Trophy Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  Erin prowls through a rack, then shows me an adorable cream sweater with little pearl buttons and tiny baby blue embroidered birds. “It’s so kitschy cute I almost can’t stand it,” she says as she holds it against my chest. She looks at Hayden. “She should wear this on her next date, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely.” Hayden nods her approval. Then taps her lips with her index finger, and furrows her brow. “But for what guy?”

  “JP?” Erin asks, then shakes her head. “Nope. Chris. Wear this on your next date with Chris.”

  Erin thrusts the sweater into my hands, and I know this is the moment. This is when I should tell them. I should let them know that the dates with Chris are real and that the sweater could truly be for me to wear with him. That the contest is over and I have a boyfriend rather than a husband. And I like it that way. No, I love it that way.

  “So, um,” I start to say, then my voice becomes vapor.

  And it hits me why. It’s not that I’m afraid of disappointing them. They care about me more than a contest. They’ll forgive me for lying about his age. They’ll probably even laugh about it, and about my worries over breaking an oath that was all fun and games. What they’ve truly wanted for me all along is to heal from heartbreak. That’s precisely what makes me clam up. Fear of heartbreak. Of getting hurt. Of being broken. Because there’s a part of me that knows as soon as I give voice to what’s happening with Chris, then I may very well have to tell them someday about it ending. It’s as if I am trying to hold it in my hands, like a fragile glass globe and keep it safe until it’s immune from heartache, until it’s safe from the breaking.

  So for now I stay quiet, keeping the bloom of falling for Chris to myself through the evening, as I walk my dog, and read a text from my boyfriend telling me that Qbert misses me, and it’s almost enough for me to drop everything and invite him over. But the next time I see him I know I’ll want him in every way, and I won’t let myself go there until I’ve come clean. So I resist, telling him instead that I’ve never enjoyed a game of Qbert more.

  Then I reach for my laptop, write out a script for tomorrow’s show, going with the simplest admission of all. “Thanks for your support. I’m pleased to let you know that I found someone who makes me ridiculously happy, and because of that the contest is over. It wouldn’t be fair to him, you, me or anyone else to keep going because this guy has already won. He’s won my heart.”

  I exhale.

  I’ve written it down. I’ve given voice to my feelings. I’ll be putting it out there. I can do this. I can step forward into the great unknown of a new love. Tomorrow, I’ll call Hayden, Erin and Julia right after my shoot and before the video goes live.

  I close the computer, slide under the covers, and scratch Ms. Pac-Man’s ears just the way she likes.

  “You’re a good girl.”

  * * *

  The next morning as I finish my makeup, Todd’s name flashes across my phone. My stomach tightens, but I answer it anyway. He’s holding something over me, and I need to know what it is.

  “So about the sale of your blog to Fashion Nation,” he begins, picking up our truncated call where we left off. “I hate to do this, McKenna. I really hate to do this. But I feel a little bit, what’s the word? Shafted. A little bit shafted. Left out with the sale.”

  I must get my hearing checked. I’m sure he didn’t just say that. “You feel shafted? Well, isn’t that just the pot calling the kettle black.”

  He ignores me. “I’m only talking about what’s fair. You made a pretty penny on that sale, and you surely deserve most of it.” I grit my teeth as he repeats the words, “Most of it.”

  “I deserve all of it.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure about that. And I’ve been talking to some folks who think it’s a little unfair that I didn’t receive any of the buyout money. After all, I did play an instrumental role in the intellectual property of The Fashion Hound. If not for me, you would probably never even have a blog.”

  He is gasoline and I am a flame. “Let me guess. You’re not making as much money as your new wife wants to support your family. So you’re looking to dip your fingers in my bank account?”

  He scoffs. “No. No. No. I want what’s fair. This isn’t about money. This is about equality. That’s something that matters a lot to you, isn’t it? You’re all about equality. You’re going after equal treatment in your show with your little project. I want equal treatment in the sale.”

  I am fuming, twin streams of red fury pour out of my ears, as I slam my mascara tube on the sink, only one eye done. I am a teapot about to boil over, a geyser about to blow. “I would rather wear baggy jeans and shapeless shirts for the rest of my life than ever give you a cent of what you don’t deserve.”

  I stab my manicured nail on the end button and drop my phone on the chair. Then I race downstairs, and bang on Hayden’s door, hoping to hell she hasn’t left yet for work.

  She answers, dressed sharply in her lawyer suit, a cup of coffee in one hand.

  “Greg,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I need to talk to Greg.”

  “He’s leaving for work in a few, but come in.”

  I walk inside, not caring that mascara has made it onto only one set of eyelashes, and that my face must look oddly asymmetrical as I collapse at the kitchen table and lay out my newest dilemma for Hayden’s business attorney husband. He nods thoughtfully, listening carefully as I recount every detail of Todd’s request.

  “Please tell me he doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” I say, and I’m not just begging, I’m pleading.

  Greg sighs. “I’ll help you through this. You know I will. But he has a case.”

  “It never ends with him.”

  Hayden sighs, as she puts a hand on my shoulder. She says nothing. There is nothing to say. Because Todd will stop at nothing to find new ways to rip me.

  I return to my house and punch the Xbox on-button. I fire up Guitar Hero this time and plow through a few songs on medium, releasing my fury on the guitar and then taking down Slash in three tries in an epic guitar battle on the medium level.

  But I still want to kick the screen, or the console, or a brick wall, so when my phone rings again, I answer it angrily before I even see who’s calling.

  “What. Is. It. Now?”

  “Hi, I’m looking for McKenna Bell,” the man’s voice says, unperturbed. He’s not Todd, so I dial down my anger.

  “This is McKenna.”

  “Hello! This is Tristan Quinn. I’m a producer with Helen in the city and I wanted to see if you are available to come on the show today.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. The Fashion Hound,” he coos, saying my name with a faux-sinister accent, like I’m a campy sixties superhero.

  “For what?”

  Helen is a national daytime talk show that’s been on the air for several years. Helen is Helen Weathers, a former actress and comedian. Her show is topical, she interviews celebrities and politicians, brings popular musicians on stage to perform, and banters with the audience and guests.

  “Well,” Tristan purrs into the phone, “Helen just adores your video blog and wants to talk to you about what makes a good Trophy Husband.”

  “Oh, that’s very sweet. But I’m no longer in the market for a –”

  “–Helen has been a fan of your blog for some time now,” Tristan gushes. He lowers his voice. “You know, she’s an alpha female too.”

  I laugh. “I know, but–”

  “And she just LOVES the idea of a Trophy Husband so she wants you on the show to talk about traits and qualities that make for a good Trophy Husband. You’re the leading expert on them, she says.”

  “I’m the leading expert on Trophy Husbands? Wow, I didn’t know the world needed one.”

  “Oh, I just have to tell you, I think this idea is so fabulous. I mean, men have been doing this for years. Why not women?”

  “That was my thought initially, but I’ve sort of had a change of–”
/>   “– So, how about today? We’re over in the Dogpatch, and you’re local, so maybe you can just motor on over and chat with Helen. We tape at eleven and the segment will run this afternoon. And you can talk about how to evaluate a Trophy Husband. How to assess a Trophy Husband. Like he’s a bottle of wine, a new car, a mink coat, not that I’d ever wear fur, obviously.”

  “Uh…”

  You see, I want to tell him, I’m retiring from Trophy Husband hunting. I’m hanging up my hat. I don’t want a trophy, I don’t want a boy toy, thank you very much. I have a boyfriend, a delicious boyfriend, who went down on me on his Qbert machine, who wrapped his arms around me and practically sang my favorite song to me, who told me he wanted to go out with me from the first day he met me. A boyfriend who doesn’t want anyone else to have me.

  But Tristan’s merely asking me on the show as an expert, right? He’s not asking me to talk about my quest. He wants to know how to appraise boy toys. I can do that. I can help other women who’ll come after me. I’ll just postpone today’s blog til the afternoon, and I’ll go get ready for Helen’s show now.

  Besides, I still have fight in me. I haven’t gone soft. I won’t let a little peaceful easy feeling with Chris make me forget there’s still a battle with my ex, and I’m not through getting even.

  “I’d love to be on the show.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A town car arrives at my house an hour later, after I’ve touched up my makeup and picked out a new outfit, a perfect one for TV.

  I spend the next thirty minutes on the drive pecking away at my phone, trying to whittle through the mess of email and Facebook and Web messages that have accumulated this morning. Viewers are still following the contest and want to know what’s going on and why there’s no report today. It’s going to have to suck when I pull the plug this afternoon. But they’ll be cool with it, right? I’ve always had a good relationship with my viewers. Everything will work out fine, everything will work out fine, everything will work out fine...

  Then I see a text from Chris. Hey, where’s your video? Can’t wait to see it…

  My stomach plummets. He’s been waiting for my blog. There’s probably a part of it that must feel like closure to him, like the final end of one relationship – my relationship with a contest – and the start of a new one. With him.

  But that finality won’t come until later.

  I hit his number, exhaling as I wait. I feel like a heel as he answers.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  There’s an awkward pause and I’m sure he can read my mind and know that I haven’t pulled the plug yet. “So, what are you up to?”

  “I’m about to be on Helen’s show,” I say, and then I explain how it’s my last hurrah, and then I’ll bow out gracefully.

  He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches through several blocks.

  “Chris?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  He pauses and sighs, and in that sigh I hear the resignation and the frustration. “No. I just was hoping this would be over. I was hoping after this weekend that I’d have you to myself.”

  “But you do,” I say and I wish I could hide the desperation I suddenly hear in my voice. “You do have me.”

  “Yeah, maybe it seems that way to you. But to me, it still feels like you’re involved with some kind of crazy pursuit. With some kind of revenge thing you have going on. And hey, look. I respect the need for closure. I’m totally fine if you need more time or whatever to deal with stuff,” he says and lets his voice trail off.

  Stuff. Like my ex. Like all the baggage I bring. Have I not fully dealt with it? Yet, that’s why I started this contest in the first place, right? Because I wanted closure with Todd. But how much more closed can our relationship be?

  I sigh and try to explain. “I just want to make a point. That’s all. I want to prove that women can do what men can do.”

  “I know, McKenna. I know,” he says in a soft voice, but one tinged with resignation. “I know this is a point that’s important. And what I’m saying is when this point is no longer important to you, that’s when you should call me again. Goodbye.”

  Then he hangs up, and I am surrounded by an all-too familiar feeling of being left. Of being alone. I clench my jaw because now I’m mad at Chris, and besides, if I don’t call upon these seemingly endless stores of anger in me, I’ll probably break down and cry.

  And I don’t want to ruin my mascara before I go on TV to make a point.

  * * *

  The car pulls up to Helen’s studios and the chauffeur opens my door. I thank him, then reach for my pirate girl bag, keeping my chin up and my focus on. The security guard buzzes me in. I show my ID at the desk and sign the guest register.

  A tall, handsome and immaculately dressed man in pressed khaki pants and a pink polo shirt greets me. His hair is light brown and his face is full of freckles.

  He reaches a hand out to shake mine briskly. “McKenna Bell, I’m Tristan Quinn. So glad you could be here.” He holds a clipboard in one hand and gestures with the other to the hall. I walk alongside him down an air-conditioned hallway. Photos in blond wood frames line the walls every few feet. Each one features Helen with a different guest. Singers, actors, even other Web show hosts.

  I wonder if their stomachs were tied in knots before they taped as well.

  * * *

  I can hear Helen chattering with the audience from my backstage post. Tristan is positioned next to me. He grips his clipboard tightly. He wields that thing like a weapon, ready to brandish it at any moment. He’s methodical, organized. He points to the stage and places his hand over his ear, his gesture to make sure I’m listening.

  “I’m really excited about our final guest. Her name is McKenna Bell, The Fashion Hound, but you probably know her better as a woman on a mission.” Tristan taps me on the shoulder, holds up his hand and begins counting down with his fingers. “Her video blog with fashion tips is a huge hit, and it’s taken off like crazy in the last month since she started her own sort of reality competition online. She’s looking to land a Trophy Husband. Let’s say hello to McKenna Bell.”

  As Tristan points to the stage I walk out, the bright lights on me, a smattering of applause from the audience. Helen shakes my hand and we sit down on her white couch as the cameras keep rolling. She’s wearing white slacks and sneakers, a long-sleeve button-down and a black sweater vest. I’m wearing my favorite poodle skirt, Mary Janes, and an emerald green fitted tee-shirt with my silver heart necklace. I ignore the fact that my shirt is the color of Chris’ eyes.

  “First of all, love the shoes,” she says.

  “Yours rock too,” I say gesturing to her Keds.

  “Let’s dive right into this. I want to put your skills to the test right now,” she says, then turns to the audience. “I have a surprise for The Fashion Hound. She didn’t know about this in advance, but she’s going to teach us what makes a good Trophy Husband.”

  She points back stage. “Bring out the boys,” Helen says and then three good-looking men walk onto the stage. Helen stands up, gesturing for me to join her. “Since you’re the world’s leading expert on Trophy Husbands, we thought we would pick your brains about what makes a good candidate.”

  Okay, I didn’t expect that. I thought this appearance would be more about the why of Trophy Husbands, and the chance to turn the tables. But I’m on TV, so I need to go with the flow.

  “Just like picking a wine.”

  “Exactly. So you’re the sommelier. I want you to evaluate these men and tell us how each one rates as a potential Trophy Husband.” She points to the first guy. “This is Troy. Say hello, Troy.”

  He follows her orders. “Hello,” he says with a wave. Troy has thick brown hair, deep brown eyes, a nice tan, and high cheekbones.

  “Troy is twenty-three, six-two, a tennis pro, and is fluent in French. What do you think?”

  That he’s nothing like Ch
ris. That I have zero interest in him. That I don’t want to appraise men as if they’re livestock.

  Instead, I stick with the original definition of a Trophy Husband and give my answer swiftly and immediately based on that criterion. “Height is perfect. I like that he’s athletic. The job – tennis pro – kind of sounds like you’re probably not into working very hard, which is a good thing for a kept man, but at least you have a skill to keep you busy. And I have to say the French is a nice touch. Very nice.”

  I tell myself this is like speed dating, and it’ll be over soon.

  “Next, we have Ethan.” Helen moves to the guy in the middle. Ethan has straight brown hair, streaked with blond highlights. His hair hangs a little shaggily across his forehead, covering his blue eyes a bit, until he sweeps it back. His hair reminds me of Chris, but I force myself to push the thought of him away for now. “Ethan is twenty-one, six feet tall, an amateur skateboarder, and knows how to cook Indian food.”

  “I love Indian food, so that is a big plus. But the skater part worries me. Skaters can be slackers, and while I don’t need you to work, I do need you to not be a complete bum.”

  Helen continues with the final man. “Here is Javier.” Javier is a little shorter, in good shape, with close-cropped black hair and warm hazel eyes. “He is five-eleven, hails from Brazil, works as a lifeguard, and loves to give footrubs.”

  “Foot rubs are huge, Helen. Any Trophy Husband worth his salt should be skilled in footrubs. And the international flare is a great touch. I can trot that out easily in social circles to impress people.”

  “So, right now, if you had to pick, who’d be the best Trophy Husband?”

  “Troy,” I say firmly. “Il parle francais.”

  “Voulez vous to you,” Helen says. Then she dismisses the men and they disappear offstage. We head over to her couch. “Look at you, just sizing them up and slicing them down, just like that. So this Trophy Husband project is all about empowerment, alpha females, going against the grain.”

  “Two can play at the trophy spouse game, I say.”