Trophy Husband Read online

  “By the way, I totally approve of the look,” I say. “But your mom said we have to get you to bed. The girls are coming over soon.”

  “McKenna!” she shrieks, barely able to contain her excitement. “Look, look, look.” She grabs my hand and pulls me into her room and begins stroking their Siamese cat Chaucer, who’s curled around a stuffed teddy bear. Lena tucks her feet gracefully under her legs and keeps petting. She leans her face in to the cat, rubbing her cheek gently against his downy fur. “McKenna, do you think you can convince my mom to let him stay in the house tonight, just one night? You like animals, don’t you?”

  “Obviously.”

  “My mom doesn’t like this cat, but he’s making me so happy and I’ll make sure he doesn’t pee in the house. Please, please, please convince her.”

  The trouble with Chaucer is he’s an equal opportunity whizzer. Hayden has told me all the stories of pet cleaning companies and furniture re-upholsterers she’s called in to fix the damage this cat has done. But he’s her husband’s cat, and Greg is strangely crazy about him, so Hayden is forced to put up with Chaucer’s predilection for pinpoint precise peeing. She manages by keeping the cat outside in their tiny backyard, which is adjacent to my very own tiny backyard.

  “Lena, isn’t he supposed to be in the backyard. Doesn’t your mom want him outside?”

  Lena buries her nose in his fur again.

  “Lena,” I say gently. “Did you let Chaucer in again?”

  She doesn’t look at me. She keeps Eskimo-kissing the cat. “I think he sneaked in. Um, it was when the Fedex guy dropped off that package at your doorstep.”

  “Ooh! That’s my new tee-shirt for the show,” I say, distracted momentarily from the cat’s mode of entry. I’ve become known for cool and unusual tees, with interesting sayings, arty pictures, funky logos. I recently tracked down a tee-shirt from the online gift shop for the Metropolitan Opera – it’s a black vee-neck tee-shirt and across the front in blood red it says "Macbeth," and toppling off the "h" is a crown. I can’t wait to show it off in The Fashion Hound.

  But I also enjoy the Fedex guy’s visits for another reason. He’s a certified babe. Yep, he’s one of the many reasons I make sure to shower and apply make-up each morning because you never known when the Fedex man might need to make a delivery. Not that kind. Not yet, at least. He’s totally hot, but I haven’t quite figured out how to ask him out. I guess being out of the dating circuit for the last, oh, six years has handicapped me in this department. Even so, he’s kind of become my sublimation, and the prospect of a visit from him is often enough to get me through the day.

  “Do a fashion show for the girls, McKenna!” Lena leaps up from the bed, no longer interested in pleading Chaucer’s cause. Instead, she’s found a new one, all part of her strategy to delay bedtime.

  Hayden’s heels click down the hallway. “Bedtime for you, missy. Fashion show another time.”

  “No fashion show? That’s blasphemy,” I say to Hayden.

  She shakes her head at me. “It’s like having two kids sometimes.”

  Lena gives her mom a pout. “Can’t I stay up and say hi to the ladies?”

  “Nope.”

  Lena glances at her mom, then gives me a knowing smile. “You’re letting Chaucer stay inside again!”

  “Just for tonight,” Hayden says, then she kisses her daughter and tucks her into bed. I head to the living room where I fiddle around with a new handheld camera I picked up the other day. I use a videographer for my show, but I like having my own small camera for little odds and ends that I need to shoot on my own. Soon, Hayden finishes with Lena, leaving the cat in her room. “I don’t have the heart to throw him back out. Not when Lena worked so hard to sneak him in and devise a cover up. I know the cat didn’t just slip inside. He was aided and abetted by my daughter.”

  “Resourceful kid.”

  “If he pees on her bed, I am going to be so pissed though.”

  I laugh at her choice of verbs as I leave my camera on her coffee table, and head into the kitchen to prepare snacks.

  “Thank you for helping me get her ready for bed.”

  “Well, you can just pay me back whenever I need a patent attorney.”

  “Babysitting bartering for legal advice you’ll never need? Sounds completely fair,” Hayden says, loading up her arms with a cheese platter and olive plate. I grab a small candy dish, and we return to the living room.

  The dish wobbles in my hands when I spot Chaucer on the coffee table leaving his mark on my new camera. “Your cat!”

  “Chaucer!” Hayden shouts angrily and scoops the cat from the table. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she repeats over and over. She marches to the backdoor, and I march to the kitchen where I find cleaner and some paper towels and try to rid my beautiful new handheld of that awful scent. I breathe in through my mouth as I clean, and once I’m done I try to turn on the camera. No luck. I shake my head at the cat, even though he’s now outside where he belongs. But yet, I have to tip my hat to him. As much as Chaucer rankles me, in some perverse way I admire him. The deliberateness, the in-your-face-ness of his strategy. He hit me where it hurts and he didn’t care. There’s something about the sheer recklessness of him that I wish I had more of. The cat does what the cat wants, consequences be damned. I think I’m going to be like that cat. Not pee on cameras, of course. But, be bold. Be daring. Do what I want, no matter what.

  Hayden apologizes twenty million more times. “I promise if you ever, ever, ever need a business attorney for anything, I will make Greg handle it for free.”

  “Let’s just hope I never need a good business attorney, but if I do, I will gladly accept the blood money offer seeing as the dude who handled The Fashion Hound sale charged me two arms and three legs. Wait. Is that blood money? Or pee money?” I add with a wink.

  But she doesn’t respond. Instead, she bites her lip once, a sign that she wants to say something and is figuring out how.

  “What? What is it, Hayden?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “You know what I mean. Look for a Trophy Husband.”

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?” I say, doing my best to be the tough guy I haven’t been in a year.

  “It just doesn’t seem like you.”

  “Well, that’s because this is the first time my ex-fiancé has told me he that he’s had a baby with the woman he left me for, and took our baby name, to boot.”

  “I know, sweetie. And I know that hurts an insane amount,” she says softly. “But…”

  “But what?”

  “But is this really going to help you get over him?”

  Her question is a valid one, but try as I might to pack a full dose of toughness around my heart, the wound Todd inflicted is clearly still there. It hasn’t closed. And nobody knows how much it still hurts as well as Hayden and my girls, who have been here for me, taking my late-night phone calls and rehashing every moment that led up to Todd’s treacherous voicemail. They’ve tried to get me into yoga, they’ve sent me random hot guy of the day pictures, and they’ve engaged in more retail therapy than nearly anyone but a fashion blogger could handle. They’ve done everything to buoy me up, and it’s very nearly worked.

  But this morning sent me all the way back to start. I didn’t pass go. I didn’t collect two hundred dollars. So I need to find another way. This has to be the other way out of the heartbreak.

  I throw my hands up in the air. “I don’t know! Yes. No. Maybe. I mean, Hayden. I thought I was over him but seeing him today was a reminder that I’m not. So maybe this is what I need for closure. To get back out there. To make it a game. To make it fun. To even the score.”

  “Right. I get that. And I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. It sounds completely, totally one hundred and ten million percent fun. But in the way that a reality show is fun. Then you’re left at the end of the day with reality.”

  “And reality is I’m the lo
ser, and they’re the winners, and the only way I can see getting any sense of closure is to try to turn things around. Crying hasn’t helped me feel better. Getting angry has helped me feel better. Hell, even shopping hasn’t helped me feel better, and up until Todd left me I was just about sure there was no ill shopping couldn’t cure. But here I am. Poke me in the heart like he did –“ I say and demonstrate by poking myself in the chest – “And I turn into waterworks at a restaurant and camp out in the bathroom for an hour to hide. I hid in a frigging bathroom today. That’s what I’ve been reduced to. I have to do something different to move on.”

  She nods, and even if she might not agree with me, she’s my friend and she’ll be there. “All right, crazy lady. You know I’m by your side, no matter what.” She drapes an arm around me. “If this is what you need, then let’s make it happen.”

  * * *

  My crew is at the kitchen table. The reluctant Hayden, tall and leggy, chestnut brown wavy hair, librarian glasses on her face, sits next to me. Erin is to my left, her big red plastic hoop earrings waggling back and forth as she bounces a bit in her chair, brimming with energy as always. Her earrings frame her small, pert face, matched with her short, sandy brown, spiky pixie do. My sister Julia, with her reddish-brown-almost-auburn hair, long and lush, sits next to her. Hayden’s married, Erin lives with her boyfriend, and Julia and I are the fully single ones.

  My straight hair falls into my face, as it often does, so I push it behind my ears. I take a deep breath, then begin. “So here’s why I called you all here tonight. To let you know Todd now drinks coffee in the morning, dines at the Best Doughnut Shop in the City, and gave up hard-boiled eggs. And, oh, there’s one more thing. He and Amber had a baby and they named her Charlotte.”

  “Are you serious? They took your name?” Julia asks, her jaw dropping. “My God, sweetie, when did this happen?”

  I don’t want to relive this story over and over, don’t want to feel that knife again expertly slicing me into pieces. So I recount the events of the morning as clinically as I can, then move on to the topic of the Meter Man before my throat hitches. There will be no more crying. Only marching forward, and this pursuit is my new battle cry.

  “And now, my friends, we have Exhibit A.” I grab my pirate girl purse and fish out the parking ticket from the inside pocket. I place the ticket on the table and smooth out any leftover wrinkles. “A solicitation for a date.”

  Erin claps. “Yay! I have been counting the days on my calendar until McKenna was finally ready to start dating again. This makes me happier than when my favorite men’s swimsuit model books me for a massage.” Erin is a licensed massage therapist and works at a day spa in Noe Valley.

  “And we all know how happy that makes you,” Julia says.

  “What? He’s hot, and I don’t do anything but rub him down,” Erin says, then takes another drink of the spiked hot chocolate that Julia, with her bartending skills, has so diligently provided for the crew.

  “You know it’s impossible to use the words rub and down in the same sentence without it sounding naughty,” Julia says.

  “I know,” Erin admits with a grin. Then she raises her mug. “Let’s toast to dating again. And maybe to a good banging.”

  Erin’s a little, how shall we say, sex-obsessed? Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But it’s just the way she is.

  “May the next man in McKenna’s life be one of those heroes in a romance novel – rich, good-looking and perfect in every way,” Hayden adds.

  Julia pipes up. “Call me crazy, but I’m going to toast to you falling in love.”

  A part of me wants to raise a glass right along with her. To say wistfully, “wouldn’t that be something?” Because, really, that would be everything I’ve ever wanted. It would be everything I still want. I was born a romantic, and bred a romantic, and I’m still one, even though I’ve been on a most decided detour for the last twelve months. Then I remind myself to stay focused on the prize because love smacked me hard on the cheek, leaving a red mark that still stings. I can’t go looking for it again. If love comes along for the ride, so be it. But that feels a bit like winning the lottery right now, so I pull out a sheet of paper printed from a Web page. “This a background check on one Dave Dybdahl, the requester of said date. I ordered a criminal check. He comes up clean.”

  I hand the paper to Erin so she can pass it around for inspection. Then I reach for a printed photo I found on his Facebook page. “This is a photo of Mr. Dybdahl, otherwise known as Meter Man. But hold on, my little chickadees,” I say, raising a hand for dramatic effect. I am going to be tough tonight. This is my moment, my moving on. “You see, my friends, this isn’t just about one date, one guy, one parking ticket ask-out. Mr. Dybdahl is my first candidate for my new project. Project Boy Toy. Operation Kept Man.”

  A smirk forms on Erin’s face. I have a feeling she will be my Number One cheerleader.

  “Or even, dare I say it, dare I name it,” I say, giving a little Rhett Butler twist to my wording, “Shall we call it the quest for the Trophy Husband?”

  Erin cheers. “I love it.”

  I speak louder this time, as if I were delivering an impassioned speech, a call to action. “As long as men have traded women in for younger models, trophy wives have multiplied, grown their numbers. But what about the women left behind? The first wives, or almost first wives in my case? Do we scoop up younger guys? No. We don’t. We cuddle up with the dog, we get to know the Chardonnay, we watch too much bad reality TV, and that is not ever going to help us move on. So I say it’s time to turn this around and show that two can play at this game.”

  “Hear, hear,” Julia says.

  “But there aren’t many Trophy Husbands out there. So just what does one look for in a Trophy Husband? What does one require?”

  Erin raises a hand. “This is a relatively new breed of man, right?”

  “Indeed, indeed he is,” I say, nodding.

  “And has this breed ever been spotted before?”

  I shake my head. “Not in captivity at least. Not that we know of.”

  “So this is uncharted territory if you will.”

  I nod knowingly. “Very uncharted territory, my friends. Very virginal fields here. In fact, the Trophy Husband is so rare that few know what he looks like, what he eats, where one lives. Worse, we’re not sure what he wears or what he requires. But we are going to find out. Because tonight marks the beginning of Project Trophy Husband.”

  Erin is eager to play. “We know one thing about a Trophy Husband. He has to be younger. A lot younger.”

  “You’re right. But how much younger?”

  Erin raises her hand, an excited student eager to keep answering. “Well, you’re only twenty-seven, so there’s not much wiggle room. So I say he must be between twenty-one and twenty-three. Super young, and super hot, and besides I can vouch for the appeal of a twenty-two-year-old male.”

  Hayden leans forward placing her chin in her long hands. Everything about Hayden is long. Her nickname is Giraffe. Her legs are endless and skinny. She has the flattest belly this side of Hollywood and equally thin arms. “Tell us more about this vouching.”

  I flash her a smile. I’m glad that she’s going along with this. That I convinced her this project will be for the best. That it will be exactly what I need for the closure she wants me to have. I need Hayden’s support in my life.

  Erin leans in conspiratorially. “Well, you know I have a twenty-two-year-old client. Not the swimsuit model. But this other guy is a cyclist. He’s on the LemonHead team or something. He comes in once a week, usually Monday mornings. I think that’s his off day. He has a perfect body. Not an ounce of fat on him.”

  Julia points frenetically to the notepad. “Write that down. That’s good. Perfect body. Not an ounce of fat.”

  “So basically we’ve got three things,” I say. “Twenty-one to twenty-three. He needs to be hot. And he needs to be in spectacular shape. Where do we start? I mean, we have Dy
bdahl. Who’s next?” Then I gulp. Because here’s the part where I have no clue. Yes, I can tell you whether that skirt goes with that shirt, I can sing Karaoke in front of a crowded room, and I can make a prank phone call if properly dared. But ask me to find a man? I met Todd when I was twenty-one. I have been with one man for the last six years, and before then I was with boys. And not very many.

  My momentary tough façade fades away, my all-business persona slipping off to the hall closet. I’m just McKenna right now. McKenna who got fooled by her boyfriend, who got duped and dumped and left, with a dress to send to consignment, dishes to be returned, and a cake that was donated to a homeless shelter. I hear the residents that day enjoyed it, and for some reason, that made me cry even more. Not that crying is hard for me. I’m the girl who listens to Billie Holiday and Elvis, and dreams of these foolish things. Things like love, and trust, and hope. Things like faith in another person. My heart winces for a moment, and a rebel tear forms.

  Then, a voice pipes in, a small but strong little voice, coming from the other side of the kitchen. “What about the Fedex Guy?”

  Hayden whips her head around. “Lena! What are you doing up?”

  Lena smiles innocently. “Well, you always say he is cute and I heard you ladies say you were looking for a cute guy…”

  Hayden scuttles her back to bed, this time shutting the door all the way and returning to the table.

  “So tell us about your Fedex guy,” Erin says with a sly grin.

  But I don’t return the grin. Instead, I feel a thousand seeds of doubt planting in my belly right now. I drop my head in my hands and mumble, “Who am I kidding? I’m not going to get a man. I don’t have a clue. I’m the girl who was left at the altar. Who would want me?”

  “Who wouldn’t want you?” Erin counters.

  “And besides, I’m twenty-seven. Shouldn’t I be, I don’t know, forty or something before I think about a Trophy Husband?”