Clark’s smirking. “Hot with the qualities you hate. Maybe more specific?”
“You need a list? Give me your go-folder.”
He holds up the brown leather folder he brings everywhere. I snatch it and take it to my desk, grabbing a sheet of paper. I clip it to the top inside of his folder. At the top I write “REX HATES:” with a bold underline. Then another bold underline for good measure.
I pause.
“You hate perky, bubbly people,” Clark reminds me. “You’re always saying that.”
“True,” I say. “A bubbly attitude annoys me.” I write the numeral one and “bubbly personality.”
“Maybe we find some low-level model who is perky and bubbly,” Clark says. “And it would have to be somebody into soap operas. You hate when people are into soap operas. And that can be what she watches when she’s shut up in her room.”
“That’s the perfect number two item,” I say. “Because it shows the woman is an imbecile who I have nothing in common with.” I write the numeral two and “thinks soap operas are profound.” I tap the pen on the smooth mahogany surface of my desk, trying to imagine the most annoying fiancée to take on this trip.
It’s almost too bad Tabitha is probably halfway around the world in Japan by now. But then, I want a plausible fake fiancée. Nobody in their right mind would buy me marrying somebody like that.
“Number three,” I say. “Impoverished. Impoverished people are easier to control.”
“Impoverished meaning what? How impoverished?”
“Pathetically impoverished. Hourly worker. Takes public transportation. You know, impoverished. Number four, laughs at anything. Number five, stupidly positive attitude.” I’m writing it all down.
“Wanted, one soap-opera-obsessed, pathetically impoverished woman with good looks and a stupidly positive attitude. Are you imagining this as text for a Craigslist ad?” Clark asks.
I ignore him, adding “colorful hair streaks, sparkles, etc.” as item six.
Clark nods. “Don’t forget Hello Kitty stuff. You hate when people have a Hello Kitty obsession.”
“How do you know?” I ask, surprised.
“The ten times you told me,” he says.
“Huh. Well, I do hate it.” I jot it down. “And seven, narrates her expressions and reactions to things. As in, sad face. Heart eyes. Sigh. Gulp. Eight, turns popular songs into songs about her pet and thinks other people might actually find that amusing. Nine, feisty with an athletic build. That is the opposite of my type.” The women I usually go for are waifish, both in build and personality.
“So, this is getting to be a really specific list,” Clark says. “Are you sure you don’t have anybody in mind…”
“I’m giving you a gestalt,” I say. “An overall picture of a type.”
“I think I know what a gestalt is,” Clark says.
“Good. I don’t need her to embody every one of these traits, just get close and you’ll have the precise opposite of my type. She’ll need to dress acceptably for the trip. Get a personal stylist involved.” I hand the go-folder back to Clark.
He looks at the list strangely. The paper is thick, linen, embossed with my name. A gift from the sultan of Brunei, another client.
“Ask around discreetly,” I tell him. “Ask the assistants to reach out to their network of friends. Pay half up front and a nice bonus for afterwards. We need a contract, but don’t run it through legal. Call Ivan and explain it to him. He’ll draw it up.” Ivan’s an old friend who came up with me in South Boston. “And for crissake, have him draw up an iron-clad NDA. I mean iron-clad. If our fake fiancée whispers one peep about what we’re doing, she needs to know we’ll be turning her firstborn baby into a taxidermy toothpick dispenser.”
“You want that in there specifically?” he asks.
“Very funny.” Though if anybody would do it, it’s Ivan.
“Do you want final say? Any kind of sign-off on the woman?” he asks.
“While I compress three weeks of work into one? I should also get involved in this ridiculous search? No. You go figure it out,” I say. “You’re the one who got me into this dumpster fire.”
Chapter 3
Tabitha
Rex’s lieutenant, Clark, leans against our closed door, arms crossed, next to the Hello Kitty bowl where we keep our keys. The smooth fabric of his suit contrasts with the mottled white surface of the door whose paint covers decades of cracking and peeling. And though he’s of average height, he seems somehow extra large and unreal among our vintage and secondhand things.
But what’s most unreal is the check that he just handed me. I stare at it, feeling excited and happy and a little bit wary.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I think it can’t be true.
I think that five minutes ago, I was running doom-and-gloom scenarios about what will happen if my wrist doesn’t heal. Namely: I lose my clients for good. And then what? How does a person even make a living without the use of her right wrist and hand? You need both hands for work in restaurants, salons, and most tipped gigs. And those are the ones that pay the best hourly.
No way can my roommate, Jada, afford to float me the rent. She can barely afford to pay her half. I’d be evicted. Separated from my friends.
My mom is too out of it to help, and Dad would never let me move in to his place—I’d cramp his bachelor style. He barely wanted me in his place while he had custody of me as a child—except when I was guaranteed to bring fun and help land him dates.
I’d be out on the street, clutching my hamster, Seymour.
But now I’m holding a check that would cover rent for an entire year. It’s so much money!
But that’s not the most surprising thing. The real shocker is that Clark wants to hire me to play Rex O’Rourke’s fiancée. For two weeks. On a yacht. Not just any yacht, but a Flying Fox megayacht, he told me, which is bigger than a super-yacht.
I’d only be playing the part in public spaces, he was quick to add. Not behind closed doors. As if I couldn’t figure that part out.
He made me sign a document of secrecy, standing right there, just to hear the offer. I kind of want to scream and hug him, but he’s from Rex’s world, where hugging and screaming is the devil.
“Questions?” he says.
“It’s a lot to…take in.”
“What part is unclear? Should I go over it again?”
“No,” I say. “You explained it really well.”
“Well, then?”
“I guess I’m wondering, why me?” Because nobody ever picks me for things.
Clark gets this funny look on his face, and then he covers it with a smile. “You’re perfect for the part. You meet Rex’s criteria perfectly.”
“But Rex doesn’t even like me. I kind of think I bug him.” He might even hate me, but I don’t say that.
“I assume you’re free…” His gaze falls to my wrist brace. Did he put it together that I’m not going somewhere fun for a vacation? “But above all, you’re perfect for the part,” he says once again.