The Next Best Thing Page 4

  Erin is fresh from the cornfields of Nebraska, and has only been with SWE for a few months. The girl has no special talent or area of expertise, except for making blankets made entirely out of the hair her cat has shed.

  Even so, Erin’s rise from intern to assistant had been meteoric, and unprecedented. It’s not fair, and it sucks for those who actually deserve to be promoted, but what can you do? She is Sophie’s niece, and nepotism will always be alive and well.

  Erin and I schlepped our way through the crowd until we found a booth with signage that read: SOPHIE WILKERSON EVENTS—WE MAKE DREAMS COME TRUE!

  The two of us got to work decorating the booth with white silk fabric, a fresh assorted floral arrangement, and pink and silver balloons. Next, company brochures were set out, along with refrigerator magnets, key chains, coffee mugs, and pink T-shirts that said “Bride” across the front of them. Two seconds after setting up, Erin and I were descended upon by two expensive-looking women who looked like “before” and “after” versions of the same person. Clearly, they were related.

  “Oh look, Sophie Wilkerson Events!” exclaimed the older, “before” version. “I forget your name,” she said, pointing at me. “But you did my son’s bar mitzvah four years ago—Do you remember me?”

  Not off the top of my head, I didn’t.

  I kept a friendly smile on my face while I took in her physical characteristics: guppy-like, collagen-injected lips, heirloom diamonds on every finger, definitely old money.

  It took mere seconds for the name to pop up in my mental Rolodex.

  “Of course I remember you, Mrs. Swartz!” I said. “How is Bradley, by the way?”

  “Well, I don’t like to talk about it,” Mrs. Swartz said, lowering her voice. “But Bradley’s in juvenile detention right now. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  The “after” version of Mrs. Swartz rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah, it’s a big misunderstanding, alright. He didn’t mean to nearly beat that homeless guy to death with a baseball bat.”

  Mrs. Swartz shot a withering look to the “after” version of herself, then said tightly, “This is my daughter, Cynthia. She’s the bride-to-be.”

  “Congratulations!” I said, shaking Cynthia’s hand. “When is the big day?”

  “Next Valentine’s Day,” Cynthia snipped haughtily, which instantly let me know that Margo, or whichever planner she ended up with, would have their hands full.

  “Valentine’s Day, how romantic!” I gushed, as if it were the most original idea in the world. “And you know, that gives us plenty of time to create the fantasy wedding of your dreams—”

  “Oh believe me, I know!” Mrs. Swartz interjected. “You did a wonderful job the last time, and exceeded each and every one of our expectations.”

  “Well, we certainly aim to please,” I said. “Now, what’s a good day and time for you two to come in for a consultation meeting?”

  The Swartz’s set an appointment, and Cynthia happily walked away with two coffee mugs and an armload of “Bride” T-shirts. I don’t know why, but rich people love to get free stuff even more than the less fortunate do.

  “Very smooth!” Erin said, reaching into our stash and setting out more T-shirts. “You’re just as good as Aunt Sophie—probably even better.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far…” I said modestly, even though it was the absolute truth.

  “I can’t believe how fortunate I am to be paired up with you,” Erin continued, brown-nosing. “And I’ve learned so much already—you inspire me so much, Tori.”

  “Well, you just keep learning and growing,” I said. “And one of these days you just might head up a department within the company yourself.”

  “Gee, you really think so?” she asked with wide-eyed wonder.

  “Anything is possible,” I said, then turned on the charm to greet more visitors.

  Throughout the afternoon, I talked with countless prospective brides, all of them annoyingly optimistic, and giddy from sampling too much champagne and wedding cake.

  I’m not sure what came over me, but my attitude towards weddings and the institution of marriage became extremely cynical and nasty.

  Inside, I was dying to tell everyone who stopped at the SWE booth, the truth as I saw it. Save your money, girl. He’s just gonna end up screwing you over and taking you for granted, anyway, and Does your man have any female friends? Watch your back!

  It may have been a case of too much, too soon, because after just two hours of talking to prospective brides, I cut out early and left Erin in charge for the rest of the day. Why not? She may be the boss’s idiot niece, but she is still fully capable of handing out brochures and business cards, as well as answering questions about SWE specialties and the laundry list of services we have to offer.

  I grabbed my Fendi bag and practically ran out of the convention center, wishing I could find a place nearby that sold Xanax smoothies.

  Now that’s an idea for a franchise!

  Nothing is permanent but change.—Heraclitus, 500 B. C.

  WEDNESDAY

  This journal Simone gave me is really going to come in handy, because every day I discover some loose end that still needs tying.

  1) Deactivate the following bridal registries: Williams-Sonoma, Pottery Barn, and Tiffany’s.

  2) Sell wedding dress through consignment shop.

  3) Go shopping for a new king-sized bedroom set, ASAP.

  4) Give old bedroom set to the charity I donate to most often, which is Junior.

  I also discovered today that being left for another woman is harder for me to accept than if Roland had come out and said that he was gay. He’s not, of course, but that, people can understand: Okay, that’s him, that’s his issue and something he needs to work out.

  But if another woman comes in and takes your man, then it becomes all about you and your shortcomings, and what you didn’t do right. Now I have to go around convincing people that I’m not the one to blame in this situation, which is no small feat because I’m not 100% sure about that myself.

  I mean, let’s face it; being left at the altar isn’t exactly a confidence booster. And the fact that Roland didn’t even upgrade when he left me, makes it even worse. With Veronica, he went from sugar to shit, and I will never know what he sees in her.

  I do know that putting up a front is hard work. Exhausting, really. I was supposed to attend an art gallery showing with Simone tonight, followed by a poetry slam, but after a long day of pretending to be alright, every ounce of my energy has been drained. All I feel up to doing is taking a long luxurious bubble bath, putting on my pajamas, and finishing off the last of that lemonade cake.

  4

  Thirty days after the fact, and the advice and unsolicited comments about my personal business just kept rolling in. My girl Yvette called me this evening, and seemed excited to drop this little gem on me:

  “Men are just like the faces on a dollar bill; if one won’t do, another one will!” she told me.

  That is the philosophy that Yvette has been living by since her divorce, and obviously is the reason she felt compelled to pass my phone number along to a Sean Somebody-or-other, who left a message on my voice mail to get back with him if I wanted to “hook up or something.”

  Now, Sean and I have never met, so technically, Yvette was trying to set me up on a blind date. I don’t do those. Everyone knows blind dates are the equivalent to playing Russian roulette with a loaded pistol. There is a very high probability that things aren’t going to turn out well.

  “You should be embracing the situation instead of being so pissed off about it,” Yvette said when I called her to complain. “Sean happens to be a very eligible bachelor.”

  “Then why aren’t you dating him?”

  “Because he’s more your type than he is mine,” Yvette said.

  “So in other words, this guy is not good enough for you, but he’s perfect for me, right?”

  “No, Tori, and stop putting words in my mouth!” Yvet
te barked at me over the phone. “I just happen to know what kind of guys you like, and Sean happens to fit that to a tee.”

  Knowing Yvette as I do, I had to double-check to make sure we were on the same page. “And what is my type, again?” I asked.

  “Over six feet, good-looking, and he has to earn a decent living,” she said in a duh tone of voice.

  Well, that is my type. Then again, that’s everybody’s type, isn’t it? I personally don’t know too many women who would say that they want a short, broke, ugly man.

  But, tall and fine, with a steady income is just the beginning. Maturity is a must, reliability is key, and honesty is non-negotiable.

  Yvette, on the other hand, does not have a definite type. This po’ chile is forever betting on the long shots, and is what you would call a fixer-upper when it comes to men.

  No matter how broke, broken, or unattractive a man is, Yvette will give him a chance just as long as he treats her right. That is the only prerequisite. Not too long ago, Yvette introduced me to a guy who I had to literally bite my tongue to keep from asking if he had baboon in his family.

  Then there was Corey, the younger by several years male nurse, who we all strongly suspected had quite a bit of sugar in his tank. Okay? The license plates on his yellow Volkswagen Beetle read: DIVO, which in case you didn’t know, means male diva. And if that’s not enough proof, Yvette told me herself that Corey couldn’t go more than a week without getting a pedicure, which she reasoned was because he worked on his feet ten hours a day.

  “But a French pedicure, Yvette?” I asked.

  “My man just likes to pamper himself, that’s all,” she declared. “He’s a metrosexual.”

  “No, baby, he’s a homosexual,” I said. “Straight men don’t drink pink cosmos.”

  Yvette didn’t have an answer for that. A few weeks after that conversation, Corey admitted that he was, indeed, playing for both teams.

  Yvette was taking all comers and going hard at the whole dating thing, because Andre left her two years ago after thirteen years of marriage.

  She moped around for a few months, refusing to date, but after reading What’s Good for the Goose…The Smart Woman’s Guide to Dating the Way Men Do, Yvette snapped out of the rut she was in and became this ruthless man-eater. These days, she was dating a minimum of four times a week—usually with a different guy each time.

  “It’s a numbers game,” Yvette had said. Which may be true, but it was scary to watch because girlfriend was becoming so consumed with her quest for husband-number-two that her search was taking her into some weird and scary places.

  You name it, and Yvette has tried it. Speed dating, the Internet, matchmaking services, singles groups, and even a nightclub called Club Heifers, which caters exclusively to plus-sized women and the men who love them.

  As for this Sean person, I was holding my breath waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yvette had the habit of leaving out significant details. Like, maybe the guy has a third eye, a nervous twitch, and stinks all-to-be-damned.

  “Give up the dirt, Yvette. What’s really wrong with this dude?” I asked.

  “Damn! If I thought something was seriously wrong with the man, I wouldn’t be trying to hook you up with him,” Yvette huffed. “Now, he may not turn out to be soul-mate material, but at least it will get you out of the house and out of that routine you’ve fallen into lately.”

  “Oh, so that’s what this is all about?” I asked. “Even with my busy schedule, you think I need something to do?”

  “Not something, honey, someone,” she chided. “It’s time for you to permanently erase Roland from your memory bank, and get back out there and start mixing it up.”

  I sighed, because truthfully I haven’t had much of a life lately. My career is my social life, and what little free time I do have has been spent devouring Topsy’s cheese and caramel popcorn while watching Cheaters and reruns of Martin.

  While I appreciate what Yvette was trying to do, I was skeptical because I know from previous experience that out there is like trying to tread water with only one arm, and out there is also a cold, dark, and sometimes scary place where it is possible to be lonely, even in a crowd.

  But at the same time, becoming a social recluse is not the answer. I am going to have to get back out there at some point.

  I gave in a little. “And exactly how is it that you know this guy, again?” I asked Yvette.

  “Okay…” Yvette said, sounding excited that I was finally showing some interest. “Sean is an old friend of my brother, Chuck. Girl, he was so fine back in the day…Umph! All the girls on my block wanted them some Sean.”

  “And how did you two become reacquainted?” I asked.

  Yvette paused and took a deep breath before answering my question. “Well, see, what had happened was…I came across his profile on KCsingles.com—”

  “Oh, hell no!” I exploded. “So all you really know about this guy is that he used to be fine back when he was a teenager?”

  “Oh no, don’t get it twisted; he’s still fine,” said Yvette. “Check out his profile if you don’t believe me.”

  When I think of Internet dating all that comes to mind are the horror stories. The most recent being about the woman in New York whose body parts were found strewn across the city in several different garbage bags. They’re still searching for her head.

  “Internet dating is a waste of time, Yvette,” I said. “Nobody does that shit anymore, besides you.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Yvette said. “If you hadn’t had your head stuck up Roland’s ass for all these years, you’d know that the Internet is the best way to meet men these days.”

  I didn’t want to hurt Yvette’s feelings, so I bit my tongue and did not say what I was thinking, which was that looking for love on the Internet is for desperate, defective people who have no other options.

  Not that I think she’s defective. Desperate? Totally.

  “Tell Sean I said thanks, but no thanks,” I said. “I have a hard enough time weeding out all the scammers and liars that I meet face-to-face.”

  Yvette sighed and sucked her teeth. “You know, Tori, you are never going to find a new man being so goddamn cynical about everything,” she snapped. “I personally know of several great romances that have blossomed online.”

  “Name one,” I challenged.

  “My Uncle James,” she said.

  “No offense, Yvette, but your Uncle James is weird as hell.”

  “And I’m not even gonna deny that,” Yvette said matter-of-factly. “But the point is he is on his third Internet bride, which proves that it can be done. You know? Now, Sean probably won’t be your next fiancé, but you owe it to yourself to put down the remote, meet the man for coffee or something, and see how it goes from there.”

  “Naw, it’s just not for me,” I said, unapologetic.

  “Fine, Tori, have it your way!” Yvette said, then the hussy hung up without even saying good-bye.

  I shrugged, and traded the cordless phone for the remote. Monday night. Top Chef was coming on.

  All I ask of…anyone is that they be courageous.—Maya Angelou

  WEDNESDAY

  It’s been a couple of days since I talked to Yvette about possibly going out with her old friend, Sean, and I must admit that curiosity has gotten the best of me. Earlier this evening I went into my home office, signed on to AOL, and browsed KCsingles.com. You know, just to get a feel for how this whole thing works, and already, I can totally see what a time-saver this could be. There are hundreds of good-looking men with great-sounding profiles, and it is similar to flipping through a catalog going: I want this one…this one…and oooh! That one!

  39-year-old SBM looking for a serious, long-term relationship with one special lady. I consider myself to be a generous, romantic gentleman with a big heart.

  My interests are working out, customizing cars and motorcycles, investing, eating out, and golfing. Hopefully, you just may be the one I can settl
e down with and cherish like a queen.

  This is what Sean’s dating profile reads. His picture proves that he is not the troll I had envisioned him to be. Definitely not Terance Howard, but not quite Flavor Flav, either.

  I stared at Sean’s online picture for a few minutes, trying to get some vibe or inkling as to whether or not he is all that he claims to be. The way I see it, the man could potentially be the next Jeffrey Dahmer, or he could be Prince Charming—you never know. The truth is, you are taking a chance on any man that you meet, Internet or otherwise. That guy you met at a dinner party the other night could be misrepresenting himself, too.

  The fact of the matter is that you never really know if you are compatible with someone until you spend some one-on-one time with that person. That being said, now is as good a time to start dating again, as any. However, since dating is serious business, I am going to approach it, this time around, like a ruthless, self-serving, man-eating bitch.

  If I have to be back out there, then damn it, I am at least going with some set ground rules and a zero-tolerance mindset.

  1) One strike and he is out. I will give a guy enough of my time to determine what he’s about, and whether the two of us click. If not, I’m yelling next! and we’re just gonna keep the line moving.

  2) No drama. That means con artists, drug users, men with deranged baby mamas, and close “platonic” female friends need not apply.

  3) I will not settle for anything with a penis, just to avoid being alone on the weekends.

  4) I am not playing anybody’s games or jumping through anybody’s hoops.

  5) No compromising. Take me as I am, or get the hell out of my face.

  With the ground rules out of the way, I threw caution to the wind and called Sean.

  We talked for only a few brief minutes, but I must say, he came across as someone I wouldn’t mind spending time with.

  We’re meeting Friday evening at Pierpont’s at Union Station.