“It's a man's way of enslaving a woman,” Xandra went on. “And I value my freedom far too much to just give it up just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “No thank you.”
“I just thought that since Skye finally took the plunge, you might have mellowed to the whole marriage thing.”
Xandra's oldest sister, Skye, had walked down the aisle six months ago and enslaved herself to the hottest, hunkiest driver to ever race a NASCAR series. Worse, she'd been ecstatic about the whole thing. She still was.
“Skye's suffering from a major case of lust,” Xandra told Albert. “It'll wear off eventually and she'll realize she's made a mistake.”
That's what Jacqueline Farrel kept saying to any and everyone who would listen. But Xandra had her doubts. Six months and her sister seemed happier with each day that passed. Content. Complete.
A pang of longing went through her. “My life sucks,” she sobbed. “It's crapola with a capital ‘CRAP.’”
“You'll find someone else.”
“I don't have time to find someone else. Do you know how hard it is for a woman to meet men? Even a single, heterosexual, financially solvent woman with no STDs and all of her teeth? It's nearly impossible. Dorothy from marketing has been dating for the last five years since her divorce and she still hasn't found anyone.”
“Dorothy has all of her teeth?”
“Most of them. She's missing one in the back, but she's getting it capped. Anyhow, that's beside the point. I don't have five years to waste on dating, much less another eight years on top of that to get to my comfort zone.” She shook her head. “My life really sucks.”
“So do something about it.”
“I am. I'm crying, and in another minute I'm going to go for the stash of cigarettes in my desk and start smoking again.”
“That will make the past six months of torture all for naught.”
“I either light up, or head for the candy machine down in the lobby. They've got Snickers bars. Lots of Snickers bars.”
“That's just a temporary fix.”
True. Chocolate, even a lot of chocolate, would only ease the pain. It wouldn't make it go away entirely, and it certainly wouldn't change the fact that she'd been dumped and she had a gray hair and after eight years, she still hadn't managed to push her company into the industry's top spot—she sat at number two.
She had to do something to get her life back on track.
“You're right. I'm sitting here crying when I should be thinking about the future.”
“The convention is next month. We need something to really wow everyone and make those boys over at Lust, Lust, Baby! look like amateurs.”
“I'm wasting my time agonizing over this relationship business when I should be washing my hands of it entirely.”
“I wouldn't go that far. I was thinking more in terms of concentrating on work as a distraction until the pain eases. Then you can get back in the game with a fresh mind and find a new man.”
“Forget it. That's the last thing I want. But I am going to come up with something really spectacular and kick this company up a notch. In the meantime, I'm going to find the man.”
“But you just said you didn't want a man,” Albert reminded her.
“I don't.” She smiled as she reached for her notebook and pen and scribbled the heading for her newest list. “I want the man.” Her smiled widened. “The perfect man to father my baby.”
Chapter TWO
American women are on a quest for the perfect man!” Barbara Donnelli's voice sounded in the doorway of the dressing room.
Jacqueline Farrel glanced up and caught her executive producer's reflection in the large dressing room mirror. The makeup artist who'd been powdering Jacqueline's nose turned to dab at her palette, giving Jacqueline a full view of her producer and the current issue of Entertainment Weekly she held in one perfectly manicured hand.
“He's sweet, sensitive, sexy,” Barbara went on, reading the cover of the issue, “and he's out there waiting for you.” Her gaze met Jacqueline's when she finished. “Guess what I just read.”
“A pile of rubbish used to perpetuate man's desperate quest to be the center of every woman's universe?”
“Theoretically, yes,” Barbara agreed. “But I was speaking in professional terms.” As well as being the executive producer of Get Sexed Up!, she was also one of Jacqueline's biggest supporters and one of the smartest women in the talk show biz. She'd worked on several hit shows, from Oprah to The View, before turning her attention to Jacqueline and the Womanist cause. “This is the front-page headline advertising the review for the first episode of Cherry Chandler's new show G Spot.”
“I saw that show,” said the young brunette who stood in the far corner of the room filling the coffee machine with fresh ground Colombian. Alexis Dupree was a twenty-something graduate of the University of California—Berkeley with a wide smile and an eagerness to please. “It was so cool.” When Barbara and Jacqueline turned et-tu-Brute? looks on her, she shrugged. “I mean, it was okay. It could have been better if it hadn't promoted the whole man as a perfect animal image—which he's not. Not by a long shot. And, of course, the only reason I watched was to see what we're up against—which isn't much since the show is so totally unrealistic.”
“Man, because he is a man, is completely imperfect,” Jacqueline said as she held up her chin for the makeup artist who dabbed her with blush. “Donovan is the closest thing to a perfect man that I've ever come across.” Donovan Martin was her significant other for the past thirty-seven years and the father of her three daughters. “And even he falls sadly short, despite the fact that he makes apple muffins and gives a really great foot massage.”
The muffins and the massages just weren't enough to make up for the fact that she had to put the toilet seat back down and resqueeze the toothpaste from the bottom up and pick up his dirty socks that he insisted on leaving near the coffee table.
Of course, that was only for the six months she actually spent at the home they shared in Georgetown, Texas, the small college town where she'd been born and raised. For the rest of the year, she lived in her own apartment in L.A. where she taped Get Sexed Up! and worked on her new book projects. Meanwhile, Donovan stayed home, lectured at Southwestern University, and added to his mountain of dirty socks.
“Never met a perfect man myself,” said Connie the makeup artist as she reached for a lip pencil from her tackle box. “I've met crazy men, perverted men, funny men, depressing men—the whole shebang—but not a one of them has even come close to perfect. Except maybe that hunky son-in-law of yours.”
Jacqueline ignored the reference to Clint MacAllister, the famous NASCAR driver who'd corrupted her oldest daughter, Skye. She wasn't going to angst anymore over the incident. She still had two daughters left. Her youngest, Xandra, was a walking, talking example of the Holy Commitment Trinity. Her middle daughter, Eve, wasn't as on track as Xandra, but she was single and successful and a Farrel, so there was hope.
“The whole concept of a perfect man is completely far-fetched,” Jacqueline went on. “It's ludicrous.”
“Unfortunately, there are three-and-a-half million viewers who don't agree with you.” Barbara stepped inside the room and walked over to lean against the wall-length vanity. The woman wore a navy suit and trendy pumps. She had classic Italian looks with her dark brown hair, olive complexion and rich brown eyes, and a classic Italian attitude thanks to five older brothers—meaning she was tough. And intimidating.
Especially when she started quoting viewing statistics.
The last time she'd recited statistics, Jacqueline had found her no-nonsense beige and chrome set redecorated in a bright, vivid, blinding red.
She'd been living on Tums ever since.
“Three and a half,” Barbara went on. “That's one-point-five million more viewers than we currently have, and the show's been on less than a month. Cherry Chandler has the right idea.”
“Cherry Chandler has set women back at least
a hundred years,” Jacqueline said.
Cherry Chandler was the author of the New York Times best-selling Sensitive series. She was Jacqueline's polar opposite when it came to advising the sexes—namely she urged every woman to bend over backward to please her man. Cherry had written everything from The Sensitive Wife to The Sensitive Girlfriend to The Sensitive Mistress to the current best seller The Sensitive Seductress.
She was the same age as Jacqueline—they'd graduated together at Harvard—but she looked at least ten years younger thanks to a fortune spent on cosmetic surgery. She had long blonde hair and straight white teeth and breasts big enough to float several people to safety should she ever find her Passion Plane—the hot pink 747 she'd bought the previous year—plunging into the ocean during one of her numerous publicity tours.
“Her show is a hit.” At Jacqueline's outraged look, Barbara shrugged. “Look, I'm not agreeing one way or another with her doctrine, per se. I'm talking about the way she promotes that doctrine. Her show is fun and practical. She gives advice that women can use in their daily lives.”
“Urging a woman to apply for financial aid to fill out a few butt cheek dimples so that she looks better in a swim-suit is not practical. Women don't need to hear that nonsense.”
“Maybe not.” Barbara's gaze zeroed in on Jacqueline. “But women don't need to hear a lecture on the dangers of wallpaper either, which you gave last week during Monday's episode.”
“Weren't you listening? Wallpaper isn't dangerous in and of itself,” Jacqueline said before blotting her lips on the Kleenex that Connie handed her. “It's the act of picking out wallpaper that poses the threat. Women, all too often, find themselves bending and molding their tastes to match those of their significant other. It's a terrible process that can become a deadly habit in life. First you're compromising on the wallpaper pattern. Then you're missing your favorite show so that he can watch WWE on Monday nights. Then you're eating pizza when you would rather be having a nice Greek salad with extra olive oil. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, you're rotting away in an emotional prison, while he's enjoying his freedom.”
“So go with paneling instead of wallpaper. Or paint. Or stucco.”
“The point is not the wallpaper. It's to stand firm in your opinions.”
“Which is my point. You can't stand firm in your opinions if there's no one to stand firm against. Our viewers don't just need relationship advice, they need advice on how to get into a relationship in the first place. They need tips to help them find their Holy Commitment Man. They need Smart Dating.”
“Smart what?”
“Smart Dating. It's going to be an ongoing series on the show where we'll feature four women from major cities across the country. We'll have our cameras follow them during a typical evening out to meet prospective men. Then we'll have you review the tapes and give them dating advice. What they're doing right. What they're doing wrong.”
“I don't think so.” Jacqueline shook her head. “It's all wrong for the show. We're about freedom. About rejoicing in your femininity. About loving yourself first and foremost.”
“Eighty percent of our viewers are single.”
“Then we're doing our job.”
“They're single, but not by choice. Our average viewer is a professional, college-educated career woman who believes in love and marriage and family, and wants all three.”
“Says who?”
“Our polls. See, our show is justification to all those single women who don't have a significant other. They're busy in their careers and they're looking for validation for all the Saturday nights they spend at home working rather than dating. But when they reach the settling-down point, they're going to turn us off and turn on Cherry because she validates their longing for that special someone. She feeds the notion that he is out there and that they can actually find him.” Barbara shook her head. “We have to feed that need before she steals all our viewers. We're doing Smart Dating.”
“And if I object?” Jacqueline's gaze met Barbara's.
“Objection noted, but majority rules.”
“It's one against one right now.”
“One against three.” She gestured to the other two women in the room, who gave Jacqueline a sheepish look before sliding their hands into the air. “Not to mention I've polled everyone from my boss, down the loop to the bagel guy. It's a unanimous yes so far.” Barbara's voice softened a notch. “You're a wonderful host, Jacqueline, and you have a wonderful message. But if we don't keep up our ratings, then there'll be no show, which means no forum for your message.”
“Just do it, Dr. Farrel,” Connie said as she recapped several tubes and deposited them into her tackle box. “It sounds fun.”
“Fun and cool,” Alexis added. “I think it's a great idea.”
Barbara smiled. “We're already taking applications for the first batch of daters. We'll start here in L.A., then we're airborne for the other cities on our list. I'll get you the profiles as soon as we've narrowed them down. You can select the final four for each episode. You're the host, after all.”
“Sure, I am,” Jacqueline grumbled as Barbara turned to leave.
“I can't wait for the new show,” Alexis said as she refilled the sugar dispenser. “It's so now.”
“‘Now?’Why, it's positively archaic. Not to mention stressful and pointless. Imagine getting all dressed up to go out and impress a man.” Jacqueline shook her head. “It's ridiculous.”
“Not the Smart Dating show. Cherry's Mr. Perfect segment.” Alexis left the sugar dispenser, walked over and picked up the copy of Entertainment Weekly Barbara had left on the vanity. Flipping open the magazine, she found the review. “It says here she's going to talk about physical characteristics that lend themselves to the perfect man.”
“For the last time, there is no such thing.”
“Amen,” Connie said as she hefted her tackle box and started for the door. “Have a good taping, Doc.”
“Okay, so maybe the perfect man doesn't exist,” Alexis said when Connie left, “but the notion is sort of fun. What if he did? What if he was standing just on the other side of that door? My life could change just like that. No more Friday nights out with the girls. No more Saturdays doing laundry. No more Saturday nights with my Braveheart DVD.”
“No more closed toilet lids.”
“Exactly.” Alexis grinned. “Sometimes I lift my own lid and pretend a man—my man—leftit up. Check this out”—she turned her attention to the magazine—“Cherry's going to have some really big-name hunks on the show—perfect man specimens. Brad Pitt is going to be there. And Sean Connery. And—ohmigod—Mel Gibson!” Alexis held out the magazine. “You really should look at this lineup. It's incredible.”
“I don't want to look.”
Looking would mean that she might actually care what big names Cherry managed to lure onto her propagandist show.
Even more, looking would mean that Jacqueline might actually see the woman as serious competition. Which she didn't. Not back in college when Cherry had won an apprenticeship at Johnson & Johnson helping the company conduct their newest sex study, thanks to her short skirts and flirtatious smiles and the fact that the final three judges had all been men. And she certainly didn't care now. “The only thing I want is a cup of coffee,” Jacqueline said. “And a Tums.”
Smart Dating.
The title echoed in her head and her stomach heaved.
She drew in a deep breath and tried to quiet her nerves. So it wasn't the greatest title? The concept was good. It wasn't enough to know the secret of long-term relationship success—namely the Holy Commitment Trinity and its three all-important points. Her viewers deserved to know how to find a Holy Commitment mate. They needed to know where to look and how to present themselves and, overall, how to recognize someone with Holy Commitment potential.
Her viewers needed her—poor Alexis was proof of that.
Jacqueline drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulde
rs. She could endure an upset stomach if it meant helping needy women like Alexis. If she refused to work on the series, there would be a whole mass of desperate, misguided women out searching for a myth—Mr. Perfect, a man who actually put the toilet seat down after he flushed.
No such creature existed, and it was her duty as a teacher and a womanist to enlighten the masses.
But first she needed to know what she was up against.
“Maybe I'll just take a little peek,” she said as she reached for the magazine.
Chapter Three
Xandra buried her head beneath the pillow and prayed for the ringing to stop.
Rrrrrring!
She felt for another pillow and added it to the growing pile on her head.
Rrrrrring!
Groping for the covers, she hauled them up over the pillows. There. Ah, blessed si—
Click.
“This is Xandra. You know what to do…” Beep.
“Hey, sis. I know you're there. Pick up.”
“Maybe I'm not here,” Xandra grumbled to herself.
“Moping won't help. Mark's a jerk and you're better off without him.”
“I'm not moping, I moped last night. Now I'm sleeping,” Xandra replied to the machine. At least she was trying to sleep. She'd been trying all night long, in fact. With very little luck. Despite her resolve to shape up and get her life back on track, she'd slumped home, collapsed into a pint of the only thing she had that was even close to chocolate ice cream—a pint of fat-free raspberry sorbet. She'd ended up with a stomachache, a splitting headache, and the sudden urge to cut up what was left of Mark's things. The problem? He'd taken everything except the bedroom and living room sets—both of which she'd brought into the relationship.
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