by Kelly Myers
I already looked up Leo earlier today. His social media is all set to private, but his LinkedIn is just as pretentious and self-aggrandizing as I would have guessed. He’s been at the same investment banking firm since graduating from business school, and he’s gotten himself a few nice promotions over the last five years. Or, at least, they sound nice on LinkedIn.
Judging from the year he graduated from undergrad, Leo is about thirty, which is younger than I expected. Sure, he’s fit, and it’s not like he’s got graying hair or wrinkles, but his somber attitude made me think he was a bit older.
I couldn’t glean much else from the LinkedIn page, but I’m counting on Zoe to do some deep-diving. She works in consulting and might even know people at Leo’s firm. She also thrives on research-based projects.
The train makes good time, and I arrive at the Italian restaurant just a few minutes after we were supposed to meet. Zoe, Bea and Elena are already seated at a table, and they wave me over.
“Already ordered you a white wine,” Zoe declares.
I flop down in the seat and savor the air conditioning. “Thanks.”
Zoe Hamilton, Beatrice Dobbs, Elena Ramirez and I all met our freshman year of college. We couldn’t be more different, but we’ve been a tight-knit group for years, and we all opted to move to Chicago together. There’s not much in my life that I don’t share with my friends, so it’s a given that I need their opinion on my latest development.
“What happened this time?” Bea gives me a wry smile. “You got attacked by a stray cat?”
I roll my eyes at Bea’s reference to a few weeks ago, when I was half an hour late for brunch due to one extremely over-familiar dog.
“No.” I give Bea a fake glare. “The train was late.”
“Was the train late, or did you miss the train?” Elena’s dark brown eyes twinkle, and I sigh at her perceptive question. That’s the one downside of having good friends: they know you too well to believe your excuses.
“If you guys don’t stop making fun of me, I’m not going to tell you about the new acting gig I just landed.” I pick up a menu and pretend to be engrossed in the entree options as my friends all lean forward in eager anticipation.
“Oh, do tell,” Elena says. “Is it another Shakespeare, I loved when you did The Tempest.”
I laugh. “That was years ago.”
“But, I still remember your Miranda,” Elena says.
“Is it a musical?” Zoe leans forward. Always one to have her mind on the business, Zoe sometimes behaves like my manager. Of course, she wants to know if I’ll be able to show off my singing in this new acting job.
I decide I shouldn’t get them too excited, so I put down the menu and cross my hands. “It’s a one-night only situation.”
I fiddle with the cloth napkin atop the table. This is the tricky part. No matter how I explain this, my friends are going to think it’s weird and/or dangerous that I agreed to Leo’s scheme. Where I’m impulsive and unguarded, they’re more careful. More responsible.
“It’s kind of like dinner theater,” I say.
“What do you mean by ‘kind of’?” Beatrice’s auburn hair glints beneath the shimmering restaurant lights. Bea jokes around a lot, but her sharp green eyes don’t miss much. She’s picked up on my hesitation.
“Well, basically I’m acting as this guy’s date.” I look up to see three matching looks of confusion.
I try to explain the situation. I emphasize how Leo is not some rando off the street, he is a regular customer at Lucy’s, and this is a simple favor, really, I would just be making a good chunk of cash.
They only get more and more confused.
“Marianne, it’s just a little strange,” Elena says. “Why does this guy need a date so badly? And even if he is a regular, you don’t actually know him. Are you sure it’s safe?”
I did expect this from Elena. She’s the mother hen of our group, and safety and practicality are always her first concern.
I try to give her a reassuring smile and adopt a flippant tone to dismiss her fears. “It’s totally safe, trust me, he’s not a creep.”
“Most creeps don’t actually look like creeps,” Bea points out. “And it’s not like you know anything about him besides his coffee order.”
“Well, I’ll bring my pepper spray in my purse.” My voice comes out sharp and defensive, even though I’m trying my best to stay casual. I just don’t understand why they all have to be so boring and judgmental. Why can’t they get excited about this little adventure?
“This whole thing is weird.” Zoe is never once to mince words. “You should call it off, seriously, it sounds like he wants you to be an escort or something.”
“Ok, you’re definitely over-reacting.” I don’t mention how my head went to “call girl” as well last night. “It’s a few hours where I put on a nice dress and have a cocktail, I’m doing it.”
Zoe opens her mouth as if she’s going to argue, but I’m saved by the waiter. He comes round and takes our orders, and by the time he’s walking away, I’ve gotten a grasp on my defensive impulses.
“You guys are right, it’s a little crazy,” I say. “But I’ve vetted the guy, he seems legit.”
I pull out my phone and show them his LinkedIn. Elena’s eyes go wide at his photo.
“Oh, he’s handsome,” she gushes.
“Handsome enough to have a real date,” Bea mutters.
“He’s married to his job.” I pass my phone to Zoe so she can examine the details. “Total suit, and he’s got zero game. I think he just wants a date to impress his friends and fend off questions.”
Zoe lets out a low whistle. “That’s a big investment firm, I know some people there. They say it’s hell one earth, but if you can make it through the first few years, you’re golden.”
I shrug. It’s nice that Zoe is impressed enough to ease off with her judgment, but I could care less about the competitive world of investment banking.
“But why you?” Elena asks. “Obviously, Marianne, you’re charming and gorgeous, but why did he pick you for this whole masquerade?”
I toss my hair over my shoulder. “Who cares? He probably figured the poor lowly barista was desperate for some extra cash, and he figured right.”
“Or maybe he likes you for real.” Elena, ever the romantic, perks up at this possibility.
“There’s no way.” I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the suggestion. “He made it very clear he looks down on my life choices, plus he’s not my type.”
“By that you mean, he’s got an advanced degree and he’s not covered in tattoos?” Beatrice asks. “How awful of him.”
“You guys haven’t interacted with him, trust me, he’s as dry as burnt toast, and he’s totally devoid of any humor or creativity,” I say. “You know I could never date someone like that.”
“Will you even survive the night, if he’s as bad as all that?” Zoe asks.
“For 800 bucks, I’ll make it.” I take my phone back and shove it into my purse.
“For the record, I think this is a very bad idea,” Zoe says.
I sigh and take a big gulp of my wine. They can object all they want. To be frank, my friends’ hesitation only makes me want to do it more.
I’m Marianne Gellar. I take risks. I live on the edge. I go out into the world and collect new experiences. This is just another new experience.
I try to divert the topic of conversation to other things, but the whole evening, we keep circling back to the situation with Leo Wilson. In the end, I promise them that I’ll keep them apprised of all the details so they know where I’m going, and I’ll send them text updates throughout the night in question. I was going to do all that anyway; I take risks, but I’m not stupid.
When I get home, I shut myself into my room so I don’t have to deal with my roommate Becca accusing me of stealing her cereal (I did, but I was super hungry, and she steals my milk all the time), and I open up my email.
Leo has responded. I shake my head
when I open up his email. The man has written a long email that is structured into various parts. He’s totally uptight, but at least my friends will be happy.
The bridal shower is a week from Friday, so I don’t have a ton of time to prepare. The couple of the night is Melanie and Jacob. Leo was friends with Jacob in college, and Leo is going to be a groomsman in the wedding. So it’s a close friend. I furrow my brow. Would I ever lie to my close friends about a relationship? I can’t imagine a situation in which I would need to fake anything like that. Sure, it can be hard when you’re relegated to the Sad Singles Table, but paying a part-time actress seems like taking it too far.
I forget my questions and laugh out loud when I see that Leo has included pictures of both Melanie and Jacob, as well as a few other key guests. They’re all under a section titled “People.” Next to each name is a brief description as well as their job title. They’re all accountants or consultants or lawyers, and it’s all so boring, I could scream.
In the section titled “Bridal Shower Details,” Leo has included the venue (a nice restaurant downtown), as well as the date, time and estimated duration.
“Does he think this is a CIA operation?” I murmur as I scroll through the email.
I snort when I see the final section titled “Character Traits to Exemplify.” My eyes widen as I read the list: smart, charismatic, respectful, good listener, well-read, knowledgeable on current events, physically fit, good grasp of literature and history (American and European), has impressive hobbies, good with technology...The list goes on and on.
Leo Wilson has a certain vision for his ideal partner, and it’s becoming more and more obvious why the guy is single. No woman could possibly live up to his silly standards.
I toss the phone aside. I’ll act how I want to act, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be the life of the party, even if I don’t exude a totally comprehensive knowledge of American history or a myriad of impressive hobbies. Leo’s friends seem dull, so I’ll be the most interesting person in the world, simply by comparison.
What makes a hobby “impressive” anyway?
I pick up the phone and read the final paragraph of Leo’s massive email. He says he can pick me up about an hour before the shower so we can discuss a backstory as to how we met. He is leaning towards us meeting through a mutual friend, and we’ve been dating about six months, but we can decide on details together.
I type out a quick response: Sounds good. See you next week.
My fingers hesitate before I hit send. On impulse, I type out an extra sentence: PS: I’ll do a quick re-read of Moby Dick, but other than that, I’m good to go on the character traits.
Without thinking too much about it, I send the email. Hopefully he understands some harmless sarcasm. Leo Wilson is definitely in need of some light teasing. And maybe I’m just the girl to provide that for him.
5
I reach round the corner of my block and pump my legs faster towards my door. Leo is picking me up in about an hour, and I’m already running late.
The last few days have flown by. I got a last-minute gig subbing as the lead singer for a band this Saturday, and I’ve just finished with a rehearsal.
Now I need to make myself into the perfect Investment Banker Girlfriend. Luckily, I’ve got help. Zoe is waiting outside my apartment, her arms crossed across her sleek business pantsuit. She’s come straight from work.
“Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?” Zoe asks as I pull to a stop and fumble for my keys. “You know, you can always cancel. It’s not too late.”
I shove my keys into the door and lead her into the building.
“And, miss the chance to mock some uptight investment bankers?” I quip. “No way.”
Zoe follows me into my bedroom. I already have the chosen dress hanging on my closet door.
Zoe’s eyes widen at the sight of the red dress. It’s fitted in the bodice and then flares out into a few silky layers of skirt that hit just below my knee. It’s not exactly a blend-in-with-the-crowd dress, but I don’t really do blending in with the crowd.
“Nice dress,” Zoe says. “Sure it’s not too risqué for Mr. List?”
I, like anyone would, forwarded my friends a copy of Leo’s list of ideal character traits so we could all make fun of him behind his back. After the mocking, we gave Leo the nickname “Mr. List.”
“No matter what he says about wanting to date a girl with a high IQ, I’m convinced he just wants to show off to his pretentious friends,” I say. “This dress is a show-off dress.”
“Fair enough.” Zoe kicks off her shoes and sits cross-legged on my bed as I strip off my jean shorts and loose T-shirt in exchange for the red dress.
I perch in front of my mirror to fix up my hair and makeup.
“So besides the dress, have you done anything to prep for this role?” Zoe raises one dark eyebrow at me.
I lean forward and apply a fresh layer of mascara.
I have done absolutely nothing to prepare, but I don’t want to admit that to Zoe. She would declare the whole night is doomed and probably lock me in my bedroom to prevent me from going.
“I’ve done some studying,” I say. “I don’t think I need to have all his friends memorized, that would be a little odd, but I know the jist of all the names. And, I did take some real classes in college, I can make some literary references.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” Zoe asks.
I shrug and reach for some highlighter. “These violent delights have violent ends. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. To be or not to be.”
“Those are all Shakespeare quotes from plays you’ve been in, and I can’t imagine a single scenario in which they would come up,” Zoe says.
“Then I’ll just reference The Great Gatsby,” I say. “Pretentious banker types love that book.”
Zoe has to nod in agreement. “Can’t argue with that.”
I fiddle with my hair. It’s holding up surprisingly well, despite a shift at Lucy’s and then a long afternoon in the humidity. The curls are still nice and bouncy, and the time I’ve spent in the sun this summer has given my hair a nice golden glow. I grab a clip and consider pinning it up in a bun anyway. It’s much more appropriate for a dinner party.
“Wear it down.” Zoe speaks with total confidence. “Trust me.”
I give her a grateful smile and let my hair tumble down my back. At least she’s not trying to tie me to the bed in an attempt to stop me from going through with my crazy plan.
I reach for a sparkly pin and clip just a small section of my hair up so it doesn’t fall in my face.
“Nice,” Zoe said. “You almost look like you’re going on a real date.”
“Please,” I scoff. “As if any of the guys I date would take me to something as banal as a bridal shower.”
“Oh right, you prefer guys who don’t believe in marriage.” Zoe’s voice is twisted with cynicism. “Or real jobs.”
“Yup,” I say. I’m not bothered by Zoe’s teasing. She can’t change how she feels, and I wouldn’t love her as much as I do if she were any different. She believes in rules and codes.
In fact, she is a much better match for Leo Wilson.
“So after tonight, I might give Leo your number.” I turn in my chair and flash Zoe a mischievous smile. “I feel like playing matchmaker.”
“I thought you said he was a jerk.” Zoe frowns at me and crosses her arms.
“Well, I don’t really know him,” I say. “And that email he sent had major Zoe Hamilton vibes.”
Zoe smirks. Even he can’t deny that she has sent similar emails with the same absurd attention to detail. “If he’s going to attempt a ploy this risky, he’s smart to plan it out well.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You guys are totally simpatico.”
“No,” Zoe says. “I don’t trust anyone who needs to hire a fake girlfriend.”
“Good thing I don’t need to trust him.” I wave my hand to dismiss Zoe’s serious face. “I just need him to pay me.”
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I turn back to the mirror to examine my face one last time, and I nod in satisfaction. I look perfect. Pretty, but not overdone. Put together, but not like I’m trying too hard. I’m going to be effortless and charming tonight, the most pleasant girlfriend ever.
Every performer knows that putting on the right costume is an essential part of an act, whether you are playing a character or singing a song. And my costume is pretty amazing, if I do say so myself.
I glance at my phone and jump to my feet. Leo is supposed to meet me outside in five minutes. I slip my feet into white shiny sandals with a nice heel, and I shove my phone and wallet into my silver purse.
“Don’t forget the pepper spray,” Zoe remarks.
She’s only half-joking, and I grab the little pink keychain attachment of pepper spray and shove it in the purse. I don’t think I’ll need it, but you never know. And I’ll gladly carry it along if it makes Zoe feel better.
“I’ll track your location all night,” Zoe says. “And don’t forget, we expect text updates every half hour to the group.”
“Ok, mom.” I roll my eyes.
Zoe stands up and gathers her own stuff.
“It’s not just about safety,” she says. “We’re kinda curious to see how quickly this whole thing falls apart.”
“Haha, very funny,” I say. “I’ll be sure to text you every detail of this raging success. Although, I’ll have to do it from the bathroom, I’m pretty sure not being rude and on the phone all the time was part of his list.”
Zoe allows herself a small smile at my joke, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I can tell she’s still worried, despite my flippant behavior.
I reach out and grip her arm. “It’ll be ok. I’ll be ok.”
“Marianne, pretending to be someone else isn’t easy,” Zoe says.
I lean forward and give her a hug. I know everything she’s saying comes from a place of love and concern. But I also feel like she’s overreacting. All my friends are. This is no big deal. Just another gig.