ceremony, reception, place cards, dresses, bridesmaids, flowers, caterers. Fuck, it's exhausting!"

"Well, excuse me for caring about the most important day of my life," Sophie shot back. "Excuse me for—"

"I'm getting married!" I finally blurted out, unable to stand there any longer waiting for my friends to take notice of the fact that I had something to say.

Everyone just sort of fell silent and stared at me.

The first one to make any sort of noise was John. But it wasn't exactly the kind of noise I expected. I thought he would react the same way he had reacted to Sophie's engagement announcement last year—with a loud, girly scream. One that only a gay boy living in West Hollywood was capable of generating. But he didn't.

Instead, he
laughed.

Actually, it was more of a cackle.

"Yeah, right," Zoë added with a slight chuckle of her own. "Imagine that. Little Miss Fidelity Inspector walking down the aisle."

"Jen," Sophie stated seriously, "that's not funny. I don't find that amusing at
all
! Yes, I know I've been kind of hard to deal with lately. But I'm sorry. It's my wedding. And I'm allowed to be a bitch before my wedding. Do you know how stressful it is to plan a wedding?"

I stood in the middle of the living room, absolutely speechless. I couldn't believe what was happening. I had been waiting to tell them all day, and when I finally do, they think it's a joke!

Apparently, my engagement was a concept that simply refused to stick. Hot glue gun or no.

Sophie continued ranting. "I've had
three
different DJs back out on me in the last six months, and I'm really starting to think I should be taking it personally, and
then
—"

"No!" I screamed in frustration, interrupting Sophie's diatribe. "I mean, I'm
really
getting married. That's what I've been trying to tell you since John walked through the door. Jamie proposed to me last night. We're engaged!"

There was no laughing this time, just more staring. And the three of them looked at one another, trying to gauge whether anyone else in the room was actually buying this.

Sophie crossed her arms over her chest. Clearly, she was in no mood for April Fools pranks in October. "Really?" she challenged me. "So if you're engaged, where's your ring?"

I looked down at my empty left hand. And then, without another word, I raced down the hallway at warp speed, threw open my top dresser drawer, and yanked out the navy blue velvet box. I tore the ring out of its holder and shoved it onto my finger.

"You mean this ring?" I asked indignantly as soon as I came back into the living room. I stuck out my hand and brandished it in their faces.

I had never seen three jaws drop in such perfect synchronicity in all my life.

There was a really long silence. Sophie actually reached out to touch the rock on my finger, as if she were making sure it was real and not just one of those cool hologram illusion tricks.

After all the grief they'd given me over the past few years about my "intimacy issues," you'd think I would get a more welcoming reception.

Finally, one of them spoke. It was Sophie. But she wasn't exactly eloquent. "Jen! W-w-why didn't you . . . I mean, how . . . when did this happen? I'm sorry. I'm kind of in a little bit of shock."

The rest of them just nodded their agreement.

"Yeah, I can see that," I said with a laugh as I plopped back down on my white sectional couch, hugging a green throw pillow to my chest. "I'm still kind of in shock myself. It happened last night. He took me to the golf course where we had our first date, and he asked me right outside of the snack stand."

"That's pretty fucking cute," Zoë finally said.

I nodded. "Yeah, it was. And he's taking me to Cabo next weekend so we can celebrate."