Wanted: Wife

by Jones, Gwen

I could feel my throat closing up. “And now he doesn’t need me anymore?”

  “I’m sorry, Julie,” he said quietly. “Truly I am.”

  How much more obvious did I need it to be? It really was true. I burst into tears.

  “That’s it, my dear, get it over with . . .” Brent murmured, rubbing my back. “It’ll wash him out of you like a good dose of ipecac.”

  I cried and cried for I don’t know how long, first in a gasping torrent, then with a moan or two coloring a few choice epithets, until I finally succumbed to a pathetic whimpering that eventually gave way to the immediacy of the moment.

  “Brent—I have no place to live! And two hundred invitations floating around out there! What’ll I tell my family? My job? My caterer!”

  He shoved a wad of tissues at me. “That you’ve come to your senses. What else could you say?”

  “But he’s made an absolute idiot out of me. How will I ever show my face to the camera again?” I honked my nose. “I’m ruined.”

  “Julie, enough already.” He grasped me by the shoulders. “I’ve every confidence you’ll find a way to work it out. Why, I’ll bet the next best thing for you is just around the corner. Now, go upstairs and revive that gorgeous face of yours. As soon as Denny comes back we’re taking you out for dinner. And cocktails. I suspect we’ll need many.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I couldn’t eat a bite. But the cocktails were an inspiration, as well as an apt apology. Part of the blame for this fiasco lay with Brent.

  Two years earlier I had walked into his gallery, Curieux, to tape a spot on an exhibition of oils created with poisonous plants and venoms. Immediately, Brent took over my story, my cameraman, and—after a couple martinis—my private life, which he began to scrutinize. But I hardly minded. At the time I was still building my brand name, and Brent seemed so well-acquainted with the local oddballs, he became an excellent repository to draw from. So, after a few such tip-offs and their subsequent ratings-breaking stories, I was grateful to call him a friend. Even if he had introduced me to Richard.

  “He’s a shark,” Brent had said. “But if anyone can get you that contract, it’s Richard Sayles. He actually talked me into upping Dagor Ruski’s commission, and I still made a killing on his show. He’s new, but he’s hungry. You can’t miss.”

  At the time I had been mainly a general assignments reporter on another station, but my oddball stories were getting more and more popular, and Channel 8 was floating rumors they might be interested in turning my occasional quirky spots into a permanent fixture. I had print media, radio, and a degree from the U of Penn’s Annenberg School in my book, but if I ever wanted to become Jeanne Moos’ heir-apparent, I absolutely needed to cultivate my signature.

  “So you think I should hook up with him?” I asked Brent.

  “Hook up?” He cocked a brow. “If you’re speaking in the popular parlance—God no. The man will disappoint you as sure as clockwork. But as your talent agent? Run and get your pen, darling. He could sell water to whales.”

  So we hooked up, in more ways than one. Richard got me exactly what I wanted from Channel 8, and I got Richard. Or so I thought. I left for the bathroom and gave my face a good washing, the cold water dousing me with logic: If I were the boost that had launched his rocket, then once he was in orbit, like all boosters, Richard had to cut me loose.

  My God, why hadn’t I listened to Brent in the first place?

  I pulled the combs from my head and, dropping them in the sink, brushed my hair until my scalp burned. It’s amazing the delusions I accepted as truths. That our similarities made us soul mates. That whatever he did for me he did for me. That he meant it when he said he loved me. That he would marry me.

  I reapplied my lipstick, mascara, a bit of powder to hide the shine. I wondered if he ever even liked me. I thought of all the things we did together, the restaurants, the group trips to Turks and Caicos, the shows, the bars, the parties too innumerable to tally. I tried to think of the times we sat on the floor in front of the fireplace and just read the Sunday Inquirer together; I couldn’t picture it past our third month. Did we always have to have an audience?

  I gathered up my hair and twisted it into a chignon, fastening it with the combs. The last one slipped from my fingertips to the sink.

  Do you like me, Miss Knott?

  I started, snatching up the fallen comb. Do you? Andy Devine’s voice rumbled through my head. Do you, Miss Knott? Do you?

  I shoved the comb into my hair. He was totally missing the point.

  My point exactly.

  This was nuts. I grabbed my purse and fled.

  HOURS LATER, I was floating out of Amada and up Chestnut Street on four Dark Habits, a brilliant concoction of lime, strawberry and gin. True, we had a few tapas chasers, but they hardly diluted the elation I felt from my complete denial. I spun around to a bemused Brent and Denny, squeezing between them.

  “You guys are terrific,” I said, flinging my arms up around their shoulders. “Now lemme buy you a drink.”

  “And what’ll that be, sweet piece,” Denny said, squeezing me. “A Dr. Pepper? An Ovaltine? How about a Shamrock Shake?”

  “How about a sock in the kisser?” I said, tweaking him under the arm. His answer was a nip on the ear.

  “Don’t tempt me, Jules,” he said. “You’re in need of a good one.”

  “Oh, do play nice, children,” Brent said. “Let’s not waste all that good gin.”

  I shot Denny a smirk, pulling away. “You just blew your free drink, buster.” I caught sight of a bank at the corner. “I need some cash. Hold tight, I’ll be right back.”

  I trotted up to the ATM, the debit card already in my hand. I pressed the arrow for one hundred dollars, the machine whirred, and a receipt sputtered out. I held it into the light. All it said was SEE TELLER FOR MORE INFORMATION.

  “Problem?” Denny said from behind me.

  “Oh no . . .” I murmured, instantly sobering. “He wouldn’t.”

  Brent plucked the receipt from me, eyeing it. “This is a joint account, isn’t it?”

  My gaze shot to Denny. “Where’s my phone?”

  He looked nearly as panicked as I felt. “At the house. Come on.”

  Five minutes later I dialed Richard; the call went directly to voice mail. “You son of a bitch!” I spat into my BlackBerry. “Don’t you even have the guts to talk to me? Call me! Now!” I delivered the same message every ten minutes for the next two hours, calling and texting. Then I finally gave up all my scruples and sent him a Tweet:

  I thought you loved me. Even worse I thought you LIKED me.

  I was sinking fast.

  The next morning, exhausted and nursing a ’tini head, I stopped at the bank first thing, asking to see customer service. Instead, I was taken directly to the branch manager’s office. My account information was already on her screen when I entered.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Knott,” she said, bursting with politeness.

  Without preamble, I said, “Why can’t I get at my money?”

  She folded her hands atop her desk and looked me square in the eyes. “Whenever there’s a dissolution of a joint account, as your fiancé has requested, it’s always frozen until the depositors can settle how the funds are to be distributed. For that, we’ll need both parties present, and if one of them can’t be, then the absent party has to sign this form and get it notarized.” She slid it to me. “After that, we can close up the account.”

  I stared at her, aghast. “But all my money’s in that account! You must already have Richard’s permission if he’s asked you to close it.”

  She tapped at her keyboard. “It says here Richard Sayles had to go out of town on a family emergency, and he would settle the account when he returns.”

  “Family emergency?” I thumbed my chest. “Here’s your family emergency.” I leaned in, sotto voce. “He’s left me high and dry!”

  She smiled sympathetically. “If you like, I can set up a separate account
for your direct deposit, and arrange so you can withdraw the equivalent of one pay period. Outside of that . . .” she shrugged. “I’m really sorry. Can’t you contact him?”

  I swiped my hands on my skirt. “He’s in Seattle, and we really didn’t part on the best terms.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Really?”

  What did I just say? I could see my name in Dan Gross’ gossip blog before the sun set. “Nothing we won’t work out. In the meantime, about that new account . . .”

  I filled out what I had to, withdrew $500, and by the time I hit the sidewalk my head was spinning. It was the day after one of the worst disasters of my life, and there were a million things I should be doing, but all I could think of was retreating to the haven of Channel 8. Since I was a kid, the printed or spoken word had always been my sanctuary: from the library, to the school newspaper and the city desk, to the radio and TV stations that had become my second home. On a Saturday morning, Channel 8 was manned by the second string, and most were surprised to see me. All except Gil, the odious station manager. He seemed downright delighted.

  “Julie! Look at you, here on a Saturday morning!” He pushed a bit of paunch back under his belt and waved me over to his office. “Come on in and chat a sec.”

  “Can’t it wait, Gil?” I was wearing the same skirt and blouse I’d worn the day before, a bit wrinkled and slightly gin-soaked, but until I could get into my apartment, I’d have to settle for the extra clothes I kept in my desk. ‘”I’m in a bit of a hurry and—”

  “Only take a sec,” he said. “Come on.”

  It was more of an order than a request. I took a seat in front of his desk.

  He leaned back in his chair, the statue of Billy Penn rising from the skyline behind him. “Glad you stopped in, Julie. Saturdays are quiet, so it’s better.”

  “Better for what?”

  “For this chat.” His chair squeaked. “About your contract renewal.”

  A prickle crawled up the back of my neck. “I thought we had that all settled. Richard said the only thing you had to do was sign.”

  “Richard. Ah.” He pursed his lips, his fingertips steepling. “I saw his tweet about your breaking up. That’s tough.”

  “You saw his—” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Jesus—you follow him?”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “He didn’t he tell you, did he? I sent the changes yesterday. Julie. Your spots have been cut.”

  My jaw dropped. “What?”

  “You’re fluff, what can I say? Nielson numbers don’t lie. Station’s in the toilet. Either we cut the chaff or we’ll lose the wheat.”

  I sprung from my chair, leaning over his desk. “Spare me the philosophical analogy, Gil, I make you money. How can you cut me? You must be joking!”

  “Hey hey hey—slow down sweetheart! Don’t kill the messenger! This comes from on high. Least you’re not being fired. We’re giving you weekend anchor at eleven.”

  “Weekend anchor!” It hit me like a blow to the chest. “I’m no talking head! I’m a reporter for Christ sake! You’re burying me!”

  His eyes turned steely. “Let’s hear a little thanks, Julie-girl. You could be one of the twelve people I’m showing the door to on Monday. At least you’ll still be drawing a paycheck. Unlike your compatriot, Mr. Denny.”

  I stared at him. “Denny . . .? No, you can’t.”

  “It’s done. Such are the times.” Then his face uncharacteristically softened. “Hey, you’re a smart girl. Maybe this’ll give you time to write a book or something. Isn’t that what all you guys do eventually? Now, other people? Well, they aren’t so lucky. Maybe you are.”

  He stood. “Look, I gotta go watch my son lose at soccer, so get those changes initialed by Monday, okay?” Then he left.

  I might as well have been hit by a bus. Could Richard have aimed any lower? My God, he couldn’t just break up with me; he had to go for complete annihilation. Then my phone dinged!—a text from Richard.

  He won’t say it, so I will. Leave us alone.

  Annika? In what alternate reality was I spinning? How did things get so bizarre so fast? I wanted to kill, maim, take them down hard, but how could I when that cowardly bastard wouldn’t even talk to me? Is this what futility felt like? I doubled over, hugging myself, when something slid from my shirt pocket to the floor. I looked down at the business card. Jinks’ Gas.

  Maybe this’ll give you time to write a book or something.

  Suddenly, everything became inordinately clear. I had one chip left to call in and, crazy or not, maybe there was a chance to get my own back.

  Oh, I was so taking that bastard down.

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Rules of Engagement

  “ALL RIGHT, I’LL marry you.”

  Andy looked as incredulous hearing it as I felt saying it. “Are you sure?” he said.

  It was the first time I’d seen him look tentative. “Pretty sure, but don’t push it. You haven’t passed my tests yet, and let me assure you, they’re pretty rigorous.”

  He smiled. “Give me all you’ve got.”

  My God, I went all squishy in the stomach. A decidedly pleasant feeling, yet I couldn’t help burying my face in my menu. The man did things to me I’d never imagined.

  We met the next morning at the Sage Diner in Mt. Laurel, New Jersey, a little bit more than halfway between our two milieus. I needed neutral ground in the worst way, absolutely demanded of me by my surly, ersatz big brother.

  “Yeah, but I never thought you’d actually do it,” Denny had said the night before.

  “That’s because you always underestimate me.” We had returned to his spare bedroom with all the two of us could carry, having successfully gotten into what was now Richard’s penthouse. The swiftness by which my former fiancé had effected my departure was both impressive and astoundingly insulting. In a single day, he had jilted me, packed up everything I owned, and tossed me out on the sidewalk. Then, just as quickly, I’d been replaced, Annika Eden’s photo as Violetta from La Traviata was prominently splashed atop his Facebook page.

  “She’s a cow,” Denny said, clicking off. “A heifer, a Holstein, a goddamn Guernsey. A freakin’ Texas Longhorn. Did you see those ears?”

  “Denny, your loyalty is touching,” I said, digging into my suitcase. “Especially since working with me probably got you fired. But I can’t blame everything on her. You’re forgetting what a scumbucket Richard’s been.”

  “So, because of him you have to go ahead and marry that—” He stopped, blinking. “Okay, I’ll admit he’s easy on the eyes, but I was only joking when I suggested it. How can you marry someone you met two days ago? What is he? Where’d he come from? The man has no Google hits, no Facebook, no nothing! Are you out of your mind?”

  “If I am, believe me, there’s a method to my madness—ah, here it is.” I scrolled to an email I’d just received that morning.

  “What’s that for?” Denny said, eyeing it.

  “This,” I waggled my BlackBerry, “will be Richard’s downfall and my rise. And this”—I held up a leather-bound journal—“will be the bus driving him off the cliff.”

  “You cramming it down his throat?” he said, sitting back to put his feet on the bed. “I know that’ll make me feel a whole lot better.”

  I ignored him. “You know how we were going to Bhutan on our honeymoon, taking this journey into Shangri-La? I planned on recording our mystical transformation, how we dined on exotic food, meditated with lamas, made love atop the Himalayas . . .”

  Denny winced, holding up his hand. “Ease up on the metaphors. Please.”

  “As silly as you think it sounds, I thought it might make an interesting book.”

  “So now you’re all, Eat, Pray, Love? Sweetheart, it’s so been done.”

  I waved him off. “The point is, I’ve been wanting to write something serious for a while now, but my weird little stories were hardly life-altering enough.”

  “So, you thought a trip
into Dali-wood with that fop would be?”

  “I’d hoped it would, until my life exploded a couple days ago. But you know what they say—when life tosses you lemons, make lemonade.”

  He scowled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Look, remember that writer we did a story on over the winter?”

  After a moment, he said, “The one who typed with her feet?”

  “Right. And remember how her editor said if I ever wanted to write a book about my stories to give her a call?” He gave me a blank stare. “Oh come on—Mina Riley! From Haughton House. She was thinking a book of essays. Ring a bell?”

  “Vaguely,” he said testily.

  “I had figured I’d send her the Bhutan book, so I called her this afternoon and pitched this utility pole wife thing instead. Denny . . .” I poked his leg. “She went nuts.”

  Actually, it had been more like, “Are you nuts?” The editor had paused for a moment, laughing out loud. “Jesus, Julie, when I said I thought I could sell a book of your crazies I didn’t mean you had to turn into one! Are you kidding me?”

  “No, really I’m not.” And I had truly affected dead-certainty, even though deep-down the whole thing still felt like a beyond-the-pale prank. “Tell me a better way I could get the real story without becoming it?”

  “But even immersion writing has its limits. My God . . .” Mina sighed deeply. “Does this Andy know what you want to do?”

  “Not yet, but he will. I intend to be completely transparent about it.” Well, not in everything, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “Because if he doesn’t, you’re skirting fraud, especially if . . .” She cleared her throat. “If I may ask, you are going to be his wife in every sense of the word, right?”

  “Absolutely.” Though it was the one aspect that gave me pause; he was just so overwhelmingly male. “Even if I have to risk pregnancy.”

  “What?” I heard a bang, as if she’d dropped her phone. “Are you serious?”

  “I assure you I am.”

  She laughed. “Oh my dear girl, do you have any idea what you’d be setting yourself up for? If I were you, I’d take some time and think about this very carefully.”