by Helen Hardt
“The guy from New Jersey?”
“The accent.”
“Fair enough. I’ll give you that one.”
“Thank you!”
The bartender brings Kristin another cocktail.
“What about the pilot?”
“He serenaded me.”
“Awww.” She tilts her head and gets the same dewy, dopey look she gets when she watches Titanic. “That’s so romantic.”
“He sang a Lady Antebellum song.”
“Not…”
“Yep,” I say. “‘Need You Now.’”
Kristin groans.
“While playing the banjo.”
“Shut up!”
“Serious.”
“What about the boat broker?”
“Clammy feet.”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
“Nope.”
“The homicide detective?”
“Girl, that’s dead, that’s done.”
She groans and rolls her eyes. “I’m worried about you, Marlow.”
“Worried? Why?”
“You haven’t had a serious boyfriend since Terrell.”
Terrell Rose was my first love. We met my freshman year in the dorms. He was an upper-class football player with a muscular brown body, chocolate eyes, and a smile so sweet it made my teeth ache to look at it. He graduated, was drafted to play for the New York Giants, and blew out his knee in the fourth game of his first season. I went to see him in the hospital, but he was in a dark place. He told me he was over me, that I should go back to school like a good girl and find a guy that was going somewhere other than physical therapy.
“If a serial dater is someone who enjoys getting to know new people and isn’t motivated to seal the deal with a wedding band and a four-bedroom in Santa Monica, then yes, I am a serial dater.”
“Do you think you will ever be in a long-term monogamous relationship with someone who isn’t your hairdresser?”
“You have like six skazillion television channels, right?”
Kristin shakes her head. “What does that have to—”
“Ride with me, here,” I say. “Remember when you were recovering from your rotator cuff surgery and I took care of you? We were chilling on the couch, trying to find something on the telly. We flipped through all the local stations, movie channels, educational channels. Fuck me! We even tried Hallmark, and that cringe film about the American exec who went to Ireland to open a factory and fell in love with a pixie whisperer.”
“Chasing Leprechauns,” she says. “And she was a pixie charmer.”
“How can you possibly remember the name of that movie?” My bestie has a brain like Wikipedia, crammed full of facts and useless minutia. “We only watched, like, ten minutes.”
“Yeah,” she says, sniffing. “I might have watched it the next time it was on.”
“Who are you?” I shake my head. “If you tell me you’ve developed an affinity for cheesy, low-budget, made-for-cable romance movies, I’m going to block every channel except Skinemax. Don’t make me do it. I’ll force you to watch Hollywood Sexcapades and Taxicab Confessions.”
“You say that like it’s a punishment,” she deadpans.
This is why I busted my prepubescent ass to make Kristin Bitter my best friend. Besides having a wicked cool name, she’s been a spectator to my dramatic outbursts since we were seated next to each other in sixth-grade English class, and she’s never batted a long black eyelash. Not once. She’s funny even when she’s stone-cold sober and one of the few people who keeps me on my conversational toes whether we’re debating climate change, discussing Hemingway’s influence on American literature, or trash-talking about celebs.
“Look at my girl fronting.” I laugh, putting my hands to my face and peeking at her through my splayed fingers. “You watched Fifty Shades of Grey with your hands over your eyes. Skinemax After Dark would drive you to a nunnery.”
“Marlow!” Her porcelain cheeks suffuse with the prettiest rose blush. “What does my cable television line-up have to do with your inability to commit to a man for more than cocktails and…?”
“Cock?”
“Ew.” She wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”
I laugh. Shocking my bestie with my dirty girl humor is probably my favorite pastime—after sex. “My love life is like your cable television line-up. I can’t find anyone who holds my interest.”
“You’ve certainly flipped through enough channels. Like loads and loads—”
“Thanks.”
“—and loads.”
“Loads. Got it.”
“No judgment. I’m not slut shaming.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She gives me a side hug, squeezing me tight. “I don’t care if you sleep with every man in a fifty-mile radius, as long as you’re safe and happy, but I’m not sure you are happy.”
“You’re right.” I fake sniffle. “Dating a gorgeous guy and dumping him before the honeymoon stage wears off, before he’s standing in my bathroom, scratching his ass while taking a piss with the door open, is making me so miserable.”
She tilts her head and looks at me through the thick fringe of her black bangs. “Would you be real for three minutes?”
“Three, huh? That’s an arbitrary number.”
“Marlow!”
“Fine,” I say. “What do you want me to be real about?”
“Admit dating a different guy every month isn’t satisfying anymore.”
I bust out laughing. “Okay, Boomer. Straight up, Kris? You’re sounding like my mom right now.”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Give me three reasons cycling through guys faster than Lance Armstrong on the Tour de France makes you happy.”
“Again with the number three?”
She arches a brow and holds up one finger.
“Okay, fine.” I sigh. “One. I can flirt with the hot barista at Starbucks or bang a high-key gorgeous suit in the Air France lounge bathroom whenever I want.”
Her eyes widen. “Did you?”
I let my grin be the answer. “Two. I can leave his message on read if I’m not feeling it.”
She holds up three fingers.
“Three. I can look at thirst traps on Insta and I don’t need to do it on the downlow. Nothing ruins a good wank bank like a jealous boyfriend stalking your Insta follows.”
“Lowkey? I can’t argue with your reasons.”
“Sweet! Because I could have said research has shown single people are more physically fit, mentally healthier, more productive at work, and better with their finances.” I shrug out of my jacket and toss it onto the banquette beside me. “I never have to sleep in the wet spot. I don’t have to fight anyone for the remote. I don’t have to share the last bowl of Häagen-Dazs. I can wear flannel pajamas all weekend—”
“Marlow Ann Donnelly! You don’t own flannel pajamas.”
“I know”—I flick an imaginary piece of lint off my trousers—“but if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have to hide them under my thongs and bombshell bras. Besides”—I pull my iPhone out of my pocket, open Instagram, and hand the phone to my bestie—“this guy just slid into my DMs—”
She turns her face away. “I will not look at another one of your Instagram thirst traps until you promise me you will go to Ibiza and interview Ian Chapman.”
Honestly? I changed my mind about the Love Guru gig when one of the interns said she went to Ibiza for Spring Break and met loads of cute Spanish boys. If I’m completely honest, I would have agreed to take the assignment even without the temptation of meeting a Latin lover because it seems important to Kristin.
“Fine,” I say in an exhalation. “I will meet your Love Guru.”
She looks back at me, smiles, and claps. “Yay! You leave in a week.”
“Can’t wait.”
“In the meantime, maybe you’ll meet a guy at Taylor’s wedding.”
Taylor makes up the third in our trifecta of besties. She’s getting married to a much old
er rando she met at a salsa class.
“Negative, goose. You’re a stellar wing woman, but if I wanted to date a geriatric, I would take a cruise for seniors or join a gardening club.”
“Marlow! He’s not that old.”
“He’s ancient.”
“He’s forty-two.”
I shudder. “He wears jeans from Banana Republic.”
“So?”
“He smells like Old Spice and he has ear hair.”
“You’re being ridiculous. Harry is nice.”
“Harry! Even his name sounds old.”
“Prince Harry?”
“Balding before thirty-five,” I sing. “Just saying.”
Kristin rolls her eyes.
“Look, I’m sure Taylor and Harry will be happy clipping groupons together for the early bird special at the Olive Garden, but I am not Taylor and I do not look for my rides on Silver Singles.”
3
Dirty Mother
I’m striding through LAX, pulling my Gucci Globe-Trotter carryon—swag I scored when I did a story about iconic travel bags—when my cellphone rings. I pull my phone out of my pocket, look at the screen, and smile when I see my mother’s name on the caller ID. My mom is extra extra, but she’s the only person I would answer the phone for while nursing a serious Tight Snatch hangover.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Marlow, darling,” she says in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe-esque voice and I know she must have a man with her. “Where are you?”
“LAX.”
“Oo, fun! Where are you headed?”
“A beach resort in Spain.”
“New Latin lover?”
“I wish,” I laugh. “I’m interviewing…ready for it?”
“I hope so.”
“I am interviewing Ian Chapman, a relationship expert known as the Love Guru.”
“Yikes,” she says.
“Big yikes.”
“Tell me you aren’t headed to Mallorca?”
“Ibiza.”
“Thank God,” she says in typical Marla Donnelly dramatic fashion. “You do not want to go to Mallorca, darling. Anybody can holiday in Mallorca. The wealthy go to Ibiza.”
“Seriously, Mother?”
“Seriously! You know what the Germans call Mallorca?”
“No.”
“Putzfrau Insel, which means the low-rent island.”
I snort.
“It’s true! My friend, Gretchen Galloway, the German woman I met at La Clinique, she told me they call it Putzfrau Insel. Why would she lie?”
My mother loves to drop place names and La Clinique is one of her faves because the super luxe, super pricey Swiss spa has a history of attracting notable people like oligarchs, royals, and rock stars.
“La Clinique?” I say, feigning ignorance. “Is that the medical spa you went to for cosmetic surgery or menopause treatments?”
“Marlow!” she cries.
I laugh. I know damn well she went to La Clinique to have platelets injected into her clit and vahjay to tighten and heighten, but I get childish joy at hearing her shock. There are three things Marla Donnelly never discusses—money, my father, and menopause.
My parents divorced when I was eleven and it devastated my mother. She spent two years prostrate with grief and, frankly, a little out of her head. She talked about my father obsessively. Cormac liked this song. Cormac took care of the mundane things like auto insurance and taxes. Cormac is dating a horse-faced woman, a medical assistant who works at the heart institute.
Watching my glamorous and vivacious mother stumble out of her room with two-day-old mascara ringing her eyes was traumatic. My mother has always been my hero. A Vassar grad who became the It Girl of the early eighties, with her big blond hair and dozens of signature pearl strands wrapped around her slender neck. She was a brand ambassador for several designers, and rumored in some circles to be the inspiration for Madonna’s Material Girl look. That she used her fame and influence to become a bespoke luxury jewelry designer who counts the world’s wealthiest as her clients is everything. Every. Thing.
I inherited my mom’s blond hair, blue eyes, and facial features. Unfortunately, I also inherited my dad’s height—five-eight without heels—and ridiculously large lips—one hundred percent natural, no filler or Kylie Jenner lip kit.
“I am almost to TSA, Mom. Did you want something?”
“Marshall asked if you’d like to join us in Croatia for Christmas.’”
“Marshall?”
“My boyfriend, darling.”
“I thought you were dating someone named Grayton.”
“Last season.”
My mother is a statuesque blue-eyed blonde with a cool sophistication like old-school actress Lana Turner. At fifty-three she gets more male attention than I do…and I can pull. She rotates men like her wardrobe. She is goals.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that, but please thank Marshall for the invitation.”
“Ciao, darling. Have a safe flight.”
“I love—”
The line goes dead before I say the last word.
I clear security and walk to my gate, lost in a maze of memories.
The next stage of my mother’s grief was scathing anger. Cormac met Seabiscuit on a dating site. Gold-digging tramps who want to land a sugar daddy use dating sites. Elaine said she saw Cormac’s girlfriend coming out of the women’s clinic. She probably has herpes. The anger stage lasted the longest.
I don’t know when my mom entered the final stage of grief: acceptance. One day she was talking about sending a bucket of oats to my father’s horse-faced girlfriend, and the next day she was designing a collection to wear to Royal Ascot and dating her divorce attorney. With a snap of her perfectly manicured fingers, my mother banished my father’s ghost and created an iconic jewelry line that is still worn by royals. After the divorce attorney, she dated an heir to the DuPont fortune, a sugar scion, and a Texas oilman. My mom showed me love, marriage, and a Silver Cross Balmoral baby carriage aren’t the only ways to find your happy ending.
I’m stretched out in business class, a champagne cocktail in my hand, my MacBook open on the lap tray. I’ve been scrolling through a dossier the research department emailed me on Ian Chapman. I am trying to figure out how a thirty-four-year-old Princeton grad from Strathpeffer, Scotland became a New York Times bestselling author, YouTube star, Sirius Radio talk show host, dating seminar sensation, and the most sought-after relationship expert on the planet. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and try to imagine a wee Scottish lad telling his gruff Highland father that he wants to grow up to be a Love Guru. Like, how the fuck does that happen? The United Kingdom is where you go for bland food that sticks to your ribs, thick rubber rain boots, getting properly pissed in a pub older than George Washington’s dentures, and trying to charm a smile from men with stiff upper lips.
If you told me Ian Chapman came from a place where the consumption of food and drink is viewed as a libidinous-enhancing pursuit, an endeavor meant to be embarked upon with the same unhurried focused effort as foreplay, I wouldn’t bat an eyelash. France, Italy, Spain, and Portugal know food should be enjoyed slowly.
My mom took me to Paris for the first time when I was fourteen years old. Do you know what I remember most from that trip? Seeing the Mona Lisa in the Louvre? Riding the elevator to the top of the Eiffel Tower? Sipping foamy hot chocolate at Angelina Tea Room? Nope. I remember strolling through the Marais, a historic district in the fourth arrondissement, and gawking at the goods for sale in the shop windows—the laciest of lingerie, shiny chocolates shaped like nipples infused with aphrodisiacs, slender volumes of poetry, exotic perfumes in crystal bottles, bouquets of peonies tied with ribbons and raffia, and bottles of bubbly. Passion pulsed with every stray note from a wine bar or tap-tap-tap of stiletto heel striking cobblestone. It made a huge impression on my tender pubescent heart and is probably why I jones for Gallic guys in Giorgio Armani suits—hence, my one-off hook-up in the Air France loun
ge.
What could a pale-faced, porridge-eating Scot from Strathpeffer, a village famous for its gloomy Victorian architecture and even gloomier past as a retreat for incurables seeking restorative waters, know about the inner workings of the human heart?
I open my eyes, take a swig of champagne, sit up, and scroll through the file until I come to a photograph of Ian Chapman. I nearly choke on my bubbly when I see his handsome face. Dammmmn, son. Porridge does a body good. The pale-faced Scot is a babe in a button-down with a square jaw, cleft chin, and roughhewn, chiseled features that seem incongruent with a pinky-lifting, tea-sipping, Ivy League-educated snob. His relaxed posture and direct gaze suggest a confident, kind man, not a charlatan hocking hokey love mantras to the hopeless to fund his house in the Hamptons.
I open a new file and begin typing questions in a stream-of-consciousness format. The answers to some of my questions will be found within the dossier, but many will be edited and refined until there are a few dozen open-ended questions that will reveal the man behind the mantras.
I scroll to a London Times article published two years ago, titled “Chapman Kills Serial Daters Softly with His Song.” In the first paragraph, Chapman defines a serial dater as someone who doesn’t play by the widely accepted dating rules.
Seriously? Who in the hell follows dating rules? There are too many and they often conflict. Old-school dating rules say you shouldn’t date more than one person at a time, but modern dating experts encourage a popcorn approach to finding the one. You always throw more kernels in the pot when you’re trying to make a bowl of popcorn because you know there will be a lot of duds. So which is it?
Remember that episode on Sex and the City when Miranda asks Carrie’s boyfriend, Jack, a writer with a jaded outlook on relationships, to analyze the behavior of her love interest? She wants to know why the dude didn’t accept her invitation to come up to her place after their date, and whether his excuse—that he had an early meeting—was legit. Without missing a beat, Jack says, “Yeah, he’s just not that into you. When a guy’s really into you, he’s coming upstairs, meeting or no meeting.” That episode inspired a book, movie, and a fresh set of dating rules. A few years later, another author published He IS Just That Into You, which suggested women kill potential relationships by overanalyzing their date’s intentions. The author included fifteen rules that contradicted the core philosophy of He’s Just Not That Into You.