Would You Be My Love?

When I walked outside of my apartment, she was waiting for me, wearing a dark purple dress. “Precisely at noon; if you are even a minute late, I will consider the deal a wash,” she had said in her e-mail. From the little I had been able to find out on her from that interview, I assumed she was serious about it. I had spent the last 20 minutes or so pacing around the front door, peeping out the window now and again to make sure she hadn’t come early. But, remembering all the money that was on the line, and seeing her in that cocktail dress, I realized all the bullets I had sweated had been worth it.

“Well,” she asked after clearing her throat, “are you ready, Mr. Malloy?”

I nodded.

“Yes, Miss Clark.”

It was an unusually titled post, but I suppose that was the point; you know, draw the reader in and all that business. In a sea of “WASher 4 TRADE” and “dominated love slave wanting a mistress,” a subject line that reads “Would You Be My Love?” definitely catches your eye.
I clicked on it; the post was actually an ad, and not the usual sort I find in the “women 4 men” section. It read:

“Hello. What I am offering to you, whomever you might be, is not any sort of sexual bargaining, odd bartering, or any of the usual claptrap that passes for messages on this website. What I offer is an opportunity. A quite rewarding opportunity at that (both in monetary compensation as well as assorted gifts and luxurious get-a ways.) 
However, what I am looking for, I cannot divulge in this space, lest someone who is familiar with me get access to this and put the pieces together. Interested applicants may send an e-mail, and after some research (not just through search engines, though that will be in play as well. If you have any terribly embarrassing snapshots saved on some social media site, it would be in your best interest to delete them post haste.) If I deem you suitable for an interview, you will be contacted.
Cordially awaiting your response,
A.A.C.

Eh, no dick pictures on my Facebook, I thought.
I sent a message stating my interest; about two weeks later, I got a reply.

Turns out, she wasn’t kidding about that interview.

“A.A.C.” was actually Abigail Alexandria Clark,  an heiress to the Clark Copper Company fortune. And, despite my (admittedly shallow) fears of her being some silicone-filled slut or some old crone in a house dress, she was actually a very attractive woman around my age. A bit more bookish and coldly polite then I was used to, but nice enough all the same. I met her for the first time at one of those swanky hotels in downtown, one of those that celebrities stay at under assumed names while armed guards keep an eye out for stalkers and pissed-off ex-spouses. Instead of the oak and leather lined bar, though, I was ushered into one of the conference rooms.  I walked in and saw one of those massive tables they save for stockholder meetings and things like that, with her seated at it and two older men flanking either side of her. They were all sitting in rather simple looking chairs that probably cost more than half the cars on my block, and the trio all had clipboards in their hands.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Malloy,” she said, looking up from her clipboard, her smile and speaking the sort you get from years  of finishing school… or maybe, one of those boarding schools they have in Europe or Connecticut, for all those parents that are busy, but don’t want their kids growing up speaking with a slight Puerto Rican accent. 

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

“Would you be so kind as to take a seat?”

She gestured to the chair that was placed across from herself and her associates.

I nodded and sat down.

They all looked down at their clipboards and wrote something.

She looked up from hers and began to speak.

“Thank you for being on time. Punctuality is quite important to me.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. Actually, I got here a few minutes early; was waiting down in the bar.”

“Is that so?”

I nodded.

“And, why is that?”

“Well, my dad-“ I stopped myself, noticing the raised eyebrows I was getting from the men, then continued, “-er, I mean, my father, he always told me, if you’re meeting somebody, always be five minutes early.”

She gave a thoughtful look and nodded. She looked to her left and right; both men nodded when she looked at them.

They all wrote something on their clipboards

“Sound advice,” she said.

“Thank you. And, to be totally honest… I was nervous.”

“Really?”

“Heh, yeah. I me-”

They all  wrote something on their clipboards.

“Interesting,” she said after a moment.

She looked up again. I noticed that her glasses frames were a dark purple, almost plum colored. Starting to get a little nervous, I blurted “I like your glasses.”

“You do?”

“Yes. Purple looks nice on you.”

She smiled again, this time a bit more genuine.

“Thank you. It’s my favorite color.”

The man to her left cleared his throat; she regained her solemn look and said, “Right, now before we begin the interview, is there anything you wish to ask?”

I nodded.

“Go ahead.”

“Um… what do you want?”

“Pardon?”

“What I mean is: what is it you’re after? Why did you make that ad?”

A blank look on her face.

“I didn’t explain in my message?”

I shook my head.

“Not at all.”

“Oh… my goodness. I apologize, it’s just… I’ll just say it’s been quite a long week this week for me. SO, that being said, allow me to explain what it is I’m after with this.”

She cleared her throat and started to talk.

“As I’m sure you probably figured out for plugging my name into whichever is your favorite search, I’m… well, how to put it… due to my last name, I stand to inherit a great deal of money in the not-so-distant future. And, with that, comes certain pressures and expectations.

Chief among them is to look… stable.”

“Stable?”

She nodded.

“That’s right. You see, along with my money, I’ll have a seat on the board of directors. Well, I actually have one now, but this one will be more ‘prestigious.’ I’ll go from ‘Vice-President of Technology’ to… to…”

She turned and whispered something in the ear of the man sitting beside her. He whispered something back, then she continued: “Chief Operating Officer, Research & Development Division.”

“Wow,” I said, “they have and R&D for copper?”

The three of them shared a laugh at that.

“Well,” she said, “yes and no. While we are always at work, designing more cost-efficient alloys and such, we’re not limited to the field of copper, lucrative as it has been for my family. The company is actually a parent company for several other firms, businesses and syndicates of various types.”

“Really?”

“Very much so; we have holdings in the areas of electricity, alternative fuel sources, entertainment, and my favorite: computers.”

Uh huh, called it: nerd girl.

“That’s interesting…”

“It is, but as I mentioned, not all candy and gumdrops, as it were. You see, we’re a publicly traded firm, and the stockholders like to see certain things from their executives. Chief among that rather long list: stability. That is the key to assuring them that you most certainly not only have the best interests of the company in mind, but have the capacity and capability to do the job. And, if you don’t dress conservatively, or donate to the arts, or… have a steady relationship…” she trailed off, her face turning a little red. “Well… questions get asked. Particularly if you are a female.”

“Oh… I see.”

“Judging by that, I’m sure you have similar feelings to mine on the issue, that it’s an irritating, antiquated, backwards thinking double-standard. You know, you figure  two different degrees from Ivy League schools would be more than enough in the way of qualifications, but no. You have to be able to attract a mate, as well. Not that I don’t have the capacity to be in a relationship, of course.”

“Of course.”

“It’s that I am far too busy trying to run the technology department. Not to mention fielding questions about the company from various news outlets, keeping up with my various social engagements, as well as trying to find a few minutes in the day for some alone time to busy myself. But no, I should be getting all ‘dolled up’ and troll the bars looking for some trust fund snob who wouldn’t give me a second glance because I’m not an idiot and don’t have breasts the size of casaba melons. I happen to think I have perfectly acceptable breasts.

What do you think, Mr. Malloy; do you like the size of them?”
All I managed as an answer was a look of slack-jawed disbelief and “Uh…”
The men on either side of her pulled her back, both whispering in her ears. She nodded and then said “I would like to retract my previous question, Mr. Malloy, seeing as how uncomfortable it made you, as well as the fact that my associates just informed me that it could be construed as a form of sexual harassment, should be so inclined as to seek litigation… you aren’t interested in that, are you?”
“No.”
“And are you still interested in the offer?”
“I am.”
“Fantastic. And I do apologize for my outburst. It’s just that it’s a particular issue that strikes a nerve, as you undoubtedly noticed.”
“Oh, just a little.”
She smiled again, back to her “Business Casual” grins.
“Good one. Well, at any rate, let us get back to the matter at hand, shall we?”
“Ok.”

The deal, following a rather thorough and invading interview, was explained to me like this: Abby (as she later told me to call her,) needed a man in her life to keep her family and stockholders in Clark Copper happy. But, she didn’t really have any particular interest in dating or trying to go out and meet somebody, “at least, at this time.”

That’s where I was gonna come in.

For all intents and purposes, I was going to be her “man.” Anytime that she needed to make an appearance in public, or visit one of her stuffy relatives, or do anything outside of the boardroom, I was going to be at her side, the two of us looking all lovey-dovey for the audience.  We’d go the full nine, starting out with us going out on dates (taking turns being the one to pick the other up,) followed by going to family functions, and eventually leading to me moving into her rather palatial home out in the boonies.
In return for my services as a decoy, I would get the previously mentioned upgrade in living quarters, as well as a personal driver, masseuse, chef, and any other thing my heart could desire. This was in addition to a rather generous cash stipend I received on a monthly basis, as well as five-star meals when we dined out together, and VIP. access to any and all of the most exclusive and popular of events.

However, there were some rules and stipulations to the deal.

1.I was to attend an actual finishing school, a refresher course taught by an honest-to-goodness duchess. In addition, I would have weekly appointments with a vocal coach (to gain a more “educated” accent,) monthly visits to a doctor (because Abby is a bit of a germaphobe and hypochondriac,) and daily workouts with a “highly recommended” personal trainer (“to lose that paunch you have.)

2.I had to leave my job at an ad firm, where I was more or less a glorified intern and come on to work in the advertising department for one of the food corporations Clark Copper owned. (“You won’t actually have to move to Ohio; all the ad meetings are done here.”) I was to carry my own weight, produce quality ads, and try to be a team player. If I was fired, the deal would be off. (“Nothing personal, it would just ruin my image if I was to save your job. You understand.”)

3.The most important rule of all: Outside of pre-designated times and motions, there was to be, under no circumstances whatsoever, any touching, fondling, kissing, or anything of that nature. “I understand that you’re a man with… needs. And we will burn that bridge when we get to it. But, as a general, big time, definite NO; no touching.”

After being given the ground rules (and a contract that looked like a manuscript for a George R.R. Martin novel,) I agreed to the offer.
It was a pretty sweet deal.

Not trying to brag or anything, but… fuck, talk about hitting the jackpot, you know?

I felt like I was one of those trophy wives you see on the arm of some nondescript geriatric crone or something. Whisked around town in limousines or chauffeured luxury cars, going to movie premiers, plays, concerts… hell, we even went to the opera one night. Clark Copper was one of the biggest patrons of the local opera house, so we were basically required to go, but I was actually excited. (Incidentally: not bad. I mean, yeah, it drags sometimes, but an entertaining time all the same.)  Oh, and my favorite part: eating all my meals either from the house chef, or at the city’s best restaurants. I know, that probably shouldn’t be such a deal, but considering most of my diet before that came in the form of greasy paper sacks or cardboard take-out boxes… it was a very big plus.

Since I’m talking about all the good stuff, I should probably talk about the job a little. Turns out, I have a bit of knack for coming up with ad copy (guess I subconsciously picked up the finer points from the guys at my old job while I was waiting to give them their coffee and crullers.)  I even got promoted after I won this award for this ad I did for a Swedish soda that poked fun at Swedish stereotypes (“Svalka Soda… for those breaks at the IKEA factory” being far and away the most popular.) I still have the little star-shaped trophy they gave me, sitting on the shelf above my desk.

And as far as the whole “physical contact” issue goes: it actually wasn’t as big a hassle as I worried it might be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a pervert or anything… but, as the lady said, people have needs. And, as I figured out after we came home from some charity wine tasting event for kids with anxiety disorders, or whatever that charity was… Abby had some needs she’d been neglecting and suppressing.

Now, trust me when I say I’m a classy fellow; I believe firmly in the old saying “a gentleman never kisses and tells.” You won’t be getting any sort of lurid descriptions of all the things we did out of me. I stand by the opinion that matters of the bedroom should be left in the bedroom. The fact like I plowed her like a onion farmer getting ready for sowing season is completely irreverent here.

Come to think of it, we actually had a pretty healthy sex life. A lot healthier than some of the relationships I’ve been in. Not saying those other relationships weren’t fun, of course, just stating things with a bit more wisdom then I had back then. After you woke up with a tooth knocked up of your skull and a bath toy sticking out of your ass, watching a sappy movie on TV and missionary sex in the bed sounds like a far-away dreamland, full of magic and joy.

In regards to that whole “burning that bridge when we come to it thing,” well… as healthy as our sex life was, sometimes there we be whole weeks or months where Abby didn’t want to do anything. Not even kiss, or hold hands, or be in the same county as me. Normally, I’d be fine with that and… how to put this… what’s that saying?
Oh! Right!
Go on a date with “Rosie Palms.”

But, I was saved the trouble of sending one of the assistants out for lube by a knock on the door. I opened it and a gorgeous woman was standing there. I’m talking, full-figured, classic Hollywood beauty gorgeous. She told me Abby sent her.
Turns out, Clark Copper has had a problem with executives who couldn’t keep it in their pants, leading to a slew of lawsuits and bad publicity. Realizing that it’s borderline impossible to stop basic human urges (I say “borderline” because, hey, you can always kill someone right? I mean, that’s pretty much stopping all urges,) Agatha Clark, Abby’s mom, came up with a solution that was genius in its simplicity.

Whores.

Not in the sense of, call up some escort service and have them send over some women. No, what Agatha did was: hire her own. She created a division of the Human Resources department, the subtly named “Executive Services Department,” and went out and signed on the best of the best call girls, escorts, strippers, and other women of that ilk. However, they couldn’t be tramps; these women had to have style, sophistication, be able to be a date to an art gala and things of that nature. In return, they were given enormous salaries, access to company cars, and more or less the same deal I got with Abby.

I said all that to say: finding out there were beautiful women on speed dial that I not only could, but was encouraged to, have sex with if Abby wasn’t feeling it… I’d say Christmas, Halloween, and all my birthdays wrapped up into one… but, I hate understating things.
Hey, here’s a fun fact for you: people in general, no matter how much they might have, always want more. And when they don’t get more, they get mad. And when they get mad, they tend to go out of their way to do things to spite those people that wouldn’t give them what they wanted. Kind of like the dog that takes a crap in your shoe because you wouldn’t let him go chase a squirrel, even though you know the squirrel could kick his ass.

You know who especially wants a lot of stuff?

Whores.

Especially if their classy, because all the stuff that they want is much, much more expensive than that of a regular whore.
And, if they don’t get that stuff, they metaphorically take a crap in your shoes… by telling all the gossip reporters with “exclusive, inside information” about the sham of a relationship you’ve concocted with the executive of a major company.
(Oh, like I’m the only one who gets chatty after sex.)

As you can imagine, once those hit the local (as well as nation-wide and world-wide) media outlets… it was a bit of a shit storm.
Naturally, the family came out and said that the woman and I were in cahoots (literally, they used the word “Cahoots” in their statement. I mean, who does that, outside of villains from the 40s?) to gain money, fame, all the expense of ruining their precious darling Abigail’s life. Abby, for her part, gave no comment to the press or me, and swiftly had me sent back to my shit-box of an apartment once the news broke.

I tried to do the right thing and set the record straight, illuminate the masses to the unhealthy strain that they were placing on people with any sort of success, and declare the feelings I had developed for Abby (legitimate, by the way.) I ended up having an interview with a prestigious, award-winning journalist who was well known for his hard-nosed, investigative articles that had a knack for setting the record straight in muddled affairs such as the one I found myself in.
Of course, my luck being what it is, that journalist had gotten his awards and reputation through the practice of contorting quotes from an interview to fit whatever narrative he had already created, generally one that fit in with the storylines that were already in place. I woke the day my interview came out to the front page headline of:

“Who doesn’t like whores?”


As best as I can recall, I believe my exact words at that moment were:
“Well… I’m fucked.”
Well, that’s it.
Actually, there’s a whole lot of fallout that came when that interview came out, but I’m not going to go into it. Mainly because that case is still pending and I’m not allowed to, but also because I don’t want to bore you with all the claptrap that comes with a relationship falling apart. Seen one, seen them all, am I right?
You know, when I started writing this, I was mad. Sure, I am a grown man, responsible for my actions and all that jazz, and I take all the guilt and blame for what I did. But, what had me so angry was Abby and her family. The fact that they are so controlling, and she is so buried under that wave of stock options and benefits, she does whatever they tell her or what her advisers tell her. And I realized as I was writing this that she has probably never really had more than a few hours a day, maybe a week, where she could do whatever she wanted.
Isn’t that just sad?
Here’s this woman, attractive, intelligent, great personality, so flush with cash it’s Richie Rich-esque… but she’s trapped.
Trapped by expectations
Trapped by greed
Trapped by her last name

… sorry, just didn’t want this thing to be nothing but whore and fuck references.

And, as you can tell, I’m still working through my feelings for her.
But, no time for that now, I guess. There’s someone at my door.
Yup, it’s a well-dressed guy, wearing all black.

I’m sure he doesn’t have a gun on him.

Well… good night Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.
OR, for those of you who are younger and don’t share my love of old comedians:
Later days.