$10,000,000 Marriage Proposal

by James Patterson

  The woman smiled back at her. “Cool,” she said. Then she beckoned Suze closer conspiratorially. “You also happen to be one of the most beautiful women here. Remember to smile. You have a nice one, and he likes a smile. Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Suze said. She stood for a moment, hoping the woman might elaborate, but she was already calling the next applicant. Suze had been dismissed. He likes a smile. It wasn’t much, but it was all she was going to get. Well, at least it meant there was an actual human being somewhere behind this crazy scheme.

  Chapter 6

  This Monday morning Janey Ellis had no excuse for her tardiness. Her alarm had been functioning, but, damnit, the clock itself seemed to be moving faster than usual. That, or she was reluctant to face what awaited her at work. Two weeks of pitching new potential TV shows to cable stations had just concluded, and what did she have to show for it? Nothing. Not a single nibble. And this was following an equally dismal reception by networks. She’d worked like a dog to help her writers repurpose their pitches for cable—edgier, with antiheroes and preferably some form of sex that nobody had done yet (which was increasingly difficult to find). She’d never been in this position before. Entering pilot season with no shows to develop was grim. She’d be a team player—working her ass off to help out her colleagues on the two shows that Flowerpot had successfully sold—but the glory would be all theirs.

  Stuck at the stoplight on the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights, she saw it again. That ridiculous billboard. A lottery of love. People were truly starting to live their lives as if they were reality shows. Next thing you knew, people would be taking Survivor-themed vacations—forty days on a deserted island just for kicks and weight loss. Janey found herself wondering if the ten-million-dollar bachelor had a producer yet—but only for a minute. This was Hollywood. Of course he already had a producer. If he didn’t, he was a truly rare breed: rich and naive.

  It seemed like a normal Monday. There was no sign of impending doom. Even in hindsight Janey would say that the office had its usual bustle. No funny looks or sympathetic smiles. She had just made her coffee when J. Ferris asked her into his office. He shut the door behind them. That was arguably a clue, but it came only seconds before the ax.

  “You had a bad season, Janey.” J. Ferris sat down at his desk, but he didn’t gesture for Janey to take a seat. She stood behind one of his guest chairs, noting that he had nothing personal on his desk. No photos, no desk toys, nothing with any color whatsoever. The guy was married and had at least two kids. Or was it three?

  “I know I did. We really had some strong pitches, but I think—”

  “We’re not here to quarterback it. I’m letting you go.” He hit the space bar on his keyboard to wake it up, seemed to glance at his new e-mails, then looked back at Janey. She was pretty confident he had no idea he’d actually just checked his e-mail in the middle of firing her, but it was offensive nonetheless.

  “What? Please don’t do that—I mean, I’m so committed to—”

  “The job is to sell pilots. You failed. You’re not earning your keep. This isn’t summer camp. This is a business. You’re a loss. It’s that simple.”

  “Okay,” Janey said. “I mean, I’m really surprised. Every studio has ups and downs, and—”

  “And people lose their jobs for it.” He nodded to the doorway. A security guard had appeared. “Collect your personal items. We give fifteen minutes. It’s not that we don’t trust you.” He stood up. “It’s just what we do here.”

  “Good-bye. Thank you for the opportunity.” What else was she supposed to say? As far as she could tell, J. Ferris was barely human. “This company really shouldn’t have been called Flowerpot Studios,” she muttered under her breath as she returned to her office. “It sounded like such a warm, homey place and it’s just not.” The security guard came to attention, as if he thought Janey might go postal. Janey stopped muttering and hurriedly threw anything personal into file boxes. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave like this. Before the security guard could stop her, she walked back into J. Ferris’s office without knocking. He looked up.

  “You are a cold, selfish person. It might be good for business, but it’s not good for life. Here’s a piece of advice. Bring in some photos of your family. Maybe say hi to people when you walk past them in the hall. It won’t kill you.” Janey walked out of the office before he could respond. She turned to the security guard, who was following her, and said, “You’re probably going to get in trouble for that, so I’m sorry, but it had to be done.”

  Ten minutes later she was in her car, breaking the news to her assistant.

  “I’m so sorry—I have no idea what will happen to you. I had no warning whatsoever, but as soon as I find another job, I’ll try to bring you in.”

  “It’s okay,” Elody said. “Don’t worry about me. They already reassigned me. I’ll be working with Marco.”

  “Oh. Wow. Great.” That was fast. “I’m so relieved it’s just me.” But as the words “just me” came out of her mouth, Janey felt hot tears spring to her eyes. “I’d better let you get to it, then!” she said as brightly as she could, and got off the phone before she embarrassed herself. Yeah, it had been a bad match, or whatever she was supposed to tell herself. But she felt like she’d been sucker punched. Now what was she going to do? It was 10:45 on a Monday morning, and she had no place to go. She pulled into the valet for the Tower Bar. She’d never had a cocktail in the morning. Now seemed like a perfect time to start.

  Waiting for her Bloody Mary to arrive, Janey glanced out the window and saw the billboard for the second time that day. The Tower Bar had a perfect view of it—as if the guy had been sitting right here having a drink when he had the idea. She glanced at the bartender. Was it him? The mystery bachelor could be anyone. But the scruffy bartender looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here. There was no way that guy had millions of dollars to throw away.

  The Bloody Mary, which was her first, tasted much better than she’d expected. As she sipped it, she looked more closely at the poster. There was no TV network mentioned on it anywhere. No logo. Hmmm. Maybe this guy was just eccentric enough not to have sold the rights to his story. She pulled up the website on her phone. Nothing there, either, just information for interested candidates. Apparently, applications were due today. In person. At a downtown address that, as the internet confirmed, was the Staples Center. Oh, this was going to be good. Janey downed half her Bloody Mary (for courage), stopped in the restroom to check that the morning’s trauma wasn’t written all over her face, and drove downtown with a sense of purpose. A ten-million-dollar marriage proposal. It was a waste of her time, but, as of this morning, she had nothing but time.

  Chapter 7

  Caroline tried to be strong, but the five-hundred-dollar carrot that her mother had dangled proved irresistible. She reminded herself that—unlike the umpteen auditions her mother had sent her on—this time the only reward she anticipated was 100 percent guaranteed. This was the very definition of realistic expectations. She had zero chance of rejection or disappointment. On the contrary, she would waste away a morning with a bunch of desperate women in exchange for the funds to buy a brand-new computer. It was a good deal.

  Caroline reentered the crowded stadium. Maybe the best way to get through this would be to pretend it was a social experiment. Who were these women? And why were they here? She hadn’t sat in her car for long, but somehow there were now twice as many women lining up for applications. Each was dressed in what she, this morning, had presumably deemed a marriage-proposal-winning outfit. Waiting in line, Caroline tried to characterize them. There was a powerful contingent of ladies in formfitting minidresses flaunting their curves with varying degrees of good taste; then there were the standard LA pseudo-Bohemians, a faux-casual tribe of blown-out blondes with expensive jeans and four-inch heels; and, finally, there was a woeful minority of average women in nondescript business casual who appeared to have simply stopped by on their wa
y to work. What might this room look like if a woman had made the offer? Caroline found herself musing. It would be a sea of clueless dudes in generic navy-blue suits, she thought, and none of them would be penalized for lack of originality.

  There must have been nearly two hundred women ahead of her in the line for last names beginning with A through F. At this rate, she’d be waiting for at least an hour just to get an application. This never happened in fairy tales.

  Welcome to the fairy tale from hell.

  Chapter 8

  Suze had managed to be relatively productive for most of the three hours she’d allocated to this farce—huddled in a corner answering e-mails—but just before her timer went off, a male voice came on the PA system.

  “Thank you all for your patience,” he said warmly. Was it him? Was he here, hidden in some security lookout, secretly checking out the candidates?

  “While we anticipated a response like this—ten million dollars is a lot of money—” He was interrupted by whoops and cheers from the assembled crowd. “This will require a serious effort. We are trying not to waste your time, so we have already selected a number of you to move to the next stage. Please do not be hurt or offended if you are not called. You are all worthwhile people, but we are keeping one man’s taste and personality in mind. We hope you understand. Thank you for your time and courage. Please refer to the numbers on your application receipts.” He then began to read numbers, as if announcing the winners of a lottery. There was a rustle of paper as the women pulled out the stubs from their applications, where their numbers appeared in the upper-left corner. Suze’s number was 2111, and it came up almost right away. She had a feeling it must have been thanks to that woman who’d advised her to smile. Suze had an ally.

  Suze slid upstream through the departing crowd and found herself in a group of about forty women clustered near the application desks.

  “This way, please.” A woman in a gray suit led them through a door to a conference room. Here they would wait even longer, but at least there were sofas and water bottles. Three separate doors appeared to lead to three different meeting rooms, and it seemed that one of the candidates was called into a room about every twenty minutes. This was it! Suze was about to meet Mr. Moneybags. She checked her makeup in her phone camera. It was fine. She wasn’t someone who looked terrible one day and gorgeous the next. Her hair was long and straight, smooth and dark. Her skin had always been flawless. She knew she was lucky not to have to worry. Her friends seemed to pick apart their own faces and bodies, wanting fuller lips, stronger chins, smaller noses, longer legs, and so on. Suze knew she wasn’t perfect, but she had never felt compelled to mess with what she had. She just stuck to the same routine. It had worked for her so far.

  Although she still didn’t feel invested in this unlikely contest, Suze felt an unexpected flutter of excitement when her name was finally called. At last she was going to meet the mysterious millionaire. Would he be physically unappealing? A beast looking for his beauty? Odds were yes. She walked calmly into the room, an interview smile deliberately frozen on her face. But hold on. Instead of the man she expected to find, perhaps smiling sheepishly in a custom-made suit, she found herself in front of two women and a man. A jury.

  The man spoke: “Are you”—he looked down at a paper—“Suze Lee?”

  “I am,” she said.

  The women and man smiled at her. “Well, welcome to your interview, Suze. This is going to be straightforward. We’d like to know all about you, but what you choose to tell us is completely up to you. Just please be truthful. Is that fair?”

  “That’s fair.” Suze smiled back. He likes a smile. She made sure to keep it there when she spoke. “Technically one-sided, but fair.” The three chuckled.

  “Okay,” one of the women said, “if you don’t mind, let’s start with your parents. What kind of marriage did Mom and Dad have?”

  Chapter 9

  Caroline instinctively sat straight in the chair, legs crossed at the ankles, knees held tightly together. Interview mode.

  “I can see that you’re being sincere,” one of the women behind the desk was saying, “and I know this is weird and hard to do in such a strange setting, but it would help if you didn’t worry about saying the right thing.” She was wiry, with sharp features and funky blue glasses. She looked smart.

  “Yeah,” the other woman said. She was pretty, in a less funky, more natural way. Blond hair, no makeup, and a cotton fisherman sweater—straight out of an Ivory soap commercial. “Try to imagine you’ve known us for years. Because remember what we’re doing here. We’re not looking for someone who’s good at playing the role of wife. We’re actually looking for a genuine connection—or at least the potential for one.”

  The sole male interviewer was young and magazine handsome, with charmingly tousled dark hair and a mischievous glint in his eyes. If he didn’t turn out to be Prince Charming, he was a good choice for an interviewer, Caroline thought. The women, too. They were all so friendly and attractive that there was a subtle psychological suggestion that the would-be husband would not prove to be a toad.

  “I get it,” Caroline said. “And I have to admit that’s a relief. I’m done with acting—on stage or in real life. But I will keep trying to sit up straight, if that’s okay by you. It’s false advertising, I confess, but I might as well stick with it as long as I can.”

  The Ivory soap girl made an obvious point of fixing her own posture, and the one with blue glasses followed suit.

  “Much better, ladies,” Caroline said. “Strong cores all around.”

  The group laughed.

  “So, let’s hear about what brought you here today,” the male interviewer said.

  “You want the truth? Five hundred dollars,” Caroline said.

  “Uh, not to focus on the monetary aspect, but you do know it’s ten million, right?” the woman in blue glasses said.

  “Sure, I know. But my mother bribed me to come here. I was…incentivized. Still, I’m open to finding love. And an apartment. Possibly a higher-paying job, except I love what I do. I definitely need to get out of my mother’s house! Gosh, I sound like a basket case, don’t I? But I’m actually not.…”

  “We know that life has ups and downs,” said Ivory Girl. “We’re not looking for perfection.”

  “Seriously? Because for ten million dollars I would want perfection,” Caroline said. Then she paused. It wasn’t really true. She didn’t want Mr. Perfect and never had. She wanted someone quirky and unpredictable. She didn’t have everything figured out, and she wanted to carve out a life with someone. In fact, now that she thought about it, that was why she couldn’t really take this contest seriously. Anyone who had all that money to spend, and all these women to choose from…his life had to be more established than hers. She didn’t want to be the last piece in someone else’s life puzzle. She started to stand up. “You guys seem cool. I don’t want to waste your time. I can just—”

  “Hold on a minute,” the guy said. “I’m curious about what just went through your mind. What made you want to bolt?”

  “It’s just—I would never step into the ‘wife’ vacancy in someone’s otherwise complete life. I’m sure this guy—whoever he is…” And here she gave the male interviewer a pointed stare and paused. With an amused look on his face, he shook his head with a nearly imperceptible no. Caroline went on. “This guy has it all down. His life is on a track, and he wants a companion to take the ride with him. Totally makes sense. I wish him happiness. But I’m not that girl.”

  “Well, that’s refreshing,” the woman in the blue glasses said.

  “And certainly not disqualifying,” the Ivory girl reassured her.

  “Please stay,” the guy said. “We want to hear more.”

  And so Caroline told them about her ill-paying but beloved job as a social worker for incarcerated youth. She made them laugh with her best stories about her crazy stage mom (“World’s Worst Mother-in-Law. Don’t say I didn’t warn him”). An
d, since she was on a roll, she rattled off a list of pros and cons about her candidacy: great cook, though only for guests; loves animals except reptiles; closet Belieber; tries anything once; hates theater; bites nails in public; has trouble staying up past ten o’clock and always falls asleep in movies; has forgotten everything from art and history classes; cannot deal with spiders.

  Caroline knew she was not a “catch,” if there was such a thing, but the interviewers made her feel as comfortable as was conceivable, considering she was talking about herself the whole time. It was only when they started to wrap up that Caroline realized a full hour and a half had passed. She’d been to enough auditions to know that the amount of time they gave you was a sure indicator of how well you’d done. Apparently, she was rocking this interview!

  The guy interviewer looked at his watch, then directly at her. “It’s been fun talking to you, Caroline. You obviously don’t hold back.”

  “Sorry!” Caroline said, covering her face with her hands. “I’m such a blabbermouth.”

  “We just need to ask you if there’s anything else we should know,” Blue Glasses said.

  There was something. Caroline hadn’t spoken of it to anyone—not in detail. But there was something about these people…maybe it was a ploy, but they made her feel like the more she exposed, the more likeable she was.

  “Well, this has been the best therapy session of my life, thank you very much,” Caroline said. “I might as well tell you everything. But this is kind of the worst.” She took a deep breath. “Ten months ago my boyfriend broke it off—it wasn’t just that he ended things, it was the way it happened. I’ve never been so humiliated. He isn’t a bad person. I’m sure it must have been at least partly my fault. But the whole thing was especially bad because…” She felt a heat rising up her face, and she was getting a little choked up. She stopped.