Romance Is My Day Job

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Romance Is My Day Job Page 13

by Patience Bloom


  Secret, Temporarily Penniless Earls

  The Romance-Novel Hero

  Aidan O’Sullivan is the bastard son of Duke Lindsay Buckingham of Taliashire. After a tryst with a maid results in a son, Lord Lindsay sends her back to her native Ireland and cuts off all contact with her, never acknowledging paternity. Aidan grows up bitter (and gorgeous). He’s determined to amass a fortune and destroy his dear old dad. Without revealing his identity, he becomes close to the dying Lord Lindsay, who recognized him all along. Aidan feels a magnetic pull to his dad’s nurse, a wholesome woman who knows the truth about Aidan and teaches him to do the right thing—and they make passionate love in her attic room, after which Lindsay’s evil wife tries to kill them both so he won’t inherit anything.

  The Real-Life Version

  Lesley is articulate, Irish, and, from his profile, could be the little brother of R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe, as in he’s adorably hairless. We make a date to see The Royal Tenenbaums. I spend three hours washing, drying, and blowing out my hair because I have to be as beautiful as in my picture. I throw on my red sweater, heels, my Little Black Riding Hood coat, and shiny, sleek black pants.

  Standing out in the cold, I wait for Lesley, and finally, this short man walks by me, eyes me questioningly. He smiles, twinkles the way Irish men do, and says my name. Lesley is not what I expected, but then they never are, dear. It’s cruel that I’d rule him out based on one second, but suddenly I am grateful for the movie date, that I won’t have to pretend to be attracted to him.

  We do the pre-date chitchat and I find myself enjoying him more and more. He’s literary and high up in the advertising world but doesn’t reek of affluence. He’s not psychotic. He seems almost poor (takes my ten dollars for my movie ticket).

  I accept a second date. Then a third.

  Am I crazy? Not at all. I’m under the spell of that guy who’s not classically attractive but grows on you like a virus. You can’t get enough. The baldness. The charm. The ever-so-slight walleye. Add an accent to this, and I’m absolute toast. I even tell him I’m not that into him. He smiles, nods, and waits for me to fall into the hole, which I do. I don’t just fall; I dive in, Fatal Attraction and all.

  While I love his company—even as a friend and café companion—I know deep down the minute he asks me to read his novel that he’s mostly interested in free editorial advice, which I’m happy to give since he is, in fact, a talented writer.

  It’s wise to steer clear of this kind of guy as a lifelong mate—and he would agree. I wish I could take my own advice. It takes me five years to get Lesley out of my system. We remain friends.

  The Secretive Hero (Who May Be Hiding Something Really Bad)

  The Romance-Novel Hero

  Rafe Blackstone roams the earth, taking on dangerous assignments that could get him killed. He is tormented by guilt because he killed his father. When Dad went after Mom with a broken bottle, Rafe stepped in and beat him to a pulp. As a result of his adolescent rage, Rafe keeps to himself, secretly fearing he may carry the same violence within. He’s reluctant to take on his new assignment, to find the heroine’s kidnapped sister in a South American jungle. But within a few days, Rafe discovers a wild attraction to her and exposes his vulnerability as they swipe mosquitoes. The heroine assures Rafe that he’s not his father.

  The Real-Life Version

  Terminal Illness meets me at Joe Allen, a cute establishment on restaurant row. TI resembles a young Michael York and hints that he has some terrible disease. Prepared to be Florence Nightingale, I gently ask him what’s wrong with his health, but he turns his face away as if to swallow the emotion. The conversation is pleasant enough that I drop by his office with him that same night to “pick up a folder.” We make out in front of a weird painting and I never see him after this.

  Dangerous and Sexy Alpha Male Heroes Who Are Supposed to Have a Heart of Gold

  The Romance-Novel Hero

  Business tycoon Cutter Vance has a reputation for being a playboy, perhaps even driving women mad. His last girlfriend threw herself off a cliff, or maybe she was pushed. No one knows. Cutter lives on the edge and doesn’t care whom he insults. In the boardroom, he is vicious, causing his employees to cower. Only his new assistant—the only one who’s lasted more than seventy-two hours—suspects her boss has quivery Jell-O insides from years of neglect by his withholding mother (who died in a car crash). She learns that he secretly donates to children’s charities, but when she confronts him on it, he turns her away with a brash word. Of course, he can’t resist her and shows up on her doorstep with an indecent proposal—marriage in name only, which unexpectedly turns to true love when they kiss at the altar.

  The Real-Life Versions

  I accept Wife Beater’s invite to meet him in a sketchy neighborhood. Maybe I am brain damaged, since there is very little about him that doesn’t scream RED FLAG. In his profile, he looks totally cute in that raw, sexy way. I’m not sure if he has a job. “Self-employed” often means “unemployed” or “drug dealer,” so I try to be cautious.

  When I go to meet him, I see he’s wearing a wife beater and jeans, a tad informal, but maybe he’s the Stanley to my Stella. Ironically, this is the wardrobe heroes often wear on the cover of romance novels. They are bare and primal, waiting to ravish the heroine. While I love my primal on the covers, in real life I like to see a shirt.

  We go to a bar to have a drink.

  “When you first saw me, did you get a sexual vibe?” he asks automatically. “Like in the first thirty seconds?”

  It’s like Looking for Mr. Goodbar, only real! It’s all uphill from there. I summon my inner ice queen and somehow make it through dinner, then dash home and triple-lock my door.

  By 2005, I’ve been online-dating for four years and am no closer to finding Mr. Right, but I keep trying. After reading He’s Just Not That Into You (loving it but not taking it in as I should), I pursue Nathan the Spanker because his online personal ad is hysterically funny. He is very tall, is bald, and possesses an abundance of sexual charisma—the bald sexy guy who comes into fashion in New York around this time. They multiply in front of my eyes, and he is my fourth one in a row. We arrange to meet at an Italian restaurant in my neighborhood.

  After a great first date, Nathan vanishes, as online dates often do. It’s so typical that I don’t get upset. He’s just not that into me. Or, if you go by the romance formula, men need time to process their feelings of incredible love and devotion. I have work to do anyway, and the lessons of previous romances prove to me that another one will come along and true love is a low priority.

  Just as I start to forget about him, he requests a second date. Because he waited so long to contact me, I am wildly attracted to him. Off we go to a spicy restaurant in the East Village on the stickiest day of the summer. At the end of this second date (which ends at 2:13 A.M. in Union Square Park, amid a few drug deals, I’m sure), he walks me home.

  “Have you ever been spanked?” he asks as we get within a couple blocks of my apartment.

  “Sure,” I answer. Twice by my father for 1) eating the babysitter’s chocolates, and 2) saying “fuck” at the dinner table when I was five. But I suspect he’s talking about something else, so I conjure my trusty imaginary boyfriend, Jason. With Jason comes imaginary experience, so, yes, I have been spanked. A lot. Red welts on the back of my thighs, like, every day. Jason was born with a riding crop in his hands, and did I mention he comes from Cape Cod?

  I know nothing about New York’s S & M culture. It hasn’t occurred to me, but I realize right then and there that this culture is real, not just in movies. I start to respect his interest in it. Why not? I really, really love knitting. The pleasure I get from finishing a hat is almost sexual (maybe not). I love knitting so much that I pulled a muscle in my back and had to go to physical therapy (and I kind of liked it).

  Nathan is deep into spanking, an activity he shares with all his exes
, who sometimes come over just for a paddle. Maybe everyone in New York City spanks one another and I’ve been living under my romance rock for too long.

  Life is all about experimentation, which is what I tell myself the six months that Nathan and I date. It’s never too late to learn new things, especially as you’re edging closer to that scary forty-year-old milestone. The end of our affair is kind of ugly but perhaps merciful given we have different interests. As we start to unravel, I keep wondering how it will end but don’t have the will to end it myself. I start canceling dates with Nathan because I can’t deal with the inevitable, that I will be alone again, searching for more online suitors. Suddenly, Valentine’s Day is coming up fast.

  “Here’s an idea. I read in the paper that it’s more popular to go out the day before Valentine’s Day. Whaddaya think?” he asks me on February 10.

  My keen spidey sense tells me he is dating on the side. To add to his pre–Valentine’s Day request, he complains of a pain in his . . . well . . . his spanker, and we wonder if he has an STD, which he would have gotten elsewhere. This prompts a quick trip to the doctor after the blade falls. It’s easy to leave someone who orchestrates such a brilliant exit. There was someone else, but faking an STD was a bonus in case I didn’t put two and two together. Never date someone who is leagues smarter than you are.

  The Beta Hero (Who Cooks and Isn’t a Tool)

  The Romance-Novel Hero

  In another life, pediatrician Brad Hanson was happily married and about to become a dad. No sooner is his daughter born than his sweet wife dies in a car crash on her way to meet him for lunch. Wracked with guilt, Brad must care for three-month-old Daisy and keep up his thriving practice. For two years, he mourns his wife’s death, never noticing how his new next-door neighbor, Brenda, pines for him. The two strike up a friendship, with her bringing him casseroles, sharing meals, and babysitting when he’s on call at the hospital. They listen to each other, and after a night of spilling their innermost woes, they kiss. Can Brad move on from his tragic past and risk his heart once again?

  The Real-Life Versions

  There are those online dates that go nowhere, but your hero is such a nice guy. He listens to you and contributes fascinating nuggets to the conversation, and you know he’d be a great partner . . . for someone else. Beta heroes (with an edge) are my favorite for real life, though at this juncture, I don’t seem to be winding up with them. Then again, you never can tell who’s going to surprise you and be the perfect match.

  Beta #1: Weird Haircut Lawyer is completely wonderful, but we have no romantic interest in each other. A year later, I find him and his new wife in the “Weddings/Celebrations” section of the New York Times. I like to think that my role was instrumental.

  Far-Too-Beta #2: Still lives with his mother—not because she needs help but because he never saw a reason to leave her.

  Beta #3: Feeling that pressure to settle down, I date this sweet prince for nine months long-distance. If it weren’t for my breaking up with him twice (over the holidays, cruelty itself), I might be Mrs. Beta #3.

  But then the ultimate beta arrives. Ten months after Nathan, when it seems safe to go back into the water, I’m wooed by Barry the Teacher, that nice guy who screams Perfect Husband and Father Material. Handsome but not too much so, good job, virtuous, kind to his friends, kind to me. Not even remotely the type to cheat, treat me poorly on purpose, or vanish.

  We get along well, despite our many differences. He likes doing things (why do I always find this person and not the couch potato?). His friends are mostly female. I work with all women, so I seek out boys as much as possible. He doesn’t like my crappy TV choices. I’m not into bird-watching in Queens.

  But we both agree that weddings are truly joyous occasions, and the best man’s girlfriend could have an especially amazing time. That’s me. After dating Barry for almost a year, he asks me to attend his best friend’s wedding with him in Austin, Texas.

  I am on the cliff, about to dive into the Land of Forty. This trip is an investment, one I hope will pay off. So it’s with great pleasure that I arrange my schedule to attend the affair. How better to hint that I am ready to marry him? Barry has his imperfections: He is uptight, has intimacy issues, possesses a fleet of female friends who are nice but so obviously want to bang him, and he enjoys the attention a little too much.

  Barry is the one who puts up pictures, reaches containers on the top shelf, and carries home Christmas trees for his friends. They are nice to me, too. I meet them all, and they never hiss or play vicious games with me. On the contrary, I am included in their activities: the hikes in upstate New York, the ice-skating in Central Park, the Easter celebrations, the museum-going, the long walks along the river, the Coney Island adventure, and the bowling—all with Barry’s girl entourage.

  His small apartment is cozy, filled with just the right amount of stuff. Barry teaches high school and is like one of those teachers you see in a movie—feverishly committed to helping young people learn, especially the illiterate student in the back who’s been passed through the system. Affable, witty, and kind, he is an inspirational teacher and mentor. He even looks like a teacher, with his glasses and the earnest expression in his eyes.

  On paper, he is a dream. Goes on the requisite two dates before leaning in for the first kiss. Drinks just enough alcohol. Has the earring and tattoo, which doesn’t quite hide the fact that he is a square (but then so am I). I love this. It’s so my speed.

  Fairly early on, he pulled me into his arms and said those three little words (though I said them first during a bout of the stomach flu). A month after our Austin trip, he starts to backpedal, hinting that he isn’t ready. That one-year anniversary approaches and I notice the fear on his face. I convince myself he just needs time. We are a good match—him with his height, nerdy glasses, and graying hair; me with the red hair, sagging under a too-heavy bag full of manuscripts. A cute middle-aged couple, that’s us.

  I don’t regret most of my time with him, just the last six months. I could have passed the year anniversary on my own, rather than sitting next to his female friend and him during an Americanized performance of Cyrano (Jennifer Garner was fantastic!) on Broadway. Barry arrives with a bad case of hemorrhoids and is in such a lousy mood that he can’t send me flowers.

  We start seeing each other once a week, instead of twice.

  One random day, I ask if he wants to go to Madame Tussauds wax museum. He agrees, though I sense his reluctance. This isn’t on his approved list of activities. An hour before we’re supposed to meet, I cancel because I can smell what’s coming. I remind myself that only the week before he told me he wants to be with me forever and father my children. He comes over instead and we lie on my bed. I feel frustrated over this shaky future.

  “So, are you renewing your lease?” I ask. It’s the question I’ve wondered for months. Will he stay in his tiny cubicle of an apartment or are we moving in together?

  He puts his hand on my inner thigh and breaks up with me.

  I accept the breakup, just not the hand on my inner thigh. I am one pissed Bridget Jones. The second he leaves, I throw out everything he left at my place (including a $40 book about Hitler) and jump back into the dating pool.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Never Discount the Power of a Birthday Wish

  March 2009

  The romance novel of my life begins here, twelve years after moving to New York and going to work for Harlequin. I’m now a senior editor, managing a romantic suspense line. I’ve moved from the sixth-floor walk-up on the Upper East Side to a box in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan. My life has improved drastically. Well, except in one area.

  I’m sitting next to Superman for two hours on Amtrak, headed back to Manhattan after a weekend at his house near Albany. We’ve been dating for the past five months, and this was my first time seeing his second home.

  Total disaster.

>   We met online last August. Newly brokenhearted from Barry the Teacher’s vanishing, I searched for a hot rebound guy and found Superman. Not caring about rejection, I boldly sent him a note of introduction. By sheer magic, after landing in San Francisco for a Romance Writers of America conference, I checked my e-mail and found that he’d responded. Needless to say, I floated on air throughout the conference and did my job twice as enthusiastically. A month after this, Superman and I met in person and embarked on an ecstatic new romance.

  Five months later, we’re stuck. He never promised me a rose garden, but now we’re not speaking at all. I’m confused. All I did was ask, “Where is this relationship going?” He’s now about to break up with me. This will be my third painful breakup in a row after Barry the Teacher and Nathan the Spanker. I’m so startled by it all, I can’t even eat the gooey chocolate doughnut I bought myself at Dunkin’ Donuts as a little pick-me-up. And I can always eat dessert.

  I thought this would be a romantic weekend. Instead, we went to his house, I helped him clean for his new tenant, and he took me to the Olive Garden. He said he loved how I “keep him organized,” which pleased me. Organization is my thing. The most beautiful man I’ve ever dated—resembling that superhero of my dreams—and he’s slipping through my perfectly manicured fingers.

  What did I do wrong?

  I look down at the doughnut again, thinking I might eat it once we’ve finally and officially dumped each other.

  I had so many fantasies about Superman. . . . Our beautiful children, his devotion to me, our continued appreciation of Judd Apatow movies and ice cream, the endless parading I would do on streets, showing off my GQ-model boyfriend . . . I feel too old, at forty, for this dating stuff now. Superman will just disappear—stop calling, stop e-mailing. In a year, he’ll become a Resurfacer by contacting me and acting as if nothing happened. I love attention, so why wouldn’t I let him come back? He’s cute and amusing. We’ll casually date once more, have sleepovers, and then break up again. It’s the circle of life, as I’ve learned over the past ten years or so.

 

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