“Why aren’t you married yet?” Sandra, the president of the women’s association I’m having lunch with, asks me with a knowing smile.
She seems confident of the answer to her question, but she’s trying to put me on the spot in front of the other members of the association and the few journalists invited to this event. It’s sort of her job. I asked to meet with them for lunch as part of my campaign strategy, now I have to try to convince them to vote for me and not one of my opponents.
It should be easy, considering I’m running for senator against misogynist pricks, but I’m also running as an independent, a third party. There’s no big party having my back when it comes to scrapping a few votes. We’re running really close right now.
I sweep my gaze over the thirty or so faces waiting for my answer, seated at the table in this Malibu villa facing the ocean.
“Because I haven’t found my better half yet,” is the publicist-approved answer. Apparently, Marriage is a farce and every woman I’ve known disappeared from my life doesn’t sound so good when you’re running for senator of California.
She nods, curves her lips in a composed smile, looks down at the hors d’oeuvres laid out on the fine China in front of her, then looks back at me with a renewed challenge. She represents Los Angeles high society well, with her conservative pantsuit, pearl necklace, and modest makeup. She’s playing her part, and right now she has to challenge me to determine if I’m worth the vote.
“You haven’t found her yet, or you found someone of the wrong gender for a candidate aiming at the White House?” A few small gasps pierce the silence. It’s considered borderline offensive asking these kinds of questions to a virtual stranger during a public lunch. But then again, there’s no privacy for me. Not if I want to run the country. I’ll always be under public scrutiny.
I smile. If she only knew how many times someone’s asked if I was gay, she would realize her probing question is not as original or scandalous as she thinks.
“Why would I hide a male partner? It would be a bit hypocritical given it’s an issue I’m fighting for. When I say that everyone should have the right to fall in love and spend their lives with whomever they want, that’s not just campaign jargon.” I let my smile fade a bit to give a serious tone to my reply. I look around the table and see a few heads nod approvingly.
“So, you’re just picky and haven’t found anyone yet?” Her tone seems almost to imply an offer to join me at my side.
I let a calculated laugh escape my lips to lift the heaviness of the conversation. “I’ve never found someone who would willingly jump into this life. I choose this life, I’ve worked for it since I was twenty years old, but I can’t ask someone to give up their life to follow mine. That’s not love, that’s coercion, and last I checked it was illegal.”
Everyone laughs at the table, including Sandra, who seems to relax a bit. I look up at Cindy, the only one of my staff invited to this lunch, and she tilts her head and smiles softly, inviting me to move on. It’s time to steer the conversation in a more useful direction than my personal life. They got their chance to scratch the curiosity itch, now it’s back to business.
“But we’re not here to talk about me. I want to hear what I can do for you,” I state firmly. I want to be clear that they are the center of this conversation, not me.
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around? You try to win our favor with big promises and your winning smile?” Bridget, one of the older women seated at this table, gets straight to the point. I like her.
“Sure, I can come here with a fancy speech to win you over, big smiles for the camera,” I wave at the woman taking pictures of this event, and she blushes but keeps doing her job, “eat a good meal and then go home. But that won’t solve your problems. I’m a white male who’s spent most of my life surrounded by other white males trying to overpower women. They can’t teach me what you really need. I need you to tell me what your struggles are, and let me figure out how to help you.” And I really mean it. Unlike my other opponents, I choose my fights based on what I believe, not what’s most convenient for my career.
Bridget arches her black eyebrows in surprise and a few murmurs arise from the table. I’m not always this straightforward when I meet someone who could support my career, but these women deserve my respect and my honesty. They are a small representation of this association that helps thousands of women struggling in this country. When I say I want to help them, it’s because I genuinely want to. I’m not running for senator because I want power, I’m running because I want to change things.
I look at Cindy and she nods in response with a discrete smile on her face. I broke the ice. Now I can relax a bit and maybe enjoy this hundreds-of-dollars-a-plate meal, and try not to throw up the caviar waiting on my plate. I really hate caviar.
***
I wave at Sandra and the other women as my driver opens the car door for me, and I ease into the black leather seat. When I close the door with its tinted windows, I finally relax.
“Cindy tells me it was a success!” Matthew’s smiling face greets me.
He’s my campaign manager and best friend since college. I would have wanted him with me today, but we agreed that Cindy was a better fit, giving the women the freedom to share their thoughts without a man there taking notes.
“I’m quite confident they will support us. Did Cindy give you some insight about what we have to work on?”
His blue eyes seem to light up at my question. “Even better. She told me Sandra will email her a detailed list of their concerns,” he says nodding. Some unruly brown curls fall over his forehead.
“Good. Make sure we have consultants addressing specific topics. I want to work on a program that solves their problems.”
He nods. “Already on it.”
“Good. So why are you in this car, if you have everything running smoothly?” I pin him with my gaze on his, sitting across from me.
I take off my tie, fold it, and put it next to my computer on the seat next to me. I watch the smile fade from his face and brace for the bad news while we navigate the slow Los Angeles traffic.
“You’ve dropped another point five percent since last week,” he states without beating around the bush.
Shit. I was already in trouble fifteen days ago, now I’m basically drowning. There’s still a long run until midterms, but now is the time to consolidate my pace and get ready for the final push. Losing too many voters now means I can’t even think about competing for the final leg of the campaign.
“You know why, right?” he asks without hesitation. I chose Matthew as my campaign manager because he doesn’t hold back when it comes to telling me the truth.
“I’m not going to fake a relationship for some bigots who think I should be married because I’m thirty-five.” I stand my ground. We have had this discussion a hundred times and I’m not giving in.
“It’s not some bigots. They’re your voters. They want stability, and a married man is the poster child for stability. Today they asked you for the umpteenth time if you’re gay, and it wasn’t some closed-minded old grandpa,” he points out.
“And I handled it well, didn’t I?” I start to simmer with anger.
I can’t understand losing voters because I’m not in a relationship. Would they prefer one of those fake marriages where everyone cheats and hides it under the rug? Or would they rather just be lied to and pretend everything is fine? It doesn’t make sense.
“They want commitment from you—if you want them to trust you with their lives. And a married man shows exactly that. You can learn to love whatever woman you choose, but you have to settle down at some point.” His voice softens along with his features and I’m glad the car stops in front of the Hunting Club, because it’s hard to swallow the lump growing in my throat.
“My answer will always be a no. I won’t fake a relationship for the sake of a bunch of votes,” I say before opening the door and getting out of the car.
I quicken my pace and walk to the desk where the young man we hired recently greets me with a smile. I sign in and walk around the counter toward the bar. Technically, this is a hunting club, hated by every environmentalist in Los Angeles because of what it represents. But in reality, no one here has ever hunted, at least not the people I know personally. It’s just a cover for a men’s club where the most powerful public figures in this city meet privately. It’s on an invitation-only basis, discrete, and we can relax and be ourselves without being under public scrutiny all the time. It’s a breath of fresh air when you need to vent your frustrations without ending up in the gossip magazines.
I walk to the bar and sit next to Harrison Bates, one of the people I consider a friend outside of this place. He’s a Hollywood star, an Oscar-winning, panties-dropping kind of guy, and right now he seems to need alcohol even more than I do.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
He briefly glances at me before turning his attention to the sparkling water in front of him. He’s currently filming a movie where ninety percent of the time he’s half-naked, so he’s on a forced diet: no alcohol or anything caloric for him. I have no idea how he endures that life.
“Not here.”
I look around and see people I would prefer to not have eavesdropping on our conversation. I stand up and beckon him to follow me.
After we change out of our clothes, we reach one of the small saunas and sit inside, towels knotted at our waist. Harrison sits in front of me, and I have to admit the hours he spends in the gym are not wasted. The guy is ripped.
“Are you done checking me out?” He smirks.
“Honestly, no. How can you look like that twenty-four seven?”
He chuckles. “It’s a nightmare, trust me. I can’t eat anything, drink only water and those protein shakes I hate, and I hit the gym seven days a week plus film the movie. I can’t wait for this torture to end.”
I shake my head, admiring his resilience in his job. “So, that’s why you’re wearing this face?” I prod.
“No, I have this face because I’m almost sure this movie will flop.” He smiles sadly, resignation showing in his eyes.
“Any particular reason or just a gut feeling?” He’s been in this industry long enough to know how far a movie will go even before it hits the theatres.
“The director is a freak, not in a good way, and the chemistry with Agatha, my love interest in the movie, is about the same as with a tree trunk.”
“Ouch.” I smile.
He shrugs. “She’s hot, I’m hot, but we don’t hit it off.”
“And humble too!” I bark out a laugh.
He smirks again. He is so damn confident, which is why he’s so successful in Hollywood. “You were the one checking me out a few minutes ago.”
“Well, I can’t deny that,” I admit. “Have you talked with Aaron about it? I know he’s not producing the movie, but maybe he has some suggestions.”
Aaron is a member of this club, a successful movie producer, and someone who dictates the rules in the Hollywood Hills. He’s also our friend and someone we can count on.
“No. I turned down one of his TV shows to film this movie. He’ll kick my ass and say, ‘Told you so,’” he grumbles.
I smile. There’s always been this dance between those two. One trying to convince the other to work on a project together, the other too busy to consider it. I think Harrison is scared that if the movie flops like this one it will ruin their relationship, and he doesn’t want to lose a friend.
“So, suck it up and make things with Agatha less awkward.”
“I can’t. I really can’t. She’s a diva, and I can’t deal with her attitude. And I can tell she doesn’t like mine because she can’t leave the set fast enough between takes.”
“Maybe it’s a stupid suggestion, but have you tried going out with her outside the set? Maybe knowing each other better will help.”
He frowns. “Oh, no. We slept together and it was a total disaster.” He says it like it’s no big deal. And for him it probably isn’t.
I snort, trying not to laugh. “So, maybe that’s the problem, huh?”
“Probably, but knowing it doesn’t change the fact that the movie will flop, and I’ll have to deal with the consequences.”
I nod, not knowing how to help him. I close my eyes and enjoy the sweat running down my body, feeling my muscles relax a bit.
“So, are you going to tell me why you have that face or are we going to pretend everything is normal with you?” he asks after a while.
I knew this question was coming. He can read my moods better than anyone else.
“The campaign is sinking faster than I expected,” I admit.
I open my eyes and land my gaze on his frowning one. “Are there really people that don’t like you? I thought you were the one dropping panties with that dazzling smile.” He jokes but I notice the slight concern in his tone. He’s one of the few people who knows how important this campaign is to me. He was there years ago to pick up the pieces.
“Apparently, not being married is keeping some people from voting for me,” I sigh, tired of having this conversation.
“Really? Why do they care?” He rests his hands behind his head, showing off his muscled arms.
“Gods only knows. They think a man who commits to a woman is more reliable than a single one. Never mind that most weddings end up in flames in the first few years. Or that so many cheat behind their significant other’s back.”
He nods and seems to think about it. “What does your team say about it?”
I sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going to end up. “They want me to find someone to marry, or at least have a serious relationship. An arranged thing, like a hundred years ago.”
He frowns. “So why are you worried? You have a solution, just go with it.”
I look at him with a disapproving stare. “Am I the only one who thinks marriage should be between two people who love each other? And meaningful? Why are you all so careless about it? I know most marriages these days are a farce, but that doesn’t mean I want to join in the destruction of it.”
“So, find someone you love and marry her,” he states simply.
“Okay, sure. Let me take a look at my contacts and see if I can find the love of my life.”
Harrison rolls his eyes. “Actors do it all the time. Our publicist usually sets up the relationship for us. You just have to choose someone you like, then get on with it. Sometimes it’s strictly platonic, other times we hook up. It helps our careers. It can be just a few dates or a longer period and more commitment, but the public appreciates it, so why not? Just try to choose someone you admire. It’s not that big of a deal.”
A marriage in Hollywood can last a few hours—no joke, I saw an actor marry a fan in Vegas and end up in court a few hours later to end the thing, the signatures weren’t even dry yet—to several years, but nobody cares whether it’s spur-of-the moment or they love each other. They’re celebrities, everyone expects them to have an eccentric life. I can’t marry someone and divorce her a month later.
“You make it sound easy.”
He scoffs. “Because it is easy.”
“You’re not helping, you know that?”
He shrugs, closes his eyes, and enjoys the heat, leaving me to overthink our conversation.
***
I walk into my living room that is already dark. The lights from the swimming pool are filtering through the windows, giving a warm glow to the earth tones of the walls and furniture. The thing I loved most about this house was the Mediterranean vibe it had the first time I saw it. On sunny days, it feels like it belongs in a little Spanish town.
I inhale deeply and the faint smell of bleach reminds me that I’m not on vacation in some foreign country. This is my house, one my staff keeps meticulously clean, but that I never have the chance to enjoy.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I grab it and see my father’s name, then let it go straight to voicemail. He probably saw the news Matthew gave me today and wants to rant about it. I’m honestly too tired to deal with him right now.
I walk into my home office and turn on the table lamp, sitting at my desk. Noticing a yellow folder with Cindy’s curly handwriting on a post-it that reads ‘Keep an open mind,’ I open it and a dozen women’s headshots stare back at me. Pictures and information ranging from where they went to school to what their careers are. Potential wives lined up like it’s a cattle call. I hate it. I hate all of this but I’m sinking and apparently this is what people expect from me.
Closing the folder, I decide to deal with it tomorrow. I open the last drawer of my desk and pick up my senior yearbook. I’ve opened it so many times since I graduated, the pages are almost falling out. I don’t have to search for her. The book opens exactly to the page where I see her staring back at me with a smile. She was the one I was supposed to spend my life with. She was The One. Period.
How can they demand I walk down the aisle with someone I don’t even love? And for what? To give another woman a chance to leave me? Not a single woman in my life sticks around long enough for me to savor the happiness. Sure, it wasn’t always their fault, but I resigned myself years ago to the fact that there will never be a happily ever after for me. So, why bother? Why put my heart out there, even if am just faking it?
