What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!”
—Persuasion
I had filed the perfume story to Haute but had neglected to even think about the Jane Austen story. In one week I would be forty, my grandmother was quickly slipping away, and yet I had to continue working. So on the Saturday night before my birthday I opened my laptop and just stared at the blank screen. And kept staring. All my knowledge and love of Austen’s novels and I had nothing to say.
I lay my head on the table, closed my eyes, and sighed, thinking of how in the end Elizabeth Bennet married Mr. Darcy out of love. The article’s premise wasn’t right. It was a happy coincidence Darcy was rich. Then again, rich is relative. Given my current state even Mr. Collins—moderately secure, but unattractive and socially inept—looked good. I opened my eyes and sat up, stunned by my sudden clarity. Maybe Jennifer’s ruthless approach to life and love wasn’t so off base. Times had changed. I wondered if, unlike in the novel, a modern-day Elizabeth Bennet would turn down a Mr. Collins? I picked up my cell phone. It was Saturday night and that meant the answer would be holing up in a bar somewhere in Manhattan.
“I’m so glad you called!” Jennifer shouted at me above the loud music. We were in a hipper-than-thou club called Condo 11 in the Meat Packing District. As I looked around I realized that I was one of the oldest people in the room. The crowd was stacked with young women, some dressed very well, others in very little, and the young and not-as-young men appeared aloof and disinterested. In other words the situation was desperate. Jennifer wore a slinky minidress covered in shimmering silver paillettes with equally shiny Gucci stilettos from a few seasons back. She waved into the crowd and two girls galloped over. One was blonder than Jennifer and was squeezed into a purple velvet dress so tight that the only thing she could possibly be wearing underneath was a Brazilian wax job. The other was brunette and more conservative, slightly, in her choice of a little black dress that gave her cleavage plenty of fresh air.
They stuffed themselves into our booth and Jennifer pointed to each one. “This is Tina,” she said and the blonde smiled at me. “And this is Arianna,” to which the brunette stuck out her hand. “And this is Kate.” Jennifer finished off her introductions with, “You three have a lot in common.”
I looked at her blankly, given that I was wearing a knee-length skirt and a cashmere turtleneck.
“You are all victims of the economic downturn,” she said nonchalantly. Turns out that Tina and Arianna had both lost their jobs at investment firms and were on the lookout for a solution to their personal financial crises. Several minutes of sympathetic small talk later Tina sat up and smiled brightly.
“Well, at least we’re young enough to bounce back,” she chirped.
“Kate’s almost forty,” Jennifer said darkly.
“No!” Tina exclaimed in disbelief.
“You’re so well preserved,” Arianna added kindly. I wanted to be flattered but the truth was I was horrified. I immediately slipped into journalist mode and asked them what they thought their solution was. As predicted they wanted an easy out, one that came fully equipped with a wedding band.
“Why else get married except for money?” Tina asked rhetorically.
“I’m living off my savings but that will run out soon,” Arianna explained with an expression of grave seriousness she once reserved for trading stocks. “So we’re here to meet potential husbands.”
“Here? In a bar?” I asked astonished. “Wearing that?”
They looked more puzzled than offended. “Men like how we dress,” Tina said.
“Yeah, we get noticed,” Arianna added.
“I’m sure you do but you’re not taken seriously,” I said, trying to soften my tone.
“We aren’t applying for a job,” Tina said as though I was the fool in this conversation.
“Yes you are,” I said. “If what you really want is a marriage, then men need to take you seriously as a potential wife.”
“We read Forbes and The Wall Street Journal,” Arianna shot back. “We’ll land our billionaires; we speak their language.”
At that, the two of them slid out of the booth and back into the crowd. I felt my jaw go slack. I couldn’t help thinking that if these two were considered high rollers on Wall Street, no wonder it crashed. I looked at Jennifer and saw that she was grinning slyly.
“I see what you mean,” I said, referring to her out-of-work friends.
“Yup. Dumb as posts in certain areas, right?” she said. “They can decipher the most complex financial systems but old-fashioned romance is too high-tech for them.”
“They do need help,” I admitted, realizing that I had lots of opinions on the topic. I knew then I was the perfect writer for the story.
“When is the article due?” I asked, raring to start.
“We want to run it in our June issue. You know, wedding season,” she said. “So I’ll need it by the end of March.”
“Is there a travel budget?” I asked, suddenly inspired.
“I’d have to check,” she said and cocked an eyebrow. “Why? I thought there’d be plenty of material here in New York.”
“I’m just thinking,” I said and tapped my pen on the table. Then I added wryly, “If I’m trying to be a social anthropologist and observe the mating rituals of tycoons, my chances are better if they’re away from the doom and gloom.”
Jennifer nodded thoughtfully. “You probably have loads of frequent-flier miles from your beauty editor days.”
“I do,” I agreed, thinking on my feet. “And I can write up reviews of hotels and restaurants for the magazine to keep costs down.” That was the pleasure of writing for a top magazine like Haute. With advertising budgets slashed, luxury properties fell over themselves for editorial coverage, so all-inclusive complimentary stays were a slam dunk.
She grinned knowingly. “I like how you think. Let me clear the rest with Marianne and our travel editor.”
The trip home seemed endless but it gave me time to reflect. My predicament was the same as the other girls’ and perhaps the solution was, too. How easy my life would be if I could fall in love with, and marry, a rich man. I fantasized about having all my needs taken care of, the lack of stress, and the joy of being the spoiled bride of a man who could afford such a luxury. The thought made me giggle. I felt very young again and that pleased me. Why shouldn’t I marry a man who would take care of me the old-fashioned way? Maybe Jennifer’s friends were right.
Then the same question I had posed to Marianne and Brandon threatened the fantasy. Is it too late to find a good husband? Was forty too old? Tina and Arianna had the advantage of youth, but after tonight I wasn’t convinced that was all it took. My added experience gave me an advantage. I told myself I was more sophisticated and elegant. There was nothing stopping me from getting out there and charming an eligible man. Even my grandmother said it wasn’t too late. Why should younger women have all the fun? Surely I had a few more seductions left in me? Suddenly this Jane Austen article wasn’t so ridiculous. Jennifer was right. I had found a third subject to make marrying well a trend. Me. And I vowed to do it in style.