Romance Is My Day Job

by Patience Bloom

  Here we go again. Jennifer Ehle, Colin Firth—our newest obsession. My mother claims she loves the meddling Mrs. Bennet most, because she has the serious job of marrying off her daughters and she goes about it expertly. But I know my mother is secretly in love with Colin Firth also. Massively in love. Once, we watched the five-hour miniseries twice in one night, fast-forwarding through less interesting scenes and rewatching others. Suddenly, it was two in the morning. . . .

  A woman on a mission, Mom keeps rewinding to watch Colin as he acts, reacts, then displays emotion.

  “You see how he just stands there in the distance?” she comments, then rewinds again. As the carriage pulls away from Pemberley, Lizzie whips around and sees Darcy, ramrod straight, watching her. Romantic goose bumps.

  “I do.”

  I’m surprised she doesn’t make me rewatch Darcy’s emerging from the pond, shirt clinging to his manly breasts. That’s the scene most girls want to see again, Darcy being sexy, because the sexiness is far more subtle in the book. The BBC lays it on thick. Diving into the pond indeed. There’s a lot of crap in the pond. It’s not a pool in Beverly Hills. I doubt very much Darcy would really dirty himself like this.

  “I can’t believe they kiss. It’s just terrible. Jane Austen never wrote that,” Mom says at the end. Though she keeps watching.

  “It’s the nineties, Mom. We want the kiss.”

  At moments like this, I’m sad to be moving into my own place. There’s nothing more precious than being a girl with your mother and enjoying Colin Firth. I just pray that he does another movie. Otherwise, I’m going to hate him. For now, he’s my imaginary dream man—and my mother’s.

  • • •

  The question is: Who wouldn’t love living in Manhattan? There is so much to do, so many stars to run into. Your parents can’t cook for you or make you watch Pride and Prejudice forever. Apartment hunting in Manhattan is a grueling process, and I do cry on the train home to my mother’s a few times. For my price range, I look at studio apartments that are a third the size of my apartment in New Mexico. Some don’t have kitchens or private bathrooms. I know for sure that I’ll be living on my credit cards for a good year so that I can rent a tiny Manhattan studio. And you can’t just drive up to a sign outside a building and inquire within—or maybe you can, but I wouldn’t want to. Instead, I look through want ads and don’t contact the landlord directly so much as the “broker,” who charges a fee. On top of the months of rent ahead of time, I have to pay extra for someone to show me the apartment. There may be an easier way, but in my desperation to get my life on track, I don’t find it.

  I go from place to place with a perfectly nice broker, who eventually takes me up six flights of stairs in a reasonable, safe building on the Upper East Side, close to where rich people allegedly live, at least from what I see in the movies. Six flights, up to what is advertised as a one-bedroom but is actually a studio with a deep corner.

  I know I won’t find anything better than this unless I pay more or go to another borough. The idea of moving to yet another foreign place freaks me out, so I take this tiny apartment and build muscle going up those stairs. My brother tells me that no one will visit me. Ever.

  “Wow, I get an apartment and a real job, all in one week,” I say to the broker.

  “That’s how it is here. Sometimes your life can turn on a dime,” he answers.

  Just a few months after my giant meltdown on the train platform, I’m now a resident of the Upper East Side, on York Avenue in the high seventies. The more I walk around the neighborhood, the more I see young families, lots of women my age (I’m told later this is the “girl ghetto” since rents are cheap-ish), and the occasional celebrity if I walk farther west.

  The first time I see Harrison Ford in my neighborhood, my “girl ghetto,” I drop everything—coffee, bag, jaw. The man may not live in Cleveland, but he’s sure in New York. He gives me that one-cornered smile and keeps walking. On another day, on my walk home, I see this tall, elegant woman sauntering past me. She has actual hips, wears sunglasses—nothing out of the ordinary from other women in New York. At the last second, I notice the mole under her eye. I know that mole. I just walked by the real Julia Roberts! Before I can digest this and keep from fainting on the sidewalk, I walk into oncoming traffic and almost get hit by a car.

  These kinds of sightings help offset the strangeness of living in Manhattan. This is no longer the City of Gunther, my tormentor of last year. I am home. But who wouldn’t feel a little off-kilter going from wide-open spaces in New Mexico to cramped quarters with little sunlight? The lack of brightness adds a somber edge to my transition. Luckily, my mother and my brother live nearby. And given that we’re still on decent terms, I can hop on the train to see my father, in Connecticut. I have family close, and they keep me from hiding in my cave-apartment.

  The great part about Manhattan, I soon learn, is that it’s full of people just like me—big messes, getting to work, trying to survive. As I walk to and from work, I go from nervousness to feeling a deep compassion for my fellow walkers, workers, city dwellers.

  • • •

  With so much on my plate, it seems natural to take a three-year hiatus from dating. After Gunther, I can’t even think of romance, not even Mr. Darcy, who, as I learn from working at Harlequin, is the quintessential romantic hero. We love him for his flaws and his secret perfection. At the same time, real romance seems completely gross to me outside of the novel. There is no one from my past that I miss. No visions of Chris turning up on my doorstep or Gunther declaring he wants me back again. I’m just another single girl in the city—one who is not looking for complications.

  By winter, I start to wonder if I’ve gone completely frigid. But I realize I work in an office of women. Ladies all day long: married, single, nice, some less nice, fun-loving, boisterous, sedate, energetic, neurotic, sane, compassionate females, all working for the cause of romance and love of books. And my colleagues read everything, from literary fiction to the most obscure nonfiction you can find. Many of them have had marathon tenures with Harlequin, which bodes well for my wanting to stay.

  I’m suddenly a romance editor (well, assistant editor, but still), within six months of moving to New York. Maybe I’m not dating because I get my fix all day long, plus we don’t have an influx of XYs on the floor. I’m all about romance on the page.

  Lucky for me, my time at work couldn’t be more enlightening. I read historical romances mostly—sneaking in a few contemporary romances—plus, Harlequin has branched out into Christian romances (no sex, but yes on the hand-holding), a booming market, which Tracy manages within our walls. Some of the stories make me cry, as do the historicals. A gorgeous preacher helps a woman regain her faith after a death in her family. A medieval lord sleeps with his late brother’s wife, then must marry her when she’s with child. Neither is looking for real love until it just happens. These stories appease some of the loneliness of living in Manhattan.

  One of my early jobs is to clean out the library and rearrange some of the books. Imagine about 70 percent of the Harlequin books written in the past twenty years in one room. The shelves are packed with those precious thin volumes, along with bigger books by rising stars in the genre. While the room is mighty dusty and I sneeze everywhere, I marvel at the vastness of romance. As I move books around, I get to look at covers from several decades and see how the genre has evolved. From the long-haired Fabio to short-haired heroes. From mustaches to that sexy stubble after a long day of espionage in a war-torn country. Every now and then comes a weird cover, a hero with a rainbow above him or a tornado behind him, perhaps indicating time travel. Some of the heroines seem like damsels waiting to be saved as they dangle off a cliff. Over time, these damsels turn bold and are able to pull themselves up from the cliff.

  In the middle of all my research, there’s a name I hear often, with glowing praise. I don’t go too long without someone say
ing how much she loves Nora Roberts. This author’s written for years, and her name has raced up the bestseller charts in a major way.

  Reading her is almost a cliché, one I resist for months until I oh-so-subtly slip The Fall of Shane MacKade into my purse. Maybe I’ll just read a chapter or two. That can’t hurt. When I’m done, I’ll just slip it back into the library.

  Five chapters later, I’m a total goner. It should be called The Fall of Patience. The author hooks me from the first paragraph, and I’m totally smitten by this Shane hero. He’s a player but somehow manages to stay on good terms with all his conquests. And then he falls in love with a bookish girl (like someone else we know!) who conducts scientific experiments. His passion for her is beyond his control. He can’t stop sleeping with her—they have super-orgasmic sex. How does Nora do this?

  I read the rest of the books in the series, my heart holding a special place for Shane. It becomes clear that writers of this genre are firmly grounded in the art of storytelling. You’re not liable to study symbolism or foreshadowing in a romance novel, but without knowing why, you want to read on. By the end, you may be swept up in a whirl of happy images, joyful thoughts, hopes for the future. At least that is what Shane does for me.

  Not too long after falling for Shane, I get to meet Nora Roberts. We’re waiting outside a conference room. She’s about to speak, I’m about to listen.

  “Have you met Nora?” our mutual friend asks.

  My breath freezes in my chest. She looks fabulous. Armani suit. Perfect hair. “No.” I try to breathe again. “I’m Patience Smith.”

  “That is an excellent name,” Nora says.

  “Thanks!”

  We both whip out our tins of Altoids at the same time, then the workshop starts.

  With all these accomplished people around me, I forget to obsess about my own lack of a love life. Or at least about having a relationship. True love is not what I’m after, though I’ll go out on a date. How could any real-life hero compare to the countless Darcys I read about every single day? I’m not saying I’ll never look for Darcy again—he’s fun to visit with in books—but I just don’t need him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Hero for All Seasons

  2001–2008

  No sooner do I finish Bridget Jones’s Diary than I decide to date again. Bridget Jones and I have so much in common, aside from a neurotic obsession with our neuroses. She works in the editorial department of a publishing house and surely knows that the publishing calendar is the most important one there is. Poor Bridget falls for her handsome yet toxic boss, which costs her a job. She reinvents herself before stumbling into an even better romance with a man she’s loathed most of her life. Well, the only qualities she and I share are our profession and our commitment to self-improvement. As I read a local magazine, I notice an article about online-dating, that everyone’s doing it, like it’s the most efficient way to connect with potential suitors. Meeting someone online seems the perfect solution for the shy girl who wants to date but doesn’t know how.

  Why not?

  I’m ready to pull out my short dresses and heels, get my hair blown out, join a gym, and date in earnest. It’s time for me to find a companion who is not my brother or one of my girlfriends at Harlequin (though they are excellent plus-ones). My brother, Patrick, and I resemble the titular characters in Will & Grace, calling each other constantly to comment on what we’re eating, who’s cute, how great Julia Roberts is, how many times we’ve seen Notting Hill, whether Sex and the City is as good as Julia, where you meet cute guys, whether Mom really soaks all her food in a stick of butter. (The answer is yes.) Because Patrick and I spent much of our lives in separate places, we make up for lost time in New York.

  We set up a time for him to take a picture for my online-dating profile: at Mom’s special July Fourth family dinner. The Fourth of July, our nation’s birthday, is not so amazing in the city. I generally see this celebration as a small-town thing, with picnics and fireworks. In Manhattan, you try to find a roof where you can see fireworks, though you usually wind up watching the show on television.

  Good thing my mother and Don invested in a weekend West Village apartment with roof access. We have an amazing view. For the occasion, I get dolled up in a tan miniskirt and a flattering yellow shirt, get my hair blown out, and put on red lipstick and skyscraper heels. I stumble to my mom’s place on the other side of town.

  As I enter the apartment, my stepfather, Don, barks hello and goes back to his book. Mom is cooking dinner (in a pot full of butter) and I give her a kiss. I sit down on the couch after getting myself a glass of red wine.

  Patrick enters the room and sees me. “Wow, look at you!” he says.

  “It’s the new me.”

  He sets up his camera and starts taking pictures.

  “So the new you is a nineteenth-century French prostitute?” Don says.

  I flash him a look of utter contempt—which, sadly, resembles my come-hither look. Click. My brother captures the expression and this picture gets me dates for the next few years in Manhattan.

  I should thank my stepfather. Who knew that the thought You’re being a dick would enrich my social life? Over eight years of onlinedating, I learn a few lessons:

  Manage Expectations: The person you meet won’t be as gorgeous in person as in his picture. Though neither am I (unless I devote a couple hours to it). Every once in a while, I am pleasantly surprised and he is who he says he is. Do as Bridget does: Smile anyway. Reward yourself with a glass of Chivas and an éclair afterward.

  Obvious Agenda: If you choose to date online, you’re admitting that you want something: marriage, babies, security, sex—something. Know what you want and don’t dial down your desire. While you’re only shopping at the beginning, don’t lie on your profile by saying you want “friendship” when you really want marriage. If he feels you’re trying to trap him, then he’s a jerk.

  Hasn’t It Been Called Buffet Dating Before?: When you’re at the buffet, you think you want the roasted chicken with almonds. Then you see the ginger-encrusted trout and choose that instead. But then you catch a glimpse of the shortbread and chocolate mousse s’mores. You know, I get it. Being the roasted chicken, though, is not so great. In New York, there’s a strange mentality of dating for the sake of dating while always keeping an eye on the better dish up ahead.

  Pack-Dating: Some guys date in batches. Use a condom and cover it with Purell.

  Vanishers: With online-dating, promising dates can appear, then disappear, like magic! He contacts you for a rendezvous, sets it up, then doesn’t clinch the deal. Or he goes out on one date with you, then never calls you again. It happens all the time. Enjoy as much as you can before his untimely disappearance.

  Resurfacers: Resurfacers come back after they’ve vanished once—and they keep resurfacing until you tell them to go away. Resurfacers are bored Vanishers, but they’re never satisfied and need quick fixes. If an ex or ex-date comes back, you’re better off pressing the “delete” button, unless you’re prepared for another vanishing. Then again, if you’re really, really bored and want to stir up drama (I’ve been there!), go for the gusto.

  • • •

  The best part about online-dating is the practice, especially if you’re not used to going out and meeting people. Each date is unique. While my potential heroes have distinct attributes, they aren’t a good match for my inner romantic heroine. The more I read, the more I can’t help linking my guys to these particular storybook heroes. . . .

  The Enchanting Earls (with Accents!)

  The Romance-Novel Hero

  Hugh Westingham, Earl of Buttershire, wakes up with a nasty hangover. After his wife died in a freak carriage accident, he hasn’t been the same. To keep his fortune (according to his grandfather’s will), he must find a new bride, and the idea of marrying again renders him positively beastly . . . but really sexy and rich, too. Al
l the ton is abuzz over which lady he’ll choose. It can’t be the plain-Jane third daughter of a modest family, the little chit standing in the corner, talking to no one. There he goes, about to ask this fragile creature to dance. . . .

  The Real-Life Version

  Charles Middle Name Middle Name Willingham III, a Brit who once played tennis with John Taylor (my old crush, who by now is divorced from Amanda De Cadenet and remarried to Juicy Couture’s Gela Nash—not that I keep careful track!), requests the honor of my presence in the isle of Manhattan, chez Starbucks, Murray Hill.

  He’s my first official online date, and British accents make my knees buckle. I wait a good five minutes before he arrives, sporting khaki shorts and a T-shirt. We smile and wait in line. Here comes the saddest part: After ordering our coffees, I whip out my wallet and insist on treating. Did I just inhale too much rubber cement?

  “I like that,” Charles says.

  “My mother taught me always to pay my own way,” I answer smugly. As if this is the coolest way to win over a future husband. According to his profile, he makes six figures doing something lucrative in the art field. The way he dresses, though, I have this feeling he might be incognito and married.

  Charles and I talk for an hour before I have to return to work. He says he’ll call me but doesn’t until a week later. My phone rings at eleven thirty P.M., just when I’d given up on ever hearing from him again.

  “I just saw Bridget Jones. It’s bloody good,” he says.

  “Oh, really?” I pretend I haven’t seen it twice already. After this, the conversation fizzles and Charles vanishes . . . until he resurfaces two years later, then two years after that.

  • • •

  Right around the time Charles leaves my dating sphere, 9/11 happens. It’s one of those times when I am grateful for my life. Like the entire city, I am horrified and thoroughly heartbroken. My insomnia returns with a vengeance, to the point where I start popping Tylenol PM, trying not to fall asleep at my desk. The great part of online-dating is that everyone is going through the same thing. We talk about our shared experiences.