Just Not That Into Billionaires

by Annika Martin

  That, too: very Francine. Nothing really matters to Francine unless it has something to do with ballet.

  “All this time?” she asks, incredulous. “How is that even possible?”

  “I utilized a cognitive faculty called memory,” I tell her.

  She gives me a humorous scolding look now, hands on her hips. Even seated, she’s in full physical expression mode. “You’re telling me you knew?”

  I stare down at the paper. “You don’t remember…anything?”

  “Well…” She jiggles her head while making a funny face, a playful gesture she used to dramatize the concept of “ummmmmm wuuuuut?” which happened to be a favorite phrase of hers. It was Francine’s expert way of making light of an awkward situation, or getting out of a difficult question. And people would gladly let her off, because she’s beautiful and fun.

  “You remember nothing of it?” I ask again.

  “Bits and pieces,” she says, looking down. “And I remember waking up at your place. You were on the couch. I remember it was a bit of a drunken night. And let’s say I haven’t touched tequila since. Benny, I just need to say—I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t,” I say. “Nobody cares. It was nearly ten years ago.”

  “Well, Social Security cares. Only Vegas, where you can get a marriage license out of a gumball machine, right?”

  A gumball machine marriage. The naive kid I was back then would’ve been crushed to hear such a thing. The man I am today doesn’t give a shit.

  I pick up my spoon and draw it through my soup.

  “So you’ve just been going with it?” she finally asks when I don’t bother to chime in.

  “Why not?” I say coolly. “Our marriage has been extremely convenient. You’re an excellent tax break.”

  She swallows, rolling the corner of her napkin. Francine was always excruciatingly easy to read, but even if I couldn’t read her, the state of her napkins always gave her away. She’s nervous now. If this particular napkin weren’t made of cloth, she’d have ripped it to little shreds.

  There was a time when I hated that I made her nervous—hated that I made people nervous in general. I didn’t know how to put people at their ease. I didn’t understand back then that I didn’t have to care about those things. I didn’t understand that this very thing that I hated about myself could be a strength.

  “Well…I had no idea, personally,” she says. “But I know now. And here’s the thing—I really, really need us to not be married.” She looks up at me, searching my eyes, back and forth. “I need an affidavit of single civil status as soon as humanly possible. If you would be so kind.”

  I set my spoon on its napkin, lining it up precisely with my knife. “An affidavit of single civil status,” I say.

  “Exactly.” She produces another piece of paper and sets it on the table next to the license. It looks like the type of divorce decree you’d download from the internet. “The affidavit I need requires a divorce. This is a simple one—no strings, no fault. I mean, it’s not as if we’re actually married, right?”

  A divorce, then. This is her quest. This is why she’s come.

  Then again, why else?

  The waitperson sets down her drink.

  “Thank you,” Francine says brightly. She swishes the peel. “My dance company leaves on an international tour in January and it’s the chance of a lifetime. If I don’t have an affidavit of civil status that shows me as single, I’ll look like the liar of the year on a bunch of my visa applications.”

  Here she lowers her voice, fixing me with a serious gaze. “Apparently I signed a lot of documents saying that I’m single when I’m not, and it turns out that embassies get tres uptight about that kind of thing these days. Due to terrorism and all.” She stirs her drink. “Thanks a lot, terrorists. Like, that was the hobby you had to choose? It couldn’t have been macrame? The sketching of fruit bowls? Woodworking? You went with terrorism?”

  She looks up with a humorous little smile that I don’t bother to return. I’m not exactly known for my sense of humor. I’m good with that.

  “So that’s how you found out,” I observe coolly.

  “Yup.” She looks back down at her glass, stirring with the spoon, now, clinking it softly against the sides. “Okay, I know what you’re thinking, Benny.”

  There’s zero chance of that, but I play along. “What am I thinking?”

  “You’re thinking, what a tragic ending. I mean, great as it was, right? Our amazing honeymoon to the Bermuda triangle. Monique and Igor will be crushed, naturally. I think it would be best if we don’t tell them, don’t you? It’s best that they continue to practice their acrobatics and juggling, don’t you agree? If they ever have a hope of getting into the French circus, they’ll need to keep up on their skills. And you know Igor, what with his tragic issues.”

  Igor and Monique. Of course she’d use them. There was a time when invoking Igor and Monique would have affected me deeply.

  That time is past.

  She slides the divorce decree closer. I stare down at it.

  An international tour was a dream of hers. Back in the Beau Cirque days, she’d tell anyone who would listen. She had visions of a grand dance recital performed against the backdrop of Mérida’s Roman Theatre in Spain. Maybe that’s where they’re going.

  “If you could just sign there,” she adds. “I researched it online, and if you don’t have kids together or property together, it’s just this form filed and done, and then a judge has to sign off. Really simple and straightforward. It keeps the status quo. Aside from, you know, us as a married couple, which, well, clearly we’re not.”

  Again she points at the line where I’m to sign, or more of a fluid flourish, because even in this she’s graceful. A dancer right down to the bone. I used to marvel at the way she moved through the world, so graceful and confident.

  “You would sign right here.”

  A line for the signature. A line for the date. And with that our marriage will be over.

  Even as a naïve kid, it’s not as if I thought it was the solemn and hallowed affair that other weddings are. Tequila, a wild idea about Igor and Monique needing a stable family. Singing. Running through the streets, laughing like bandits. I saw it as special, somehow. Singular. Like us.

  “Just ye old John Hancock,” she says, trying for humor.

  It comes to me here that I simply don’t want to. And why should I? People have been speculating about my mysterious wife. Why not give them a look at her? I’m the last person to give a shit about my own press, but it is convenient that she’s turned up.

  “Right here,” she says again.

  What if I keep her around a bit? Make her put in a cameo or two?

  I breathe in her familiar scent—it’s a type of jasmine called Sampaguita, the national flower of the Philippines. She traveled there once with her family to meet distant relatives. The trip had a profound impact on her, judging from how often she talked about it at Beau Cirque. She’s worn the scent ever since.

  The more I think about it, the better I like the idea.

  I read a lot of business books back when James and I were building TezraTech. One of the themes that struck me was that most successful business leaders have the ability to make decisions quickly and firmly. It’s a lesson I embraced.

  Making big, bold decisions has worked for me over the years. Sometimes I don’t know why I’m deciding a thing, I simply decide it and go with it, moving forward with unstoppable force—no deliberating, no second-guessing.

  In other words, I go with my gut.

  I’ve found that a gut call is usually a correct call. Your gut knows things before your brain does. It’s just how humans work.

  Whenever people question me on my gut decisions—decisions that I may not have a rationale for yet—I simply inform them that I don’t require a rationale. In fact, the best response to somebody questioning a gut call of mine that I can’t quite yet articulate is a big fuck you, though maybe not in those
words.

  “Just right here,” she says again.

  “I see where I’m supposed to sign,” I tell her. “But I’m not going to.”

  She stiffens. “Right, of course. You would never sign anything without a lawyer reading it. What am I even thinking?” She tries for a smile. “Though it’s super time sensitive, that’s the thing here. But if you need a lawyer to look at it, I understand,” she continues. “But if you could be quick, it would mean a lot. If I don’t get my shit together on this like yesterday, I won’t get to go on tour.”

  She gazes at me, waiting.

  “A lack of legal advice is not why I won’t be signing your paper,” I say.

  She frowns. “Well...what’s the problem?”

  “There’s no problem,” I say coolly. “I’m not planning on signing it, that’s all.” I sit back.

  “Why not? Why wouldn’t you…”

  “Why would I?” I ask her. “Give me one good reason to give away something of mine for nothing.”

  “Wait, what?” She sits up. Blinks. “Give away something of mine? Did you literally just say that?”

  This is a rhetorical question that I don’t bother to answer.

  “Are you trying to be funny?” she asks.

  “Do I seem like I’m being funny?”

  Her dark brows draw together and she cocks her head at a new angle. She’s beginning to see that I’m in the driver’s seat now.

  “Give away something of mine, though? I mean…mine?” Here she pauses. “Something of mine, Benny? So I’m something of yours?” She’s waiting for me to hear how ridiculous it is.

  Newsflash: That won’t be happening.

  “Mine!” she echoes again, as if that’s the part I’m not comprehending. When in fact, it’s the part of this that I like the best now. “Be serious, Benny. On what planet…”

  “This planet.” I tap my finger on the copy of the certificate. “The planet of this document. I take my contracts very seriously.”

  She snorts. “Come on, Benny!”

  I sit back in the deeply cushioned bench. Now who’s amused? I am. “Ask me, Francine,” I say to her. “Look at me and you ask me, whose wife am I?”

  She regards me with a look of shock.

  I wait.

  “Dude,” she says. “Dude.” Maybe she’s getting the picture that she’s not dealing with that awkward, smitten nerd anymore. True, I had a lot of feelings about her complete radio silence that first year after we married.

  And then I moved on.

  I forgot about it.

  I put her and the whole thing behind me.

  “Go on. Ask,” I say. “Whose wife am I, Benny?”

  “Did you get a concussion or something?”

  I shift my posture, sitting to one side, play-acting her asking me. “Whose wife am I, Benny?”

  Her lips part. She can’t believe what she’s seeing.

  I shift to the other side, as if to answer myself, but here I gaze right at her. “Mine,” I say.

  She raises her eyebrows, eyes wide under dark lashes.

  It’s rare that anything but ballet captures Francine’s full attention, but I have it now—I should know; the study I made of Francine is more exhaustive than the study I made of robotics, and I made my fortune in robotics.

  I tilt my head, give her an ice-cold smile, a negotiating technique hammered out over the years. “Mine,” I say again. “That’s whose.”

  “Dude, the 1800s called,” she says. “They want their sad freaking mentality back!”

  I pick up an imaginary phone. “Hello?” I say. “Why, yes, this is Benjamin Stearnes. What’s that you want back, 1800s?” I shift my gaze to her. “No, I’m sorry. You can’t have it back.” I shrug. “Why? Eh. I suppose keeping it suits me. Yes, thank you. Good day to you, too, sir.” I hang up the pretend phone.

  She’s gaping at me. “You’re not even funny right now.”

  I pantomime picking the phone back up. “Oh, and by the way—consider investing in steam locomotives. Just a quick tip!” I put the phone back down again.

  “Why are you being like this? It’s a piece of paper. Why would you even care? Why would you even want to be married to me?”

  “Why would I want to be divorced from you when you’ve been the perfect wife?” I ask.

  “Be serious, Benny,” she says.

  “I am being serious. You’ve been an amazing tax break. You make no demands. You’re a handy keep-out sign to the legions of gold diggers out there.”

  She stiffens, and then she smiles. She’s laughing. “Omigod, Benny!” she says. “You are the most hilarious. Were you like, ready with this whole spiel the whole time? Lying in wait for the day I realized we were married? Planning this?”

  She’s grinning, still hoping that this is all a joke. If there’s one thing that Francine has always possessed a great deal of, it’s wishful thinking. As a stunningly beautiful woman, she could misjudge reality in her delightfully hopeful way and people would scurry to rearrange things to keep that delight going.

  “Dude,” she continues. “Come on.”

  “I’m not in the habit of signing away things of mine for nothing,” I inform her.

  “But aren’t you glad that I only want you to sign this paper? Some women would try to get money from you.”

  “Some women would try, it’s true. And my lawyer would rip them apart like a lion would rip apart a feather pillow.”

  Her pretty lips part.

  There was a time when I would have given Francine the world. It would have never crossed my mind to say “no” to her, to deny her anything. That time is gone.

  I find, in fact, that there’s a certain pleasure to saying “no” to her.

  More than pleasure; it’s a stone-cold rush crackling through my veins.

  “You can’t just make me be married to you,” she says.

  “Actually, I can,” I say. “Isn’t it awesome?”

  “Why are you being like this?” she asks. “I need this.”

  I taste my soup. It’s more delicious than usual. Rich with tomato and pungent basil, just the perfect amount of salt. I crumble in a thick artisanal cracker.

  When I look back up, her rosy lips are again parted, this time in not-so-friendly surprise. “Benny,” she cajoles. “I’m sure you can find another…tax break,” she continues. “Another shield from the gold-digging hordes of females.”

  “Why should I get a different wife when I already have you?” I wipe the crumbs from my fingers, movements smooth and slow. “Weddings are a bore. I’m so glad we eloped, aren’t you?”

  “Benny, please,” she says. “If I don’t get a judge to sign off on this thing in thirty days or less, I won’t get the affidavit or my travel papers, and I’ll be kicked off the most important dance tour of my life! There’s never going to be an opportunity like this again for me. I’m thirty-one now. Dancers start retiring at my age and…” She looks down, not finishing her sentence. She wouldn’t have lined up anything else. Francine goes for broke.

  “Travel papers in thirty days,” I say. “Piece of cake. But you’ll have to do a few things for me.”

  Francine looks up at me, shocked. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll do this thing for you. I’ll use my connections to get a judge to sign off on divorce and travel documents, but you’re going to do some things for me first.”

  “What are you? The Godfather?”

  I wait.

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “For starters, you’re going to attend a few business functions with me,” I hear myself decreeing. “As my wife. People haven’t met you, and there’s a good deal of strange and ridiculous speculation about us. It’ll be good for people to meet you. Nature abhors a vacuum and all of that, including a vacuum of information. This wife of mine that nobody has ever met…”

  “Strange and ridiculous speculation about us?” she asks, eyes twinkling. “I totally can’t imagine, considering your sunny disposition.”

/>   “I’m looking for a yes or no answer here; not a character assessment.”

  She tilts her head, studies me some more. “You want me to pose as your wife,” she says.

  “You are my wife,” I say. “Now you’ll start acting like it—in public, at any rate; I don’t care what you do in private.”

  She’s shaking her head in disbelief.

  “It’s not a difficult assignment.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you don’t get your visa papers,” I say. “This is a simple quid pro quo.”

  She stiffens. “This attitude of yours? Not loving it!”

  “But you’re gonna pretend to love it, aren’t you?” I say. “You’re going to pretend to love my attitude and everything else about me. You will pretend to love me to utter distraction if you want to go on your tour. Play my charming wife for three weeks, convince people we’re married, and my people will get you any documents you require.”

  “Your people,” she echoes. “Because you have people now.”

  “I have people,” I say.

  “Are you sure that’s not cutting it close?” she asks. “The guy at the clerk’s office said it can take thirty to ninety days to get a judge on board.”

  “I could get it for you tomorrow if I wanted,” I say.

  “But you prefer to jerk me around,” she says.

  “I told you what I want.” I push the paper back across to her.

  “Why, Benny?”

  “Leave your address with my guys on the way out. My car will pick you up at seven tomorrow night. Wear something nice.” And then, just because I know how she can be, I add, “Not a T-shirt. Something stylish. A stylish and pretty dress.”

  She looks aghast. Maybe even disgusted.

  It makes no difference to me.

  “Stylish and pretty,” she repeats. “So now you’re telling me what to wear. I play adoring wife or I can kiss my tour goodbye.”

  “Now you’re getting it.” I pick up my spoon, stir my soup with measured movements, letting the lumps of crackers get coated with the rich soup.

  Moving in a smooth and measured way didn’t come naturally to me. It’s certainly not how I moved or interacted with the world as a youth. But people grow out of things. Sometimes people grow out of things naturally; other times it takes a great deal of effort.