Chapter 5
Dreading the task of turning Romeo into Dr. McDreamy, I decided to procrastinate with a visit to Miss Emily’s Escort Service.
Unlike my usual methods of procrastination—daytime TV, computer solitaire, and partying with my good buddies Ben & Jerry—this really wasn’t a waste of time. After all, the wedding was mere days away and I hadn’t even begun to line up a suitable neurosurgeon fiancé.
So after a quick pit stop at my apartment for lunch and a belly rub (Prozac got the belly rub; I got the lunch), I got in my Corolla and set off to go fiancé shopping.
Miss Emily’s was headquartered in Culver City, a once-drab industrial part of town that has in recent years become hip and gentrified and ever so happening. Miss Emily’s, however, was located in one of Culver City’s few remaining drab pockets. I drove past the hip happening cafés to a block of auto body shops, where I found her tiny storefront office jammed between Big Al’s Towing and the Acme Sheet Metal Company.
Miss Emily may have been discriminating about escorts, but she was clearly willing to lower her standards when it came to real estate.
I parked across the street and made my way over to the dingy office, my bad vibes strumming like a banjo. But I couldn’t rush to judgment. After all, I wouldn’t want anyone judging me by my office, aka my dining room table, complete with I e9780758278838_img_10084.gif My Cat coffee mug and said cat snoozing in my in-box.
No, I had to give Miss Emily a chance.
I stepped inside her establishment, gulping at the sight of the moth-eaten carpeting and creaky file cabinets that had doubtless been around since the McKinley administration.
In the center of the room, feet propped up on a battered metal desk, was a beefy guy with wiry black hair, making notes on a racing form.
“Yeah?” he said, glancing up, his voice a gravelly rasp.
“Um. I’m looking for Miss Emily.”
He smiled, exposing a mouthful of gleaming (and, I suspect, store-bought) teeth.
“I’m Miss Emily.”
As he put down his racing form, I could see that his substantial gut was encased in a tight black T-shirt, the words Practice Makes Pervert emblazoned across his chest.
Uh-oh. Time to skedaddle.
“I’m Rocky. I bought the business from the old bat three years ago. So what can I do for you, honey?” he asked, shooting me an oily grin.
Just tell him you’ve made a mistake and get the heck out of here.
“You lookin’ for a fella? Sure you are. I can tell by that desperate look in your eye.”
It’s not desperation. It’s nausea!
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he said, bounding out from behind the desk and putting a hammy arm around my shoulder. “Trust me. I’ll find you a fella that’ll knock your panties off.”
“You don’t understand. That’s not what I’m looking for—”
“You into girls? I can do that, too.”
“No. No girls!”
“Here, doll, have a seat.” He swept some X-rated magazines from a battered lawn chair and eased me down into it. “My clients don’t usually come down here in person. Usually the gals pick their dates over the phone.”
He plopped down on the edge of his desk, legs crossed (thank heavens for that), and smiled his idea of an avuncular smile, exposing a hunk of cottage cheese between his teeth.
“So, sweetie. Tell Uncle Rocky what you want.”
Oh, well. As long as I was here, why not go through with it? After all, what did I have to lose—other than my appetite?
“Actually, I need somebody to be my fiancé at a wedding.”
“Oh. I get it,” he said with a most appalling wink. “You’re the bride. He’s the groom. A little game of Honeymoon Hotel, huh?”
“No, that’s not it. I want somebody to pretend to be my fiancé at a real wedding.”
“No hanky-panky?”
“No hanky-panky.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “When you see the guys I’ve got on file, maybe you’ll change your mind. Scandinavian Studs. Latin Lovers. Denzel Washington look-alikes. I got ’em all. Here, let me show you.”
He hustled over to a battered file cabinet and pulled out some files.
“Gorgeous, huh?” he said, handing me an 8 x 10 glossy of one of his escorts.
Rocky did not lie. The guy was gorgeous. Forty years ago when the faded picture had no doubt been taken. By now he was probably showing up for dates on a walker.
“Or how about Alonzo?” he said, flashing another photo in front of me. “Ignore those numbers on the bottom. I’m just using his mug shot until his professional photos are ready.”
“Actually, Rocky, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”
“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. Of course it is. All the top movie stars come to Miss Emily when they want a date. Cameron. Julia. Angelina. And politicians, too. You ever hear of Maggie Thatcher?”
“The ex-prime minister of Great Britain?”
He nodded solemnly. “I can’t say any more. I’ve signed a secrecy agreement. Let’s just say that Maggie was one hot crumpet!”
Okay, this had been a mistake. Major mistake. I’d just tell Patti the truth, that I was single and manless and quite happy, thank you very much, to be living alone and single with my cat.
And I was just about to do so when the door opened and in walked Francois.
Actually, his name turned out to be Brad, but I swear, he was a neurosurgeon fiancé straight out of central casting. Tall and slim, with a mane of thick black hair and the chiseled cheekbones of a runway model. True, he wasn’t the kind of guy I’d fall for in real life. In real life, I tend to go for sweet and vulnerable as opposed to drop-dead gorgeous. But this wasn’t real life. This was a lie I was living. Of monumental proportions. I might as well go for broke and show up at the wedding with a stunner. Patti and Denise would swoon in their size 2s when they saw him.
“I’ll take that one,” I blurted out, like I was choosing a cookie at Mrs. Fields. “How much?”
“Oh, Brad.” Rocky’s smile got a whole lot oilier. “He’s top of the line. He’s three hundred.”
“Three hundred dollars?” I gulped. That was about $250 more than I’d planned to spend.
“An hour,” he added. “First hour in advance.”
Aw, what the heck? This guy looked like he was worth it. I could do it under an hour. I’d have him meet me at the wedding, introduce him to Patti, and then make some excuse about why we had to leave.
I turned to Brad.
“Do you think you could pass yourself off as a doctor?”
“Of course,” he said, beaming me a most winning smile. “I’m an actor.”
Thank heavens this was Los Angeles, where nine out of ten beautiful people are actors!
I asked him a few questions about himself and he seemed to be able to string together a complete sentence with ease. In fact, he was a lot more articulate than most doctors I’d been to.
“So how about it, sweetheart?” Rocky grinned. “Do we have ourselves a deal?”
I got out my checkbook and started writing.
 
 
On my way home I stopped off at The Cookerie, a nose-bleed expensive kitchen supply store in Beverly Hills, to pick up a wedding gift for Patti. I chose the least expensive gift on her registry—a $90 corkscrew. Can you believe there are people in this world who spend ninety bucks for a corkscrew? Haven’t they ever heard of screw top wine?
A snooty blond salesclerk rang up my purchase.
“You’re giving this as a wedding gift? A crummy corkscrew?”
Okay, what she really said was Cash or Charge?, but I could read the subtitles.
But I didn’t care what she or anybody else thought of me. So what if my gift was the cheapest one at the wedding? My fiancé, at least, would be the hottest.