When Sarah and I get off the phone, I walk to the staff room in a daze, searching for a strong cup of something. Steaming mug in hand, I lean against the cold glass wall and stare at the high-rises that surround me. The weak November sun glints off the metal and glass. A few dead leaves swirl past the window.
My best friend is getting married! I should be smiling and happy and planning a big celebration for her, but instead, instead, I go back to my desk and dial the number I’ve memorized from looking at it each night as I wash my face.
A woman with a crisp, mid-Atlantic accent answers the phone. “Blythe and Company.”
I lower my voice so the nosy fashion columnist (who’s been nicknamed the Fashion Nazi because of her judgy fashionista ways) can’t hear me. “Oh, um, right, I was calling for an appointment.”
“You’re interested in an arrangement?”
“Yes, I think so.”
The lyrics to an old song start running through my mind. I wanna man, I wanna man, I wanna mansion in the sky.
“We have an opening tomorrow afternoon at two. Would that suit you?”
“Does it take a long time?”
“The first meeting takes about an hour.”
I check my schedule. “That should be okay.”
“I’ll book you in, then.”
“Great, thanks.” I start to hang up the phone, but I hear her talking to me through the receiver. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said, please give me your name.”
“Right, sorry. My name’s Anne Blythe.”
There’s a slight pause. “Blythe?”
Do people give fake names to dating services? And if I did give a fake name, would I be stupid enough to use the same name as the company I was calling?
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Fine, Ms. Blythe, you’re booked for tomorrow at two.”
I add the appointment to my calendar and hang up the phone, feeling nervous but excited. I spin my chair in circles until I feel dizzy, like I used to do when I was little.
I wanna man, I wanna man, I wanna mansion in the sky.
Chapter 3
Through the Looking Glass
The next day at two, I ride the sleek glass elevator of the Telephone Tower to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I follow the signs for Blythe & Company along a thickly carpeted hall. I pause at the glass front doors and look inside. The waiting room is empty except for a receptionist working on a large silver computer. She has smooth dark brown hair and is wearing a tailored navy suit. She fits well into the plush surroundings. I’m glad I took the trouble to wear my best black skirt and a green dress shirt that matches my eyes.
I take a deep breath and push through the doors. “Hello, I’m Anne Blythe. I have an appointment.”
She looks at me with a bland gaze of unconcern. “Of course, Ms. Blythe. You’ll be meeting with Ms. Cooper. She’ll be with you in a minute. Please take a seat over there.” She motions to the waiting area.
I sit down on a gray leather chair. The teak coffee table holds a stack of glossy magazines. I pick up an Atlantic and thumb through it. After a moment or two I hear a small cough and look up. A woman in her mid-forties is standing in front of me. She’s about my height and thin, almost emaciated, with white-blond hair pulled back into a tight knot. She has pale blue eyes and a sharp nose.
“Ms. Blythe?” She reaches out her hand. “I’m Samantha Cooper. Pleased to meet you.”
I stand up and shake her hand. It’s dry and cold. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Will you follow me?”
We walk through a door in the taupe wall behind the receptionist and down a long hall to a corner office. The walls are all glass, and the blinds are up to show off a spectacular view of the downtown core and a slice of gray-blue river behind it. I sit in the visitor’s chair as Ms. Cooper settles herself behind her spare mahogany desk. It’s immaculate and almost empty, holding only a phone and a large desk blotter.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Blythe?” Her accent is hard to place. It’s cultured and has a hint of something underneath. British? French? Southern? I can’t tell.
“Um, well, I guess you can find me a man I can marry,” I say in a joking tone.
“Of course. That’s what we do. How did you hear of us?”
“A funny story, really . . .”
I tell her how I found the Blythe & Company card on the street and why I picked it up.
“So Blythe is your real name?”
“Yes. Do people really give fake names?”
“You’d be surprised what people do, Ms. Blythe.”
I guess she must see a lot of weirdos in her business. I hope they weed them out.
“Sure, I understand.”
“Normally, past clients refer new clients to us. Your situation is quite . . . unusual. In fact, I can’t remember the last time we accepted someone who wasn’t referred to us.”
“Oh, um, right, well . . . if you need a reference or something . . .”
What am I saying? Why would I need a reference to use a dating service?
“Thank you for your offer. We’ll let you know if that’s necessary.”
“I tried looking you up on the Internet—”
“And you didn’t find anything? Yes, we’re very discreet. It’s one of our policies, and if you’re going to use our services, we’ll ask for your discretion as well.”
“Of course. So how does this work, anyway?”
“I apologize. Usually, our clients are familiar with our methods before we meet. We begin with an extensive romantic history and psychological testing. This forms the basis of our evaluation of whether you’ll be a suitable subject for our services. If you are cleared to continue, we use our expertise to create the match.”
Evaluation of whether I’ll be suitable? “You turn people down?”
“Every day, Ms. Blythe.”
How odd. “I didn’t realize you were so exclusive.”
“We’ve found it’s the only way we can operate successfully.”
“And are you very successful?”
“We have a ninety-five percent success rate,” she says matter-of-factly, as though she’s telling me the sky is blue.
“Wow.”
“Indeed. You can understand, then, why we’re so particular about whom we accept.”
Yeah. Or maybe you only accept people who’ll take whatever’s thrown at them.
“I guess, but psychological testing? That seems a little extreme.”
“The psychological assessment is an important part of our process, I assure you. It ensures that both persons are committed and ready, and that they can deal with the pressures that come with using our services. It also weeds out the wackos.” She smiles as she says this last part, a joke I assume she’s used before.
I smile back. “It all sounds very serious.”
“Do you think finding a husband isn’t a serious task, Ms. Blythe?”
I know there’s a right answer to this question, but I feel like everything I’ve said since I came in has been wrong. I try to change the subject. “So, what’s the next step?”
“Once the matter of our fee is resolved, we can set up an appointment for the tests.”
“And what’s your fee?”
“I apologize again. I’m entrenched in my habits. The fee is ten thousand dollars.”
I draw in my breath sharply. “Ten thousand? Isn’t that pretty steep for a dating service?”
“Dating service? Oh no, Ms. Blythe, we aren’t a dating service. We’re an arranged marriage service.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m outside on the sidewalk, tugging at the collar on my shirt, trying to breathe. The air is full of the sounds of honking cars and grinding truck gears, and I’m having trouble remembering what I agreed to in Ms. Cooper’s office. All I know is, I’m clutching a pamphlet full of facts and figures, and I have an appointment tomorrow for my psychological evaluation. Just the thought of it makes my brain
go into overdrive. An arranged marriage. An arranged marriage? There’s just no fucking way. No. Fucking. Way.
I need a strong drink and a cigarette, but it’s no longer acceptable for journalists to drink or smoke on the job. I’m pretty sure productivity has gone down 50 percent since that policy was implemented, but I guess that’s not the point.
I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to do research on environmentally friendly cleaning products. But I end up Googling “arranged marriages” and reading through the long list of hits instead. In North America, arranged marriages seem limited to bad reality television featuring sexy singles in their twenties, but in many other countries, it’s an accepted practice. And not only in countries where women aren’t allowed to vote. Educated Indian women, for instance, participate in arranged marriages in large numbers. If divorce rates are a measure, these marriages are successful.
As I scan through the pages of entries—separating the facts from the crazy fiction—snippets of what Ms. Cooper said keep coming back to me.
She explained that the cost of the service was so high because of the all-inclusive vacation that came with it. After a lot of experimentation (I couldn’t bring myself to ask what that meant), they’d discovered that the best policy was secrecy. Apparently, it’s more acceptable in our love-obsessed society to spontaneously marry a complete stranger while on vacation than to deliberately marry one. Hence the all-inclusive cover story.
She also said something about having to go into therapy, that it was part of the program. One year of couples therapy was the bare minimum. It helped new husbands and wives deal with the “transition” and taught them about the “friendship philosophy” of marriage. It was one of the reasons they were so successful.
And then she said I wouldn’t be able to see a picture of him, whoever “he” was, before I met him.
“No picture?”
“No,” she said firmly.
“Why not?”
“Because our romantic expectations are often based on our idea of what makes a member of the opposite sex attractive. If you see a picture of the man we pick for you and he doesn’t look like you think he should, you’ll never fully open yourself to the process, and you’ll be more likely to fail. We believe a marriage based on the tenets of friendship—shared goals and experiences—is what works in the long term.”
“Aren’t I going to see what he looks like before we get married? And won’t I know after, anyway? If looks are my problem, what’s going to change once we’re married?”
“You’re going to change,” she said with assurance.
“I’m going to change?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?”
“The fact that you’re here means you’re changing already. That process continues through the therapy sessions you have before and after the marriage.”
I didn’t point out that I hadn’t come for a husband; I’d been looking for a date. But now, as I think it over in the calmer confines of my cubicle, something she said clicks with me. Maybe I can change. I know I need to.
Could it work? Could they really have a 95 percent success rate? Is love just a front, a distraction? Is expecting the love of my life to show up what’s been keeping me from acquiring what I really want?
I brush these thoughts aside. An arranged marriage is not going to happen. Because it costs ten grand. Because it’s a crazy idea. Because I’m not going to marry a complete stranger. Because marriage is about love.
Isn’t it?
I meet Sarah after work at an Indian restaurant located in the lobby of a hotel. It’s equidistant from her office and mine, and we eat there about once a month. It’s a bit kitschy—the walls are terra-cotta red and saffron yellow and covered with blown-up photographs of the Taj Mahal—but the lamb saag is the best in the city.
She’s there before me, as usual, sitting at a table that’s illuminated by an enormous fish tank built into the wall. I catch her admiring the way her engagement ring reflects the watery blue light.
“Okay, okay, so I am a girl,” she says, laughing at herself.
“I never doubted it. Now let me see it properly.” She holds out her hand shyly. It’s a beautiful square-cut diamond on a platinum band. Very Sarah. “It’s beautiful. Perfect.”
She looks at it again before putting her hand in her lap. “It really is.”
“So, tell me the story.”
“I already told you the story.”
I know, but I wasn’t listening, because I was wondering why no one wanted to marry me.
“Tell me in person. Tell me everything.”
“Well . . . remember our first date was at that Portuguese restaurant on Elm Street?”
“Of course.”
“He took me back there and re-created it. He remembered every little detail: the appetizers we ordered, the wine, where we were sitting . . . About halfway through dinner, he started acting really weird, knocking over his water and then his wine, and coughing every few minutes, like he had something caught in his throat. I actually started thinking he was going to break up with me.”
“Sarah, you did not think he was going to break up with you!”
She nods. “I did, I really did. I was sitting there trying to decide how I was going to handle it. Should I be calm, or should I have a hissy fit right there in the restaurant?”
“Which way were you leaning?”
“Being calm.”
“Figures.”
She sticks out her tongue at me.
“Anyway . . .” I prompt.
“Right, anyway, so there I am, freaking out, when suddenly he’s down on one knee, taking my hand, and telling me that he can’t imagine life without me. And then he said, ‘Please be my wife.’ ”
Sarah starts to tear up, and I can feel my own throat closing.
“Go on.”
“He took out the ring, and I actually started crying. All I could do was nod as he put the ring on my finger. And then everyone in the restaurant started clapping.”
Sarah’s cheeks are tinged with pink. She’s a fairly private person. I’m surprised Mike proposed in a public place.
“Uh-oh.”
“No, it was okay. I was surprised. I thought I’d hate a public proposal, but I didn’t. I really didn’t.” She looks wistful as she turns the ring on her finger.
“That’s great, Sarah. I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks. Anyway, enough about me. What’s up with you?”
I get a flash of my conversation with Ms. Cooper, but there’s no way I can tell Sarah about that. She’d just draw up a list of reasons why I shouldn’t do it, and I can do that on my own.
“Oh, nothing much.”
“What’s going on with your book? Did you get those changes done?”
“Yeah, finally.”
“So, what now?”
“Now I wait to hear back from the publishers Nadia is sending my book to.”
Nadia is my literary agent. She agreed to represent my book, Home, about six months ago. It’s this interweaving story of a group of friends in high school and what happens when they return home for their tenth reunion. At its core is the love story of Lauren and Ben—high school sweethearts who’ve drifted apart and might drift together again.
She looks sympathetic. “That must be hard. Just waiting.”
“I’m trying not to think about it.”
“How’s that going for you?”
I smile. “About how you’d expect. Constant email and voice-mail checking.”
“Well, I know it’s going to sell. It’s great.”
Sometimes I believe her when she tells me this—on the days when I think my book might be good. On the days when I want to put it through the shredder, I think she’s being kind.
I catch Sarah looking at her ring again.
“Happy?”
“Surprisingly happy.”
I reach across the table and give her hand a squeeze. “I love you, Anne.”
>
“I love you too.”
Suddenly, I think maybe friendship is enough.
When I get home from dinner, my hair smells like cumin, and my stomach feels tight from eating too much. I collapse on the creepy left-behind couch. I’ve covered it with a moss-colored cover from Pottery Barn, and it’s almost comfortable. When I save up some money, it’s the first thing out the door.
I sort through the pile of mail that’s accumulated over the last couple of days. It’s mostly bills and junk mail, but there’s also a bright red envelope containing a Christmas card from my friend Janey. She’s a friend from college with whom I’ve fallen out of contact recently. It’s something I’ve noticed a lot since the breakup: the dwindling of my friends. When Stuart and I started dating, my life wasn’t much different than it was in college. We spent the week working and the weekend playing. It felt like it would be that way forever. But somewhere between the triple shot of Jack Daniel’s that got Stuart’s attention and the day I read his emails, it all changed. Janey and Nan and Susan got married and started having kids. And despite their twentysomething bluster that they’d never live anywhere you couldn’t get a drink past eleven, none of them live in the city any longer. Janey had a baby not long ago, a little boy named Tanner. His round, perfect face smiles out at me from the tasteful card. Happy Holidays from the Jenners! it reads. Look what I’ve been up to while you’ve been wasting your time with a no-good cheater! it screams.
Tanner Jenner. The poor kid.
I toss the card on the coffee table and wrap myself in a fleece blanket. I start reading Andre Agassi’s autobiography, Open. Half an hour later, I’m totally lost in it the way I never seem to be these days.
I’m startled when the phone rings. “Yello.”
“Can’t you answer the phone like a normal person?”
“Hi, Mom. Are you watching CSI again?”
“How did you know?”
Because it’s blaring in the background, as usual.
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